DRIVING

By Alison Armstrong

“It is not the destination but the journey

that counts.” Leonard Woolf wrote that. I’m not a

cynical man, but I think he got it from somebody

else.

My only journeys now are to Maine. I enjoy

driving. In fact, it is right up there with fly-

fishing: mind free, and out of reach of the world.

But I let you in whenever you care to accompany me.

You know I always do. You always knew I would.

Twelve hours door to door from the West End

Avenue apartment to the quiet side of Mount Desert

Island. Bass Harbor to be accurate. And then a bit

onwards to Pretty Marsh. I like the scenic route,

going. Take the shortcut to Somesville on the

return. Bill and Clarence are up there already. At

our camp, my paradise. Well, really, a rambling

colonial house that was once in my family. We all

share it now, as a home base away from our homes.

From there, Seal Cove and Bass are our usual

fishing spots. And sometimes we row out to Gotts

Island for mussels picked fresh right off the pink

rocks at low tide. We used to dive for sea

urchins, too, when we were young, but now we are

getting on. All that gear too much of an effort for

us retired city guys. Bill’s still a banker,

Clarence a journalist, and me, Prof. Emeritus of

English and Comp. Lit., Columbia, as you well know.

Bill remains the happy bachelor. Reared on Maine

summers, as you know, with that large banking

family of his. He likes to revert to being the Down

Easter. Big bucks. Clarence, as traveling

journalist, never had much to do with his wife; we

hardly saw her socially, at any rate. Kept her off

to the side, you might say. And me with my Mary.

She stopped coming up with me years ago, when

grandkids and her volunteer work in the city seemed

to interest her more than rattling around in our

big house and cleaning whatever we caught. After I

load the Jeep I drive a couple of hours northeast

out of the city, make a pit stop around Danbury,

depending on weather and traffic. Then I augment

the food situation with things Mary will never pack

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for me. Those long sticks of spiced beef jerky,

corn chips, chocolate bars…the sort of things you

can eat with one hand while driving. And a couple

of fat cigars.

After that, I sometimes pee into a jar— the flow

of my thoughts, so to speak. That way I can pull in

right on the dot. We three make bets on my arrival

time. I phone from the apartment just as I’m making

the last trip down to the car. I like to keep to

my record of twelve hours, door to door. After

Danbury the mind is free. No stops then but for gas

at those few remaining full service stations. And

the quick stop in New Hampshire for discount booze.

They rely on me to replenish the liquor stash at

the house, you know. Glenlivet for Bill, Bushmills

for Clarence, John Jameson for me. Drive right up

to the loading dock and the boys bring out the

cases. No need to get out of the car or to break

the reverie, so to speak.

But I am so glad you are driving with me now,

Martha. Seems the only time I can really unburden

myself is when you are beside me. You don’t always

show up, you know. Now that you are safely laid to

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rest, you are with me more than ever. Or is it

only that I finally feel in control behind the

wheel again? This old Jeep and I have been together

so long we’ve exchanged molecules, like the

bicycles in The Third Policeman. As if we were one body

Good of you to turn up like this. [Keep this.]

Can’t wait to stand on the rocks at Seal.

Listen to the waves coming in, and going out. “That

long withdrawing roar….” You remember? Makes me

think of all we’ve experienced, memories washing

back in, and then withdrawing out to sea, that Sea

of Faith. Uh, here, …will you hand me that empty

jar, darlin’? There, the tall…never mind. I can

reach it— just. Soon as I get round this truck. Ha-

ha! Piece of cake. Ahhh…pissing into the wind at

seventy miles an hour, so to speak. Ahhhh. There.

Now, Martha dear, take a gander at that. Remember

this ole one-eyed snake, eh? We did have some

wonderful moments, just the three of us, eh? [THE

VOICE SEEMS DIFFERENT HERE—WHY SO COUNTRIFIED? It

is. Because he is reminiscing in the language they

used with each other. Keep this.]

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Now, then, where was I? Where am I? When we

get to Belfast I’m going to fly right by. No

sentimental stops on this trip. Not even—especially

not—that lovely little colonial with the faux

paintings around the fireplaces, wide pumpkin pine

floor boards, and that terrific attached barn at

Swan Lake we took while my Mary was down in Florida

tending her dying parents. [Keep this.] You

painted in that barn or in the field beyond, filled

with yellow flowers. That was paradise. Now the

lake is too noisy with those rowdy young people.

Swan Lake, indeed. Anyhow, you were no longer

available after that. Thanks to Bill…. [I shortened

the above lines.]

But my Mary, she’s a good little woman. I

think she never knew a thing. After I got so sick

missing you she nursed me back to some sort of

sanity. I quite lost my head there for a while. But

then there was the absence of you. [Keep this.]

[This “Absence of Presence” that was here was lit’y

theory talk of the time! The 1980s.] Our years of

weekday afternoon trysts: paradise perduto. [I

shortened as suggested]

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You asked me to lunch in midtown. Remember

how you did it? Needed to talk in the middle of the

day about something you said was important.

Remember? I could have killed you! Bill, of all

people. You said you were tired of being my “back-

street woman” (pace Fanny Hurst), that you were no

longer happy in our “illicit affair.” That’s how

you spoke. Said you wanted marriage. To Bill. My

buddy. Said you wanted someone to “build a life

with.” Damn. And so you did. For a while. Didn’t

last, though, did it!

It seems I am in love with a ghost. Not

unusual for a man my age. The ghost of our love, or

at least of my love…. No, not unusual. Friends and

loved ones drop away like the “sere and yellow

leaf” of the Bard. I too am about to drop off. To

sleep. Perchance to…. [I changed as suggested.]

Must keep both eyes on the road. Though I could

gaze upon your lovely face all day, Martha, for

that eternal moment when you smile back at me with

your two glancing eyes.

We’ll turn up that radio. Talking heads.

Interviewing David of the “Talking Heads”—would

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rather hear the music. Me, I’m a talking head, all

my life. And then there is the taking of heads….

The Celts did it, my tribal ancestors. Irish

warriors in the days of Cuchulain, who tied their

enemies’ heads to their horses’ harness, then set

them up on poles by their doors. Then there was

the Welsh Bran, the godlike giant whose talking-

head-on-a-platter traveled by boat to Ireland and

back to Wales. Better off than old John the

Baptist, eh?

And then the guillotine. They say it has been

proven the head retains consciousness after it’s

been severed from the body. [GOOD—ILLUSTRATES THE

THEME/ENHANCES THE STORY] [Thanks, yes.] Death

isn’t absolute when the head rolls along, as did

poor Mary Queen of Scots’, or bounces into a

basket. All those disembodied faces staring at each

other, mouths working, grinding their teeth in

inarticulate agonies. Still some electrical juices

left in the brain.

In an experiment I read about, two

Enlightenment philosophers agreed that when the one

lost his head he’d keep blinking, while his friend

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recorded the number of blinks and timed with his

watch. There were over twenty blinks. Augenblicken.

Moments between living and dying. To know, as a

severed head, that the situation is irreversible.

How ghastly. Or, perhaps a comfort? No more

responsibilities, at any rate. Makes one shudder to

think on it.

Is our head the seat of the soul? Might be

why some cannibals like brain best. They take on

the power and wisdom of the person. Or was it just

for the flavor? And the shrinking of heads, say,

in the Amazon. To diminish the power of the

original owners? Or for easy storage? And then

there was Willy Yeats’ “A Severed Head.” And his

notion of “dreaming back.” Ever read that late

play of his? Old father, his hated son, the

mother’s ghost in a window of a house fallen into

ruin, pacing where no floorboards remain, dreaming

back eternally over her betrayed life?

Do I bore you, my dear? I can see through

you, you know. You are transparent.

I’m full of stories, others’ stories. Yes,

stories in literature are our stories, too.

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Universals. Archetypes. Cliches. [Add this.]

Literature makes order out of the chaos of life. I

used to talk quite a lot in my classes about

Universals, what makes great literature last…. Am

I rambling, my dear? Sometimes I really seem to

[Add this.] lose my head.

Very well, perhaps I ramble. But really I am

mentally walking around. My identity. No. Beyond

that. The essence of the nature of what it is to be

human. But, when I discover or uncover that –

alethea – will there be nothing left to think about,

nothing to discuss? Nothing to recount or rehash.

Language, in its more artistic forms, to which I

have devoted my professorial life, will then have

become superfluous and there can be no “story.” And

stories are what we crave. The form of a story, the

working out of details that pull our emotions into

a shape we can contemplate. Like sculpture, or a

veil between us and utter reality. What Eliot

said: “man cannot bear very much reality.” And so

we drive through clouds of verbiage; words can

bring alive anything, anything we can imagine.

[BRILLIANT SECTION!] [Thanks. My prof. does like

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to hear himself talk, including the clichés, the

tics, playing with countrified phrases.]

Oh, well, let’s change the radio station,

then. But I am not about to drop the subject.

Clever. No. Wise of you to pick a public

place, a fancy crowded restaurant in midtown for

your pronouncement. No scene from me, anyhow. What

could I do but talk, eat, drink, talk. That’s about

all I ever did anyway. Talk and project hopeless

notions and daydreams of what might be or might

have been for us. You wanted more and had found

your chance. “A partner in life,” I think was your

phrase.

I say, will you look at that! Genuine

Airstream. Big one, too. Always fancied owning

one. Dear Mary, however, never was a fan of camping

nor of travel. She put the kibosh on that scheme.

Like Odysseus, I yearned for adventurous journeys;

metaphorically slaying enemies, sacking cities,

outwitting monsters, conversing with gods.

Actually, it appeared that he didn’t relish having

to leave home and do all that; otherwise, he

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wouldn’t have come up with that Trojan horse idea.

He just wanted to get home to Ithaca and stay

there, in his kingdom with his family. I need

another analogy.

Faithful comrades he had, though, as do I. In

the end, it’s the men who stick together. At least

nowadays. Even Bill and I.

Odysseus’ enemy was Poseidon, god of the sea.

The sea personified.

I love the sea. Boats creaking, endless music

of water, the play of light and dark. Distant

wheezing of dolphins in the evening. I am nothing

like Odysseus, except in one way. Both of us

learned, in the end, humility.

Even Bill and I, after you were gone from both

of us, reforged our comradeship in grief and the

old mutual interests. Besides, his family for a

time owned my family house at Pretty Marsh before

the three of us, taking in Clarence, formed a joint

ownership, a Rights of Survivorship agreement. Last

one standing gets it all. So to speak.

Wonder what Clarence will cook up for our

dinner, my welcome back feast. Not fish, I hope.

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Leg of lamb would be nice, with saffron and rice.

And a few bottles of Coastal Red. Recall once he

gave us seal flippers. That’s right. Pan-fried,

dredged in flour and butter. Not our seals, of

course. Got ‘em frozen by airmail from a cousin in

St. John, some Jackie Tar of a long-lost relative

who could fiddle like the devil. A fellow Acadian.

Sending coals to Newcastle. Once you cut away the

meat, there were the bones like fingers of a

severed hand on your plate. Hail and farewell, a

seal’s fate, sealed. [TERRIFIC PARAGRAPH] [Thanks

again.]

And so, my dear, you went off to marry Bill, and

I continued on with my Mary. As if nothing had

happened. She never guessed. Although I sometimes

wonder. After all, I went into a serious funk and

had to explain it away to her. How could you? Bill,

of all people, that confirmed bachelor. After a few

years, of course, he wanted a divorce. Or did you?

But I’m lapsing into fantasy. Bad habit of mine,

working on hypotheses, reacting emotionally to

unproved premises . . .

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And then when you were lost again, in that

sailing accident…. No. You survived that. Then got

so sick afterwards. I couldn’t bear it that you

were suffering so. Just a simple pressure of the

soft pillow for a little space of time. To take

away your inspiration.

Anyway, won’t you look at that roadkill?

State should set up schools to teach critters to

look both ways before crossing. Or are they

suicidal creatures, rushing from the safety of the

trees into the paths of our metal monsters?

Kamikaze raccoons, possums, deer, coyotes, dogs and

cats, groundhogs, squirrels…snakes even. You never

see a mountain lion lying dead by the side of the

road.

And so, my dear, why did you leave me? Was

Bill a convenient “out?” Before Bill, I could

always lure you back, I the skilled angler. Yet

after Bill, you never took up with me again. Said I

was too mechanical regarding sex. Said I was not

erotic or sensual. I didn’t know what the hell you

were talking about. Said you wanted passion. Well,

I needed you passionately, but you called it lust.

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Just wordplay? But actions speak. Louder than

words. And we never had…what? You wanted more but

not from me? I wanted more. Of you. But upsetting my

life, dear Mary, all our settled arrangements, was

out of the question. Would I take the chance and do

it all differently? If we could turn back the

clock? I’d have to be a different kind of man to do

that. And that is what you really wanted. A

sensuous, erotic, passionate man. Which I really

did think I was. But you said it was just

neediness, emotional greed on my part. A hedge

against old age. An illusion to keep death out of

the mirror. That you were a feather in my cap to

show off to pals and discrete colleagues. My secret

love. We: not a couple, not “legitimate,” not

enough for you. You had no spouse waiting at home,

as did I. No cushion, no complacency of sharing the

home fires with a trusted mate. No one to share

holidays and weekends. I could see your point. But

what else could I do, what else should I have done?

I had only good will toward you, always. You do

know that, don’t you? I Just couldn’t bear to see

you suffer so…. Oh yes, I, the experienced angler,

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could always reel you back in when you pulled away.

Until you swam away for good. You couldn’t bear it

anymore….

What are you doing, dear? Can’t see the road

with your head in front of mine. What, a kiss? Oh,

a kiss. So deep, as if you and I were exchanging

our very essence. You do take my breath away, more

than ever. You darling girl. You never kissed me

like this before, with open mouth.

You wanted me to understand your world, but

all I did was talk to you about mine. Except in a

few instances. I recall you describing weekends

painting alone in your studio…. You said, “As the

bow approaches the strings of its violin, so the

brush edge gently, surely attacks the line on its

canvas.” The sensuousness of making. And I wondered

how you could keep all your knowledge and abilities

in your head, the music, the painting. You said

that the painting, the music, was in your fingers,

that the body remembers….

Oh, go away so I can think in peace. Am I

thinking aloud, or am I speaking silently? Free-

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associating. Just when I get to a point of touching

on something important…. You are listening, at any

rate. Always listening and looking at me like that.

No helpful suggestions, Martha? No anecdotes to

distract me? Remember how I used to sing to you,

from that opera, “Martha?” Mar-tha, Mar-tha, I am call-

ing…do, deedee da do de daaaa. You got tired of that,

too, after a few years.

Yes, we are well on our way. Time for the

first of two forbidden cigars. From the Danbury pit

stop.

Ahhhhh…. Love that first hot spicy hit,

smoke rolling around in the mouth and out the

nostrils. Attempt a smoke ring, once it gets going.

Stinging haze. What was it Mallarme said, about his

cigarette smoking? He wanted to put a little veil

between himself and reality. Symboliste. Living in

one’s head. or mind. All anyone does, really.

And who am I in my head? A collection of

quotes? A mélange of memories? Hank. Me. Howell

Evans, Professor Emeritus. Retired. Just plain

Hank, now. Cannot know the self except in

relationship with others, the world. Who said that?

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As we cannot perceive light except as reflections

from particles in space? I like the analogy at any

rate.

Strange, feel as though I’ve quite lost my

head, my train of thought.

Seems we have all we need, now. Whiskey in the

back, more than enough snacks…where was I?

Particles in space, you and I, reflecting light….

Light of my life.

Kittery! There’s the sign: “Welcome to Maine

the Way Life Should Be.” Life.

Wonder if Clarence has started on the

brightwork. We left the deck untouched under the

tarp, and that old canvas tonneau cover hasn’t been

taken off for two years. You know we found the old

Hirschoff catboat in a barn and got it for a song.

Now comes the work. Could take the rest of our

lives. But the kayaks and canoe will be fine.

unless the mothballs evaporated in a wet spell.

Tackle boxes, waders full of mouse nests, no doubt.

Can’t wait to get there. My old home. Then his. Now

ours. But what is “mine?” What can we own except

our experiences?

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Persons in literature are called “characters,”

but they are as real as the people we’ve known in

life who are not now alive. But they are not dead,

either, while they inhabit our imaginations. Molly

and Leopold Bloom are more real to most Joyceans

than their own neighbors. These “characters” and

even the neighbors, are not ours except in the mind,

the spirit, in their effects on us and ours on

them. We cannot own them: they possess us.

Ellsworth. Tricky curves here. Won’t be long

now, dear darlin’. Past the Roadkill Café, over

the water onto Mount D, soon along Somes fjord,

through Southwest, by Seawall and Bass. Remind me

to check the clock then.

Red setting sun beyond the Causeway off to

your right. See, Martha? Sun sets late up here in

summer. Red Maine light is glowing like a halo

around and through you. My dear, you are the

light!

The sea, the sea! Now we are really where we

want to be, my dear. Look, waves crashing at Sea

Wall. Tide’ll be coming in at Bass. And at Seal.

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Should pull into Greater Downtown Pretty Marsh on

the dot and win my bet. Twelve hours door to door

with a few minutes to spare. If I can just get

through…. Got to ease up on the gas pedal, though.

Never know what might obstruct the roadway,

trailers coming out of put-ins, locals making those

unnecessarily wide slow turns, like this old coot

ahead of us in his rickety pickup full of old

lobster traps. Something could fall off onto the

road. You see? I’m looking ahead, straight ahead,

and not only into the past. When we were happy

together. Yes, we were.

Dear child. Oh, I know you were only twenty

years younger and a grown woman. So now you know my

true age! But I always saw you as an innocent, good

soul who needed my help, who needed me. Yes, and so

I tried to help, to make you somewhat dependent.

Not completely, of course. But enough so you

wouldn’t pull away.

I could have killed you for putting an end to

that happiness, that delight! And for the

humiliation I felt. I felt, Who the hell did she

think she was, eh? You knew who I was, my career, my

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reputation. Oh, yes, you had your own skills and

successes and important friends, too. But dammit,

I was a giant in my field. And a man. And you, the

little woman. Or not so little. Your life before

me, young motherhood, early widowhood, your past

pains, joys, griefs—experiences beyond my

imagination or interest. You said my “lack of

experience” was an invisible wedge between us.

Well, it was you who put it there! I was interested

in a good time, in giving you a good time,

distractions from work and cares. I wanted us to

feel young together and part of something special.

I wished you only happy thoughts and you threw them

back in my face! I could have killed you!

Nice and easy does it, Hank. Do you never stop

smiling, my dear?

Yes, I see now. We are together again and now

nothing can change it.

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Here we are. See, Bill’s fancy car’s there,

Clarence’s truck, too.

Better go, Martha, dear. But wait. Before you

do, I want you to know that I am a happy man, now.

A content man. Back in paradise. That’s right….

Be seeing you….

“There he is!” Bill is shouting from the

porch. “Hey Clarence, he’s right on time, just

before dark.”

Clarence is putting his face up to my window

and staring. He wants me to get out. “Unlock the

damn door, Hank! Come on, ole Buddy.”

My hands are frozen against the steering

wheel.

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“Hank! Get outta the goddamn car!” Now he is

yelling, steaming up the cold glass. “Hey, he’s

just sittin’ there, staring straight ahead.”

The three of them are rocking the Jeep, trying

to wake me up, they say. I don’t want to get out,

don’t want to move. So good to gaze once more at

the rhythmic heaving ocean: the Cove, our wine-dark

sea.

#

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Now Bill is striding across the lawn with a tall

drink in one hand and one of those darned cell

phones…. You’d think he’d leave that thing in the

city instead of bringing it up to our retreat.

I hear a voice and Bill is walking past me to a

car behind. Sheriff Lunt. Didn’t even notice him.

“Hey, Bill. How’re things? Hank just up here

from away, then? Saw him run a red light back at

Southwest. Couldn’t get his attention—not with

siren, nor bull horn. Recognized New York vanity

plate there, knew it was Hank, so just followed him

on out here. Strange kinda fella. Always

preoccupied, like. Seemed to be someone sittin’

there beside him, too, but neither of ‘em turned to

look and I stayed right on his tail. He just kept

on driving.”

When they break my window to get at the lock some

of those little blue-green bits of crystal fly into

my ear and down the back of my neck. Like cold

stinging sea spray.

And Sheriff Lunt, he is looking too long into my

face; he is blocking my view. “Cold and stiff as a

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mackerel, boys. He must’a been dead for a good few

hours,” says Lunt. “Well whadaya know.”

“Then how’d he get here? Hey? Bill? He just

pulled in. I saw him,” says Clarence. “And look-

ee here, receipt for the booze on the seat, dated

today, about six hours ago.”

“His pecker’s out,” says Bill.

“Well whadaya know,” says Lunt, pulling his fat

walrus face away from mine and turning to look at

Bill over his shoulder who’s trying to push him

aside to get a closer look in at me.

“Didn’t even hear him pull in,” says Bill.

“Yeah, he just pulled in real quiet like,” says

Clarence.

“Look there,” says Lunt, “he’s outa gas. In more

ways than one.”

“Well, he must’ve had other things on his mind,”

says Bill. “Still, he always was a wicked good

driver, our Hank.”

They are breaking my fingers to release my grip

on the wheel and I don’t feel a thing.

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Yes, Edwin I am ending as you suggest with the Homeric allusion which works nicely with the previous hidden reference to Sophocles embedded in Matthew Arnold’s “Dover Beach” (Sophocles too heard iton the Aegeian…that eternal note of sadness, etc. etc.) The Sea is thus heightened in importance. However I did have fun writing that last (now deleted) bit with the ref. to the Maine guys. My brief bio is at the very end, below. --AA

[EVERYTHING HIGHLIGHTED AT THE VERY END I THINK CANBE CUT OUT—WHY NOT END IT AT “WINE-DARK SEA” AN ALLUSION TO HOMER IS ALSO A BEAUTIFUL ALLUSION TO THE END OF A JOURNEY—HIS DEATH. NOT EVERYTHING NEEDS TO BE SPELLED OUT. HENRY JAMES NEVER DID IN HIS GHOST STORIES, RIGHT?]

PLEASE LOOK OVER THE EDITS, AND GET BACK TO ME AS SOON AS POSSIBLE, AS I’D LIKE TO HAVE THE FIRST ISSUE OUT BY THE END OF THIS WEEK. I THINK THIS IS A TIGHTLY WRITTEN PIECE OF WORK, WHICH TAKES SOME UNTANGLING ON THE READER’S PART—ALL TO THE GOOD. PLEASE SEND ME A BIO AS WELL—NO MORE THAN THREE LINES, PLEASE.

BEST,EDWIN

BIO:Alison Armstrong has published short fiction, poetry, essays, art and literary criticism since the 1970s and two books, The Joyce of Cooking (1986) and a volume of textual scholarship (1993) in the

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Cornell Mss of WB Yeats series. She teaches in theHumanities Dept. at SVA.

Best,Alison

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