So let’s hear it; it’ll warm you up for your task.
No it won’t.
Eyes to eyes she says You’ll try because you love me.
The man considers, nods, breathes. Chip Sherritt has paddled his Sunfish home with its daggerboard and furled the sail. There is definitely weather to north and northwest of us, but it seems not headed our way. Prison’s no joke, Peter Sagamore declares to our three hands on the sculling oar, but prison jokes can be good jokes.
Yes?
Uh, once upon a time there was this bunch of convicts who’d done so much time together in the same cell block that without even trying they’d memorized all of one another’s jokes, okay? So to save time . . . Why would anybody who’s serving time want to save time? Anyhow, to save time they gave each joke a number: Instead of saying Have you heard the one about the rabbi and the priest who both survived the same airplane crash et cetera, somebody would just say Seventeen, or Three Forty-five, and the others would know which joke he meant.
P falters. Swallows. Kathy Sherritt rests her cheek on his hand. Uh so one day a new guard is assigned to this cell block, yes? And he hears one inmate say Fifty-eight, and the other inmates laugh a little. Another one says Seventy-four, and they laugh harder. Yet another one says Four Twenty-two, and everybody chuckles. The new guard thinks maybe they’re talking in code so that the guards won’t understand. He asks an old trusty what’s going on, and the old trusty explains all that stuff I said before, and then the old trusty says You don’t believe it, just watch: I’ll tell them the one about the rabbi and the priest who both et cetera. So he goes Eighty-seven, and the cons all yuk it up. So the new guard decides he’ll give it a try, so he asks the old trusty Do you know the one about the cons who’ve done so much time on the same cell block that they’ve all learned one another’s jokes et cetera, and the old trusty says Sure, everybody knows that one, it’s number Thirty-nine, give it a try. So the new guard hollers Hey guys: Thirty-nine! but nobody laughs. So the new guard wants to know how come, and the old trusty shrugs and says Some people just can’t tell a joke.
The northwest horizon clears its throat. Peter Sagamore grins uncertainly. Katherine Sherritt politely smiles. P sighs See? Some people just can’t.
Kath soothes You tried. Making Joke Thirty-nine be the joke about Joke Thirty-nine was very Peter Sagamore.
P.S. complains I’m not a teller; I’m a writer. Once upon a time I was.
Anyhow, says Kate, I like the other version better.
What other version, your husband duly inquires.
Row row row our boat, says K, and while you’re working out the story I’ve set you the task of telling, I’ll tell you
ANOTHER VERSION OF THE OLD PRISON JOKE.
Once upon a time, a new prison guard named Fred was assigned to guard a cell block of long-term convicts near Bellefonte, Pennsylvania. The first day on the job, he noticed that the convicts often spoke in numbers. Twenty-three, one of them said, and the others nodded knowingly. Somebody down the line said That reminds me of Forty-nine, and they shrugged. A third one asked with a kind of chuckle How about Seven Nineteen? but nobody cracked a smile.
Well, Fred got suspicious, so he asked an old trusty What’s going on? We’re just telling jokes to pass the time, the old trusty explained; but we’ve been together so long that we all know one another’s stories by heart. So a long time ago we gave each joke a number, the way musicians in a dance band number their tunes. I mean their numbers. Instead of saying In this set let’s do “Smoke Gets in Your Eyes” and then “Stardust” and then “One O’Clock Jump,” all your bandleader has to say is Set up Forty-two, Ninety-seven, and One Oh Eight. In the same way, if I want to tell for example the joke about the rabbi and the priest who both survived the same airplane crash, all I have to do is say Two Sixty-one, and everybody in this block knows which joke I’m telling. Saves time.
The new guard Fred wondered why people doing time would want to save time, but he says Show me once. The old trusty hollers Two Sixty-one, and sure enough, all the cons on the block smile and nod their heads.
How come nobody ever laughs? the new guard wants to know. The old trusty shrugs and says We’ve heard ‘em all before.
Peter chuckles. That’s good, Kath. You tell a good story.
Complains Kathy Jesus, Peter. I haven’t finished it yet. I’m just coming to the punch line.
Sorry. I thought that was the punch line.
Says K, who picks up expressions here and there, Oy gevalt. The punch line is when the new guard decides to give it a try, so he hollers Thirty-nine, and everybody in the cell block breaks up, including the old trusty. Now, this new guard Fred happens to know he’s no good at telling stories, see, so he asks the old trusty how come his number was such a winner? When the old trusty can get his breath from laughing and wipe his eyes, he says We never heard that one before.
PETER SAGAMORE LAUGHS A LOT
FOR THE FIRST TIME IN MONTHS, REALLY.
Oh ha. Oh ho ho. Oh tishy whum fa ha ho ho margy fum tee whoop hoo haw. Hum! Hum.
Katherine Sherritt wants to know what’s so funny. Laughs Peter Sagamore I never hee heard that one before. You made it up yourself?
Sighs Kath I wish. May Jump made it up and sang it to me, but in her version the number was Ten Oh One. I changed it to Thirty-nine because it seemed funnier to have the number be low in the series instead of a higher one than any they’d mentioned.
Oh ha. Peter Sagamore says he sees the point of K’s “39” story, all right: why she told it in response to his “B♭.” And he appreciates of course that you’re not supposed to know what Joke 39 was, in the joke. All the same, he can’t help wondering: the ontological paradox, et cet. Hoo! Hoo.
Kath kisses his fingers. Maybe it was another version of the old prison joke.
Says Peter: K. S. Sherritt, I love you, and I am more than a tad frightened by what has come to pass in our house. What all this prologue, so to speak, has barely hinted at.
I too you, his wife replies, and I too. Now, I think you’d better set about the task I set you. The sky has stopped giving us dirty looks. Why don’t we just ride on the tide for a while and wait for a breeze, and you tell me that story I asked you for back in Chapter One.
WELL, WE DO,
DESPITE THE FACT THAT NOT FAR NORTHWEST OF WHERE WE FLOAT ARE THE U.S. NAVAL ACADEMY AND THE NAVAL SHIP RESEARCH AND DEVELOPMENT CENTER AND THE NATIONAL SECURITY AGENCY’S ESPIONAGE CITY AT FORT GEORGE G. MEADE. AND NOT FAR NORTH OF US ARE THE ARMY’S EDGEWOOD ARSENAL FOR CHEMICAL AND BIOLOGICAL WEAPONS DEVELOPMENT AND THE ABERDEEN ORDNANCE PROVING GROUND. AND JUST NORTHEAST OF US IS DOVER AIR FORCE BASE WITH ITS HEAVY HARDWARE. AND NOT FAR SOUTHEAST OF US IS THE WALLOPS ISLAND ROCKET RESEARCH AND TEST FIRING CENTER. AND NOT FAR SOUTH OF US ARE THE BLOODSWORTH ISLAND NAVAL BOMBING TARGET, THE NORFOLK NAVY YARD, LANGLEY AIR FORCE BASE, AND THE ARMY’S FORTS EUSTIS AND STORY. AND NOT FAR SOUTH-SOUTHWEST OF US ARE THE ARMY’S CAMP PEARY AND THE CIA’S Isolation TRAINING CAMP AND THE PATUXENT NAVAL AIR TEST CENTER AND THE NAVAL ELECTRONICS TESTING FACILITY. AND JUST SOUTHWEST OF US ARE THE NAVAL RESEARCH LABORATORY FIRING RANGE AND THE NAVAL SURFACE WEAPONS CENTER AND THE A. P. HILL ARMY RESERVATION AND THE BLOSSOM POINT PROVING GROUND. AND NOT FAR WEST-SOUTHWEST OF US ARE THE INDIAN HEAD NAVAL ORDNANCE STATION AND THE QUANTICO MARINE RESERVATION. AND JUST WEST OF US ARE ANDREWS AIR FORCE BASE AND THE ARMY’S FORT BELVOIR. AND NOT FAR WEST-NORTHWEST OF US ARE THE HEADQUARTERS OF THE CIA, THE DIA, AND THE NRO, NOT TO MENTION THE ARMY, NAVY, AIR FORCE, AND MARINE CORPS—ALL MORE OR LESS LAWS UNTO THEMSELVES, VERY IMPERFECTLY ANSWERABLE EVEN TO THE IMPERIAL PRESIDENCY JUST ACROSS THE RIVER OR DOWN THE STREET, TO SAY NOTHING OF THE U.S. CONGRESS DITTO, WHICH PRESIDENCY HOWEVER HAS THE POWER AND AUTHORITY TO MOBILIZE THE FOURSCORE PENTAGON FACILITIES ON CHESAPEAKE BAY ALONE AND ALL RELATED FORCES AND WITH THOSE FORCES DESTROY ALL HUMAN TOGETHER WITH MOST NONHUMAN LIFE ON EARTH. NEVERTHELESS, BUCOLIC TIDEWATER MARYLAND HOLDS ITS BREATH ON THIS PLACID P
RESUMMER JUNE LATE AFTERNOON AS IF THE YEAR WERE 1886 OR 1780 OR 1680 INSTEAD OF 1980. WE DO NOT BELIEVE THAT WHAT WE SEE AROUND US WILL BE HERE IN ANY AGREEABLY HABITABLE STATE FOR THE CHILDREN OF THE CHILDREN WE ARE ABOUT TO BRING INTO THIS WORLD. WE DO NOT BELIEVE THAT THE WORLD WE VALUE WILL MUCH SURVIVE US. FOR THAT MATTER, WE HAVE NO TREMENDOUS CONFIDENCE THAT OUR CHILDREN WILL. YET NEVERTHELESS, NEVERTHELESS THE FAIR TRED AVON PAUSES IN THE HAZY SUNSHINE; NOTHING STIRS; STORY SLIDES SEAWARD SIDEWISE NOW AT LESS THAN HALF A KNOT ON THE GLASSY TIDE; AND PETER SAGAMORE, WHO HAS NOT TOLD A PROPER TALE FOR LONGER THAN WE LIKE TO REMEMBER, CLEARS HIS THROAT AND BEGINS FOR HIS WIFE’S ENTERTAINMENT AND HIS POSSIBLE OWN SALVATION
“THE ORDINARY POINT DELIVERY STORY.”
Ahem.
THE ORDINARY POINT DELIVERY STORY
Once upon ahem. There was this couple. More or less like us? That, um.
K kisses the crow’s-foot at the outboard corner of her husband’s starboard eye. On with the story.
Hum. Well, Him. Redneck bluecollar, right? Marshes, tides. Blue crabs. Oysters.
You have a way with words.
Declares P.S., warming to his work, Brother sister parents? Yeah. Scholarship get out write, okay? Stay loose sterilize write! No wife lovers travel write. He beams: Then teach-write-Less-Is-More-write-write-pfff. How’s that.
Pfff?
Him to a T.
Maybe. Her?
Her. P considers. Her: blueblood private smart beautiful et cet, two of everything terrific wow? Then Poonie blah lead Her own life meet Him kapow!
I’m on the edge of my thwart. More.
P. Sagamore closes his eyes, grips the idle sweep, draws breath. Her him futz around, other lovers? Remeet College Park Dun Cove zowie! Enoch Pratt, U of M, Doomsday Factor—
Uh-oh.
Right. Big decision fix plumbing tie knot make baby no go; Jack Bass finally bingo then whoops.
Hold on. Whoops is their miscarriage?
I’m going fast so I can get to the end, Kath, where you told me to start.
Katherine Shorter Sherritt says she appreciates his intentions, but still. She having aborted Porter “Poonie” Baldwin Jr.’s spawn and so wanted to deliver Peter Sagamore’s, our Doomsday Factor miscarriage of 1978 was an important disappointment in our life. She thinks it merits fuller treatment in this so-called story, Less Is More be damned. What’d that couple there whoop, exactly, when they whoopsed? What did Whatsername misdeliver?
Says pained Peter What a question. Show me the way, Kath.
K. S. Sherritt takes a breath of her own and, not to replay touchy history, to her own surprise invents: The first thing our heroine will’ve miscarried is . . . Less Is More.
P guesses he’s as relieved as she must’ve been. Tell him more?
Less is more. It’s your story.
Theirs. But Pete’s got the idea: Less Is More, he declares, misculminated in a certain magnificent B-flat, which relieved a lot of uncomfortable pressure and facilitated Whatsername’s passage of some further miscarried items, including but not restricted to . . . your turn.
Katherine frowns but comes up with Oh, the names of certain long-lost acquaintances and the recipes for several dishes that the couple used to enjoy making but had lately sort of forgotten about—Hey! Shirley Ovenshine!
Peter wants to know who’s Shirley Ovenshine.
The Ovenshines were our summer neighbors in Maine when I was six, and Shirley Ovenshine and I were best friends that whole August, but Willy teased her about her name in some dumb double-entendre way that didn’t even make sense, like Shirley, let me see your oven shine. I loved Shirley Ovenshine and Shirley Ovenshine loved me and I haven’t thought about Shirley Ovenshine since Nineteen Aught Sixty or thereabouts. Shirley Ovenshine. I think I like this story.
Peter says Barbecued chutney bananas in aluminum foil. Kathy says we haven’t made barbecued chutney bananas for a hundred years and she wishes she had a barbecued chutney banana in aluminum foil in her pregnant mouth right now while Peter Sagamore goes on with it.
On with the story? Or on with the catalogue of miscarriages?
The story, the story, says K.S.S.: I’ll wind up the miscarriages, and then you get on with the story. Whatsername there next miscarried, let’s see . . . two Doomsday Factors, one nice one not, and a turnaround story called “Part of a Shorter Work”; also a green Crayola crayon, don’t ask, and assorted burnt chestnuts and unfired pistols. Then she came out with the God on Wires to tidy things up, and that was it for her and that’s it for me. Boyoboy, the lady said when she’d finally misdelivered the God on Wires: Do I ever feel better! On with the story.
Pete’s impressed: May Jump’s exercise books, he bets. He shakes head. But draws breath, says Jack Bass try again long-shot pill, Less-Is-More short few; then bingo shorter fewer, belly bigger shortest fewest; out of gas, Nopoint Point, frustration, set me task; take us sailing, out of wind, frustration, set me task; tell me story out of breath here we are.
Katherine Shorter Sherritt Sagamore hugs her winded husband, turning sidewise at the bottom to avoid Story’s tiller and to get her belly out of the way so that she can press her breasts against him. We both say That’s terrific; what she means is that here we are and now we can go on with the story. She has recklessly cursed the wind, acknowledges Kathy, meaning also the woman Whatsername in our story. She has recklessly declared I wish the fornicating wind would blow us right out of the Tred Avon and on up the Chesapeake, where we could be alone together, just you and me plus Bed and Breakfast down there, no timetable no itinerary just sail whither the wind listeth until my time cometh. Go on.
Peter says The wind don’t cotton to being cursed, especially by sailors in engineless small boats. Who asketh trouble generally getteth.
Blam! cries Kath. A storm at sea. At bay.
Says Peter Blam Blooey! Two storms. At once.
Katherine asks him what he means blam blooey two storms at once; she doesn’t get it. Neither does he, says Peter: He just upped and said it. The moon of inspiration, he supposes. Says K That’s a good sign, very good sign: story telling itself. Grants P maybe so, but he’s buggered if he knows how two storms can strike at once or what their doing so means in and to the story, and he’s a writer likes to know what he’s about. All he had in mind, when Katherine spoke of a voyage without itinerary timetable or destination, was that after two weeks, say, of sailing whither the wind listeth and having certain small or large adventures and maybe telling each other stories as they went along, some they’ve never told before and some they know by heart but need or want to hear again or tell the kiddies; some real stories from their life together and their lives apart; some made-up stories; some found stories and some lost stories—after a fortnight or so of this, this couple find themselves up at the head of the Bay, say, in the Sassafras River, say, loafing and swimming in the fresh water there and thinking about the stories they’ve told and heard and the people they’ve met and wondering how in the world she can have carried whatever she’s carrying past the solstice, out of spring and into summer, and they figure they probably have been being mighty reckless, provoking the wind in her condition, and the gods were considerate enough after all not to blow them out of the water but just give them what they wished for, no wires attached, and now they’ve had their little cruise and their private time together, and they really had better pack it in and get on back to Nopoint Point; maybe even put in upriver at Georgetown right now and ask the woman’s parents please to send up a car for her while Whatsisname singlehands their boat back home. . . .
The sky to westward, reader, has perceptibly darkened again and now rumbles over Peter’s suspension points, but the brightness in his face brightens Kathy’s; she knows Invention’s look and has for long not seen it in her friend, who says now Sure. Back at Day Zero she said Fornicate the wind and set her husband this task in verse. But before he could reply or begin, or as he was replying or beginning, a storm blammed out of the wes
t and did what she said, blew them away willy-nilly, and they said Well, let’s go with it, blah blah, and now on Day Fourteen or so there they are, up on the Sassafras, happy to’ve had what they needed and lucky to’ve gotten away with it and ready to come home now and deliver the goods. They’re anchored in Turner Creek, say, off from the old granary and the county park, and they dinghy ashore after lunch and call her parents. Is there a pay phone in that park?
Katherine remembers Up from the granary wharf. At the old restored farmhouse where the public toilets are.
So they call and arrange to meet her parents for dinner in Georgetown, after which Buck McHenry—that’s the paid hand on her father’s yacht, who’ll come up with them in the car—Capn Buck, let’s call him, will bring their boat Whatsitsname back down to Goldsborough Creek, ‘cause it’s a three-day sail, and if her husband does it she’s likely to let go before he gets there. So it’s all arranged, and they up their anchor and go over to Ordinary Point for a final swim. About four p.m. they start for Georgetown, figuring they’ll run up on the little southwesterly that’s been blowing all day, and wouldn’t you know it: No sooner do they get the hook up and the mud swabbed off the foredeck than the woman’s water breaks blooey all over the cockpit sole, and her contractions start immediately—
And the wind dies, Kate says soberly, looking off to westward. The woozy sky over there agrees with her.
Says Peter The wind dies; that’s how the gods get their own back. This situation’s no joke. The guy sets to with the sculling oar (as does Peter Sagamore now), but the sails hang limp, the tide’s against them, and it’s four or five miles to Georgetown. What’s more, those contractions are coming very strongly already and awfully close together, considering that her labor’s just started. So they decide to radio ship-to-ship for a tow from some passing powerboat and an ambulance to meet them at the Georgetown bridge.