Coma Berenices

That meant that these cocktails became more and more pointed at the situation of the masses-at Edie, at Mrs. Pogarski, at the space between her legs, at von Klunk. So the snowball got lost up ahead. It had succeeded in its mission, which was to put everybody out of doors for fifteen minutes. When they returned it was as though to a later act of the shabby costume drama in which all had become embedded ike La Brea tar. There were new solutions wiggling to be applied and old ones which had been superseded though they lived on in the public consciousness like the memory of a beloved opera star and her tresses in a cell in the walls of an alveolate neogothic parlor. Fears that the snowball had reached extinction, or that it had been fatally sidetracked in the Coma Berenices of its own perverse self-projection through the dangerous daydreams of housewives, their hands at rest in the dishwater of a kitchen sink; or retirees and empty-nesters wishing to refinance the mortgage on their: house or move to a smaller one or rent out part of it, proved premature. What piquantly captured the imagination of each, from competitor to consumer-to straw boss to newly outsourced consultant, was how all-inclusive the bench warrant was. No beating about the bed of roses here!

Edie had felt vaguely apprehensive since the afternoon a dark-hatted man had called while she was out. He had said something about testing the water, her maid Maria told her. There had never been a problem with the water before. Maybe it was part of some ruse to get into the house and rummage around in Carl's papers. He hadn't called or returned. Yet she was left with the fact that he had been there; that something or someone wanted part of her attention; that is to say, part of her.

At five o'clock she mixed cocktails-for herself and Carl, should he show up-in the shaker old Mrs. Lavergne had left her. Bombay sapphire martinis. Carl had fallen in love with them in Bangalore where he had been posted on an assignment. Somehow it was always a disappointment when they came out of the shaker colorless instead of blue. The sapphire color was in the bottle. She wondered if Carl had noticed this, or, more important, whether it bothered him. He had been so tight-lipped lately-though always the affectionate dear he had been on the day they first met at the Cayuga Country Club. Well, he'd had a lot on his mind. The refinancing hadn't been going too well-at least that was her impression, since he hadn't talked about it. When things went well he grew expansive, his tone avuncular. "Well, let's see what the pixies left in the larder last night. Maybe some little cheesie-biskies?"

The battlefront heat had been singeing everybody's nerves. Maria, badly off, had complained of backache. The arcane arousing had taken place on schedule. Then the arraignment was ascendant. The executive expectation, expecting expression, expectorated artwork, i.e., visual arts. The work of art had not arrived.

"Cut the mustard, curvaceous. This cutthroat-dance can't continue forever. I was downtown, saw your image enthroned above the city, through the grille, dilatory; apes and aphids continued pouring into the place. Soon well be looking at calmer quarters, a jar of moonshine reflecting the moon as in days gone by." Those were my sentiments too. Alas, Edie, we are no longer ourselves. Something came by and cut me down in the night. I was sure you'd notice. But the next day and the day after that came and went, and after that it was uncertain whether the observatory octet had finished chiming beneath the liquid dome. We were all to blame. Collective guilt is the only sure bet. But now I want you weaving in and out of my letter to the editor, dated tomorrow. A Coromandel screen has patience only with itself, but a quaff of grappa sees into and pierces the region of near mists we know we know how to deal with.

The snowball is a model for the soul because billions of souls are embedded in it, though none can dominate or even characterize it. In this the snowball is like the humblest soul that ever walked the earth. The rapacious, the raw, are its satellites. It wants you to believe its core is the outermost shell of the universe, which may or may not be true. Each of us has the choice of believing it, but we cannot believe in both things without becoming separated from our core of enigma, which soldiers on in good times and bad, protecting us alike from the consequences of inaction and misguided enthusiasm. The snowball would melt before it would release us from our vows.

After a mostly painful few years spent in Moscow (Idaho!), we changed to Illinois. At first the cultural advantages of living in a large university town were a boon, after the isolation we'd experienced. But gradually harsher realities began to make themselves felt. A French film, an evening at the ballet or a concert (mostly symphonic warhorses, like the 1812 Overture) every couple of months were hardly sufficient to keep reflections on what we were missing out on in the big city from showing through the thread-bare drapes of our lives. The satin roof of our Colonial Revival house looked fine from the street, but when you were under it you felt crushed by the weight of the old twentieth century. The college radio station emitted a perpetual flood of oldies or post-Schoenbergian twangs. Even the book discussions ("round tables") seemed mostly aimed at a "young adult" audience. Mind you, neither Stu nor I have anything against the younger generation -we're not that far from it ourselves, kind of at the tail end of the babyboom era. But so much serious attention brought to bear on subjects of doubtful consequence can get to you after a while. Many's the time we'd stare at each other across the living room and wonder, "So what?" Then one day a remarkable change occurred.