Cover
About the Book
About the Author
Also by Raymond Carver
Dedication
Title Page
A Note on the Text
Why Don’t You Dance?
Viewfinder
Mr Coffee and Mr Fixit
Gazebo
I Could See the Smallest Things
Sacks
The Bath
Tell the Women We’re Going
After the Denim
So Much Water So Close to Home
The Third Thing That Killed My Father Off
A Serious Talk
The Calm
Popular Mechanics
Everything Stuck to Him
What We Talk about When We Talk about Love
One More Thing
Acknowledgements
Copyright
This powerful collection of stories, set in the mid-West among the lonely men and women who drink, fish and play cards to ease the passing of time, was the first by Raymond Carver to be published in the UK. With its spare, colloquial narration and razor-sharp sense of how people really communicate, the collection went on to become one of the most influential pieces of literary fiction.
Raymond Carver was born in Clatskanie, Oregon in 1938. He married early and for years writing had to come second to earning a living for his young family. Despite some early publication by small presses, it was not until the success of Will You Please Be Quiet, Please? (1976) that his work began to reach a larger audience. This was the year he gave up alcohol, and in 1977, after the break-up of his marriage, he met the writer Tess Gallagher with whom he spent the last eleven years of his life. During this prolific period he wrote three collections of stories, What We Talk About When We Talk About Love, Cathedral and Elephant. Fires, a collection of essays, poems and stories, appeared in 1985, followed by three further collections of poetry. He completed his last book of poems, A New Path to the Waterfall, shortly before his death in 1988.
ALSO BY RAYMOND CARVER
Fiction
Furious Seasons
Will You Please Be Quiet, Please?
Cathedral
Elephant
Where I’m Calling From: The Selected Stories
(with the author’s foreword)
Short Cuts
(selected and with an introduction by Robert Altman)
Call if You Need Me: The Uncollected Fiction & Prose
(edited by William L. Stull with a foreword by Tess Gallagher)
Beginners
Poetry
Near Klamath
Winter Insomnia
At Night the Salmon Move
Where Water Comes Together with Other Water
Ultramarine
In a Marine Light: Selected Poems
A New Path to the Waterfall
(with an introduction by Tess Gallagher)
All of Us: The Collected Poems
(edited by William L. Stull)
Essays, Poems, Stories
Fires
No Heroics, Please
The text of the stories in this edition reproduces that of the first American edition (Alfred A. Knopf, 1981) and the first British edition (Collins Harvill, 1982). Alternate versions of several stories in What We Talk About When We Talk About Love appear in Fires (1983), Cathedral (1983), and Where I’m Calling From (1988).
For Tess Gallagher
IN THE KITCHEN, he poured another drink and looked at the bedroom suite in his front yard. The mattress was stripped and the candy-striped sheets lay beside two pillows on the chiffonier. Except for that, things looked much the way they had in the bedroom – nightstand and reading lamp on his side of the bed, nightstand and reading lamp on her side.
His side, her side.
He considered this as he sipped the whiskey.
The chiffonier stood a few feet from the foot of the bed. He had emptied the drawers into cartons that morning, and the cartons were in the living room. A portable heater was next to the chiffonier. A rattan chair with a decorator pillow stood at the foot of the bed. The buffed aluminum kitchen set took up a part of the driveway. A yellow muslin cloth, much too large, a gift, covered the table and hung down over the sides. A potted fern was on the table, along with a box of silverware and a record player, also gifts. A big console-model television set rested on a coffee table, and a few feet away from this stood a sofa and chair and a floor lamp. The desk was pushed against the garage door. A few utensils were on the desk, along with a wall clock and two framed prints. There was also in the driveway a carton with cups, glasses, and plates, each object wrapped in newspaper. That morning he had cleared out the closets, and except for the three cartons in the living room, all the stuff was out of the house. He had run an extension cord on out there and everything was connected. Things worked, no different from how it was when they were inside.
Now and then a car slowed and people stared. But no one stopped.
It occurred to him that he wouldn’t, either.
“It must be a yard sale,” the girl said to the boy.
This girl and this boy were furnishing a little apartment.
“Let’s see what they want for the bed,” the girl said.
“And for the TV,” the boy said.
The boy pulled into the driveway and stopped in front of the kitchen table.
They got out of the car and began to examine things, the girl touching the muslin cloth, the boy plugging in the blender and turning the dial to MINCE, the girl picking up a chafing dish, the boy turning on the television set and making little adjustments.
He sat down on the sofa to watch. He lit a cigarette, looked around, flipped the match in the grass.
The girl sat on the bed. She pushed off her shoes and lay back. She thought she could see a star.
“Come here, Jack. Try this bed. Bring one of those pillows,” she said.
“How is it?” he said.
“Try it,” she said.
He looked around. The house was dark.
“I feel funny, he said. “Better see if anybody’s home.”
She bounced on the bed.
“Try it first,” she said.
He lay down on the bed and put the pillow under his head.
“How does it feel?” she said.
“It feels firm,” he said.
She turned on her side and put her hand to his face.
“Kiss me,” she said.
“Let’s get up,” he said.
“Kiss me,” she said.
She closed her eyes. She held him.
He said, “I’ll see if anybody’s home.”
But he just sat up, and stayed where he was, making believe he was watching the television.
Lights came on in houses up and down the street.
“Wouldn’t it be funny if,” the girl said and grinned and didn’t finish.
The boy laughed, but for no good reason. For no good reason, he switched the reading lamp on.
The girl brushed away a mosquito, whereupon the boy stood up and tucked in his shirt.
“I’ll see if anybody’s home,” he said. “I don’t think anybody’s home. But if anybody is, I’ll see what things are going for.”
“Whatever they ask, offer ten dollars less. It’s always a good idea,” she said. “And besides, they must be desperate or something.”
“It’s a pretty good TV,” the boy said.
“Ask them how much,” the girl said.
The man came down the sidewalk with a sack from the market. He had sandwiches, beer, whiskey. He saw the car in the driveway and the girl on the bed. He saw the television set going and the boy on the porch.
“Hello,” the man said to the girl. “You found the bed. That’s good.”
“Hello,” the girl said, and got up. “I was just trying it out.” She patted the bed. “It’s a pretty good bed.”
“It’s a good bed,” the man said, and put down the sack and took out the beer and the whiskey.
“We thought nobody was here,” the boy said. “We’re interested in the bed and maybe in the TV. Also maybe the desk. How much do you want for the bed?”
“I was thinking fifty dollars for the bed,” the man said.
“Would you take forty?” the girl asked.
“I’ll take forty,” the man said.
He took a glass out of the carton. He took the newspaper off the glass. He broke the seal on the whiskey.
“How about the TV?” the boy said.
“Twenty-five.”
“Would you take fifteen?” the girl said.
“Fifteen’s okay. I could take fifteen,” the man said.
The girl looked at the boy.
“You kids, you’ll want a drink,” the man said. “Glasses in that box. I’m going to sit down. I’m going to sit down on the sofa.”
The man sat on the sofa, leaned back, and stared at the boy and the girl.
The boy found two glasses and poured whiskey.
“That’s enough,” the girl said. “I think I want water in mine.”
She pulled out a chair and sat at the kitchen table.
“There’s water in that spigot over there,” the man said. “Turn on that spigot.”
The boy came back with the watered whiskey. He cleared his throat and sat down at the kitchen table. He grinned. But he didn’t drink anything from his glass.
The man gazed at the television. He finished his drink and started another. He reached to turn on the floor lamp. It was then that his cigarette dropped from his fingers and fell between the cushions.
The girl got up to help him find it.
“So what do you want?” the boy said to the girl.
The boy took out the checkbook and held it to his lips as if thinking.
“I want the desk,” the girl said. “How much money is the desk?”
The man waved his hand at this preposterous question.
“Name a figure,” he said.
He looked at them as they sat at the table. In the lamplight, there was something about their faces. It was nice or it was nasty. There was no telling.
“I’m going to turn off this TV and put on a record,” the man said. “This record-player is going, too. Cheap. Make me an offer.”
He poured more whiskey and opened a beer.
“Everything goes,” said the man.
The girl held out her glass and the man poured.
“Thank you,” she said. “You’re very nice,” she said.
“It goes to your head,” the boy said. “I’m getting it in the head.” He held up his glass and jiggled it.
The man finished his drink and poured another, and then he found the box with the records.
“Pick something,” the man said to the girl, and he held the records out to her.
The boy was writing the check.
“Here,” the girl said, picking something, picking anything, for she did not know the names on these labels. She got up from the table and sat down again. She did not want to sit still.
“I’m making it out to cash,” the boy said.
“Sure,” the man said.
They drank. They listened to the record. And then the man put on another.
Why don’t you kids dance? he decided to say, and then he said it. “Why don’t you dance?”
“I don’t think so,” the boy said.
“Go ahead,” the man said. “It’s my yard. You can dance if you want to.”
Arms about each other, their bodies pressed together, the boy and the girl moved up and down the driveway. They were dancing. And when the record was over, they did it again, and when that one ended, the boy said, “I’m drunk.”
The girl said, “You’re not drunk.”
“Well, I’m drunk,” the boy said.
The man turned the record over and the boy said, “I am.”
“Dance with me,” the girl said to the boy and then to the man, and when the man stood up, she came to him with her arms wide open.
“Those people over there, they’re watching,” she said.
“It’s okay,” the man said. “It’s my place,” he said.
“Let them watch,” the girl said.
“That’s right,” the man said. “They thought they’d seen everything over here. But they haven’t seen this, have they?” he said.
He felt her breath on his neck.
“I hope you like your bed,” he said.
The girl closed and then opened her eyes. She pushed her face into the man’s shoulder. She pulled the man closer.
“You must be desperate or something,” she said.
Weeks later, she said: “The guy was about middle-aged. All his things right there in his yard. No lie. We got real pissed and danced. In the driveway. Oh, my God. Don’t laugh. He played us these records. Look at this record-player. The old guy gave it to us. And all these crappy records. Will you look at this shit?”
She kept talking. She told everyone. There was more to it, and she was trying to get it talked out. After a time, she quit trying.
A MAN WITHOUT hands came to the door to sell me a photograph of my house. Except for the chrome hooks, he was an ordinary-looking man of fifty or so.
“How did you lose your hands?” I asked after he’d said what he wanted.
“That’s another story,” he said. “You want this picture or not?”
“Come in,” I said. “I just made coffee.”
I’d just made some Jell-O, too. But I didn’t tell the man I did.
“I might use your toilet,” the man with no hands said.
I wanted to see how he would hold a cup.
I knew how he held the camera. It was an old Polaroid, big and black. He had it fastened to leather straps that looped over his shoulders and went around his back, and it was this that secured the camera to his chest. He would stand on the sidewalk in front of your house, locate your house in the viewfinder, push down the lever with one of his hooks, and out would pop your picture.
I’d been watching from the window, you see.
“Where did you say the toilet was?”
“Down there, turn right.”
Bending, hunching, he let himself out of the straps. He put the camera on the sofa and straightened his jacket.
“You can look at this while I’m gone.”
I took the picture from him.
There was a little rectangle of lawn, the driveway, the carport, front steps, bay window, and the window I’d been watching from in the kitchen.
So why would I want a photograph of this tragedy?
I looked a little closer and saw my head, my head, in there inside the kitchen window.
It made me think, seeing myself like that. I can tell you, it makes a man think.
I heard the toilet flush. He came down the hall, zipping and smiling, one hook holding his belt, the other tucking in his shirt.
“What do you think?” he said. “All right? Personally, I think it turned out fine. Don’t I know what I’m doing? Let’s face it, it takes a professional.”
He plucked at his crotch.
“Here’s coffee,” I said.
He said, “You’re alone, right?”
He looked at the living room. He shook his head.
“Hard, hard,” he said.
He sat next to the camera, leaned back with a sigh, and smiled as if he knew something he wasn’t going to tell me.
“Drink your coffee,” I said.
I was trying to think of something to say.
“Three kids were by here wanting to paint my address on the curb. They wanted a dollar to do it. You wouldn’t know anything about that, would you?”
It was a long shot. But I watched him just the same.
He leaned forward importantly, the cup balanced between his hooks. He set it down on the table.
“I work alone,” he said. “Always have, always will. What are you saying?” he said.
“I was trying to make a connection,” I said.
I had a headache. I know coffee’s no good for it, but sometimes Jell-O helps. I picked up the picture.
“I was in the kitchen,” I said. “Usually I’m in the back.”
“Happens all the time,” he said. “So they just up and left you, right? Now you take me, I work alone. So what do you say? You want the picture?”
“I’ll take it,” I said.
I stood up and picked up the cups.
“Sure you will,” he said. “Me, I keep a room downtown. It’s okay. I take a bus out, and after I’ve worked the neighborhoods, I go to another downtown. You see what I’m saying? Hey, I had kids once. Just like you,” he said.
I waited with the cups and watched him struggle up from the sofa.
He said, “They’re what gave me this.”
I took a good look at those hooks.
“Thanks for the coffee and the use of the toilet. I sympathize.”
He raised and lowered his hooks.
“Show me,” I said. “Show me how much. Take more pictures of me and my house.”
“It won’t work,” the man said. “They’re not coming back.”
But I helped him get into his straps.
“I can give you a rate,” he said. “Three for a dollar.” He said, “If I go any lower, I don’t come out.”
We went outside. He adjusted the shutter. He told me where to stand, and we got down to it.
We moved around the house. Systematic. Sometimes I’d look sideways. Sometimes I’d look straight ahead.
“Good,” he’d say. “That’s good,” he’d say, until we’d circled the house and were back in the front again. “That’s twenty. That’s enough.”
“No,” I said. “On the roof,” I said.
“Jesus,” he said. He checked up and down the block. “Sure,” he said.
“Now you’re talking.”
I said, “The whole kit and kaboodle. They cleared right out.”
“Look at this!” the man said, and again he held up his hooks.
I went inside and got a chair. I put it up under the carport. But it didn’t reach. So I got a crate and put the crate on top of the chair.
It was okay up there on the roof.
I stood up and looked around. I waved, and the man with no hands waved back with his hooks.
It was then I saw them, the rocks. It was like a little rock nest on the screen over the chimney hole. You know kids. You know how they lob them up, thinking to sink one down your chimney.
“Ready?” I called, and I got a rock, and I waited until he had me in his viewfinder.
“Okay!” he called.
I laid back my arm and I hollered, “Now!” I threw that son of a bitch as far as I could throw it.
“I don’t know,” I heard him shout. “I don’t do motion shots.”
“Again!” I screamed, and took up another rock.
I’VE SEEN SOME things. I was going over to my mother’s to stay a few nights. But just as I got to the top of the stairs, I looked and she was on the sofa kissing a man. It was summer. The door was open. The TV was going. That’s one of the things I’ve seen.
My mother is sixty-five. She belongs to a singles club. Even so, it was hard. I stood with my hand on the railing and watched as the man kissed her. She was kissing him back, and the TV was going.
Things are better now. But back in those days, when my mother was putting out, I was out of work. My kids were crazy, and my wife was crazy. She was putting out too. The guy that was getting it was an unemployed aerospace engineer she’d met at AA. He was also crazy.
His name was Ross and he had six kids. He walked with a limp from a gunshot wound his first wife gave him.
I don’t know what we were thinking of in those days.
This guy’s second wife had come and gone, but it was his first wife who had shot him for not meeting his payments. I wish him well now. Ross. What a name! But it was different then. In those days I mentioned weapons. I’d say to my wife, “I think I’ll get a Smith and Wesson.” But I never did it.
Ross was a little guy. But not too little. He had a moustache and always wore a button-up sweater.
His one wife jailed him once. The second one did. I found out from my daughter that my wife went bail. My daughter Melody didn’t like it any better than I did. About the bail. It wasn’t that Melody was looking out for me. She wasn’t looking out for either one of us, her mother or me neither. It was just that there was a serious cash thing and if some of it went to Ross, there’d be that much less for Melody. So Ross was on Melody’s list. Also, she didn’t like his kids, and his having so many of them. But in general Melody said Ross was all right.
He’d even told her fortune once.
This Ross guy spent his time repairing things, now that he had no regular job. But I’d seen his house from the outside. It was a mess. Junk all around. Two busted Plymouths in the yard.
In the first stages of the thing they had going, my wife claimed the guy collected antique cars. Those were her words, “antique cars”. But they were just clunkers.
I had his number. Mr Fixit.