'Right again, sir.'
'Well, Couth, I suppose you've moved into the Big House now. I wouldn't want to put you out, so we'll take the boathouse.'
'Who's we, Bobby?'
'A friend and myself, Couth. But I'd appreciate your telling Father I was alone for the weekend.'
'Sorry, Bobby, there are people in the boathouse. Friends of mine. But another couple of bedrooms in the Big House could easily be ...'
'One bedroom will do it, Couth. With a double ...'
In the poolroom, while Biggie helped Colm build a fire, Couth and I racked up the balls.
'It won't be so private this fall,' Couth said sadly, 'now that some of the Pillsbury kids have reached fucking age. They'll be bringing their lays up for the weekends. But after November it'll be too cold for them.'
The great mansion still was heated strictly with coal, wood stoves and fireplaces. Couth loved the winters best, with the whole run of the house to himself fussing with wood and coal all day, banking the fires at night, trying to keep the chemicals from freezing in his darkroom. With Colm after supper, Couth worked down there on a series of Colm pulverizing a clamworm on the dock. Colm grinding it with a sneaker, hacking it with a piece of shell; Colm requesting a replacement worm.
In the darkroom, Colm refused to talk; he just watched his image emerging from Couth's chemical baths. He was not at all amazed at his underwater development; he took miracles for granted; he was more impressed by being given a second chance to view the mangled clamworm.
Couth also printed from a double negative: one of Colm on the dock, the other of just the dock from the same angle. The structure was slightly out of focus around the edges, since the two docks did not quite mesh, and Colm appeared to be both on the dock and under it, the grain of the wood spread over his hands and face, his body laid out in planks. Yet he sits up (how? in space?). I was stunned by the image, though I shared Biggie's dislike for it, the boy with the wood imposed over him was strangely dead. We mentioned to Couth the incredible paranoia one felt about one's own children. Couth showed the image to Colm, who disregarded it since it was not a clear reproduction of the worm.
The girl whom Bobby Pillsbury brought 'home' for the weekend thought it was 'almost like a painting'.
'Nell is a painter,' Bobby told us all.
Seventeen-year-old Nell said, 'Well, I work at it.'
'Some more carrots, Nell?' Couth asked.
'It's such a lonely photograph,' she told Couth; she was still staring at
the picture of Colm with his face under the dock. 'This place, you know - in the winter, I mean - it must pretty well sort of collaborate with your vision.'
Couth chewed slowly, aware that the girl was gone on him. 'My vision?' he said.
'Yeah, well,' said Nell, 'you know what I mean. Your world-view, sort of.'
'I'm not lonely,' Couth said.
'Yes, you are, Couth,' Biggie said. Colm - the real Colm, his face ungrained with wood - spilled his milk. Biggie held him in her lap and let him touch her boob. Beside her, Bobby Pillsbury sat in love with Biggie.
'It's a very untypical photograph for Couth,' I told Nell. 'Seldom is the image so literal, and almost never does he use such an obvious double exposure.'
'Can I see more of your work?' Nell asked.
'Well,' Couth said, 'if I can find it.'
'Why not have Bogus just tell her about it,' Biggie said.
'Up yours, Big,' I said, and she laughed.
'I've been working on some short stories,' Bobby Pillsbury announced.
I took Colm from Biggie and stood him on the table, aimed at Couth.
'Go get Couth, Colm,' I said. 'Go on ...' And Colm began to walk with a brute glee across the salad, avoiding the rice.
'Bogus ...' Biggie protested, but Couth stood up at his end of the table, his arms held out for Colm, now bearing down on him through the mussel shells and corncobs.