Two Novellas: The Thirst We Have and Bob, Son of Battle: His Confessions

By August Franza

The Thirst We Have is about a day in the life of an embattled teacher. From dawn to bed time, Joe Monte dallies with his students, his colleagues, his wife, and his children.

Bob, Son of Battle: His Confessions takes teacher Bob Stroonz through a school year to the summer where, in the Berkshires, he teaches literature to rich kids abandoned by their busy, indifferent parents. Things dont go well.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Jun 12, 2017
• ISBN: 9781543420180

August Franza

August Franza has published 27 novels and is planning to make them an even 30.

Book preview

TWO NOVELLAS

THE THIRST WE HAVE

AND

BOB, SON OF BATTLE: HIS CONFESSIONS

August Franza

Copyright © 2017 by August Franza.

ISBN:            Softcover                  978-1-5434-2019-7

                      eBook                        978-1-5434-2018-0

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

Rev. date: 06/12/2017

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CONTENTS

A Note To Myself

The Thirst We Have

Bob, Son Of Battle: His Confessions

A Note To Myself

I think it was in April, 1960, while driving to school with Stan Clark, that I made up my mind to be a writer, to do it, to commit myself to it fully, regardless of consequences — although I was convinced I would be published quickly.

Regardless of Consequences because I was in love with reading, writing and teaching!! Simple as that. Thirty-two years and no publication later, I am still in love with reading and writing. Fascinated, absorbed, thrilled — all of that — and more. But it does seem strange — it is a strange feeling to know that not one piece of extended fiction has ever been published by a conventional publisher. Two Novellas is self-published and I’m pleased about that.

The Thirst We Have and Bob, Son of Battle: His Confessions are the first two long pieces I tried: early 1960’s. I was 28. Stephen Crane had a year to live and Rimbaud had put down his pen at 19. Here I am turning 60 and still writing, still unpublished.

By the way, here’s my epitaph:

HE WROTE, BUT IT DIDN’T FLOAT

The Thirst We Have

(All of this happened around 1965-66.)

Y’ know — Babylon once had two million people in it, and all we know about ’em is the names of the kings and some copies of wheat contracts and… . the sale of slaves.

The stage Manager in OUR TOWN

. . . . But other men know not what they are doing when awake, even as they forget what they do in sleep.

Heraclitus

The Clock Calls. Baaaaaaahhhhhhhhhhaaaaaaazzzzzzhhhhhzzzzz. Find the knob. Flick. That Recurring Dream Again. How Often? Three times in the Last Couple of weeks. It Is. A Mushroom Cloud, Filthy, BlackGrey Solid Belching Mass. It Went Off Again. Standing on my Mother’s Stoop. No Fire, No Blast, Just RollingBlackGrey Clouds forming WayOff in the Distance over Nonno’s Pergola and The Peach Tree. Swelled and Sped at me, all the time in Perfect Mushroom Shape. And I was Enveloped and Suffocated. Third Dreadful Visitation. Last Time it was with The Kids. This is Really IT, I said; no longer The Anxiety, The Fear, but IT. I Embraced my Two Children, Bent Over Them. The First I can’t recall. Thankfully . . . .

Toast eggs bacon firewater liquor sickness fear checks sugar mail hope windows mirrors light dark growth ambition bicycles icecream frozen food tv deodorants stupidity ashtrays nonsense cellars painting violence apples curtains chairs cigarettes flowers pictures books despair hate fences tables pencil suits dresses talk god crib bed screams whistles rooms toys love

I think I am.

Oh, come on.

Don’t believe me.

Are you?

Looks like.

How? I mean . . . .

Magic. Dope.

(I don’t want it. I don’t want it.) Maybe you’re late.

Maybe.

Are you?

Go to Hell.

When’d it happen?

I think I know.

When?

That night we took showers. Some costly water bill, huh? Are you going to make me miserable again? You’re something, you know. Most people are happy about it.

You could be late.

I could be, but I’m not. I’ve been regular. Shall I have an abortion?

Oh, don’t be an ass. It’s done. Just let me get over this feeling.

What feeling?

C’mon. Forget it. What’s the point?

What is the point? I was safe according to the calendar. It was all right every other time.

What bugs me is the twinkle in her eyes. She wants it and doesn’t mind a bit. She’s pleased, proud to be fertile. She’ll bitch and complain, she’ll get morning sickness soon, the back of her leg will look like a map, a blue veiny map, blue in bold relief. She’s acting out the orders of the Life Force. Man and Superman. Relax, John Tanner, and enjoy it. Now she’ll be able to make her Easter Duty. When was the last time? Before we got married. That’s a hell of a commentary. Or was it after? She has her reasons for not going; we know them damn well. All right, let’s not go down the history road or I’ll be late.

Come on, get up, or you’ll have misery.

That Henry James story last night. Really hit home.

Wonder how the kids’11 react to him? Dencombe’s remark… what was it? Got you right where you live. This was the pain or something that had been something for the past years. Ebbing time. Going, going, Gone. Check it.

The morning is black and he pokes around to find the clock and put it away otherwise Robert will drop it again. In the night table draw with the busted one.

His head falls back on a cool part of the pillow and he shoots one leg off the mattress and out from under the covers to test the air. Dampcool. The other leg slides into the warmth of her legs. A pregnant woman’s body is hot, feverish. It takes an effort of will not to turn to her and close his eyes… . No. Up. Yawn. Running a hand through his hair. It needs a heavy brushing this morning. It goes every which way all knotted and matted sticking all over hell. Rancid mouth. Runs his tongue over his teeth and not feeling the smoothness remembers he forgot to brush last night. That mucky film over them. Tongue pokes about in assorted crevices locating pieces of food, making a mental note to brush extra well here… . and there… . there. Her mouth never smells bad. Why is that? Get too close and she says, Poo, you stink. Ah, romance. But her mouth is cherries.

He gets off the bed and walks in bare feet by their rooms and gently shuts each door. Maybe I can get dressed without interruptions. Coming back to the bedroom, he gets his comb, stumbles into the bathroom. The fluorescent lights make him squint. He is a horror. Even before he urinates he starts brushing his hair furiously. He can’t wait any longer. Urinates. Relieved. Flush. As the beery water eddies, he coughs up a gob. Into the bowl. Save a flush. Water sweet and cool on his face. Drink some. He splashes some on his neck, wetting his tee-shirt. Brush teeth. Change underwear. The shaving cream picks him up. Smell of menthol. Eyes tear. Hygienic smell but. He works it in vigorously—not supposed to but always do—changes razor blades—sends a loud fart into the world.

Daddy, you scared me.

He starts. Leaning against the open bathroom door, like a drunk against a lamppost, shielding her eyes, nightfilled, sleepladen, darkerthanbrownnow eyes, is Loren.

Sweetie. Back to bed now. It’s only six. Do you know that?

No, I wanna stay with you and have coffee. She yawned and went to sit on the bowl. Who’s driving today?

Stan.

Stanny-whanny. When are you home? When is Saturday?

Three more days.

That’s not a lot. Are we going somewhere?

Loren. Shhhhh. I can’t shave and talk.

Daddy, why do boys shave and not girls?

Aw, Loren. Not again.

Boys stand up to do pooh-pooh. Right? ’Cept Robert ’cause he’s a very little boy and can’t reach. But Mommy will train him. Right?

Right.

Daddy!!

Shhhhh! You’ll wake him.

She scrunches off the seat. It’s your birthday. I almost forgot. That’s why I wanna stay up. She kissed his hip. How old are you? She screws up her face. 62. No. What is it? Mommy told me last night.

No. Loren. Only 30. Why do I keep telling my students 27? It’s a standing joke now.

Are you having a party? She slips back on the seat.

No, Loren, only children have birthday parties. Maybe we’ll have a piece of cake tonight. You don’t have parties when you’re a grownup.

Why not? Frowning.

Because something’s gone. That’s it. The sense of ebbing time, the something opportunity. Terrible memory. And I read it last night.

Why not, Dad?

Because grownups just don’t.

But I’ll have a party when I have my birthday in November. Won’t I?

Sure.

I wanna brush my teeth too.

Come on. He squeezes a blob on her diminutive brush. Do a good job.

Oh, yes. Miss Barbara says brushing guards against cavities. Nodding her head.

He laughs. Digs for a piece of food. Loren, too short of the washstand, brushes over the bowl, mimicking his every sound and grimace.

When can I go on Romper Room? When are you gonna write a letter?

Soon. Here, take your glass.

There is a rapping sound inside. Da-ah. Da-ah?

Robert’s awake.

All right. Go inside and occupy him til I get done.

Dutifully, Loren goes in, after wiping her mouth on a towel. There is endearment in her voice, a true maternal ring to her sentences.

Good morning, Robert. Did you have a nice sleep?

Hullo, Wor-Wor, mutters the husky voice.

Then, in crisis, Daddy, he’s got his pajama’s off and his diaper is around his knees.

Oh, Christ, I’ll never make it this morning.

Daddy, he’s got h . . . .

All right. Look Loren, I’ll take care of him. You go put the fire under the coffee.

OK. And then I’ll have some with you. Could Robert have some too?

We’ll see.

As they pass in the hall, he pats her head. In the room, sun coming up.

Dah! Tousled brown hair hangs over eyes that gleam. Like two Sicilian olives, Pop says. Beautiful. He lifts him out of the crib kissing his eyes, mouth, neck, arms. Warm skin.

Dah-Dah. Dah-Dah kool?

Yes, Robert. Daddy’s going to school. Now you stay still and let me change you. Otherwise your cullino will get all red.

Practiced hands undo the pins, check his behind. Reach for a diaper. Damn. None.

Hey, Ame! I’m never going to make it today. Come on, huh? Ame! Ame! Where’s the diapers?

A disturbed, sleepy voice: In the dryer. I forgot to . . . .

Loren, go downstairs and get a diaper, please. In the dryer. And a pair of rubber pants.

The whang of the stuck cellar door. Bump. Bump. Bump. Bump. Bump.

Waiting, he stares at the brilliant eyes, touches the velvet flesh.

Wor-wor?

Wor-Wor went to get your diapers. She’ll be right up.

Wor-Wor ‘ai-per?

Yes, baby.

Loren returns breathless. Here, Dad. Diaper. Pants. New pajama bottoms.

Okay. You’re all set. Down. Scampering into the kitchen. Brown suit. Yesterday’s shirt. Change underwear. See Jake. Period four. Oh yes. SHANE and THE WAY WEST. Glad I didn’t save James for this morning. This was the pain that had been greatest. The sense of ebbing time, the lost opportunity . . . . Still not right. Wonder how they’11 handle James? Charcoal brown tie. You wear Amy’s taste. Stick pin. Hair all right. Smothered in sleep, Joe, don’t be home late. A long slender frame stretched to its length. Funny how she curls into a ball when she gets into bed. And stretches out in the morning with her long legs. Delicious. Read that somewhere, return to womb. She laughs at that… . Shall I ask her? Might get angry. Maybe she’ll surprise you tonight. And if she doesn’t? Don’t choke boy. She scared you last month, too… . No sounds. What are they up to?

Loren?

What?

Where are you?

In my room.

Where’s Robert?

I don’t know. In the kitchen?

Without a second thought, he springs into the kitchen, tiptoes to the cellar door. Open. Robert, grasping for the rail, is about to take his first step down. Lunging, he grips his pajama top and yanks him back. 16 wooden steps… . concrete floor. He kisses the brown head.

Loren, he commands sharply, come here.

She bounces in.

Look. You left the cellar door open. Why do you think Mommy put the lock on? Robert almost fell down the stairs.

Ooooooooo.

Yes. Oooooo. You don’t want to see him in a hospital, do you?

No, Daddy. I just forgot.

Well, don’t anymore. If he wakes up tomorrow morning, your mother’s getting up, that’s for sure.

The coffee’s perking, Dad.

*     *     *

In the car with Stan, he checks it. The tears filled his mild eyes; something precious had passed away. This was the pang that had been sharpest during the past few years—the sense of ebbing time, of shrinking opportunity; and now he felt not so much that his last chance was going as that it was gone forever.

But he never really liked Henry James. Faulkner’s right about never imagining a James character going to the bathroom. Dencombe never comes off the page, but this quote sure does. The kids will say he’s remote. Won’t like his style. Should have skipped him. But that quote. Me. Shrink. Shrunk. We are the hollow men. Trapped. But I love them. Then why? . . . . Another seed planted. When was that? The slap of flesh. The coupler’s will. Robert will soon be out of diapers and here we go again. She’s so ill at the beginning. Heaving mornings. Indigestion all day. Belching—crwaaacwk… . carrrwarkkkk. Nights ohohohoh. Moping, droopy, cowlike. Belly sticking out in everything, blues and tears and what’s the matter, nothing, just hold me. 27. Seven years ago you held me at the frat party and boy you couldn’t wait to get here. I want six kids right in a row with you, and you strained against her and watched her figure in that yellow print dress that was a little too tight and a red one that felt like cool soft sheets. And now her belly bulges for number three. First it puffs out. Squeeze it back. Soon swollen, distended and you keep thinking of watermelons and oh, what the hell . . . .

What are you so quiet, about?

Working out a lesson.

Want the radio off?

No. I’m just about finished. Stan, what’s the toughest thing to teach in Chemistry?

Crystals.

Well, Henry James is my problem this morning.

Times. Book review. DANGERPOINT by John Douglas. The uncommon talent of John Douglas shows impressively in his new fiction. Although only 30, this is his fourth novel and the best of the lot. We should be hearing a lot about this young writer of so much promise. 30. 4 novels. 30. 3 children.

Do you know Pete Heffernan? Stan asks.

No.

What a shame. He’s a kid who was a vegetable the first part of the year, at least the first couple of marking periods. He did next to nothing and what he did do was slipshod. I spoke to his mother and together we got on the kid’s back. I had a couple of conferences with him. She kept close tabs on his work and he started producing. Assignments in on time and you could see he gave them his attention. Between his mother and me, we kept encouraging the kid and he’s really moving. Pulled his average up to a C. You know what Jean Kahler says to me yesterday? His mother is dying of incurable cancer, only he doesn’t know it. She’s supposed to undergo an operation tonight and maybe she won’t survive. Pete thinks it’s just a minor surgery. So the kid wakes up tomorrow with a dead mother and a solid C in Chem. Brother!

There. Answer it. Hokus pocus tomato can. Love, your magic spell is everywhere.

What are they operating for if it’s that bad?

See what they can find out. They promised they’d do what they could. And there she’s worried about her son’s school work.

All right! All right! I hear you loud and clear, Stan, and we’ll be told she took it like a champ! Next!

Robert died. Slow. Agonizingly under a truck’s wheels. Amy’s body was stone. Raging, he broke every piece of furniture in the house. CarashSmaskTinkBlang! Cleaved walls with an axe. How do you survive? How do you