Free Van Gogh's Room at Arles by Stanley Elkin Page A

Dickerson? Arranged?
    “We, the members of the Political Geographers Party Committee.”
    “There is such a thing?”
    “Well, now there is. The people in your seminar threw it together as soon as we heard.”
    “Heard? Heard what?”
    “Why, what Mrs. Professor S. did to Mr. Professor S., of course.”
    “What’s none of your business is none of my business, I suppose, but I’d like to know—” Schiff said formally, and with as much dignity as the thought would allow, “this just happened—who put the word out? How did you know? Is it some jungle telegraph thing?” Then, risking the inside joke, “Or are you folks connected to Information, too?” Chilled to the bone when Miss or Mrs. Kohm gave her immense and raucous board member’s society laugh.
    “We take care of our own, dear,” is what she said.
    “The Political Geographers Party Committee,” Schiff said. “Is that like a fan club or something?”
    “Would you like a fan club?”
    “I’d like,” said Schiff, sorry as soon as he permitted the words to escape, “for my life to go into remission.”
    “Well,” she said, “there’s nothing the seminar can do about that one, of course, but it can and will rally round its annual party.”
    “The party,” Schiff said, “the party is off.”
    “Of course the party’s not off. As far as the party’s concerned, well, damn the torpedoes, full-speed ahead.”
    “It’s off,” Schiff said.
    “Why? Give me one good reason.”
    “I’ve nothing to serve.”
    “Eats,” she said, “the subcommittee on eats is taking care of that.”
    “There’s a subcommittee on eats?”
    “There’s a subcommittee on booze, there’s a subcommittee on party decorations.”
    “Who organized all this? Did you?”
    “Oh, that isn’t important,” Ms. Kohm—it was how he neutrally addressed her in class, too—dismissed. “You won’t have to lift a finger.”
    “I can’t lift a finger.”
    “You won’t have to.”
    “Look,” Schiff said, “it’s late. There are other people in the seminar I still have to get in touch with.”
    “But I told you, there’s nothing for you to do. Dickerson will take care of it.”
    “Dickerson,” Schiff said. “Dickerson didn’t even call me.”
    “Possibly he was nervous about catching you at a bad time, or that he was interrupting your dinner, or that he hates bothering you at home. In any event,” Ms. Kohm said, “there’s no reason for you to call the scholars. Everything really has been taken care of. The PGPC is on top of it.”
    “The Political Geographers Party Committee,” Schiff said, exactly like a moderator of a news show identifying a reference for the audience.
    “Exactly,” Ms. Kohm said, exactly like a panelist.
    “Listen,” Schiff said, “what you and the others in the seminar have done is very kind. Really,” he said, “ very kind. And I appreciate it, I do, but to tell the truth, I don’t believe I could even handle a party just now. Be a guest at one, I mean, never mind its host. I don’t much enjoy playing hearts and flowers, Ms. Kohm, but it’s been a pretty rough day, I’ve a lot on my mind, and the last thing in the world I’m up to right now is a celebration.”
    “Jack, let me give you some advice: the worst thing someone like you can do at a time like this is to feel sorry for himself.”
    Jack? Jack?
    “Negative energy, particularly for someone in your condition, has devastating effects.”
    In his condition? In his condition?
    “Let me tell you something, Ms. Kohm,” Schiff said, “unless they’re referring to alternative fuels or to how they’re feeling, I’m always a little suspicious of, and embarrassed for, people who use terms like energy.”
    “Jack,” she said, “I know you’re upset, that you’re just sick with worry about Claire, and, incidentally, I shouldn’t think she’s in Portland.”
    Claire? Claire?
    Where did this woman get off? (Or would she stop at nothing?) Was she drunk? She might