Book of Sketches - Jack Kerouac [8]
set on the floor to
circulate air in a
wide arc from one
extreme twist of
its face to the
other — a fan
brought home by her
husband from his
office at the Telephone
Company.
CB herself, cig in
mouth, is opening the
windows behind the
blinds — she’d closed
them at 9 o’clock
AM to keep the
morning freshness in
— & now, near 4,
the air cooling,
she opens them again
— a fan can
only stir dusts of
the floor — Instantly
scents of fields
& trees comes into the
pink room with the
hardwood floor — A
gay wicker basket
is on the floor beneath
the windows,
full of newspapers
& magazines & a
Sears Roebuck catalogue
— CB is
wearing shorts, sandals
& a nondescript vestshirt
— just did her
housework — washed
the lunch dinners
& is about to take a
bath — The breeze
of afternoon pillows
in the redpink plastic
curtains. Carolyn
Blake stands, cig in
mouth, glancing briefly
at the yard outside
— beyond it stretches
a meadow, a corn
field, a tobacco
field, & faintly
beyond the wreckage
of a gray flucuring
barn the
wall of the forest
of the South.
CB is a thin, trim
little woman of 33 —
looking younger, with
cut bangs, short hair,
bemused, modern —
On her commode, two
shelves above a drawer
& opening hinged door,
pale wood, is a
wooden salad bowl,
upright; two China
plates, upright; an
earthen jug of
Vin Rosé, empty,
brought from NY
by her mother;
a green glass dish —
for candy — a glass
ashtray — & two
brass candle holders
— these things luminescent
in the glow
from the windows,
in still, fan-buzzing,
lazy Carolina afternoon
time. On the
radio a loud prolonged
static from
nearby disturbances
rasps a half
minute —
On the wall
above the husband’s
diningtable chair
hangs a knickknack
shelf, with 3 levels,
tiny Chinese vase
bowl with cover —
copper horse equestrian
& still in its
petite mysterious
shelf — & Chinese
porcelain rice-girl
with hugehat &
double baskets.
These are some of
the incidental
appurtenances in
the life of a little
Carolina housewife
in 1952.
She turns & goes into
the parlor — a
more elegant room,
with green leather
chairs, gray rug, book
shelves, — goes to the
screen door — lets
in Little Paul &
Little Jackie Lee —
Her son Little Paul comes
yells “Mommy I
wants some ice water!
Me & Jackie Lee wants
some ice water!
Mommy!” She shoos
them in with an absentminded
air —
Little Paul, blond, thin,
is her son; Jackie Lee,
dark, plumper, belongs
to a neighbor — They
rush in, barefooted,
each 4, in little
shorts, screaming,
wiggling —
In the kitchen, at
her refrigerator she
pours out ice
cube trays — Little
Paul holds the green
plastic waterbottle —
“That water’s warm,”
says Carolyn Blake,
“let me make you
some ice — ”
“I wants some
cracked ice Mommy!
Is that what you
wants Jackie Lee?”
“Ah-huh,” — assent,
“Ah-huh Pah-owl.”
The little mother
gravely works on the
ice; above the sink,
with a crank, is an
ice cracker; she
jams in the ice cubes,
standing tip toe
reaches up & cranks
it down into a red
plastic container;
wiggling the little boys
wait & watch — The
kitchen is modern &
clean — She slowly
goes about taking down
small glasses from
a cupbord, jams the
crushed ice in them.
They clasp the
glasses & rush off —
to Little Paul’s
bedroom.
“This is our home, that
trailer’s our home,”
says Little Paul as
they wrangle over
a toy trailer-truck
on the white chenille
bedspread.
They have toy horses,
“Now you kill yrs.”
“Kill yours” — Jackie
“He’s killed.”
“Arent you glad?”
“They aint nothing
but big bad wolves . . .
Hey — mine’s got a
broken leg.”
“Give it to me.”
“They’re not your
horses!”
An incredible
city of toys in the
corner, on a card
table, a big doll
house, garages, cranes,
clutters of card,
accordions, silos,
dogs, tables, cash
registers, merry
go rounds with
insignia goldhorses,
marbles, airplanes,
an airport —
Little Paul —
“Here — here’s $12
for those horses,”
striking cashregister,
Jackie: “12 dollars?