Thomas Cook
NOVEL
First, there is page 1. We have entered during the entrée, though the scent of the first course still hangs in the room, and the anticipation of the main course is palpable among the guests. Following that, we move on to page 2, a polite nibble, the observation of a sweater; page 3, a conversation contentious in a small way, two whole bites. Page 4 comes next, and then page 5, page 6, pages 7 and 8, respectively, pages on which we determine the pace at which details, the context, the waters out of which the lobsters were pulled will be revealed to us. Who and what begin to be meted out here. Page 9 comes immediately after page 8, and subsequent to page 9 is page 10, and so there is order. There is a sequence of events.
Page 11, it feels, emerges, somehow unbidden, and as it resolves top to bottom, slowly but with purpose, line for line, we arrive at page 12. Almost inevitable, it seems. Behind 12, there is 13, after which we move smoothly on to page 14 before reaching, as though our carriage were coming to rest in front of the cinema, under the marquee, at page 15. Page 16 is afterwards, the ticket line, the snack question, the choosing of seats in the dark among strangers. Page 17? Previews of coming attractions. Pages 18, 19, and 20 in a row, glancing about, settling in, collecting our thoughts about what may come and how what may come will determine us, here and now, in this life. Before we know it, we are at the precipice of page 21, previews over, feature presentation about to begin.
On page 22, we move past the initial impressions of earlier pages, into deeper thoughts, murkier realms of experience. There are shower tiles, spatulas left on the counter, remnants of spaghetti sauce on the spoon. Page 23 lends a shape to our evolving notions with the arrival of a person who we did not imagine was living in the house but who is welcome, a fixture in fact, part of the fabric. This is dramatized on page 24, where we see the initial actors together, get a taste of the omniscient garden patio, the park stroll, the lamplight before bed, cozy under the comforter, completely disturbed by what is still inside and unarticulated. By page 25, as the day goes down, a new, a second, even a third overarching thought, something that could solve pervasive existential questions, has emerged.
Page 26, an expansion of themes, feeds naturally into page 27, where there is a carousel of universal concerns made particular by the moment of construction we find ourselves observing? Page 28 is inevitable, as inescapably perfect for the moment as we can imagine: this page gives us our initial bearing clearly—time and place—and we read through the deeper facts of our actors satisfyingly—the work life, the financial reality, the lack of wardrobe, the board games on the sagging shelf— across pages 29-32. It all begins to accumulate.
At page 33, we pause. It seems there has not been a break, but we pause anyway. We must. It is either our bladder or our brain. Our humors? Why has the salt shaker come to mean so much? How has the question of one sibling in Connecticut, the other in Tennessee, come to embody this fundamental crisis?
Pushing on, we apprehend, on page 34, a distant glow, far up ahead, just before the horizon. At page 35, led by that glow, we make our way through a growing dimness, pages 36 and 37, which anticipate the dark caverns of 38 and 39. Partial light on pages 40 and 41: having traversed the daunting hardship of unknowing, the human underworld of choice, we are prepared fully—or so we think—for pages 42-50, where we are tested and gather a false sense of security about the future.
51 baffles us. There are cracks in the foundation of this great house, and yet the structure seems sound enough for us to bring in a new bureau, to put up the holiday tree, to turn on the water full tilt in each shower. We continue, willing to step into page 52, to feel our way across 53 and 54 as though they were a braille expression of surety. There are crooks and crannies across 55 and 56—57 is no different—but, ah. Ah! The stairs and passageways, the quiet stumbling in the dark of 58 and 59, we find, make 60, and from there 61, only a clearer statement of the fact that we ought to be here. This is our home in this world. This is what we know.
62 ushers in a certain appreciation for the life project unfolding before us, and this acute appreciation alone, this recognition of the fact that a glint of afternoon light, an aunt’s earring, the faint memory of the smell of tobacco on the jacket of the loved one left on the shores of Normandy, so many years ago, these carry us through the plot and plod of 63’s lunch with no one, 64’s photo album, the toffee of 65 and the gooseberry pie of 66. 67’s uncle’s breath we brook.
Hairpin turn at 68—mountain—and about-face at 69—a name we had forgotten—leads to a new path on page 70, one that cuts decisively through the forest where we foraged for mushrooms and into the briny seashore of 71-77, parks without paths and finger sandwiches with dripping mayonnaise, until we find ourselves at 78, new music, the notes we hoped to hear, the harmony of what is and what is not, the hope we need off-road, over the tangents of 79-84, the garage in need of paint, the piano no one will take. 85 and 86? Punctuation marks on the heart.
87 is a new world. We are here, willing to smell the jasmine, hear the mockingbird, take in aurorae, on the beach, standing next to the new person, a person who requires, necessarily, that we hold hands across pages 88-94, sleep on the side of the highway, call on our more intimate inner resources. At page 95, meeting again who, and what, we believe we had followed all this way—the weight of our spirit weighing heavy in our shoes—we experience the uncanny, the familiar—a relative—and the strange—called by a new name.
It is happening. It is.
Thusly, we crave the adventure of 96, need the open road, the unfamiliar airport and oddly unpopulated lounge of 97. Pages 98-102 feel necessary—the phone call, the folder of documents from college, the edict to leave our apartment; we needed this to survive. More necessary than changing postures, to allow the blood to reach more easily our brain, we needed to hold fast to this, to the here and now of change.
Could it be true, 103? Can it be? It must! And because 103 must be, because another, outside party has confirmed this new fact of our birth, so must 104 and 105 follow closely on the heels. While 106-112 focus on taking up the slack we have felt since the 60s—was this truly our origin?—pages 113-123 push on with their own case—there is a second Antwerp grandfather, there is a basement room we did see, a wash of radios—which is why the action slows, to a dead stop, at page 114. Without that page, there would be no compass. Continuity would be lost. Thank goodness we learned his name.
Now, fortified, ready for what may come, we brave an almost uninterrupted thought from the twentieth century, pages 123-129. This thought makes at least one character whole—it makes another character an illusion—and that is what we needed to understand: one veil is not another; ornaments were hung on the tree that year, when we were all together; they were taken down; they disappeared. We feel it now. Despite everything we know about this unfolding world and our life in another, we feel this is a real experience we are having, here at the end of 129, and that is quite true.
Page 130 poses for us a question: Is this novel a direct reflection of the world in which we live, or is it meant to be refracted along the lines we have considered it to be potentially refracted? Is it more of a realist work, or is it an ironically surrealist work? Is it directly the conflagration of these aesthetic modes, particularly with respect to its treatment of its primary subject—the novel form itself? And isn’t it peculiar that it seems this particular question, the one of form and content, or mode, extrapolated from the mood and the tone and that little wrinkle in the plot back there at 114—isn’t it peculiar that this question is what propels us through pages 131-156, almost without blinking, as though the action of the pages were inevitable, the speech of the characters unfolding in two different realities?
(At the same time, we are well aware that the action of pages 131-156—the fishing boat molestation, the drama school pledge, the shower stall resolution at the end of the terrifying day—these comprise the true emotional center of this life.)
The novel, we realize, thus challenges, in these pages, and directly on 157—here we break, make coffee, come back, circle to notebook, circle back out—the entire history of the novel—the genre of the novel. The novel challenges what it itself is. We write this down.
(We look at that statement, but it is no end in itself. We must keep on.)
The interpretive ground we believed we may have gained we lose on pages 158-162, as one character blanches in the face of confrontation, and another is poor rather than rich. Also, the seasons change. We lose, almost, our sense of self. Why did I make eggs for breakfast? Why do I still wear such a shirt? There are loose ends, we see, that may or not be tied together.
Fortunately, there are still pages to turn, and they are the orienting pages 163-167, where we find new understandings, new roots growing in the soil of our world. These roots take hold, buckle in the soil across 168 and 169, so that on pages 170-179 we can understand the new wilderness that has grown up around us. Is the environment inhospitable? Somewhat. Is there weather that might destroy us? Maybe. But it is our new conception of the world and its caprices of understanding, sallies of wit, flourishes of intellect, that now buoy us in this place, where the dangers and setbacks of pages 180 and 181, the follies of 182-192, do not prevent us from remaining steadfast in our aims—wind in our face—pursuing our goal—riptide!—through all available—and some inconceivable—ends.
Yet that is only the next turn, because, of course, we find, on 193, smack dab right there on 193, another goblin of a problem. A two-headed goblin, actually. Both a mother and lover have returned. There is letter. A past deed. Even the new inhospitable and dangerous world has its own underside. This is what we learn from 194-197. If only we could have avoided learning these facts, or was it inescapable? Certainly it feels that way.
At 198, come what may, we know we must risk 199-205 and intercede in a last-ditch effort on the part of so-and-so to vanquish so-and-so and at the same time vanquish his/her/their own demons. All we wanted was a sandwich, but we are flung into action. Does this action work? Partially, but only to that extent, which is why we find ourselves at a standstill on 206, without a sandwich. We need a bath.
207 is a rough go, picking oneself back up—still no sandwich—trudging on to 208—forgetting to feed the dog—and grappling with 209. A secret email account? At 210, we are out of breath.
It is not until 211 that a new plan emerges, one divined from a Sierra Club calendar and a fortune cookie. We are thankful for this inspiration, as the growing cul-de-sac of incidents was becoming almost too much to bear. God works in these ways.
212 and 213! Who knew? Not us, which is why we continued and have been rewarded with this key, to this new place—a colonial, in Maine, on the rocks—where what is old can, potentially, be overcome with new initiative. If it can, we know we will need 214-218—pacing, random books of shelves, a dip into Spenser for reasons that remain unclear—and all of page 219—clam chowder, store-bought biscuits—where we meet, in the mirror, the person(s) we have become.
(Someone is standing behind us—us? No, a narrator who is part of us.)
There are steps to take on 220—down to the water—more steps on 221—up from the water—and 222—dry off. By page 223, the final action (we have lured the person who is us and not us back!), or what we think will be the final action, has come into a sort of gauzy focus—it is raining.
We can almost touch it—the center of our troubles—but then, of course, there is 224. Another turn. It is not our house. It is theirs. We must leave this place and find the real destination of our climax, not too far up the road.
225. Windshield wipers. 226. Push-ups and flashlight. 227, 228, and 229—talking to oneself, serendipitous talk radio, and near head-on collision. At 230, we knock at the door, walk down the hall. On page 231, we sit down at the table—because we are instructed, from out the shadows, from the next room. They are ready to talk if we are. 232 is waiting, a tin cup of water. 233, deep reflection—flashback—contemplation—the smell of the stove—and what has come before welling up like the gasses of a quaking bog, of a tar pit, of the past.
The encounter on page 234 both is and is not what we expected. The first strike draws blood. We foresaw parts of 235—the origin of the alias, the dress in the closet—but it was someone else we imagined behind those costumes. We believed what we heard on 236 could have been true—the motive, the regret—but not completely. 237—the attack—was almost completely out of the blue, but, truly, should it have been? Page 238 presented a kink in the plot, in our own thought, that we never could have anticipated, and what a reward that turns out to be. There are so many ways to bring a chapter of one’s life to an end, but pages 239 and 240—they turn out to be just right, for now, for this moment, before we walk into another.
THOMAS COOK has previously published fiction in Bennington Review, Big Muddy, and Chicago Quarterly Review. He is the author of Light Through a Pane of Glass (Big Table, 2020). Since 2009, he has been editor and publisher of Tammy and Tammy chapbooks. He teaches in the MFA program at Mount St. Mary’s University in Los Angeles.
