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Authors: Olivia Laing

The Trip to Echo Spring

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Also by Olivia Laing

To the River

OLIVIA LAING

The Trip to
Echo Spring

Why Writers Drink

CANONGATE

Edinburgh . London

Published in Great Britain in 2013 by Canongate Books Ltd,
14 High Street, Edinburgh EH1 1TE

www.canongate.tv

This digital edition first published in 2013 by Canongate Books

Copyright © Olivia Laing, 2013

The moral right of the author has been asserted

For permissions acknowledgements, please see
here

Map copyright © Norah Perkins, 2013

British Library Cataloguing-in-Publication Data

A catalogue record for this book is available on

request from the British Library

ISBN 978 1 84767 794 5
ePub ISBN 978 0 85786 889 3

For my mother, Denise Laing,

with all my love

When alcoholics do drink, most eventually become intoxicated, and it is this recurrent intoxication that eventually brings their lives down in ruins. Friends are lost, health deteriorates, marriages are broken, children are abused, and jobs terminated. Yet despite these consequences the alcoholic continues to drink. Many undergo a ‘change in personality'. Previously upstanding individuals may find themselves lying, cheating, stealing, and engaging in all manner of deceit to protect or cover up their drinking. Shame and remorse the morning after may be intense; many alcoholics progressively isolate themselves to drink undisturbed. An alcoholic may hole up in a motel for days or a week, drinking continuously. Most alcoholics become more irritable; they have a heightened sensitivity to anything vaguely critical. Many alcoholics appear quite grandiose, yet on closer inspection one sees that their self-esteem

has slipped away from them.

Handbook of Medical Psychiatry,
ed. David P. Moore and James W. Jefferson

Easy, easy, Mr. Bones. I is on your side

‘Dream Song 36', John Berryman

1
ECHO SPRING

HERE'S A THING. IOWA CITY
, 1973. Two men in a car, a Ford Falcon convertible that's seen better days. It's winter, the kind of cold that hurts bones and lungs, that reddens knuckles, makes noses run. If you could, by some devoted act of seeing, crane in through the window as they rattle by, you'd see the older man, the one in the passenger seat, has forgotten to put on his socks. He's wearing penny loafers on bare feet, oblivious to the cold, like a prep school boy on a summer jaunt. In fact you could mistake him for a boy: slight, in Brooks Brothers tweeds and flannel trousers, his hair immaculately combed. Only his face betrays him, collapsed into hangdog folds.

The other man is bigger, burlier, thirty-five. Sideburns, bad teeth, a ragged sweater open at the elbow. It's not quite nine a.m. They turn off the highway and pull into the parking lot of the state liquor store. The clerk's out front, keys glinting in his hand. Seeing him, the man in the passenger seat yanks the door and lurches out, never mind the car's still moving. ‘By the time I got inside the store,' the other man will write, a long time later, ‘he was already at the checkout stand with half a gallon of Scotch.'

They drive away, passing the bottle back and forth. Within a few hours they'll be back at the University of Iowa, swaying eloquently in front of their respective classes. Both are, as if it isn't obvious, in deep trouble with alcohol. Both are also writers, one very well known, the other just cresting into success.

John Cheever, the older man, is the author of three novels,
The Wapshot Chronicle
,
The Wapshot Scandal
and
Bullet Park
, as well as some of the most miraculous and distinctive stories ever written. He's sixty-one. Back in May, he was rushed to hospital with dilated cardiomyopathy, testament to the almighty havoc alcohol wreaks upon the heart. After three days in the Intensive Care Unit he developed delirium tremens, becoming so violently disturbed he had to be secured with a leather straitjacket. The job at Iowa – a semester teaching at the famous Writers' Workshop – must have seemed like a passport to a better life, though it isn't quite panning out that way. For various reasons he's left his family behind, living like a bachelor in a single room at the Iowa House Hotel.

Raymond Carver, the younger man, has also just joined the faculty. His room is identical to Cheever's, and immediately beneath it. The same painting hangs on both their walls. He's come alone too, leaving his wife and teenaged children in California. All his life he's wanted to be a writer, and all his life he's felt circumstance set hard against him. The drinking's been going on for a long while, but despite its depredations he's managed to produce two volumes of poetry and to build up quite a clutch of stories, many of them published in little magazines.

At first glance, the two men seem polar opposites. Cheever looks and sounds every inch the moneyed Wasp, though closer acquaintance reveals this to be a complex kind of subterfuge. Carver, on the other hand,
is a millworker's son from Clatskanie, Oregon, who spent years supporting his writing with menial jobs as a janitor, a stockboy and a cleaner.

They met on the evening of 30 August 1973. Cheever knocked on the door of room 240, holding out a glass and announcing, according to Jon Jackson, a student who was present at the time: ‘Pardon me. I'm John Cheever. Could I borrow some Scotch?' Carver, elated to meet one of his heroes, stutteringly held out a vast bottle of Smirnoff. Cheever accepted a slug, though he turned his nose up at the embellishments of ice or juice.

Sensing a dual intersection of interests, the two men immediately bonded. They spent much of their time together in the Mill bar, which only served beer, talking about literature and women. Twice a week they drove out in Carver's Falcon to the liquor store for Scotch, which they drank in Cheever's room. ‘He and I did nothing
but
drink,' Carver reported later, in the
Paris Review.
‘I mean, we met our classes in a manner of speaking, but the entire time we were there . . . I don't think either of us ever took the covers off our typewriters.'

What's odd about this wasteful year, not to mention all the disasters that followed on its heels, is that Cheever predicted it, in a manner of speaking. A decade earlier, he wrote a short story published in the
New Yorker
on 18 July 1964. ‘The Swimmer' is about alcohol and what it can do to a man; how conclusively it can wipe out a life. It begins with a characteristically Cheeverish line: ‘It was one of those midsummer Sundays when everyone sits around saying, “I drank too much last night.'”

One of those people is Neddy Merrill, a slender, boyish man with an attractive air of vitality about him. Trotting out into the sunshine
for a morning dip in his host's pool, he's struck by a delightful idea: that he will make his way home by way of a ‘string of swimming pools, that quasi-subterranean stream that curved across the county'. He names this secret road of mixed waters
Lucinda
, in honour of his wife. But there's another liquid path he also follows: a chain of drinks taken on neighbours' terraces and yards, and it's this more perilous route that leads him downwards by degrees to the story's uncanny and tragic end.

High on his marvellous plan, Neddy swims through the gardens of the Grahams and the Hammers, the Lears, the Howlands, the Crosscups and the Bunkers. As he passes on his self-appointed way he's plied with gin by ‘natives' – whose customs, he thinks to himself disingenuously, ‘would have to be handled with diplomacy if he was ever going to reach his destination'. The next house he reaches is deserted, and after he's crossed the pool he slips into the gazebo and pours himself a drink: his fourth, he calculates vaguely, or perhaps his fifth. A great citadel of cumulus has been building all day, and now the storm breaks, a quick paradiddle of rain in the oaks followed by the pleasurable smell of cordite.

Neddy likes storms, but something about this downpour changes the tenor of his day. Sheltering in the gazebo, he notices a Japanese lantern that Mrs. Levy bought in Kyoto ‘the year before last, or was it the year before that?' Anyone can lose their footing in time, can misstep a beat or two of chronology. But then there's another queer flicker in temporality. The rain has stripped the maple, and the red and yellow leaves lie scattered on the grass. It's midsummer, Neddy thinks robustly, and so the tree must simply be blighted, but this sign of autumn gives him an unpleasant shot of melancholy.

The sense of foreclosure deepens. At the Lindleys, the jumping ring is overgrown and the horses seem to have been sold. Worse, the Welchers' pool has been drained. The Lucinda, that magical, abundant river, has run dry. Neddy is staggered, and begins seriously to doubt his command of time. ‘Was his memory failing or had he so disciplined it in the repression of unpleasant facts that he had damaged his sense of the truth?' He pulls himself together though, rallying enough to cross Route 424, a portage more effortful and exposing than he'd expected.

Next he braves the public baths, with their whistles and murkish water. No pleasure there, but he's soon up and out, clambering through the woods of the Halloran estate towards the dark, dazzled gold of their springfed pool. But here comes another offbeat, a sense that the world Neddy is travelling through is somehow strange to him, or he to it. Mrs. Halloran asks solicitously about his poor children, muttering something too about the loss of his house. Then, as he walks away, Neddy notices his shorts are hanging around his waist. Is it possible, he wonders, that he's lost weight over the course of a single afternoon? Time is slopping around like gin in a glass. It's still emphatically the same day, but now the warmth of midsummer has dissipated and the smell of wood smoke is articulate in the air.

From the Hallorans Neddy travels to their daughter's house, hoping to beg a glass of whiskey. Helen greets him warmly enough, but her house is dry and has been for three years. Bewildered, chilled to the bone, he heaves his way across the pool and cuts through the fields to the Biswangers. From the roar of voices it's evident a party is in full swing. He wanders in, still almost naked. But now, mysteriously, it's twilight, and the water on the pool has ‘a wintry gleam'. Mrs.
Biswanger, who has angled for Neddy as a guest for years, has apparently suffered some change of heart. She greets him rudely, and when his back is turned can be heard saying: ‘They went for broke overnight – nothing but income – and he showed up drunk one Sunday and asked us to loan him five thousand dollars.' Then the bartender rebuffs him, confirming his sneaking sense that some social loss of grace has occurred, and been remembered and recorded.

Struggling on, he passes next through the garden of a former mistress, though he can't remember precisely when or in what mood he broke it off. She isn't wholly pleased to see him either, and is likewise fretful about the possibility that he wants money. Leaving, he catches on the cooling air an autumnal smell, not quite placeable but ‘strong as gas'. Marigolds? Chrysanthemums? Looking up, he sees the winter constellations have taken up their stations in the night sky. Flooded with uncertainty, he begins, for the first time in his life, to cry.

There are only two more pools to go. He flails and gasps through the final laps before walking in damp trunks up the drive to his own house. But now the hints about a downturn in his fortunes begin to clarify, for the lights are out, the doors are locked, the rooms are empty and nobody, it is clear, has lived here for a long while.

‘The Swimmer' had come into my mind because I was plummeting through the sky above New York, where the land breaks apart in a clutter of islands and marshes. There are some subjects one can't address at home, and so at the beginning of the year I'd left England for America, a country almost entirely unknown to me. I wanted time to
think, and what I wanted to think about was alcohol. I'd spent the winter upcountry, in a cottage in New Hampshire, and now it was spring and I was moving south.

Last time I'd passed over here the earth was white all the way up to the Arctic, and the Connecticut River turned through dark bars of forest frozen the metallic blue-grey of the barrel of a gun. Now the ice had melted, and the whole landscape was ablaze. It reminded me of Cheever's line – that to live ‘in a world so generously supplied with water seemed like a clemency, a beneficence'.

‘The Swimmer', which I would judge among the finest stories ever written, catches in its strange compressions the full arc of an alcoholic's life and it was that same dark trajectory I wanted to pursue. I wanted to know what made a person drink and what it did to them. More specifically I wanted to know why writers drink, and what effect this stew of spirits has had upon the body of literature itself.

John Cheever and Raymond Carver are hardly the only writers whose lives were made desolate by alcohol. Alongside them come Ernest Hemingway, William Faulkner, Tennessee Williams, Jean Rhys, Patricia Highsmith, Truman Capote, Dylan Thomas, Marguerite Duras, Hart Crane, John Berryman, Jack London, Elizabeth Bishop, Raymond Chandler – the list staggers on. As Lewis Hyde observes in his essay ‘Alcohol and Poetry', ‘four of the six Americans who have won the Nobel Prize for literature were alcoholic. About half of our alcoholic writers eventually killed themselves.'

Alcoholism is not a simple condition to define. According to the American Society of Addiction Medicine, its essential features are ‘impaired control over drinking, preoccupation with the drug alcohol, use of alcohol despite adverse consequences, and distortions in thinking,
most notably denial'. In 1980,
The Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders
dropped the term ‘alcoholism' entirely, replacing it with two interrelated disorders: alcohol abuse (defined as ‘repeated use despite recurrent adverse consequences') and alcohol dependence (defined as
‘alcohol abuse
combined with tolerance, withdrawal and an uncontrollable drive to drink').

As to what causes it, the jury remains out. In fact, under the heading ‘Etiology', my old 1992
Merck Manual
announces baldly: ‘The cause of alcoholism is unknown.' In the intervening years there have been thousands of research programmes and academic studies, and yet the consensus remains that alcoholism is caused by some mysterious constellation of factors, among them personality traits, early life experiences, societal influences, genetic predisposition and abnormal chemistry of the brain. Listing these possible causes, the current edition of the
Merck Manual
concludes, a little dispiritedly: ‘However, such generalizations should not obscure the fact that alcohol use disorders can occur in anyone, regardless of their age, sex, background, ethnicity, or social situation.'

Unsurprisingly, the theories writers tend to offer lean more towards the symbolic than the sociological or scientific. Discussing Poe, Baudelaire once commented that alcohol had become a weapon ‘to kill something inside himself, a worm that would not die'. In his introduction to
Recovery,
the posthumously published novel of the poet John Berryman, Saul Bellow observed: ‘Inspiration contained a death threat. He would, as he wrote the things he had waited and prayed for, fall apart. Drink was a stabiliser. It somewhat reduced the fatal intensity.'

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