Mrs. Caliban

A Novel

Rachel Ingalls

• Publisher: Open Road Media
• Year: 2016
• ISBN:
  9781504039116
• Topic: Literature
• Subtopic: Literature General
• Index: Literature

In the tradition of The Shape of Water, this "perfect novel" of a housewife who begins a passionate affair with a sea monster is "something of a miracle" ( The New Yorker ). It all starts with the radio. Dorothy's husband, Fred, has left for work, and she is at the kitchen sink washing the dishes, listening to classical music. Suddenly, the music fades out and a soft, close, dreamy voice says, "Don't worry, Dorothy." A couple weeks later, there is a special interruption in regular programming. The announcer warns all listeners of an escaped sea monster. Giant, spotted, and froglike, the beast—who was captured six months earlier by a team of scientists—is said to possess incredible strength and to be considered extremely dangerous. That afternoon, the seven-foot-tall lizard man walks through Dorothy's kitchen door. She is frightened at first, but there is something attractive about the monster. The two begin a tender, clandestine affair, and no one, not even Dorothy's husband or her best friend, seems to notice. Selected by the British Book Marketing Council as one of the greatest American novels since World War II, Mrs. Caliban, much like Guillermo del Toro's film The Shape of Water, uses an inter-species romance to explores issues of passion and loneliness, love and loss—and in its own wryly subversive way, it blends surrealism, satire, and a strong female perspective. A literary cult classic, it "skillfully combines fairy tale, science fiction, and ho-hum reality" ( People ). "[An] ethereal, masterfully written book." — Entertainment Weekly "If you consume only one piece of art about a woman sleeping with a sea monster this year, my advice is to make it Mrs. Caliban." — Literary Hub

Fred forgot three things in a row before he reached the front door on his way to work. Then he remembered that he had wanted to take the paper with him. Dorothy didn’t bother to say that she hadn’t finished with it yet herself. She just went back and brought it to him. He dithered for a few more minutes, patting his pockets and wondering whether he ought to take an umbrella. She told him the answers to all his questions and slipped in several more of her own: would he need the umbrella if he had the car, did he really think it felt like rain? If his car had that funny noise, couldn’t he take the bus instead, and had he found the other umbrella yet? It must be at the office somewhere; it was a nice telescoping one and she suggested that someone else had walked off with it.

They had run through a similar litany many times before. It was almost as though Fred needed the set words of this ritual to keep him steady at the beginning of days which held some test for him, something he was nervous about.

“I may be back late tonight,” he said. “Something about—I don’t know yet, but I’ll call from the office. O.K.?”

“Sure. All right.”

She stood by the door while he went out and down the front walk. He didn’t look back. And, of course, he hadn’t kissed her goodbye for years. This was the same way that affair of his with the publicity girl had started: staying late at the office. Maybe. Or perhaps it was genuine, but she couldn’t tell anything about him any longer.

She made the beds, vacuumed, washed and dressed, and was at the kitchen sink doing the dishes when she looked over at the radio and thought about turning it on. It was a large, dark brown old-fashioned set, the kind that looked like a 1930’s Gothic cathedral.

For the past three weeks she had been hearing things on the programmes that couldn’t possibly be real. The first time was during a commercial for cake-mix and the woman’s voice had said in a perfectly ordinary tone (just like the rest of the ad), “Don’t worry, Dorothy, you’ll have another baby all right. All you need to do is relax and stop worrying about it. It’s guaranteed.” And then the voice had gone straight back into the cake-mix that couldn’t fail.

She hadn’t thought she was going crazy, not straight away. She believed it was just her own thoughts forcing themselves into the low-pitched sounds and their insistent rhythm. But, the next day she had heard a story on a news programme about a chicken that could play the violin—“the Heifetz of the hen-coops”, the bird had been called—and later found out through friends that that item had not been heard by other people who had evidently been tuned in to the same spot on the dial.

Well, then. It was an old radio, after all. A very old radio. Surely it was possible that the sound waves were getting mixed up, or something like that. Some kind of static or interference which made no particular irritating noise but just cut in and blended with the general tone of the programme it collided with. Dorothy did not set the sound very high, since she only wanted the noise to be in the background, to keep her from brooding but not from thinking. She had now taken to turning the sound up higher when she heard something unusual, and she honestly couldn’t see where the original programme was cut or faded and the other one joined in. The voices sounded precisely similar, only the tone was somehow altered and meant specially for her.

She still didn’t think she was going crazy. However, she was now apprehensive about turning the machine on. Once the talk or music began, she became happy and relaxed. Only at the moments when she realized that one of the special announcements was in progress, would she feel a thrill of expectation and mild alarm. What she did not want to hear was anything more about having a baby, or about her and Fred, and their marriage. So far, that first announcement had been the only personal one. Still, there might be others. She had not told anyone about hearing them, least of all Fred. Of course not.

She stood with one hand on the faucet and looked across to the radio. This was the hour when she could tune in to the foreign stations and hear classical music without static.

She crossed to the radio and switched it on, catching a symphony in the middle of an expanding ladder of big chords. She began to hum and turned on the water at the sink. The orchestra soared and crashed its way to a finale which was going to be really tremendous—there were even introductory drum-rolls—and then it all seemed to dim off and a voice, even and distinct, said:

Ladies and gentlemen, we interrupt this programme to make the following announcement to all citizens in the area. Early this morning, keepers at the Jefferson Institute for Oceanographic Research were attacked by a creature captured six months ago by Professor William Dexter on his South American expedition. The creature, known to the popular press by its nickname “Aquarius the Monsterman”, appears from intensive scientific analysis to be a giant lizard-like animal capable of living both underwater and on dry land for extended periods. It is also highly dangerous, as this morning’s tragic events all too clearly bear witness, for two of the Institute’s employees, keeper John Kelsoe and Dr Dennis Wachter, were found dead and horribly mutilated near the animal’s empty cage. When Aquarius was first installed in the Institute, it was hoped that he might prove an attraction for students from all over the country, but the scientists assigned to study his habits agreed that there was a great danger that contact with large numbers of people might expose him to contagious diseases which, although harmless to the human race, might be fatal to his mysteriously different physiology. And, they added, he was possessed of incredible strength and should be considered extremely dangerous, especially if roused to one of his furies. This warning has now proved tragically correct, as only the loved-ones of these two men can know—these two who died while loyally and bravely carrying out the rigorous duties of searchers after knowledge. We underline this warning to everyone in the area: this animal is violent and should on no account be approached. If you see him, phone the police immediately. Repeat: the monsterman is dangerous.

For a moment, Dorothy had thought that the bulletin about Aquarius was one of her special announcements. But it couldn’t be. Her special voices never lasted long and had a soft, close, dreamlike quality, heard in the ear as though they emanated from the organ itself instead of outside it. This tirade had been spoken in the usual emotionally heightened drone of the salesman-advertiser.

If Scotty had lived, she would now be telephoning to the school to let them know that she’d be picking him up herself in the afternoon on account of the warning. Even though he would be a grown boy by now; how old? He had died under an ordinary anaesthetic given before a simple appendectomy, and afterwards all anyone could say in explanation was “individual reaction”, “unsuspected allergy” and “drug sensitivity”. And, a few months later, she lost the baby. That was the point where things began to change with Fred. The first blow had stunned them both, but the second had turned them away from each other. Each subtly blamed the other while feeling resentment, fury and guilt at the idea that a similar unjust censure was radiating from the opposite side. Then, it became easier to sweep everything under the carpet; they were too exhausted to do anything else. And so it went on: silences, separateness, the despair of thinking out conversations that they knew would be hopeless. Long before he was unfaithful, he decided on the single beds. They were both having trouble sleeping and would wake at different times. And, after all, it wasn’t as though for the moment they were making any use of being in the same bed. She knew it was the end when he said that, but she didn’t have the strength to do anything about it. He couldn’t have had much strength either, or they would have been divorced by now. Sweep everything under the rug for long enough, and you have to move right out of the house.

At ten past eleven the telephone rang and Fred told her that the car—his famous, lovingly-cared-for old car—had broken down again, that he was going to be late, and that he might be bringing someone back for supper. Just a snack, because they had to talk something over.

“Find out if he’s a vegetarian or some kind of health-food freak, will you?” Dorothy said. “I’m not serving a steak to somebody who’s going to scream his magic mantra at me.”

“No, he isn’t. Just anything. Beer and sandwiches.”

“Oh no, I’ll give you something hot. But if you don’t say right now what you want me to get in, it’s going to be spaghetti Bolognese and a salad. And ice cream.”

“That sounds fine. See you,” he said, and hung up, long before she had expected him to. It left her feeling slightly upset and annoyed, first with him and then with herself.

She changed into her leotard and did her exercises in the spare bedroom. She did the regular dance exercises, not the ones you were supposed to do just to keep yourself in shape. She started without music and then brought the radio in and turned it on.

She liked being in the guest room, which had never held a guest. It was really meant for storing trunks or furniture. The one they used for guests was much larger. She had painted this one herself and put up curtains. There was already a bed, and a bathroom next door. Originally they had thought it would be a playroom for the children, which would have been convenient, since it was on the ground floor. Two or three of Scotty’s toys were still in the bottom drawer of one of the dressers. Fred wouldn’t go near the place. He probably thought it was still full of garden furniture and the croquet set and other things that Dorothy had moved when Mr Mendoza built the outdoor shed for them.

She was in the middle of what she thought of as a Swan Lake gesture when the music slowed down and a low voice from the radio said very faintly so that she could only just make out the words: “It’s all right, Dorothy. It’s going to be all right.”

She stood up straight and found that she was covered with sweat. The music ran on as it had been before. She went into the bathroom and stripped, stood under a short burst of water from the shower, changed her clothes, washed the sweat out of the leotard and hung it over the curtain rail.

She drove in to town and bought some mushrooms and meat and cheese. In the supermarket someone took a flying run at her shopping wagon and crashed into her. It was her friend Estelle, who said, “O.K., lady, your insurance company owes my insurance company four million bucks. And you’re never going to drive in this supermarket again.”

“Road hog, road hog,” Dorothy chanted, laughing. She pushed back. A girl at the check-out counter looked over at them as though they might be damaging the merchandise.

Whenever she was with Estelle, Dorothy became louder, more childish and happier than when she was with anyone else. Estelle drew forth other people’s subversive instincts. The very first time they had met, they had ended up in Estelle’s kitchen, drinking a whole bottle of sherry at two in the afternoon and telling each other their sad lives, which sounded so hopeless that they finally burst out laughing and couldn’t stop for minutes. They had been friends ever since.

“Come on back for a cup of coffee?” Estelle asked.

“I’d love to, but it’s got to be quick. Fred’s bringing somebody back from the office.”

“And you’re scurrying around to fulfill all your wifely obligations. My God, I don’t miss that.”

“You’re kidding. They’re getting spaghetti and they can like it.”

They were comparing recipes for meat sauce when a figure like a huge doll came trotting down one of the aisles. It was female, dressed in a sort of drum-majorette’s outfit, and carried a tray with a band that went around the back of the neck. Long curls bushed out from under a species of military hat composed of metallic-painted cardboard, red glitterdust, and side rosettes. The tray was covered with tiny squares of cheese, from the centre of each one of which a toothpick rose straight into the air.

“Ladies, can we interest you in today’s special bargain?” the girl began, and launched into a rapid sales-spiel which was almost entirely free of expressive inflection. Estelle, to stop her, reached out for one of the toothpicks and after a minute pause, during which Dorothy feared she might shove the piece of cheese into the girl’s mouth, popped it into her own. But the voice went on and on, apparently unconnected with the girl’s drooping gaze and scarcely moving lips. Her eyes actually looked as if she had temporarily absented herself from the Earth and were seeing from the distance of another planet. She turned her face towards one and then the other of them while her voice mentioned Swiss, American and French cheeses.

“What’s it like?” Dorothy whispered.

“I’ll tell you when I’ve finished chewing,” Estelle said, pretending to have a difficult time breaking down the cheese.

The girl thrust her tray at Dorothy.

“Um, no thank you.”

“There’s no obligation to buy.”

“Well, I’m afraid I’ve just bought the cheese I needed.”

“This one’s on special offer.” It was an accusation. She offered the tray more forcefully. Dorothy took a small step backwards. The girl advanced.

“Parmesan,” Dorothy said hurriedly. “It’s the only kind that goes with what I’m fixing for supper. What’s that like, Estelle?”

“Try it yourself,” the salesgirl put in.

“Bland and boring, with an over-taste of plastic, like a processed cheese.”

“This is not a processed cheese,” the girl spoke up in her clearly-enunciating machine-like voice. “This cheese is made from the finest …”

“O.K., O.K.”

Dorothy asked, “Have you sold much of it today? I mean, more than if they just put up a sign on the cheese counter?”

“You’ll have to ask the publicity co-ordinator about that. I don’t have the sales figures.”

The girl did an about-face and tripped down the aisle again. Estelle said, “You wonder what they do to them. Not a giggle, not a reaction, not a sign of life. And so young, too.”

“Processed, like the cheese. I had to do it once in the Christmas rush. You know, some people would stand there and listen to you repeat the same thing five times over.”

“What were you selling?”

“Oh, some special kind of kerchief that wasn’t basically any different from any other kind. All the ways you could tie it. Silly, of course. There are only two ways you can tie a scarf to make it stay on if there’s a wind blowing.”

“Look, there she is again.”

Dorothy turned and saw a cheese-selling majorette bearing down on them.

“No, it’s another one just like her.”

“Good day, ladies. Can we interest you in our special cheese-of-the-day offer? This cheese, blended from th...

Table of contents

• Cover Page
• Title Page
• 1
• 2
• 3
• 4
• 5
• 6
• 7
• About the Author
• Copyright Page