In Fond Remembrance of Me by Howard Norman Page A

didn’t work.”
    Mark now imitated a metronome by tocking his pointer finger back and forth, then affected his own “hypnotized” blank expression, a man asleep with his eyes open. Outside of the formidable verbal comedy of incident and dialogue in his Noah stories, this brief miming was the boldest humor I’d yet to experience from Mark. (Helen said, “He’s one of the funniest people I’ve ever met.” We knew in Mark two different people. “He often makes me laugh. Perhaps you have to understand the language a bit more. Sorry.”)
    Helen simply walked into the house without knocking. Mark said, “Helen, my daughter—we were just telling this man, here, about something.”
    Helen kissed Mary on her forehead, kissed Mark on the top of his head. She looked at the flask. “Having fun?” she said to me.
    â€œWe’ve been working all day,” I said.
    â€œHow did it go?” Helen said, directing her question to Mark.
    â€œHe caught a little,” Mark said. He half whispered something to Mary; they both abruptly left the house.
    â€œI feel like shit,” Helen said. “Excuse my French.”
    â€œI don’t suppose you’d want coffee. It tastes like mud with sugar in it.”
    â€œNo thank you.”
    I shut off the reel-to-reel, closed my notebook, put the pen in my shirt pocket. “Well, that’s that.”

    â€œMark suddenly looked pissed,” Helen said. “Why, do you suppose?”
    â€œI really don’t understand it,” I said. “Things were going along nicely.”
    â€œHow nicely, Howard Norman?”
    â€œMore nicely than usual.”
    â€œOf course, that’s not saying much.”
    â€œThanks, Helen.”
    She looked around the kitchen. “Oh, chicken noodle soup. The specialty of the house.”
    â€œI actually had a meal with Mark. I didn’t care if it was canned soup or not. Things were going really well. We were going through a passage, in that woolly mammoth story, you know the one.”
    â€œIndeed, I do know it. It absolutely explains why we won’t be seeing any woolly mammoths on the horizon. It absolutely explains it.”
    â€œâ€”and the mood changed.”
    â€œMercurial, that man. Wouldn’t you say?”
    â€œSure, that’s it.”
    â€œBut, look: you and Mark simply do not get on well at all. But I’m quite bored discussing the whys and wherefores of your situation. I wish to offer two words: Boo hoo. He sits with you most every day, doesn’t he? Probably, you shouldn’t expect much more than you’re already getting from Mark. That’s my word to the wise.”
    We sat a moment not talking. Helen took a sip of my coffee and spit it out, “Pfwooo!” Spit it all over my trouser leg.
    â€œHelen, you want to listen to the CBC after supper?”
    â€œI’ll have to type. But when I’m done, sure.”
    We did listen to the radio for quite a while. An opera, then a documentary about a Jewish Dutch cellist murdered during World War II, including testimonies from people who actually knew him. Then we talked awhile. As usual, we discussed our work with Mark, dissecting it from every possible angle. I guess I was still a bit bruised from what had occurred that afternoon; Helen picked up on this. “If it helps any,” Helen said, “Mark asked me what I thought of your work and I said good things.”
    â€œYeah, but what does Mark himself think? Do you know, really?”
    â€œNext subject, please.”
    â€œCome on—consider it gossip. You know how much Mark loves gossip.”
    â€œHe said you try very hard. He added that a baby fox tries very hard when it’s learning to piss in the snow. But it often pisses on its own leg.”
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    WHY WOOLLY MAMMOTHS DECIDED
TO FLEE UNDERGROUND
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    I heard about Noah while sitting on a pew in church, but later, from an old