I walked back to the station and waited for the train. Others were going by bound north for suppers in the country, swaying on the center tracks with lovely lighted windows, white napkins and fresh evening newspapers. Some were aluminium with red stripes. Once in awhile a woman would look at me from a train to Chappaqua, Valhalla and Pawling.
When I got back and drove along by the dark empty fields with round shadows of cedars and down my own lonely lane through the pines and further to the little clearing in the woods I heard the Housatonic rumbling below and three deer standing in the headlights. I had spare ribs with onions and lemon juice and a bottle of beer. After that I wrote a letter to a man in Europe and said,
Will we all
Be watering
Lawns
Sometime later
In Connecticut.
Thamn
The parade had started. With an impersonator stepping out from behind maples in Main Street and letting go with a few impersonations. His name was George and he could do some fine bird calls. The birds responding and landing all over his shoulders. In summer he popped ripe cherries down their throats.
The townsfolk looked upon George as a joke. And made some sly remarks about the State Asylum. If the facts were faced, certainly George was not all there. The girls especially treated George as a joke and laughed at a good distance. George was a fixture in town.
Until that day. Of the parade. When most of the townsfolk were called upon to do their little bit on the stage. George could imitate Popeye. The barber, Joe, had him around the shop and called upon George for his imitation as a side show for his customers. George was sent to buy peanuts as a prize, and the customers laughed. Only Mr. Thamn the undertaker felt guilty. And he changed his time for a haircut.
Cornfields were ripening around town. Blowing tassels of cornsilk and an evening dust of seed into the sky. The setting sun got so fat and red these days. And the ground was white and hard around the bottoms of the maples in Main Street. At Bing’s Diner and Learner’s Hash House, the cross country truck drivers came in for coffee, wiping the sweat from their brows. The town was running short of ice cream.
The parade today turned left and marched along Napier Avenue making for the Glade. Words going through some heads to a tune the band was playing. Words forbidden by the High School Principal. And which were thought first heard some few years after the birth of George. Gossip having it that he wrote it himself.
There’s gladness
In the Glade
Where momma and daddy
Made me.
There’s madness
In the Glade
Where momma and daddy
Made me.
Where momma and daddy
Made me
In the Glade.
The swimming water in the creek was low and the steps to the red high diving board were roped off. Some said the rattlers were out and biting. The drums of the band would scare them away into the rocks. George wore a blue shirt and tan cloth trousers. And round his neck was a string holding a jew’s harp. Which he could play to beat the band.
The town of Moment got its name because it was where the train stopped for that long before they built the road. One hundred and twenty years ago it was settled by Swedes. Rangy types who twanged and hip swivelled around the General Store and any sharp street corners. At the graduation exercises Mr. Thamn, who had been called upon to speak, said they were all God fearing folk, sending forth a youth who sprung from the heartland of America. There were many eyes filled with tears that day, for if nothing else, Mr. Thamn knew how to pluck the heart strings. And all sweetness helped, specially since it was only a year after the bank swindle when a pillar of the town lit out quick for Brazil leaving a vague jungle address behind. He had been a prize winner at graduation.
Mr. Thamn was fat at the neck, small footed, with small blue eyes and pale soft skin. He had an open toed walk and tread the town quietly. His life had once, some years ago, been briefly touched by scandal when a little girl ran home to her father screaming that a man was standing watching her. The father came back to the woods, holding his little girl’s hand, and he met Mr. Thamn who said “Good evening,” and the father said “Good evening,” and the little girl said “That’s the man,” and the father said “Hush, child.”
Some said Mr. Thamn was such a nice man because he came from Switzerland to America when he was eight years old. Others did not care where he came from and objected that the town undertaker made cheese as a hobby and sold it in Zeke’s General Store. They said it had a stink.
George lived in a cellar and tinkered with radios. A dark little tomb down steps at the end of a long alley. Lots of people said he was broadcasting the messages they got Fridays, which put the wind up most folk and brought family listening to a standstill. The State Police closed in one night with riot guns and they caught George surrounded by his wires, and when they closed their hands around him he squealed with high pitched sounds, and the chief said “Let the kid go,” and they went out to the squad car and never bothered George again. George, town simpleton, twanger of the jew’s harp and inventor of the front roller skate wheel for the bicycle.
This day of the parade there was a first prize for the best float. Little girls dressed by their mommies to look like princesses and little boys to look like kings. Blue was a color, and pink, and America was written with more blue and red and ribbons of white. The Episcopal Minister came smiling out of his church and waved a little flag and said, “Bon voyage to the Glade,” and the veterans said “Why doesn’t that bastard talk English?”
These floats, all flowered, pulled along by mommies and daddies, and one by a big dog who stopped to lift a leg at a parked car, and the folk laughed and the little girl cried and ran to her mother. Ahead the drums were beating, horns blowing. Stars and Stripes hanging from windows. And now the booming went down Napier Avenue where it was cool under the archway of trees.
By three o’clock they had reached the Glade. The parade moving across the dry cinder path, kicking up dust, past the horseshoe and shuffle-board courts and making a grey way on the green grass of the baseball diamond. Then down through a meadow where a rock stuck up out of the grass, a sad mark where a boy, twelve, from a family of thirteen, broke open his skull and the grass where his head lay seemed red for weeks afterwards, a priest blessing him and taking him in his arms to the ambulance. And later that night to Mr. Thamn.
The crows were cawing and flying away to their nests in the tops of the trees. The band disassembling under the oak where the kids made tree huts and George had invented the tree swing, a rope tied high in the oak on which they dove and were swept up into the sky at a hundred miles an hour. Families were spreading out their picnics on the rustic tables. The beer barrels were set up in the shade surrounded by the veterans of foreign wars who had led the parade wearing their medals. George was wearing the Iron Cross.
The ice cream was packed in hot ice. Kids throwing it into the water fountain to make it smoke. Women sat passing out the sandwiches and hot dogs. Trucks had brought the pop coolers, now clustered with small fry handing over their nickels. One young mother smoothed down her dress and said “I don’t want the likes of George looking and seeing while he plays that mouth harp.” Often this was what George did. In a cunning fashion, head bent, thumb strumming, lids lowered on eyeballs, he would peek out under the trees and dresses. Until this day. Of the parade.
Mr. Thamn was wandering from group to group. He put his fat fingers out on various heads of hair. Some women didn’t like the touch of his hand. Mr. Thamn’s wife had died and was buried by him seven years ago this August. With lots of folk from the town tramping up through the gravestones as Mr. Thamn stood and heard his assistant read the service. His dry face looked up at the sky and down at his hands, and finally he licked his lips when it was time to go back for the funeral lunch. He was often seen these late afternoons, as the leaves were turning, standing over the grave, eyes on the words deeply ch
iselled in the stone.
Ida Thamn
1918–1941
From the Bridal to the
grave in three short years
And every month of August her resting place was covered with purple roses which came on the refrigerator train.
The peak of the picnic was round about five. The running events were over, the three-legged race, egg and spoon race and other embarrassing events in which some elders took part being a bit stoned. Tiny tots played ring around the rosy we all fall down. The stage had been set up under the oak, a flowered curtain drawn across and the red floor boards waxed for dancing later in the evening when the Chinese lanterns would be strung out and the band would sit playing tunes.
During the parade Mr. Thamn had stopped twice to tie his shoelaces, bending over, making his black serge bottom glisten in the sun as the other paraders passed around him. People remembering a year when Mr. Thamn with several members of a happy go lucky club were revelling during a convention and marched through the town at midnight wearing diapers and blowing horns. But Mr. Thamn was mostly a man who went about his lonely business perhaps sitting on the benches by the Monument in memory of lives lost in a battle with the Indians.
And near this place was the road which led to the dump. Made of ashes and cinder. Where the town was filling in the swamp. And where George, catching turtles, wandered through the tall cattails wearing pails on his feet in the watery ditches. And sometimes Mr. Thamn passed and asked if he was going to make soup.
Today of the picnic and parade. The dump with rats and snakes was a mile away through the woods. George’s turn came to do his impersonations. With lower lip up touching his nose he was Popeye. And then sent his crow calls loud and clear into the woods. There was giggling as the crows called back. Playing his jew’s harp, George finished with a hoof and stomp and with a final leap in the air, brought his feet together and bent his head. Clapping was long and loud.
Mr. Thamn walked on stage raising his hands for silence, his stubby fingers outstretched, to give his little speech. He said he was very happy today to announce the prize winners. As the names came, Mr. Thamn looked up and out into the audience with his small smile. The little folk rose sheepishly, with glances back at mommie and daddy as they said, “Go ahead, child.” And up the steps to the stage where they curtsied or bowed and took the emblem and the ribbon. Until it happened.
Mr. Thamn had read the name like all the others, his head looking up, the little girl taking leave of her parents and mounting the stairs to the stage. Her hand outstretched to take the emblem and the other to shake with Mr. Thamn. And suddenly she pointed up at his face and shouted, “Daddy, this is the man who watched me on the dump road.” Mr. Thamn stepped back, taking away this little hand that clutched his shirt.
Mr. Thamn went back and back, falling over the stool. The little girl clenched hands shaking at her sides. Her father making for Mr. Thamn who scrambled to his feet, his face atwitch. Elders crowded in front of the stage.
George stepped out and with an arm held the father back from Mr. Thamn. He said Mr. Thamn is a good man and if anyone tries to touch him, I’ll fix them. George took Mr. Thamn by the arm. Led him down the steps and away out under the trees. Which were turning light gold on their edges this late afternoon of the parade.
My Painful Jaw
I walked through where people and women with legs crossed and furs sat on soft sofas and a man with white gloves pointed me into an elevator with gleaming brass doors. When it was nearly full they closed and green lights were buzzing and binging and I said five please. The doors opened. Before me a grill, a cage, a man in there. I took off a watch and with my wallet and some change put them into an envelope, pinched it up with a machine and handed it through a hole to the man. I walked down the rows of dark green lockers in near silence and darkness. Turning up a row and pulling on a light, I opened a little green door and took off my clothes.
When I went down some back stairs in my athletic garments I bounced on my rubber soled boots. I went into a room and put a pair of leather gloves on my fists and beat a bag like mad. I skipped rope watching my calves in the mirror. I went over to a window and looked out across the street into living rooms and kitchens or just on the sills at plants.
You could smell the sweat coming from me. I could. And I sat down. Stretch out in these soft warm towels and rest my hairy legs. People come in. Where of course some fear to tread because of fists. Around the walls are pictures of fighters with muscles others with smiles but all standing ready to punch. Most said hi, sat down and whenever they looked at me said boy you’re in good shape. I said o no not really, my midriff is fatty and all the while I’d slowly expand out my chest. Then a bouncy man came in throwing blows in all directions looked at me and said how about a few rounds. I tried to look away, I didn’t know where to hide my fists. But the eyes would be on me looking for any fear so I said certainly.
We got in the ring. Bong, the gong. Out in centre ring I threw what was a feeler or to see if perhaps he might stand well away from me in anxiety but biff right on my nose and bang on my jaw this man started beating me around the place. I didn’t want to turn and run outright because they might think I wasn’t taking my beating like a man. So I hid under my gloves to try to give the impression that I was only playing. He knocked me right through the ropes and in spite of everything I made an effort to giggle with o it’s nothing I like a good fight but a tooth dropping out of my mouth just produced a splutter. I think my adversary said sorry old man and something in me made me smile through the blood as if I were only resting that round.
He put it to me, have you had enough old man. I said I like a good workout, gets up a sweat. I almost mentioned blood too. I rested in my corner waiting for the bell. When it rang I came out with my customary feeler to size up his style for my special zip punch which I am reluctant to use. We circled around. I must admit I stayed my distance only of course because my zip punch can be fatal at close quarters. The fight had aroused interest in the room, people pushing to see. I had firmly made my decision to use the zip. I think he knew what was coming because he kept his guard high, the only nearly adequate defense against this punch. I waited for the corner of my eye to see a few more people gather, and then I moved in. I brought it from the hip, my right knee slightly flexed, weight well forward on the balls of my feet. The last thing I heard was the little audience catching a collective breath.
They told me later when I was dressed and showered that for awhile they didn’t think I’d come around and someone even suggested giving me artificial respiration as well as the salts. But it was generally agreed that in the final analysis it was better that this had happened because the zip punch, especially with the stance I was employing, would have been deadly. My opponent now wearing a bow tie clapped me on the back and said I was a hard man to hit and are you sure you’re all right old man. I was horrified when my mouth said I’d very much like to have another workout with you sometime.
I Failed
I got off at the back gate out of a green upholstered tram. This first day. And there was the university through my apprehensive eyes. A chill wind blowing. My new suit, white shirt and black tie. I felt all dressed up for failure but feeling important because they were looking at me. There’s the porter’s lodge and a parking lot and in this building I see the contortions of glass, bubbling pots and skylights poking out of the roof. I want so much to learn. To know what you do with acids and esters and make my experiments go pop at the right time like the rest of you. From the very first word you tell me I’m going to remember.
I’m on my way to my tutor. Through these playing fields flat green and velvet. How lovely with benches where I can sit watching, reading or anything under these old trees. I think late summer is still hanging in the sky. And by these flower beds still smelling, into this pretty square where the opulent members of college live behind granite and big windows. That’s me. I see a man filling a pail of water from a green pump. He salutes me
with a wave. How can I make a good impression, tuck my tie in, smile perhaps. I hope they will see I’m eager, ardent to listen, ready to take notes for all four years.
That building there must be the library because I can see the stacks and stacks. I will borrow and read. I promise. What luck has brought me here because it’s all so beautiful. I’m told scholars can play marbles on the dining hall steps and shoot birds in college park. Got some great rules. Perhaps some day will see me shooting with the best of them. There are little clusters of students and I can hear their beautiful voices as I go by. And I can’t help but look from face to face seeking out those who will also fail. The rest of my natural life without a degree. I almost wish now some little white angels would flutter down and take me or my dread away.
Across the cobbled square a bell ringing and into this building number eight. Up the foot carved stairs where I see an open door. I’ll knock lightly so’s not to be rude. Hands out of pockets. Do the right thing. Always wait till asked. Come in. From behind that door he’s telling me to come in. How shall I do it without making noise with my heels. I said as best I could that I was D and he said ah delighted, do come in. Piles of papers everywhere and books. Must have been here like this since God. Great waves of hair on this man’s handsome head, a scholar in Greek and Latin for sure. Ah D I’m very glad you’re here and I trust your trip across the Atlantic was pleasant. My God, this gentleman is telling me he is glad I’m here and what can I say. I can say nothing, there’s no chat in me because I’m trembling. I hope it won’t mean some awful thing’s to happen. He’s only being nice and saying, now D I would like you to meet Hartington, it is Hartington isn’t it. And this tall tall person standing in a shadow stepped out, said yes and offered me his hand. You’re to share rooms together. I tried to say splendid, couldn’t, and said safely how do you do. Our tutor rustled in the papers, came out with pamphlets and said I hope you will be very happy with us here Mr. D. And now what could I say, trapped on this casual note of friendship. I did so want them to know that I knew I would be, but it was too late, no space left to tell them I was overjoyed to silence.
Meet My Maker the Mad Molecule Page 12