“No,” she admitted.
“You don’t want to take him off without giving him his lunch. I left him with James; you can’t miss the barn—you probably saw it as you came up from parking your car. It’s down at the end of the playing field. Do you want me to go with you?” Already she had resumed her conversation with the teacher; it had to do with schedules for classes.
Virginia said, “We really should go.” On her feet, she said, “Thank you for the meal.”
“Why do you have to leave this minute?”
“The drive,” she said.
“That does worry you, doesn’t it?”
The male teacher—he was young, amiable-looking—said, “I wouldn’t care to drive that very often. But some of the parents do. Every weekend; twice each way.” To Virginia he said, “If you put your boy into the school would you want to pick him up on weekends?”
“Yes,” she said. “That’s what I told him, anyhow. I feel I should. It’s part of the agreement between us.”
“The children aren’t dismissed on Friday until after three o’clock,” Mrs. Alt said. “So you couldn’t pick him up before then. And he should be back by six p.m. Sunday night. You’d have to drive it after dark, during the winter. From what you’ve said I don’t think that would be a good idea; you’d be apprehensive about it, and that would be transmitted to Gregg and he’d feel that you didn’t want to pick him up.”
“This is all assuming—” Virginia began.
“Why couldn’t her son go in with one of the other parents?” one of the lady teachers suggested. “Maybe they could arrange to share the driving.”
“Liz Bonner picked her two boys up almost every Friday,” the male teacher said. “Maybe you could arrange it with her.”
“That’s a good idea,” Mrs. Alt said. “She’ll be bringing her boys up sometime tomorrow.” To Virginia she said, “Why don’t you be here so I can introduce you to her? Unless you don’t want somebody else to drive him.”
“Mrs. Bonner is a good driver,” the male teacher said.
“But real Los Angeles,” one of the lady teachers said, and they all laughed.
The idea cheered Virginia. “Would she mind?” she said. “Maybe I could pay her or something. It would be worth it.”
“Liz has to make the trip anyhow,” Mrs. Alt said. “Let’s do it this way; I’ll talk to her when she brings her boys up, and then I’ll phone you. If she’s agreeable you can drive up and settle the details. You’re living in Sepulveda and I think they live near there, toward San Fernando, near enough so it wouldn’t be much out of her way. If necessary she could take Gregg to her place and you could pick him up there.”
“Why couldn’t she talk to Mrs. Bonner down there?” the young male teacher said. “Instead of having to make the drive back up here.”
“I’d rather she talked to Liz up here,” Mrs. Alt said. “So I can be sure it’s settled. You know how Liz is.”
Excusing herself, Virginia left the kitchen and set off for the barn. My God, she thought. It was settled. Decided. The burden of decision had faded away.
You’ll love the Los Padres Valley School, she said to herself. Do as I tell you, young man. Love the Los Padres School. Because starting next week it’s your home. And Edna Alt is your friend.
2
Poking his head into the stores office, Pete Bacciagalupi said to him, “Hey, you’re still here, aren’t you? I thought maybe you went home.” The front door of Modern TV Sales & Service was locked and the shade was down; business had come to an end for the day. The overhead lights flickered as Olsen, the repairman, bent and shut them off at the switch. “You wife’s looking for you,” Pete said. “She parked in the yellow zone; she just now went back to get something.”
“Okay,” Roger Lindahl said. He closed the store books and stood up. Probably she was home from her jaunt up to Ojai. With Pete he walked through the store, checking the various switches to make certain everything was off. “The intercom,” he said. “Get that.”
“I got it,” Pete said. “It’s all checked; you can go home. I’ll put on the night-light.” At the cash register he punched the key and began winding a new tape. “You put the money away, didn’t you? That’s the main thing.”
Olsen, at the front door, said, “Some dame wants in. Who gets to tell her we’re closed?”
“That’s Virginia,” Roger said. “I’ll let her in.” With his key he unlocked the door for her.
“Hi,” she said. “I’ll drive you home.” She kissed him and he smelled all the various road smells, cigarettes and heat and dust and the fatigue of fighting the traffic. Wilted, and yet unusually keyed-up, she clung to him and then stepped away, holding the door open. “Ready to go?” she asked.
“Wait,” he said. “I have to get some junk from the office.” He started back through the darkened store, and Virginia followed. When he reached the office she came after him, swirling her long coat, darting her head in a tic new to him; she seemed to be trying to view him from some covert angle, and he said, “Have I got a tail pinned to me or what is it?”
Virginia said, “Let’s sit down for a second.” She hopped onto the desk, crossed her legs, and slid off her shoe. “I drove with heels,” she said. “It feels good to rest. Three hours on the road, and then God—the tramping around in the dirt.” Her shoes had dust on them, reddish dry dirt, which she blew off.
“Oh yes,” he said, not hiding his aversion. “The C.C.C. camps.”
Pausing at the office door, Pete said, “Good night, Mrs. Lindahl. Good night, Roger. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“Good night,” Roger said. Virginia did not notice; she had opened her purse and was rooting in it.
“Good night!” Olsen bellowed, from the far end of the store. The door slammed as he departed.
After Pete had also gone, Roger said to his wife, “Where’s Gregg?”
“Home. With Marion.” That was her mother, Mrs. Watson.
“Did you find any schools you liked?” He let the words carry his attitude.
“I only visited one school,” she said, her face thin with caution. “The Los Padres School. We had lunch there. And we watched a horse having his shoes put on.”
“Now what?” he said. “Are you going back tomorrow?”
“No,” she said. “Tomorrow is the day I’m over with Helen.” Helen was the local ward boss of the Democratic Party; Virginia had got in deep on local issues, zoning and the like.
“And the next day,” he said, “is dance day.”
Virginia said, “How’m I going to tell you?”
In him, at that, settled the very thing she had rid herself of; the weight, the burden. “Did you give them a check?” he said.
“Yes.”
“How much?”
“The whole first month’s worth. Two hundred and fifty dollars.”
“I can stop it,” he said.
“Don’t.”
“Sure. Tomorrow morning.” Absolutely, he thought. He had no doubts.
“She’s wonderful. Mrs. Alt.”
Roger said, “Is this so you can—have more free time? Is it going to be nothing but therapy classes and P.T.A.? Hell,” he said, “that’s the end of the P.T.A. sessions. You’re taking him out of the public schools; you lose that. So what do you gain?” Across from him Virginia held herself in a fixed posture, her head tilted, smiling. “You have to have my permission,” he said. “I’ll go to a lawyer and see.”
With a bright chirp, she said, “Do that.”
The stared at each other.
At last she shuddered. “I know I’m right. You haven’t even seen the school.”
“Let’s have the receipt.” He stuck out his hand, waiting.
“You will go see it? Will you do that much at least?”
“I’ll see it as I go up and get the check back.”
“This is why I want him away,” Virginia said. “You and I don’t—” She broke off and swallowed, her eyes wide. Wetness rose, reached
her lashes, glowed and quivered. But that was all.
“I’ll call them tonight,” he said, picking up the phone. “So they won’t bank it.” When he had got the operator he asked for the phone number of the Los Padres School, in Ojai.
Virginia said, “I’ll leave you.”
Hanging up, he wrote the number on the pad. “Why?”
“I’ll—be ridiculous. Obviously. Or isn’t that important?” Her voice sharpened, but always the reserve was there, the training; something was held back. “I go up, make arrangements to put Gregg in the school; I go over lists with Mrs. Alt to be sure I’m going to have everything he needs ready—things like labels on his clothes, all of them, medicines that he has to have—I stopped at the drugstore and got four different prescriptions filled; I’ve had the job all to myself of explaining to Gregg and getting him to understand; I drove that awful god damn drive twice in one day, a drive that would kill anyone, even you. Wait’ll you drive it; you’ll see what I’m up against.” Plucking her handkerchief from her suit pocket she blew her nose and rubbed at her eyes.
Roger picked up the phone and dialed. He asked for the Ojai number. While; he waited, Virginia pushed her handkerchief away, stepped from the desk and into her shoes, seized her purse, and ran from the office. He heard her heels on the floor, then the noise of the door opening, then the slam.
In his ear the phone buzzed. A voice, a woman’s low voice, said, “Los Padres Valley School.”
“I’d like to speak to Mrs. Alt.”
“Speaking.”
“This is Roger Lindahl.” And at that point he was at a loss. “My wife,” he said, “talked to you today.”
“Oh yes. Virginia. Did she and Gregg get home all right?”
“Yes,” he said.
“She told me how much the drive upset her.” In his ear Mrs. Alt’s voice was placid, but not unconcerned. “I imagine you’ve just now found out that Virginia’s put Gregg in the school; is that so? She didn’t tell me, but I had the idea that she was doing it on her own.”
“Yes,” he said.
“She’s in a state of great tension,” Mrs. Alt said, “but I think she knows what she’s doing. Well, do you want to come up here and discuss it with me? I’ll hold the check until I’ve talked to you about it. I can come by and visit you, if you’d prefer; I’ll be down in L.A. tomorrow sometime late; I have a niece there.”
“I’ll come up,” he said. “That way I can see the school.”
“Good,” Mrs. Alt said. “What time? Better make it in the morning.”
“Ten,” he said.
“Fine. Can you bring Gregg? The more he sees of it before you decide the better. I wish he could stay here a week, but the semester begins in a few days and we have to have the registration completed. I’ll see you at ten, then. If you get lost and can’t find the school, ask anywhere in town.” The phone clicked.
Disconcerted, he hung up and then rose to switch off the office light. A real artist, he thought to himself, as he put on his coat. She could sell anything.
When he had locked the front door he realized that their Oldsmobile was still parked in the yellow zone. Virginia had not driven off; she sat at the wheel, waiting for him.
“I called her,” he said, as he opened the door and got in. “I’m going up tomorrow morning, with Gregg.”
Not speaking, Virginia started the car and pulled from the yellow zone, onto the street.
The next morning Virginia still had not begun talking, but neither had she left. He phoned Pete and told him to open the store, and then he shaved and bathed and put on a suit and tie and clean shirt. Virginia, moving silently about the house, disappeared into the kitchen when the time came for him and Gregg to leave; she said good-bye to neither of them.
“Is Mom sore?” Gregg asked, as they drove toward the highway.
“Just at me,” Roger said.
The trip up the highway was a ball for him; he enjoyed each part of it. After the turn-off he stopped at a roadside drive-in and ordered beer and fried prawns for himself, scrambled eggs and bacon for Gregg.
“This is swell,” Gregg said. “Boy, Dad, you sure fooled that truck.” The boy had been fascinated by the great game of lane-switching. “Remember that truck?”
Later, they drove past short, round trees. Roger said to his son, “See those? I’ll tell you what they are. They’re pecan trees.”
The drive raised his spirits. When they passed the stream and saw the men fishing, he stopped the car and got out.
“Come on,” he said, leading Gregg down the trail from the road. For half an hour they helped the fishermen; once, Gregg was handed a pole and allowed to tug a fish from the water. It was a small, dingy fish, but all the fishermen exclaimed. One claimed that it was the only fish of its kind caught in that part of Ventura County. Gregg got the fish as a gift, wrapped in newspaper; it was tossed in the back of the car and then they drove on, speeding up the grades and around the curves to regain time.
“That’s Ojai,” Roger said, when they had left the mountains.
Gregg giggled. “Mom calls it O-hy.”
Together, he and Gregg walked from the car, up the road from town to the school. He had left the car in a garage to have the thousand mile lubrication; there was no knowing how many miles Virginia had driven without a change of oil.
“That’s the school,” Gregg said presently. Ahead of them, on the right, began a low split-rail fence that enclosed an orchard. Beyond the orchard could be seen buildings, tall fir trees, and what looked like a flag.
“How do you feel about it?” Roger said.
“I don’t know,” Gregg said. He slowed. “There’s a possum in a cage. I fed him a turnip.”
Roger said, “Do you like this school? Do you want to live here?”
“I don’t know,” Gregg said.
“You could only see Mom and me on weekends.”
Gregg nodded.
“Is it a nice school?” Occasionally he got an answer by asking the same question another way.
“Yes,” Gregg said.
“Are the kids nice?”
“They aren’t there yet.”
“Are the teachers nice?”
“I guess so. James is. He’s got real dark skin, like Louis Willis. He put a shoe on the horse.” As they toiled up the road, Gregg expounded on the method of shoeing a horse.
A Negro, Roger thought to himself. You can’t win.
They entered the school grounds. The land became flat. Gregg, running ahead of him, shouted back, “Hey, Dad, I’ll show you the possum! Here’s the possum!” Rolling, bounding, he disappeared from sight. His voice trailed off. “Possum…”
“Christ,” Roger said. Without his son he felt nervous; he halted and reached for his cigarettes. The pack was back in his coat, in the car; he had tossed his coat over the seat when the day became warm. Looking around, he saw the steps leading up to the larger of the buildings. A woman had come out on a terrace and was gazing down at him, a lean, middle-aged woman wearing glasses, her hair tied back; she had on jeans and he saw at once that she was Mrs. Alt and that she was an I-take-no-shit-from-anyone woman.
His fear grew. Why? Like a child, he thought. Standing there he quaked. My God, he thought, perspiring. He felt as if he were going to faint.
“Hey Dad,” Gregg shouted, scampering back, his face flushed, gasping for breath. “Can I ride a horse? Can I ride a horse? Can I ride one of the horses? Please, can I ride? James says is it okay if I can ride, please can I ride?” Dancing around Roger, he caught hold of his hand and tugged at him. “Please, Dad, please! Let me ride a horse, please! Dad, please! Come on, Dad! Let me ride one of the horses; can I? Can I?”
On the terrace the tough woman watched. Sunlight, hot on his face and body, made Roger sweat.
“Please, Dad!”
He saw trees. Off on a trail a horse clopped. Horses, Roger thought. Be damned. Nice-looking one. Nice rump. The air smelled of dried grass and it was hot, hot.
G
od, he thought. Not in years.
Wiping his neck he took a couple of steps forward. Sweat in his eyes. He wiped his eyes. Dizzying air. The farm-smell.
“Look at the horse!”
“Yes,” he said. The farm-smell reeked: manure. Straw.
On the terrace the woman watched. She put her hands on her hips. Why do I feel so weak? Roger thought. Why?
“Roger!” the woman said sharply.
“Yes,” he said. “I’m coming.” The reek of horses.
He walked a step. Another. “Please,” he said.
Please. He saw the barn. Dirt beneath his toes. Broken heap of wire. Line of hills, green and tree-caked.
At the back of the barn a slope of weeds; dirt descending toward rock. Quiet in the mid-day summer air. Buzzing, and it sprang by him, a black fly.
He ducked.
“Please,” he begged, afraid of her. “Can we go?” Both he and Stephen trembled. Then she nodded.
He and Stephen ran over the weeds, the dirt, away from her and the house, past the rusted truck. In the wallow the pigs squirmed. Across the land by the wallow one hog, alarmed, got up to flee; his ears down he ran, bending and puffing, as far as the fence.
In the shed they slammed the door and fixed the wire so no one could open it. So their mother couldn’t open it and get them.
“It’s cold,” Stephen said. “Hey, I can’t see; can you see?”
Eventually they could see.
“This is where,” he said to his brother. They had come here, to this safe locked place, to find who could pee the furthest.
“You go first,” Stephen said.
“You.”
“No.” Stephen huddled nervously, listening. “It was your idea.”
The shed floor had broken under the weight of dung and moldy straw. Jars, filled with preserves, were stacked in the corners, their lids corroded. In the centre of a web a dead spider twirled with the currents of warm air entering through the cracks in the shed, the spaces between the boards.
Standing at one end of the shed, he peed.
“Okay,” he said to Stephen.
Stephen peed. When they measured, they found that he had peed almost a foot further than Stephen.
Puttering About in a Small Land Page 3