He thought of his own children, whose erratic lives stood in harsh contrast to Honor Carmichael’s success. Not one of them had finished college, or even come very close to finishing. Nellie and Julie would occasionally enroll for a semester, when the mood struck them, but would casually drop out again if they ran up against a course that was too hard for them, which could mean any course that actually required study. They were all smart—but they were also all ignorant, a reflection that saddened Duane, since he considered that it was partly his fault. Neither he nor Karla had really pressed the matter of education with them; when they did prod one of the girls to get back in school and finish a degree, their efforts were halfhearted. He himself had never been near a college, and Karla had only attended sporadically—though in the last few years Karla had audited a wide variety of courses and sometimes gave some thought to actually entering a degree program.
“You could too,” she pointed out. “It’s never too late to go to college. I bet you’d make all A’s if you’d just try. If you had something to engage your mind with, maybe you wouldn’t be so bored.”
“Who says I’m bored?” he asked. “I’ve never been bored in my life.”
“Bullshit,” Karla said. “You’re too bored even to have love affairs, which is pretty bored, in my book.”
Sitting alone in his cabin, he realized that his wife had been right. He was bored—perhaps had been bored since sometime in his late forties, which was the point at which the oil business had ceased to engage him. He considered himself to be a skilled professional oilman, but by his forties he had acquired as great a proficiency as he was ever likely to have. If he rose much higher it would be because of some particularly lucky strike. He wasn’t going to get any better, and he couldn’t pretend that what he was doing particularly interested him, once he had passed a certain point. He might get more of a kick out of learning to make good biscuits than he did out of drilling oil wells.
Honor Carmichael’s plain little business card bespoke real accomplishment. Crazy old Jody and his estranged wife had at least managed to see that their child got a first-rate education, whereas he and Karla had let the same opportunity dribble away. He decided to sit his boys down, the next time he saw them, and attempt to convince them that they were not too old to acquire good educations—maybe Karla could have a session or two with the girls, on the same subject.
Just before turning off his light, Duane reread his list. He wanted to be off for the Corners at first light and didn’t want to forget anything. While he was checking it he munched most of a fried pie—it claimed to be apricot but tasted more like peach—and gave the crust to Shorty. A small gray mouse sat in plain view near the fireplace, nibbling a crumb, but Shorty was so intent on getting at least a taste of the fried pie that he hadn’t noticed.
“There’s a mouse, do your job,” Duane said, but Shorty merely gulped and waited for more crust.
At the bottom of the list Duane decided to add one more item: a book by Thoreau, the one about living at Walden Pond. He wasn’t sure about the spelling of the name—he thought it probably ought to have an x at the end—but the list was for his own eyes anyway. He left it as it was and went to bed.
24
THE NEXT MORNING while Karla was in the shower she began to have the uneasy sense that somebody was prowling around the house somewhere. There had never been a prowler around her house, but, as she often pointed out, there could always be a first time. She had often asked Duane for a pistol but he resolutely refused to allow it.
“There are too many grandkids in the house and they can all climb,” he told her. “Even if you hid it on the highest shelf Willy or Sami or somebody might climb up and get it and start firing.”
When she came out of the shower, well swaddled in her cherry-colored bathrobe, she tiptoed silently from room to room, so as not to startle the prowler, if there was one.
Then the prowler turned out to be Duane—he had changed his mind about hurrying back to the Corners and was poking around in the books that were shelved over the TV. Outside, it was only just beginning to be light. None of the grandkids were awake, and the younger grandkids were early risers. Rag wasn’t even in the kitchen yet, and Rag was usually in the kitchen before sunup.
“I thought we had a Thoreau book here somewhere,” Duane said. “Didn’t you read it in one of your classes?”
It seemed so natural to wake up and find her husband in the den that Karla went over and started helping him look for the Thoreau book. The fact that he had walked six miles before it was even really light was a little matter she decided to ignore, at least for the moment.
“I had that book but I never read it,” she said. “I had it about the time Bobby Lee had his operation—thinking about someone we know only having one ball kind of threw me off, as a reader.”
“Why would that have thrown you off?” Duane asked, a little annoyed. He had awakened at three-thirty, firmly convinced that the Thoreau book was somewhere in the bookshelves above the TV—the conviction was so strong that he had walked to Thalia to get the book, rather than to the Corners to get the wheelbarrow and the other things on his list. He had a clear mental picture of exactly where the book was—only, now he was standing right in front of the shelf where he remembered seeing it and it wasn’t there. All kinds of books were there—books by John Grisham and Dean Koontz and Danielle Steel, but there was no book in the bookshelves by Thoreau.
“Well, it was kind of hard to read, and that plus Bobby Lee losing his testicle just kind of threw me off,” Karla admitted.
“It must be a famous book or they wouldn’t be teaching it in a college class,” Duane said.
“There’s lots of books they teach in college that I can’t read ten words of,” Karla said. “That’s one reason I don’t audit as much as I used to: got tired of being embarrassed by my own ignorance. Why do you want this particular book all of a sudden?”
She could tell Duane was on the verge of being irate, because he had walked all the way into town and now couldn’t find what he was looking for.
Duane didn’t answer—he just kept looking through the shelves. He had himself convinced that the book was there, though it wasn’t.
“It’s probably in one of the girls’ bedrooms,” Karla said. “Little Bascom could have carried it off. He likes to chew on books.”
“Why do you let him?” Duane asked. “Books aren’t for babies to chew.”
Despite his determination to be calm, his irritation was rising. He had meant to slip into the house before anyone was up and get the book. He didn’t want to see anyone, or disturb the household in any way. All he wanted was the book. Jody Carmichael was not dumb. If Jody thought he was behaving like Thoreau, then Duane wanted to know what he meant by such a remark. The book had been right there, for years, but now, because a little boy was allowed to wander around chewing on books, it was gone, just when he needed it. If he was going crazy, as a number of people seemed to think, then it was because his family’s sloppy, undisciplined ways were driving him crazy.
“Duane, it wasn’t just me that let him chew books,” Karla said. “You let him chew books. Nellie let him chew books.”
Duane was uncomfortably aware that she had a point. He was as guilty as the rest of them. The whole household took the line of least resistance, where the children were concerned: never spanking them for chewing books, never demanding that the older children do their homework, never punishing with any severity any of the hundreds of disciplinary lapses that occurred every week. It was a lax household. The children didn’t take their parents seriously, or their grandparents either. Everyone just did as they pleased, and no one had a college degree.
“I know it—and it needs to change,” Duane said. “Next time somebody sees him chewing a book they ought to spank his little butt.”
“I agree, but I don’t expect it will be you,” Karla said. “You can’t spank a child from six miles away.”
Duane didn’t answer. He contin
ued his fruitless search of the shelves.
“Duane, just calm down,” Karla said. “There’s plenty of those old Thoreau books in this world. There’s a lot of them in the college bookstore. If we can’t find this one we can just drive to Wichita and buy one.”
“I can’t drive to Wichita because I’ve stopped driving,” Duane reminded her. “Jody Carmichael says I’m acting like Thoreau and I’d like to read the book and find out what he means.”
“Okay, but it’s pretty poky reading, like I said,” Karla told him. “I’ll go look in the girls’ bedrooms. It might just be under a bed.”
Just then Little Bascom, the book chewer, waddled in. His face lit up when he saw his grandfather but it clouded again when Duane pointed a finger at him.
“Don’t you ever let me catch you chewing a book,” Duane said. He didn’t yell, but he spoke in a stern voice. Little Bascom burst into tears and ran to his grandmother.
“He’s not even awake good,” Karla pointed out. “It don’t do a bit of good for you to suddenly start lecturing him. You need to wait until you catch him chewing a book and then spank his little butt.”
Again, Duane knew Karla was right. But being with his family—or even a tiny portion of it—made him feel suffocated, and, at the same time, guilty. He wanted to get the book and leave, but Little Bascom was so upset that Duane took him from Karla and carried him outside so he could pet the dog, which immediately restored his good humor. The little boy was hugging the dog’s neck when Rag drove up in her belching old Chevy.
“That car’s eating up the ozone; you ought to have your exhaust system checked out,” Duane told her.
“I don’t even know what ozone is, but I know you look skinny, from not eating my gourmet cooking anymore,” Rag countered. “I don’t need no criticism from an anorexic this time of day.”
“Doggie,” Little Bascom said.
“It’s a doggie all right, and it’s probably covered with fleas and ticks,” Rag said. She started into the house and then turned to Duane.
“Are you eating with us, or not?” she asked.
“I’m eating, but not here,” he said. “I just came in to look for a book.”
Karla came out on the back steps, no book in her hand.
“Rag, have you seen that Thoreau book I bought when I was taking that class?” she asked. “It’s just like a book to disappear the minute somebody wants it.”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Rag said. She went in the house, followed closely by Little Bascom, who knew her to be a reliable source of juice in the early part of the day.
“Want anything from the greenhouse?” Karla asked. It was clear that Duane was restless and wanted to be on his way.
“Maybe a few of those midget tomatoes,” he said. “They’re better than no tomatoes.”
“I wonder why your own family has started making you nervous, all of a sudden,” Karla said. “Do you think it’s just a phase?”
“It could be—but then life itself is just a phase,”
Duane said. “Duane, don’t be saying pessimistic things to me when I’m upset anyway,” Karla said. “I like to try and be hopeful, if you don’t mind.”
“I’m sorry,” Duane said. “I’m not fit company right now. That’s why I moved out to the cabin. Is Dickie back from rehab?”
“He’s in the trailer, sound asleep,” Karla said. “He always sleeps for a week when he comes out of rehab. I think they must give them downers.”
“When he wakes up tell him to come see me,” Duane said. “I’m putting him in charge of the oil company. There can’t be no more of this drug addiction.”
Karla found a sack and put some of the small tomatoes in it. Duane tucked them carefully into his backpack.
“I hope you don’t squash your tomatoes, walking home,” she said.
“Did you hear what I said about Dickie?” he asked. “He’s perfectly competent to run the company, if he’ll do it. It’s time Dickie clicked in, don’t you think?”
“Oh sure, past time,” Karla said. “It’s past time he clicked in. But just because it’s time don’t mean he can. I guess we’ll just have to see.”
“Tell him to come see me,” Duane repeated.
“I will, but don’t be too hard on him,” Karla said. “He’s always a little scared when he first comes out of rehab.”
“I won’t be hard on him,” Duane said. “I’ve never been hard on Dickie. That may have been the problem.”
“It may have been, but it’s too late to switch now,” Karla said. “Go away. You’re making me depressed.”
“I’m sorry,” Duane said. “Remember that girl of Jody Carmichael’s?”
Karla felt like crying but managed to suppress all but a sniffle or two.
“I know he had a little girl but she was never around much,” she said. “They sent her off to school. She came to Nellie’s birthday party when Nellie was about five, but I don’t think I’ve seen her since.”
“She’s a psychiatrist now,” Duane said.
“She is?” Karla said. “How’d you find that out?”
“I walked over to the Corners to buy a spade,” Duane said. “Jody gave me her card. She studied in Baltimore. Jody’s real proud of her.”
“I guess he would be,” Karla said. “If one of our children made a psychiatrist I’d faint.”
Then she shook her head, in a gesture of despair.
“What’d I say now?” he asked, disturbed.
“It’s just the thought of you walking that far to buy a spade,” Karla said. “We’ve got a shed full of spades. It must be eight or nine miles over to the Corners. That’s a sixteen-mile walk. That’s crazy, Duane! What’s wrong with you?”
“I don’t know,” Duane admitted. He felt foolish for having revealed that he had walked so far just for a spade, when, as Karla said, he had a shed crammed with spades at home. He felt bad about having upset her, and he didn’t even have the Thoreau book to show for it.
Karla ran back in the house—she was clearly getting ready for a cry. Toward the back of the property Loni, Barbi, and Sami filed out of the trailer house in their school clothes and headed in for breakfast. When they saw their grandfather they all looked startled. When he waved at them Loni and Sami waved back. Barbi, the one who had to be different, didn’t wave, but Duane thought she looked glad to see him anyway. Annette, his tall daughter-in-law, came out of the trailer house for a moment and sat on the steps, smoking. Annette didn’t wave, either. She was a mother, enjoying a moment of quiet after getting her children ready for school. Some people considered Annette standoffish, but Duane liked her. Her children were dressed neatly and they all did well in school, and he thought Annette did her best with Dickie, who was a handful. Duane started to walk over and chat with her for a moment—perhaps ask her how Dickie seemed—but he changed his mind. It might be better to leave her in peace. And, besides, he wanted to leave, to seek a little peace himself, of the sort that he could only seem to find when he was by himself, walking alone down an empty road.
25
THE PEACE OF THE ROAD WAS NOT TO BE HIS QUICKLY. As he was approaching Ruth Popper’s house—the one house in town he could saunter by at an easy pace, because he knew Ruth was too blind to see him—he saw Ruth come out her door. Her arms, as usual, were full of dictionaries and crossword puzzle books. Duane slowed a little, to give Ruth time to back out and turn toward his office—even though she couldn’t see him she might intuit him if he got too close.
Ruth put her books in the backseat, got in, fastened her seat belt, and hit the ignition. The car—almost half as old as Ruth herself—started immediately.
Then Ruth sat for two or three minutes, listening to the engine purr. Duane had about decided to attempt to sneak on by, since Ruth appeared to be daydreaming. He felt tense, and was in a hurry to get into the country, where he could relax.
But before he could attempt to walk past her, Ruth woke up, wrestled the car into reverse—she had l
ong complained that the Volkswagen’s reverse was in a bad place—and suddenly shot backward across the road and into the opposite barditch. It was a fairly steep barditch too—the Volkswagen’s front end was pointed almost straight up.
“She must have tried for the clutch and hit the foot feed,” Duane said, to Shorty. It was the only way he could account for the car’s backward spurt. He had never seen Ruth drive that fast before. He knew that the peace of the road had just receded, because Ruth Popper was stuck. Even though she hadn’t spotted him, he couldn’t very well walk by and leave an old woman stuck in a ditch. He walked over and tapped on the window—Ruth squinted at him and then rolled it down, with some reluctance.
“Did you lock your house?” he inquired.
“Oh, the deserter,” Ruth said. “Why’d you push me into this ditch?”
“Hey, I didn’t push you,” Duane said. “I think you just hit the foot feed a little too hard when you started to back up.”
“Why would I do that?” Ruth asked. “I back out of this driveway every morning of my life and I’ve never done this before. I think you made it happen so I’ll be late for work and you can dock my pay.”
“I haven’t got time to argue with you,” Duane said. “I’m going in your house and call Earlene. If she’s there maybe she can find Bobby Lee. He’s got a good winch on his pickup—he can have you out of there in no time.”
“Bobby Lee hates my guts,” Ruth said. “Why would he do me any favors?”
“He does not hate your guts, Ruth. He just gets a little impatient with you, from time to time,” Duane said.
“He’s only got one ball and he hates my guts, that’s the way I see it,” Ruth insisted.
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