Inside the First Congregational Church of Preston Falls, the organ is wheedling away to a quarter-churchful of mosdy white-haired people. Willis scuttles sideways into an empty pew in the back; he's the only one here alone, which makes him look as if he's even deeper in spiritual crisis than he is. Fuck, if only it would be a crisis. Though isn't this a good way to bring it on, coming here and screwing around with the irrational?
Nice old church. All white inside, bare wood floor, tall windows, and up behind the pulpit a plain, squared-off gold cross—no faux tree bark, no writhing Saviour—against a hanging of burgundy-colored velvet. Either laudably severe or contemptibly bland.
He's deciding this when the organ cranks up and they all rise for the opening hymn—^which sounds like "Morning Is Broken." By Cat Stevens. And it is. Too bizarre: he can't do this. He scissors-steps out of the pew and heads for the exit, doubled over with his hands across his belly, miming a sudden attack of stomach flu. Back in the truck, he loosens his tie. Well, at least he's found out that he's not far enough down yet to start begging help from "Jesus."
PRESTON FALLS
He stops at Stewart's for milk; the old farmer type in front of him asks for a pack of what he calls Pell Mells and takes for-fucking-ever picking out three different kinds of lottery tickets. When Willis sets his half gallon and his Milk Club card on the counter, he surprises the shit out of himself (though not really) by saying, "And a pack of Marlboros."
"Hard or soft?" says the girl. Pretty girl, a little beaten down.
"Make it hard, please?" he says. Willis, you dog.
He waits until he gets home to try the first cigarette; it's been ten years—no, more; he quit before Mel was born—and he's afraid if he lights up while driving it will hit him so hard he'll have to pull over. He finds a book of matches and a saucer, and settles on the couch. He zips the cellophane off, lifts the lid, slips out the square of dull silver paper to expose the caramel-brown filter ends. Sniffs them. Extracts one with a pinch and a tug of thumb and forefinger, then slips it between forefinger and middle finger. Which is just the way they found his father: smiling in his La-Z-Boy, his last Chesterfield burned all the way down, the skin fried in the crotch of his fingers. Harmlessly. Willis scratches a match, lights the cigarette, inhales, and whump. Yep, good thing he's sitting down.
When Willis got the call about his father, the doctor simply said it was a "sudden, massive" heart attack; he heard about the cigarette later, from Kenny Bishop, his best friend in sixth grade, who'd stayed in Etna all these years and who happened to be on rescue-squad duty that day. Willis had always expected something more operatic. If not a shootout with ATE agents, at least a Hemingway: both barrels in the mouth, brains on the wall. Shit, this was a guy who'd named his sons after Douglas MacArthur and Curtis LeMay—and that was before things got heavy. (In Cambridge, Willis's mother used to tell her new friends he'd been named for William O. Douglas, which they must have thought was an odd thing to volunteer.) Willis had learned to avoid visiting him during manic episodes, but the old man could still fool you. One time, just after Mel was born, his father had sounded fine on the phone, and six hours later, when Willis walked across the porch to knock on the door, he heard the tv going, looked through the window and saw him in his recliner scribbling on a legal pad. He was writing down the words of the newscast that coincided with Dan Rather's eye blinks.
Champ blew off the funeral and Jean stayed in Chesterton with the kids, then six and three. (Mel had seen Grandpa Willis once and didn't remember him; Roger had never seen him at all.) Afterwards Willis
drove his mother on up to the house. While she prowled around in the attic—a bunch of her books and her old term papers from Smith were still up there—he sat in the La-Z-Boy and looked at a composition book he'd picked up off the floor. On the cover, his father had written "2/8/89-." A journal, the last entry dated April 22, the day he died: "Colder, mostly sunny this morning. Trees getting red with buds, grass getting green." Most of the entries simply recorded the time he'd gotten up (always between 6:30 and 7:00), the weather and his daily errands: "To P.O., paid light bill, bought bread and tuna fish." Had he found these simple things numinous? Or was he just completely shot to shit? On the back page, he'd been listing the small animals killed by his cat, Geoffrey: "3/12/89, 1 mouse. 3/17/89, 1 mouse. 4/3/89, 1 blue jay (feathers only found)." Willis and his mother split a Harry and David pear from a box he and Jean had sent the old man, then captured Geoffrey, put him in his Kennel Cab and drove back down to his mother's one-bedroom condo in Brookline. Next thing Willis heard, she was putting it on the market and moving up to Etna. Less because she'd gotten sentimental (though who the fuck knows) than because it was her one shot at ending up in a nice old farmhouse somewhere reading M. F. K. Fisher and shit. Or is that unkind?
When the cigarette's half gone, Willis stubs it out in the saucer, lightheaded and about to vomit. He closes his eyes: worse. Well, he won't be getting hooked on these sons of bitches again. Throw 'em out. Put 'em under the faucet and then throw 'em out. So maybe what he'll do is, he'll go and see his mother.
Etna looks close enough on the map—Route 4 all the way to White River Junction, across the river into Hanover—but it's all mountains and fucking little towns, so by the time Willis gets there it's dark and he's got a headache from squinting against sun in the rearview mirror. And probably from thinking the whole way, because he was asshole enough to throw his tape deck out the fucking window.
The porch light's on and all four eyebrow windows are lit up; since she doesn't use the upstairs much, this must be to welcome him. The house I grew up in, he calls this, for simplicity's sake. He sometimes soothes himself with this absolutely bullshit idea that his mother's actually been here the whole time, keeping safe his childhood things: the Thornton W Burgess books, the yellow seven-inch Burl Ives records, the Nichols Stallion cap pistol. In fact, she never set foot in the house from 1963—the year she split for Cambridge with Champ and Willis— until his father died.
His mother comes out onto the porch. As always, she looks an increment older than he expected; as soon as he's adjusted to the last incarnation, she's on to the next. But she looks good: suntan, silver-and-turquoise necklace with earrings to match, white hair in a single long braid. That and the hurt smile make her look like Willie Nelson.
"Come in, weary traveler," she says. "I was just starting to get anxious."
He gives her a one-arm hug. "I didn't know what to bring you, so I didn't bring you anything. You've got aU the same crap here we've got in Preston FaUs."
"Oh, I know; isn't it terrible}" she says. "If I never again taste maple syrup, do you know? Come in, come in,"
His mother got rid of the really butch accoutrements—deer head, gun rack—when she first moved in. And of course the La-Z-Boy. Where
I 2 3
he used to have a gray metal file cabinet, she's put a dry sink with worn blue paint the color of a robin's egg. But she's kept some of the Ayn Rand touches: Willis follows her into the kitchen, and through her copper cookware hanging from the beams he sees the old IBM wall clock. She's got the radio on—huh, she's bought herself one of those glorified boomboxes made to look like a stack of components. An Optimus: Radio Shack's house brand. Successor to Realistic. It's depressing to picture his mother walking into Radio Shack. He's looking through her meager stack of CDs on the kitchen counter when that fucking jiggety theme music starts up: BUM BUM BUM BUM, BUM BUM BUM BUM, dump tadumpta dump tadumpta. "I'm Noah Adams," says the voice.
"I know this program annoys you," his mother says, reaching for the Power button.
"And I'm — " Silence.
"Thanks," says Willis.
"But really, they are a lifeline up here. Especially living alone. I always send them money. Now, what can I get you? I have some lovely single-malt scotch. With just a little water? That's how the real Scots drink it." So apparently she's been reading the John McPhee collection he sent for her birthday.
"And ho
w is Jean," she says. "And my grandchUdrcn, who I never get to see. Let's sit out on the porch, do you mind? We won't be getting many more evenings like this."
They sit in a pair of bent-willow chairs, angled toward each other. Willis's tire swing used to hang from that branch of that maple tree.
"You won't believe what I found the other day," she says. "The first letter your father ever wrote me."
"In secret code?" he says. Right out of the gate, boy. What a shit he is.
His mother squinches her eyes shut, then opens them and takes a sip of her scotch. "Oh dear. Well, what did I know at twenty-two? A stupid little Smithie." She pronounces it styewpid. "But really, how was I to know? He was very normal, 1 thought. From my vast experience." Sip. "Well, it was such a long time ago. But it has been a strange life." Sip. "So are you off now?"
''Ami off?" he says.
"From your work? Aren't you on sabbatical?"
"Oh right. Two months."
"And you'll be at your farm?"
PRESTON FALLS
"Yeah, the endless project. I just patched a pipe in the bathroom that's probably been leaking since I got the place."
"But it's splendid that you can do that work," she says. "You do take after your father in that respect." Sip. "It has been a strange life. Do you ever hear from Cynthia, by the way?"
"Not since the last time you asked." Cynthia was Willis's girlfriend before he met Jean.
"I always liked her. And she's gone where, again?"
"Madison, Wisconsin, the last I heard."
"Oh yes," she says. "It's supposed to be very civilized." Sip. "How's yours holding out? Dinner's going to be another half hour."
"In that case," he says. Something rubs against his leg: Geoffrey, come to greet him.
"We're having polio coifunghi secchi.'"
"Mam-ma mia," he says, bouncing the heel of his hand off his forehead. "I trust we aren't going to be having visions of the Absolute after the funghi secchi. "
"Dear God, don't even joke about such a thing." Willis's mother had once been talked into eating psilocybin mushrooms during those first years in Cambridge.
"Oh come on," he says. "I was proud of you. I always remember that thing about how you were listening to Beethoven and—"
"Stop."
"—and seeing purple penises wiggling in sync like the—"
"Stop." Hands over her ears.
"—Rockettes. I was hugely impressed," He strokes Geoffrey's head, and the cat arches his back.
"Dear God, imagine telling that to your child. What were you, fifteen? Fourteen? Well, it gives you some idea of the state I was in. Horrible."
"Hey," says Willis. "Sounded great to me."
"Yes, I know." She gets up and takes their glasses into the house.
Willis stares out at the maple tree. Scotch must be kicking in; his legs feel heavy. The light from upstairs catches that tree branch: the rope that held the tire swing is long gone, and even the scar has healed. After it rained, you used to have to lift the tire exactly right to dump the water out, or it would just race around inside.
"Are you in touch with your brother these days?" He didn't hear his
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mother come back out. "He's not still at that dreadful store?" She hands Willis his glass.
"He's making the best of it," says Willis. Better not to tell her Champ was just in Preston Falls. "I admire him for hanging in." He takes a sip; she's put more water in this one.
"Apparently he's still punishing me."
"You could call/7/w, you know."
His mother raises her glass. "Cheers." She sips, then sighs. "I understand his new friend is very nice. I hope she's not on the stuff."
"On the stuff?" Willis says. "I love it. What are you, keeping low company in your old age?"
"Well, whatever the expression is nowadays."
"She seems fine to me," he says. "Of course, she does wear long sleeves and she always seems to have a cold."
''No^ you're punishing me." Sip. "What else shall we talk about?"
"Hmm," he says. "Okay, what did Jeffrey Dahmer say to Lorena Bobbitt?"
"Dear God."
"Nope," he says.
After dinner, Willis pours himself more Macallan, and his mother puts Charade in her VCR. When they get to where Audrey Hepburn says, "You know what's wrong with you? Nothing," Willis gives his mother an appreciative smile, sees she's fallen asleep and touches her arm. She tugs down her skirt, gets up and says good night. Willis watches Charade to the end, with Geoffrey purring on the arm of his chair, then pours more scotch. He stupidly forgot to bring Our Mutual Friend, but he does find the fat old Washington Square Press Pickwick Papers he had in high school. So he reads the trial scene, then some of the shit where Mr. Pickwick gets drunk with Ben Allen and Bob Sawyer. He pours more Macallan, which he brings upstairs along with Pickwick to his old bedroom with the eyebrow window. Sleeping here after all these years is less weird than it used to be, he'll give it that.
And he does sleep. Not even a dream, that he remembers.
When he comes downstairs, she's just putting water in her little Braun espresso maker; stiff strips of bacon are already stacked on a paper towel. She's listening to Morning Edition.
PRESTON FALLS
"Good morning," she says. "Scrambled, yes?"
"Is that some kind of innuendo?" He sits down at the table, ungrateful dog for thinking she might have made some fucking coffee before she started dicking around with bacon and shit. She pours the grease from the skillet into a Medaglia d'Oro can, then cracks four eggs into an earthenware bowl. He can't watch the rest. Eventually he hears the skillet sizzling.
"You don't have to go right back, do you?" She takes two plates down from the cabinet and sets them on the counter, then turns again to the skillet.
"Not right away," he says. "I should start back this afternoon, though, so I can get up early tomorrow and get some work done."
"Oh, fooey," she says.
"Why?"
"Well, I have tickets to the chamber series in Hanover. Elaine Cooper usually goes with me, but they've got Bartok on the program tonight and she can't stand anything at all screechy. What she calls screechy. She's a bit of a wuss—is that the word?"
"She's probably on the stuff," he says. Elaine Cooper is the widow of a Dartmouth history professor whose specialty was Froissart.
"Stop," she says. "I don't suppose I could tempt you."
Fuck, why not. Follow her to the concert in the truck and just leave right from there. A good old late-night drive. "Boy, Bartok—woo, I don't know." He flutters his fingers. "Pretty scary. I guess I better come along in case you need to be talked down."
"Oh, goody," she says, and brings the plates to the table. She's given him four pieces of bacon and most of the eggs. So much for eating better. Well, so he should've said something. "Voila." She sits down, then bounces up again. She's forgotten forks.
His dream comes back up to him out of the dark, like prophecy in a Magic 8 Ball. He and Philip Reed are onstage, singing that Louvin Brothers song: Satan is real, working in spirit.
"Enjoy it," says his mother.
He picks up the stiffest strip of bacon and bites, then has to bring his palm up under his chin to catch a splinter. He pushes down the thought that he could be satanically possessed.
Morning Edition has a report on what happens to computers when the year 2000 hits. The gist is that somebody will think of something.
He's taken the plates to the sink and begun running water, when his
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mother says, "Oh, leave those and come for a walk. I have something to show you."
"And what might that be?"
"You'll see."
He opens his eyes wide and flutters his fingers again. She smiles.
They walk up the old overgrown road that goes behind the house and through the gap in the stone wall. Geoffrey follows this far, then turns back, meowing piteously. Past here you have to push through the s
aplings that have grown up in the track. A bright-blue sky, but it's turned chilly overnight; Willis left Preston Falls without a jacket, so he's put on a flannel shirt that belonged to his father. They step over the brook where it cuts across the trafl and continue uphill. The old spring-house was over to the left: now it's just a glimpse of gray, mossy boards lying among the raspberry bushes. They follow the stone wall and the line of thick old maple trees, regularly spaced. Once, this was a real road, leading to a long-gone farm.
They pass the cellar hole his father called the Griffin place and keep walking uphill. In what used to be an orchard, his mother stops and touches a rotten old apple tree. "This is it," she^ays. "No, wait. I think I'm turned around. That one." She points to a different tree, similarly ancient and deformed, nearer to the stone wall. "That's where you were conceived."
"Out here?" he says. "Al fresco? My God, you were a couple of bohemians."
"It was just about this time of year—well, obviously, since you were born in July. It wasn't quite so cool, but of course it was later in the day. Dear God, it does come back. We made a little nest of all our clothes. Right there, in that patch of sunshine."
"What do you know," he says. He walks over to the spot. Tufts of grass, ferns, old rotted leaves. A flat rock, flush with the ground. With clothes under them, they wouldn't have felt it. He gets down on one knee, digs his fingers under the edge of the rock and lifts it: ants. He lets the rock back down, stands up and brushes off the knee of his jeans. "And you're sure that time was the one."
"Oh, no question," she says. "This wasn't one of our . . . better periods, shall we say. Though of course not as bad as—you know—it got."
"Right." He looks at the flat rock.
"I never told this to anyone," she says. "But it's so odd: when I woke up this morning I just had the strongest feeling about it. And I remem-
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