Lost in a Far Country

by Thomas L Daniel

“Okay, okay, I get it.” Edward devoted himself to his slice of pizza.

  “So, Jack,” Walter said turning to his younger son, “What’s going on in your life?”

  “Well, a couple of things, I guess. We’ve just finished reading a play in English class, and I have to write an essay critiquing it.”

  “A play? What play?”

  “It’s called Long Day’s Journey into Night. It’s by Eugene O’Neill.”

  “Humph. Never heard of it. Is it on TV? Or is it an oldie? Can we get the movie on a DVD? Maybe from the library? You can take out DVDs for free there, you know.”

  “No, Dad, it’s just a play. It was written back in the nineteen thirties or forties, before DVDs. It’s not a movie.”

  “Well, if it’s any good, they should have made a movie of it.”

  “It is good. It won a Pulitzer.”

  “What’s a Pulitzer? Sounds foreign to me. German?”

  “No, Dad, it’s a prize. Pulitzer prizes are American. They are awarded each year for excellence in journalism and writing of various sorts. They’ve been going on for a long time, maybe a hundred years, I think.”

  “So tell me about this ‘Long Day’ play.”

  “Well, it’s about a dysfunctional family.”

  “Dysfunctional? What kind of function is that?”

  “That means it doesn’t work or doesn’t work right.”

  “Like cars that people bring to my garage? Like your brother’s Thunderbird?”

  “Yeah, I guess. Well, anyway, there’s a family, all of whom are alcoholics. The mother is a dope addict. The younger son has TB and has to go to a sanatorium. There’s a good san he wants to go to, but his penurious father plans to send him to a not-so-good state farm for TB patients.”

  “Penurious? What does that mean?”

  “Penny-pinching. Cheapskate. You know, he won’t spend an extra nickel to get better care for his son. Actually, in fact, the play is autobiographical. O’Neill really did have TB, and his father sent him to a state farm to save money rather than to a good TB hospital.”

  “Yeah, so what happened to this O’Neill guy?”

  “Well, I think—at least I read in the foreword of the play—that he finally did get to a good TB sanatorium and got well. Then he ran off and signed on as a deck hand on a freighter for a couple of years.”

  “So why do you have to write about it?” Walter continued.

  “It’s an assignment for my AP English class,” Jack answered. He picked up another piece of pizza. “And if it comes out as well as I hope it will, I can use it as a base for my college application essay.”

  Walter put his fork into his salad, and paused. He was thinking about what his son had said. Then he asked, “Why are you taking AP English?”

  “I don’t know. Because I’m smart, I guess. And I like it. It’s a fun class. And it makes me think. The O’Neill play is not just about a family of drunks and a guy with TB. It’s about lots of the problems of life and how people face them. Besides, if I want to get into Princeton, I need to do well in AP courses.”

  “Princeton!” Walter exclaimed in disbelief. “You’re not going to Princeton. There’s no way we could afford a fancy, hoity-toity place like that.”

  “Dad, Mr. Edwards says he thinks I should apply there and that I have a good chance of being accepted. And of getting a scholarship.”

  “Edwards? Who the hell is he? What does he know?”

  “He’s a guidance counselor at school. He knows a lot about colleges.”

  “Look, Jack,” Walter said, putting down the piece of pizza he was holding, “you have to understand some things. We are not rich. I work hard, and we live pretty well because I do. But hard as I work, we are not rich. We don’t have money for Princeton. No matter how much scholarship they might give you, you still have to live there and to travel to get there. All that costs money. You finish high school here. Then go the University of Akron or Youngstown State. Go for a couple of years. You don’t need more than that. Take some courses in business and accounting. Better than that, go to Tri-C, Cuyahoga Community College. It shouldn’t cost much at all. They have a campus right on I-271. You could commute there pretty easily. It’s a two-year program, I think. What you need is enough of the finance stuff to get a head-start on managing a business.

  “Then come back here, and I’ll teach you the wine business. Then you can take over the vineyards. If you’re smart—and you are, that I give you—you should be able to build on what I started and really make a go of it. A good, well-managed vineyard can provide a pretty decent living. Marry Marilyn Hanson. She’s a good girl. Get married in that big ‘Congo’ church in Madison. The Hansons go there, don’t they? And I’ll throw you a big party at the winery.”

  “No, Dad. That’s not what I want to do. Well, I probably will marry Marilyn, probably in the Madison church, because the Hansons are members there, I’m pretty sure. But I do not want to run a winery. Not this winery. Not any winery. Not ever. I’m still young, and I don’t know what I will do in life. But it won’t be a winery.”

  “And just what in hell do you think you do want to do?” asked Walter. He had worked hard to achieve his goals: a profitable garage and a solvent vineyard. He could not understand, could not believe, that his son would not want to follow him into the wine business. A smart young man—his son—could build the business. Other wineries in the area were turning profits, doing much better than he could manage on a part-time basis.

  “I really don’t know just what I want to do or be, Dad. But I’m going to get out of here. That’s for sure. Maybe become a doctor, maybe a lawyer, maybe a scientist. What the hell, maybe an astronaut. Something. Something not here. Something more than here.”

  “And how will you finance that? It takes money to do those things, Son. And we’re not rich. Forget about Princeton. It’s not for us, not for you.”

  “Yeah, yeah. Everything in life that’s worth anything costs a lot. I understand that. You don’t let me forget it. But sometimes you have to spend money, borrow it perhaps, to get ahead. You borrow money to buy land, don’t you?”

  “My land investments are just that—investments. They’ll pay a good return when I sell them.”

  Jack got up and carried his plate into the kitchen. “And so would a Princeton education, Dad. Just think of it as an investment, if you will. Besides, if I get a scholarship, it won’t cost more than a local school.”

  “No, Jack, it will cost. Tuition is just part of it.”

  “I should go now. I have date with Marilyn. Can I borrow the Corvette?”

  “No, of course not. You can’t have the ’Vette tonight. You know that. The ’Vette’s my car, and only I drive it. You don’t. You drive the Chevy or the Dodge pickup. In fact,” Walter continued, “that Corvette dates to 1953, the first year the car was made by Chevrolet. You know that, don’t you? It’s a classic. I’ve worked on it, hard, and restored it, and maintained it. It’s probably worth much more now than what it originally sold for. But I have no intention of selling it. Nor of letting you or anyone else drive it.

  “And,” Walter added, “you’re not going out tonight. The vines need to be tied up before they fall to the ground. So you two guys, you and your brother, and I are going to do that—tonight, now. It’s good weather. A nice night to work. We should be able to get it done before it gets too dark. Then you can go out with Marilyn tomorrow or the next day. But this evening we work.”

  Walter and Edward carried their dishes into the kitchen as Jack had done. Edward took up a position at the sink and began washing. Jack and Walter dried. They had finished and were putting away their dish towels when Millie walked into the kitchen, dreamily, as if in another world. She began looking around, apparently searching.

  “Something I need terribly. I can’t remember when I had it. I was never lonely nor afraid. I can’t have lost it forever. I would die if I thought that. Because then there would be no hope.”

  2. Marilyn

&
nbsp; Jack parked the pickup in the Hanson’s drive and walked to the door. “Evening, Mr. Hanson. Is Marilyn ready? We’re going out tonight.”

  “Here I am. Ready to go,” Marilyn said, as she came down the stairs.

  She is a beautiful girl—young woman, Jack thought to himself. Maybe especially so this warm spring evening. Her long, blond hair was pulled back into a ponytail. She was wearing a white blouse and a long, bright-red cotton skirt. She paused at the bottom of the stairs and twirled. Her skirt flared. She had been queen, and he king, at their high school junior prom, elected by their fellow students. They both had many friends and were popular with their peers, but good looks were what counted most in that election. Dressed in finery for the prom, they had indeed been a handsome couple.

  “How late will you be?” Marilyn’s father asked. “Just because there’s no school tomorrow doesn’t mean you can stay out ’til all hours.”

  “Not late,” Jack said. “Depends on what time the movie gets out.”

  “And a stop at the Seven-Eleven for a snack afterward,” Marilyn added. “Don’t wait up for us. We won’t do anything stupid. You know that.”

  “Yeah, you’re good kids, and I trust you. But you’re still kids, no matter what you think, and I am your father, Marilyn. Being concerned is part of my dad job.”

  “And you’re the best dad anyone could want,” Marilyn responded. She kissed him on the cheek.

  Jack and Marilyn headed for the pick-up. “You are especially beautiful tonight,” Jack said with a smile. “That’s a terrific skirt. Where’d you get it? Of course,” he added hastily, “you’re always beautiful.”

  “Kohl’s. Not usually a high-fashion store, but I like this skirt.”

  “So do I. And the girl who’s wearing it.”

  They climbed into the truck. “You get brownie points for flattery tonight, my friend. So where are we going? Do you have a flick in mind?”

  “We’re not going to a movie tonight. We’re going down to the lake.”

  “What! Why? Is something going on that I don’t know about?”

  “Yeah. Something is going on. So we’re going down to Geneva on the Lake to watch submarine races while I sound off to you.”

  “Oh, dear, this sounds serious.”

  “Yeah, it is. And I need you to hear about it and to help me. I need help, and you’re the best, maybe the only, person I can turn to. Or at least sound off to.”

  “Okay. Of course, Jack, but I’m just me. I’ll do whatever I can to help you, if you really need my help. But I can’t imagine why you would. And I’m always here for you to sound off to.”

  “You’ll see. But wait ’til we get to the lake and a place where we can talk—maybe while watching the submarine races.” Marilyn did not respond to Jack and his attempt at light-heartedness.

  They drove through Geneva, a town the character of which had changed in recent years. Changed in response to an influx of Mexicans who worked in the region’s vineyards, fruit farms, and lakeshore azalea and rhododendron nurseries. Cantinas and bodegas now occupied prominent spots in the center of town. “Maybe we should eat in one of those cantinas sometime,” Marilyn said. “Probably better than Tex-Mex stuff from Chilis.” Jack did not respond, lost in his thoughts. Then on toward Geneva on the Lake. Both were silent, avoiding further conversation, he not ready yet to open up, she mystified. As they entered the lake-front town, the road turned sharply to the right. On the left was Geneva State Park. Jack turned into the park and into the lodge parking lot. They got out of the truck. Still saying nothing, Jack led the way into the lodge, through the lobby, and out to the lakefront. There they found an unoccupied bench. They sat looking out at the water, Marilyn still silent and clearly uneasy. This date was turning out to be a good bit more serious than a trip to the movies.

  Jack picked up a pebble from beneath the bench and tossed it toward the water. It was a lovely evening. A sailboat was passing by, sails up but probably motoring, as it headed for the marina just west of the lodge. The western sky was darkening as the sun sank. A sunset was developing. Before long the evening star would appear. If they stayed where they were into darkness, they would be facing the Big Dipper.

  Jack said nothing for what seemed to Marilyn like an eternity. She sat silently—but worried. At last Jack opened up. “My life is a mess. My family is a mess. A big mess, and there is nothing I can do to change it. My mother is a drunk. My father is a penny-pinching miser who spends every dime he can muster to buy more land and won’t spend a nickel to get help for Mom. Mom talks about her arthritis, but that’s a sham. She drinks because she’s an alcoholic, plain and simple. Dad works hard at his garage and at our vineyard. Long hours. Mostly to avoid Mom, I think. My brother, Edward, is going to a trade school to become an auto mechanic. He’s smarter than that, really. He should want more, but he does what Dad tells him to do.

  “You know that play we’ve been reading in AP English. The O’Neill play, Long Day’s Journey into Night. That’s us. That’s the Stavitch family. My dad saw me with it and asked me about it. He’d never heard of it. I told him it was about a dysfunctional family. He didn’t know the word ‘dysfunctional.’” Then Jack added, “Of course, he didn’t go to college. Not even a good high school. He really is a remarkable man who has made a good life for himself and us. All by himself. Except for Mom. He can’t handle that, can’t handle her. He doesn’t know what to do—except it can’t cost any money. He won’t send her to an arthritis specialist. Money, money, money. That’s all he thinks about. I don’t know what to do.” He paused and stopped talking.

  Marilyn sat silent, interested and concerned, but not knowing what to say, not knowing what Jack expected of her. She was concerned, perhaps even frightened, although she knew that Jack’s family was as he described it. She had visited in the Stavitch home many times and been distressed to see Jack’s mother obviously intoxicated early in the afternoon. She recalled Millie Stavitch as a dynamic, intelligent, interesting, and beautiful woman—capable, smart, gutsy, and a wonderful and loving mother. She thought Jack had inherited some of his intellectual capabilities from her.

  “You know,” Jack continued, “the O’Neill play really fits our family. Mother a drunk and an addict. Father unable to deal with it. And in the play, the son with TB can’t go to a good san because of what it might cost. Just as I can’t go to a good college because of what it might cost. Money. Is that all that counts in the world? I guess it is in my family’s world, at least in my dad’s world.”

  Gulls flew about, landing from time to time in search of scraps of discarded food or other human detritus. Jack stood up and looked out at the lake. He walked down the lakeshore path a short distance, turned, and came back to sit beside Marilyn once more. “Marilyn,” he said, “this is the time you and I—we, both of us and all of our friends—should be thinking of applying to college. You and I are both smart.” In fact, Marilyn stood first in their high school class with the highest GPA in the junior class. Jack was third in the class academic rankings. “Mr. Edwards at school encourages us to think high,” Jack continued. “So do your parents, I guess, if not mine. Aren’t you thinking of applying to Wellesley?”

  “Yes, maybe. It’s supposed to be one of the best, but I’m not sure I want to go to an all-girls’ college. Oops. Slip-up. All-women’s college.”

  “But you’re smart and a leader. You’ll probably get in. And it’s in Boston, isn’t it?”

  “Yeah. Outside of Boston a bit, I think.”

  “And there are lots of other colleges in the area, aren’t there? So there must be some social life. And you should be able to get in. There or any place you want. You’re smart.”

  “Well, maybe, maybe not. But you’re smart too. So go to Harvard or M.I.T. and be close to me at Wellesley. But, you, I, we have to have alternatives, back-ups.”

  “Of course. Of course. I’ve said I want to go to Princeton. I keep telling my dad that. What I really mean is I want to go to the best, the highes
t ranked, the toughest, the most demanding place I can get into. Princeton, Yale, Dartmouth, Brown. Any of those. But I know that I will need back-up places. Maybe Kenyon or Beloit or Grinnell or some other places like those. Mr. Edwards has suggested several to me. But my dad doesn’t see any of that. All he sees is money.

  “So what is my future?” Jack continued. Obviously, to Marilyn, he was on edge. Wound up, she thought, tight, tight, tight. Ready to explode. “My dad, penny-pinching Walter Stavitch, thinks I should go to Tri-C—just long enough to take a couple of accounting courses. That’s all. Then come back and work at the vineyard. Keep its accounts, I guess. Then take it over some day. Take it off his hands and let him concentrate on land speculation. That’s all his land-buying is. Speculation.” Jack stood again and began pacing back and forth in front of Marilyn.

  “You know,” he continued, “he says he loves Mom and talks about good times, earlier times with her. But if he still loves her now, he doesn’t show it very well. She needs a specialist, and he won’t pay for it. She needs comforting and loving, but he doesn’t know how to give it to her now. Not now when she’s drunk all the time. He should send her to a spa or maybe take her someplace away from wine, but he won’t. Maybe he can’t. Maybe he just doesn’t know how to do it. Anyway, it’s a mess.”

  Marilyn watched him as he paced, saying nothing, obviously upset. She was also upset, disturbed to see him so torn apart. Her boyfriend—more than that, her best friend, maybe the finest and smartest person she knew. Why she should be his sounding board this evening was beyond her. But if she was to be his confessor, then she would have to rise to the role and grant him absolution, she supposed. However she might do that—if she could do that.

  “Jack,” she began, “life is not all black and awful. Not your life, not my life, not even your mom’s life. You’re smart. You just told me I’m smart. I guess I am. But what counts now, tonight, is that you’re smart. That counts. That counts a lot. You get along well with people. You’re popular. That also counts—a lot. You’re not only the best, fastest miler on the track team at school; you’re the captain of the team. You’re a good guy, absolutely. There’s always a light at the end of the tunnel. Well, maybe not always a bright light, but always a way out.”