Maynard’s House

by Herman Raucher

  “Oh, awhile. In the woodwork, so to speak. A man don’t leave his house just because he steps out of it.”

  “I guess not.”

  “No, sir. Always a part of him stays behind, to see to it the house don’t go doin’ anythin’ foolish. It’s as Thoreau says—”

  “If it’s all the same with you, Maynard, I’d just as soon you put a lid on Thoreau. I’ve had him up to here.”

  “That a fact?”

  “It’s a fact. He bores me. I find myself skippin’.”

  “‘Books must be read as deliberately and reservedly as they were written.’”

  “Don’t tell me. Thoreau.”

  “On the nose.”

  “Look, Maynard, just so’s we understand one another, I’m very glad to see you’re alive. And I’m not goin’ to get into any argument as to how you come to be here, but if you don’t lay off Thoreau, I’m goin’ to put you out into the night, and the whole reason for you comin’ here is never goin’ to get discussed.”

  “Ya think I come here for a special reason?”

  “Let’s just say I don’t think you dropped in on me because you happened to be in the neighborhood.”

  “Suit yaself.”

  Austin wanted to get to the point, any point, as quickly as possible, for he didn’t trust the situation and was leary of being manipulated by Maynard, the house, the night, and his own susceptibility to all of them. So he took the initiative, bringing up an issue that was of some importance to him. “Tell me about Ara.”

  Maynard looked up from his brushrods and oil patches and laughed, not a mocking laugh but a simpatico one. “Well, I can’t do that, Austin.”

  “Why not?”

  “’Cause I never told ya anythin’ about her before.”

  “Yes you did. You told me you left your dogs with her.”

  Maynard seemed genuinely concerned about Austin’s not becoming confused. “Austin, ya got to try to understand. I mean, what I’m about to say is pretty tricky and’ll take some followin’.”

  “Go on.”

  “Well…everythin’ you and me are talkin’ about now we have, in one way or another, talked about before—in Nam, when we were both alive and kickin’. That’s why we can talk about it again—the dogs, for example. But what you want to talk about now, well, we never talked about that ever—which makes it off limits because there’s no credibility to it. Don’t look at me so funny, Austin. I don’t make the rules.”

  “That doesn’t make any sense.”

  “Nothin’ makes any sense. Gettin’ killed doesn’t make any sense. I wish it hadn’t of happened.”

  “You sayin’ you’re dead? A minute ago you said you were alive.”

  “No. A minute ago you said I was alive.”

  “Well, you didn’t deny it.”

  “No matter. Dead is dead, like it or not—take it or leave it.”

  Austin felt his hold on his patience slipping. He had wanted to scream in fright at seeing Maynard again but had held on, kept his cool, maintained his poise. But he didn’t know how much longer he could practice such restraint. “Maynard, you are really beginnin’ to get to me.”

  “Well, I’m sorry about that—”

  “I mean, I’ve been up here all this time, I don’t know how long, in a very unhappy house. A house that don’t particularly like me or anyone else who ever lived in it, except maybe you. And what I don’t need is an old friend comin’ to call and makin’ things worse.”

  Maynard softened. He looked at Austin, seeming to appreciate his friend’s dilemma. “Austin, ya the nicest guy I ever met. I mean that. The best instincts and the truest heart. My closest friend ever, anytime, anywhere.”

  “I know. You told me that in Nam, when we were both alive and kicking.”

  “Right.”

  “Which is why you can tell it to me again, right?”

  “Ya catchin’ on, Austin. Ya surely catchin’ on.”

  “Stupidest thing I ever heard of! I mean, Maynard, that is stupid!” His temper was flaring, but there was little he could do about it. Maynard was advancing illogic with logic, and Austin was powerless to stop him.

  Maynard reassembled and laid aside the .30-.06 clickingly. Then he got up and walked about the room, touching things—his books, his chair, his clothes, all the articles he had always loved. “Ya carried me back, Austin. All the way. All the way to the aid station—thinkin’ I was alive. Hopin’ I was alive. True?”

  “True. Of course it’s true.”

  “I mean, even though ya knew ya’d be gettin’ my house if I was to die, ya wanted me to live. Right?”

  “Right.”

  “That says a lot about ya, Austin.”

  “I wish you had lived. ’Cause if you’d’ve lived I wouldn’t be here now.”

  “Well, that’s the way it goes, Austin.”

  “I mean—I hate this house! I hate it to hell! If you liked me so much, why’d you leave it to me?”

  “You were the only one.”

  “The only one what?” He felt all rationality leaving him, going right out of his fingers like milk yanked out of a cow’s udder. How could he be talking to Maynard when Maynard was ten thousand miles away and ten months dead?

  “The only one who’d of come here. None of the others would’ve. They’d of sold the house sight unseen. Or waited for a sunny day to come up and take a look at it, out of curiosity, with their grandchildren. Then they’d go back to where they came from and make jokes about it.”

  “So what?”

  “So I wanted someone to come here, to live here.”

  “How’d you know I’d stay? I wasn’t plannin’ on stayin’. Not when I first came up.”

  “I knew ya’d stay.”

  “Maynard, I hate this house so much…Anyone who comes in here seems to up and die. Jack Meeker. You know Jack Meeker.”

  “I know him.”

  “No, you knew him! He’s not around anymore. He’s dead.”

  “Austin, I have to invoke the rules—”

  “Fuck the rules! What rules?”

  “If Jack Meeker’s dead, it happened after Nam. I can only talk about before.”

  “And what about Benson? Benson the bear hunter? Did you know him?”

  “I know him.”

  “Wrong. You knew him! He’s dead and in pieces! A bear got him!”

  “Well, there’s always a bear. If not in the woods, then in ya mind.”

  “This one’s in both!”

  “There’s always a bear.”

  Austin was raging, all pretext of civility vanishing. He was learning nothing from Maynard that he didn’t already know, and he was losing ground in the discussion, losing time as well. “Only ones still alive are me and Ara! You know about Ara, Maynard—and I want you to tell me!”

  “I left her my dogs. Her and her brother. That’s all I can tell ya, because, even if I could tell ya more, that’s all I ever knew her. They were just two kids would come by. I swear it, Austin, on everythin’ holy.”

  “You can tell me more!”

  “I can’t.”

  “You can, Maynard! God damn you!” And he went for him, to grab him and choke the truth from him. But Maynard either sidestepped or Austin’s arms went through him, for he was grabbing nothing and was holding less.

  “I’m sorry, Austin.”

  “You’re not here, are you?”

  “I’m here, but only for as long as you want me to be.”

  “Oh, it’s up to me, is it?”

  “I think so. I came here because ya kept thinkin’ me. You can think anybody anywhere anytime ya want. Anyone can do it. Don’t call for any great magic. A person can occur to another person, just like that. You can do it with a friend, a relative. You can do it with a bear. Any number of ways ya can do it, any number of times.”

  Austin felt that Maynard’s explanation had gone on just a shade too long, just a hair, and he was getting a message. “That what you think, Maynard?”

  “That
’s what is.”

  “That you’re here at my invitation?”

  “More or less, yes.”

  Austin knew that it went further than that, for the truth of it became suddenly and starkly apparent. He spoke deliberately, calmly, wanting Maynard to know that he wasn’t fooled.

  “No, Maynard, that’s too easy. I’m not doin’ it. Somebody else is doin’ it. And we both know it.”

  “Do we?”

  “We do.”

  “Well—I suppose it’s possible.”

  “It’s possible. Very possible.”

  “If ya right, and I ain’t sayin’ ya are, because I really don’t know—but if ya right, findin’ out who and why, that’s got to be a pretty big assignment.”

  “You and me have had tough assignments before.”

  “I’d like to, Austin, but I can’t help ya with this one.”

  “I’m not askin’ you to.”

  “You want me to leave now?”

  “Yeah. I’m through ‘recalling’ you. You can leave.”

  Maynard went to the door, where he stopped and turned back to Austin. “It’s not up to me, Austin.”

  “I’ve been gettin’ that message.”

  “I mean, I’m no surer of what I’m doin’ here than you are. Less, maybe. I’m not consulted.”

  “Okay.”

  “All I know is, there’s rules and that’s the way the game has to be played.”

  “You think it’s a game?”

  Maynard seemed truly upset, standing there between leaving and staying, like a sailboat awaiting a breeze. “Austin—I don’t know what to think. I don’t like comin’ here, because it stirs up memories. And I don’t like leavin’, because it reminds me of the last time I left, which was very sad indeed. All I know is that I got nothin’ to say about it.”

  “You take care of yourself, Maynard. I’ll let you know when you occur to me again. I’ll be in touch.”

  “Okay, Austin. Ya just take care, okay?”

  “Maynard?”

  “A-yuh?”

  “You goin’ to go out that door or pass right through it?”

  Maynard had to smile. “You mean through it without openin’ it?”

  “Something like that.”

  “If I do that, ya’ll think ya crazy.”

  “Excuse me, but isn’t that what I’m supposed to think?”

  Maynard shrugged and opened the door, and walked out into the night—a nice gesture if it was intended somewhere that Austin feel sane. But Austin, too clever for so simplistic a ruse, and not biting at the embarrassingly obvious bait, deliberately chose to feel and act otherwise. He chose to feel and act bonkers and crackers and proceeded to high-step around his house like a banshee on a hot prod—happy with himself because he had outfoxed the dead man, who also happened to be his best friend as well as an honored war hero, and a helluva backwoods philosopher to boot.

  But—after watching from his window Maynard vanishing in the dusk, he quickly saw through the deception and slapped his forehead in realization because it was all so suddenly transparent. For how better to disarm an intended victim, and set him up for defeat, than to get him to believe that topsy was turvy and Minneapolis St. Paul?

  And so he ceased his frantic Frooming and, becoming immediately sane, sat back in his rocker like some Grecian oracle, calmly quoting Thoreau—“It is characteristic of wisdom not to do desperate things”—and feeling as clever as shit.

  There was a battle of wills taking place in his house and Austin was determined to stay very much on his toes.

  21

  He slept well, going to bed happily, almost giddily. The combat had begun, whatever it was, and the ultimate confrontation was not far off, hovering in the air, electrifying the night.

  He had no idea, not the foggiest of notions, as to what he was contending with. He only knew that, somehow, it had begun, and all the frightened anticipation, all the nervous marking of time, was over. He was into Phase Two, whatever it was, and the sooner the better. He was ready. As ready as Freddie. He was also as dizzy as Izzy and as wacky as Jackie, but there was no place in his war for defeatism.

  The remarkable thing was that he felt invincible. He knew that he would survive whatever conflict was building. He knew that, come what may, like the song that rallied England against Hitler, “There’ll Always Be an Austin.”

  He laughed as he breakfasted, certain of his cause, confident in his ability. He checked the guns that Maynard had oiled, and they were in perfect firing condition. Still, for all he knew, he had oiled them himself, for who could remember so mundane a thing as cleaning a gun, or sweeping a floor, or polishing up the handle on the old brass door? And who cared whether Maynard had been there or not? As long as Austin thought he’d been there, then he had been there—and was like to be there again, fighting under another banner, a darker master, no friend of England he.

  The house was so filled with half-truths and semi-lies that it would have taken an Alvin Feinstein to separate fact from fiction, willy from nilly, Murray from Christmas—all of which made the upcoming battle seem all the more promising. Anything was better than the boredom he’d been contending with. More men went ape in service from doing nothing than had flipped out in combat. Check the figures. Don’t argue, just check ’em.

  He contemplated his sanity. It didn’t bother him. Maybe he was crazy and maybe he wasn’t. It didn’t matter, because it was all relative. A man can be crazy only if there’s someone around to tell him that such is the case. The wonderful thing about being isolated is that, whatever you do, you’re right. And if you’re not, then neither are you wrong, because there’s no bigmouth around to throw it up to you.

  Maynard’s appearance in the house—that had been the trigger. It was the first time that that had happened. Prior to that, Maynard had confined all of his appearances to Nam, which was okay, because that was where he belonged. That he had shown up in Maine, in the house, was a straw in the wind not to be ignored. It indicated that things were closing in, time growing short, sides being taken, and woe to the soldier who, noting such a thing, chose to slumber in his pup tent rather than stand ready on his ramparts.

  The fire was dandy and obedient. He cracked the whip, and the flames jumped so high up the stovepipe that he couldn’t see the logs that were husbanding it. His kerosene lamps were full. If the attack came at night, he’d have them if he wanted them—though most likely he’d be better served if he kept the fort dark. In any event, the choice would be his—a step forward from his usual lie-back-and-wait situation.

  He moved about his house like a man possessed, like Sergeant Markoff in Beau Geste, shouting orders to Legionnaires who were not there, cursing them for their cowardice, admonishing them for their decadent drinking habits…Something was coming. Something sure as hell was coming. If it wasn’t Arabs, then it was bears, a flatulent flotilla of them. And if it wasn’t bears, then it was Huns, or Japs, or Greeks, or Charlie—screaming over the sand dunes, climbing out of the muck, singing in the rain, fuck a rubber duck. Sons of bitches, they would not catch him napping. Not him, not England, not Belden.

  He cleaned all of his windows, spankingly. There’d be nothing on them to obscure his vision. No grease or grime, no bird turds tossed and caked. No spiderwebs or moth corpses. Every panel was lint-free and squeaky clean. Visibility perfect. Up periscope. Lay on, Macbeth.

  All his guns were on the table, every ammo box torn open for easy access. And if his ammo ran out he’d use his rifles as lances. And when they went he’d have his knives, a butcher-block flock of ’em. Carving knives and ice picks, all laid out like a surgeon’s cutlery. And if the enemy still came, he’d pick up a flat knife and butter ’em to death. And after the knives, the forks. Fork you, Charlie. Take that and that and that. And after the forks the spoons. He’d use them as catapults to shoot sugar cubes up their noses, killing them with sweetness, like his mother had always advised him. And then his ladles, which he’d wield as battle-axes. And his cups
which he’d throw as grenades. And his toothpaste which he’d squeeze up their asses to fight cavities. And toilet paper to remind them of home.

  He went outside with a shovel and he worked on his trenches, laying pine sprigs across the tops of them, then sprinkling them with snow—creating in such a manner a long series of sneaky elephant traps, knowing full well that there were no elephants around, but, what the hell, maybe he’d catch Tarzan.

  He took all his nails and sprinkled them around his house like grain. If the Fuzzy-Wuzzies blew in barefoot, their footsiewootsies would pay the price.

  His backhouse door he left open, like a huge Venus Flytrap. Anyone fool enough to trespass there could do so at his own risk, especially with the Sears, Roebuck catalogue down to just its Scout-knife ads.

  And on the roof of his house he placed his faithful sled, tied to the chimney by a slender cord. If the battle went unfavorably and the cry went up to “Abandon house!” he’d climb up there, leap into the saddle, and fly off the roof like the Light Brigade—one last charge into the enemy’s midst; a battle flag, a bugle call, a jug of wine, a load of shit.

  He was exhilarated as he scouted the further reaches of his territory, putting all in order that he could set in order, avoiding his witch’s tree and his snow witch, since they could hardly be counted as allies once the battle was under way.

  And because it was, by then, a time of day when evening was trying on night, he didn’t see her at first—only the sled on the summit of a hill, Froom standing guard, stoic and alert, like the point man on a patrol.

  But he saw her soon, snug in her woolen cap, a little girl again, looking at him as if he were crazy, wondering just what in the world he was doing.

  He determined, immediately, to play it cool, for it was four days since he had seen her, four days since they had made such perfect love, and he observed little in her expression or in her actions as she walked toward him that might indicate her acknowledgment that they had been lovers at all.