Every Story is a Love Story

by John Moncure Wetterau

  Chapter 3

  The next morning, in the News Shop, Parker Ives introduced Patrick to Wilson. “Willy, you and Patrick get started on the Van Slyke house.” He rubbed his forehead. “She's intense about her roses; better cover them. The lilacs, too. I'll be around later with more primer.”

  “Ya, Boss. Let's go, Patrick.” Wilson was short and muscular, balding, with a thick black mustache and a glass eye. He drove at top speed up the mountain, stopping several miles from town in the driveway of a white Colonial. Purple lilacs leaned out from each side of the front door; rose bushes extended to the ends of the house. They covered the roses with drop cloths and tied a tarpaulin around each lilac. A woman wearing linen slacks and a cafe-au-lait blouse appeared at the corner of the house. Her hair was blonde, short, and well cut.

  “Good morning. Is Parker here?”

  “He will be, later,” Wilson said. She nodded and drove away in a station wagon, tires crunching on gravel.

  They worked on ladders, scraping a section and then priming it. “Willy—is every woman in Woodstock good looking?” Patrick asked.

  “Depends how long you look,” Wilson said. Parker drove in, and Wilson jumped from the fourth rung of his ladder. “Break time.” They walked over to Parker's aging blue Mercedes.

  “How you doing, Patrick?”

  “He's having a little trouble with the pace,” Willy said sitting down, placing his coffee on the grass.

  “Up yours,” said Patrick.

  “But for what you're paying…”

  “Jesus,” Parker said. “What's got into you today?”

  Wilson bounced like a monkey, scratching under both armpits. “Or, or. Grick. Grick.”

  “This is what happens when he gets to bed early,” Parker said to Patrick. Mrs. Van Slyke returned.

  “Parker?” He rose to his feet balancing his coffee, assumed a good humored expression, and approached Mrs. Van Slyke.

  “Her husband's a bad dude,” Wilson said. “Nothing you couldn't handle.” His live eye gleamed. “He did a good painting of a boxer, once. They got married.”

  “He married the boxer?”

  “Smart ass.” Wilson shook his head. “Then he slowed down—know what I mean?” They considered Mrs. Van Slyke who had Parker more or less pinned against the lilacs. “My woman gets in the way…” He snorted. “I don't even have a studio, paint right in the living room.”

  “You a painter?”

  “All the time, man. What do you do?”

  “Read a lot—science. Trying to find out what's true about things.”

  “I'll tell you one truth,” Wilson said. “It don't count until it's on the wall.” He leaped back on his ladder and attacked peeling paint, banging his scraper on the siding to keep time. Sweat dripped into a bandanna rolled and tied around his forehead. Patrick got to work.

  At four-thirty, Wilson gave him a ride home. Patrick washed and walked into town where he had a few beers and talked about the war with a guy named Wendell, a guy named Joe , and Willow, the friend of Amber's. He left early and slept well.

  The week passed quickly. On Friday afternoon he cashed his first check at the Bank of Orange and Ulster County and walked over to the Depresso.

  “Hey Patrick.”

  “Sam. Hot one.” Sam worked for Parker on another job; he was part of the morning gathering at the News Shop.

  “How you getting along with Willy?”

  “Good.”

  “Crazy bastard,” Sam said. “He was in Korea; his father or grandfather was a general or something.”

  “My father's in the Army.”

  “No shit. Yeah, well, Willy—his job was to go out and bring back North Koreans for the intelligence guys. Told me they went out at night. Said the North Koreans were supposed to be alive, but it was easier if they were dead.”

  “No wonder he's crazy. Hey, Claude.”

  “What's happening, Patrick?”

  “I got paid.”

  “Don't tell him that,” Sam said.

  “Mon ami…”

  “Hi, Claude.” A young woman stepped next to Claude and took his arm.

  “Who's your friend?” she asked, looking at Patrick.

  “This is Patrick.”

  He remembered her gray eyes; she was the one who had smiled at him on his first night in town. Up close, he noticed tiny freckles and a gap between her front teeth.

  “I'm Sue,” she said.

  “Hi.”

  “Claude is a famous ski jumper, did you know?” She was grinning widely.

  “You ski, Patrick?” Claude asked.

  “A little.”

  “I'm from the U.P., did 300 feet at Iron Mountain.”

  “Yo!”

  “No more. Now I go one time a year to the Bear Mountain meet. Little jump.”

  “You won last year,” Sue said.

  “Year before, Cher.”

  “Claude, have you seen Jim?”

  “Not today.”

  She frowned. “Bye, Claude. Bye, Patrick.” Patrick watched her leave.

  “So who's Jim?” he asked.

  “Her boyfriend—alcoholic dude, a nice guy. She likes you.” Claude drifted along the bar; he knew everyone. Patrick was beginning to feel at home in the Depresso. Amber had come in twice during the week, once with Willow and once with a builder named Art. She had smiled at Patrick, but she wasn't available—although her smile seemed to indicate that any day she might be. I'm on her list, Patrick thought, smiling back.

  He finished the Darwin book and started An Introduction to Mathematics by Alfred North Whitehead. One evening in the Depresso, Sue came over to his table and asked what he was reading. “Listen to this,” he said.

  “Operations of thought are like cavalry charges in battle: they are strictly limited in number; they require fresh horses; they must be made only at decisive moments.”

  Sue wrinkled her nose. “Too much.” She sat down.

  “I mean, this book is a classic. What is math, anyway? Right here,” Patrick said, patting the cover. “Lays it out. You can learn anything you want from books.”

  “Why aren't you in school somewhere?”

  “I was; I quit. It was just a place where they put you in a box—a lawyer box, a doctor box. I didn't want to be in a box. Besides, it was expensive.” Sue giggled.

  “So, where are you from, Sue?”

  “Michigan, same as Claude—except he's from the U.P.”

  “What are you doing in Woodstock?”

  “Art Students League. I model and take classes.”

  “Should have known,” Patrick said, “everyone I meet is an artist.”

  “You seen Jim: tall, cute?”

  “I don't think so.”

  “He's a reader, too. He gets a pile of books and a six-pack, lies on the couch and reads all day.” She looked around and sighed. “Later, Patrick.” She left, relaxed but alert, like a fox on the move.

  The next night she sat at his table again. “It's hot,” she said.

  “Want a beer?”

  “No thanks.”

  “I get thirsty staring at white all day,” Patrick said.

  “You want to go swimming?”

  “Sure.” Patrick surprised himself. “Where?”

  “I know a place.”

  “I don't have a car.”

  “I've got my roommate's for the night.”

  When they got into the car, Sue twisted and reached past Patrick to arrange something on the back seat behind him. She was sweating slightly, and he was astonished by her sweet rich smell. “That's strange,” he said, “we've got the same smell. How can that be? Same genes? I'm mostly Irish. What are you?”

  “Half Polish, half Ojibwa,” she said. She drove to Shady and followed the Sawkill creek to a spot where she could pull off the road. She led Patrick through trees and down a steep path to the stream. It was nearly dark as they walked over rocks to a bend where a deeper pool curved along the outer bank. Sue crossed below the pool to a shingle o
f rocks and boulders and kicked off her sandals. “Here,” she said.

  Patrick noticed the orange glow of cigarettes on the opposite bank, but he couldn't see the faces behind them. He forgot about them when Sue pulled her T-shirt up over her head and stepped out of her jeans and underwear. “C'mon, Patrick.” Her body was compact and tanned; one curve flowed naturally into the next. He stripped awkwardly, thinking that there was a first time for everything, and followed her into the icy water. She swam up and down, diving and surfacing, blowing water, black hair sleek behind her ears. Patrick did a few somersaults and floated, feeling the heat of the day drain out of his body.

  “Oooh,” she said, walking out of the water and onto the rocks. “Let's build a fire.” They broke dead branches, took a few pages from Patrick's pocket notebook, and started the fire with her lighter. Patrick stood in front of the small blaze; Sue sat on her jeans, her knees drawn up to her breasts.

  “Hey TURD face. Where d'ja come from? UNDER A FUCKING ROCK?” Patrick spun around. He saw a white face in the dark, a man standing behind a low line of boulders, fifteen feet away. “FUCKING IDIOT?” The man's voice was twisted, nearly screaming; his eyes were distorted. He was beefy, too big to mess with. “FUCKING QUEER!” He took a step forward. Patrick became oddly calm. There was a rock by his ankle, the size of a grapefruit. He slowly flexed his knees and looked into the man's eyes. Scoop the rock and smash his face, one motion. The man yelled again. Patrick held his eyes. Time slowed. A stick snapped behind Patrick, and the hair rose on the back of his neck. Sue hadn't moved. He was trapped. He didn't dare turn his head.

  “Let's get the hell out of here,” a voice said behind him. “Fuck him, let's get out of here, go get a beer.”

  “He's an asshole!”

  “Yeah, fuck him, let's go get a beer.”

  The white face hesitated and turned away. The two crashed through the woods, swearing and shouting.

  Patrick put his clothes on as fast as he could. “I was going to kill him,” he said, in shock. “I mean, I knew how. It was already in me.” Sue smiled. “Get dressed, Sue! What if they come back?” She got to her feet and stood naked on the rocks as though she were in her bedroom, firelight flickering up her body.

  He put out the fire while she dressed. His heart was still pounding as they climbed up the bank and walked quickly to the car. “Did you see the other guy?”

  “He was in the dark,” Sue said. “I couldn't see him.”

  “He sounded local,” Patrick said. “He saved the scene. That guy was flipped out, gone! Sounded like he was from North Carolina or some place down there. He was gone.”

  It was a relief to be on the road.

  “I need a beer,” he said when they reached town.

  “O.K., Patrick, see you,” Sue said, stopping in front of the Depresso.

  “O.K.” He paused. “You are really beautiful.” She made a wry smile that said, “I already know that.”

  “Night, Patrick.”

  The next day, during coffee break, he told Wilson what had happened. “Chicks,” Wilson said.

  “I never knew I could kill somebody,” Patrick said. “I mean—I'm not the violent type. But it was all inside me, like it was pre-wired or something. I never looked at that rock, but I knew it was there.”

  Wilson sighed. “Knife comes in handy sometimes,” he said. Patrick took a folding Opinel out of his pocket. “Too small,” Wilson said. His hand brushed the black handle of the hunting knife he wore on his belt. “Bad shit,” he said. He stood up. “Gotta put the paint on the wall, Patrick.”

  That night, Sue did not show up at the Depresso. A week later, she came into the bar with Jim, laughing and having a good time. She waved at Patrick like an old friend, but she didn't say anything to him. He felt less isolated, seeing her. He hadn't touched her, but he knew her smell and what she looked like underneath those clothes.

  On Saturday, Parker invited him to a party at his house. When Patrick arrived, the downstairs was full of people talking loudly and drinking steadily. He learned that Parker, too, was a drop out—from Harvard—and that the Mercedes had belonged to his mother. “You know,” Patrick said to him after a few beers, “when people talk, I get the feeling I'm missing something. It's like they're saying one thing but really talking about something else. It's like there's another layer underneath everything.”

  “You're learning,” Parker said. Desperation crossed his face. He looked as though he might get in his car and drive away forever. Instead, he smiled helplessly and went for another drink. Patrick met Wilson's wife, Elaine, a short cheerful woman with a plain face and an extravagant body. Wilson was making pronouncements about the paintings on Parker's walls, mentioning painters Patrick had never heard of. Parker's two sons were running about having a great time. Parker and his wife, Hildy, were both stout blondes with fair complexions and blue eyes. Their boys were stamped from the same mold. Patrick could see them someday hauling ladders, driving elegant old cars, and charming well-to-do housewives.

  Joe Burke showed up and introduced Patrick to his lady. “Sally Daffodil,” he called her. She was tall and athletic with a grace and coloring that was like the flower. They were a good pair, Patrick thought, funny and open, yet…He sensed reserves in them that ran deep.

  Patrick wasn't used to the company of so many sharp people in one room. Gino Canzoni came in, the foreman of Parker's other, larger, crew. He was tall and ironic. He had a rep on the crew for fearlessness at great heights. “My wife, Cree,” he said to Patrick. She was dark with slender intelligent features. She had a blinding smile. The charm and pain and hint of wildness in her smile obliterated Patrick's defenses.

  “Hi,” he said. She accepted his surrender.

  “Welcome to town,” she said gaily. He felt included. Gino and Joe had grown up in Woodstock and were old friends. The group stood around telling stories. “Before Gino took me to meet his family,” Cree said, “he told his mother that he had fallen for an older woman from the Midwest.”

  “Give her something to worry about,” Gino said.

  “Six months,” she laughed.

  “Funny thing was,” Gino went on, “the same week that Cree was meeting everybody, Vassar degree and all that, she was on display at the checkout counter in the Grand Union—on the cover of Modern Detective.”

  “A gun to my head,” Cree said. “Forced to open a safe.”

  “Leg shot,” Gino said proudly. Sally Daffodil smiled patiently. Joe looked a bit restless.

  “Are you a model?” Patrick asked.

  “Was,” Cree said and led Sally away. Parker put on a Dixieland album. Vassar? Gino was a Dartmouth graduate. Joe Burke was doing carpentry work but had dropped out of Hamilton College. He and Gino were writers of some kind. Patrick felt that he had stumbled into an alternative world; the more educated you were, the less money you made, or something. He didn't understand this world. It attracted him and put him off. It was free in a way that seemed good. But it was threatening, somehow. There was something over-ripe about it. He went outside and had a non-alternative hamburger, served to him by the older boy. The smell of meat cooking on the grill was delicious. Smoke rose, drawing Patrick's eyes up the dark green mountain to the ridge line, an hour's walk above them.

  “So, how do you like our fair town?” Hildy asked.

  “Very fair it is,” Patrick said. “Good burger!”

  “Plenty more where that came from.” Patrick heard a trace of Europe in her voice.

  “Are you from Woodstock?”

  “I was born in the Netherlands,” she said. “We came over not long after the war.”

  “I used to live in Germany,” Patrick said. “Very different.”

  “Ja,” Hildy said and yelled at Alden, the youngest, to get away from the road. She turned back to Patrick.

  “What brings you to Woodstock?”

  “I heard it was an interesting place. My father lived here for a couple of years, once.”

  “There are a lot of
artists,” Hildy said. “Musicians, too. And writers. They're all artists, I guess. Parker likes having people on his crew he can talk to. Are you a painter?”

  “Nope. I'm not anything yet.”

  Hildy looked at him. “Hmmm,” she said. “I'm a mother. And a cook.”

  “I think I could learn to cook,” Patrick said.

  “Sure you could; it just takes practice—and you have to love it. That's the secret ingredient. You have to love it. ALDEN!”

  Patrick finished his burger, thanked Parker and Hildy, and walked down the road. As the sounds of the party faded behind him, he began to relax. He hadn't realized how tense he'd been. What's the matter with you? he asked himself. Parties are for fun, right? But he had to admit that it hadn't been fun, not really. Interesting, but not fun. What is fun? Is it when you don't care what happens?

  He turned down Rock City Road toward town. If you didn't care at all, you wouldn't be interested in what happened; it wouldn't matter. How could that be fun? But, if you cared a lot, you would be too tense to have fun. I guess, he thought, you have to care a little, enough to be interested, but not too much. He tended to be on or off; he cared intensely or he didn't care at all. In this case, he thought, he cared too much. He wanted a woman. He was just as good as Joe Burke or Gino Canzoni. They had women. Beauties. They were citizens or writers or artists or whatever they were. Who was he?

  Patrick couldn't answer that question. He just knew that he was as good as they were. That meant that somehow, someday, he would show up at a party with someone like Amber and make jokes and have fun. This was a cheerful thought. But, in the meantime, he had to learn more science. And art—what the hell was art all about? By the time he reached town, Patrick was singing songs from a Burl Ives record that his mother used to play when Patrick was a little boy. “How can there be a cherry that has no stone? How can there be a baby with no cryin'?”