“Oh, really?”
“Can’t turn on the news without hearing about that cruise ship being held hostage out in the middle of the Atlantic Ocean.”
Sea-jacked by terrorists, The Star in Heaven, the special cruise filled with the world’s greatest astronomers, had hogged the headlines for days. Thomas was supposed to have been on that cruise, but changed his mind. He wasn’t ready to leave Round Corners yet, he said. So he missed the boat.
“Oh, that,” Ella sighed. “Terrible, isn’t it?”
“Thomas is fit to be tied,” I said. “He’s glued to CNN.”
“You can’t blame him. All those innocent stargazers.” Ella tutted.
Odie shook his head. “The government has to make a move. Send in the frogmen or something.”
“They don’t want to endanger the passengers,” Ella argued.
“I’d send in sharpshooters myself. They have guys who can plug a hole right through those terrorists’ tonsils. They’d never know what hit them.”
“How would they get close enough to the boat?”
“I’d send them in on dolphins. They’re the smartest creatures in the world.”
“Too smart to get mixed up in that harebrained scheme.”
“So what’s your idea? Talk them into trading a luxury cruise liner for a cozy little jail cell? Read them a poem? Appeal to their literary sensibility? Ella, all I got to say is: It’s a good thing the world isn’t run by pacifist poets like you. I don’t blame Frank for barricading that door one bit. Should have done it years ago.”
Ella gasped. The whole town knew about Ella and Frank’s terrible fight. The root of the argument was Frank’s misguided remarks about Ella’s memory. Actually, it was not the remarks themselves, but the fact that Frank had yet to apologize for making them. Ella could excuse words uttered in the heat of the moment, but she could not forgive ill-manners.
Each day his words ate at her until one morning she reached the point where she didn’t care what kind of eyes—hotcakes, Quaker Oats, or lumpy Cream of Wheat—Frank looked at her with, he wasn’t getting anything.
“Aren’t we having breakfast this morning?” Frank said.
“I am,” said Ella, pulling a hot plate of bacon and eggs out of the oven. She took the plate to the table, sat down, and arranged a napkin in her lap.
Frank could see the steam wafting off the fluffy scrambled eggs. He smelled the dash of vanilla Ella always used. His wife made the best scrambled eggs.
He peeked in the oven. “Where’s mine?”
Ella ignored him.
Frank looked at the scrambled eggs again—they practically were smoking—and headed for the shower. As he passed behind Ella, he said in a casual voice, “I think I’ll have breakfast at the store. I feel like some of those gooey, flaky bear claws.”
Ella’s fork clanged against the plate. He knew she loved bear claws better than life itself, almost. Certainly better than Frank Snowden at that moment.
She rushed to the bathroom door and banged on it. No answer. Just the sounds of waterfall, pouring out of their new Shower Massage attachment, and Frank singing. Each morning he used every last drop of water in the tank rehearsing barbershop quartet songs. Ella hammered again with her fist.
“Frank, I’m tired of performing my ablutions at night because you use all the hot water in the morning, and I’m tired of you performing those awful songs at the crack of dawn.”
The shower shut off. Silence. Ella placed her ear against the door. No singing, no buzz of electric shaver, no rattle of the loose towel rack. Suddenly, the door was flung open, and Ella almost fell into the bathroom. Frank strolled out of the bathroom in a waft of steam and hothouse nonchalance.
“Ella,” he said, “I’m going to eat the whole box of bear claws myself.”
Before it was over, Ella ended up at my house, blubbering while she posed, retelling the whole story again and again as if her broken heart was a broken record. Meanwhile, Frank drove to Snowden’s General Store and set to building a barricade of cans and boxes—beans, spaghetti, toilet paper.
Customers came in and Frank said, “What do you need” without so much as a hello. Peanuts, Pringles, they said, and stamps. “I can help you out with the peanuts and Pringles,” Frank said. “But you’re on your own for the stamps.” Frank swung his head to point next door. If they wanted stamps, they had to trudge all the way back outside, climb over the snow bank, and enter the post office through the main door. The shortcut, between one side of the big old building and the other, between grocery and post office, between Frank and Ella, was gone.
I closed up the Round Corners Restaurant without a sign of T-Bone. Thomas was waiting for me in the parking lot. When he saw me, he jumped out of his van, walked over to mine, and opened the door. I regarded him a moment, then climbed in. Thomas followed me home.
We built up the fire in the wood stove, turned off the lights, and for the first time in a week, I tore into a six-pack. I tossed Thomas a beer, and we curled up on opposite ends of the sofa. We drank in the dark, the curtains open, the snowflakes dancing in the spotlight of the outside lamp. I kicked off my shoes and rubbed one foot. “Here, let me,” Thomas said, swinging my feet up on his lap. He massaged the arches and ankles and toes. I sighed and closed my eyes.
“You know, I wish I had seen it.”
“What?”
“The house.”
I didn’t open my eyes. “It was something else all right.” Thomas’s fingers felt so good. “When I was a child, it seemed such a natural place. No matter where I was, if I got the urge, I just pulled a crayon from my pocket (I always had one) and made a picture. It was much like little boys taking a leak in the garden.”
Thomas pushed the hair out of his eyes. “Why do I miss everything? Vietnam, the demonstrations, sit-ins, streaking, this house. My mom and dad tell such great stories of the way things were.”
“After I married George, I always felt like I was fiddling with it, like a woman who can’t help straightening her husband’s tie. Of course, George’s ties were never crooked. And it was impossible to find any lint to pick from his lapel.”
“I wish I had seen it.”
I leaned forward and patted his cheek. He grabbed my hand and held it in place. His eyes, in that moment, were like George’s, so expectant, so clear, so simple. He pulled me close.
His lips were soft and gentle, almost hesitant. I felt the experienced one. There was a part of me standing back, uninvolved, observing. I was ashamed that I had time to think other thoughts, that the kiss did not command all my brain cells, that I had energy left over to plot fantasies. I wanted to be mindless. I wanted to be flame. I wanted to wiggle like a tadpole.
I put my mind to the kiss, frightening Thomas. He paused then continued more confidently. I must have done all right. In the end, I don’t think Thomas had a clue what was on my mind: how nice the words “moon drop” are, how many colors of red there are, how long the smell of paint lingers in a room.
“You coming to bed?” Thomas asked.
I smiled. “In a bit.”
“Oh.” He stood uncertainly, then headed for the door.
“Thomas?”
“Yes?”
“I wish you had seen the house, too.”
Long after Thomas turned in, I sat by the fire, staring out the window at the snowflakes caught in the dark by the magic of the porch light. In a snowstorm, there is great aloneness. There is coldness even though your back is up against the wood stove. Suddenly, I wanted to be near T-Bone. I pulled on my boots and gloves, zipped up my parka, and drove to his farm.
No one answered my knock. I plowed through the snow around the house. The light in the office shone warmly in the windows. And there was T-Bone, snoring on the sofa. Cat rode his sleeping chest. I wanted to pound on the window and scream, where the hell were you? Instead, I stood there, my toes growing cold then numb. I stayed until my fingers tingled and hurt. I stayed—finally understanding the loneliness I had brough
t him all these years—to watch over him and to listen to the sizzling silence of the snowflakes.
14. Inevitability Is Owning a China Shop on the New Madrid Fault
Contrary to popular belief, we do not have Clydesdales hanging out on every corner in Vermont. We don’t slice through the snow in curlicue sleighs drawn by big draft horses with jingling harnesses. We get to the grocery, the laundromat, the bowling alley like most people do—with front wheel drive. But you can’t tell the tourists anything.
To them, this is Clydesdale Country. This is, according to Hollywood, the home of holiday nostalgia; the good old days are still good here, still scented with pine wreaths and spiced cider. The cold evenings smell of smoke from the wood stoves. Sleds lean against the back door. Meals are long and the drink is potent. Guests are not eager to leave the table, bundle up, pump the cold accelerator, and arrive home just as the heater warms up. So they stay and they laugh and the children play nicely under the Christmas tree.
That, says George and Hollywood, is the stuff of beer commercials. George was not alone in his belief in marketing the New England mystique. Round Corners lost its first bid for fame five years ago when a beer company that shall remain nameless chose a town to the east as the site for its seasonal filmmaking. George insisted then that the Round Corners business community simply hadn’t put together a competitive economic development package. He whined about how the other town had offered free accommodations for the film crew at the local ski lodge, an attractive tax-incentive package, and a year’s supply of Vermont maple syrup for the producer.
And so, naturally, George was miffed when Round Corners caught the eye of Hollywood (or is it Milwaukee?). A year after George the economic developer died Round Corners was selected as the site for “Clydesdale II: The Sequel.”
Rotten luck, George, to die like that before you even had a crack at stardom. All right, I’ll tell you about it. I won’t leave out a thing. I’ll concentrate. I know details are important, George. Jesus, you’re talking to an artist.
Hollywood turned Round Corners upside down and inside out. Ella refused to be one of the carolers, because Frank was leading the group. Wynn, who had been wearing Harvey’s parka because it was the only coat she could find that buttoned over her growing stomach, said she wouldn’t be filmed in Army green; finally the script woman (a size 18) lent Wynn a pink ski jacket. And Thomas said forget about the Peace Corps; he was considering a career as a beer commercial director.
The film crew arrived in town a week ago and hired everyone in town to play the crowd scenes. Equity pay scale, George. Yes, for everyone, except Odie. He landed a speaking role as the sleigh driver. What does he say? “Whoa!”
I’m sure you would have been a better sleigh driver, George.
We’ve been rehearsing all week. No, not because Odie can’t remember his line. It’s difficult working with animals. It just takes longer dealing with pet stars. How many? Well, there’s the horses and the dog. I didn’t mention the dog? I know that’s a detail. The dog has a crucial role. He runs along beside the sleigh, barking happily, welcoming his family home after a long day cruising around in the snow spreading holiday cheer.
The problem? Well, it seems the dog doesn’t like Odie. He keeps lifting his leg when Odie is around. Odie has warned the dog boy, that’s the kid in charge of seeing that the dog has everything it needs, that he’ll run him in on a misdemeanor (mishandling of toxic wastes or MTW in Wisconsin Dell’s lingo) if he doesn’t keep his pooper-scooper handy.
Yes, George, the dog would have loved you. I recall you were a friend to the entire animal world. St. Francis of Round Corners’ wild kingdom.
That afternoon we filmed.
The scene featured a group of carolers, led by Frank Snowden and accompanied by Reverend Swan on the saxophone. Take after take, we sang the same song, “Jingle Bells.” The afternoon wore on and the temperature dropped and the cold carolers began to shuffle their L.L. Bean boots. The director begged us to be still; the sound man complained that his high-tech equipment picked up every creak and groan.
Finally, we sang a perfect “Jingle Bells” and were allowed to go home and warm our toes by the fire. Reverend Swan carefully packed away his saxophone and leaned it against a tree by the curb. He mingled among the professional musicians, hired and bused in from Burlington by the director. He was totally enamored of those show biz types.
“Tomorrow we’ll shoot the scene in front of the Crawford’s place,” the director told Odie.
Odie nodded. “I’ll be there bright and early for my makeup call.”
“Good,” the director said, “because someone’s got to take down all those goddamn birdhouses. There must be ten of them in the Crawford’s yard.”
“The birdhouses?”
“They’re ruining the shot. Too tacky. Tacky as plastic flamingoes.”
“Tacky!” roared Odie. “One of those houses is an exact replica of the Babe’s home. Babe Ruth, y’know, the world’s greatest baseball player and home run hitter of all time.”
The director wasn’t listening. “Thank God, the Crawfords didn’t put up some of those cardboard figures of fat farmwives bending over the garden picking tomatoes and showing their pantaloons.”
“Cardboard farmwives?”
“The birdhouses go. See to it, will you, Sheriff?”
Odie stared at the director, who already had moved on to brief the camera crew about tomorrow’s schedule. Odie’s face reddened, his eyes bulged; it was like looking at Wylie Coyote after he swallowed a stick of TNT. Not aware of the impending explosion, Ella approached Odie about buying a Christmas wreath for the county jail. Ella’s book club, a group of elderly women who got together once a month to discuss books and exchange recipes, were making and selling wreaths as a fund-raiser for the library. Odie ignored Ella, sidestepped around her, and stalked to his police car. The engine roared and the car spun 180 degrees, backed into a tree, and peeled out in a shower of snow. “That man is getting nearly impossible to talk to,” huffed Ella.
I spun on my heel, hearing running footsteps behind me, crunching the snow. “Oh, no,” Reverend Swan cried. Reverend Swan knelt by the tree Odie had just creamed. Both hands clawed frantically at the trunk. Finally, they peeled away a layer of leather and metal, some compacted cartoon of Reverend Swan’s saxophone.
“Oh, no,” I said.
I walked a silent Reverend Swan home, handed him over to Mrs. Swan, explained about the saxophone lying in his arms like a broken child. Reverend Swan didn’t answer his wife when she called his name. His eyes were blank and unblinking. I shivered, probably suffering from too many takes of “Jingle Bells,” I said. Gently, Mrs. Swan wrapped her arm around her husband and led him into the house. Before she closed the door, I heard her say, “This can be fixed. The Lord doesn’t give us anything that can’t be fixed.”
Unlike Mrs. Swan, I don’t believe life comes with a warranty. As the eloquent say, “Shit happens.” Things get broken. Humpty Dumpty, promises, cups in a china shop on the New Madrid fault. You can fix them, but they’re never the same. They have hairline cracks. Disaster waiting to happen.
After George died, T-Bone insisted I install a telephone in the studio. “What if you fell in a bucket of paint and drowned,” he said. “You could lie in a puddle of purple mountain majesty, semi-gloss, for days and no one would know.”
If I had a phone, he said, he could check on me.
So, I bought the damn phone.
And now, he doesn’t use it.
I skidded the van to a stop in T-Bone’s yard and rammed the gear stick into park. I hadn’t heard from T-Bone in two days, since he got off the crutches. Thomas said not to take it personally. “He’s getting accustomed to the cane,” Thomas said. I was spoiling for a fight, cripple or not.
The day T-Bone finished with the crutches he told Thomas he could manage the milking by himself now. Fine, Thomas said. But the next morning, out of habit, Thomas drove over to T-Bone’s. As soon as he p
ulled into the yard, he heard the cows bawling. It was close to seven, and they hadn’t been milked yet. He found T-Bone asleep in bed.
I jumped out of the van, slammed the door, headed for the barn, then skidded to a stop. Music drifted from the barn. Music, I smiled. I pictured T-Bone waltzing between the stalls, the straw acting as rosin. His feet were machines, tireless. Tapping and tapping and tapping.
I imagined his lithe figure swirling and dodging among the cows, like Farmer Fred Astaire, and forgot about being mad at him. One year the college where Harvey Winchester grooms the lawns and shovels the sidewalks sponsored a Fred Astaire film festival. Twice a week for a whole month, T-Bone and I motored twenty miles to the college to see movies such as Silk Stockings, Daddy Longlegs, and Funny Face.
T-Bone loved to watch Astaire dance with brooms and firecrackers and magical shoes. I preferred Astaire solo, when his only prop was his body, a loaded gun ready to shatter the continuum of space and light. Run away and come back. It was a game. One moment he appeared fighting for control, the next gliding on glass. Run away and come back. It was an art. His body loved to move, as did T-Bone’s.
I heard the music and gave a skip. The old T-Bone was back. It feels good, surprisingly good. It feels like coming home. At last, I thought, we can go back to the way we were.
Inside the milking parlor, the temperature is kept at a constant winter temperature of forty-five degrees Fahrenheit. T-Bone said cows cannot be expected to give their best milk when you have to knock the icicles off their udders. I love T-Bone’s barn. The warmth wraps around you like wet wool.
I paused in the doorway of T-Bone’s barn, grinning. I had to force myself to be quiet, I was so excited. Maybe I could catch him dancing, sneak a few moments of just looking at him, of observing the ebb and flow of his dancing body.
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