Cathedral

by Raymond Carver

  The white-haired old man got to his feet and then sat down again. “Just don’t worry about me,” he said. “Worry about someone else. Worry about the girl and Captain Nick, if you want to worry. You were in another room when he said, ‘I’m not serious, but I’m in love with her.’ Those were his exact words.”

  “I knew something like that was coming!” the woman cried. She closed her fingers and brought her hands up to her temples. “I knew you’d tell me something like that! But I’m not surprised, either. No, I’m not. A leopard doesn’t change its spots. Truer words were never spoken. Live and learn. But when are you going to wake up, you old fool? Answer me that,” she said to him. “Are you like the mule that first has to be hit between the eyes with a two-by-four? O Dio mio! Why don’t you go look at yourself in the mirror?” the woman said. “Take a good long look while you’re at it.”

  The old man got up from the bench and moved over to the drinking fountain. He put one hand behind his back, turned the knob, and bent over to drink. Then he straightened up and dabbed his chin with the back of his hand. He put both hands behind his back and began to stroll around the waiting room as if he were on a promenade.

  But Miss Dent could see his eyes scanning the floor, the empty benches, the ashtrays. She understood he was looking for matches, and she was sorry she didn’t have any.

  The woman had turned to follow the old man’s progress. She raised her voice and said: “Kentucky Fried Chicken at the North Pole! Colonel Sanders in a parka and boots. That tore it! That was the limit!”

  The old man didn’t answer. He continued his circumnavigation of the room and came to a stop at the front window. He stood at the window, hands behind his back, and looked out onto the empty parking lot.

  The woman turned around to Miss Dent. She pulled at the material under the arm of her dress. “The next time I want to see home movies about Point Barrow, Alaska, and its native American Eskimos, I’ll ask for them. My God, it was priceless! Some people will go to any lengths. Some people will try to kill their enemies with boredom. But you’d have needed to be there.” The woman stared hotly at Miss Dent as if daring her to contradict.

  Miss Dent picked up the handbag and placed it on her lap. She looked at the clock, which seemed to be moving very slowly, if at all.

  “You don’t say much,” the woman said to Miss Dent. “But I’ll wager you could say a lot if someone got you started. Couldn’t you? But you’re a sly boots. You’d rather just sit with your prim little mouth while other people talk their heads off. Am I right? Still waters. Is that your name?” the woman asked. “What do they call you?”

  “Miss Dent. But I don’t know you,” Miss Dent said.

  “I sure as hell don’t know you, either!” the woman said. “Don’t know you and don’t care to know you. Sit there and think what you want. It won’t change anything. But I know what I think, and I think it stinks!”

  The old man left his place at the window and went outside. When he came back in a minute later, he had a cigarette burning in his holder and he seemed in better spirits. He carried his shoulders back and his chin out. He sat down beside the woman.

  “I found some matches,” he said. “There they were, a book of matches right next to the curb. Someone must have dropped them.”

  “Basically, you’re lucky,” the woman said. “And that’s a plus in your situation. I always knew that about you, even if no one else did. Luck is important.” The woman looked over at Miss Dent and said: “Young lady, I’ll wager you’ve had your share of trial and error in this life. I know you have. The expression on your face tells me so. But you aren’t going to talk about it. Go ahead then, don’t talk. Let us do the talking. But you’ll get older. Then you’ll have something to talk about. Wait until you’re my age. Or his age,” the woman said and jerked her thumb at the old man. “God forbid. But it’ll all come to you. In its own sweet time, it’ll come. You won’t have to hunt for it, either. It’ll find you.”

  Miss Dent got up from the bench with her handbag and went over to the water fountain. She drank from the fountain and turned to look at them. The old man had finished smoking. He took what was left of his cigarette from the holder and dropped it under the bench. He tapped the holder against his palm, blew into the mouthpiece, and returned the holder to his shirt pocket. Now he, too, gave his attention to Miss Dent. He fixed his eyes on her and waited along with the woman. Miss Dent gathered herself to speak. She wasn’t sure where to begin, but she thought she might start by saying she had a gun in her handbag. She might even tell them she’d nearly killed a man earlier that night.

  But at that moment they heard the train. First they heard the whistle, then a clanging sound, an alarm bell, as the guard rails went down at the crossing. The woman and the white-haired old man got up from the bench and moved toward the door. The old man opened the door for his companion, and then he smiled and made a little movement with his fingers for Miss Dent to precede him. She held the handbag against the front of her blouse and followed the older woman outside.

  The train tooted its whistle once more as it slowed and then ground to a stop in front of the station. The light on the cab of the engine went back and forth over the track. The two cars that made up this little train were well lighted, so it was easy for the three people on the platform to see that the train was nearly empty. But this didn’t surprise them. At this hour, they were surprised to see anyone at all on the train.

  The few passengers in the cars looked out through the glass and thought it strange to find these people on the platform, making ready to board a train at this time of night. What business could have taken them out? This was the hour when people should be thinking of going to bed. The kitchens in the houses up on the hills behind the station were clean and orderly; the dishwashers had long ago finished their cycle, all things were in their places. Night-lights burned in children’s bedrooms. A few teenaged girls might still be reading novels, their fingers twisting a strand of hair as they did so. But television sets were going off now. Husbands and wives were making their own preparations for the night. The half-dozen or so passengers, sitting by themselves in the two cars, looked through the glass and wondered about the three people on the platform.

  They saw a heavily made-up, middle-aged woman wearing a rose-colored knit dress mount the steps and enter the train. Behind her came a younger woman dressed in a summer blouse and skirt who clutched a handbag. They were followed onto the train by an old man who moved slowly and who carried himself in a dignified manner. The old man had white hair and a white silk cravat, but he was without shoes. The passengers naturally assumed that the three people boarding were together; and they felt sure that whatever these people’s business had been that night, it had not come to a happy conclusion. But the passengers had seen things more various than this in their lifetime. The world is filled with business of every sort, as they well knew. This still was not as bad, perhaps, as it could be. For this reason, they scarcely gave another thought to these three who moved down the aisle and took up their places—the woman and the white-haired old man next to each other, the young woman with the handbag a few seats behind. Instead, the passengers gazed out at the station and went back to thinking about their own business, those things that had engaged them before the station stop.

  The conductor looked up the track. Then he glanced back in the direction the train had come from. He raised his arm and, with his lantern, signaled the engineer. This was what the engineer was waiting for. He turned a dial and pushed down on a lever. The train began to move forward. It went slowly at first, but it began to pick up speed. It moved faster until once more it sped through the dark countryside, its brilliant cars throwing light onto the roadbed.

  FEVER

  CARLYLE was in a spot. He’d been in a spot all summer, since early June when his wife had left him. But up until a little while ago, just a few days before he had to start meeting his classes at the high school, Carlyle hadn’t needed a sitter. He’d been the sitt
er. Every day and every night he’d attended to the children. Their mother, he told them, was away on a long trip.

  Debbie, the first sitter he contacted, was a fat girl, nineteen years old, who told Carlyle she came from a big family. Kids loved her, she said. She offered a couple of names for reference. She penciled them on a piece of notebook paper. Carlyle took the names, folded the piece of paper, and put it in his shirt pocket. He told her he had meetings the next day. He said she could start to work for him the next morning. She said, “Okay.”

  He understood that his life was entering a new period. Eileen had left while Carlyle was still filling out his grade reports. She’d said she was going to Southern California to begin a new life for herself there. She’d gone with Richard Hoopes, one of Carlyle’s colleagues at the high school. Hoopes was a drama teacher and glass-blowing instructor who’d apparently turned his grades in on time, taken his things, and left town in a hurry with Eileen. Now, the long and painful summer nearly behind him, and his classes about to resume, Carlyle had finally turned his attention to this matter of finding a baby-sitter. His first efforts had not been successful. In his desperation to find someone—anyone—he’d taken Debbie on.

  In the beginning, he was grateful to have this girl turn up in response to his call. He’d yielded up the house and children to her as if she were a relative. So he had no one to blame but himself, his own carelessness, he was convinced, when he came home early from school one day that first week and pulled into the drive next to a car that had a big pair of flannel dice hanging from the rearview mirror. To his astonishment, he saw his children in the front yard, their clothes filthy, playing with a dog big enough to bite off their hands. His son, Keith, had the hiccups and had been crying. Sarah, his daughter, began to cry when she saw him get out of the car. They were sitting on the grass, and the dog was licking their hands and faces. The dog growled at him and then moved off a little as Carlyle made for his children. He picked up Keith and then he picked up Sarah. One child under each arm, he made for his front door. Inside the house, the phonograph was turned up so high the front windows vibrated.

  In the living room, three teenaged boys jumped to their feet from where they’d been sitting around the coffee table. Beer bottles stood on the table and cigarettes burned in the ashtray. Rod Stewart screamed from the stereo. On the sofa, Debbie, the fat girl, sat with another teenaged boy. She stared at Carlyle with dumb disbelief as he entered the living room. The fat girl’s blouse was unbuttoned. She had her legs drawn under her, and she was smoking a cigarette. The living room was filled with smoke and music. The fat girl and her friend got off the sofa in a hurry.

  “Mr. Carlyle, wait a minute,” Debbie said. “I can explain.”

  “Don’t explain,” Carlyle said. “Get the hell out of here. All of you. Before I throw you out.” He tightened his grip on the children.

  “You owe me for four days,” the fat girl said, as she tried to button her blouse. She still had the cigarette between her fingers. Ashes fell from the cigarette as she tried to button up. “Forget today. You don’t owe me for today. Mr. Carlyle, it’s not what it looks like. They dropped by to listen to this record.”

  “I understand, Debbie,” he said. He let the children down onto the carpet. But they stayed close to his legs and watched the people in the living room. Debbie looked at them and shook her head slowly, as if she’d never laid eyes on them before. “Goddamn it, get out!” Carlyle said. “Now. Get going. All of you.”

  He went over and opened the front door. The boys acted as if they were in no real hurry. They picked up their beer and started slowly for the door. The Rod Stewart record was still playing. One of them said, “That’s my record.”

  “Get it,” Carlyle said. He took a step toward the boy and then stopped.

  “Don’t touch me, okay? Just don’t touch me,” the boy said. He went over to the phonograph, picked up the arm, swung it back, and took his record off while the turntable was still spinning.

  Carlyle’s hands were shaking. “If that car’s not out of the drive in one minute—one minute—I’m calling the police.” He felt sick and dizzy with his anger. He saw, really saw, spots dance in front of his eyes.

  “Hey, listen, we’re on our way, all right? We’re going,” the boy said.

  They filed out of the house. Outside, the fat girl stumbled a little. She weaved as she moved toward the car. Carlyle saw her stop and bring her hands up to her face. She stood like that in the drive for a minute. Then one of the boys pushed her from behind and said her name. She dropped her hands and got into the back seat of the car.

  “Daddy will get you into some clean clothes,” Carlyle told his children, trying to keep his voice steady. “I’ll give you a bath, and put you into some clean clothes. Then we’ll go out for some pizza. How does pizza sound to you?”

  “Where’s Debbie?” Sarah asked him.

  “She’s gone,” Carlyle said.

  THAT evening, after he’d put the children to bed, he called Carol, the woman from school he’d been seeing for the past month. He told her what had happened with his sitter.

  “My kids were out in the yard with this big dog,” he said. “The dog was as big as a wolf. The baby-sitter was in the house with a bunch of her hoodlum boyfriends. They had Rod Stewart going full blast, and they were tying one on while my kids were outside playing with this strange dog.” He brought his fingers to his temples and held them there while he talked.

  “My God,” Carol said. “Poor sweetie, I’m so sorry.” Her voice sounded indistinct. He pictured her letting the receiver slide down to her chin, as she was in the habit of doing while talking on the phone. He’d seen her do it before. It was a habit of hers he found vaguely irritating. Did he want her to come over to his place? she asked. She would. She thought maybe she’d better do that. She’d call her sitter. Then she’d drive to his place. She wanted to. He shouldn’t be afraid to say when he needed affection, she said. Carol was one of the secretaries in the principal’s office at the high school where Carlyle taught art classes. She was divorced and had one child, a neurotic ten-year-old the father had named Dodge, after his automobile.

  “No, that’s all right,” Carlyle said. “But thanks. Thanks, Carol. The kids are in bed, but I think I’d feel a little funny, you know, having company tonight.”

  She didn’t offer again. “Sweetie, I’m sorry about what happened. But I understand your wanting to be alone tonight. I respect that. I’ll see you at school tomorrow.”

  He could hear her waiting for him to say something else. “That’s two baby-sitters in less than a week,” he said. “I’m going out of my tree with this.”

  “Honey, don’t let it get you down,” she said. “Something will turn up. I’ll help you find somebody this weekend. It’ll be all right, you’ll see.”

  “Thanks again for being there when I need you,” he said. “You’re one in a million, you know.”

  “ ’Night, Carlyle,” she said.

  After he’d hung up, he wished he could have thought of something else to say to her instead of what he’d just said. He’d never talked that way before in his life. They weren’t having a love affair, he wouldn’t call it that, but he liked her. She knew it was a hard time for him, and she didn’t make demands.

  After Eileen had left for California, Carlyle had spent every waking minute for the first month with his children. He supposed the shock of her going had caused this, but he didn’t want to let the children out of his sight. He’d certainly not been interested in seeing other women, and for a time he didn’t think he ever would be. He felt as if he were in mourning. His days and nights were passed in the company of his children. He cooked for them—he had no appetite himself—washed and ironed their clothes, drove them into the country, where they picked flowers and ate sandwiches wrapped up in waxed paper. He took them to the supermarket and let them pick out what they liked. And every few days they went to the park, or else to the library, or the zoo. They took old bread to
the zoo so they could feed the ducks. At night, before tucking them in, Carlyle read to them—Aesop, Hans Christian Andersen, the Brothers Grimm.

  “When is Mama coming back?” one of them might ask him in the middle of a fairy tale.

  “Soon,” he’d say. “One of these days. Now listen to this.” Then he’d read the tale to its conclusion, kiss them, and turn off the light.

  And while they’d slept, he had wandered the rooms of his house with a glass in his hand, telling himself that, yes, sooner or later, Eileen would come back. In the next breath, he would say, “I never want to see your face again. I’ll never forgive you for this, you crazy bitch.” Then, a minute later, “Come back, sweetheart, please. I love you and need you. The kids need you, too.” Some nights that summer he fell asleep in front of the TV and woke up with the set still going and the screen filled with snow. This was the period when he didn’t think he would be seeing any women for a long time, if ever. At night, sitting in front of the TV with an unopened book or magazine next to him on the sofa, he often thought of Eileen. When he did, he might remember her sweet laugh, or else her hand rubbing his neck if he complained of a soreness there. It was at these times that he thought he could weep. He thought, You hear about stuff like this happening to other people.

  Just before the incident with Debbie, when some of the shock and grief had worn off, he’d phoned an employment service to tell them something of his predicament and his requirements. Someone took down the information and said they would get back to him. Not many people wanted to do housework and baby-sit, they said, but they’d find somebody. A few days before he had to be at the high school for meetings and registration, he called again and was told there’d be somebody at his house first thing the next morning.

  That person was a thirty-five-year-old woman with hairy arms and run-over shoes. She shook hands with him and listened to him talk without asking a single question about the children—not even their names. When he took her into the back of the house where the children were playing, she simply stared at them for a minute without saying anything. When she finally smiled, Carlyle noticed for the first time that she had a tooth missing. Sarah left her crayons and got up to come over and stand next to him. She took Carlyle’s hand and stared at the woman. Keith stared at her, too. Then he went back to his coloring. Carlyle thanked the woman for her time and said he would be in touch.