Joe Burke's Last Stand

by John Moncure Wetterau

  “Look,” he said, “nice to meet you. I'll see you around. I've got a job—start tomorrow.”

  “Bye, Patrick,” Amber said. Willow lifted one hand.

  “Amber!” Patrick said to himself, walking back to his room. Frieda had gone to bed with him a couple of times during his last summer in Germany. He'd gotten lucky once at a party in Tallahassee. That was it. No one like Amber. His eyes opened wider as he remembered her. He put his hand on her shoulder, imagining the warm solid body under her white blouse. His mind spun out, and he cleared his throat. He shook his head, got control of himself, and walked faster.

  A man playing a blues harp passed him on the other side of Tinker Street. The blues pulsed up into the evening sky, mournful and elaborate, a peacock tail of sound. Feelings stirred for which Patrick had no words. He pumped one fist in the air like a brother and turned aside to the rooming house.

  2

  He likes you, as usual,” Willow said. “And of course you don't care. You are such a bitch, sometimes.”

  “I am not. I can't help it if he likes me.” Amber made a tiny swaggering move with her breasts. “Anyway, he likes you just as much.”

  “Well, why doesn't he look at me?”

  “If you'd wear something besides jeans and work shirts . . .” Amber's pants and short skirts clung to perfect legs. Her blouses were tight. She was averagely good looking. Her face was open and energetic; her hair was chestnut tending to blonde, shoulder length and wavy. Men found themselves looking at her, talking to her, and then—the more they looked, the more they saw. She was faster than they were; she adjusted effortlessly in flight, becoming more serious or more carefree, more cerebral or more passionate under their gaze.

  “Men are SO stupid,” Willow said.

  “Don't you think they're cute sometimes? Even AhnRee with his tan and those big white towels he wraps around his belly at the pool. He's old—God, do you think he's fifty?—but he has those big round dark eyes.” AhnRee had picked up Amber the second day they were in town.

  “When I see someone so special, I know! I must paint you. My name is AhnRee,” he had said with great dignity.

  “AhnRee?” Willow asked.

  “As in Matisse,” he said. “It is an honor, such a name. A curse . . . But never mind.” He smiled gallantly. Gigi, Willow said to herself. No one should copy Maurice Chevalier. They get the eyes and the teeth, but they don't have the engine. No fire engine inside the doors.

  “No fire engine,” she said to Amber. “Huh?” AhnRee had said something to Amber and Amber was asking why they shouldn't try living in his studio.

  “You will find it most private,” AhnRee said. “It is some distance from the main house. In return, a bit of modeling, say, once a week? Say you will,” he pleaded.

  “Only if it is all right with Willow,” Amber said, kicking Willow in the ankle.

  “Ah, Willow,” AhnRee said, wrenching his eyes from Amber who was becoming ever more elusive, more of a muse.

  “Where is this place?” Willow asked.

  “A short drive up the mountain. An easy ride on a bicycle. In fact, I have several bicycles—if you don't mind the old fashioned kind with baskets on the handlebars.”

  “And what do I have to do?” Amber kicked her again.

  AhnRee considered. “You may mow the lawn around the studio. And, if you wish, attend a little to the flowers.”

  Willow had given in, and it had been fine. AhnRee had left them alone. And Amber seemed to enjoy modeling. “It's not so bad, being admired,” she told Willow.

  “Well,” Willow said, coming back to the present, “you knocked Patrick out with that bit about foggy mornings on the Galapagos Islands.”

  “Can I help it if my father is a Darwin freak? He practically made me go with him.”

  “Christ,” Willow said.

  “He likes you; I'm telling you,” Amber said.

  “Gee, maybe he'll let me hold his hand someday, comfort his broken heart.” She smiled to soften the edge in her tone, and they pedaled toward home in the early evening light.

  Willow liked Patrick. He thought for himself. And his eyes were cute, a penetrating blue that changed from hard to soft. He was the right height and looked strong underneath that funny European work shirt. Her imagination slowed at his belt. She had shared sleeping bags with Aaron at a sing-out, but it had been dark. It had been pleasant enough, I mean, O.K., she wrote in her journal, but men's bodies were basically terra incognita. What she knew of sex was a fuzzy blend of Michelangelo and the diaries of Anais Nin. There were plenty of men around—it wasn't that—it was just that none of them turned her on. She tired of their talk and endless competition. She'd rather listen to the Beethoven quartets. That was another thing about Patrick. What did he say? “Rattled his cage,” that was it. Exactly. Her perfect brother, David, said he liked Beethoven; David always said what he was supposed to. But he never listened to Beethoven. He liked the Beatles, for God's sake. I mean, yes, they wrote some catchy melodies, but really. They were a long way from Dylan, let alone Beethoven.

  Willow's indignation carried her to the top of the last hill before AhnRee's driveway. She got off her bike and waited for Amber. They walked up the bumpy dirt road, one on each side of the grass strip in the middle. As they passed the main house, they got on their bikes and pedaled to the studio along the edge of a small steep hay field rich in clover and wildflowers, surrounded by trees. The studio was made of dark weathered wood. It had a deep glow to Willow, perhaps because it was the first time she had lived anywhere other than home or the university.

  She slept on a screened porch that looked into the woods behind the house. Amber had the bedroom. The central room had a cathedral ceiling and a skylight that faced north. It was furnished with an old couch, a coffee table, and two armchairs drawn up by a stone fireplace. They ate at a large table in the kitchen, the room through which one entered the house.

  AhnRee explained to Amber that skylights faced north so that the light for painting would be more even, the changes more gradual. Painters had been settling in Woodstock for generations. There were many such houses—hard to keep warm in the winter, but, AhnRee pointed out with a shrug, “If one is in San Miguel d'Allende . . . “

  “Mexico, right?” Willow asked Amber.

  “Right. I guess he goes there every winter.” Amber had spent her time meeting people and going to parties. She already had one guy chasing her, showing up unannounced and hanging around. Willow usually excused herself and read on her bed. An outside door led to the porch; the door was solid and blocked most of the noise from inside the house. When she wasn't reading, she took walks and rode her bike into town for groceries. She was learning to cook. You would have killed a robin if you hit it with her first loaf of seven grain bread, but she was getting the hang of it. She had developed a wicked lasagna. Mornings after, the lasagna pan was as empty as the Chianti bottle or bottles.

  On this particular evening, she threw a salad together—avocado, feta cheese, a few scallions, red leaf lettuce, lemon juice, and a yummy Portuguese olive oil that Ann-in-the-deli had recommended. Ann was middle aged with a red face and a bad leg. She sat behind the cash register, talking loudly with customers, denouncing the government and its stupid war. She liked young people and extended credit when they were short of money. She had a metal box with 3X5 cards in it, alphabetized by name. Willow watched her accept payments and cross out numbers at the bottom of little columns while customers waited proudly with bags containing six-packs, cigarettes, potato chips, and quarts of milk. If someone was charging, he (usually a he) would mumble thanks and pick his way out guiltily while Ann added another number to his column.

  “I've got to get a job soon,” Willow said, taking another bite of salad.

  “What for?” Amber's father made a deposit every month to her account. While you're in school, he told her.

  “I want to. I mean, I don't want to keep living on your money.”

  “It's not my money. I di
dn't earn it.”

  “Yeah, but . . . “ They had taken a bus to Sacramento and caught a train east, the day after finals. The idea swept them off their feet. They were just now, a month later, realizing that they were actually somewhere else. After a day of walking around the Village in New York, they took a bus to Woodstock. They got out in front of the News Shop, and here they were. Their parents weren't thrilled, but Amber convinced her father on the phone that she was having a good time and was in control of herself. Willow resorted to a stream of postcards—maple trees in October, scenes of the Ashokan Reservoir, and one of the tiny Old Catholic Church peeping out of the trees. “Father Francis built it himself with the help of his boys, I mean, acolytes,” she wrote. “A kindly old fraud who presides over his two acres with tottering good humor, dispensing advice and tea to wanderers. Amber and I went to a wedding there last week. Lots of flowers. Lousy cake. It's halfway up a mountain called, `Overlook.' Love, Willow.”

  “What would you do?” Amber asked.

  “I don't know. I don't think I'm waitress material. I mean, God, I wish I were. I like food, but I'm too dreamy. I mean, I want to do something well.”

  “You don't want to work at night, anyway,” Amber said.

  “No.” When it got dark, Willow would just as soon go to bed with a book. She was an early riser.

  “Go with the flow,” Amber said. “Something will turn up.”

  “I guess.” Willow collected the dishes, washed them, and went out to the porch, to her comfortable bed, a warm safe cave. She undressed and snuggled into her pillows. Darwin, she thought. She imagined Patrick aboard H.M.S. Beagle. “Your muffin, Sir.” She presented him with a gorgeous cinnamon apple muffin on a tin plate. “Aye, aye,” someone said as she fell asleep.

  In the morning, she went for a walk, gathered wildflowers for the kitchen table, and mixed a batch of bread, placing it to rise in the sun, covered with a dishcloth. She made coffee and ate a bagel. Amber appeared, yawning and rubbing her eyes. She poured herself a cup of coffee, and they discussed the day's possibilities. Art wanted Amber to help him prepare a barnwarming party; he had just bought a barn that he planned to make into a house. Willow was invited. Art was considerate and rather handsome, Willow conceded. But she thought she'd stay home. “How are you going to meet people that way?” Amber asked.

  “I'm already meeting people,” she said. “I'm bored with people.”

  Amber shook her head. “Do you think I ought to let my hair get longer? This coffee is so good.”

  “Long hair is a pain,” Willow said dismissively, although she was proud of hers and brushed it thoroughly every day. “With your body, who needs distraction?”

  “I don't know. I look so—conventional.” This was dangerous territory. Amber was, in fact, conventional. She was a little wild, maybe, but she was on the pill and she didn't get attached for long; she kept her options open. Her grades were surprisingly good. Willow's own record at Stanford was ordinary. The courses were all so canned, pre-digested, just right for her perfect brother who was a year behind her and practically in law school already. Willow did the minimum, but she wasn't into it. There had to be more to life than the accepted opinion about George Eliot. Christ, you were lucky if you got to read James Joyce, never mind Henry Miller. Willow adored Henry Miller.

  “All right, I am conventional,” Amber said, breaking into Willow's reverie. “And I'm going to have a damned good time while I'm at it.” Willow poured the last of the coffee into their cups. Amber wasn't really awake, Willow knew. At ten or eleven, her eyes would open the rest of the way, slightly startled, slightly pleased to have survived the transition. Amber's eyes were a dark Mediterranean brown. If I were gay, Willow thought, I could go for Amber. She's so fierce underneath that easy chameleon surface; she knows what she wants, and she gets it. Amber stretched and went back into her room, emerging when Art honked the horn in his pickup. Willow waved at Art and watched Amber skip into the truck, elaborately casual, a barnwarmer's dream. Willow punched down the bread and left it to rise again. Amber would get fucked tonight, she thought. Or not. But she'd have the choice.

  Willow washed the few dishes and dried them as she tried to think about sex. It was becoming a more persistent question or urge or need, these days. She wandered out to the porch, kicked off her sandals, and lay on the bed. She imagined Art standing by the door. He melted down and changed into Patrick. “Oh, to hell with it,” she said and took off her pants. She ran her fingers lightly back and forth between her legs while Patrick watched. She drew up her knees. She let them fall open. “What are you looking at?” she teased Patrick in a low voice.

  “I'm a romantic,” he said earnestly.

  “Well, if you're a romantic, why aren't you naked with a rose in your teeth?” Patrick left, as she continued to play with herself. In a moment, he was back, naked, a long stemmed red rose held carefully between his teeth. He was nicely muscled with a flat stomach. She motioned him closer with one hand. He approached slowly, and she held out her hand for the rose. He gave it to her. “Good, Patrick,” she said and struck him lightly across the stomach. Thorns left three tiny drops of blood. He gasped and drew in his stomach. His eyes opened wider and softened. “What do you want?” she asked.

  “To please you.” She looked at the rose, weighed it in her hand to get the feel of it, and looked back at Patrick. He did not run away. He was willing to suffer for her. His mouth was slightly open and he had a large erection. She indicated the end of the bed with the rose and slid down, pulling a pillow with her for her head. Patrick moved around in front of her. She pointed at the flagstones of the porch floor.

  “So, please me.” He got on his knees and she placed her heels on his back. Willow's knees were slowly opening and closing as she rubbed harder. Her long slim back arched. Patrick. “Ahhh,” she cried softly. “Ahhhhhhh, ahhhh, ahhh.” Her feet slid out and her legs collapsed on the bed. She was warm and wet and out of breath. She opened her eyes. The air was bright, almost vivid. Patrick had disappeared. She would reward him another time. Laundry, she thought cheerfully.

  A crow called twice. She rolled over on her side and watched a squirrel jump onto the trunk of a maple and wait, tail curled, listening. “Squirrelie,” she said. “Yes.” She sat up, swinging her feet down to the cool flagstones. “Yes,” she said. “Shower.” Squirrelie ran up the tree out of view.

  Willow made a pile of clothes on the cotton coverlet and took the bundle to the washing machine in a corner of the kitchen. She pulled off her T-shirt and walked into the bathroom where she regarded herself in the mirror before getting into the shower. Her breasts were too small, she thought as hot water ran deliciously down her back; but they were pretty. Her long waist and long legs gave her body a flowing athletic line. I do have an adequate ass, she said to herself, soaping it. She was continually unsure as to whether she should throw it around or wait until The Right One discovered it for himself.

  “You are so beautiful,” The Right One said, unable to lift his eyes. She swayed modestly.

  “I have these three tasks,” she said and burst out laughing in the shower. The bread, God. She washed her hair and went on with the day.

  Amber returned mid-afternoon and was unable to convince her to go to the party. Shortly after Amber left, Willow considered the house (clean), her hair (brushed), and the rest of the day (free). She put a paperback copy of Big Sur and the Oranges of Hieronymus Bosch in her bag and rode out past AhnRee's. He was drinking something by the pool, accompanied by a placid looking blonde in her forties. Willow waved and then bumped down to the blacktop road where she picked up speed and breezed downhill into town, her hair fluttering nicely behind her.

  She was early enough to get a table on the patio in front of the Depresso. She ordered a cup of coffee and read her book, looking up now and then to watch the regulars gather and the tourists walk uncomfortably back and forth. Her porch, the clean house, and the baked bread were satisfyingly present.

  “What are yo
u reading?” God! Patrick was standing a few feet away. She held the book so that he could read the cover. “I've come for my reward,” he said. She dropped the book. “A cold one after a day of scraping paint,” he continued, reaching down and handing her the book. “Henry Miller—I heard he was good.”

  “Yes,” Willow said, recovering. “Well, don't let me keep you from your reward; you deserve it.”

  “Right,” Patrick said uncertainly. “Willow, right?” She nodded. “Where's Amber?”

  “She's at a barnwarming party breaking hearts.” This was definitely disloyal.

  “Aha,” Patrick said, “talk to you later.” Willow smiled and went back to her book. I hate him, she thought. Amber, too. She drank the rest of her coffee. Time to leave. But she couldn't bring herself to get on her bike and pedal home.

  She went inside and ordered a beer at the bar. Patrick was in deep conversation with a rugged good looking regular named Wendell. They seemed to be talking about chisels. Jesus. Bob Dylan was sitting with Bernard and Marylou, the owners, at a round table near the kitchen door. They were laughing loudly. Bernard has a handsome mustache, Willow thought. Dylan looked like he was winding up for an intense night. He was SO intuitive; he always caught her looking and usually ignored her. Once, he gave her a quick little shake of his head—it's a fucked up world, we gotta do something, he seemed to be saying. He was on the edge of control, major chutzpah.

  Willow couldn't get her father to understand Dylan. Her father was a Brahms expert; how could he? “A generational difference,” he suggested. Willow had snorted, angry with him for evading the argument. “Far be it from me to suggest that he is a nihilist, simultaneously outdated and immature . . . not to mention noisy,” her father continued. Well, at least he wasn't treating her like a child.

  “He is writing American masterpieces,” she said.

  “God help us.” Her father was grinning, and they left it at that.

  Claude came in and gave her his big smile and automatic wink. He was handsome and could get away with anything, she thought. Damn him. But she had to admit that she liked him. I mean, he liked himself; everyone in the place liked him; how could she not? Claude began talking to Sue, a painter who was usually with a sad charmer named Jim. As she was thinking about Jim, he came through the door. He and Sue exchanged smiles and private greetings, but they did not hug. He seemed more interested in getting a drink as fast as he could. Problems, Willow thought.