Joe Burke's Last Stand

by John Moncure Wetterau

  At the bottom of the mountain, they turned down Reynold's Lane to Route 212 and then up the Glasco Turnpike to the Byrdcliffe Road. At AhnRee's driveway, Willow said “Might as well walk me home.”

  “My mission,” Patrick said. At the door, she suggested that they kill the bottle, and Patrick followed her in. She filled two glasses. They flopped into chairs at the kitchen table. She should have been exhausted, but she wasn't. When the wine was gone, Patrick stood. Before he spoke, she asked him for a hug, and before he answered she went to him and put her arms around his neck. His arms went uncertainly around her. She pressed the whole length of her body against him, molding herself to his shape. His shoulders were broader than they looked. As his arms tightened, she felt herself loosen and grow warm. He took a deep breath. They were losing control. “Patrick,” she said. “Patrick.” She pulled away and took his hand. “Let's go out here.” She led him to the porch and kicked off her shoes. Still holding his hand, she pulled him down onto the bed. She kissed him lightly with open lips. He was warm and tasted of wine and beer.

  “My shoes,” he said. She kissed him again, sliding her lips to the corners of his mouth and back. As he bent forward to take off his shoes, she unbuttoned her shirt and removed it. She stretched full length on the bed, naked to the waist, and held out her arms. She heard his quick intake of breath and felt his palm on her breast.

  “Willow?” She pushed up against his hand and began to move slowly from side to side. There was no more thinking, only a rush of feeling. She pulled him into her and encouraged him to take her, fuck her, fill her with his hot hard energy. As he came and collapsed, she hugged him with her arms and her legs, surrounding him with warmth, keeping him safe.

  She remained awake, savoring the moments. It was the right time of the month. No worries there. Her own need for orgasm was alive and well, like a promise. She stroked the back of his head, and he mumbled something in his sleep. God, they were together. She was still herself, but now she was something else, too. She had a pang of sadness for squirrelie, alone out there. Squirrelie.

  She awoke snuggled against Patrick's back. She reached around and began to caress him. He was inside her before he was fully awake. She held him tightly, and as she began to peak she begged him not to stop. She was driving the train, and Patrick responded. “Baby,” she called. “Ohhhh.” She opened like an exploding flower. Another orgasm rolled through her, and then another and another. Completions. Irreversible. She cried in wonder and fell back as he came, adding to the warm flood in which she floated.

  Some time later, she said, “The Big Bang Theory? I get it.” Patrick rolled out of bed and dressed.

  “I've got to go, Willow,” he said.

  She wanted him to stay. She wanted to make a good breakfast for them. She wanted to talk with him for hours, but a deeper voice, surprising her, said, “Bye, Patrick.” He looked at her intently for a moment. “Bye, Patrick,” she repeated softly.

  7

  Patrick took a quick step and kicked a pebble into the woods along AhnRee's driveway. It would be fun to practice corner kicks again. Willow was intense. Nice, too. Dynamite in bed. Who would have thought it? He blasted another pebble between two trees. Goal! It was going to be hot later. Breakfast in the News Shop would be a good thing. Coffee. A fried egg sandwich. Willow's legs wrapped around him, and he relaxed for a moment remembering her hair against his cheek and over his shoulders where she had covered him. He felt a new sweetness inside. His head swam. “Too much,” he said to the fans in the woods and ran twenty yards to wake up.

  Billy Jakes slapped him on the back in the News Shop. “Long night, huh Patrick?”

  “Long night, Billy.” Just as well he didn't have to work today. He took a bite of his fried egg sandwich and thought about the first people and the view from Mead's Meadow. The green of the mountains was so fresh, empty as one of the new canvases stacked against Hendrik's studio wall. The first people had done well, really; they deserved a celebration. It was a righteous Fourth. Martin was there at first. Where had he gone? Patrick wanted to know more about him. The music was great. And then those cops—they were really the losers, the ones left out or behind. Why did that have to be?

  “Officer Allen, ha, ha, ha.” Patrick turned and saw Billy put an arm around one of the cops who had been on the mountain, the larger one. “Gotta smoke? I'm innocent.”

  “Jesus, Billy. Here, Goddamn it.”

  “Obliged, Allen. I truly am.” Billy took a deep drag.

  “I see you drinking on the street, I'm going to lock you up.”

  “I am much obliged.” Billy began to cough. He went outside, and Officer Allen waved his arm as if to clear the air. There was a polite silence punctuated by Billy's coughs which grew fainter as he moved down the sidewalk. Officer Allen left with a newspaper and a supply of Marlboros.

  Gert was sitting on the porch when Patrick arrived home.

  “Morning, Gert.” She looked him over and smiled broadly.

  “Good morning. I've a job for you, if you've a mind to do it.”

  “Well, I was going to work on the Unified Field Theory, but . . . “ The Big Bang Theory. He started to smile and found himself turning red.

  “Aren't we in a good mood,” Gert said.

  “What needs doing?”

  “The attic. I've been cleaning, and I need some boxes brought down to the shed. They're too heavy for me.” She led him up two flights of stairs and pointed out a group of boxes. “Fred is coming to haul them away some time next week. It's time to get rid of things.”

  “No problem. Is that where you keep your gold?” Patrick pointed at a small iron bound chest secured by a black lock. “Right out of Treasure Island,” he said.

  “Other treasures,” Gert said. “Could you move it over there by those books? Good. Just cover it with the same sheet. Thank you.” Patrick made ten trips to the shed, feeling better with each trip. Entering the attic was like going back in time; emerging in the sunlight and walking across the lawn was a return to the present, a promise of future.

  “I'll cut the grass before it gets hot,” he said.

  “Now Patrick, I want you to keep track of your time.”

  “No need, Gert. I mean—if you wanted me to paint the house or something, that would be different.” He liked Gert, but he didn't want to be on call.

  “Very well, Patrick. Perhaps you'll take a glass of lemonade.” She often seemed amused by him.

  “I will,” he said.

  He took a nap in the afternoon and walked into town refreshed and hungry. The Depresso was mostly empty. He ordered vegetarian chili, cornbread, and a Heineken. “Thanks, Eve.” She smiled enigmatically, her mind elsewhere. She, too, was from Michigan, like Sue and Claude, an odd coincidence. Patrick had never been in Michigan, but he imagined deep woods. Eve swayed like a tall pine as she walked.

  She was older than Willow. She had three children. Patrick had seen one in her arms and the others swarming up her legs, outside on the patio. She seemed to pace herself—energy for the kids, energy for the customers—somehow remaining beautiful and ready for more. Ready for a different life, maybe. Usually, Patrick couldn't take his eyes from her long strong body, but tonight he saw her more completely, a woman who had to work too hard.

  Dylan came out of the kitchen and began to play a low and rolling melody. Patrick felt an equality between them. Dylan played the melody over and over with simple variations, searching for something. Hunting.

  In the charged space between Dylan's music and Eve's beauty, Patrick thought about significant digits. Joe Burke was on to something. The rubber met the road at significant digits. Mathematics met reality. Accuracy, significant accuracy, was limited to the precision of the worst measurement involved. It didn't matter that you could calculate an equation to any number of decimal places. The answer couldn't be more accurate than the wobble, the plus or minus, in the coarsest measurement. To not understand this was to think that mathematics was reality. Mathematics was a t
ool. Physical relationships that were measurable could be expressed in equations, but the equations were models, not reality. You had to keep the distinction in mind or you would think you knew things more precisely than you did.

  Dylan disappeared into the kitchen, and Patrick ordered another beer. Models. The word expanded in his mind. Models. Sue was a model. Amber was a model. Equations were models. Mrs. Van Slyke had been a model. Of what? Herself? Hendrik's lover? Women in general? It was really the painting that was the model. Mrs. Van Slyke had modeled for the model. Patrick's mind began to spin.

  He continued his line of thought. Mathematics was a tool for making models. So was painting. Science and art had that in common. They made models—of physical reality and of a personal, or human, reality. It was all about model making. Got it! He looked around the room. Got it! No one seemed to notice that he had just figured out a biggie. Probably they all knew it already. He finished his beer and went home, leaving Eve a big tip.

  The next morning he thought of Willow as he was closing the front door behind him. Chives were blooming by the shed. He picked a handful of purple blossoms and carried them to Ann's Deli. “Top o' the mornin',” he said to Willow who was behind the counter.

  “Oooh,” she said. “Chives!” She put them in a small glass with water and set them on the counter. She motioned Patrick to the back of the deli where she put her arms around him. “Patrick?”

  “Mmmm.” The hug was warm and intense, but there was work, a sandwich, breakfast . . .

  “Good morning,” she said happily, letting him go.

  “I need a sandwich—got to go to work.”

  “Roast beef?” She made the sandwich while Patrick chose a pint of orange juice and a banana.

  “Want to meet me at the Depresso later?” he asked.

  “I can't tonight,” she said.

  “Oh.” He was surprised by his disappointment.

  “Tomorrow?” she offered.

  “O.K., good. Around five?” That was better. “Oh, Willow . . . “ He turned in the doorway. “I've been thinking about science and art again.”

  “I'll be brave,” she promised. Patrick skipped into the News Shop feeling much better. Parker put him on a job on the Wittenberg Road, working with Gino's crew. There was a lot of scraping to be done. Patrick rolled a bandanna the way Wilson did and stripped to the waist.

  By break time, he was sweating and relaxed, a large section of one side done. Parker passed out cups of coffee. Patrick ate his banana. Talk jumped from the war to cars to women to growing grass to IBM. There was an IBM plant in Kingston. It had become a symbol of the culture moving in a bad direction. IBM'rs made good money—it was conceded—but they had to wear white shirts and ties; they were considered sell outs, one step removed from robots. Gino told a story about a friend of his who had struggled through a university degree in engineering.

  “He was halfway through, dropped out, and got drafted. He also got married, but he couldn't live off base until he was finished with a training program in Alabama. Cleo, his wife, had an apartment in town, and Eddie stayed too late one night. The main gate closed. He had to be in formation, or whatever they call it, early in the morning before he could get back on base.” Gino sipped coffee. “There was a river along one side of the base. He walked into it—at night, pitch black, snakes, alligators—and started swimming. He made it.”

  Gino shook his head. “After he got out of the Army, he went back to the university and got a job at IBM. He was O.K. until one night at Buckman's. Eddie's father is a builder, and some of his crew were in there. They got on him.

  “`Hey Eddie, like that neon tan, Eddie!'

  “`Jesus, watch it, he'll hit you with his slide rule.'

  “So, Eddie had a few beers, went home, and said, `Neon tan, Cleo—that's it. Fuck it.' That was the end of IBM for Eddie. He's doing great now; he's building out in California.”

  “Right on.”

  “Pretty good catcher, wasn't he?”

  “Damned good.” Eddie was one of the saved. Patrick was beginning to feel that way, too. It was good to be 22 and not have to keep your mouth shut. Gino got to his feet and stretched.

  “What a man!”

  “Sit down, Gino.”

  “No compassion.”

  “It's lonely at the top,” Gino said, trudging toward a ladder.

  That evening in the Depresso, Patrick finished the mathematics book. He planned to mail it to Molly on Saturday, when he usually checked the Post Office for mail. His parents and Molly were the only people who wrote to him. They were used to mailing to General Delivery wherever he was living; he hadn't given them Gert's address. And anyway, summer wasn't going to last forever; he wasn't sure how long he'd be around Woodstock. Willow. He couldn't really think about her. She was too new, too big, or something. He felt the sweetness again and was glad that they were getting together the next night.

  Patrick looked out the Depresso window and saw a red Chevy convertible passing with its top down. Willow was riding on the passenger side, her hair blowing. Martin. Willow. So that's why she couldn't meet me, he realized. She looked as though she were having a good time. What do I do now? he wondered.

  The next afternoon, Willow was at the Depresso before him, absorbed in a paperback. “Hi, there,” Patrick said. She looked up and smiled.

  “Hi, Patrick. I brought my largest handkerchief.”

  “What are you reading?”

  “Balthazar, by Lawrence Durrell.”

  “I saw you go by with Martin, yesterday.”

  “Oh, yeah. Martin took me for a drive and showed me his studio. He has been making recordings.”

  Patrick looked at her directly and tried to keep his face calm. “Do you like him?”

  “I do. He's nice; he asked me a lot of questions.”

  “He seemed O.K. to me,” Patrick admitted.

  “Patrick, are you jealous?”

  “Umm . . . “

  “Tell you what,” she said. “Walk me home tonight and I'll show you how much I like him.” Patrick started to smile.

  “It's a deal.” The sun came out from behind a cloud. Willow covered his hand with hers for a moment, and he felt reconnected. “I like you,” he said.

  “Now don't go overboard, Patrick.”

  They ate dinner and walked to Byrdcliffe, taking turns pushing Willow's bike. Amber was at Art's; they had the house to themselves. They listened to Dylan and finished a bottle of wine. Patrick undressed for bed with a surprising lack of embarrassment. It seemed natural. They clung to each other and stayed awake late, talking and watching the new moon rise. Willow told him about her parents and her brother and her dissatisfaction with school.

  “If you could do anything you wanted, what would you do?” he asked her.

  “I think I'd travel and read a lot. Decide what to do and then do it—somewhere. But, do it right, you know?”

  “Yeah,” Patrick said. “It's the only way.”

  “Babies, too, some day. Speaking of which—if we're going to keep this up, you better get some of those thingies.” Patrick grunted.

  “That will be a trip,” he said. “Trojans, right? E-Z big tips?”

  “They don't care at the drug store,” Willow said. “Very big tips.”

  “Only for you,” Patrick said.

  “Exactly.”

  They had to hurry in the morning to get to the Deli in time. Patrick took his sandwich to the News Shop, ate breakfast, and rode to the Wittenberg job with Wilson. When he thought of Willow during the day, he felt easy and excited at the same time. He could actually talk to her. She understood immediately his point that science and art were modeling processes. Better yet, she saw that modeling itself was fundamental—an attempt to understand what was out there and express it with whatever tools you could use. Sleeping with her was so great. Sex. Just the comfort of being next to her. It was such a new experience that he would forget for an hour and then remember with a rush of pleasure.

  There was
a police car in front of Gert's when Wilson dropped him off after work. “What's happening?” Patrick asked.

  “You staying here?”

  “Yes.”

  “Name, please.” The cop wrote his name down in a small notebook. “Mrs. Willett's been taken to the hospital,” he said.

  “Oh, no,” Patrick said.

  “Sick. Heart attack, maybe,” the cop said.

  “Where is the hospital?”

  “Kingston.”

  “Damn,” Patrick said.

  “Hope for the best,” the cop said, putting his notebook away. “All you can do. She's been around here a long time.” Patrick went inside. The house felt empty. There was only one other roomer at the moment, a middle aged guy who kept to himself, a high school teacher from the city. Apparently, he spent a month in Woodstock every summer. Bob. He wasn't around.

  Patrick washed and walked into town. He finished a beer quickly and checked the crowd gathering in the Depresso. Claude was at the end of the bar. Patrick approached him. “Hey, Claude.”

  “Patrick.”

  “Claude, I've got to go to Kingston.”

  “Some people have all the luck.”

  “My landlady got taken to the hospital. Do you know where the hospital is?”

  “Benedictine or Kingston?”

  “Are there two? I don't know. Kingston, I guess.” Claude gave him directions to both. “I don't have a car,” Patrick said. Claude looked at him.

  “Can you drive?”

  “Yes.” Claude reached in his pocket and handed Patrick a set of keys.

  “It's that '56 Ford pickup out there—the black one with the wood rack.”