Far-Flung

by Peter Cameron

  I didn’t move. Even with my eyes closed, I could feel the starry sky swaying above me. Elsa lay down on top of me. She put her hands inside my shirt, touching the skin of my chest.

  “I heard today,” she said.

  “Heard what?”

  “From Princeton. I got in.”

  Elsa had applied early decision to Princeton.

  “Wow,” I said. “Congratulations.”

  “I wish you would go, too,” she said.

  “I’m going to Bloomington,” I said. “I can’t get into Princeton.”

  “You could try,” said Elsa.

  “You know I can’t,” I said.

  I opened my eyes. I watched the stars swing slower and slower until they stopped.

  “Well, in a way I envy you,” I heard Elsa say. “IU’s a good school. And you’ll know people there. You’ll have friends right from the start.”

  “Kittery hated it there. She said everyone was a moron. All they did was throw up, she said.”

  “Kittery’s friends probably did. But you’ll meet different people.”

  I didn’t want to talk about college so I didn’t say anything.

  Elsa withdrew her hands and stood up. “Let’s practice that thing. That lift thing where you pick me up. I heard that they might discontinue ballet because fifth period, Eric Bloor dropped Debbie Shaddock on her head. Stand up.”

  I stood up and put my hands on Elsa’s small hips, lifted her up. She was thin, and I was strong. “O.K.,” she said. “Twirl me.”

  On my way home I walked through town, and stopped back in Ransom’s. It was pretty empty, but John Calvin was still there, sitting in a booth by himself. A green plastic cover lay over the pool table. It looked like a made bed.

  John Calvin looked up at me. “Dominick,” he said. “What are you still doing up?”

  “It’s Friday night,” I said. I sat down across from him.

  “That’s true,” John Calvin said. “Kittery’s gone. She left about an hour ago.”

  “I know,” I said. “I left with her.”

  “But you came back.”

  “I know.”

  “Kittery didn’t,” John Calvin said, as if he were winning an argument. He killed his beer and set it carefully in the middle of the table, on top of a carved heart. “I don’t suppose you’ve got a car?”

  “No,” I said. “I’m walking home.”

  “I guess I am, too,” John Calvin said. “I’ve been waiting for someone with a car to drive me home. But no luck.”

  “What happened to your car?”

  “Nothing. My car’s fine. I lost my license.” He stood up, and put some money on the table. “Let’s walk,” he said.

  John Calvin walked with one foot on the curb and one foot in the gutter, then got tired of it, and walked next to me on the sidewalk. He hummed. “What’d Ellen do tonight?” he asked after a while.

  “She was in bed when I left. She’s still a little spooked, I think. I had to walk her home.”

  “You walk a lot,” John Calvin said.

  I didn’t answer.

  “It was me,” John Calvin said.

  “What?”

  “It was me in the woods,” he said. “In case you hadn’t figured.”

  “Oh,” I said. “No.”

  “I was gonna surprise her. You know, just say BOO or something. Just surprise her. I was waiting in the woods, just standing there. She was walking so slow, and as she got near me, I realized she was singing. I never heard her sing. She was standing under the streetlight, singing, like she was on a stage or something.”

  “What was she singing?”

  “I don’t know,” John Calvin said. He reverted to his awkward form of walking, his hands in his jeans pockets. “Some song. But something about it got me mad. It just irritated me, hearing her sing alone, like that. ’Cause she never sings. Did you ever hear her sing?”

  “No,” I said. “Well, at church, maybe.”

  “I just started throwing things at her. Not to hurt her, just to—hell, I don’t know. Just to make her stop, I guess. I didn’t yell names at her. She made that part up.”

  We were in front of the high school. Some cars were parked in the lot, with kids drinking beer in them. We could hear the music from their radios.

  “Punks,” John Calvin muttered. “I’m gonna cut through the football field,” he said. “You think she knows it was me?”

  “I don’t know,” I said. “I don’t think so.”

  John Calvin shrugged. “Don’t tell her, O.K.?”

  I shook my head no.

  John Calvin reached out and touched my shoulder. “I love her so much,” he said. “Sometimes it makes me be crazy.” He walked off across the football field.

  I watched John Calvin disappear. A voice from the cars called me but I didn’t answer; I walked to the end of the street and turned onto Cobble Road. I hadn’t walked very far when Kittery pulled up beside me. The radio was playing loud. She turned it down a little.

  “Finally,” she said. “I’ve been looking all over for you.”

  “I’ve just been walking home,” I said.

  “Get in,” she said.

  “I think I want to walk,” I said. I kind of wanted to be alone for a while.

  “No,” Kittery said. “I’ve got to talk to you. Get in.”

  I got into the car. Kittery drove up Cobble Road, past our house. There were lights on up on the third floor, which meant Topsy was wallpapering. No one lives on the third floor, but Topsy wallpapers the bedrooms up there when she can’t sleep. “Topsy’s wallpapering,” I said.

  “I bet she is,” said Kittery.

  “Where are we going?” I asked. We were driving out the Range Road, away from town. Kittery was speeding. She had her left arm extended out the window, cupping and uncupping the night. She didn’t answer me. “What do you want to talk about?” I asked.

  Kittery looked over at me. The car went off the road, onto the flat grassy range. Kittery just kept driving as if nothing had happened. When it started to get bumpy she slowed down, and parked under a tree. She turned the engine off. Suddenly it was very quiet.

  “Duane and I are leaving,” she said.

  “What do you mean?” I asked.

  “We’re moving away,” said Kittery. “Tonight.”

  “Tonight? Don’t you think that’s a little sudden?”

  “There’s nothing wrong with doing things suddenly,” said Kittery. “It’s better this way.”

  “Where are you moving?”

  “We’re not sure. Maybe someplace like Minnesota. Or Idaho. We’re just going to drive until we find someplace we want to live.”

  “What made you decide this?”

  “Well, we’ve been thinking about it for a while. We’re both sick to death of Norwell. And after Topsy came over tonight, well, you know, in a way she’s right, I mean, what am I doing here? Nothing. And then when Rocky died, well, Duane decided he just wanted to leave. If we don’t leave tonight, we might never leave. So we’re leaving tonight. I’ve been driving all over trying to find you. You’re the only one we’re telling.”

  “Rocky died?”

  “Yes. Duane’s burying him.”

  “Duane can’t just leave in the middle of the night. He has a job.”

  “A job he can’t stand.”

  “I think you’re both crazy,” I said.

  “I was going to give you my car,” said Kittery.

  “Mr. Templer will want it back. He won’t want me driving it around.”

  “Well, until he does. I’m leaving it at Duane’s. There’s a set of keys in my jewelry box at home.”

  “What happens if something happens? Like if you and Duane run out of money? Or can’t find jobs?”

  “There’s always some job you can do. I can always sell Lottie Dale. And Duane can substitute teach.”

  “Not if he leaves his job here without giving notice.”

  “This will be in a different state,” said Kit
tery. She started the car and drove it slowly back toward the road. “Why are you being so negative? I thought you’d be happy for me.”

  “I think you’re crazy,” I said.

  “That’s because you don’t understand. Do you know what it’s like being me in this town? Loving Duane? It’s just a mess. And it’s a mess for Duane, too.”

  “What makes you think it’s going to be better someplace else?”

  “It might not be better. But it will be different. It’s always different someplace else,” Kittery said. She stopped the car a ways from the house. “I’m going to drop you off here ’cause I don’t want Topsy to see the car. I’ve had enough input from her tonight.”

  “Aren’t you going to say good-bye to her?”

  “No,” said Kittery.

  “What about Ellen?”

  “I’m not going away forever,” said Kittery. “I’m just moving.”

  “Is that what I should tell them?”

  “Yes,” said Kittery.

  “Topsy will be worried,” I said.

  “That’s nothing new,” said Kittery.

  I sat still for a moment. I knew Kittery wanted me to get out so she could go, but I didn’t want her to go. I didn’t want anyone to go anywhere. I tried to think of something to say. “It was John Calvin,” I said.

  “What?”

  “In the woods, last week. Throwing stuff at Ellen.”

  “John Calvin did that?”

  “That’s what he told me. He said she was singing and it made him mad so he threw sticks at her.”

  “And you think I’m crazy for leaving this town,” said Kittery. “I’d get out quick if I were you.”

  “I like it here,” I said.

  Kittery leaned over and kissed me. “I’ve got to go. Duane wants to leave. I’ll call you in a couple of days and let you know where we are.”

  I got out of the car and closed the door. “Listen, be good,” said Kittery. “I’ll talk to you. Bye.”

  “Bye,” I said, but I don’t think she heard me, she accelerated so quickly.

  Topsy was still wallpapering when I came in. I found her upstairs in one of the little bedrooms, changing it from green stripes to a patriotic pattern of eagles and drums and bayonets. It smelled of perspiration and paste. She had pushed the iron bed to the middle of the floor, and I lay down on it.

  “It’s late,” she said. “Where have you been?”

  “Out,” I said. “Around.”

  “Don’t be too specific,” Topsy said.

  “I was over at Elsa’s,” I said. “And at Ransom’s with John Calvin.”

  “Actually, I didn’t think you’d have the nerve to come home,” Topsy said. “After deserting me like that. Thanks a whole lot.”

  “Sorry,” I said. “Kittery just wanted me to go with her.”

  “Kittery is spoiled rotten. She’s too used to getting what she wants.”

  “I know,” I said. I rolled away from Topsy and faced the wall. She had peeled the wallpaper off, but there were still bits hanging on: the green stripes, and beneath that, patches of other, less recent papers. It was like looking down a well. I could hear Topsy smoothing the paper to the wall, squeezing out the pockets of air and lumps of paste. There was a musty bedspread on the bed, and I crawled under it. I remembered about Rocky.

  “Guess what?” I asked.

  “What?”

  “You ran over Rocky.”

  “Who’s Rocky?”

  “You know Rocky,” I said. “Duane’s cat.”

  “I did no such thing,” Topsy said.

  “Yes, you did,” I said. “Duane told Kittery: You backed over him or something.”

  “No,” said Topsy. “Really?”

  “I swear,” I said. “At least that’s what Duane said.”

  “Is he dead?”

  “Yes.”

  “Lord,” Topsy said. “I knew something terrible was going to happen. I could just feel it.”

  I could tell she had stopped working by the quiet. I had my head under the bedspread and I lay there for a while, waiting for Topsy to say something. I was thinking of Kittery and Duane driving the mobile home into the night. Maybe they were on the highway by now. In a way I thought they were crazy but in a way I didn’t. In a way I wanted to be driving somewhere fast on the highway, but in a way I was glad to be there near my grandmother. For a long time we were both quiet. And then she said, “If you’re going to fall asleep, you should get into your own bed.”

  I didn’t answer. I was too tired to respond, let alone get up and go downstairs. Plus, I knew Topsy would wake me up when she finished wallpapering the room, so I could admire it.

  THE WINTER BAZAAR

  WHEN BERTHA KNOX DIED, Knox Farm was developed with “luxury” homes and renamed Norwell Estates. They were the first split-level houses in that part of Indiana, and for a while it was a big deal to visit someone in the Estates to see how the kitchen and living room and bedroom were all on different levels. All that remained of the farm was the house and a couple of acres of cornfields, which belonged to the Methodist Church. Bertha Knox had been a Presbyterian, but the Presbyterians had hired a woman minister, so Mrs. Knox left her house to the Methodists, after her lawyer told her she couldn’t leave it to her dog, Mr. Jim.

  A man from Gaitlinburg eventually bought the farmhouse and the fields fronting the Range Road from the Methodist Church. His plan was to get the zoning changed and open a Dairy Freeze, but when the selectmen proved uncooperative, he stopped paying his mortgage. The Norwell Valley Savings Bank (the only bank in town) was forced to foreclose on the property. The furnishings of the house had remained in Methodist ownership, and anything that wasn’t junk was being sold at the Winter Bazaar.

  One morning in early October, Walter Doyle, who was the president of the Norwell Valley Savings Bank, stopped at the farmhouse on his way to the Rotary lunch at McGooley’s Tavern, over in Hempel. He only intended to have a quick look around, but something about the abandoned, sunlit rooms entranced him. He went upstairs. The bedrooms were tidy and poised, as if awaiting guests. He couldn’t remember when he was last in such a quiet, peaceful place, and the thought of lunch in the basement of McGooley’s—the smoke, the sticky floors, the gelatinous beef stew—repulsed him. So he took a bath, a decadently long bath, in the large porcelain bathtub, and then he lay down on one of the beds in his boxer shorts and T-shirt.

  When he woke up the sun had passed from the window. For a moment he didn’t remember who or where he was. This feeling of disorientation was so rich and transporting he lay still and let it linger. But slowly it faded; his life filtered back into place, familiar and intact. He got dressed and went downstairs.

  Mrs. Topsy Hatter, the chairman of the Winter Bazaar Committee, was standing in the kitchen with a carving knife poised in front her. When she saw it was Walter Doyle coming down the stairs, she said, “Jesus, Walter, you scared me.”

  “Sorry,” Walter said.

  “How long have you been here?” Topsy put the knife back in a drawer.

  She was wrapping glasses in yellowed newspaper. All the cabinet doors were open, arms reaching into the room. The kitchen table was crowded with stemware.

  “I fell asleep upstairs,” Walter said. “I just stopped by to check things, and I fell asleep. I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”

  “You’re probably just tired.”

  Walter didn’t know Mrs. Hatter very well, but he had always been a little bit in love with her. He had baby-sat for her kids, Ellen and Knight, twenty-five years ago. Mr. Hatter had died sometime after that. Mrs. Hatter had worked for the phone company, and brought up Ellen’s two kids after Ellen fell apart, but they were pretty much grown up now. She still lived in her big old house out on Cobble Road. She was active in the town, but she didn’t really fit in with the other ladies. There had always been something competent and independent about her, a way of dismissing things she found irrelevant, that frightened people. Topsy Hatter did things li
ke wear pants and let her black, black hair hang long and loose, back when other women were wearing dresses and getting what they called hairdos at Joanie’s every week. Walter was sure Mrs. Hatter had never set a foot inside of Joanie’s.

  “Are you taking those for the bazaar?” he asked.

  “Yes,” she said. “You know, Bertha Knox had some nice things. It’s kind of sad, her not having anyone to give them to. A stupid dog.”

  “Can I help?”

  “Oh, no,” said Topsy. “This is my job. Shouldn’t you be at work?”

  “They will survive without me.” Walter sat down at the kitchen table. He picked up one of the glasses, got up, and filled it at the tap. The water was rusty, but he let it run till it turned clear. It tasted fresher and sweeter than the water at home. It must be well water, he thought.

  “You’re doing this all yourself?” He sat back down. “Don’t you have any helpers?”

  “No,” said Topsy. “I like it, coming out here. It’s nice and quiet. I’ll let the ladies take care of the rest, but I like being out here alone.”

  “It doesn’t scare you?”

  Topsy laughed. “No,” she said. “It doesn’t scare me.”

  “I like being here, too,” Walter said.

  He watched her swaddle a glass. Her dark hair was gray now, but he couldn’t tell how long, since it was in a bun. “You used to have such long hair,” he said. “It was beautiful. Is it still?”

  “It’s still long,” she said, “but I don’t think it was ever beautiful.”

  “Can I see it?”

  “No,” she said.

  “Why not?” he asked.

  “Because.”

  He picked up a sheet of the newspaper. It was the Norwell Bulletin, ten years old. “Old news,” he said.

  “I found it in the basement. There are stacks and stacks of them.”

  “You went down into the basement?” That was where Bertha Knox and Mr. Jim’s bodies had been found.

  “Apparently.”

  “You weren’t scared?”

  “Of what?”

  “I don’t know. Scared to go down there?”

  “No,” said Topsy. “I wasn’t. I don’t scare easy.”

  The next day he was there when she arrived. She recognized his car behind the hedge and she thought about backing up and leaving, but she didn’t. She parked beside it and went inside. He was packing the glasses she had wrapped in a cardboard box.