“This isn’t an outpatient job, Mr. Jones,” the doctor said. “There’s too much infection. How’d this happen?”
William T. said nothing. Again, the doctor didn’t seem to mind. He was a man comfortable with silence, it seemed.
At the funeral, William T. had walked away after a time, around the house, crept in behind the burdock patch. His nephew, Peter, had found him there. The slanting rays of the May sun had lit up the whole Sterns Valley beyond where William T. knelt, the knees of his one suit already soaked through. Burdock stickers clung to the black socks Eliza had found for him to wear.
William T. had no recollection of seeing Peter come walking up, but then there he was.
“Uncle William T.?”
Peter had come toward him with hands outstretched. He walked right through the burdock patch. Peter and William J. had been born within three months of each other.
“You’re going to get those stickers dug into your suit pants,” William T. had said.
The burdock stickers were everywhere. William T. never bothered to clean them out in the fall. They littered the earth. Peter was wearing a black suit. Where had it come from? When had he grown up into the man he now appeared to be, wearing a black suit at his cousin’s funeral?
“Uncle William T.,” Peter had said. “I’m so sorry. My God.”
Sweat dripped off his hair, down his neck, off his chin and cheeks. The sun was unbearably bright out there, unseasonably warm.
“I mean, he was my only cousin,” Peter said. “We grew up together.”
The boy—the man—knelt next to William T. on the damp ground.
“Burl was crying,” William T. said. “He couldn’t sing the hymn he was supposed to sing, did you notice that?”
The last time William T. had seen Burl cry was in first grade, after he had come out of the bathroom with Mrs. Mason. That time, William T. had propped up the hinged top of his desk and bent over, pretending to be searching for something, so that Burl would have a human shield to hide behind.
“You’re going to rip your pants on these burdocks,” William T. said again.
“I don’t care.”
Peter had plucked at the burdock, breaking off one of the huge leaves and using it as a fan.
“What was that thing he had again?” Peter said. “The thing that made him lose his hearing.”
“Cogan’s syndrome.”
“Where’s it come from?”
“They don’t know.”
“But how could it come on so fast? One day he’s fine, three days later he’s deaf?”
“They don’t know.”
Peter waved the burdock leaf back and forth. William T. felt the slight stir of air.
“Do you remember when William J. and I picked a bunch of this and sold it out at our sweet-corn stand on Route 12?” Peter said. “With a sign that said ‘Wild Adirondack Rhubarb.’”
“I remember.”
“The New Yorkers bought it.”
“They did.”
Peter’s hand had kept waving the burdock leaf back and forth. William T.’s knees ached and his head thudded.
“Uncle William T.,” Peter said. “Do you think there’s any chance that he—”
“He was deaf, Peter,” William T. said. “He never heard it coming.”
After a while a nurse came in and hooked him up to a bag of clear liquid that dripped into his arm through a tube.
“Mr. Jones, I’m going to count backward from ten, and your job is to think of the happiest moment of your life while I do that.”
Ten.
“Mr. Jones?”
His arms grew heavy.
Nine.
“Mr. Jones? Can you hear me?” Eight.
William T.’s head filled with clouds. The room grew whiter and whiter, and at the end of a long tunnel he saw his child, sitting at a kitchen table, tracing a map of the known and unknown world onto a piece of onionskin.
TINY STICK FIGURE AIRPLANES CRISSCROSSED above a large misshapen green ball, short pencil lines zooming from one to another. Unfamiliar continents were drawn at random in the middle of blue, wave-tossed oceans.
“What are you doing, William J.?” William T. said.
The boy sat bent-headed at the kitchen table. Seven o’clock on an Adirondack October night. Pitch black.
“I’m drawing a map of the known world.”
“Looks more like the unknown world.”
“It’s a map for all the places we’ll go when we buy our around-the-world plane tickets.”
The boy had recently learned about the existence of around-the-world plane tickets. Eliza was in Speculator, visiting the sister for the night. The soapy water had heated William T.’s hands to the point that when he lifted them from the water, bubbles draining away down his wrists, they were bright red. A package of gingersnaps lay open on the table.
William T. inserted several gingersnaps at once into his mouth and then plunged his hands back into the dishwater. Tomato sauce had burnt the bottom of the spaghetti pot black. Eliza would not be happy. He scrubbed with the steel wool but to no avail. The pot resisted. It was a recalcitrant pot.
“Dad?”
William T. bore down on the black burnt mess.
“Dad? Are you listening to me?”
The pot was not attempting to come clean. It was not even going to try to meet him halfway. The hell with it. William T. ran more hot into the sink, then dried his hands and went over to the table where William J. sat. Pencil lines zigged and zagged all over the piece of onionskin.
“Here’s where you’ll start in your airplane, and here’s where I’ll start in my airplane,” William J. said.
The child’s finger hovered over an indefinable land mass.
“And this is where we’ll meet, Dad.”
“And where is that?”
“California.”
“California’s supposed to be beautiful.”
“That’s what Burl says, too,” William J. said.
“But I’m at an unfair disadvantage,” William T. said. “You’re starting from the other side of the continent and I have to go around the entire rest of the world. It’ll take me six times as long.”
“You can do it, Dad.”
“You have more faith in me than I do then.”
“I’ll wait for you.”
“You might be waiting a long time. Now go start getting ready for bed.”
“Bed? You said we could take the crystal radio up Star Hill tonight.”
“I did?”
“You did. You said that while the cat’s away the mice will play, and if we can’t get a goddamned signal here in our multistoried house even when we follow the directions and put the crystal wire in the attic, which is the highest point of our multistoried house, then we might just as well get the hell out of Dodge and head to Star Hill, where at least there’s an abandoned goddamned fire tower to climb, because the top of the fire tower’s got to be the highest goddamned point in North Sterns.”
“Jesus Christ, William J.! Watch your mouth!”
“I’m just reminding you of what you said.”
“What if your mother heard that mouth of yours?”
“It’s your mouth, Dad. I’m just repeating what you said.”
“Well, don’t.”
“Burl has perfect pitch,” the child said.
“What the hell is perfect pitch?”
“It’s a gift from God,” the child said. “That’s what Burl says.”
“Burl would. And does Burl think that you also have perfect pitch?”
“Burl says no. He says I have the gift of listening appreciation, though, which Burl thinks is better than perfect pitch.”
“Why?”
“Because perfect pitch hurts. Like you when you sing. It hurts Burl’s ears.”
“My singing hurts Burl’s ears?”
The child looked up from his map. “It’s because you’re a happy man who doesn’t care how loud or off-key you are. That’
s what Burl says.”
“Does he?”
“You’re a man without music. Burl says that, too.”
“Well, that’s a goddamned shame. My oldest friend can’t stand the sound of my voice. And after all I’ve done for him.”
The child laughed.
“You think that’s funny?”
“It’s funny. Can we go to Star Hill now?”
They passed the Buchholzes’ lit barn on the way up to Star Hill.
“Why is their barn always lit?” William J. asked. “Isn’t that a waste of electricity?”
“God almighty, William J. You sound like your mother.”
“Well, why is their barn always lit up?”
“They need light in there for their dancing. The Buchholzes dance in their barn.”
“They do not!”
“They do! Naked, too!”
“No!”
“Yes! Five nights a week, the Buchholzes are in their barn dancing naked. They take the weekend off. Swear to God.”
The child twisted around in his seat to peer out the smeary back window of the cab at the retreating barn of the Buchholzes.
“No shoes even?” he said to William T.
“No shoes.”
“Don’t they step in manure? Don’t their feet get cold?”
“It’s possible,” William T. said. “It’s entirely possible. It seems probable to me even, but then who am I to know?”
It was a night without clouds, warm for October. William T. rolled down his window and drove with his head stuck out, gazing up. Why not? There was no traffic. The shoulders were wide and the ditch shallow, just on the off chance. William J.’s seat belt was buckled. They were safe.
“All is well with the universe, William J!” William T. shouted out the window. “The king of the world and his son are on their way to Star Hill! Not a care in the world!”
Stars were flung thickly across the night sky. The Buchholzes’ barn was a mile back, its solitary light gone for all intents and purposes. It was William T. and William J. and a thousand stars to light their way. William T. pulled his head back in.
“Dad, do you always yell?”
“It’s been said that I speak only in exclamation marks.”
“Why?”
“I’m a happy man, William J. It’s the nature of a happy man to speak loudly.”
“Will I be a happy man?”
“That’s up to you.”
“What will we do in California?”
“Pick bay leaves off bay leaf trees to bring back to Burl. Dip our toes in the Pacific Ocean. Walk on the sand and eat avocados.”
“How many avocados do you think you could eat?”
William T. considered. It depended on the size of the avocado, he imagined. How big were the avocados in California? Were they larger than the ones he occasionally saw at Jewell’s?
“Depending on the size, I would say four,” he said. “That would be my personal limit.”
The boy nodded, absorbing the information. He pulled out the map he had brought with him and scratched down the number four next to an unfamiliar landmass lapped by bright blue waves and large fish that William T. took to be porpoises, cavorting in the ocean.
On top of Star Hill William T. momentarily trained the truck headlights on the base of the abandoned fire tower in order to study it. The steel crossbars were punctuated on the north side by a vertical ladder. Would William J. be able to climb it? He decided that William J. would go first. That way, if the child fell, he would be able to catch him.
“You got the crystal radio?” William T. said.
“Got it.”
“Should I turn off the headlights? Can we climb this thing in the pitch black?”
“Yes.”
“You first then, William J.”
William T. turned the headlights off and waited for his eyes to adjust. Gradually the fiery headlight patches in his vision receded, and the outline of the land took shape. They were at the highest point in North Sterns, atop one of the highest hills in the foothills of the Adirondacks.
The child climbed steadily above him, rung after rung. The steel bars were pleasantly cool to William T.’s hands. He looked straight ahead, gazing south over North Sterns. Here and there a faint light was visible in a house. The hills rose and fell on the surface of the earth, giants slumbering on an Indian summer evening.
At the platform they hauled themselves up the final rungs and sat side by side. The stars were closer here. William T. stared down at the ground, far beneath the abandoned fire tower, and imagined himself as the last forest ranger assigned to this position on the last day of his job. He would have sat here all night, casting his eyes back and forth for signs of smoke and flame. All night long the whippoorwills would have called from their lonely crouches in the tall grass. Owls would have sat blinking on tree limbs, swooping out now and again to catch a bat as he wheeled and circled in the dark night air. The sounds of the night would have been all about William T., and as the sun rose he would have descended the steel rungs one by one, his vision supplanted by more sophisticated means of detecting fire.
William J. took the crystal radio out of his backpack. They had put it together three days ago, on an afternoon when the boy came home early from school. Together they had studied the directions.
Explanation of Components
VARIABLE CAPACITOR: used to tune the radio to a station. DIODE: a small crystal is sealed inside with leads connected to it. COIL: a radio-tuning coil made by winding enameled copper wire around a paper core 80 times. EARPHONE: contains a small crystal that can make enough electricity to drive a metal diaphragm to produce sound. ANTENNA: a wire used for radiating or receiving radio waves. GROUND: a wire used to make an electric connection with the earth.
When the crystal radio was complete William T. had stood on top of William J.’s bed, stretching his arm as high as it could go. If you live in a multistoried building, attach the wire to the highest point on the highest floor, the instructions said. That was what they said, and goddammit it, that was what William T. was going to do.
Nothing.
William J. had read through the troubleshooting list.
“Number two,” he said. “‘You may live in an area where radio reception is generally poor. Instead of trying to use your radio during the day, try at night when many radio stations are received better.’”
William T. had reached down with his free hand for the bit of duct tape William J. held up to him. Into the corner of the boy’s attic bedroom it went.
“That’s as high as high can go, William J.,” William T. had said. “Give it a test.”
The boy had given it a test.
Nothing.
Now they sat at the top of Star Hill on a windless night, the stars high above them. A harvest moon glowed golden in the west, impossibly fat, hanging weightless in the sky. The boy inserted the small plastic earpiece into his ear and tilted his head. He closed his eyes. His hand went out and turned the tuning knob. Back, forth, a little more back, a touch forward. Did the thing work? Was William J., with his gift of hearing appreciation, actually tuning something in? William T. watched his son’s fingers gently manipulate the tuning knob, turn it an imperceptible degree, and then lift and stay in the air, hovering just above.
“You hear something?” William T. asked.
“Shhh.” The boy’s eyes stayed closed and he sat motionless, his head tilted.
“You getting something?” William T. hissed.
William J.’s eyes opened and he stared at his father. There was a look on his face. He nodded.
“What is it?”
“Listen.”
William J. took the earpiece from his ear and held it out to his father. William T. tilted his head the way William J. had done. He fiddled with the knob, adjusting it this way and that. His boy looked at him expectantly.
“Can you hear it?”
William T. adjusted the knob some more. He twisted in his perch at the top
of the fire tower. He gazed up at the thousand stars, the one moon, and willed comprehension to come his way.
“Can you hear it?”
Nothing. Not a goddamn thing.
“Dad, can you hear it?”
William T. held out his hand in a hushing motion. William J.’s eyes went wide and he leaned forward and rested his head against the steel support of the fire tower platform. Years ago, this tower had been manned all day and all night. Vigilant eyes on the lookout for oncoming weather, for smoke, for flame.
“It’s so beautiful, isn’t it?” William J. whispered.
William T. nodded slowly and closed his eyes. He moved his index finger in the dark night air as if he were conducting a symphony.
Nothing. Not a sound. He was a man without music, just as Burl said. William T. reached to take the earpiece from his ear and felt himself floating down from the abandoned fire tower through dark night air as thick and soft as cotton. A nurse counted numbers out softly, the gray hair around her kind face blurring into the edges of a cloud that turned into his son’s face in the sky above the broken-down barn that turned into a slight child hanging a wind chime made of his mother’s silver knives from a piece of clothesline that turned into a child climbing an abandoned fire tower that turned into the memory of a song hovering over fields while a man without music ran down a road in search—
WILLIAM T. WOKE TO DARKNESS BROKEN BY A thin band of hallway fluorescence under the door and imagined his truck, parked outside in the Drop-Off/Pick-Up Only spot. It would be long gone by now. He conjured a tow truck, a Syracuse towing company, some company he had never heard of, unlike Sterns Trucking & Towing, coming slowly up the circular hospital driveway in the middle of the night. A man in a ripped parka and a knit cap hauled himself out of the cab, slammed shut the door, fumbled in the back with the tow chain, and hooked it up to the front of William T.’s old truck.
The man yawned. He took his time. No rush. He was not paid to rush. He was paid by the job, and in a snowless winter there weren’t many jobs. In the darkness of night the front of William T.’s truck was lifted partway into the air and dragged along behind the tow truck. The man inside the cab draped his hands over the wheel and listened to Lucinda Williams: See what you lost when you left this world, this sweet old world? William T. was filled with warmth for the tow truck man, loving Lucinda in the same way that he, William T., loved her.
Was It Beautiful? Page 11