Clair De Lune

by Jetta Carleton

  They had come to the high bridge across the ravine. “This is the main entrance,” he said. “The drive winds around clear across the park, but a lot of little roads leading off. Country club’s over there to the right. You can’t see the clubhouse from here, but that’s the golf course all around it. Ever play golf?”

  “I’ve—been on a golf course.”

  “Always thought it would be an interesting sport. You’ll have to teach me how to play.”

  “I don’t know much about it.”

  “I’ll bet you do, I’ll bet you’re good at it. Dang! I wish it weren’t so near the end of school. I bet you play tennis too. There are some nice tennis courts out here, right up that way.”

  And beyond the courts, the long hill sloping down to the creek where the fog sometimes rose over your head.

  “I never learned to play tennis,” he said. “Always meant to in college, but never could find the time. Now over on this side there’s a lake, spring-fed. In summer they rope a part of it off where people can swim. Right over there, see? Lean over this way—see that long building? That’s the bathhouse. You like to swim?”

  “Wherever there’s water.”

  “Same way with me. Learned in the creek down at the farm. My mother tried to keep me out, afraid I’d drown. But I sneaked in every chance I got. Don’t have much time to swim nowadays. Now up here a little ways—up this drive, I think—there’s a large playground. Swings and teeter-totters, slides, everything for the kids. I don’t see it though. Must’ve been up that other direction.”

  She could have led him to it, blindfolded.

  “Well, anyway, it’s out here somewhere. And a bandstand and picnic area. This is a nice stand of trees along here.”

  Tiresome old Ansel, rattling off facts and figures, pointing out places she knew better than he did and wanted to forget. She sat in her corner of the seat and looked out the window.

  “The majority of trees out here are oak, lot of scrub oak and hickory. Ash and sycamore down by the creek, and some willows.”

  He prattled on as they meandered through the maze of byways, through groves and hollows she knew by heart.

  But soon, when they had left the park, driving along a road unfamiliar to her, she found that she was listening to his tales of feuds and hauntings, barn-raising and hell-raising in that hilly countryside, and high drama enacted here long ago in rude accents still touched with Elizabethan. He really did know a great deal.

  “But I’m talking too much,” he said. “You probably find it pretty dull.”

  “No,” she said, meaning it, “not dull at all.”

  “I get wound up on local lore and forget when to stop.”

  “I like it.”

  “I didn’t mean to monopolize the conversation. You haven’t hardly got a word in edgewise. Let’s talk about you for a while.”

  “Oh, that’s not very interesting.”

  “I bet it is.”

  “What time is it? I should be getting home.”

  “But there are still so many places to see around here. Let’s run out to Bunkin’s Mill—I bet you’ve never been out there.”

  “That’s a long way, isn’t it?”

  “Nah, mile or two.”

  It was more like five or six. If it had been any closer, within walking distance, she and Toby and George would have been there. But he entertained her with a story of old Bunkin’s daughter, how she stood off her brothers with a forty-four when they tried to take over the mill. “That was after the old man died, around 1897. He got in some trouble with the half-breed his daughter married, some Osage wandered over from Oklahoma or left over from the days when they inhabited this neck of the woods. Rumor was that the gal used that forty-four on the husband not long after. He wasn’t around when she took over the mill and ran the brothers off. It’s a recreation place now, swimming pool and a dance pavilion. Right up this road here.”

  They turned off on a dark lane winding among the trees and across a narrow bridge. Beyond it the mill stood, tall and featureless in the darkness.

  “You ought to see it when there’s a full moon,” Ansel said. “It’s really picturesque. Mother and I came out here one night last summer. We spend most of the summer here in town, you know. Sometimes spend a few weeks with some kinfolks down close to the farm, but we’re here most of the time. It was one of those real hot nights in July. We were just driving around, trying to get a breath of air. This place was all lit up around the pavilion. We could see people dancing and swimming. It’s real swanky out here, so I’ve heard. There’s the old mill part over there. Listen, you can hear the water.”

  He stopped the car and she sat back in her corner, expecting him to reach for her. But he left the motor running and after a moment drove on. The road was dark; it crossed a creek by a spillway, took sharp turns this way and that. She had no idea where she was until they were coming up Center Street, with the Grease Pit dead ahead, all its bare bulbs blazing.

  “How about it,” said Ansel, “you ready for something to drink now?”

  There were cars (ceded for the evening by cautious fathers, in honor of graduation) nosed up to the Pit all around. The place would be swarming with kids. Toby and George might be there. “Thank you, no!” she said. “I couldn’t. Really, I ought to get home.”

  “Well, if you think you have to.”

  He drove past the Grease Pit slowly, on past the bakery, remarking on the aroma, and so at last to her corner.

  “That was fun,” she said, hopping out of the car before he could come around to help her. “It was fascinating, all that about the landmarks around here and the old settlers. You really know your local history. You should write about it.”

  “I’ve thought about it,” he said, following her up the steps. “I’d like to write a novel about the region, something on the order of Harold Bell Wright.”

  “Something like that.” She paused at the door and turned. “Thank you very much, Dr. Ansel. See you Monday.”

  “I sure hope we can do this again.”

  “Not another baccalaureate address!”

  “I mean ride around like this. And talk. Gosh, it’s too bad you’re not going to be here this summer. Mother and I are going to be here most of the time.”

  “I’ve got summer school on my shoulders,” she said. “Have to finish my education credits.”

  “Guess you’ll be seeing a lot of your fiancé up there.”

  “Who? Oh.”

  “Your steady, your whatever you call him. What’s his name anyway?”

  “Max,” she blurted. It was the first grown-up name that popped into her head.

  “Max! Don’t you gals marry anything but Maxes?”

  “I didn’t say I was going to marry him.”

  “I thought you were engaged.”

  “We—broke it off.”

  “Oh. Well. Golly, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to… Say, maybe if you’re not going to be busy with him all summer—”

  “Oh, I’ll be busy!” she said, opening the screen door.

  “It doesn’t take long to drive up there.”

  “I’ve got an awful schedule.” She reached inside for the light switch. “Education courses—you know how they are.”

  “But I guess you’ll be back in the fall. You are coming back, aren’t you?”

  She took her hand off the switch, leaving the kitchen dark. One more step and she would have been home free. Ansel knew all about it. Give him a rumor and he would research it. She was regional history to him. “They—gave me a contract,” she said.

  “I—uh—heard they were trying to make some trouble for you.”

  “Who was?”

  “That Medgar woman. Some gossip she picked up.”

  “She never did approve of me.”

  “Why not?” he said, with one foot across the doorsill.

  “Oh, she thinks I’m too young. And she doesn’t like my name.”

  “That’s not enough to fire you for. I don’t know j
ust what it’s all about....” He waited for her to say. “Guess you know what it is.”

  “Sort of.”

  “You sure are tops with the students. Everybody knows that.”

  “They’re nice kids.”

  “They sure think you’re nice—especially the boys! Can’t say I blame t’em.” He hesitated and, when she said nothing, went off at another angle. “I like it when students want to know more than we have time to teach them in class. They’re worth a little extra attention. I reckon you’ve found that too.”

  “Sometimes.”

  “It doesn’t take much to start people thinking the wrong thing.”

  “No.”

  “I bet Mrs. Medgar imagines all kinds of things going on up here, you with your own apartment. Wild parties and all that.”

  “She’d like to think so.”

  “Stories get started. You know how it is. I certainly don’t believe it.”

  “I should hope not.”

  “I don’t know about the rest of them—Pickering and them. Lord’s okay. He says if you want to go wild that’s your business, long as it doesn’t rub off on him. But Pickering and them… Some folks like to talk. You know how it is. Especially about someone as young and cute as you are.”

  “Oh, come on!” she said crossly.

  “Well, you are cute. All of them think so whether they say so or not. Some of them just want to believe everything they hear.”

  “Seems like it. Well, good night again.”

  “I tell them it’s not so. I do, I tell them. You’ve got more sense than that. And I can vouch for it. We’ve had too many good conversations for me not to know you’re pretty smart. I tell them that too.”

  She turned to him slowly. “Thank you, Dr. Ansel.”

  “You don’t have to call me Doctor.”

  “It’s good of you to speak up for me. Not everyone would.”

  “I do. You know I’ll do it, anytime.”

  “I appreciate it. Thank you,” she said, humbled. “Thank you very much.” She held out her hand. “Well, good night.”

  “Say, I sure did enjoy this evening.”

  “So did I,” she said, pulling her hand away. “See you in the morning.”

  “Maybe we can do this again before you leave.”

  But he was faced with the door gently closing.

  Twenty-two

  It had not been a bad evening, not bad at all. He had acquitted himself very nicely. And he had not laid a hand on her. She was grateful for that. She would not have wanted to have to rebuff Dr. Ansel. After all, he alone, of all her colleagues, had the courage to defend her. She wanted with all her heart to like him.

  She worked at it all the following Monday, as she wrote out her class reports and began cleaning out her room for the summer. She willed herself to see him as distinguished and urbane, even, in a way, handsome. His hair, now that she gave it a second thought, was quite dark and glossy. It even curled a little at the edges. Or would have if he hadn’t tried to paste it down with so much hair oil. She was nice to him, very nice. The nicer she was, the easier it became, until by the end of the day, after he had been in and out of her room half a dozen times, she had begun quite to enjoy it. It was like a game one learns to play well, that gets into the blood. She went home that night, if not altogether happy, at least for the first time in many days modestly pleased with herself.

  She was therefore not precisely displeased, though certainly taken aback, when that evening a little after eight Dr. Ansel appeared at her door.

  “I was just passing,” he said, “and saw your light.”

  “Oh!” she said brightly. And they stood, he outside the screen, she inside, looking at each other.

  “Would you mind if I came in?”

  She lifted the hook. He stepped inside, smelling of lotion and Sen-Sen. He carried a white box under his arm. “I don’t want to bother you if you’re busy.”

  “I was just finishing supper.”

  “Go right ahead, don’t let me interrupt.”

  “No, I’m through.” She seemed to have taken root in the linoleum.

  “Could I help you wash dishes? I help Mother sometimes.”

  “Oh, thanks, I’ll just leave them. Again,” she added, with a glance at the many left undone before. “Come on in. The place is a wreck.” Shoes and books lay scattered on the floor. She had left the ironing board up with a skirt draped over the end.

  Dr. Ansel looked hesitant. “I should have asked—maybe I shouldn’t be here like this.”

  “It’s all right. If you don’t mind the clutter. I wasn’t expecting anyone.”

  “I was just going by. Oh—here,” he handed her the package, “I thought you might like these.”

  “Why, thank you! My goodness,” she said, opening the box, “how nice!” Chocolates. The ritual offering. “They look delicious. Thank you very much.” She held out the box. “Won’t you?”

  “Thanks.” He lifted a candy from its paper cup and ate it in one bite.

  “Will you sit for a minute?” she said.

  He sat down on the sofa, she across the room in the big chair, and they waited. It was easier at school, with a desk between them.

  “You’ve got a nice place here,” he said.

  “It’s nicer when I clean it up. I’ve been pretty busy.”

  “Yes, it’s a busy time of year.” Another pause. “You’ve got a Victrola,” he told her.

  “Yes,” she said, jumping up. “Want to hear some music?”

  “That’d be just fine. Is it all right to play it this time of night?”

  “Of course. Why not?”

  “Your landlord won’t object?”

  “He doesn’t live here. And I don’t think the other tenants can hear a thing. This is a penthouse, nothing under it but attic. And the apartments downstairs. But they’re too far away. What would you like to hear?”

  “I don’t care. Anything. I don’t know too much about music. Got anything by that guy—you know, the one that wrote, ‘I—must—go’?”

  “Rachmaninoff, ‘Prelude in C Sharp Minor.’”

  “I like that one all right. You have that one?”

  “I don’t happen to have that, but here’s another one of his. It’s called ‘The Isle of the Dead.’”

  She had once seen a photograph of an island said to be the one Rachmaninoff had in mind; a small, steep rockbound island, gloomy with cypress. It was thrilling, and she bought the record because of that. The music, she found, was disappointing. But if she kept the picture in mind, it helped.

  Dr. Ansel listened with a conscientious frown, his gaze studiously abstract, wandering from the phonograph to the candy box, up the wall to the Renoir dancer, and down again to the box.

  She held it out. “Help yourself.” She left the box on the table beside him.

  Absently, he ate one piece and then another, his attention still on the music. Finally he shook his head. “I don’t know, I’m afraid this kind of music is beyond me.”

  “It isn’t one of my favorites. Let’s play something else.”

  She would not play Debussy for Ansel, nor Gershwin. No, not “Nights in the Gardens of Spain,” either. But she would let him have Tchaikovsky. She drew a record out of the jacket and set the needle on the First Concerto.

  Dr. Ansel said he liked this one better. “This is mighty nice,” he said, leaning back against the cushions. “You really know how to live, don’t you? Books, classical music, flowers—”

  His glance slid quickly past the withered tulips left in a vase, and up to the Renoir. “And pictures—that looks like real art. Boy, you know how to do it!” He smiled at her across the room and something a little sly crept into the smile. “There’s only one thing missing right now,” he said. To her astonishment, he drew a brown bottle from an inner pocket. “Good books and good music and good conversation need a little whiskey to go with them.”

  “Oh brother!” she said, laughing. “I’m in enough trouble without tha
t! What would Mrs. Medgar say?”

  “What’s she got to do with it?”

  “I’d never keep my job!”

  “How’s she going to know? She’s not looking in the window.” But he glanced over his shoulder to make sure. “Look, we’re free, white, and over twenty-one. If we want to have a civilized drink together, that’s our business. That’s how I look at it.”

  “Yes, but—”

  “Who’s going to know? A civilized drink among friends. It’s just like up at the university. The faculty get together and relax, have a few highballs. You know they do. Had one offer me a drink once. I bet you did too. I figure any graduate student did. It’s nice. Really brings out the conversation.”

  “Yes,” she said uncertainly.

  “Why don’t you get us a couple of glasses? Or tell me where they are.”

  “I’ll get them.” She took down the little tray she sometimes used on Sunday mornings when she had breakfast in bed. She covered it with a paper napkin, washed out two glasses, filled them with ice, and carried them in.

  “Now that’s what I call swank!” Dr. Ansel jumped to his feet, swallowing a mouthful of candy. “You really know how to do things. I hope you like bourbon,” he said, pouring. “I could have got something else.”

  “Bourbon’s fine. Just a little for me—that’s enough.”

  But he poured the glasses half full and sat down again, looking pleased with himself. “Well, what is it they say? Here’s to your health.”

  “Thank you.”

  He took a long pull at the drink and leaned back. “This is swell. Good literature and good company and whiskey.” He smiled, raised his glass to her, and drank again.

  Ill at ease, she sat holding the glass. Mrs. Medgar might not be at the window, but things had a way of being found out. Still, this was not quite the same; this was not a schoolkid across the room from her. It was a Ph.D., the most distinguished member of the faculty—who at this moment had opened a book from her table and was reading aloud from Walt Whitman. He read dramatically, as if from a platform, and rather too loud. But he read well and she said so.

  It pleased him. “I read aloud to my classes a lot,” he said. “I think it helps them get the meaning.”

  He then read a passage from Sandburg and from there, by way of the prairie poets and this one and that, got off on the frontier movement and its effect on American letters. Leaning back on the cushions, his legs stretched comfortably, he talked of the nineteenth century and the forces, political and geographic, that had shaped its writing. He was in familiar territory, and as he talked his assurance grew. Gone was the studious self-importance he wore around school like a barrel. Without it he wasn’t so clumsy.