by Tom Drury
And he did work. He had never worked so hard on anything, with the possible exception of his big plan (never carried out, for lack of a decent accomplice) to steal fifty-five miles of copper wiring from the Rock Island Railroad. And, although he had hopes of getting paid, this had not happened yet. He had money left from Colorado and was also trying to launch a new business in which he would go from town to town washing windows. Squeegee and bucket in hand, Tiny thought he had found an unfilled niche, but others did not see it that way. Most people gave Tiny quizzical or suspicious looks and told him to keep moving. Some people with filthy windows got angry, asking, “What are you trying to say?” Once in a while he got a taker, but not often. The whole thing seemed misunderstood and forlorn as Tiny drove the empty plain between the towns.
In this sense the window washing blended well with the high school talks, which Tiny did more of as the weather got colder. He gained confidence, as Johnny had said he would. Minor problems no longer fazed him. In Stone City, for example, before the biggest audience Tiny had yet faced, his tie slipped from his collar and fell to the gym floor, and he was able to laugh along with everyone instead of, say, heaving the podium into the crowd. Another time, there was some kind of scheduling mistake and he had to sit through a play rehearsal on the stage of the Grafton gym. Tiny did not mind, because he was feeling somewhat distracted and this gave him the opportunity to settle down. The drama featured Claude Robeshaw’s son Albert and an Asian girl whose name Tiny did not know. (This was Lu Chiang.)
“You say it,” said Albert.
“You say it,” said the girl.
“In this scene—”
“Don’t say it like that,” said the girl.
“Why don’t you say it,” said Albert.
“Go, ‘In this scene, Melville’s hero relays part of his daring plan to the mysterious and dark-haired Isabel,’” said the girl. “Put a taste of suspense in there.”
Albert repeated the introduction, and he and the girl took their places on a wooden bench.
“This strange, mysterious, unexampled love between us makes me all plastic in thy hand,” said the girl. “The world seems all one unknown India to me.”
“Thou, and I, and Delly Ulver,” said Albert Robeshaw, “tomorrow morning depart this whole neighborhood, and go to the distant city.”
“What is it thou wouldst have thee and me to do together?” said the girl.
Albert stood. He put his hand on his narrow chest. “Let me go now,” he said.
The girl rose and wrapped her arms around Albert. “Pierre, if indeed my soul hath cast on thee the same black shadow that my hair now flings on thee… Isabel will not outlive this night.”
The girl collapsed and Albert held her by the waist. They began making out. A handful of students clapped and whistled and stamped their feet, and a teacher said, “What did I say about the kissing. Pierre and Isabel! What did I say!”
Tiny began his talk by acknowledging the damage he had done not only in this gym but elsewhere. He blamed it all on drugs and alcohol, and examined in some detail the breakdown of his marriage and the pain involved in a bad hangover. He did not dwell long—he never did—on the concept of the Room, because no one understood it, and he did not understand it himself. His tie stayed in his collar, and when he asked for questions Jocelyn Jewell stood up with a high school yearbook and said, “Is it true that you graduated in 1969?”
“Yes,” said Tiny.
“Do you remember by any chance the caption on your senior picture?”
“No, ma’am,” said Tiny.
“Well, I have it right here. ‘If trouble were sand, I would be a beach.’ Can you tell us about this?”
“I’d say it was self-explanatory,” said Tiny.
“I also have something else, and this is a comment, not a question,” said Jocelyn Jewell. “Do you know the part in the film you showed where the boy is writing the letter to his parents?”
“Yes,” said Tiny.
“And he goes, I forget what it was exactly, something like, ‘Dear Mom and Dad, I’m having a great time in college but I need more money for drugs.’”
“Right.”
“I just think that’s kind of unrealistic. Because I don’t think anyone would come out and say that.”
“Yeah, maybe not,” said Tiny.
The next question was from Albert Robeshaw. “With so much emphasis on drugs, don’t you think it makes our country look pathetic or something?”
“It takes a big nation to admit it has large problems,” said Tiny.
Then Dane Marquardt stood, but Albert Robeshaw did not sit down. “I want to second what Albert said. Our country is pathetic,” said Dane.
“Where would you go, assuming you could go anywhere?” said Tiny.
“Copenhagen,” said Albert.
“I would, too,” said Dane.
“What’s the drug situation there?” said Tiny.
“It’s much better than this dump,” said Dane Marquardt.
“It was founded in the eleventh century,” said Albert Robeshaw. “It has a temperate climate.”
Principal Lou Steenhard walked up to Tiny and took the microphone. “Mr. Darling is a drug counselor, people, not a travel agent,” he said.
“Well, I’m not really a drug counselor either,” said Tiny. “They call me a drug lecturer.”
“I have a question about drugs,” said Albert. “You know when they fry the egg on television and say this is your brain on drugs? Well, I wonder how effective that is. Because I just get hungry for eggs.”
It was cold and windy when Tiny left the gym. Winter was coming and he was glad. To him it was the most honest of the seasons. He drove to Morrisville and stepped into the jazz-dancing salon underneath the Room. There were mirrors everywhere, and with his hair and his tie he really didn’t look like himself. He danced along with the perspiring women for a minute and then went upstairs. Johnny sat on the edge of his desk, spinning the cylinder of a six-shooter.
“How’d it go, buddy?” he said. “Don’t worry. This is a limited-edition replica.”
“I feel like if I got through to one person it was worth it,” said Tiny.
“I know damned well you did,” said Johnny. “But don’t worry about that. We’re putting you on the payroll next week.”
“That’s good,” said Tiny.
“You’re going to do some grown-ups,” said Johnny.
“Jesus, John, wonder if I’m ready,” said Tiny.
“You’ve got what people are hungry for,” said Johnny. “Straight talk.” He pretended to draw and fire the gun, and then laid it on the desk. He brought out a camera.
“We need your picture for an identification card,” said Johnny. “It’s really kind of nice. I put mine in a leather holder so it looks like a badge.”
“I was just thinking of something,” said Tiny. “How about if I go over to Kleeborg’s Portraits in Stone City?”
“We don’t have the money,” said Johnny. “We’re saving up for an overhead projector.”
“I’ll pay,” said Tiny.
“This wouldn’t be because Louise works there,” said Johnny.
“Partly,” said Tiny.
“I’m not going to tell you how to live,” said Johnny. “But let’s say you go over there and, who knows, an argument of some kind should occur. I would hate to see you throw away your good work. Because the Room would fire your ass, and I know it, because that’s how I got this job. So my advice would be to let me take your picture.”
“All right,” said Tiny.
Johnny turned the focusing ring of the camera. “Hold that face,” he said.
Joan Gower climbed the attic stairs with a flashlight at the Little Church of the Redeemer. It was cold and she rubbed her arms, making the light dance in the rafters. She bumped the worn plywood figures of the Nativity scene and continued to the back wall, where, under a dim and diamond-shaped window, there were three trunks, each bearing her name. She had labeled
the trunks years ago, when she was spelling her name Joän. These were her things from Chicago. She had to open all the trunks before she found the canvas pillow that she had worn in order to perform the role of the pregnant woman in the French farce. It had two straps, one for her hips and one for her back, and utilized a crude and early form of Velcro. She belted the rig over her jeans and sweater. Then she put on a long, gray houndstooth coat that she had worn all the time back then.
Joan went down the steps carefully. The hard part in the play had been to accept the weight as part of herself, and in turn to project that acceptance beyond the edge of the stage. The cast had been much nicer to her when she appeared to be pregnant, even though they knew it was an illusion. She walked through the drab church and out the side door. She got a rake from the shed and began combing the algae from the duck pond. The clouds were like the pieces of a broken blackboard. Sometimes Joan wished she had stuck with her acting a little longer. Of course, there was nothing that said she couldn’t get back into it. Even now, anyone driving by would have thought for all the world that she was a pregnant woman walking in the hills. No one did drive by, however. The ducks followed her around the edge of the water. “I am big as a house,” she said.
Meanwhile, Tiny was standing in the reception area of Kleeborg’s Portraits. He felt as though he had completed a long journey to reunite with Louise, although he might not have a lot to show for it. Tiny rang a bell and waited quite a while. Eventually Kleeborg came out. He had thin white hair and large wraparound sunglasses. Gesturing with the squeegee, Tiny offered to wash the windows.
“I got a guy named Pete who comes around in the spring,” said Kleeborg.
“With windows like these, I wouldn’t wait until spring,” said Tiny. “I mean, it’s up to you. But come over here. This is not good.”
“I don’t see very well since my car accident,” said Kleeborg.
“Maybe there’s someone else who can take a look,” said Tiny. “I’m not saying this because of the money. I’m saying this as a friend.”
“We’ve come this far with Pete,” said Kleeborg. “Goodbye.”
Tiny left the office and stood on the sidewalk. Kleeborg’s was on the ground floor of a three-story building with an awning. The door opened and Louise stepped onto the sidewalk. Her hair was pulled into a ponytail. She held a little paintbrush in her hand.
“Hi, Lou,” said Tiny.
“What happened to your hair?” she said.
“I had it dyed,” said Tiny. “What do you think?”
“It’s dark all right.”
“Thank you.”
“What do you want?”
“To see you.”
“Here I am,” said Louise. “Happy now?”
TEN
KLEEBORG WAS STANDING at the window when Louise came in. “That window washer didn’t want to take no for an answer,” he said.
They watched him get into the rusted Parisienne. “He had no intention of washing the windows,” said Louise. “Well, I mean, he may have. Who knows? But that’s Tiny Darling.”
“You’re kidding,” said Kleeborg.
“Would that I were.”
“I thought he joined the Seabees.”
“No, he sure didn’t.”
The car pulled from the curb.
“He’s right about the windows,” said Louise.
“I don’t see where clean windows is going to get us any business that we wouldn’t get otherwise,” said Kleeborg.
“I tend to agree,” said Louise.
“Well, I’m going up,” said Kleeborg. He lived in an apartment above the studio. “Take care of yourself.”
“Good night, Perry.”
She turned out the lights, locked the doors, and headed for home. But she had only gone a few blocks when Tiny’s headlights swung into her rear-view mirror. She cut across the train yard, but he was not falling for anything. He didn’t try to run her off the road but just maintained a certain distance. Finally, out in the country, she pulled over and rolled down her window. Tiny got out of his car, walked up beside her.
“What a messy car,” he said.
She picked up a bottle cap, as if considering the evidence. “Twist off,” she said.
“Do you remember when we were in high school?” said Tiny.
“We weren’t in high school at the same time.”
“You weren’t a freshman when I was a senior?”
“I’m afraid not.”
“Well, anyway. In my senior interview, they asked, ‘What is your pet peeve?’ And do you know what I said? Do you remember?”
“No,” said Louise. “And please get your arm off the door.”
“People who think they’re better than others.”
“Oh, everybody said that. And better isn’t the issue. You want me to say I was wrong. Fine. I was wrong. I wrote the book of wrong. Now stop following me. You know, we never should have got married. Our marriage was… misguided.”
“You liked my owl tattoo.”
“Yeah, there’s a solid foundation.”
“You forget the good times,” said Tiny. “You have dismissed them from your mind.”
“It’s hard to conduct a life and not have a few good times, if only by chance,” said Louise.
“I cooked for you when you were sick,” said Tiny.
“Never once did you cook for me in six years.”
“I most certainly did make Kraft Dinner that time you were sick.”
“Why? Because you were hungry,” said Louise.
She went home to an empty farmhouse. Dan was seeing a therapist at that hour for his insomnia. Louise ran a steaming bath and undressed. She balanced a Redbook magazine and a package of Twizzlers on the rim of the tub.
For a half hour she soaked. Then the candy was gone and Redbook fell into the water. She retrieved the magazine and hung it over the towel rack to dry. She washed and conditioned her hair, rinsing with a red Hills Brothers coffee can.
Dan came home. She lay on the bed in a white robe, watching square dancing on television. The men had their hands on the women’s waists as they danced among hay bales. This aroused her vaguely. Dan took his badge off and put it on the dresser.
“Check out the petticoats,” said Louise.
“Ooh la la,” said Dan.
“So how was the therapist? Did she fork over the sleeping tablets?”
“She said I should try sleeping outside the house.”
“It’s cold out there,” said Louise.
“Well, she didn’t mean outdoors,” said Dan. “She meant a motel, I guess.”
“Who’s going to pay for that?” said Louise.
“I told her it was impossible,” said Dan.
“We’re not even fighting, not really.”
“I told her that.”
Louise turned on her side in her robe. “I seriously hope you did.”
Dan’s eyes changed as she said this. They got deeper somehow, seemed to focus on something inside her. His hand brushed her throat; he kissed her.
“I mean, Jesus, go for a simple sedative,” she whispered.
She woke in the dark of night and reached for Dan, finding no one. She got out of bed and went downstairs. Dan was reading Arizona Highways on the davenport. Mary always gave them her copy when she had finished with it.
“Look at this house,” he said. He folded the magazine and showed her. “It’s supposed to be haunted.”
“By what?” said Louise. “The lonely ghost of a restless sheriff?”
“You don’t see a figure in the window?” he asked.
“No, darling,” said Louise. “It’s a reflection.”
Late fall was a busy time at Kleeborg’s. One Saturday morning Louise drove down to Morrisville to take some publicity pictures for Russell Ford’s RV dealership.
In the photographs Russell’s nephew was to embrace a young woman in front of a mobile home. When Louise arrived, the girl was sitting on a spackle bucket in a strapless dress of
black and gold.
“Hey, Maren,” said Louise, for it was Maren Staley, the young woman who had come into Kleeborg’s a year and a half before to have her high school picture taken but had been too hung over to pose. Next to Maren’s name in the yearbook was a drawing of a person in a barrel with shoulder straps. The caption said, “Nothing to Wear.” Now she was sober and pretty, grown up, leaning forward, shielding her sternum from the icy breeze.
Louise got a flannel shirt from her car and gave it to Maren. Russell’s nephew Steven drove up. He was a handsome kid wearing a tuxedo. He had very little resemblance to his Uncle Russell.
The session was dogged by problems. Maren’s shoulders got goosebumps. The lights flickered because of a bad connection that could not be isolated. Maren was supposed to hug Steven’s neck, but with her arms raised that way, the edge of her bra could be seen above the side of her dress.
“Fix her undershirt,” said Russell Ford. He stood beside Louise, speaking into a megaphone.
“I’m right here,” said Louise. She went over and pinned the bra to the dress.
“And another thing. The trim is bent,” said Russell.
“What trim?” said Louise.
“On the motor home,” said Russell. So then there was another delay while Russell went to find an unmarred example of this particular model he wanted in the advertisement.
Maren put Louise’s flannel shirt on and bummed a cigarette. Louise looked in her pack. “There are six,” she said. “Take them.” The two women climbed into a silver trailer like the ones in which the astronauts used to recuperate after coming back from the moon.