The Mt. Monadnock Blues

by Larry Duberstein

“Well, you know.”

  “I don’t. Earl wants to shoot them, maybe? To make sure they aren’t corrupted?”

  “They want to raise the children. Earl is very amenable.”

  “Is that right! Amenable.”

  “That’s my word, Timmy. It does make a whole lot of sense, is the point.”

  All the gongs were bombillating wildly now, as he strived to sort through courses of action. Slash Earl’s tires (all fourteen of them) and call in the Law. Get hold of Moss, and Goldsmith, and Jellinghaus (hell, the Law was on his side) and get all necessary paperwork to Vermont in a hurry, into the gentle hands of Arn and Eliza Broom at good Camp Keokuk.

  These impulses Tim did not express. You want to look calm here, he counselled himself. You want your calmest look of looking calm right out front right now. Sanity sanity, all is sanity.

  “Sense?” he said, calmly sanely. “Mom,” he said quietly quietly, “Earl is a Nazi.”

  “Oh stop that, Timmy,” said Anne, with a sniff of laughter.

  She did not, Tim feared, know Earl. Tim’s own deferential silence (meant to sustain Anne’s hope of Erica’s marital joy) had backfired.

  “I’m serious, Mom. It’s the whole truth.”

  “It’s ridiculous. And they’ll be back here in a minute.”

  And she laughed again, in a manner that alerted him even more keenly: her teaparty laugh. Maybe she did know Earl, knew the worst, and simply preferred him to her son the homosexual. She excused herself (to fix her hair!) and Tim was forced to let her go. Their talk was finished. He retreated to the backyard, to process it.

  Or to forget it, if he could. On this, the dark side of the house, the bulkhead doors and all the trim boards were in bad need of paint. Up in the magnolia (though not so high up as he expected) he saw the remnants of his old treehouse floating, scraps of pitted cypress planks. He recalled building it with Rex; recalled his father “eye-balling” the spirit-level and announcing this platform would “last the distance.”

  Eisenhower was the president.

  Beyond a grove of pines Rex had planted, in what had been the Stewarts’ cotton patch, there were more new houses. Seven or eight, altogether. Grown over was their own patch of corn and the three-tree orchard where they would stand eating peaches right off the limb on hot summer days.

  His own mother was set against him. She was okay with his being gay, she could handle that. No interest in it, though. No questions about it, after all the mysterious years. “God bless your friend Eleanor,” Anne had said, and her gratitude was very specific. Ellie had come here, once over Christmas and once after Anne had her hip replacement. Tim and Ellie offered no definition of their relationship, yet were so comfortable together, so casually physical, that one was welcome to draw the wrong conclusion.

  Or the right one, by Anne’s lights, for such was her meaning. Ellie had allowed them, allowed Rex to believe in his son that way. Rex died confident they were lovers. That they chose not to marry he saw as an unfortunate modern fashion, which he could forgive as he forgave Ellie her Jewishness that Christmas Eve.

  How stunned Rex was to learn it, no less so than had a large brown river rat stepped from one of the pretty silver boxes under the blinking tree. And Tim cringed. Whatever happened next would be his fault, for having prepared neither of them, his father the mild anti-Semite or his dear friend the secular Jew.

  But Rex was brilliant. (His finest moment, in Tim’s eyes.) If this girl was Jewish, then Jewish was just fine. Rex did not say it, of course; that would not have been brilliant. He simply absorbed the truth of it as instantaneously as a facial expression can change. He was already wearing a warm smile, a genuine one, when he said:

  “You don’t even celebrate Christmas, then. It’s—?”

  “Chanukah,” Ellie supplied. “Though actually, we do celebrate Christmas at our house, in a seasonal sort of way.”

  Pleasant remarks, disarming byplay—hardly Rex Bannon’s calling cards. For Tim, it shone as a moment of greatness, and an occasion of love. Not that he excused anti-Semitism, ever, or was satisfied to see it merely concealed. It was more that he applauded the instinct, understood the effort. And believed in his father so much right then that he was certain the prejudice had been dismissed as abruptly as the face had changed.

  He should believe in his mother, too; give her time and the benefit of the doubt. She was not as quick as Rex, but then she did not have as far to go. She would have to see that Earl was unfit. Indeed, Earl was on record. When he shot the last dog, he had put it into words: “If you did this to a kid, you’d probably catch hell for it these days.”

  This was Earl’s brand of smartass charm, understood, but it also told a truth. Definitely, Tim should play it cool. Take a few steps back and let things sort themselves out in the coming days. That made the most sense; that should be the script. Anne would see that Earl was just bluffing.

  It was surprising, though, how quickly he lapsed from cool. Cool might not be his thing. For now came the actual Earl Sanderson striding toward him, with inflections far less reminiscent of his native Schenectady than of some dark Arkansas hollow.

  “That’s all right, Timmy,” he said. “That’s all right now.”

  What was all right?

  But Earl already had his hand and was busy destroying it. He would get you bone to bone, clamp you across the span where the fingers joined, and begin inflicting pain. Tim fought back the water in his eyes and worked free.

  Then Erica. With her habit of trailing behind her husband, in a jumpsuit with vertical stripes, she looked like a prisoner of war. She offered Tim one of her phantom embraces (you saw it approach, never felt it land) and added a sketchy air kiss. Ric was only affectionate to him when their mother was present.

  “God, Tim,” she said, “how have you managed?”

  “Fine. I’ve managed just fine,” he said, and remembered that Ric had outed him.

  “That’s all right, Timmy,” said Earl, precisely as he had said it before. (As though he had not said it before.) “That’s all right now.”

  All Tim could think of was Elvis, the gorgeous early Elvis, doing “That’s All Right, Mama.” Did Earl expect him to sing along?

  “Yeah, relax,” said Erica. “I wasn’t like accusing you. I was praising you. Okay?”

  Tim must have missed something. He could recall neither the accusation nor the praise, only that they had outed him and planned to kidnap the children. He concentrated his energy on staying cool in the clear sight of Earl’s pith helmet and rose-tinted shades. Then Anne put an end to the impasse.

  “What was that dog’s name,” she said, apropos of nothing, non-sequitors being a privilege of seniority. “I have been trying to remember and I just can’t.”

  “Our dog?” said Erica.

  “No, honey, Jilly’s dog. That puppy they had. Was she struck by a car? I simply can not remember a thing.”

  “Yes, Mom,” said Tim. “His name was Gus, and he got run over.”

  It was too unlikely. Something fraudulent in it, as Anne verified with a question for Earl. “What was your dog called?” she said, still feigning quizzicality. “I’ve forgotten that too.”

  “Hemingway,” said Earl.

  “That’s it. For the writer. Was he run over too?”

  “No, Mom,” said Erica. “We had to put him down.”

  “Did you now,” said Tim. The words escaped him, involuntary leakage. Uncool.

  “You know we did. Hemingway had a cancer.”

  “A cancer? That dog wasn’t even full grown.”

  “Ninety-five pounds,” stated Earl, with pride. “He was a good old boy, poor Hem. That dog would hunt.”

  “Do you know,” said Anne, “Mary Simmons has a man giving radiation treatments to her setter. Imagine the expense. For a dog.”

  “Ventilation is so much cheaper,” said Tim. “And think of the closure you get that way.”

  “What are you trying to say? Hemingway was sick. Dogs get sick.” />
  “I know they do, Ric. Yours do—right around the middle of June.”

  “Not Dreiser,” said Earl. “Dreiser got into it with a black bear in Hancock. He was a tough old boy—just not so tough as a black bear.”

  “A tough old boy about eleven months old.”

  “Pretty sure he was two. Wasn’t Dreiser two when we lost him, hon?”

  “I do think it’s cute the way you name them after writers,” said Anne. This was insincere, yard-talk as she called it, but she was carefully sorting and weighing these canine deaths.

  “One or two, Earl. I’m not sure,” said Erica.

  “Whatever. I never realized Timmy was such an animal lover.”

  “He did have a pet turtle in the sixth grade.”

  “No, honey, that was Jilly’s turtle,” said Anne.

  “It was his, Mom. It just liked Jill better.”

  “Well!” said Tim, temporarily tickled loose of all discipline. “Unloved by turtles! How unworthy can a person be?”

  “Timmy, Timmy,” said Earl, smelling blood, doubling up on diminutive, ostentatiously draping an arm around Tim’s shoulder. Absent the pre-emptive strike by which he would cripple Tim with a handshake, Earl never, ever, touched the tainted homosexualized flesh.

  “Earl’s right, honey,” said Anne.

  “He is? What did he say that was right?”

  “Come on, little brother, let us set all this cattiness aside. What we want to do is get Mom out of the house tonight, someplace nice for dinner.”

  “Thank you, Earl, that is thoughtful. But I’m not that hungry, and I was planning to fix some chicken for you all.”

  “It’s not about hunger, Mom,” said Earl, pulling Anne to him.

  If Tim had a loaded gun and a clear shot, he might have put Earl down where he stood. Earl was goading him, and this “Mom” stuff was new and creepy. When had he ever called her that?

  “What about some barbecue?” said Erica.

  “Fellows!” said Anne, her appetite restored by the aromatic suggestion of Fellows’ pulled pork. But she still didn’t want to go out with the lot of them, squabbling as they were.

  “Fellows is gone, Mom,” said Erica. “That place has been closed for five years.”

  “Has it? What a shame. Tells you how often I get out since your daddy left me.”

  “No problemo,” said Earl. “We’ll find someplace that isn’t closed. Won’t we, Timmy?”

  Earl was a full-fledged son of the South by now, with a big guffaw right out of The Beverly Hillbillies. He liked to stand close to you, emphasizing his height and making you step back. But Tim held his ground, absorbed the sour gust, and smiled. Even managed to pound Earl’s arm and return fire: “No problemo.” He was regaining his cool.

  Sort of. Upstairs a moment later, he marvelled that he had been in Berline an hour. It felt like weeks.

  He missed the Hergies; he craved a scoop of pistachio ice cream from Trumball’s. He thought of Karl and the others, known and unknown, and yearned to hike out onto the nudie dunes in Truro.

  An inadvertent glance in the bathroom mirror confirmed that he had lost another thirty hairs since morning; he was headed for the full Yul Brynner. Vanity was attacking—and then he heard his mother. Her bedroom was a thin partition away, and she was in there sobbing. Dying of sadness a few inches from him, while he fretted over hair loss. He was vain, selfish, and uncool to the max.

  But there was nothing he could do. He could not rush in and comfort her, for she had chosen against such comfort. She was on her bed; he could hear the scrunch of the springs as her body convulsed with emotion. On her bed, the door closed. Anne had chosen pride, dignity—and privacy. Tim stopped in the hallway.

  The crying stopped too. Ann must have heard him. Tim imagined her wildly dissembling, preparing to act as though her emotions were under control. Which they were, he supposed: under control. She probably spent hours like that every day—sobbing, letting go—before she composed herself (for telephone calls, for visits from her friends) and then went back to grieving in private.

  Of course. She had done it exactly that way when Rex died.

  Berline Package was now Berline Convenience, and the filling station, which had changed from Gulf to Exxon, had changed again, to No-Name Gas. The rest was as he had left it. Dusty sunlight bathed the crossroads; behind the propane tanks, the small scummy pond was humming with mosquitoes.

  Tim bought a pound of bread and a pound of butter, as per Anne’s instructions. Back at the house, he found her reinstalled in her rocker, hair pinned up, ready to step out. Her eyes were clear and lively. This was at least partly a pose, yet Anne was so good at it she convinced him: something had snapped her into shape. Not versus an hour ago, or a week, but versus the last six years. To hear that her daughter was gone, her grandchildren orphaned (and her son a queer!) had not finished her off. It almost seemed to nourish her.

  “Life can be strange. Can’t it, Mom?”

  “It helps if you keep an open mind. You see how wrong you were about that man.”

  “That man? Why? Because he isn’t wearing his storm trooper boots to dinner? I said he was a Nazi, Ma, not a fool.”

  “Timmy, I do not understand you. But what a thing to say, of course I don’t.”

  Anne was clinging to good intentions, and her love for Tim had already survived the shock. Yet there was a breach between them that felt solid, a barrier of cold stone she was not eager to touch.

  “They don’t change back, do they?” she said.

  “They?”

  “You know. Men who—”

  “Queers?”

  “Well I don’t know the best word, Timmy, but yes. They don’t ever tend to reconsider?”

  It was impossible for Tim to reconcile the image of his mother wracked by violent tears with this inquisitive, matter-of-fact woman rocking on her porch.

  “You mean if they should happen to meet the right gal?”

  “You tell me. I don’t know, apart from Oprah Winfrey.”

  “What does Oprah say?”

  “Do not make sport of me, Tim Bannon.”

  “Can I hug you, then?”

  “Oh stop.”

  When they emerged from the hug, Anne pushed and patted her hair, then did the same to his. “You have gotten almost thin on top,” she said.

  “Like Daddy.”

  “Like my daddy, actually. It comes down on the mother’s side. And I believe it skips a generation.”

  “It’s not important,” said Tim—oddly, he realized, since to him (however insanely) it was of the utmost import. How very peculiar was the human brain.

  “Ric appreciates your help, you know. She did try to say that to you.”

  “My help? I am not helping Erica. Erica has been in Kalamazoo and I am the legally designated guardian of Jill’s children. I’m doing what Jill wanted done. Can we keep that part in mind?”

  “Legal as in official?”

  “Official as in legal, yeah.”

  “But why you, honey?”

  “Best man for the job?”

  She had made it possible to talk, to joke; possible for Tim to be himself. He took her hand, mentioned that as recently as the day before yesterday she had actually thought quite highly of him.

  “Well sure, honey. But as a single man? And now.… Plus, of course, living in the city?”

  “Jill knew all that. Monty knew that.”

  “Did they? Still, you could know better. Erica is just ten minutes from Jill. I know they both shopped at that same A & P. And they are a family.”

  “Erica and Earl are a family?”

  “Well, with the children they would be. Yes.”

  “With three heads I’d be a three-headed man, for God’s sake.”

  Anne was laughing as Earl stepped out of the Chinook. The pith helmet was gone, the thick brown hair was brushed up in a wave. In his maroon sport coat and mauve shirt, he looked ready to make the sale. “Don’t you look gorgeous!” he said to An
ne.

  This was a fine thing to say. The right thing, Tim struggled to persuade himself, as Ric followed a few paces behind Earl, moving into the family portrait right on cue.

  “Don’t you look gorgeous,” Anne said to her, relieved to have a way to deflect the compliment. Anne disliked compliments, always had, even when they were sincere.

  Erica had knobbed her blond hair on top of her head and wore blue earrings and a blue cotton blouse. She really was a pretty woman, thought Tim—though hopefully that was not the issue.

  “She does,” said Earl, still pushing the repartée. “The girl can’t help it. She got it from her mama.”

  Rolling his eyes, Tim prayed that none of this was real.

  It was midnight, with everyone safely consigned to their bunks, when Tim walked back to the village. The darkness intensified the scent of earth and verdure; he could say he was home with his eyes shut. Could specify the season.

  “Ellie, you’re home,” he said. The pay phone was in the same place, though it hung out in the open air now, on a metal post.

  “Of course I’m home. I’m in bed, Tim.”

  “I thought you might be out gallivanting with that heterosexual.”

  “No such luck. How’s your mom doing?”

  “Better than I would have guessed—but not really. The big news is that Ric and Earl say they want the kids. No: they say they are taking the kids. And Mom thinks it’s a good idea. They told her about me.”

  “They outed you?”

  “That’s why she’s on their side.”

  “Oh my God. What did she say?”

  “Not much. It’s as weird as can be, really, but the second I was gay, Earl became Jimmy Stewart or something. Suddenly he’s this stand-up guy, so good in a crisis.”

  “But legally.…”

  “Right, that’s what I said. So Mom clucks—you know how she clucks—and says, You and Earl will talk tomorrow. I said, Why Earl? Ric can talk. Ric is Jill’s sister.”

  “And?”

  “She clucked again.”

  “Meaning?”

  “Meaning Earl and I are the menfolk, I guess. That’s a southern thing, partly. Plus she knows Earl is a bulldog, whereas Ric is—I don’t know, not a bulldog.”

  “What are you going to say, Tim?”