Oval was terrifically pleased. He reached out, put his arm around his son’s shoulders and gave him a manly jerk of a hug, cold air exhaling from their clothes.
He had agreed to Oval’s, Sylvan’s, his father’s, offer, and one of his reasons, if a vague one, was ridiculous, and it was Bonnie, not her friendship but a sort of unminded beauty worship or star worship he judged to be puerile, like that of a fan in a fan club. He had never felt, would never feel, adoration. But there she was, still shimmering. She said she loved him, placed his hand on her breast and kissed him, a mystery. Yes, but that wasn’t it; maybe he didn’t know why he said okay. Maybe he just wanted to be agreeable.
At three in the morning they let Urban off at the Church Ovarian Apocalyptic. Maria was up, waiting for him, and John’s irreverent thought was that Maria’s ovarian condition, though not quite apocalyptic, was at least real. And then of pale, dimming Dory, who might have been in the same condition but wasn’t, and his unexpected lack of relief when they’d found she wasn’t. He must send her a card or a letter, because he’d said he would.
When they parked beside the parsonage Oval was exhausted. “Oh, Lord, I’m tired but Your Work must be done,” he said. Before tonight he’d been driving for two days with little sleep, that taken beside the road, but he had to prepare a sermon for the morning. He sighed as he turned off the engine. “There’s no reason for you to feel you ought to come to church,” he said. “I’m not sure what your beliefs are, Johnny, but I know you’re a loving person.”
“I believe Our Father aren’t in heaven,” John said.
“Oh, ha! That’s the way you used to say it! I remember! Out of the mouths of babes, huh? Well, maybe you were right! I think I’ll use that in my sermon tomorrow!”
John washed up, changed his one remaining bandage and took his loving self to bed. He woke at noon, so he did miss the sermon. That afternoon Bonnie told him that Oval was just as happy because it hadn’t been one of his best and John’s presence would have made him nervous—his judgmental son, the college boy. Oval had, he’d told her, only two semesters at Mankato State and later his necessary courses at the New Metaphysics Seminary, and most of those by correspondence. Yet, John thought, he’d been a newspaperman, and his article in Avatar: A Quarterly Devoted to Metaphysical Thought was literate in its language, if eclectic to a fault in its literary figures: “Consider your soul an internalcombustion engine firing on only three cylinders…”
He walked down Los Robles to a drugstore and bought some postcards of Tulaveda, featuring royal palms and an adobe mission he hadn’t seen, the sky bluer in the photograph than he’d ever seen it. Back in his room he sat down to write one to Dory, thinking casually that she loved him, thinking that he casually thought she loved him, thinking that he was a shit to casually think that she loved him. “Dear Dory,” he wrote, and her name grew powerful, making him remember a dream of last night in which she’d been floating solemnly alongside him, maybe in water, and she’d embraced him with one arm arid with the other reached right up his anus, hand and arm easily, weirdly, normally slipping in farther and farther, up his large and then his small intestine the way you put on a long sock or glove, her whole arm going up inside him until she firmly grasped his “tripas“—the operating dream word. There were always words in his dreams.
Dear Dory,
How is Cascom Manor this summer? I’m here, about to become a professional lima bean freezer. You know how I love lima beans. See you in Sept. Let me know how you’re doing.
love,
John
Dear Mother,
Got out west okay. Have a job freezing lima beans. See you in Sept.
love,
John
Dear Gracie, Loretta & Miles,
Fond memories of Winota and your hospitality. Located my father and have a job freezing lima beans. Cold work in a hot place. How are you all?
Best,
John
Dear Estelle,
I found him. You were right, he’s a nice fellow. Working with him in a lima bean freezer this summer.
Best, & thanks,
John
Little spoor-tracks, he supposed, easily thrown. Lies only of ommission; once you got down to it, it was easy to get these promises out of the way.
27
One day a cool northwest wind flowed tirelessly over the shoulder of Cascom Mountain and stippled the lake with whitecaps. The tamaracks hissed, and even the morning clamor of birdsong was hushed by the push of air.
At breakfast Jean Dorlean reminded her of her promise to take him sailing in a good wind, but of course she had already remembered it, wondering, with a little thrill like a gamble, if he would remember.
After the breakfast dishes were done and the tables set for lunch, Dibley came near her, as if he were forcing himself against another kind of energy, closer and closer to her. She stood at the desk in the hall, making a list of things that had to be done, and done, and no doubt done again. He tried to speak: “Today,” he said, unable to utter the words that went with it.
“Today?” she asked.
“You should stay here.”
“Why?”
“Stay here,” he said, little white bumps moving along his jaw. He had stepped in front of her to stop her, but he couldn’t explain. “Stay here today,” he said.
“Why, Dibley?” she asked. “It’s okay, you know. It’s okay.”
“No,” he said.
“Nothing’s going to happen,” she said to reassure him, thinking that he was jealous of Jean Dorlean. She put her hand on the side of his face where the muscles clashed. There were little pebbles under his skin. Her touch immobilized him, as if he were caught—as if he were a goose caught by the neck, knowing that struggle could be fatal to it. She removed her hand.
“You,” he said. “No. ” He shook his head.
“I promised, Dibley. I’ll be back in a couple of hours, before lunch. Don’t get upset. It’s my business, isn’t it?”
He nodded, but he said, “Stay.”
“There’s a breeze, but it’s not that strong. Are you worried about that? Say something. Say anything.”
Jean Dorlean appeared, ready to go down to the lake. Dibley looked at him, and at her. There seemed a kind of alien glee in Dibley when he said, “Werner killed a toad,” as if Werner, or the toad, were in some crazy way Jean Dorlean.
“How?” Dory said.
“Stepped on it,” Dibley said with that strange grin.
She didn’t want to think about Werner and toads. She didn’t feel anything different about the day. She would be busy in the afternoon, but she saw no problem with a couple of hours of sailing. The boats were beamy, sturdy and relatively stable. Debbie was going to be washing the downstairs windows on the porch, she on the outside and Cynthia on the inside, and Dibley was going to mow and edge the front lawn. She’d be back before they were through. She said this to Dibley, irritated that she had to. She was going to give a guest a sailing lesson; could she have a couple of hours off? She just wanted to go sailing for a while.
Jean Dorlean said nothing. He wore shorts, sneakers and a sweater, which seemed right for the day. She went to her room to get her own sweater and they went toward the beach. Dibley had disappeared. When they were out of hearing of anyone else, Jean Dorlean said,
“Your bodyguard didn’t want you to go, did he?”
“He’s not my bodyguard,” she said. “I don’t need a bodyguard.”
“Now don’t get touchy,” he said. “I take it back. It’s a glorious day and you’re a lovely girl to give me a sailing lesson.”
That tone reminiscent of John Hearne.
On the lake the boat came alive, bucking and thrusting along. She sat amidships where she could give him quick advice if he needed it, such as to let out the sheet when they began to heel over too far. It was clean and bright on the water, and the wind was such a simple force, steady from the west. They did a beam reach toward the south-southwest, diagonally a
cross the lake, the boat’s energy surging through and over the waves.
“Have I got it?” he asked. He looked thrilled and tense, grinning at his task.
“Pretty good,” she said. “When we get opposite that point, come closer into the wind for a while.” She pointed across the lake to a promontory dark with pines.
“In other words, steer more to the right,” he said, and she nodded, though he would find it a little more complicated than that.
What was it she wanted from him? The attention of intelligence, but not just the live workings and emotions of any intelligence. It was a different mystery because he was a man. There was the power, the choice, the sweet vulnerability of that power. It could admire her and need her approval, even want and need more than that; it could be in real pain because it couldn’t have everything. That would not be good, but the possibility of the possibility was fascinating. Admit it; if that fascination was the reason, it was dishonest to be alone with him.
The wind purred in the shrouds and stays, the bow slapping into every fifth wave or so, the wake a hiss. He said, “You have a boyfriend, I’m told.”
She admitted that. They spoke of John Hearne as if he were a stranger to them both. Jean Dorlean’s words didn’t define what the subject really was. His words were not as important as the real subject. All that was said was for the purpose of her pleasure and her license, because of his admiration, to answer with easy, becoming modesty.
“You are really something,” he said. “I don’t mean to patronize the state of New Hampshire, but I didn’t expect to find the pearl of great price in these rural byways.”
Easy, she thought; he shouldn’t ruin it with obvious flattery.
When it was time to go back, he suggested that instead they go have lunch at the Casino, at the foot of the lake. “Surely the others can feed themselves one meal,” he said. “Have you ever not done your duty? Say the hell with them, for a change.” He said he’d brought his wallet, so he could pay for lunch.
She’d told Dibley she’d be back for lunch, but what did she owe Dibley? Something else could “come up.” It certainly happened with others all the time. And with this wind it wouldn’t take long to get back; the boat would go like a train. She still thought about it.
He’d wanted to know about John Hearne. She didn’t tell him that there had been no card or letter, and that because of this the whole significance of John Hearne was fading out. But then she was surprised by her sudden resentment; she could hate John Hearne. She could kill him for making her feel so badly, for so long.
“Well?” Jean Dorlean said. “Remember, I’ll be taking an eye off my charges, too. Do you really believe Kasimir can’t cope with one minor meal? What’s it going to be, anyway—potato salad and hot dogs? Oops—salade pommes de terre et saucissons? Dory, relax! The universe will go on functioning without you—for at least a couple of hours!”
She felt her mouth smile at his smile. He was a small man, but bigger than her, and sinewy, a man. She saw the bunch of him, the bulge there, and knew that he saw her glance, which made her feel naked and a little shy and embarrassed. He was not embarrassed at all, though not lewd about it, or about anything. Nothing would embarrass him. Neither was he overimpressed, or callow, or shy. He was not made insensitive by his wild needs. The worst thing a man could be was to be unsure of himself in that self-conscious way. He could be unsure in a deeply moral, deeply honest way—like the conflict between his real feelings and the work he had to do for his country.
She did say yes, and they came about and sailed to the Casino, which had a sort of sandwich shop for a restaurant. It was twelve-thirty, but she wouldn’t think of Cascom Manor. To hell with Cascom Manor! It felt like falling. They both had a western sandwich and a Coke, as if she were on a date with the older man.
At two o’clock, when they were halfway back, the wind died altogether, then came in small puffs, died, came on again, and they didn’t get back until five o’clock. She was worried, but he said, “To hell with them, Dory. Are they all going to croak without you to take care of them?”
A storm was coming from the west, a shutter of tarnished steel that by its immense height diminished Cascom Mountain and the long hills of its range. The storm seemed more substantial than the granite mountain, as if to demonstrate the real force of nature, the earth itself nothing to its magnitude. Within it red fires burst and went out, all in silence. She would have to check the Edison and Aladdin lamps, the wick lamps and candle holders. This storm went halfway around the compass and couldn’t miss them. She would have to make sure that all the windows were shut.
They drew the boat up on the sand and tied the painter to a tree.
“Let’s take a quick swim while we can,” he said.
“No.”
“Let me kiss you, then,” he said, and when he put his arms around her she put hers around his body. Her face pressed into the springy beard to his alive lips. It wasn’t real at all. She really didn’t feel like kissing him, though she was doing it. “I’ve got to get back right now,” she said in a voice that sounded to her dreamy, and which might even be misconstrued as a promise. God knew what it really meant.
As they walked up to Cascom Manor his hand floated gently, oh, so lightly, on her hip. She wondered how much of anything he’d said was meant. And how could she find him attractive? He was not attractive and yet she felt the warmth, the dreamy softness in thinking of him.
“Dory,” he said, “I know this is ridiculous, all of it. I’m seventeen years older than you are, but I’ve fallen in love with you. Listen, I take back every cruel, snide remark you’ve heard me make in the presence of these clowns, these dregs of the war. They affect me that way. I’m really not like that at all.”
She said nothing, thinking this over. Had it been said with difficulty, or with ease? They reached Cascom Manor walking side by side, not touching. The Princess, the Zwanzigs and the Patricks, without children, were sitting on the porch watching the coming storm.
“Oh, Dory! There you are!” the Princess called. “We were so worried! We missed you! Are we prepared for the approaching storm?”
“There are plenty of candles and oil lamps if the lights go out, but I think we’d all better close our windows,” Dory said.
“Dory thinks of everything! What would we ever do without Dory?”
Faintly they heard Cynthia’s violin.
“And where are the others, then? Where are Werner and Yvonne?” Marta Zwanzig said.
“ ‘La Gioconda’ is probably at the concert,” Jean Dorlean said meaningfully, then looked at Dory, as if contrite about having said such a thing.
Marta Zwanzig ignored it. She reared back on her chair and then rocked ponderously forward onto her feet and stood up. “We must shut our windows!” she said.
“And I must go to the children,” Mrs. Patrick said. As soon as she left the porch, Kaethe Muller came around the corner of the house. Sean Patrick looked up at her and she licked her lips. Jean Dorlean looked at Dory, a sardonic look, and shook his head. He said, “I wonder where the rest of your crew is.”
Could Debbie be with Werner?
“Let’s go look for them,” he said, assuming what her thought had been. “Not that it’s all that urgent, I’m sure.”
The storm came over the house like night, though it would be hours till true dark. Lights came on down hallways, in rooms. Then, with a tick like the breaking of a stick, lightning took out all the lights. Simultaneous thunder was more pressure than sound, as though it bowed out the walls and windows.
From the landing she took an oil lamp and lit it with the matches she had put on the table next to it. “Foresight. Efficiency,” Jean Dorlean said. “Are you frightened of the storm?”
“No more than I should be,” she said.
Werner’s room was empty, and looked as though no one had been in it since Debbie had made it up that morning. His silver-mounted hairbrush, his combs, orange stick, clippers and fingernail file were aligned
on the bureau as if for inspection, the bedspread neater and more taut than Debbie would ever make her own bed.
In the hall Cynthia and Yvonne had come from the dark to the lamplight. “Have you seen Debbie?” she asked them.
“Not since this morning,” Cynthia said. “She quit doing the windows and went off with Werner. She said if you didn’t have to work, she didn’t.” Cynthia then looked at Jean Dorlean. She looked him over, as if evaluating him part by part, no opinion expressed.
“Do you know where they were going?”
“Sailing, I thought. But that was this morning.”
“Were they back for lunch?”
“No, they weren’t. Oh, Dory! Are you awfully worried?”
“I don’t know. I guess so. The other boat was there when we came in, so they must be around here somewhere.”
Then she smelled gas, just the faintest hint of that heaviness, and knew what it was. She hurried downstairs toward the kitchen, leaving her lamp on the landing and proceeding in near-darkness. Something, maybe the concussion of thunder, had put out the stove’s pilot light and the kitchen was dense with the leaden odor. Jean Dorlean opened the windows while she turned off the gas at the tanks outside. The storm was beginning to pass over to the east, and rain came in little flicks of spray, nearly horizontal; there would be leaking at the western dormers. When the gas had cleared out enough she lit a single-mantle Coleman lantern, turned on the gas and relit the pilot, thinking that the pilot-light system was illogical in that it substituted real danger for a minor inconvenience. She would not have done it that way.
They went to the living room to check on lamps and candles. The Zwanzigs were there alone with an Aladdin lamp whose mantle was mostly covered with carbon, an orange stream climbing its chimney. She turned it down so the carbon would burn off, and Marta Zwanzig said, “We didn’t know if it should turn up or down.”
The Moon Pinnace Page 32