Near Canaan

by Liese O'Halloran Schwarz

  In the yellow house on Worth Street, the matter wasn’t openly discussed. Our father had trusted Beth, and he missed her. After the elopement, he was saddened and vaguely bowed. “Too bad about that little girl,” he said more than once, his eyes wandering to Beth’s chair at the supper table.

  No one dared ask Jack what he thought about all of it, and he did not offer his opinion. I heard him refer to Beth only once after her marriage, during a late whisky night with some buddies. I was on the edge of the group and heard it all.

  “Old Beth,” he said. “She was always pulling the rug out.” He shook his head heavily, like a bull with sweat in its eyes. “Always surprising the hell out of me. She asked me right out did I love her. Other girls’ll wait to see if you’ll say it, but not old Beth.” He drank. “It was right before a big game, too, and it kind of threw me off. I spent the whole game looking out to the bleachers, and hell if she wasn’t looking the other way every time, yakking to her girlfriends. I lost that game all by myself.” There was no rancor in the telling, but no humor either. “She sure could pull the rug out.”

  Apart from that single slip, Jack went about his business. He didn’t get drunk and spill his sorrows to the whole town, the way Billy Crawford would do years later, after Beth threw him out. Public opinion of Jack actually rose a little after he was jilted; he got a reputation as an ironjaw.

  The fuss lasted a good two weeks, and there was still hissing back and forth, tag ends of opinion, for a good month after that; but once it was done we got used to it. Beth Miller was now Mrs. Crawford, and went to live on the hill; and after a while Jack took up with another girl, a waitress from the south part of town.

  I spent the afternoon with Beth on the day before she was married. She arrived at our house and stood under the apple tree, the way she used to do during that wartime summer.

  “Anybody home?” she called up into the branches.

  “Just me,” I said, surprised: everyone knew she’d broken with Jack.

  “Just the anybody I was looking for,” she said. “Take a walk with me?”

  I slid down out of the tree, dropping the book onto the lawn. Beth bent to retrieve it.

  “Of Human Bondage,” she said, handing it to me. “Is it good?”

  I nodded. “I’ve read it before,” I said. “It’s one of my favorites.”

  “Imagine reading a book twice,” said Beth. “It’s not like you can run out of books to read. Have you read everything, now you have to go back and start again?”

  “Some works b-benefit from a second reading,” I said pompously, and then was silent, not a little disconcerted by my hesitation over the b. I hadn’t stuttered in Beth’s company for years.

  “You hate to be teased, don’t you,” said Beth, thoughtfully. It wasn’t a question, and I didn’t answer it. “It’s a big thick book,” she said. “The thick ones are always boring.”

  “This one isn’t,” I said.

  We walked through the south part of town—past the prison, where the men hanging against the screen of the open-air west tower hooted at the sight of Beth; along the railroad tracks which connected Naples to the West Virginia mines; through narrow, unkempt streets which made me nervous but which didn’t seem to affect Beth at all—and then turned west, and left the city limits. As we went, I told her the story of club-footed Philip Carey, orphaned in childhood and brought up by his parsimonious uncle; how he went to London to study medicine, and then to Paris to study painting, and then back to London again.

  “Sounds like he couldn’t make up his mind,” commented Beth.

  “He couldn’t,” I said. “He was looking for the meaning of life.”

  “Did he find it?” she asked, interested.

  “Yes,” I said. “But it took him a long time to understand it.”

  “Well?” she said, impatiently. “What was it?”

  “A piece of carpet,” I said, enjoying myself. “A poet gave it to him just before he died. He said it held the clue to all meaning.”

  “A piece of carpet?” said Beth, when I wouldn’t go on. “I don’t get it,” she said.

  “Neither did he,” said I. “Not until near the end of the book.”

  “You’re not going to tell me, are you?” she exclaimed, stopping.

  “Read the book,” I said, primly.

  “I hate you,” said Beth, and we walked on.

  “He’s a bastard, your brother,” said Beth suddenly, surprising me. “Oh, God.” We were at a rough wooden fence, and she leaned against it, and absentmindedly began to pick at the grey splintery rails.

  “What’s he done?” I asked.

  “That’s just it,” said Beth. “He hasn’t done anything.” There were tears in her voice, but her eyes were dry and bewildered looking. “He’s just as—pleasant—as can be. It’s not that,” she said. “He’s too pleasant,” she said. “He’s dead inside.”

  “Dead?” I had never heard anything like this before, never had a girl this near me, this near tears, confiding in me. “He’s always been kind of quiet,” I said.

  “I don’t mind quiet,” spat Beth. “This is different. It’s like talking to a stone. You know,” she says. “You must know. I say, ‘Jack, what do you think?’ and he said, ‘Sounds fine.’ No excitement. No life.” She breathed in, and then out, and then said quietly, “It wasn’t like that before.”

  “Before?” I asked, although I knew what she meant.

  “He was gentle then,” said Beth. “Not that he’s not gentle now,” she said, confused, confusing herself. “He’s very gentle. He’s fine. But he’s not fine. I can’t say it any better.”

  “He’s a lot more agreeable now,” I said.

  “That’s it, agreeable. What’s that word they use for cows? Docile. He’s docile, like an old cow.” Her face was sharp now, as though she were arguing. “And I don’t care what anyone says, I don’t want a docile man.” I guessed “anyone” meant Lucy Miller. “That’s why I liked him to begin with.”

  “Because he wasn’t docile?”

  “Because he was different,” she said, leaning back from the gate now, looking upward. “He was wild, and going places. And kind of scary, like if he got mad he might do something crazy. Kill someone or something.” She looked at me. “Not that I want him to kill anybody. But I liked thinking he was—dangerous.”

  “He’s not dangerous anymore,” I said, reflectively.

  “No,” she agreed.

  We shook our heads sadly at this new, tame brother of mine.

  “I don’t know what to do,” said Beth.

  “Do about what?” I asked.

  “I thought maybe I’d marry Jack, and we’d go somewhere else. Go travelling, you know, see the world.”

  “See the world?” I asked. To me the world was just one enormous place to stutter in.

  “You just don’t understand, do you?” cried Beth, seeing my puzzlement.

  “What’s wrong with Naples?” I asked. “I know it’s small,” I said.

  “Small,” said Beth. “Small-minded. But that’s not it. I can’t explain it.” She thought for a moment. “There’s something called a wildebeest,” she said.

  “Yes?” I said, surprised.

  “I thought at first it was a joke name, you know, ‘wild beast’? It just seemed so silly. And then I started thinking about it. There are places, Gil, where the wildebeest is normal, just like a dog or a horse. They don’t look funny. And there’s a different language, too; that same wildebeest has a different name. Every language probably has a different name for that wildebeest. Gil,” she said, tightening her jaw and looking directly at me, “I only know one.”

  She sighed, and for a minute we didn’t say anything.

  “Have you talked to Jack about this?” I said.

  “Have I,” she said, giving a short, unattractive laugh. “He looked at me like I was crazy. Kind of like you’re doing now.”

  “Sorry,” I mumbled.

  “I thought I could make him go ba
ck the way he was,” she said, not listening to me. “I’d talk and talk. And the whole time he’d be looking out the window, or at me, like it didn’t make any difference which. Then I’d say, ‘Jack, look at me,’ and he would, he’d just turn his face right around and look at me, listening to me like you’d listen to a crazy old woman. I’d talk to him, at him, and then when I couldn’t say any more because I heard myself babbling …” and she stopped.

  “Yes?” I prompted. “What did he do?”

  “Nothing,” she said, bitterly. “He did nothing. He said nothing. He just breathed. I wasn’t even sure if he’d heard me.”

  “He heard you,” I said, suddenly sure of myself.

  “Maybe I am crazy,” she said.

  “No,” I said boldly. “You know what you want, is all.”

  “Yes,” she said, after a minute. “But what if I did something bad to get it?”

  “Like what?” I asked.

  “Nothing much,” she said, suddenly gay. “Would you still like me?”

  “Depends how bad it is,” I said, in a matching, teasing voice.

  “Oh, terrible,” she said, still flippant, but with an edge of gravity around her eyes and mouth.

  “Of course I would,” I said. “I’ll always like you.”

  “Forever and ever?” she asked, like a little girl.

  “Oh yes,” I told her, with all the force of honesty, and she smiled.

  That was a Friday, and the next Monday Beth returned from the little town she and Billy had gone to, to elope. I heard the news, and felt the shock deep inside, like my organs were moving; then I felt a little pang of guilt. Had I helped her along? It seemed to me that Beth had abandoned one dangerous boy for another, choosing Billy out of reaction to the now-passive Jack. You know what you want, I’d told her.

  I’d seen Beth in passing since then, but we hadn’t spoken at any length, and when I spotted her in the Trough I wasn’t positive that it was she. It didn’t seem the sort of place she’d be, of an evening. I myself had squeezed in only with misgivings, hesitating on the inside step. The room was crowded and smoke-filled, thick with aggression and the odor of spilt beer. I’d turned to leave; as I did so, I caught a glimpse of her—Beth?—and I pushed my way toward her for a better look.

  The girl I thought was Beth was better dressed than the other patrons and more sophisticated looking. She didn’t quite belong, although she was surrounded by people who did, and there was something hard and sharp about her face which resembled their hardness and sharpness. I looked more closely: she had Beth’s hair, maybe a little darker but just as straight, and reaching to her shoulders the way I remembered. She had the same level brows, and the same little chin. Still, she seemed alien, like a clever imitation of that softer girl I’d known. While I watched, she ducked her head in laughing and threw it back again, so that I was looking at her little, flared nostrils; the movement was a particular habit of Beth’s, and I was convinced. I caught her eye and waved; she looked straight at me and raised her eyebrows without acknowledging the greeting. Feeling foolish, I looked away quickly, as though our eyes had met by chance. I waved my arm at the bartender, who moved toward me with irritation. A few minutes later, I felt a tap on my arm.

  “Little G.I.,” she said, smiling up at me.

  “Not you, too,” I said, but grinning with relief. “I hate being called that.”

  “Buy me a beer?” she asked.

  By some miracle which only women are capable of, a booth near the back of the room came free just as she turned toward it.

  “Where’s Billy?” I asked, looking around.

  “Who knows,” she said.

  Our eyes met.

  “It’s like that, is it?” I said.

  “Oh, it’s not too bad,” she said, taking a mighty swallow of beer and setting the glass down. “I swear they piss in the beer here.”

  “You look different,” I said, before I could stop myself.

  “Gilbert Grahame Corbin, you know better than to tell a girl something about herself without putting a compliment in. When you say I look different, you could mean that I look like a hag. I just hate it when men do that.”

  “What was I supposed to say?” I asked, smiling.

  “Well,” she said. “I’ll demonstrate.” Her face went cold and hard, and she looked me up and down, appraising me as a breeder looks at livestock. “You got a haircut,” she said, finally, flatly. My face burned with embarrassment.

  “I see what you mean,” I said.

  “Good,” she said, smiling, becoming Beth again. “Have you got yourself a girlfriend yet?” she asked, teasing, reaching forward to run her hand over my bristly scalp.

  “Girls don’t seem to like the look,” I said, ducking away.

  “The haircut’s fine,” said Beth. “It’s that pity-me face you need to get rid of.”

  “I’ll work on it,” I said, irritably.

  “Don’t get mad,” said Beth.

  I said nothing.

  “Okay, I can see you don’t want to be teased,” she said. “I’ll stop. Will you be nice now?”

  “Of course,” I said, but coldly.

  “You hold such grudges,” she said. “I haven’t seen you in so long, and now you won’t even talk to me.”

  There was a silence.

  “How’s the army treating you?” she asked.

  “Fine,” I said.

  She leaned forward across the table, brushing a strand of hair out of her eyes.

  “I’m not convinced,” she said.

  I looked away.

  “I thought so,” she said. “It didn’t seem like the right thing for you. All that group stuff.”

  I nodded, surprised at her perception.

  “Forgive me,” said Beth. “But—don’t they care about your stutter?”

  “They don’t know about it,” I said.

  “How—?” she breathed.

  “I’ve been careful,” I said, shortly.

  “Jesus,” she said. “A double, no, a triple life. How hard it must be, Gil.” She put her hand briefly over mine, where it rested on the table. Pulling it away, she asked, “What if they find out?”

  “I don’t know,” I said. “Maybe they won’t care.”

  “Not likely,” she said, tipping up her beer. “It’s not wartime. They can pick and choose.” She stopped herself. “Oh God, I didn’t mean that the way it sounded. It’s those people I run with. They say all kinds of terrible things,” she said. “It gets to be kind of a habit.”

  “It’s okay,” I said.

  “I should go,” she said. “Or they’ll start talking about me.” She laughed, unconvincingly, sending a glance toward the group across the room, sliding out of the booth, straightening her skirt. “Look, come to a party tomorrow night, if you can. My place. I mean, mine and Bill’s.”

  “Well,” I said, cautiously, but intrigued: I was not often invited to parties.

  “Horrible people, but the liquor will flow,” she said, false and coaxing, with her eyes darting between them and me. “There’s a girl you should meet,” she said. “You know what I mean?” and she wiggled her eyebrows. I looked away, embarrassed by her coarseness. Bringing her eyes back to me, dropping her shoulders, she said, “Please come. Come and keep me company.”

  “Okay,” I said.

  “Good,” said Beth. She half turned, and then turned back, laying a hand on my shoulder. “How’s Jack?” she asked, into my ear.

  “He’s fine,” I said. “Doesn’t say much about much. You know.”

  “Yeah.” She sighed, looking down. I looked too; both of us stared at her hand, where it flexed on my shoulder. When I looked up at her again, she was smiling. “Don’t forget,” she said. “Tomorrow. Ten o’clock,”—moving away—“till dawn.”

  I found myself standing alone on the fringes of the party, wedged in between small groups of people, some dancing, some talking vivaciously, all drinking. The girl Beth had earmarked for me was in another room or possi
bly on the porch, where the liquor was; she had turned out to be a garish type, loud and gum cracking and pointy-breasted. In truth, she frightened me, and I had spent much of the evening dodging her, which made me feel churlish at first. But it became clear that she hardly minded, being less taken with me, if possible, than I was with her, and so my conscience was eased. I clutched my whisky and soda tightly, and looked around the living room. The faces were nearly all unfamiliar; I hadn’t seen Beth since she had first opened the door to me, and I hadn’t seen Billy anywhere at all. The room was getting very crowded, and everywhere I looked something highly amusing was going on, judging from the hilarity rising from the dense knots of people jostling for space. They all seemed false to me, and frightening, in the way that my erstwhile date had been frightening. Stuffed into their garments, they laughed as though something terrible might happen to them if they didn’t. To my slightly drunken eye, they looked afraid, and their fear infected me. I stood very rigid in the crush, as though frozen at attention; elbows poked me in the back, and a high female laugh shrilled in my ear.

  Then, as if a mist had rolled away, I saw her. Demure, dressed in pale green, seated primly on a sofa in the middle of the room, she had a surprised look on her face, an air of apartness, as though she and the sofa had dropped together through the ceiling into the maelstrom. I worked my way toward her, through a group of raucous dancers, dodging tossing heads and flying limbs. When I stood in front of her at last, I was struck dumb and merely stared.

  Suddenly, Beth was at my side.

  “My best friend,” she bawled at me, above the music, waving a hand toward the girl. She leaned over to the sofa. “Jack’s brother,” she shouted. The girl considered me coolly; Beth straightened up and pulled me aside.

  “I should have known,” she said. “Sheila scared you away. Well, good luck,” she said, and got on tiptoe to whisper into my ear. “Does she or doesn’t she?” she murmured warmly. “I happen to know this one doesn’t,” and she pulled away and winked significantly. I blushed.