Near Canaan

by Liese O'Halloran Schwarz

  “It’s been too easy for her,” she said. “I know you’ll think I’m mean. But she seems to have forgotten all about—you know.”

  “You think she’s forgotten?” I said.

  “She never talks about her,” said Joan.

  “She talked about her all the time at first,” I said.

  “Not anymore,” she said. “It’s like it never happened.”

  “You can’t believe that,” I said.

  Joan withdrew her hands for a moment; then they settled lightly again on my skin.

  “People handle things differently,” I said.

  “I know Beth,” said Joan. “She’s not handling this at all.”

  “Joan,” I said. “You’ve got to stop arranging people’s lives. It doesn’t leave you any energy for your own.”

  “What do you know about it?” she asked, sharply. I turned over and looked up at her. She was angry: little white lines stood out around her mouth.

  “Nothing,” I said, nonsensically. “But—”

  “But nothing,” she said. “Nothing and nothing and nothing. Most people are just like children. They never grow up. They’re all looking for somebody to lean on, to fix things. That’s me.” She was calmer now. “I don’t know why it’s me, but it is. That’s why we get along so well, you and I. You’re not afraid to need me.”

  “And you like to be needed,” I said.

  She nodded. Her eyes were solemn and surprised by the wisdom of her own words. How do I know all of this? she was asking herself. How do I know so much, so well? She was Joan, and that was all. She was Joan; no other credentials were required.

  “Listen to this,” Joan said over breakfast the next morning; she was holding a Tell Tillie letter.

  “‘Dear Tillie,’” she read. “‘I told my son if he got good grades and did all his chores he could have a dog. My husband says no. He says we can’t afford it, but we can. He’s never been mean like this before. My son (he’s eleven) cries at night. What do you think?’”

  “Well,” I said. “What do you think?”

  “Dear,” she looked at the letter, “Worried Mom. I think you should try to get your husband to talk about what’s really bothering him. He’s just using the dog as an excuse to fight. If he won’t talk, take your son to the pound and rescue an animal. Maybe that’ll provoke your husband into telling you what’s really wrong. Good luck. Tillie.” She picked up her coffee cup.

  “Which category is this?” I asked. “Sex, love, money?”

  “Mental abuse,” she said. “Which goes under love.”

  “Very funny,” I said.

  “Speaking of mental abuse,” she said. “How’s Jordan Devlin?”

  “As abusive as ever,” I said, smiling a little. “The other day he accused me of reading the plans wrong and letting the crew dig up a sewer line. He said he could smell it from the street. He’s always angrier on the days he drives by the site. I think it’s seeing everything just sitting there, under tarps, losing money. You can’t really blame him.”

  “I can blame him,” she said. “I think he’s an asshole.”

  “Joan,” I said, surprised.

  “Well, he is,” she said.

  I had to agree.

  “Maybe Tell Tillie should write a column on vicious employers,” she said.

  “That isn’t funny,” I said. “He’d know right away who you were talking about.”

  “So?” she said.

  “So I don’t need you standing up to him for me.”

  “You think I want to?” she said. “I can’t stand seeing what he’s doing to you. He’s just like a playground bully.”

  “That may be true,” I said. “But it’s my playground.”

  “Ha,” she said. “It’s Devlin’s playground. He comes here from somewhere else and takes all kinds of advantage of this little trusting town.”

  “You don’t know anything about this town,” I said, angry.

  “I know more than you think,” she shot back. “Nice people thinking all they have to do is be nice and the world will be nice right back. That’s not the way it works.”

  “How does it work, then?” I asked.

  “You have to figure out what the other guy thinks he wants,” she explained, carefully. “And then you give it to him, making sure that you get what you want in the process.”

  “You sound like Devlin,” I told her.

  “Actually, Jack said it,” she admitted.

  “I don’t know if I like what you and Jack say to each other.”

  “We’re only trying to help,” she said.

  “I don’t need your help.”

  “Of course you do.”

  “No, I don’t,” I said.

  “Gil,” she said, making it two syllables, singsong.

  “Don’t do that,” I said, furious. “Don’t treat me like a baby and then harass me for not being enough of a man. I’m not your little boy,” I said.

  “I know that,” she said.

  “I thought you’d gotten better,” I told her. “It seemed like the time we’d spent apart had changed you. But the minute we start talking, you’re at me again. What do you want?” I asked. She looked at me blankly. “You’re so fond of Jack,” I said. “You want me to be like him?” She said nothing. “Well, all right,” I said, standing up with exhausted dignity, collecting my jacket and briefcase. “Watch me now.”

  All the way to work, I fretted. Watch me, I had said. Ahead of me lay another day; folded within it, another acrimonious interlude with Devlin. I didn’t really believe that I could change things, or that this day would be any different from the thirteen or so before it. Except that Joan and I had fought; and tonight, I would be slinking home to her, apologizing, agreeing with her. Giving in.

  Anger gave way to guilt. What, I asked myself, about my vow to take better care of Joan? And she was only trying to help me. If only she hadn’t held me up to Jack.

  I no longer had the comfort of the open-air mornings. In the office, I learned that Devlin wasn’t due in until after lunch. I slumped behind my desk all morning, making the same phone calls I had been making for two weeks now, trying to sort out the mess we were in, and at noon, escaped the building. I usually ate my lunch in, but not today—the cafeteria sold no alcohol, and I needed a drink. I marched down the street, feeling released. Turning the corner, I saw Devlin’s little car; reflexively, heart hammering, I ducked into the nearest shop, a florist’s.

  “Hey, G.I.,” said Beth, behind the counter. “What brings you in here?”

  Prompted to confession by the cool, cloistered atmosphere, the panic that had sent me in here, the nearness of Beth, I blurted, “Oh, God, I’m hiding from my boss.”

  “What have you done?” she asked, smiling.

  “Nothing,” I said.

  She nodded as though she understood. My heart began to slow down, and I took a good look at her. She looked better than when I’d last seen her—then, she’d had a yellow cast of strain to her skin, and dark circles under her eyes. Now, she looked just like the old Beth, as though the years had rolled away, and we were back in high school.

  “Do you work here?” I asked. She nodded. “Joan told me you were working,” I said. “She didn’t tell me where.”

  “I wondered why you never came to see me. Seeing as your office is so close.”

  “I thought you didn’t want to see me,” I said. I wandered across the little shop, and drew a star on the clouded glass door of a case.

  “That was true for a while,” she said. “It’s kind of hard to explain.”

  “Joan said men made you nervous,” I said. She looked surprised.

  “I don’t think that’s ever been true,” she said, meaningfully. “Maybe she thought I was nervous, and was trying to protect me. She picks up things pretty well; maybe I was anxious about seeing men, and didn’t even know it.” She frowned, concentrating. “But I couldn’t see you,” she said. “I can’t hide things from you.”

  “What we
re you hiding?”

  “Oh, just,” she said. “Stuff.” She smiled, dismissing it. “It helps, working with growing things,” she said. “Joan should try it.”

  “Joan,” I said, remembering. “We had a fight this morning.”

  “Send her some flowers,” said Beth. “I’m sorry if it’s an obvious suggestion.”

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

  “We have all kinds of arrangements,” she said, mischievously, playing the salesgirl. “Here’s a lovely one right here, only ten dollars.”

  “You decide,” I said.

  “Lilies,” she said, promptly. “I’ll do it right now.” She moved around the shop, gathering flowers from the long chilled cases, snipping their stems.

  “You’re so good at this,” I said, in wonder.

  She smiled, poking the flowers into a vase.

  “How’s Joan these days?” she asked.

  “Tired,” I said. “You ought to know. You see her more than I do.”

  “No, I don’t,” she said. “We’ve talked on the phone some, but I haven’t seen her for ages. Not since you all had me over for supper that time.”

  “But she’s always—” I said. “Wait a minute.”

  “What?” said Beth, looking concerned.

  “She’s never at home,” I said. “I ask her to slow down, but she says she has responsibilities. Looking after you, or going down to the Chronicle to type up her column. Or meeting a student.”

  “Well,” said Beth. She’d been standing still, her hands on the lilies, looking at me with a puzzled expression. Now it vanished, and she snapped into motion again, busying herself with the flowers. “You know how she is about those kids. She can’t say no.”

  “But mostly she says she’s seeing you,” I said. “At least three or four times a week she says that. And you just said you hadn’t seen her since—God, that dinner was in June.”

  “Maybe I’ve seen her once or twice,” she said.

  “She’s always quoting Jack at me,” I said, softly.

  “Don’t jump to conclusions, G.I.,” said Beth, warningly.

  “It seems so obvious now.”

  “No,” said Beth. “Stop it,” she said. “Don’t think like that.”

  “He hates me,” I said. “He’s always tormented me.”

  “Now you’re being ridiculous,” she said.

  “She says I’m too sensitive. She tells me how he would handle things. She thinks I’m not a man.” I stopped. “But you were afraid of me.”

  “I never said that,” said Beth.

  “At work they treat me like a pansy,” I said, unstoppable now in the release of my confusion, all that I had kept private and stoppered for so long. “They’re right,” I said. “I’m in here hiding from my boss, telling my troubles to a woman.”

  “Not just any woman,” said Beth, feebly joking.

  “I’m a failure at my job,” I said, pacing. “My wife is having an affair.”

  Beth said nothing, busying herself with ribbon.

  “I’m a man, I’m not a man, I’m not anything. Where do I fit?” I said, to a rigid spray of gladiolus.

  “Maybe you don’t,” she said, in a hard, calm voice.

  “What if I want to,” I said.

  “You choose,” she said, briskly. “Don’t ask me what or how. If you want to fit in badly enough, you’ll figure it out.” She smiled. “Or you could be like me, and run away.”

  “Where have you run to?” I asked, bending and putting my elbows on the glass countertop between us.

  “Far away,” she said. “Where nothing bad ever happens. Here you go,” she said, giving a last tweak to the arrangement. “Want to put a message on the card?”

  “Regards to Jack,” I said, sourly.

  “That’s just stupid,” said Beth, annoyed. “I promise you you’re wrong about that. So quit being so obnoxious.” She looked at the card. “I’ll put ‘Love’ on it,” she decided. “That’s nice and ambiguous.”

  I spent the rest of the hour in a narrow bar two doors down from the florist’s, lingering over a sandwich and a beer. I didn’t notice the man detaching himself from his chums and coming over to me; suddenly he was standing at my table, holding his beer mug.

  “Corbin,” he said.

  It was Henry Everett, from the construction crew I had dismissed. He had been one of the few on the site who hadn’t hated me. Once, when I had found my hard hat filled with mud, he made one of the boys give up his own. Later, I had seen the culprit hosing down my hat, his face stiff with resentment. I liked Henry, and appreciated his support, but I guessed that some of his kindness derived from pity. Pity for the odd man out, the weak, the hopeless. If he hadn’t pitied me, he’d have left me to handle the pranksters myself. Since the incident with the hard hat, seeing him had inspired a vague embarrassment in me, like the feeling in a small boy whose mother defends him against bullies.

  “Henry,” I said, with false welcome. “How’s it going?”

  “Not too bad,” he said. “Working another site now. I hear you guys are still having problems with that pool job.”

  “Yes,” I said, not wanting to talk about it. “Yes, we are.”

  “Strange,” he said. “I mean, what is it besides the stream bed?”

  “Nothing,” I said. “I mean, that’s it, the stream,” I said, flushing. “Bed.”

  “There’s gotta be something else.”

  “No,” I said, finishing my beer. “Isn’t that enough?”

  “Huh,” said Henry. “I worked a job a few years ago, over in the next county. They had the same problem, didn’t have any trouble solving it.”

  “What?” I said.

  “Just dug a few feet deeper to the bed, ran a culvert through. Filled in on top of it, and presto, no problem.”

  “That might work,” I said.

  “Surprised no one thought of it over there,” he said. “Of course, the situation might be different in your case,” he said, lifting his mug.

  “Of course,” I said, thoughtfully.

  “I knew I could count on you, Gil,” cried Devlin, getting up from behind his desk, all of his features pulling loose from their mask of anger and realigning in an expression of glee.

  “It,” I said modestly, “might work.”

  “Might! Damn, it’s perfect. Come to think of it,” he added, “I think I’ve heard something like it before.”

  “Hum,” I said, helpfully.

  “How’d you come up with it?” he said.

  “Just thinking,” I said. “Like you told me.”

  “Sure,” said Devlin, pleased. “That’s the way.”

  When I got home that evening, Joan was very quiet.

  “Thanks for the flowers,” she said, and then, “I’m sorry about this morning.”

  “Me, too,” I said. My suspicions in the florist’s seemed far away now.

  “What’s that on your breath?” she asked. “Beer?”

  “Whisky,” I said.

  “Oh, Gil,” she said, disapproving.

  “Devlin took me out for a drink,” I said. “I solved the Center problem.”

  “That’s wonderful,” she said, kissing me.

  “Funny thing about it,” I said. “Everyone else already knew how to do it, but they wouldn’t tell me.”

  “Aren’t you being a little paranoid?” she asked.

  “Nope,” I said. “I could tell from how they looked when Devlin told them. Disappointed. They were hoping I’d be fired. Rotten men,” I said. “You never know them until they let you down.”

  “I think you should lie down,” said Joan, taking my arm. Later, she awoke me, sitting on the side of the bed, smoothing my hair. “I’m going to run by Beth’s,” she said.

  “Nnkay,” I grunted.

  She left the room, closing the door softly, and then I awoke. I swung my legs off the bed, and followed.

  “Say hi for me,” I said, from the entrance hall.

  “Okay,” she sai
d, turning in surprise.

  “Does she want to see me yet?” I asked.

  “Not quite yet,” she said, frowning, pulling on her gloves.

  “I know you’re not going over there,” I said.

  She stood very still.

  “I know where you’re going.”

  “What are you talking about?” she said, very white. I had shocked her.

  “Do you sleep with him?” I asked.

  “What?” she whispered.

  “Does he make you come?” I hissed, taking two long strides toward her. “Is he better than I am?”

  She was standing with her hand on the doorknob; her face had relaxed.

  “You’re disgusting,” she said. “Listen to yourself. Everyone can hear you.”

  “Everyone who?”

  She flung her arms at the door. “Everyone there,” she said. “They’re all out there, listening. Tomorrow, they’ll be giving odds on our divorce.”

  “Is that what you want?” I said.

  “I’m not going to talk about this now,” she said. “Not while you’re drunk.”

  “Come back here,” I said.

  “That won’t work,” she said, twisting her wrist out of my grasp. “Look what whisky does to you,” she said. “Right back to the cave. You shout, and when that doesn’t work, you try brutality.”

  “What are you complaining about?” I asked. “Sounds pretty manly to me. Isn’t that what you want? Isn’t that what you’re going out of the door to find?”

  “Brutality doesn’t make you a man,” said Joan.

  She opened the front door; I could see her profile in the porch light. Her mouth was open; she breathed quickly from emotion; in the dimness, she looked younger, softer. My heart twisted at the thought that she was going to her lover.

  “Joan,” I said. But she was gone.

  It took a little while for the state to be convinced of the feasibility of the plan; it was their water that was threatened, and they were cautious. We shifted our attention to other projects, waiting for the go-ahead on the center. It came in September, and we began digging down to the stream bed. I had my mornings again; I stood in the fine autumn weather with my collar open, watching the crew at work. The building renovation had been halted, too; now I stood on the hill between the two sites, and pretended to observe them both, when actually I saw only Walker, who was in the hole again, digging the extra six feet.