by M. R. Adams
He turned to see if the reason he had been unable to move forward, stuck under the wrought iron arch mulling over things already mulled to dust, was still stationed at his emerald Jaguar convertible, and sure enough it was: Stephen Dawes was still on his phone. Robert should’ve given some kind of fee for agreeing to allow Stephen to photograph the area, because then he could have taken an authoritative role, instead of considering Stephen an equal, a partner, and then could have demanded that Stephen hastened himself. Maybe this had something to do with some subconscious I’m-white-and-rich-why-should-I-be-serving-the-black-guy-even-if-he-is-richer B.S., but he knew, for the most part, that Stephen was just being his self-absorbed self, and, at least in this situation, judging by how hunched over Stephen was and how hushed he was talking, Stephen did understand that someone was waiting for him: now he ran his fingers through his blonde hair, and looked at Robert with a smile, raising his pointer finger, mouthing, “one more minute,” while trying to figure out why on earth Claire was calling him. She had screwed up their life plan of him proposing by going to Oxford. He had accepted this, given her space, worked like hell to move on, and now she kept calling.
“I heard you’re working with the Crawfords,” she said.
“Just Robert, Claire. How’d you even hear?” he said, resting his elbows on the Jaguar, and realizing this, looked up to see Robert furrowing his eyebrows. He stood and began to take small, slow, deliberate steps in the opposite direction, his back to the wrought iron arch.
“My mother told me.” Of course she had.
“Okay, well I gotta–”
“Have you officially met the rest of the family?”
“No, Claire.”
“Well, I’m best friends with Jessica, as you know. Stick to her, she’s the only normal one. The father is depressing, the grandfather scrutinizes without ever saying much of a word, and the youngest one–well, he is just an awkward chubby thing.”
“Is he now?” By chubby she meant obese. And all of this was irrelevant.
“Yes, yes he is. I always make Jessica come to me.”
“I understand.”
“Plus, Crawford Manor is a dark place.”
“Excuse me?”
“The furniture is of the darkest wood, and the lights always seem dimmed. No wonder they are all depressed.”
“Okay, Claire. I’ll keep that in mind.”
“Excellent.” A pause–a lull. “It’s been a while since your graduation. Has your father said anything about moving you out to the city to work–”
“I have to go.”
“But Stephen...”
Stephen sighed. Maybe if he remained silent she would just assume the call was dropped and do him the favor of hanging up.
“Stephen?” Silence. “Stephen?” she said.
“You are the one who left me. Why are you calling?”
Nothing.
“Claire?”
“I’m here. I-I mean...I just...”
“Spit it out.”
“I’m home. I-I mean I’m back from Oxford. And I’m not going back.”
“What?”
“We’ll talk about it–us–later?”
“Claire.”
“I still have your e-reader. You can come pick it up.”
“Claire?”
“See you soon. I love you. Bye.”
“Claire!”
Stephen looked at the phone. It displayed: 8:45...call ended. Maybe he could get Robert to stop by there for him. He’d ask at the end of the day.
Closing the smart phone, he looked to see the back of Robert, who was looking into downtown Riverdale. Robert had heard Stephen’s last outburst and was somewhat reassured that at least Stephen wasn’t happy–and Claire was home–but finally, it was time to begin.
And so they walked: Robert between the rusted trolley rails, Stephen weaving across the road to occasionally stumble over an overturned brick in the sidewalk into the street, only to stumble on an uprooted cobblestone onto the trolley tracks, only to stumble once more over an uprooted cobblestone onto the brick sidewalk along the opposite side of the street.
While Stephen kept his eyes on his soft leather moccasins, Robert looked at the passing windows: the broken, barred, missing, but all empty windows. A window with two white blocks supporting a third may have been a shoe store that propped purple and canary pumps and brown and navy loafers but the long, shallow steps leading up to the building seemed more indicative of a bakery. Yes, a bakery. The chipped hunter green door.
Climbing up the steps, he peered through the window: a glass display case and the lower counter space where the cash register would’ve–could’ve–been and then there was an open space that housed–could’ve housed–three round tables surrounded by chairs where one could’ve eaten apple fritters.
Robert climbed down the steps and returned to his trolley rails, turning head side to side, store after store, but his mind projecting the images of people, faded but dressed in violets and peaches, that should’ve been walking the streets. Why did people resonate with him as ideas when he was so put off with them as actual people? Of course people once walked these streets. But why was that relevant? How has that connected to anything he had read? What had he read? What hadn’t he read?
Crrrrrrrrrshhh. The film wound. Then:
Click.
Click click.
Robert discovered himself at pause; he continued on. People. Children. Families. Sundays. Royal blue hats. Navy blue suits with sunrise orange ties. Layered white dresses on little girls. He laughed. To think there was a time when people wore suits everyday, when nowadays you could get called a sellout just for pulling up–
Fzzzzzzzz. Crrrrack.
A theater: marquis with three light bulbs, one burnt black.
“These lights are on?” said Robert.
“I don’t know,” said Stephen, snapping a picture.
They walked; and the time passed not so much as to the length of the street but as to the slackened beat of their steps: feet lifting a couple of inches, heal contacting ground, rolling down to balls then toes only to be repeated by the opposite foot a foot from the previous foot. Finally, the road ended in a crossroad, facing a white building with pearly columns, lawn cut; sprinkler sprinkling:
Chuchuchuchcuchuchu. Sczzzzzzzzzzzz. Chuchuchuchuchuhc…
Robert walked over and reached out to touch the plaque embedded in a boulder behind an iron fence.
“First Town Hall. 1792.”
Stephen planted himself alongside him.
Click click–
“Stop that,” said Robert, covering the lens.
“Sorry,” said Stephen.
They stood.
Chuchuchu chuchu. Sczzzzzzzzzzzz. Chu chu chuchuchuchu.
“You hear that?”
“No.”
“Laughter...” Stephen put one leg over the fence. “Let’s check it–”
“No,” said Robert, grabbing Stephen’s arm, causing him to jerk back, his pant leg catching onto the fence’s arrow-like tip, and tearing.
“Crap,” said Stephen.
“Sorry, man.” The whole purpose was to be insignificant–unobtrusive. Observing buildings was one thing; observing people was another.
“That’s fine,” said Stephen, hopping the fence. “Already know how you can make it up to me. I need you to stop by Claire’s for me.” He made his way to the back. Robert followed. He should’ve come alone.
Laughter.
Stephen crouched on the ground and peered between the bushes. Robert remained standing: He wasn’t caving to Stephen’s orders. This was his show. And he wasn’t giving up on his principles just because it was convenient. Not everyone had to give into every pleasure seeking impulse.
“Dude. See this.”
Dude? Robert crouched, peering between twigs and leaves to see two old men sit–
“Let’s go,” he said, rising.
“Okay, hold on, just let me–”
“Now.”
“This is what you wanted.”
“How do you know what I want?”
Robert walked back. And he wasn’t looking back. He climbed over the fence, and took up his walk between the trolley tracks, waiting. It took a moment, but he heard it...Stephen’s stumble.
<<>>
Two old black men, one with gray fedora, the other with blue bucket hat sat at a chess board embedded in a concrete table embedded in a stone tablet embedded in the earth, surrounded by yellowed grass.
“Who says I ain't got no education?” said gray man, moving black knight.
“Yo ashy beat up hands. That who,” said blue man, moving white pawn.
“Pembry Brooks.” Gray man scratched underneath his hat.
“Who you goin' on about?” Blue man looked up at him.
“I'm goin' on about Pembry Brooks.”
“Why you bringin' up that old fogey?”
“Because that old fogey makes my point.”
“Which is?”
“He went to some great school. And now he a caddy. Servin' white folk.” Gray man moved black queen.
“Nothin' wrong with honest work,” said blue man, crouching over the board.
“Bein' a caddy to live in a trailer when people fought so we can own some land ain't honest. If the only way you gettin' through those pearly–”
“Watch yo’self.” White bishop moved.
“I've done worse. If I wasn't goin' to the fire and brim below before, I ain't goin' now.”
They laughed.
“Now,” said gray man, “If the only way you gettin' through those pearly gates to them pools and cocktails and those um...”
“Manicures, and hot tubs...”
“Exactly.” He moved black queen. “If the only way you gettin' to all that is by going through some, some...what's that show I like?”
“Quantum leap.” White rook.
“Yeah. Quantum leap. If you gotta go through some quantum leap to a time when it made sense to caddy because ain't nobody free enough to do anything else then it ain't honest.”
“Well come on now. We've made some progress.”
“We? No we haven't.” Gray man lifted up his black queen, used its base to knock down white rook, and planted it on the white tile. Blue man picked up the fallen rook and placed it on the board’s corner, on gray man’s side. “Now, those sadiddy types on the hill winnin' elections and plannin' parties...they've made some progress. I learned how to play chess when I was three, went to war, got married, got widowered, and here I am still playin' chess. I ain't gone nowhere.”
Blue man laughed.
Gray man scratched his chin. A milky film covered his eyes. The scratching fingers slowed.
“Your turn, ya old wrinkle bat,” said blue man, averting eyes.
Gray man laughed, saw the white pawn had moved, then moved his black queen. Blue man slid his white bishop along the white tiles, and scooched the black queen off her white tile.
“Checkmate,” said blue man.
“Dagnabbity. One day, I'm gonna hire a Chinamen to take you out.”
“Then who'd you play with?”
“I guess one of them youngin's that was crouchin’ in those bushes.”
They laughed.
CHAPTER THREE
Dr. Dunn Pays a Visit
Dr. Mertyl Dunn stood on the steps of Crawford Manor, watching two overalled men carry a marble bench to place under two blooming cherry blossom trees stationed at the entrance to the new Crawford garden. Horatio always was a show off: only concerned with the extent of beauty to the extent of its observation, thus overdoing it with just one or two additional, contrived details.
Four more men came, carrying a cherry swing seat into the garden. She smiled. She would do so much more observing without the pretense of action now that she had finally reached her golden years. She would deliver her news then be off.
Of course Horatio would deliver one more plea for her to return to her post, ever en guard to his grandson’s education, but she was prepared. She had heard it all: her contribution to the community and her resulting abandonment as a result of retiring and the subtle insinuations of selfishness and embitterment on her part–and none of it mattered. It had mattered twice upon a time when she had first taken and then retaken her position, hers as she was the first and defining dean, but since the onset of summer, she had time to think as she retreated to her cottage off Old Country Road and took walks along the Seponic River, watching the ferry giving its tours, and she finally realized, that she was not the world’s savior. She had done her part; she could feel good about that and move on...focusing on herself, providing the occasional aid to her own grown daughter. She had not worked as hard as she had to ensure the future of other children just to see her own go by the way side. Children were supposed to launch themselves from the platforms their parents had set. If Mertyl had lived in service to a family to improve her condition, then her daughter had the responsibility of setting herself free, forging a new path, like owning her own business, applying what talents she had to use under her conditions and standards–and no one else’s.
She, herself, even from a young but adult age, knew there were two contributions she could’ve made with her life: alleviate the suffering, or advance the talented. Most would say that the former was more noble and be self-righteous towards her for thinking that the unfulfilled potential of a latent genius was like a caterpillar frozen in the cocoon phase, trapped in darkness, unable to manifest into a creature that could flutter (for no one truly soared, everyone labored, the ultimate equalizer). The stagnation of the intellect of those brimming with possibility of true insight, the ability to generate and not just regurgitate ideas, was as much a tragedy to her as a hungry child picking through garbage for a rotten bite to eat.
Ultimately, this equalizing of tragedies is why she had taken years to decide whether or not to ally with Horatio. However, the decision came quite easily when she considered one thing: if she took Horatio’s offer to begin the process of gaining influence in West Umpton and advancing Laurel Academy by becoming his Eliza Doolittle (the irony of this and her daughter’s name falling heavily on her) then there would be someone to take her place in being Walter and Sally Keeters’ social worker, helping Sally get her Associates or open that beauty parlor and aiding Walter in opening his own auto shop, their daughter perhaps showing enough promise to, with hers and Horatio’s help, attend Laurel on their proposed scholarship, assuming the miscarried Keeter girl–was Lilah to be her name?–had not grown up to display her mother’s mental inconsistencies. On the other hand, had she reneged on Horatio’s offer, then who else would’ve–could’ve–been his muse, confidant, and protégé? He saw something in her, which was the clearest indication that she was the one to take up the decade long task of becoming dean, and the more difficult work of maintaining the position while elevating the school’s standard, for it had become a playground for the apathetic rich trash who thought their parents had paid, thus guaranteeing, their way, and she was too aware of her ignorance in the matter to question him–and perhaps she liked that someone believed in her so much (for the first several years she battled a strong emotional transference).
Even though she never deeply regretted her decision, there were occasional twinges, which was to be expected given how the Keeters turned out and the news that had her here visiting the Crawfords. Shortly after relieving herself from the Keeters’ case, Sally had lost the baby girl and became…well…a self-sabotaging vamp, quitting school and running around town in the seediest places, like that downtown dive, Sammy’s. And all her future case managers had let her down in one way or another, becoming one of her tricks, or sending her to second rate counseling services, or just begging her to change–begging! They should’ve just dropped to knee and kissed her feet. If she were in charge, she would have had Sally committed, the woman could’ve done with some aid. She had tried reaching out to her former colleagues on occasion but found herself rebuffe
d for it seemed that she was considered a bit of a deserter, and Horatio’s influence wasn’t that deep in Riverdale–being considered a traitor, a sell-out for his preoccupation with West Umpton. However, what was he to do? Leave his grandchildren to the mercy of a school system that tried to fail Robert because he couldn’t recite a history textbook in an essay he had thirty minutes to do, or Jessica because they tried to grade her rumored moral conduct over her academic performance–she had heard the child got around but what else was she to do, without the prospect of dating and learning personally how human creatures interacted? Thankfully, after all the treading with Robert and Jessica in earlier years, so much had been done–images transformed, stereotypes relieved–that Christopher was having an easier go at things (although this also had something to do with him as a person, he had quite a few of the faculty charmed: she had to reprimand him when she passed to see him sitting on one of his teacher’s, Dr. Hibbert’s–Thomas’s–desk). But still, there were issues, particularly when it came to some of the school’s athletes harassing the poor boy, then claiming he had harassed them, stealing peeks in the locker room, which she knew was hogwash because Christopher was always thirty minutes late to gym on the account that he was volunteering in the science lab, cleaning pyrex, but in actuality he was in her office, writing…writing…writing, because he couldn’t change in...
How selfish of her. To think she could just drop the bomb she was about to drop and leave…again! Look at the Keeters: Sally as the cook (which she had arranged after finally giving up that her colleagues were just as judgmental and self-righteous as everyone else, refusing to help under the notion that there were others who deserved it more) and Walter–there now, helping three other men carry boulders–as the gardener, when they could’ve had more. And Christopher: still in the position for the world to be his, to go anywhere, do anything, but…but what could happen in one year’s time? What one year had done to Sally and Walter. The road it set them on. It was her fault.