Five Smooth Stones

by Ann Fairbairn

  "You were going to be some kind of technician a few minutes ago."

  "I still am. But I hear everybody learns how to shoot. Look, blabbermouth, what would you do, huh? I mean would you join up, I mean if it wasn't for your ankle and your damned A-plus grades?"

  "You think I'm stupid or something? Why the hell should I? If they drafted me, sure, I'd go. It's a lot better than five years in jail or whatever. And I'd wind up killing Koreans and Chinese and people who never did a damned thing to me—"

  "Compared to what the whites in your own country have done—"

  "Well, yes—"

  "To you and yours, daddy-o. You and yours. And me and mine. Hell, you know anyone down our way hasn't had two or three in the family what hasn't caught it? Strung up or shot or thrown in jail or some damned thing like that just because they're black? Do you? Or someone who can't tell you about a grandmother or an auntie or a sister didn't have something happen like—like what happened to my mother? Your Gramp—what about his daddy? And it wasn't enough just what happened to my mother. Long before that happened they found her own brother floating in the river upstate with a rope around his neck. Didn't anyone even bother to find out was he strung up or drownded. Her baby brother what she brought up—"

  "You're going in circles again! And still you joined up, you knucklehead?"

  "Like I said, it ain't going to do any harm to learn how to fight scientific. And besides, they'd of had me two weeks after I flunked out. This way I get a better deal. Get out faster—"

  "If it's too late, I suppose it's too late. But look, people get dead real fast in the Army—"

  "Hell, man, they get dead real fast, our people, in Natchez and Bogalusa—and anywhere at all, just anywhere at all, in Plaquemine Parish. And they going to finish off this war before they get around to sending Nehemiah over. I'm telling you, I'm as safe in the Army as I would be in Plaquemine Parish—"

  But he hadn't been. On July first he went to basic training. David had three postcards and a couple of letters. The last letter said, "They haven't waked up yet to the fact that the great man's in the Army. They sure take their time—" A card two weeks later said he might be taking a trip soon.

  The first week in October, Gramp called him on a Saturday just as he was leaving Quimby House for work, and told him Nehemiah had been killed in action. His family, Gramp said, were upsetted real bad.

  That night after work David got drunker than he'd been since the night after he put Sudsy on the train for Boston. And drunk or sober, it didn't make sense.

  The next morning he pulled himself together and took Nehemiah's aunt and uncle to church, and sang, standing by the piano, three of the hymns Nehemiah had always liked. And all the time he was singing he was seeing Nehemiah in the recreation room of the church, hearing him:... Were you there?... The words, Father. You hear 'em?... You wasn't there, but my daddy was there... Were you there?... remembering how he'd walked toward the tense, half-hysterical boy, suddenly wanting to pick him up as he would a child and carry him away from any hurts that he had suffered, was suffering, and the hurts that lay ahead as surely as life and the living of it lay ahead.

  When church was over and he drove toward Laurel, still nothing made any sense, nothing, not a Goddamned thing, made any sense.

  ***

  Now as he sat waiting, back in the balcony again, for the ceremony to end and the V.I.P. bishop to pronounce his benediction, Nehemiah had been dead for almost two years; Chuck was all set for the ministry; he, David Champlin, was all set for Harvard Law; Hunter Travis had finished a book; Tom Evans and Margaret Benjamin were both taking their Master's at the University of Chicago next year; Simmons and Dunbar were headed for some kind of literary venture; Clevenger said he was going in for scientific farming, which was all the funnier because he kept saying he wanted to take graduate work at Oxford first—with a B-minus average. And Sara Kent was leaving for Paris to study art. For how long? David didn't know, told himself it had to not matter for how long, or even where, because Sara Kent was Pengard, and Pengard was finished, and he and Sara had known that more than just four college years were over, last week after their last talk together. At least he had thought she knew, but something kept telling him that perhaps she didn't.

  When he came out of the auditorium, Gramp and. the Prof and Doc Knudsen were ahead of him, talking to Hunter and his mother and father near the auditorium steps. He walked over to them, slid an arm around Gramp's shoulders and gave a strong squeeze, so that Mrs. Travis said, "Gracious, David, I heard bones crack!" He held out his hand to take the Prof's, then hit Hunter's shoulder with a fist. "All over, man!" And Lawrence Travis said, "All God's children got diplomas—"

  They talked for a moment, and David said, "I have to run and make sure they aren't letting the beans stick—" and Gramp frowned in worry.

  "You sure they going to be all right? You ain't forgot nothing?"

  "Always been all right at home, haven't they?"

  A quiet voice said with exaggerated formality, "Are you referring to red beans, David Champlin? Louisiana style? Red beans and possibly rice?"

  "Sure am, Mr. Travis. At Quimby House."

  Lawrence Travis turned to his son. "Is there any law that says we have to eat a cold buffet at your hall, Hunter?"

  "Only unwritten. Want to break it?"

  "I most certainly do. Marcia, my dear—Dr. Knudsen, Professor, shall we follow David and his grandfather? I promise manna—"

  All through the evening, with people coming and going and confusion in all directions, David's eyes went time and again to the door, looking for Sara, not seeing her. He blamed himself for hoping she would come; she had said she wouldn't, said that when they said goodbye at the auditorium that would be it. She wasn't waiting until morning to leave the campus; she and her father and Bull and Tom Evans were driving partway to Chicago that night, the rest of the way the next day. They were going to start right away after the ceremonies. Just when he saw them, in his mind, driving into Cincinnati, he looked toward the doorway to the main hall, and she was there, and Chuck was calling, "There's baby! Beans, Sara, but you'll have to hurry!" She was all in blue, blue coat with a little round collar, fitted over the small perfect bust to the tiny waist, flaring below, darker blue shoes and bag, and a little blue hat with a sailor brim that made her look like a schoolboy straight from a print in a Victorian novel. David did not care whether anyone, anyone at all, thought that he was staring, even Gramp, because this was the way he was going to have to remember her after tonight and he wanted the image clear, down to the last button. She made a quick round of the room, kissing Mrs. Knudsen, hugging Doc and the Prof, was kissed soundly on the cheek by Chuck and Hunter, hugged Gramp, who looked startled to the point of shock, and when Lawrence Travis said, "I'm sorry we've just met—" hugged him and Mrs. Travis also. Then Tom Evans was in the doorway calling, "Sara! Your life's ahead of you—that's what the man said this afternoon— you going to spend it here? We're waiting—" and Sara was standing in front of David, hat askew—Sara, Sara, always with your hat askew—her hand out, but when he took it she did not shake hands but drew him after her into the hall. "Go tell them I'm on the way, Tom—"

  In the hall she looked up at him, and one small hand banged the top of her hat and it miraculously straightened, making her the Victorian schoolboy and a Vogue model of the well-dressed modern child all in one. Her eyes were intent and dark, fixed on his. "I'm not going to kiss you, David. That would embarrass you. But you heard what Tom said, and the man said—our lives are ahead of us and stuff. Mine isn't. Mine's here. Mine isn't ahead of me without you. And yours isn't ahead of you without me. And you know it David, will you write—"

  "Sara, it won't be right—Sara, please—"

  "I'll see you, David. I don't know when or anything, and I'm not being corny, but I'll see you—maybe you won't even know it—"

  And then she was running, really running and not just seeming to, across the hall to the door, forgetting to close th
e inner door so that through the outer screen door he could see Tom leaning out of a big car, see him pull her in with comradely roughness, then heard the door slam and saw the car drive off.

  ***

  He dreaded going to his room, stripped and bare now, and going to bed this last night at Quimby House. He went into the Laurel Inn with Gramp and the Prof and sat talking with them over a drink in the cocktail lounge until Gramp yawned abruptly and, eyes watering from the yawn, apologized. He left then, after arranging for the drive to Cincinnati the next day where they would board a train and, to Gramp's twinkling delight, share a bedroom suite to New Orleans. He would follow in the Peril. It wasn't a trip to which he looked forward.

  He'd had the foresight to leave a paperback novel out to read, but it might as well have been in Sanskrit. He should have left something out to translate, so he'd have to concentrate, and a hell of a lot of good that would have done either. Sara would have been there—no concentration could have banished her—just as she was there now, in every corner of that empty, bare room, looking at him, laughing, maybe crying. As, God damn it, he wanted to do.

  For a long time he'd thought that if he hadn't taken that walk the Sunday he returned from Christmas vacation in sophomore year none of it would have happened. Now he knew it would have because nothing could have stopped it. For some damned, contrary reason known only to an unfeeling God the whole thing had had to be, starting with Sara catching up with him that day on one of the paths to the lake.

  It had been late in the afternoon, the winter sunset a pale gold farewell to what warmth there had been in the day that was dying. He had arrived in Cincinnati on Friday from New Orleans, going directly to the home of Nehemiah's uncle, where he had left his car. Friday and Saturday night he remained in Cincinnati, playing at the Calico Cat, and on Sunday morning drove to Laurel. Saturday night, at work, he learned of Goodhue's resignation when a classmate who lived in Cincinnati came into the club with a party and made directly for the piano, grinning, saying, "Let me be the first to congratulate us—"

  "Hi, Paul! What're you passing out congratulations about?"

  "We no longer have a dean named Goodhue. He's quit. Resigned. Gone from us. It happened Thursday night."

  David's hands hit the keyboard in a resounding, crashing chord. "You're kidding!"

  "Honest to Gawd."

  "You've got to be!"

  "I'm not. It so happens that my mother and Mrs. Goodhue belong to the same regional chapter of something or other, and Mrs. Cozy called her and told her. They serve champagne here?"

  "Sure do. Order it, but I'm splitting the check with you—" When he got to Pengard the next day there wasn't anyone around he knew well. Chuck and Tom weren't back yet, nor was Hunter, and he wasn't going to be bothered with anyone else. Except Sara, and he called her at both the Knudsens' and Rainsford Hall and missed her at each place. He unpacked, then took a pair of heavy boots from the closet and put them on over thick wool socks, tucking trouser legs in, turning the tops of the socks over the boots, then put on the green sweater Sara had knit for him. He might run into her, and he wanted her to know he wasn't just being polite when he said it was a perfect fit. A heavy mack left in his room by Chuck, and Sudsy's green stocking cap ought to keep him warm even if he walked down along the lake. It had been snowing a little, and he wanted to be out in it, to feel the strange calm of it, the peace that seemed to lie hidden under its white covering of the land.

  He had not reached the lake when Sara caught up with him. He heard her calling to him while she was still a long way off, and by the time she reached him he had unbuttoned his mack and was holding it open so that she could see that he was wearing the sweater.

  "It fits!" She was laughing and patting the sweater, tugging it here and there, critical of her own handiwork. "Sure does, Sara. But you shouldn'ta oughta—"

  "I loved doing it, David. I loved every minute of doing it. I drove poor Chuck just about round the bend with fittings.

  Button up, idiot, it's not fur. You'll catch cold. Where are you going? Can I go? May I go, I mean. Please?"

  "Nowhere." He took her hand and tucked it under his arm, and lost it because it was so small he could not feel it, "You can come if you promise not to skip. I can't skip."

  She ignored him, managed to skip anyhow without outstripping him in speed, and said, "David, the news! It's wonderful. Cozy—"

  "I know. Paul Cameron told me last night at the Cat"

  "Damn you! I wanted to be the first."

  "I don't know why or anything. Neither did Paul—"

  "I do! I do! I know all about it. David, let's go down to that boathouse, the last one in the row, where they keep the canoes. There's an oil stove there and we can be warm while I tell you. I heard about it late Thursday night. President Vidal called Tom's father, and Tom called me and woke me up and the next day Bull told us all about it. He said we deserved to know." She pulled her hand from under his arm, fumbled in the outsize pockets of her coat. "I've got two sandwiches—and there's always a jar of instant coffee there —come on, David? We never have a chance to really talk—"

  He knew that, knew it well, because he'd tried to work it that way. Being alone with Sara in a confined space was something he always avoided. A guy could take so much, and he wasn't any damned marble statue and for a long time he'd known that would spell trouble. Or something.

  He tried to pry information out of her as they walked, but she shut her lips tightly and shook her head. "When we get there and my feet get warm. This blasted cold. Why did you pick today for a walk?"

  "Nothing else to do. No one here. I called you—hey, the boathouse is locked. There's a padlock—"

  "I know. But there's a window, too. Margaret Benjamin and I found it last fall when we got caught in a thunderstorm."

  "I'm afraid there's too much of me to get through that window—"

  "I can. There's a back door that unlocks from the inside—" She wriggled through the window, trim legs kicking as though she were swimming, and in a minute he was inside with her, lighting the stove and the oil lamp, pouring water into a pan to heat. She unbuckled storm boots and took them off, revealing wool socks over nylons. He unlaced his boots, then took them off, because his ankle was beginning to ache and he wanted the heat from the stove to get to it.

  Sara said, "I brought these sandwiches from Aunt Eve's to eat later tonight, and then when I saw you out the window—"

  "Saw me?"

  She nodded. "Certainly. You don't think I'd be idiot enough to go to walk when I'd just gotten into the hall after vacation unless I had reason? You want a sandwich now or you want to take it back with you? No food on campus till tomorrow."

  "I've got a whole chicken and French fries and pie; brought them from Cincinnati. My problem is to get 'em eaten before Chuck and Tom get here. Look, Sara, food's fine, it's wonderful, it's necessary, but for God's sake—why did Goodhue resign? Why has our Cozy left us?"

  When she finished he was leaning forward in the canvas chair, elbows on knees, fingers digging at his scalp. "Damned," he said. "I'll be damned. I'll be Goddamned—"

  "You certainly will if you keep talking like a profane parrot."

  "What's he going to do? You mean he quit Thursday night and—and isn't even around anymore? How'd he do it?"

  "I don't know what he's going to do. Drop dead, I hope. And I suppose he knew he was quitting long enough ahead of time to be all packed and everything. Uncle Karl said the moving people were there Friday. And he said he'd heard they were going to Europe."

  David shook his head in bewilderment. "The poor bastard," he said. "That poor, stupid bastard. Stupid. Just plain stupid—"

  "David, you're not sorry for him!"

  "No. I don't suppose so. I'm damned glad he's gone, and I'm glad he got found out. So he's a queer, and that's his business. But he shouldn't have tried to drag other people along with him—only, I'm all over being mad at him. That's all. What's the use of staying mad at a guy who's as far d
own as he is now?"

  "Clevenger—" said Sara.

  David looked up quickly. "What about him?"

  "Tom and Hunter say they're going to make him work just as hard to counteract that rumor as he did to start it. David, don't get all prickly again! You couldn't do it. Not under the circumstances."

  "Maybe I could, but I wouldn't. I'm not getting prickly, Sara. If they want to, I can't stop them. I wish they'd let it alone, but I know 'em well enough now to shut up. If Clevenger had sense he'd quit, and I wish he would. I'm not fond of the sight of him—"

  "He won't."

  "O.K., so we'll try and forget him. It's not going to be easy —squelching that kind of a rumor—"

  "No-o-o. But in time, David. Things work out."

  He smiled and stood up, and looked down at her where she sat on the edge of the camp cot. "You sound like my grandfather." He walked to the window. "Hey, it's pitch dark out! How long we been here?"

  "Hours and hours. Maybe we'll get lost walking back—"

  She was standing beside him, and he could see her reflection in the window by the yellow glow of the oil lamp that softened and made mysterious the corners of the room, the cupboards, the canvas chairs, the camp cot, the boating gear —everything beyond the perimeter of its glow. He turned away from the window and found that she had stepped back and was facing him now. He tried to smile, and said: "My ears are getting cold just thinking about it out there. And it could snow, know that? We'd better be moving along—"

  He did not draw away when her hands touched his cheeks, crept along them softly, covered his ears like small, warm earmuffs. "Your ears, David. They mustn't be cold. I've always loved your ears. Not just as me but as an artist. They're just right. They're not big like Chuck's or little tiny things like Dunbar's. They're—they're just right—"

  "Sara, Smallest, you better let go of my ears—" He couldn't have moved now if his life had depended on it; his muscles were like mush, and there seemed to be no messages going from brain to feet or hands or legs to galvanize them. All the messages were clearly coming from someplace else.