The Collected Stories of Hortense Calisher Part 21

"But I can tell you why we've still got our different last names," said the boy from Contoocook. "Otherwise, it would be too confusing to them-even though they don't much use those. And too noticeable. This way, we can just fade quietly. And they can keep tally on us, like they like to do of the oldest stones in the graveyard."

Well, we didn't do much but form the club, that year. Freshmen do that. Then we came home, and I suspect that ordinarily the same thing would have happened to the boys from those other towns as to me; clubs fade too, like winter seasons. But now it was summer again. And I was shocked to the gills when I saw my uncle and aunt. People not forty years old yet don't just all of a sudden look like that, not when they've both always been lively as a barn dance-not unless they have a mortal disease. And it wasn't as if they just suddenly looked older in any healthy way, or even downright old, the way some people's hair turns gray overnight. He was still blond as could be; she was still brown. Morning early, and evening late, that is. In the strongest noon light, you couldn't quite tell. What's sucking them?-I thought, but we are a reserved family and I knew even if I could bring myself to ask, they wouldn't say. They moved lightly these days, and vaguely-my uncle, with tattoos half the length of his burly forearm, and his machinist's shoes and his heavy fingernails powerful as old yellow horn!-and their thoughts seemed to come from a long way back.

"Look at him!" cried my aunt when she saw me, "Oh, Johnny One." Her face puckered up, not much, just faintly, and then she stepped back, and put her hand to her hair in an absentminded way, and said in a thin voice, almost cold, and to my uncle, "Maybe he shouldn't of come back at all!" She hadn't the energy you see, to feel more.

But I was just inside the door and I hadn't tipped to any of it yet; I was waiting as usual for her to fall all over me and my growth like when I'd been to scout camp-in the winters, I'd used to hear her whispering at him in bed, "We've got to manage it for him another year, Andy, we've got to-we can't let him stay here all summer long." I was waiting for my uncle to thump me and kid around, and even for my aunt to say with a toss of her head that over at Willard Pond, they'd better look after their Barbaras, whereupon I would have to look both wise and innocent-for it was already too late to prevent that, too.

Instead, my aunt came up to me and timidly touched me on the sleeve. And pa.s.sed her finger like a dandelion-fluff over my cheek. "You're so red," she said. "And your eyes, so blue. Don't tell me they feed you packaged stuff." And I said, bewildered, "No, the college has got its own farm-part of the program is we have to work it." And before I could say any more, she burst out, "Oh Johnny One, Johnny One, maybe you should go away for good now."

"What are you talking about?" I said. "This is our place." And it is too, though it's only free and clear because they won't give us a mortgage on it, and there isn't much to it except the windows and walls, still thick and healthy, and the bit of furniture we swapped to keep. We were lucky in some ways, some said. Some have waited until the place is so slatted to the roof, there's nothing of it to sell at all.

"You're not going to sell," I said. "Why, I could paint it up here in no time-if you could get the paint. And the roof too-I see where the water's come through."

My aunt looked crafty-I'd never seen her look like that before. Even when she was cheating them a little, not with any outright lie; she'd look merry. "Not on your tintype," she said-when you haven't the energy, you sound hard and mean when you only intend to sound strong. "Catch me doing up what they'd only tear away. This place won't tumble, not in our time. But I'll make them pay the higher for every fence hole, inside and out. They like it better that way-don't I know from the shop? They like to start from scratch."

Brrr. How that word sounded when she said it, half snake, half claw. I looked around me more carefully. The shop was gone of course-that went last year, no great decision, just weaseled away with the last load of goods. They could start up again, any time they had the gumption, and could fix the car. In the old farmland, it used to be when the cow died; now the cow is the car. But they still had their jobs surely.

"How're the Blazers?" I said. The Blazers are our summer people.

My uncle clicked a thumbnail. "Mr. Blazer is thinking of doing his own garden. He was telling me only the other day how healthy it makes him, not only to eat. 'The old customs, Andy; we should all go back to them.' He's learning to do it all quicker than me. Got a lot of energy, that man. He showed me. Only thing he don't do good yet is all that boxwood he just put in, front of the house. He's no hand with the clipping shears yet. But he learns fast."

I looked over at my aunt. She hung her head, then looked at me sideways and through her hair, like those moron-children in our local family of the same. O my darling chubby, freckle-tan aunt, where had she got to?

"Aunt Marietta!" I said. That was her full name, sunk away somehow. And do you know, she straightened a little, and the color came back to one cheek.

"That's it!" said my uncle. Usually he didn't do the thinking for the family. He took a step forward, stamping as hard as if it was a resolution all in itself. But he was all excited. "We'll go back to the old customs. I'll be Andrew again." Not Mr. Blazer's Andy, is what he meant. "And he'll be our John, or our Johnny. But not Johnny One. That way it won't touch him, he'll stay healthy. That way, he can stay."

"And I'll make a garden!" I said. "I could do it out on the-" And then I looked outside, and remembered. What wasn't all dock and burr, and those good New Hamps.h.i.+re boulders which take block-and-tackle to move where it doesn't take eight generations of wall-building-was gone to wood. We'd let our old woods, sold to them, creep up on us. They hadn't seemed to mind. But there was worse than that. The trouble really didn't begin when they started wearing our jeans. When the old tools began to go, that was the beginning-from when we couldn't tell, even ourselves, was a tool to stay in the barn or go to be sold in the shop?

My aunt hung her head down again. But my uncle's idea, poor Andy muscleman, had really bolstered him. "Marietta, our John is home," he said, all dignity. "I'm going to shave."

I watched him while he did it. His great weightlifter's arm, molded in biceps, always did look funny handling that delicate razor, but now it looked foreshortened too, like all the rest of him, as if something underneath the muscles was shrunk. He looked all shrunk and contorted, like those woodenheaded character dolls we used to find in a bunch of goods now and then, old shepherds and bent-over wives marked Nuremberg and Tyrol. That's the way it took him, not like my aunt; it doesn't take everybody the same. Funny thing too, I saw that though his beard and hair were still as blond as mine, the leavings in the bowl were different. I walked over to see for sure. He'd had a week's beard on him. Yes, the sc.r.a.pings in the bowl were gray. Or you could call it a dim green.

All this time, my aunt, still peering at me now and then from under her hair, was fixing supper. And as the dusk came on, and before the lamps were lit, they began to look better to me. Maybe the green from outside, pressing in at the back window, rosied them a little; as we were told in art course, the complementary color to green is red. Oh I hadn't gone without learning that year; as well as the grammar and the art and the regular animal husbandry, we'd had a course in plant ecology too.

"What about that boxwood, what's that for?" I said idly, only wanting to make conversation. Soon's I got home, that's all I seemed to want to do, and not too much of it. I just wanted to sit, really. I felt tired, down to the hair on my limbs.

"Blazer wants to keep his privacy," said my uncle Andrew. "Oh, not from us." He gave a little snort-a weak one. "Not on the Pond and wood side. Round on the front side of the house. Seems the kids on their road are puttin' up a neighborhood affair to keep them out of mischief, center of that common lawn they have, used to be the old green. Oh he approves of it, helped to do that. Just don't want to see it, that's all, from the house. Band stand, or suthin'."

"Bandstand? They don't have any band," I said. Neither do we, anymore. We younger ones used to, mellaphone and xylophone. But all that beating and blowing takes it out of you. And over there, why should they bother with that stuff, summers?

"Close the window," said my aunt. "Don't look out." She went and closed the shutters, moving slow, like her own shawl. I'd never known her to wear a shawl before. And there was a line of dark on her upper lip. I never did like dark on the upper lips of ladies. Then she came and sat down again.

But I'd already seen the outside green, pressing in on us. Funny thing. Our own woods never seemed to close us in before-or out. But that was when they were our own.

"Think I'll go up the hill after supper," I said. "See what's doing at the soda parlor." It didn't have a name anymore, but they knew where I meant, the place next to the supermarket-where we young ones all make tracks for first. The number one Soda Parlor. Not such a bad dump that the Barbaras from over Willard Pond can't come looking for us.

"But it's gone," said my aunt.

I'd come in at night, hitching with a couple of salesmen kept me yapping and dropped me over the hill. But I'm quick to rally, at least in winter weather, or fresh from the Agricultural.

"Well, then, guess I'll have to go to the greasy spoon." The coffee-and-sandwich tourist place. No ice cream, but soda parlor number two, in a pinch. That's where they'd all be, if they couldn't the other.

"Closes at six, when it's open. Not open during the week."

Something in her tone put me wise. I hadn't been back all year.

"And Schlock's malted?"

"He's been junking since spring." My aunt began a kind of singsong. "Kelley One, Kelley Two, up the Niansit Road, they're junking, doing the best of any, they've got Irish blood keeps them going, and they never even knew what was in that barn of theirs from thirty years ago when they bought the place, many's the time I tried to tell them. And Anderson, the real estate, of course they've been at it always, near far back as me, and they only do to dealers, but now the mother-in-law too. And Cargill at the Souhegan crossroads, and back of the Monadnock Road, and Pack Monadnock-" That's a mountain. "When they're not at the tables, they're digging for bottles. Bottles are very good this year. There's tables out everywhere. Up and down the Pack."

"Bottles" means old "hand-blown" medicine bottles, from bitters to what can be only bromo-seltzers, or old commemoration bottles and so forth-I've dug those often, at the town dump, to sell back to them.

"But where do we hang out now?" I said.

My uncle meanwhile was rocking. Takes practice in our old Boston-he was going at it like a master. "I know what those kids-must be a grange. Saw all these colored lampshades going in, like we once had, the dining-room table. Kelleys sold them two. That's what it is. A grange."

Wasn't any reason my aunt should snap at him, more than at me. But she went for him, almost with her old s.p.u.n.k. "No it isn't," she said. "You know right well what it is and must be. It'll be like the woods, not to hunt in-for you. And not to swim in-for him. Like the Pond." Then she turned to me." It's to be what they call a teenage hangout," she said.

So then I was so tired. I didn't say anything, didn't say nothing. Either way-I didn't. Supper was fixed; you'd never believe what. I ate it, but I won't talk about it, even now.

And the next morning, I was up early to go up over the hill and see for myself, about the town. At least I meant to, but somehow I slept until noon. When I got there, it looked lively enough, cram-jam with tourists. They didn't stay on the hilltop long; just parked their cars in the white lines-and everywhere else-and spread out by foot. They have some idea that coming up to a table, if you don't see their license, you won't know they're not local and soak 'em for it. But they look so healthy, you can always tell. They're not a mirage, summer or winter. They're just pa.s.sing through, so you can say it. They're real.

And I thought, not seeing anybody who was anybody-my age that is-that maybe the Agricultural gets out earlier than their schools would, from the old days when the farm boys had to get home. But there was none of our town kids around either; few as there are left, there wasn't a Johnny or Mary of any denomination, in sight. Later on, I knew where they were; if they weren't digging bottles, they were rocking in their junior-size rockers, to guard the tables, or just hanging on the front steps, looking sideways through their hair. But just then I had to walk up and down the whole street a dozen times, to convince myself. There wasn't a one of us kids, either from Willard Pond or our side, in town.

I hung around until after suppertime, not being over anxious for it, and at the grocery steps-ours of course. After supper would be the time, if any. Not much custom came by-two. One was a great, strapping beauty of a girl we older boys had been warned away from ever since she went to live by herself, even before the school shut down for good. Other was her sister. Beautiful as sin they still were, even yet. Fading had even helped them; their hair was a cooler color, and it rippled, rippled down their backs. Going in and coming out, they made a sign of interest in me, but they couldn't maintain it. I could see they didn't know who I was anymore, but I wasn't only glad, as I watched them away, I was scared, past any connection with them alone. We always had some moustached old ladies in the town, and some of the Geracis have like a pencil smear, but this, on these girls' upper lips, above the pretty pucker, was different-a green mold. And I knew it didn't have anything to do with their sinfulness-on account of my aunt.

When they were gone, I got up and went inside the shop. The owner was sitting there, just like an alb.u.m leftover of last year. Only thing s.h.i.+ning was his china teeth; I never knew why the old hunting men around there always either had them, or else none. Maybe because only the old ones still knew how to hunt. I could see he didn't know me either, or try, though he was once the one first let me have a shot at the target. But they always have a big calendar, and there it was, hung right under the big long-barreled gun they never used but said was for deer.

"I just want to see the date," I said. "The day of the month. I just want to see for sure what day it is in June." For though I was sure I'd been home long enough for any school to be out by now, I couldn't remember.

He didn't move any more than a wooden Indian. He let me lean right over him. I saw that the calendar page was still at October. Had an Audubon picture above the empty days, a mother woodc.o.c.k with her brood nice and quiet and ready, in a field. I started to lift the page.

"Leave that be." He didn't move. His eyes were pink, from staring ahead.

"I just wanted to-"

He raised his hand to the gun. The hand was shaking, but kind of an old brown-pink too, almost healthy. And by G.o.d, the gun barrel was s.h.i.+ning too, more than anything else in sight in Hillsborough. I had to admire his energy.

"It's always October here," he said, as I left the shop.

But being the age I am, the soda parlors seemed to me the most sinister. "Sinister" is a word our plant-and-forestry instructor begins the hour with almost every morning; it's his first year too, and he comes from one of the fancy places, Cornell. He's only teacher-in-training to us, before he goes off to the job he's going to get after the summer, in research. "Be seated, gentlemen," he always says, "and let me impart to you another sinister fact about the ecology of our world." Then he flashes a grin at us, to show us we can be at our ease, but if he gave the command, he could keep some of us straight in our chairs for double the time. Talk about D.D.T., that's only the beginning; he can tell you a hundred different ways, from detergents to depth-bombs, how the natural balance of the world is being upset. And another hundred brave ways of how nature plans to keep it. About the rise and fall of all plants, and how certain plants, even trees, have to have other trees near by them, little numbly ones you would never look at for themselves, in order to survive. "Survive" is another word he's always at, when he isn't at the other. Boy, has he ever given it to us. Even Johnny Ten knows what Ecology is. It's our favorite course. "Even about the Dutch elm, boys, don't be so quick to blame it all on that beetle, or even that aphid they're blaming now. Look for some tree, maybe the commonest genus in the world, that isn't standing by any more, and once used to be."

It was about eight o'clock or less when I left the grocery, still to be light for an hour or so, and I decided to go to the woods and think about making out. How else was I going to meet her, otherwise? I could go through our old wood and up to the rim of Willard Pond, just one open place on it, but I couldn't go round the rim to their side, that's all theirs, and we younger ones never do-did. They always used to come here. And that's how it happened between her and me last year. I just went and sat at the edge of our woods, in the high, flat, mossy place I'd known forever, where you could lie and be seen or not seen, as you chose. I used to sit there regularly, day and evening, always at the same times, so that anybody saw me from over there, they'd begin to know. I used to just sit there, and think about making out with girls. And one day, parting the birches, from where she'd come around the rim, there she was. Of course we'd seen each other at the soda parlor, before.

Usually they come in twos, if they come at all. But she came alone; that's what interested me. I like things interesting in that style. And she felt the same. We found that out quick enough about each other. But in fact, what with her family owning her place for four years now and our summer staring at each other across the soda parlor for two of those, we already knew. There are sides to a soda parlor too of course, or were-ours and theirs. But sometimes, like a wood, it can be crossed.

"Why don't you ever come and swim," she said, sitting down as graceful on my moss as if it were her own-which it partly was. She knew why of course. The Pond is private. But they like to ask. To hear us answer. Especially if we're handsome.

But I wasn't going to give her that satisfaction.

"Because of the leeches," I said.

The leeches in the pond-we'd never told any of them, when we sold off a patch of sh.o.r.eline, that these were in the pond thick as seeds at the edge, or how to avoid them-by flat-diving and swimming out quick-or how to get one off if it fastened on you. Let them find out for themselves. But wouldn't you know, just as with the land and the shack that wasn't any good to us, after a while the leeches went away-the summer people's blood wasn't rich enough yet. "All goes into their money," my aunt said. We did used to swim some of course, sneaking it in early or after they'd gone. But I hadn't seen a leech in years.

"Why, I've never seen one, what do they look like?" she said.

Well, no use going over all of it. It wasn't a large conversation. She never did like to hear me talk much, and all this last year through we didn't write, didn't either of us plan any mention of that. And we'd each made out with other persons before.

But she did say that one thing.

"I'd never make out with any other one of you," she said. "Only you."

And I thought the same, or even better. It's like when the one tree knows that the other tree is in the forest, standing by. And I thought to myself that there ought to be a better word for it, than-making out.

So that evening, I went back through the woods, to our joint-owned mossy place, that evening and many more, and daytimes, too. All through what must have been the rest of June, and then July and part of August, I sat there; I hunted up a calendar at home, and counted it out. Except to creep into a store for my aunt-and then I'd sneak into Geraci's when I could on credit, for it was healthier-I never went up the hill to town at all.

And as I sat there, high in my open eyrie, I could see well enough what they were building. My, it was sharp and bright, as s.h.i.+ning as anything on the state highway, with a baby-sized turret, orange-sherbet colored with a rod waiting for the weatherc.o.c.k to be fixed on it, and a plategla.s.s entrance you could see in through, just like the state liquor store. I have excellent sight. I could see it all, like an anthill milling, at all hours of the day and late on into the evening, when they kept worklamps burning. That's why it went on for so long; they were doing it themselves, as they had learned more and more to do. I could see the boys and girls bending to their jobs, but could not always tell one girl from the other, because of that long hair style falling over their faces, and their same halters and jeans. Sometimes I could. My, how bright and particular and blooming it had gotten to be over there on the lakesh.o.r.e, and not all with plastic either! Browning that way in their gardens, putting up their preserves in our old Mason jars, even hoisting lumber as if they saw a block-and-tackle every day in the week-they're getting healthier. I could see well enough what they were up to. I clenched my hands in the moss, and thought about it. It wasn't so far to across there; it only had always seemed to be.

Then, one day just at the end of summer, she came. It had taken a long devotion of my sitting there, but I had always known she would. And if it had taken longer than last year, this was because back then I'd just been dreaming on it generally, on making out with any girl. I hadn't been thinking of it with Barbara Blazer.

That's who it was of course. After all, even after another summer, if it is known where to look, the tree can see the tree.

When she parted the birches and came in, I wondered how I could ever have confused her with the others, even at a distance. Her hair was the longest, long and straight as any sin. A gold hoop hung in the ear I could see. The lobe was red, where the hoop of light pinched it. Her mouth matched the ear. Above, the sun was just going down, ahead of the dusk. My, I said to myself-she looks strange for a member of that mirage. So rosy and separate.

She came and sat down beside me, graceful as ever, on the moss. I dug my fingers in it, but I couldn't make it just mine any more. It's too late for it.

"Late this year," I said. "Aren't you."

She tossed back her hair. The other ear had a hoop in it too, and a pulse of red. "Oh, we're very late-we meant to have it ready by midsummer." She flicked a look at me, and away, and sighed. "Like father says, you have to work hard to know how hard work is."

For a minute I didn't answer. Then I said, "Well, you'll have long enough to use it. If you're going to stay on longer this year."

Or all year round. That's what I'd been telling myself. That's what my aunt had been telling me. When able.

While the sun went down, she didn't answer. Then she said low-I will say she speaks low, not screech-owl like some of them-"It was you, wasn't it, put that pine-pillow heart under my bed pillow, up at the house? After the house was closed?" We were neither looking at the other, but she felt my nod. "You dope," she said, "wouldn't you know my mother'd find it before I did. But we were lucky. 'How sentimental of her,' my mother said. 'Guess she wants to show us how much she likes us, to stay on.' She thought it was your aunt."

"It was sentimental," I said. But the thing had been around our family a long time. I thought they liked that. I'd even had to mend it. "I thought you'd like it." And it was all I had.

"A Pillow of Pine for a Sweetheart of Mine," she said. "You dope." But she smiled. "It was pretty grungy by the time I got it. You must have put it there way last fall."

"I've been away since then."

"I know." We still weren't looking at each other. "But we know you all go through the house when we're not there and look us over. We've always known. We can tell." And then, maybe even not conscious of it, just as I looked at her, she wrinkled her nose.

Anger makes for strength. "I was at college, all year."

"I heard. We're very proud of you-the only one in town. And that's why I came over." Her hair hid her face. She spoke through it. "I thought maybe you could do something with your aunt and uncle. Mainly with your aunt. Before my mother has to tell her. She's gotten so-careless with herself-not even worth her pay, my mother says. The house was a sight, when we walked in. All spidery. And your uncle remembered to turn the water back on, but left the sump-pump going. Oh that's all right, we're sentimental too, my father says-to a point. But-"

I thought she would never be done, and the funny thing was it almost didn't seem to matter. When it's too late altogether, what can it matter-once you know that?

"But we've had a new baby," she said. "And around a new baby, you simply can't have somebody like that. Could you somehow-jack her up?"

It's all in the balance of it. They don't intend to be mean.

Laughing helps too. I rolled back against one of the birches, laughing as hard as I could, and then sat up again. "Why she must be forty years old. Your mother." She's forty-two; we know everything about them. And how dare she, with her skinny little bikini figure and dyed red curls? When there hadn't been a baby in our family since me-and my mother'd died of it.

She giggled. "Oh, the country's great for us. Even the doctor said it. Or maybe it's the moons."

"Going to be one tonight," I said.

Say a thing like that, and it shakes you with it. My hand walked across the ground and took hers.

"Oh golly, don't say it," she said. "We've got to open the place by the full moon, we've promised ourselves. Lanterns and all." But her voice was false; she wasn't listening to it half as much as to her hand. She let me keep it. And then at last, she looked up.

It was dusk by now, but I tried to see myself in her eyes like in a mirror; we don't have a good one at home any more.

"What's the baby?" I said. "Boy or girl?"

"Girl." Her hand was still in mine. "You're so pale," she said. "Whatever makes you look so pale?"

Must be the hair on my head, I thought; with no barbershop on the hill, I hadn't had a trim all summer; how do their heads support all that hair?

"How many Barbaras does that make in your family?" For I knew she had at least one sister; couldn't remember if more. "Will that make her Barbara Three or Four?"

"Her name's Anne," she said. "What do you mean." But she knew. Her hand had come away from mine. "That's moron stuff," she said. "That's that awful family with the whiteheaded, pink-eyed children. Down back of the factory. They say that." Her lip s.h.i.+vered, and she held it with her teeth. They aren't china. "You were always just Johnny."

My hand felt lonely. I made like sweeping a cap off my head to my knee. I was standing up by now, braced against the birch. "Let me introduce you. To Johnny One."

Her hand went to her mouth. She was still on the ground, at my feet. "You were still so handsome," she said. "Just a little while ago, when you first came back." She looked about to cry. "What's the matter with you people?"

"You were watching," I said. "All the time?"

"Yes-I was watching." It sounded as if she hated it.

"Can you really see us that well, over there? I always wondered." I leaned against the birch, which helped. Some of the full grown birches have one high fork, like a giraffe face up there on its long, scribbled bark neck. But this one is just a sapling, with the crotch still low enough to rest an elbow in.

"Not really. But I can always see you."

It was like our last year's promise. I dropped back to the ground. That was a relief. I was about to kiss her. Two can suck strength together. Then I saw the black spot on her leg.

"What's that! Barbara Blazer-you've got a leech there."

"Oh golly, have I? They're in the lake in droves this year."

It was on the calf of her right leg. Both of us stared down. I for one never saw anything like it, on us. The little black thing wasn't deep in yet. But it was already fat and red too. Rich.

"You wait right here," I said. "I'll go back for matches. You know what we have to do." If it's not too far in, it'll shrivel. "Or you could come back with me-" I hadn't meant to say that. But maybe if she saw us at home, with everything still there that couldn't be sold-the fanlight, and the banister like a turned ribbon, and the floors-maybe they'd see us better. "If it's in too deep, my aunt has a special knife." Or did once. "She's very good at it."