All Things Cease to Appear (38 page)

Do you want to see him?

What?

She let him in. That’s Fred.

Hello, Fred, he said to the parrot.

Hell-o, Fred, the parrot said back.

Cole smiled.

He’s from South America. Bolivia.

That’s far away.

It sure is. I’m hoping to go sometime myself.

They stared at the bird in the cage.

He likes it here, though, don’t you, Fred?

The parrot raised its wings slightly and jumped around on its perch.

My father raised birds, he said.

Yes, I know. Here, sit down. The woman cleared up a little space and Cole sat down on the couch. Can I get you something? When he didn’t answer she said, How about some chocolate milk?

All right.

He was glad when she went into the kitchen and started making noise. He looked around the small apartment. He didn’t see his mother’s figurines. He could remember his father coming here to see this woman, how Cole would wait for him out on the stairs, listening to their stupid laughter. He remembered thinking how the cold stairway was like a terminal to another world, a place where he fit in better than in this one, and he sometimes imagined those stairs stretching out like Rainer’s ladders, up and up and out of sight. After his mother died he had the same idea and wondered what it would be like to climb up to the top and see her. He’d climb as far as he could just to see her again.

Once, he went up in their neighbor’s little plane. Just him and his father got to go. They took off out of the field and the plane lurched and lollygagged and Cole worried they’d come crashing down backward, but they didn’t. His dad took his hand and held it very tight and told him that in cases like these the important thing was to have faith. Sometimes you just have to, he said.

She came back in with the chocolate milk. Here you go.

Thanks.

She sat down in the chair and watched him. You look just like him, she said finally.

I won’t make the same mistakes he did.

She nodded, her lips pursed. He could tell she felt bad.

I was real sorry about what happened to your folks.

He didn’t want the milk anymore and carefully set it down.

I’ve thought a lot about it, she went on. You have no idea how much.

Cole watched her. I came for my mother’s things. He slid the receipt from the pawnshop across the coffee table. The woman nodded. I can pay you, he said.

She glanced out at the street. He watched the flat sunlight cross her face as she moved in and out of it.

It’s the right thing to do, he said. Name your price.

I couldn’t possibly, she said. Not for something like this. She got up and went deep inside a closet and came out with a box, then set it down and opened it. She took out one of the figures, wrapped up in newspaper. Cole could see she was crying. I didn’t want nobody else to get them, see.

He showed her the money he’d earned at the Clares’.

She shook her head. I don’t want that.

Then she carefully wrapped the statue up again and put it back in the box and handed it to him. Your mother was lucky to have you, she said. You’re a very special young man.

Cole tried to smile. He didn’t feel special. You sure you don’t want any money?

Yes, I’m positive. She smiled, but he still wanted very badly to give her some. He didn’t want the Clares’ money. The whole point of working for them was this moment right now, and it was about to end. Keeping the money felt wrong.

She walked him down the narrow stairs and held the door open. You take good care, all right?

Thank you, ma’am.

Holding the box in front of him, he walked down the street. He knew he’d done something good. He turned around and saw her standing there on the sidewalk with her hand over her eyes in the sunlight, watching him go.

When he got home he took the box upstairs and sat on his bed and took all of the figures out and unwrapped them. Then he set them there on the shelf, where they belonged.

2

IT HAD SEEMED
like a good idea at the time. Wanting to write. He didn’t know what the novel was going to be about but felt something pushing him to write one, some great inner force. He thought it had something to do with his mother, who from her damp, wormy confines maybe was pushing him to write it. He could almost hear her complaining:
Look at your life,
Abraham! A farmer? Who ever heard of a Jewish farmer! Make something of yourself!
For his mother he had suffered through business school and joined a snobby accounting firm in the city. But Justine had saved him from all that. She said breaking the rules was the ultimate turn-on. You need to push yourself, she told him. Just because you’re good at something doesn’t mean you have to do it for the rest of your life.

On the day he quit they’d driven up to Stockbridge, her bare feet up on the dash, and poked around the Berkshires and made love under a blanket deep on the Tanglewood lawn, to the distant sounds of Mendelssohn.

His father said he had no stick-to-itiveness, but Justine saw things differently. She said he was curious and easily bored, which was true but not of her, never of her. And sometimes, when he’d make love to her with all the finesse he could muster, she called him a Renaissance man. He knew it was just Justine being romantic, but still.

So be it!

He wanted to be a novelist! He wanted to live in the country like John Cheever and sit by a window and write. He wanted to write about, well, something important. An important book that people could discuss at cocktail parties. He would be diligent and
serious.

Every morning, after chores, he drove to the library to write. It was a fifteen-minute ride and there were plenty of things to notice along the dirt road from the farm, rutted, puddled, clamoring with thickets. In his rearview mirror he watched their farm grow small, the yellow house with its proud front porch and the hen house and the corn crib and the big barn where he kept the sheep and his three Jersey cows. The vegetable garden that Justine had started, around which he’d constructed a high wooden fence to keep out the deer and the foxes and the coyotes and a great many rabbits. Sometimes, he saw his wife rushing to her car with her heavy bag and her hair loose on her shoulders and her lips so pale in the morning light he could only think of turning around to kiss them. She had a warm, full body that made him feel safe. When he’d first introduced them, his father had called her A Heavy Piece of Furniture and said, when Bram asked what the hell he meant, Lots of drawers packed full of stuff. Maybe it was true, but he loved all her drawers and wanted to take his time rummaging through them.

The library was in town, a white clapboard structure across from St. James’s Church—for which, back in the early 1800s, it had been the parson’s house—and a cemetery enclosed by a creepy black fence. There were two librarians. Dagmar, a tall blonde of German descent, built like a transvestite with a homely, likable face, sat at the front desk, surreptitiously reading some bodice ripper and sneaking gumdrops from a box inside her drawer.

He worked upstairs, at the very back, in a remote carrel near a storage closet that now and again the second librarian, a Mr. Higgins, a white-haired, bespectacled man with a gimpy leg, would stagger into only to appear, minutes later, looking as if he’d been slapped around, trailing the smell of gin.

It wasn’t unusual to see the Hale boy at the large table near the window after school was out. Sometimes he had his friend with him. They would do their homework just as distractedly as boys always fulfill tasks, constantly fidgeting, dropping pencils, picking them up, sharpening them, getting a drink from the fountain. His brother would come to collect him just after five and they’d go off together. Bram knew the middle boy had enlisted and now was out of the picture. He’d dropped out of school, apparently, according to local gossip.

One afternoon, driving around on one of his source-material excursions, he saw the boy walking along the road, hitchhiking. He looked distressed, his face pale, his jaw clenched, his thumb like it could poke a hole in the air.

A pawnshop was a peculiar destination for a kid, Bram thought. He let him off there and they said their goodbyes, but the reality of the street, with its lurking addicts, a windblown prostitute on the corner, changed his mind. By then it was dark. He turned around and drove back and found the boy standing there on the curb, looking confused, frightened, his hands jammed in his pockets.

They drove back to Chosen without talking.

You hungry?

The boy shrugged.

That’s what I thought, Bram said, and invited him over for supper.

The kitchen was in its usual state of chaos when they walked in, Justine flushed and substantial in her big fisherman’s sweater and yoga pants, noisy clogs. A pot of water boiling on the stove, steam rising. Something baking in the oven—one of her raspberry tarts, he surmised. He introduced her to Cole, kind of a gratuitous formality, and Justine smiled and shook his hand. You need to call someone, right? Your uncle, maybe?

There were no secrets in their town and everybody knew it. You were sort of like family whether you wanted to be or not. Accustomed to following directions, Cole telephoned his uncle, turning away as if for privacy and mumbling into the receiver, but Bram suspected there was no one on the other end.

You can’t just bring him home like a stray cat, his wife whispered while feeding the dogs, their tails whacking her legs.

He looks hungry, Bram said. And so am I. He kissed her.

Well, he’s in luck, I’m making spaghetti.

When the boy hung up, she said, I hope you like spaghetti.

Yes, ma’am. I do.

You don’t have to call me ma’am. Please, call me Justine.

All right. Okay. Justine.

It’s just about done.

Here, Bram said, grabbing a bunch of junk mail off a chair. You can sit here.

He’s so cool. He was standing in front of the iguana’s hut. What’s his name?

Emerson.

Like that guy?

Bram smiled. Yeah, like that guy.

What does he eat?

Lots of greens like spinach. Basically anything green and leafy.

He’s very fond of apples, Justine added.

Cole joined Bram at the table. He was tall for his age, with a kind face and beautiful, deep-blue eyes. He stared at the empty plate.

The kitchen filled with steam as Justine strained the pasta. Do you want sauce on yours, Cole?

Yes, please. He took his napkin and carefully put it in his lap.

What grade are you in, tenth? Bram asked.

Ninth.

What’s your favorite subject?

Math, he said.

I was an accountant.

Did you like it?

No. No, I didn’t.

The boy smiled for the first time. Not full-out, just a glimmer.

Bram shrugged. What do
you
want to do?

Do?

You know, when you grow up.

Maybe I’ll be a farmer, he said finally.

That’s a good idea.

Like your dad, Justine said with enthusiasm, as though following in his father’s footsteps was a matter of pride. She smiled. That’s nice.

But Cole frowned. No. Not like him. I’d do things differently, he said.

Bram looked at him. I believe you would.

Justine brought over the bowl of spaghetti and meatballs and a container of Parmesan cheese. There’s salad, too, she said. And bread. And what about a drink?

This water’s fine. He took a sip of water and put the glass down. But he didn’t take any food. He just sat there.

Justine set down her fork.

The boy’s lower lip trembled slightly. Fat, slow tears ran down his cheeks. He crossed his arms over his chest, embarrassed.

Justine stood up and went to him. Hey.

I’m all right.

She put her arm around him and hugged him and said, Watch out, you’re going to get me started.

He smiled, blinking, and she sat back down in her chair.

Better?

Yes, ma’am—Justine.

I bet you’re super-hungry, aren’t you?

I am, thanks.

Allow me. She took up his plate and served him a good helping. You came on a good night, she said, this happens to be my specialty. Help yourself to salad.

I will.

After they’d eaten and Bram was waiting to take him home, Justine took the boy in her arms and said, Whatever’s making you sad? It won’t last. This isn’t going to be your whole life. Things will get better, I promise. Okay?

He looked at her and nodded. Thank you for having me.

Come back anytime.

Once he’d dropped Cole off, Bram worried about what his wife had said. He wasn’t sure it was true. There was no guarantee the boy’s life would get any better. And Bram thought he probably knew it. He imagined that a boy like Cole knew his limitations.

But women saw things differently. Justine, for example, believed that good people were rewarded regardless of their circumstances. And that bad people paid in the end.

He hoped like hell she was right.

3

A COUPLE DAYS
later, when he went back to work for the Clares, it felt like something had changed. Something about her wasn’t right. The house wasn’t as neat as usual, with piles of laundry, and dishes in the sink. Ashtrays full of butts, Franny’s toys all over the floor. An open vodka bottle on the counter. I’m on strike, she told him.

She went out somewhere. When Franny took her nap, he wandered around the house, feeling kind of down. She didn’t seem interested in him like she used to. Now it was just work he was there for. He looked in the cupboard for something to eat, but there wasn’t much, not even any crackers. After a while, just to feel useful, he went upstairs to check on Franny—she was curled up with her bunny, sleeping—and then lingered in the hall, deliberating, standing there at the door of his parents’ old room. For a moment, he tried pretending his mother was downstairs, cooking supper, and his father was out somewhere. But suddenly the memory was gone. And it was just him again, standing there alone in the drafty hall like somebody stuck between two worlds.