Bear and His Daughter (12 page)

“Now that I’m here,” he said, laughing, “I can’t remember what I came to get.”

“Stay and get warm,” Candace told him. “Got a minute? Have a cup of coffee.”

Elliot had nothing but time, but he quickly realized that he did not want to stay and pass it with Candace. He had no clear idea of why he had come to the library. Standing at the checkout desk, he accepted coffee. She attended him with an air of benign supervision, as though he were a Chinese peasant and she a medical missionary, like her father. Candace was tall and plain, more handsome in her middle sixties than she had ever been.

“Why don’t we sit down?”

He allowed her to gentle him into a chair by the fire. They made a threesome with the sleeping old man.

“Have you given up translating, Chas? I hope not.”

“Not at all,” he said. Together they had once rendered a few fragments of Sophocles into verse. She was good at clever rhymes.

“You come in so rarely, Chas. Ted’s books go to waste.”

After her husband’s death, Candace had donated his books to the Conway, where they reposed in a reading room inscribed to his memory, untouched among foreign-language volumes, local genealogies and books in large type for the elderly.

“I have a study in the barn,” he told Candace. “I work there. When I have time.” The lie was absurd, but he felt the need of it.

“And you’re working with Vietnam veterans,” Candace declared.

“Supposedly,” Elliot said. He was growing impatient with her nodding solicitude.

“Actually,” he said, “I came in for the new Oxford
Classical World.
I thought you’d get it for the library and I could have a look before I spent my hard-earned cash.”

Candace beamed. “You’ve come to the right place, Chas, I’m happy to say.” He thought she looked disproportionately happy. “I have it.”

“Good,” Elliot said, standing. “I’ll just take it, then. I can’t really stay.”

Candace took his cup and saucer and stood as he did. When the library telephone rang, she ignored it, reluctant to let him go. “How’s Grace?” she asked.

“Fine,” Elliot said. “Grace is well.”

At the third ring she went to the desk. When her back was turned, he hesitated for a moment and then went outside.

The gray afternoon had softened into night, and it was snowing. The falling snow whirled like a furious mist in the headlight beams on Route 7 and settled implacably on Elliot’s cheeks and eyelids. His heart, for no good reason, leaped up in childlike expectation. He had run away from a dream and encountered possibility. He felt in possession of a promise. He began to walk toward the roadside lights.

Only gradually did he begin to understand what had brought him there and what the happy anticipation was that fluttered in his breast. Drinking, he had started his evenings from the Conway Library. He would arrive hung over in the early afternoon to browse and read. When the old pain rolled in with dusk, he would walk down to the Midway Tavern for a remedy. Standing in the snow outside the library, he realized that he had contrived to promise himself a drink.

Ahead, through the storm, he could see the beer signs in the Midway’s window warm and welcoming. Snowflakes spun around his head like an excitement.

Outside the Midway’s package store, he paused with his hand on the doorknob. There was an old man behind the counter whom Elliot remembered from his drinking days. When he was inside, he realized that the old man neither knew nor cared who he was. The package store was thick with dust; it was on the counter; the shelves, the bottles themselves. The old counterman looked dusty. Elliot bought a bottle of King William Scotch and put it in the Inside pocket of his overcoat.

Passing the windows of the Midway Tavern, Elliot could see the ranks of bottles aglow behind the bat The place was crowded with men leaving the afternoon shifts at the shoe and felt factories. No one turned to note him when he passed inside. There was a single stool vacant at the bar and he took it. His heart beat faster. Bruce Springsteen was on the jukebox.

The bartender was a club fighter from Pittsfield called Jackie G., with whom Elliot had often gossiped. Jackie G. greeted him as though he had been in the previous evening. “Say, babe?”

“How do,” Elliot said.

A couple of the men at the bar eyed his shirt and tie. Confronted with the bartender he felt impelled to explain his presence. “Just thought I’d stop by,” he told Jackie G. “Just thought I’d have one. Saw the light. The snow…” He chuckled expansively.

“Good move,” the bartender said. “Scotch?”

“Double,” Elliot said.

When he shoved two dollars forward along the bar Jackie G. pushed one of the bills back to him. “Happy hour babe.”

“Ah,” Elliot said. He watched Jackie pour the double. “Not a moment too soon.”

For five minutes or so, Elliot sat in his car in the barn with the engine running and his Handel tape on full volume. He had driven over from East Ilford in a Baroque ecstasy, swinging and swaying and singing along. When the tape ended, he turned off the engine and poured some Scotch into an apple juice container to store providentially beneath the car seat. Then he took the tape and the Scotch into the house with him. He was lying on the sofa in the dark living room, listening to the Largo, when he heard his wife’s car in the driveway. By the time Grace had made her way up the icy back-porch steps, he was able to hide the Scotch and rinse his glass clean in the kitchen sink. The drinking life, he thought, was lived moment by moment.

Soon she was in the tiny cloakroom struggling off with her overcoat. In the process she knocked over a cross-country ski, which stood propped against the cloakroom wall. It had been more than a year since Elliot had used the skis.

She came into the kitchen and sat down at the table to take off her boots. Her lean, freckled face was flushed with the cold, but her eyes looked weary. “I wish you’d put those skis down in the barn,” she told him. “You never use them.”

“I always like to think,” Elliot said, “that I’ll start the morning off skiing.”

“Well, you never do,” she said. “How long have you been home?”

“Practically just walked in,” he said. Her pointing out that he no longer skied in the morning enraged him. “I stopped at the Conway Library to get the new Oxford
Classical World.
Candace ordered it.”

Her look grew troubled. She had caught something in his voice. With dread and bitter satisfaction, Elliot watched his wife detect the smell of whiskey.

“Oh God,” she said. “I don’t believe it.”

Let’s get it over with, he thought. Let’s have the song and dance.

She sat up straight in her chair and looked at him in fear.

“Oh, Chas,” she said, “how could you?”

For a moment he was tempted to try to explain it all.

“The fact is,” Elliot told his wife, “I hate people who start the day cross-country skiing.”

She shook her head in denial and leaned her forehead on her palm and cried.

He looked into the kitchen window and saw his own distorted image. “The fact is I think I’ll start tomorrow morning by stringing head-high razor wire across Anderson’s trail.”

The Andersons were the Elliots’ nearest neighbors. Loyall Anderson was a full professor of government at the state university, thirty miles away. Anderson and his wife were blond and both of them were over six feet tall. They had two blond children, who qualified for the gifted class in the local school but attended regular classes in token of the Andersons’ opposition to elitism.

“Sure,” Elliot said. “Stringing wire’s good exercise. It’s life-affirming in its own way.”

The Andersons started each and every day with a brisk morning glide along a trail that they partly maintained. They skied well and presented a pleasing, wholesome sight. If, in the course of their adventure, they encountered a snowmobile, Darlene Anderson would affect to choke and cough, indicating her displeasure. If the snowmobile approached them from behind and the trail was narrow, the Andersons would decline to let it pass, asserting their statutory right-of-way.

“I don’t want to hear your violent fantasies,” Grace said.

Elliot was picturing razor wire, the army kind. He was picturing the decapitated Andersons, their blood and jaunty ski caps bright on the white trail. He was picturing their severed heads, their earnest blue eyes and large white teeth reflecting the virginal morning snow. Although Elliot hated snowmobiles, he hated the Andersons far more.

He looked at his wife and saw that she had stopped crying. Her long, elegant face was rigid and lipless.

“Know what I mean? One string at mommy-and-daddy level for Loyall and Darlene. And a bitty wee string at kiddie level for Skippy and Samantha, those cunning little whizzes.”

“Stop it,” she said to him.

“Sorry,” Elliot told her.

Stiff with shame, he went and took his bottle out of the cabinet into which he had thrust it and poured a drink. He was aware of her eyes on him. As he drank, a fragment from old Music’s translation of
Medea
came into his mind. “Old friend, I have to weep. The gods and I went mad together and made things as they are.” It was such a waste; eighteen months of struggle thrown away. But there was no way to get the stuff back in the bottle.

“I’m very sorry,” he said. “You know I’m very sorry, don’t you, Grace?”

The delectable Handel arias spun on in the next room.

“You must stop,” she said. “You must make yourself stop before it takes over.”

“It’s out of my hands,” Elliot said. He showed her his empty hands. “It’s beyond me.”

“You’ll lose your job, Chas.” She stood up at the table and leaned on it, staring wide-eyed at him. Drunk as he was, the panic in her voice frightened him. “You’ll end up in jail again.”

“One engages,” Elliot said, “and then one sees.”

“How can you have done it?” she demanded. “You promised me.”

“First the promises,” Elliot said, “and then the rest.”

“Last time was supposed to be the last time,” she said.

“Yes,” he said, “I remember.”

“I can’t stand it,” she said. “You reduce me to hysterics.” She wrung her hands for him to see. “See? Here I am, I’m in hysterics.”

“What can I say?” Elliot asked. He went to the bottle and refilled his glass. “Maybe you shouldn’t watch.”

“You want me to be forbearing, Chas? I’m not going to be.”

“The last thing I want,” Elliot said, “is an argument.”

“I’ll give you a fucking argument. You didn’t have to drink. All you had to do was come home.”

“That must have been the problem,” he said.

Then he ducked, alert at the last possible second to the missile that came for him at hairline level. Covering up, he heard the shattering of glass, and a fine rain of crystals enveloped him. She had sailed the sugar bowl at him; it had smashed against the wall above his head and there was sugar and glass in his hair.

“You bastard!” she screamed. “You are undermining me!”

“You ought not to throw things at me,” Elliot said. “I don’t throw things at you.”

He left her frozen into her follow-through and went into the living room to turn the music off. When he returned she was leaning back against the wall, rubbing her right elbow with her left hand. Her eyes were bright. She had picked up one of her boots from the middle of the kitchen floor and stood holding it.

“What the hell do you mean, that must have been the problem?”

He set his glass on the edge of the sink with an unsteady hand and turned to her. “What do I mean? I mean that most of the time I’m putting one foot in front of the other like a good soldier and I’m out of it from the neck up. But there are times when I don’t think I will ever be dead enough—or dead long enough—to get the taste of this life off my teeth. That’s what I mean!”

She looked at him dry-eyed. “Poor fella,” she said.

“What you have to understand, Grace, is that this drink I’m having”—he raised the glass toward her in a gesture of salute—”is the only worthwhile thing I’ve done in the last year and a half. It’s the only thing in my life that means jack shit, the closest thing to satisfaction I’ve had. Now how can you begrudge me that? It’s the best I’m capable of.”

“You’ll go too far,” she said to him. “You’ll see.”

“What’s that, Grace? A threat to walk?” He was grinding his teeth. “Don’t make me laugh. You, walk? You, the friend of the unfortunate?”

“Don’t you hit me,” she said when she looked at his face. “Don’t you dare.”

“You, the Christian Queen of Calvary, walk? Why, I don’t believe that for a minute.”

She ran a hand through her hair and bit her lip. “No, we stay,” she said. Anger and distraction made her look young. Her cheeks blazed rosy against the general pallor of her skin. “In my family we stay until the fella dies. That’s the tradition. We stay and pour it for them and they die.”

He put his drink down and shook his head.

“I thought we’d come through,” Grace said. “I was sure.”

“No,” Elliot said. “Not altogether.”

They stood in silence for a minute. Elliot sat down at the oilcloth-covered table. Grace walked around it and poured herself a whiskey.