Staggerford (12 page)

“What do you want to drink?” asked Wayne.

“Water, if you don’t mind.”

“There’s the sink.” He handed the superintendent a glass.

Stevenson filled the glass and said, “Why aren’t you wearing a costume?”

“Oh, it’s a long story. You might say I am testing people’s reactions.”

“Reactions?” He lowered himself carefully into the breakfast nook.

“Yes, reactions.”

“Reactions to what?”

“Reactions to my not being in costume.”

“Oh … Well, what kind of reactions have you been getting?”

“I’ve been getting about what I expected.”

“And what did you expect, if I may ask?”

“I expected people to ask me why I wasn’t in costume.”

The superintendent considered this for a moment, then went back to farming. “My father homesteaded eighty acres, and when he homesteaded it, all but five acres were woods. It was seventy-five acres of oak and willow and a little bit of pine, and five acres of open land. And, you
know, he spent his whole life clearing that land. All the while we boys were growing up we cut off the timber and grubbed out stumps. Now that’s hand work, let me tell you, grubbing out stumps. Have any of you ever grubbed out stumps?”

“Never,” said Miles, full of screwdrivers. “I’ve never grubbed out stumps.”

“It was my dad’s ambition to have the whole seventy-five acres cleared off by the time he quit farming and turned the place over to his sons, but the woods were so thick we never cleared more than two or three acres a year, and by the time he quit farming there were sixty arable acres and twenty wooded acres, and that was a disappointment to him. People didn’t value woods in those days the way they do now. To a farmer, a stand of woods is a hindrance to farming and the sooner you log it off the better.”

“What would your wife like to drink?” asked Wayne.

“A daiquiri.”

Wayne bit his mustache—always his first sign of nerves.

Miles said, for fun, “Mr. Stevenson, didn’t you think we did well to tie Owl Brook last night?”

“Oh, yes, by the way, Coach, congratulations. The Stags played a fine game, from what I hear.”

“Aw, that goddamn Fremling. Did you hear what happened on our extra point?”

“No.”

“Lee Fremling backed into the ball just as Peter was kicking it. In all my years of coaching I never saw such a fat-assed weakling as Lee Fremling.” Coach folded his arms and looked out the kitchen window at the black night.

“And another disappointment to my father was the fact that none of us boys wanted to be farmers. We were determined to get off the farm. I think it was the result of grubbing out all those stumps. And when each boy in turn went into a profession other than farming, my father was disappointed. Nowadays, of course, a man doesn’t expect his boys to follow in his footsteps so much as he did in those days.” He looked about him. “I bet none of you are the sons of teachers, for example. Miles, you’re not the
son of a teacher. You’re the son of a buttermaker. Wayne, what did your father do for a living?”

“My father was a teacher. Excuse me, but I don’t seem to have any lime juice.”

“And what about you, Coach? What did your father do?”

“My father was a coach,” said Coach.

Wayne put on his coat and went out into the night for lime juice.

The Oppegaards arrived. Doc Oppegaard joined the men in the kitchen. The dentist, father of the genius child, was a shriveled wisp of a man with an enormous nose and a lecherous reputation. Certainly his succession of pretty assistants—Stella Gibbon included—did more for him than sterilize his tools and send out his staggering monthly statements. Miles did not understand what women saw in this wasted man. Except for his large nose, there was nothing to him. His skin was the color of oatmeal. Tonight he was wearing a loud sport shirt open at the neck and a cowboy hat.

The superintendent said, “Doc and I grew up in the days when sons followed in the footsteps of their fathers, didn’t we, Doc? Tell me, Doc, was your father a dentist?”

“My father was a bum. Hello, Miles, nice to see you. How is Nadine doing in English?”

“If she does any better she’ll be teaching it.”

“That’s fine. Just so you keep her working up to her potential.”

“Don’t worry. By the way, Doc, what did you think of the game last night?”

“A good game. Congratulations, Coach.”

“Aw, that goddamn Fremling.”

“Anyhow, Doc, I was telling the fellows here that my father was a farmer.” Stevenson was still speaking from the breakfast nook. “Farming is hard work, I’ll admit that, but there are many joys connected with farming that you don’t find in a lot of other lines of work. A sense of accomplishment, for one. I cannot truthfully say that I feel, after twenty-six years as superintendent of schools, a sense
of accomplishment. I know you don’t believe it, Doc and Coach and Miles, but I have to say it. I’ve given my life to school work and what has school work given me? I wish I had stayed on the farm and cleared those acres my father left in woods. Out there I would be filling my lungs with God’s fresh air. We had a John Deere tractor and I can still see myself sitting up there on that tractor cultivating corn and breathing in God’s fresh air. Fanning makes a man robust. Farming is an honest, robust life, and I shouldn’t be surprised to see more and more people turn back to it as time goes on and our cities become uninhabitable.” He took a sip of his water. “I wonder if you men have noticed how it’s become the fashion among our young people to wear overalls with straps like this. Don’t you think it’s their way of expressing their belief in a simpler way of life? A more honest, robust way of life? That’s the way I see it, and I wonder if any of you men see it that way? Young people’s overalls, I’m talking about.”

Doc asked Miles where he got the ranger uniform.

“It belonged to Lyle Kite.”

“Oh, yes. I remember Lyle. He didn’t live long after he retired from the Park Service.”

“Miles!” said the superintendent. He struggled out of the breakfast nook. “You’re wearing the clothes of a dead man!” He backed out of the kitchen.

Doc shook his head. “Poor jerk.”

Stella Gibbon came into the kitchen and said, “Miles, honey, have you forgotten about me?”

He had. He mixed her a strong sweet drink as Doc Oppegaard patted her fanny. Coach was still at the window staring at the night. Or was he watching his wife and Doc reflected in the glass?

“Where is the host?” said Doc. “He said he wanted to talk to me about Indian attendance.”

“He went out for lime juice,” said Miles.

Stella said, “Why are you men hiding out here in the kitchen anyway? Come into the living room.” She took her husband by the arm. “Come into the living room,
honey, and show the girls your wrestling tights.” She led him away.

From the kitchen Miles saw Imogene Kite impulsively cover her eyes when Coach walked, crotch first, into the living room.

“I like Stella’s new teeth,” said Miles.

“Yes, I’ve done wonders for her,” said Doc. “You know, as long as I’ve known Stella her old teeth were the only flaw in her appearance, though they never caused her to keep her mouth shut, and I was hoping that some day I could go to work on her. Now with that new bridge across the front, she looks like a million dollars.”

“And what do you think of Coach’s wrestling tights?”

“He’s an exhibitionist. He and his wife are both exhibitionists, but with her it’s okay, you know what I mean. She looks like a million dollars.”

“And what do you think of Thanatopsis Workman? I mean as a woman isn’t she a treasure?”

“Miles, are you drunk?”

“All I want to know is what you really think of Thanatopsis Workman.”

“You mean Anna Thea?”

“Yes, but Anna Thea is her nickname; her real name is Thanatopsis, and it makes her husband angry when everybody calls her Anna Thea.”

“Her real name is Thanatopsis?”

“Yes, isn’t she a treasure?”

“Thanatopsis means ‘view of death,’ Miles. What the hell kind of name is that?”

“And what do you think of Imogene Kite? Doesn’t she remind you of young Abraham Lincoln?”

“Miles, you’re drunk.”

“She’s a rail splitter if I ever saw one.”

“Let’s go into the other room.”

In the other room everyone was at the front door saying good-by to the Stevensons. Miles looked at his watch to see if it was already ten thirty. It was eight forty-five. The Stevensons were hurrying to their car.

“He gets so agitated,” said Imogene Kite.

“What a shame,” said Stella Gibbon. “Did you catch what he was saying?”

“Something about the clothes of a dead man,” said Thanatopsis. “Somebody in this house is wearing the clothes of a dead man.”

“Poor old jerk,” said Doc Oppegaard. “He has that terrible phobia.”

“He’s a goddamn zero,” shouted Coach Gibbon. “You guys on the board cut my athletic budget twenty percent and he never went to bat for me.”

“Shut your mouth,” said his wife. “You’ve been nothing but wicked ever since that game last night. If you can’t learn to be civil …”

“I think we all need a fresh drink,” said Thanatopsis. “Where is Wayne?”

“Out for lime juice.”

“Well then, Miles, you help me freshen everybody’s drink.”

Doc said, “Brandy for me, Thanatopsis,” as he sat down on Stella Gibbon’s lap.

In the kitchen Miles, spilling and misjudging proportions, helped her with the drinks. He mixed himself a double screwdriver.

“I’m the one wearing the clothes of a dead man,” he said.

“So what. Go see what Mrs. Oppegaard is drinking.”

“Mrs. Oppegaard? I didn’t know she was here.”

“She’s easy to overtook. She’s on the couch with Imogene.”

Miles found the dentist’s wife under Imogene’s wing. She was wearing a dunce cap. Imogene was listing for her the names of the men who developed the atomic bomb. “And there was Enrico Fermi, who died in 1954. He was an Italian.”

“I know absolutely nothing about the atomic bomb,” Mrs. Oppegaard despaired.

“Fermi was an Italian. I’m researching atomic energy, and today I read about Fermi. He was Italian.”

“I know nothing about Italians. Italy.”

“Mrs. Oppegaard, can I fix you a drink?”

She looked up at Miles, then she looked to her husband for help, but Doc was tracing with his finger the scarlet
S
on Stella’s breast and saying, “Shouldn’t this be an
A?”

“Maybe just a teeny little bit of wine, do you suppose?” said Mrs. Oppegaard.

“Fermi was bom in 1901,” said Imogene, averting her eyes from Coach Gibbon, who was parading his bulging sex organs back and forth through the room. “I’ve got Lawrence Winters at one ninety,” he was telling himself.

In the kitchen Wayne Workman was standing with his coat on, chewing his mustache and holding a bottle of lime juice. “So the Stevensons went home, did they! That’s a fine how-do-you-do. Just pick up and leave before I get a chance to talk about my new attendance plan.”

Thanatopsis said, “He was very agitated, Wayne. You know how careful we have to be about his becoming agitated. I think it was best that they went home.”

“And, Pruitt, you’re the cause of it. You’re the one wearing a dead man’s clothes. Did you do that on purpose? Just to make a shambles of my party?”

“What will Mrs. Oppegaard have, Miles?”

“A gin fizz,” said Miles, who had no idea.

The rest of the party was not clear in his mind, and the next day his memory provided him only the briefest of glimpses. He remembered going out for tricks and treats with Thanatopsis in her oriental gown and coming back with a candy bar, a cigar, and a water glass full of whiskey.

He remembered going to the Workmans’ bathroom and sitting on the lid of the toilet in the dark and running his tongue over his wisdom tooth.

He remembered Thanatopsis, by popular demand, fetching from the bedroom her blind poodle named Ducky—a small white dog who, on a diet of tuna and digitalis, had lived to an unheard-of age for poodles, thirteen or thirty or some such age; and he remembered the women vying for the right to hold Ducky to their bosoms.

He remembered how the voices of the women rang like a steady peal of little brass bells while Wayne Workman
and Doc Oppegaard and Coach Gibbon met in solemn conclave in a distant comer of the apartment, discussing no doubt Wayne’s plan for the Indians.

He remembered people repeating themselves. He heard certain utterances dozens of times: “He’s been nothing but wicked since last night’s game.” “I’m such an underachiever, I know so little, I know absolutely nothing about Italy.” “What’s the matter with Miles, and why is he calling everybody an ack-comedian?”

He remembered asking Coach Gibbon to tell him once more how much the pipsqueak weighed.

He remembered (or did he imagine it?) Thanatopsis coming away from the telephone with tears in her eyes. He must have imagined it.

He remembered seeing Stella Gibbon and Doc Oppegaard leave together.

He remembered sitting on the couch between Imogene Kite and Mrs. Oppegaard and telling them about the corporal who ate a beer bottle, and then subsiding into a smiling trance until Mrs. Oppegaard, having finished her gin fizz, vomited across his lap.

SUNDAY
 
 
N
OVEMBER
1