Rock Island Line

by David Rhodes

  The following morning brought with it a great setback. During the night the water had resumed its natural level, two feet from where they’d stopped digging. Essentially they had dug a small well. So the first job was to take the water out by bucket. Great slabs of clay fell from the sides of the hole, splashing into the water, making the cavity swell out at the bottom like a bell. “I think it’s too dangerous down there,” called Mal. “If something were to happen I could never get you out.”

  “There’s no danger. Besides, we’re almost deep enough.”

  On they went until noon, jumped into their Chrysler and drove into Iowa City and bought a black treated-metal septic tank for $40.75, the shape of a giant bean can with a lid over the top, five and a half feet in diameter, five feet high, 250 pounds in weight, put it with help on top of their car and drove home at ten miles per hour.

  From the bottom of the tank to the inlet opening measured thirty-nine inches. All the instruction booklet said was to make it level. They had another foot to go. Three hours later they lowered the round cylinder with a fence stretcher from a scaffolding of oil drums and lumber. It fitted into the mud hole as snugly as if it’d already been lying there twenty years. The inlet and outlet were right in place—lined up both vertically and horizontally with the tile. They cemented the connections with ready-mix, and ran laughing upstairs to take a bath as the piston pump banged away.

  They ate a long dinner, complete with a bottle of wine, and woke the next morning in horror to find that the water in the ground had forced the tank upward, breaking it away from the tile and raising it a foot higher. July began to swear and throw clods of dirt down on the lid.

  “Can’t we just fill it with water?” asked Mal. “That’ll make it sink down again.”

  “No we can’t!” screamed July as though the whole thing were her fault. “Because more clay’s probably fallen off underneath. It won’t fit right. Now we have to take all that water out, pull up the tank, take the water out from the ground and dig another foot down. Jesus, I’d’ve thought we ran enough water in there. Wouldn’t you think that? God damn it!”

  “Well, obviously we didn’t.”

  Taking off the lid proved to be extremely difficult, there being nothing to grab hold of except the thin edge of the inch overhang—and of course one couldn’t stand on the very lid he was trying to lift up. The hole was not any larger than it had to be to fit the tank. Old pieces of pipe, metal fenceposts, many other things were tried to probe down with, grab and lift, before they came upon the idea of using a garden hoe and got the lid up out of the hole.

  The next difficulty after getting the water out was that, though the tank had floated upward, it was nevertheless still a foot and a half down into well-packed mud and clay, and their little scaffolding collapsed under the unbelievable strain of the fence stretcher, to which July had attached a longer rope so he could pull it from a second-story window in order to get the right leverage angle when the rope was let into the ratchet holder. The plank lurched to the side. The middle frame piece and the glass from both windows flew out into the yard with a great crash, the tower of oil barrels tumbled, Mal was nearly crushed by the falling two-by-twelve, and the tank eased down another inch into the clay.

  “I said to hold it!” yelled July.

  “I couldn’t!” yelled back Mal. “This is one of the stupidest ideas I ever heard of! Putting in a septic tank!”

  She’s right, thought July, clumping down the stairs. Absolutely right. The broken window casing was a terrible thing to look at up close. The very house seemed to scream at him, Hey, watch it, will you!

  “You were right,” he said. “It was a stupid idea: I should’ve had the bigger oil drum on the bottom. I knew it would be more stable that way, but it seemed like they fit better the other way around.”

  “No, no! The whole thing was stupid. Nobody does this kind of work with the tools we have. People have equipment for this kind of thing.” She walked out to the barn. The Chrysler’s motor roared and she drove out, heading for the road.

  “Hey, where are you going?” shouted July.

  “Somewhere to take a shower. If I have to break in a house or rent a motel room, I’ll do it. Come if you want to.”

  “No, I better think this out. Don’t go now.”

  “Sorry. I’ll be back in an hour—then we can do anything you want to.” And she was gone in a cloud of dust and gravel. July found a cigarette inside, smoked it and tried to figure out how he’d make the scaffolding stronger. Then an idea flashed to him: if he hurried and worked as fast and skillfully as he possibly could, he might be able to piece the windows back in—everything except the glass, of course—before she came home. And he could assure her that glass wasn’t very expensive and could be gotten easily and she wouldn’t feel so bad about everything. While he was working he could think up a way to make the scaffolding stronger. Perhaps she could pull from the second floor and he could hold.

  When Mal returned she found him working on the windows and very irritable because, as he said, it was like Murphy’s law—if something could go wrong, it would.

  But their mood improved with the afternoon, a few chances fell to their favor, and the exhilaration they felt when the tank was finally cemented in place again and they could hear water pouring into it from the house was twice that of the night before. Sitting with their dinner on the porch as the cool sun set in the distance, they smelled the air, noticed the great naked trees that lived behind the barn, a faraway barking of dogs and a windless November hush.

  “We’re lucky,” said July. “It could be a lot colder now.”

  “I know,” said Mal peacefully, as though she knew far more than she cared to express.

  “We should take more time to notice things,” he continued. “We should look and be open to more—because the better feelings aren’t the ones that come naturally. They have to be worked for. They come when everything else is shut out.” Nature looked as if it were dead. Leaves lay carpet thick on the ground. The plant stalks had turned gray and brown. The realness of the crisp air was overpowering. The silence was broken only by the wind, cardinals, woodpeckers, sparrows and jays—the rest of the birds having left silently in the night, great groups of them leaving at some incomprehensible whisper from their souls, passing through the dark air like spirits along the ghost trails. The other animals, raucous before, had turned inward. July felt this fall stir through him with feelings deeper than even his memory could claim. “I know,” said Mal.

  The next week brought the first snowfall, but the wet ground absorbed it and nothing remained by mid-afternoon. July bought two bundles of wood shingles and a gallon of plastic tar, and patched the roof. The cracks in the foundation were filled with calking compound and mortar; they set the picket fence upright and painted it. The small oil burner in the living room worked better than they could have hoped, and they came upon storm windows while cleaning out a shed for the second car. With weather stripping here and there the wind was completely shut out. A new control switch and the water pump could turn on and off by itself. The glass for the windows was cut at a hardware store in Kalona, and for nearly a whole week they worked on the inside of the kitchen, laying linoleum, painting the walls and shelves, taking out the rotted wood along the counter and replacing it with boards from the barn.

  Mal found a job as a salesgirl at “Things and Things” in Iowa City, four days a week through New Year’s. She took her driving test, got a license and had a set of snow tires put on the Chrysler.

  July was filled with the Christmas spirit, and set up a tree three weeks before the twenty-fifth, with colored lights that would either blink or burn constantly. The pleasure he felt when for the first time Mal saw the big wrapped package he’d put under the tree for her was almost impossible to contain, and he nearly said, “Go ahead, open it,” when she pleaded to know what it was. But he didn’t, and said she’d have to wait. Finally, a snowstorm came and the snow remained on the ground.

&nbs
p; Mal put two packages under the tree for him, one small and heavy and the other larger but weightless, both perfectly wrapped with ribbons and bows and delicately folded name cards with To July, from Mal and To July, from Santa written inside, done with her infallible sense of taste in small things. July’s package for her looked crude by comparison, and he resolved to do one as well as he could, and not give in to the urge to get it done and put under the tree. He felt small beside her. She knows, he thought, how important those things are—that peacefulness is a matter of small things done well—that the foundations of well-being, love and motherhood rest on them. Where could she have learned that? Does she realize that everything she does brings me closer to her? Or does she do them without thinking?

  They bought scented candles and had a time each evening after dinner and dishes (Mal would never leave the kitchen in disarray for even five minutes) when they burned them.

  By Christmas Eve there was one more present for July and three more for Mal. There was one for Butch too, though he didn’t show much interest in it. Dinner was by candlelight and they were both so excited and happy they could hardly eat. In their minds the little living room with the tree and lights and candles burning, the red rug, the secondhand overstuffed furniture, two paintings of Mal’s and the dark oak woodwork was as nice as the Sistine Chapel. They took baths separately in the chilly upstairs bathroom, dressed in their flannel pajamas and slippers; and with the knowledge that each other’s clean, warm skin was only a couple of frail snaps away—drawing this sensation out by touching each other only lightly—they went downstairs and sat next to the tree.

  “Now Butch first,” said Mal, drawing the large cat up and putting his present in front of him. He touched it once with his paw and started away. July caught him and held him. Mal opened the red package for him; it turned out to be a toy mouse that would squeak when pinched. July took it from Mal and held it very close to Butch’s face and squeezed. In an instant he was out of the room and up the stairs.

  “Cats are so hard to buy presents for,” said Mal.

  “That’s true. So are you. Hurry up and open one of your presents. Here, this one.”

  “No, you have to open first.”

  “Oh no. You have three presents here. Naturally, you open first. Fair’s fair.”

  “Well, I have one for you that couldn’t be wrapped. So you have three too.”

  “Couldn’t be wrapped, you say. Too big?”

  “No. And no more hints.”

  “Here. This one. You open this one,” said July, and set one of the two smaller packages in Mal’s lap, unable to resist giving her knee a little caress as he drew back his hand. The smell of the candles and the tree filled the room. He was ashamed of how crude the wrapping seemed, with edges of tape and paper sticking out from the corners. She opened it and discovered a white knitted hat with a ball on top where the yarn converged; there was no elastic band, but when she put it on it fitted snugly at whatever angle she set it. Jumping up from the floor, she ran into the kitchen to admire herself in it. There seemed to be no such hat that she’d ever seen before. It made her look beautiful, she thought. But I must be careful not to wear it in the rain, for it would shrink, I bet.

  “Oh, how did you know just the right size?” she sang out, coming back.

  The desire July felt for her after seeing her run off into the kitchen, her round buttocks moving beneath the pajamas, was just getting settled down when it seemed he was forced to observe her coming toward him, her face beaming with happiness, her breasts rising and falling with her steps.

  “Come here and I’ll show you,” he said and reached out for her as she came closer, his senses able to feel with anticipation.

  Mal laughed and dashed to the side to avoid his grab. “Oh no, none of that now. Remember we decided to wait. Remember?”

  “Rules are made to be broken.”

  “No, no. Besides, you have to open a present now.” She handed him the small, heavy, oblong one and sat down.

  “Why can’t I have the big one first?”

  “Nope. Big one last.”

  “Do you like that hat?”

  “Oh yes! It’s simply beautiful, adorable, and I’ll wear it every chance I get. See, I’m wearing it now . . . so open yours.”

  July did, trying to take the gift apart without ripping the paper, but having a hard time of it.

  “You have to just tear them,” said Mal. “You can never really save very well. The paper’s never the same afterward. I know, I used to too. It seemed such a waste—such wanton destruction. But it’s just one of those things that aren’t made to last. That’s part of what makes them so nice.”

  “I feel so shallow when you talk sometimes.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I would’ve never thought that much about it. I would’ve just simply felt bad that something beautiful was spoiled—and that would’ve been the end of it.”

  “Oh, surely not. But hurry and open it.”

  Within the box and under a layer of cotton was a pocket knife with three blades. The smallest blade was fat and curved quickly, a particularly good shape for shaving and paring. The second, a half-inch longer with a flat edge, opened to a slightly closer perpendicular position to the handle, an aid in drawing a long cut toward you. The third, bigger than the other two combined, running nearly a full three and a half inches to a very sharp point, seemed massive and at the same time elegant. The handle was dark bone locked in place with brass rivets. He appreciated it with the devotion that only a person who loves having things in his pockets can appreciate: a knife to be truly proud of, a functional size without being either pretentiously masculine or weightless.

  “Thank you.”

  “Promise you like it. I was so afraid you wouldn’t. I thought you’d probably want a bigger one, but I wasn’t sure.”

  “It’s perfect. Did you sharpen it? It surely didn’t come from the store this sharp.”

  “Oh good! I hoped you’d notice that. Now I know you like it. Yes, I sharpened it. Not bad, huh?”

  “Not bad! It’s as sharp as a razor. Only professionals can sharpen knives like this.”

  “Silly. Now you have to hurry. I have another one for you in the summer kitchen.”

  “No. You’re next. Here, open this!” And he gave her the heavy, large present, this one better wrapped because it’d been done for him at the store, but it was still way shy, he felt, of having the sensitivity of Mal’s.

  “It’s a book,” she said immediately.

  “Well, it’s pretty hard to disguise a book.”

  The package contained an art book filled from one end to the other with color prints, with almost no attempt made to explain how the paintings worked or what they stood for, only brief autobiographical sketches of the artists and an occasional note referring to some aspect of their technique, beautifully designed and with reproductions of such quality that Mal said they were as good as a dusty painting. She only looked at a couple, quickly, then closed it.

  “It’s wonderful!” she exclaimed. “But I don’t want to look at it now. I want to save it for tomorrow morning when I can see it in the light and give myself to it completely. A book like this shouldn’t be just skimmed over.”

  “Look at it now! We’ll look at it together.”

  “No, we’ll look at it tomorrow. Not now. Oh, July, I’m afraid you’ve spent too much. We can’t afford it.”

  “No I didn’t!” shouted July, obviously very proud of himself. “Look at it closely—the corner and the bindings. It’s used!”

  “It isn’t.” But looking at it more closely, she could see the tiny traces of age, the slight discoloration of the edges of the paper where fingers had been turning, and the ease with which it opened—signs of previous ownership by someone who’d had great regard for it and knew how to take care of a valuable book. This seemed to enhance its value for Mal, first because she didn’t need to feel guilty in having something reserved for only the well-to-do, and secondly
because it was already experienced, which made the plates more like real paintings.

  “Now come,” she insisted, and led him through the kitchen and into the summer kitchen (or back porch, depending on whether she or July was addressing it). “In there.” And she pointed to a large cardboard box.

  July opened the top and jumped back, surprised by an unexpected activity down inside it. Then going toward it again and looking down, he stooped and lifted a white-and-brown puppy, larger than Butch, out of the box. The dog squirmed and barked once. July set it on the floor and it scampered around in a circle and attacked a pile of paint rags in the corner, growling and shaking its furry head. July immediately sank down to the wooden floor and began talking and playing with it, almost as though Mal weren’t there at all.

  “Her one leg is shorter,” she said. “The man at the pound said nobody was likely to take a dog with a deformity and she’d probably have to be put to sleep. But he said she’d be a big dog.”

  July didn’t seem to be listening. “Hey there,” he said to the puppy. “Keep away from those rags. They have turpentine on them. Here, look at this, look at this. Whoa, what a bite. Look out there.”

  Mal stood back in the warmth of the kitchen, reviewing for herself the decision she’d made before getting the pup. She was well aware of July’s devotional love of animals, so much so that in Philadelphia and sometimes here in Iowa she had felt herself hating the relationship he had with his cat because she was so completely shut out of it, and sometimes when she returned from work her jealousy would rise up because of the knowledge that for the whole day Butch had shared July’s company and in the course of fixing up the house little dramas had been played out that she was doomed forever to have no knowledge of. So her decision to get the dog had been made understanding that she’d be in some way tested. There was never a chance that the short leg would make any difference. She might have brought a blind rat home (or up from the basement, for that matter, as July’d trap them but wouldn’t put poison down, and very soon they were too smart to be trapped). And now she checked herself to see how her decision was working out—if she was going to be able to feel safe enough with this relationship which had been of her own creating.