It's beautiful! The photographs of it I've seen don't exactly suggest its atmosphere. Its complexity. People say, Oh, folk art--I know what that is. But the eye can't really absorb all this at once." John, startled, stood with his hands shoved in the pockets of his leather jacket. He nodded gravely, warily.
When women talked like this, with an air of head-on, plunging eagerness, a woman in her mid-thirties (he saw, she wasn't so young as she'd seemed) speaking in the cadences of a fifteen-year-old, a part of him turned off. And when women talked too much, a part of him turned off. There was something else about this woman that made him uneasy. Her nasal York accent. Her rich-girl manner. The Lexus out front must've belonged to her, a $60, 000 luxury car. Hers wasn't new, he'd noticed a dent in a front fender, but it had been new a few years ago. She had money, she was educated. Even her windblown sand-colored hair, her rumpled coat, suggested a quality of life far removed from Shawmouth and Iroquois Point.
But he wouldn't have thought she looked familiar until she said, with a pushy sort of shyness, "Excuse me? We know each other, I think.
looked at her blankly. She said, extending her hand, "We went to the same high school. ltm Kate Olmsted. You're--John Reddy Heart?" Even after the passage of so many years her voice quavered. John wanted to turn away but he forced a smile, a MR. FIX-IT smile. "My name is John Heart.
That was all a long time ago." He managed not to shake her hand, which was possibly rude, but there are times, fuck it, when they force you be rude, that was John Reddy's problem in those days. He spoke flatly she'd get the point he wasn't interested in pursuing the conversation and he was obviously edging away yet she persisted, "Do you--remember me?
smiled an anxious smile showing too much gum. John said ambiguously, "I might." This woman's face was familiar though it had no distinct association for him. One of the rich Willowsville girls. One of the nice girls. None of them had been real to him and he'd kept his distance from all of them.
His girlfriends had been older, and out of school. Except for Dino's little sister Sasha he'd taken out a few times, she'd knitted a red muffler for hirn, had such a crush on him the Calvos asked him please not to encourage it, please avoid her all you can, and he'd honored that, that made sense. Italians took virginity seriously. Dino would've shoved a knife in his heart. ) "I used to have," the woman photographer was saying, embarrassed, "--I mean, I still have, it's been in remission for years--M. S." Seeing his blank look she said, "Multiple sclerosis. I used to come to school sometimes in wheelchair. You pushed me, once. You were kind to me. You gave me advice I've cherished all my life. I'm sorry--of course you don't remember me.
woman's voice had become alarmingly emotional. John shifted uncomfortably. What was this about? He didn't like the way this woman, for all her quavering, held that fancy camera in her hands. Her hands weren't trembling. If you take a picture of me, lady, I'll smash that thing.
Try me! He saw Tildie at the entrance greeting more visitors. "I'm a freelance now. live in Buffalo. Here's my card." John had no choice but to take the stiff little card from her, importantly engraved KATE OLMSTED, PHOTOGRAPHY, with an address and telephone number in Buffalo. "If you're in the area, ever, will you drop by? Or call? Do you ever get back to Willowsville? --no?
I'm helping organize our twentieth reunion for next July--would you come?
It's the second weekend of July." John laughed, the idea was preposterous, but not wanting to seem rude he said, "Maybe." He was walking away.
He'd forgotten the intense woman's name. Nonetheless she followed saying, "I came here to photograph The Glass Ark for a book I've been commissioned to do on folk art' in New York State and--it's a meeting you, John! I know--Aaron Leander Heart was your grandfather.
What a remarkable man. When we lived on Glen Burns Lane he used to walk past in the early mornings, my sister and I still talk of seeing him, we'd peer out the window and there, like a ghost--" John escaped from woman, the appeal in her face, her voice. I can't. Don't look at me like that.
I'm exhausted, I have nothing left.
Tildie Manchester was surprised at John Heart's manner. He wasn't broody and indecisive as he usually was on these visits, sitting the office at the rear of the house she'd made over, since Aaron Leander's death, into a combination kitchen-sitting room with a big console TV on a shag rug.
Long dark winter days Tildie, sole proprietress of The Glass Ark, daytime soap operas and drank coffee to keep awake. ) It was as if he'd made up his mind about something and felt good about it. Relieved, and sort of reckless. Agreeing with her on just about everything where, in past, he'd frown and try to speculate what his grandfather would've wished.
Tildie was feeding him hot cross buns she'd baked solely for him that morning.
worried he was too lean, a bachelor who didn't feed himself right, very likely drank a little too much, the curse of the Hearts as Aaron Leander spoke of it.
She'd tried to get him interested in her sister's daughter and other Shawmouth girls but none of her effort had ever taken hold.
There was the danger, too, of a man who rode a motorcycle--even if, like John Heart, he wore a helmet. You had to figure one day he'd have a crash. One day, if you loved him, you'd have your heart broken. You'd lose him. She was saying, on nervously, "About hiring this boy I mentioned? --to help out on days? Like a security guard except he wouldn't have a gun of course, or even a badge. Or a uniform. Just to help out on busy days in the summer." John said, "Sure, Tildie. Hire im."
"I wasn't sure what to pay--" "A fair wage," John said. "What you'd pay a carpenter, for instance."
"A carpenter!" Tildie was shocked. "You mean, like you? A carpenter is expensive.
as bad as a plumber." "Well, pay him a fair wage," John said. "What does Ark pay you? "le was serious, he didn't remember. He'd hinted to Tildie that Aaron Leander's estate had more money than she might suppose, admissions a small fraction of its revenue, it was subsidized by some mysterious relative who'd never even come East to visit it, and never would. Tildie and fell silent for nothing mortified her more, as it mortified anyone she knew, as frank money-talk of any kind. It was as discomfiting to her as talking of sex would've been, with this restless young man.
He said, as he left, strapping on his motorcycle helmet," Tildie, use your judgment. You're the boss." Tildie laughed, feeling almost hurt. "I'm not the boss, and I don't want to be. The idea." She followed him outside. There were five visitors' vehicles in the parking lot now. The camper was still there, and the burgundy-colored fancy car, those people had stayed quite a while. The Glass Ark had such a hold on certain folks. John Heart climbed onto his motorcycle and kicked the thing into starting, fixed his aviator-style sunglasses on his and waved smiling at Tildie, "O. K. , boss, see ya." Tildie scolded after him, having to laugh, waving good-bye, you never knew when you might see John again, he'd spoken of moving MR. FIX-IT to the farthermost corner of New York State though possibly that was one of his jokes. "Good-bye!
Come back soon! Bless you! --you know your grandpa would've, and God, too. Johit was a delirious time. It was a profound time. A time to cast one's thoughts within, "It's, like, in my deepest heart, you're all me." A time for hilarity and a time for gratitude. A fun time--but also a tragic time. A time none of us is likely to forget.
And, historically, once-in-a-lifetime, our thirtieth WHS class reunion.
"Who'll be missing this time, d'you think?"
"Missing, or dead?" L, eau ts mlsslng.
High as helium balloons and as combustible a record eighty-seven of us out of a graduating class of one hundred thirty-four converged on the first weekend in July upon the Village of Willowsville. By plane, by car, practically by foot we came. (For a number of us lived close by in Willowsville and environs--"We never left home, you might say. ") We came from the farthest corners of the U. S. (i. e. , Alaska) and two of us separately, unknown to each other) from Europe. "Why'd I come back?" Washington Post cartoonist Chet Halloren brooded. "To discover if
life is truly so random as it's come to seem in middle age. Or whether there's a pattern, a design. In which somehow I fit. And you guys, my old buddies and classmates, can help me find it." Willowsville is a sociable suburb where weekends are like riding the surf, party after party, as local socialite and cochair of Thirtieth Reunion Committee Millicent Leroux Pifer thoughtfully observed, "I scare when I'm alone. I'll be alone enough in the grave for heaven's sake." Amen, Millie! Being so sociable, and, it's true, socially competitive, we residents draw lots to see who'll entertain for our out-of-town visitors at our reunions, and some of us arranged to meet at Tug Hill Park at four p. m. Saturday to kick off the weekend with a WELCOME BACK BEER FEST! The weekend was crammed with social events, cocktails on Saturday evening at the home of Jon and Nanci Rindfleisch on Brompton Road, our pig-roast buffet held this year at the Pifers' in Amherst Dells, and a postmidnight swim and all-night disco at Willowsville Mayor Hewson's house on Mill Race Lane, Sunday morning a champagne brunch at a. m. at Trish Elders Carnevale's lakefront studio-home on Fleet Farm Road, and afterward an open house at Willowsville Senior High courtesy of current principal and his friendly staff, and an afternoon doubles tournament on the courts there, plus our traditional softball game cheerleaders! ), followed by cocktails/beer at Art Lutz's house on the Common and, for the hardy, a farewell cookout at Jenny (Thrun) and Roger Zwaart's house on Castle Creek. To most of these events we'd invited our WHS teachers as guests of honor--those we believed to be still living.
"What if they all show up? Doesn't Stamish have Alzheimer's?"
"No. McKeever."
"Coach, Alzheimer's? God. What'd I hear about Stamish, then?"
"Dead." Dead! Seemed just yesterday the sweet old guy'd come to our reunion. One of our guests of honor.
At Tug Hill Park just above the lagoon, a half-mile or so beyond Washington on his horse we'd festooned in pink toilet paper after our final homecoming victory over arch-rivals Amherst, we'd arranged for a caterer to set up a beer tent. Glossy maroon and gold stripes, WHS colors. Six kegs of imported beer, spicy Buffalo wings, nuts nachos. "It's you guyslearned to drink with. Your faces! Sometimes, l'm having a drink on a plane? alone? we're maybe encountering turbulence' and I'm tesus this is it, I shut my eyes seeing you guys again, sweet kid-faces, guzzling beer so it's running down our chins, eyeballs rolling in our heads and who was it, Dougie Siefried? maybe Art Lutz? puking guts out the back door where next morning who-was-it's dog--Smoke's? --that beautiful dumb border collie--Jesus, think, Smoke's been dead years-would woof it down? And I'm not drunk but in that state of lucidity belted in my seat thirty thousand feet above the earth through what's called the sky and there's tears running down my cheeks so the person seated next to me must think I'm en route to a funeral but no, in fact not, it's I'm so happy. Whatever age I am, I was a kid with you guys, in our hearts we're all kids together, the most profound truths never change." Planning the BEER FEST somehow we'd imagined, don't ask me why, we'd be the only WHS reunion in the park that day. In fact, there was annual called OLD HOMES DAY TUG HILL PARK--a youth festival.
Hundreds of WHS graduates back home from college. A pandemonium of youth. Gorgeous in tank tops, T-shirts, cut-offs, miniskirts, barechested, barefoot, hair cascading down their backs. And some heads. We middle-aged revelers were easy to spot amid slim bodies smooth faces and hair. Eyes darting and snatching at one another like frightened fish. "Hey! Here! How the hell are you?"
"Jax, is that you?"
"Bo, is that you?" We stared at Bibi Arhardt in short shorts and a red bikini top drinking beer thirty yards away with strangers, beautiful-brazen Bibi as we remembered her, one of our WHS personality-plus cheerleaders a few of us had actually dated, made out with, or believed we had, we couldn't figure out why Bibi was with those strangers, not us, until Jax Whitehead his forehead, saying, "Jesus, that isn't Bibi, that's just a girl. A girl maybe eighteen.
Bibi's our own age now--remember?" We laughed uproariously. We our drinks, laughing. Sweat beaded on our faces, our bifocal slid down our noses. We were being jostled by a gathering crowd.
crowd. Bare-chested college kids muscled like body builders way past us demanding beer from our bartender, beer we'd paid for, dollars per person payable by check in advance, foamy liquid sloshing and spilling out of waxed paper cups onto our shoes." Scuse me, Pops, in here, O. K. ? "--we were nudged aside repeatedly. Amplified blared from all corners of the park making it impossible for us to talk to one another without shouting. Even shouting, we had difficulty being understood. The summery-muggy air vibrated with sheer sound. The lagoon's usually placid surface gathered in agitated ripples as during an sending panicked snow-white swans paddling to the farther shore.
"It never used to be so noisy here. So Iittered."
"Are we in the right place?
This is Tug Hill?" A dark-tanned elfin-faced middle-aged man resembling Art "Class Clown" Lutz in a sports shirt fitting his paunch snug as a bandage, graygrizzled locks, tufted eyebrows and a moist grin, was cracking us up with his well-seasoned Stamish-Daffy Duck imitation." Kwaaa-kwaaa B-b-boyz!
B-boyz and girlz! Order! I kwaakwaakwaamand you! Now!" (Who have predicted that Artie Lutz would one day be CEO at Lutz Magic Kleen, Inc. ? One of our class's bona fide millionaires? Whose secret wish, to our yearbook, was
"To climb the highest mountains, explore the seas, and be the first Willowsville astronaut in history. ") Girls showed up, a few with dazed-looking husbands but most with one another, except weren't our girls exactly but brave-smiling streaked-blond women sinewy golfers' legs and flaccid upper arms, necks that would require artful arrangements of scarves in another few years. There came rushing us in an explosion of perfume, in high-heeled open-backed shoes, a mustard-bright mini-sundress, a thick-waisted woman with shiny red lips Scott--"That's Sandi? Sandi Scott? xvvho used to be so pretty?
Jesus God"-squealing with nervous excitement as she vigorously hugged, and was by, a balding round-shouldered character in white linen blazer, maroon carnation, ascot, who'd just emerged panting out of a crowd of kids--was this our old classmate Pete Marsh we hadn't seen in thirty years, we'd believed to be dead? Or, no--was this Tommy
"Nosepicker" Nordstrom we'd heard owned a TV cable station in Palm Beach? No mystery who this was, that jerk Ketch Campbell perspiring and hopeful in a maroon WHS T-shirt and blue jeans that fitted his womanish hips oddly, like cardboard, a straw boater hat with a perky red feather, trying to look festive, elated, though as usual no one wanted to get stuck with him. Poor Ketch had been attending each of our reunions since the first and we'd come to see it was impossible to discourage him, he lived close by in Buffalo and was on our mailing list, and so forth. Later that night at Millie Leroux's Ketch would surely tell the story another time of how he was the first of us to set eyes on John Reddy Heart and his family on Main Street, Willowsville, thirty-seven years ago this very month, but not just yet, for under cover of rock "rap" music we managed to elude him as we managed to elude forgotten classmates Charlie Swiss ("Lawn sprinklers, Akron, Ohio"), T. R. Krueger ("Haywood, Mimms & Krueger, Accountants, Troy, New York"), a sleek sealish-looking individual who called himself Jocko ("vista Investments, Piscataway, New Jersey") all claiming to have taken part in the notorious fight our senior year in the corridor outside Mr..
Hornby's auto repair class when John Reddy's greaser buddy Orrie Buhr attacked Dwayne Hewson without warning, or was it Clyde Meunzer who attacked Ken without warning, and friends of Dwayne's and Ken's rushed to them, and guys poured out of auto repair, and Mr.. Lepage got kayoed by Mr..
Hornby, and Smoke Filer got knocked on his ass, and Mr.. Stamish coldcocked, and somebody pulled a fire alarm, and cops were called to break it up--"I still got this chipped tooth in front here, see? One of those hardknuckle greasers slammed me." It was a mystery, some of our classmates managed to get lost trying to find the BEER FEST tent. Some got lost trying to find Tug Hill Park! Which we would've believed we'd memorized in our very cell-tissue. In recesses
of our brains. "Who's missing? What time is it?"
"Who's got the list?"
"What list?" There were only twelve Porta-Johns for what must've been twelve hundred beer-guzzling revelers waiting in lines thirty deep. We middle-aged celebrants hadn't any choice but to use the johns, or to try to, some of us needed to use one every half-hour it seemed. Kids kept ahead of us, even girls." Scuse me, Pops, gotta go, it's an emergency." Sandi Scott and T. R. Krueger, arms around each other's waist, searching for Jax Whitehead who'd disappeared on his way to a Porta-John and got lost themselves. Waiting in a long jostling line of U-B undergraduates Art Lutz was appalled when, directly in front of him, a glazed-eyed redhead in a Deke T-shirt falling off a naked shoulder sudden. ly squatted, lifted her miniskirt and urinated on the ground, so drunk she nearly toppled into the wet mess she'd made as onlookers cheered, and applauded. Art was appalled, and aroused. A flash came to of his high school sweetheart Mary Louise Schultz suddenly squatting in that way, lifting her maroon cheerleader's skirt and urinating through her white cotton panties (when the cheerleaders leapt and kicked you could see up their skirts, they wore identical white cotton panties) on the ground before him, exclusively him. He was forty-eight years old, he'd been married to the same woman for at least a quarter-century, had three near-grown children yet in that instant he was weak with sexual desire.
Broke Heart Blues Page 42
