Guessing Game
It is on the third evening, after begging a couple of Rheingolds off Ranger Naturalist Warren Haas in exchange for future favors, that Euell Wigglesworth finds an opportunity to express certain feelings to his friend Hugh Huddleston, feelings not connected to Hugh himself nor of a kind with which Hugh is directly familiar, but nonetheless floating blobs of emotion that have been bumping around inside Euell Wigglesworth’s rib cage until he can stand the jarring and jostling no longer. He feels as if a crowd has gathered in his chest, an excited banner-waving crowd, not an unpleasant sensation at first but by the end of forty-eight hours unmanageable. The two young men sit on the porch of the Grand Canyon Lodge, dressed in dungarees and wool shirts. It’s a cold night, following a cold and wet day. Even the hardiest guests have retreated inside, and they have the porch to themselves. Which means they can drink their borrowed beers without attracting the disapproving look of the Harvey Girl named Betty sent to serve them. Betty (written on her name tag as if she were a prize cow at the fair) is a girl of a ripe old age, at least thirty years old and plump, no longer a paragon of propriety in her too-tight-at-the-bust Fred Harvey frock. Hugh takes an immediate liking to her, which Euell suspects has something to do with the parts of her that remind them both of the buxom pillows on Euell’s bed.
He has spent all his money on the chickens—or rather on the blanket that was Hugh’s gift to him by way of the chickens for which he paid. And Hugh never has any money, so between the two young men there is a distinct lack of capital, which has resulted in a booze-deprived, low-nicotine, hungry few days. And the weather is raw, no good for butterflies. Euell is restless as a cat in a cage, and Warren Haas’s beer has gone right to his head—literally, for he feels himself expand, sprout mandibles. Suddenly he’s a hellgrammite—ugly, voracious creature, though one he finds beautiful in that hideous larval way—becoming a . . . prince! But who wants to be a prince? Who really and truly wants the job? No. He’ll go along with what nature designed for him to begin with. He’ll follow the career track, metamorphose as he ought to, become a dobsonfly. He has a vision of a winged insect the size of his hand, a small airplane called Dobsonfly with the head of a hellgrammite visible in the cockpit. God in heaven, it’s a strange world—not the world of bugs with which he is familiar, but the world in which he is afloat at the moment, afloat or awash, he can’t tell, sitting on a damp porch at sunset, a chilly sunset at that, feeling three sheets to the wind on half a lousy Rheingold beer.
“Shall I bum you a smoke, Charlotte?” Hugh offers conge nially. “You seem a bit twittery.”
“I’m not twittery.”
“You are. You keep scratching your behind. And look. Look at your leg.”
“What’s the matter with my leg?”
“You’re jiggling it.”
“I’m not jiggling it. And I’m scratching my bum because it itches. It’s this dratted wool shirt.”
“The offer stands,” says Hugh. “I’d be happy to bum you a smoke.”
“And who would you bum it from?”
“From whom would I bum it? I would bum it from Betty, who else?”
“Betty isn’t interested in you,” Euell says crossly. “Not the slightest bit.”
“What an extraordinarily rotten thing to point out. But it’s not her interest I’m interested in, it’s her cigarettes. And not for me but for you, m’love. Me m’self could personally give a baboon’s ass for a smoke. I’m happy as a duck in pig shit with this Warren f——ing Haas’s f——ing beer. Cheers.” He raises his glass. “To friendship, love, and lepidoptera. And for the ones that elude the net.”
“Cheers,” says Euell glumly.
“You’ve got to do better than that, Charlie.”
“I can’t.”
“What’s eating you? You have that Edgar Allan Poe look. Something dark and dreary about you. High school yearbook: ‘Best friend: Raven.’”
Euell snorts and says, “But you’re my best friend, Hughie.”
“I know. That’s just what little Virginia Stokes-Hyde said to me in kindergarten, right before she broke my heart. Last girl I ever had.” He eyes his friend. “This wouldn’t be lady-love business, would it? If it’s something about a girl, you would tell me? It couldn’t be about a girl anyway, could it? There isn’t a girl from here to kingdom come.”
“It’s not about a girl, exactly.”
“Euell,” Hugh says, leaning forward in his chair, “what the hell does that mean?”
“It’s about someone, I think.”
“You think?”
“But she’s not a girl.”
“She’s a gorilla?”
“She’s . . . older.”
“How much older? A lot older? A little older? Help me out here.”
“A little older. Older than a girl.”
“Is she married?” asks Hugh.
“I . . . ” Euell shrugs.
“You . . . what? She’s married or she’s not. Let’s try this: does she have a husband?”
“Yes.”
“Then she’s married, nitwit. You don’t want a married woman, right?”
“Right.”
“End of conversation.”
“I know. But I can’t stop thinking about her.”
“Nobody suggested not thinking about her.”
“I’ve been thinking about her so much I feel sick to my stomach.”
“That’s the way I felt all through kindergarten. It turned out I was allergic to chalk.”
“Do you think I should write to her?” asks Euell.
“I think you should consider the very strong possibility that all your impulses in her direction are part of a temporary insanity that will, if you let it, lead you into hot water the likes of which you’ve never imagined. I forbid you to write to her. Unless. Unless you are willing to be maimed, preferably killed, in a duel, by her furious husband. In which case, be my guest. Write to her. Does she have a name, this fair maid?”
“You know her.”
“That narrows it down to several dozen married women, not counting all my parents’ friends.”
“You know of her, and you’ve been in her presence once without realizing it.”
“Charlotte,” says Hugh in exasperation, “I had no idea you had such a natural feel for suspense. But it’s not a guessing game I’m interested in, it’s the unveiling of the object of your desire. The dove in your heart. Who the hell is she?”
“It’s Jane.”
“Jane?”
Euell nods.
“But, idiot, Jane who?”
“Jane Merkle. Mrs. Merkle. Of the purse.”
“Mrs. Merkle of the purse!” cries Hugh. “Our dear Mrs. Morris Merkle of the purse! Whoo-aah! You sly devil!” He shakes his head and laughs.
But Euell feels neither sly nor devilish, only somewhat embarrassed by his confession. He wishes he had never mentioned any of this business and wonders why he did. Why was it so much easier to talk about a girl in a bar, or a friend’s sister who once made your knees shake, than it was to talk about Jane? It would be easier to talk about Sally Domani. He never had, but he could, couldn’t he? He could remember the fleshy parts of that girl and yet he couldn’t remember her eyes. It was strange, a strange business.
He turns to his friend and says, “Hemple’s going back tomorrow. You can catch a ride with him if you want.”
“Hemple wouldn’t be my first choice.”
“He’s not so bad. And he’s your only.”
“I’m sorry we didn’t have a few more bugs to catch, bonnie boy,” says Hugh. “It’s been shit for weather. You don’t know this, but I’ve enjoyed it. I’ve enjoyed your company. I’ll come up again if I’m invited. As long as I don’t have to ride with Hemple.”
“He’s all right.”
“Until you have to ride with him. His idea of fun is to verbally masticate everyone known to both of you, and on top of that he farts nonstop.”
“Just ignore him.”
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Hugh shifts in his chair. “You haven’t told me anything, you know. I know there’s more to tell. I’m a patient friend, Charlotte. Just don’t get in over your head.”
“I won’t.”
“You probably will.”
Euell agrees but says nothing. He may possibly be in over his head already. He may have been in over his head ever since he knocked on the Hedquists’ door. He thinks of her here on the North Rim (something he’s forgotten to mention to Hugh), possibly close by, eating supper with Mr. and Mrs. Hedquist in the last of the gloomy light. The long, lingering summer light, and she’s sitting on a log or at a picnic table somewhere just beyond his reach. What is she thinking? The bats are flying, and she’s never seen bats before. She’s never heard the high chirping sounds they make. She’s not afraid of bats. She’s not afraid of anything. She’s happy to eat off a tin plate and drink out of a tin cup. The night doesn’t scare her. She stands up and stretches and says good night to the Hedquists and brushes her teeth and her hair and goes into her tent. It’s not yet dark and she sits on her cot in her nightgown, watching the dark outline of the trees, the pines. She’s surprised at how cold it is, how exposed she feels sleeping outdoors. In her bedroll she allows herself at last to think of him, and her thoughts are delicious, like the first bite of a long-awaited meal. Lying there she places her hands on her body and imagines what his hands might feel like. There is no husband, no home somewhere else, nothing but his hands on her and the long summer light and later a saw-whet owl, though she doesn’t know what to call it. She’s never heard a saw-whet owl, Euell is quite certain. She can’t imagine what animal might make that faraway whistling sound. It doesn’t frighten her. It’s a new world to her, one that keeps her awake at night, daydreaming, wondering what things in the dark look like.
The Cause of Suffering
Acloudburst such as this rivals the magnificent summer storms of Illinois and excites old memories in the gray matter otherwise known as Oliver Hedquist’s brain. He sits on his camp stool in the doorway of the large canvas tent. Behind him, in the shadowy interior, Dotty lies napping. Jane is off on a hike somewhere with young Wigglesworth, without her raincoat, the silly girl. Rain pummels the tent and shakes it from top to bottom, front to back. Hedquist, age fifty-six years, three months, decides to strip off his clothes and run out into it.
He is in a state of naked abandon, wearing only his socks and sensible hiking shoes, waving arms and legs and whooping croakily, when he spies his sister-in-law and Mr. Wigglesworth heading in his direction. The young man is gallantly trying to shield the lady from the elements with his jacket, which he holds above her as they run through the forest. It’s fruitless, of course. Anyone can see that. She’s soaked to the skin, as is he, and the wise thing would be to lay aside gallantry and gallop for the barn. Both of them. For he has slowed down to lay his cloak across her sky, and she, sensing knightly action, has slowed down to accommodate it. Odd to Oliver how crisply, cleanly, he can read this interaction. Which amounts to courtship, doesn’t it? Well, I’ll be damned.
Reluctantly he ducks into the tent and returns his body to his clothes. Dressed, he feels duller. His clothing hangs about him like a pupal casing, a shield through which he must grope with effort in order to sense the pulse of other lives. As Jane enters, panting and laughing, followed by Wigglesworth, he is just enjoying the memory of his aunt Millicent Graves of New Hampshire, whose nudist tendencies shocked the family but excited him no end. She taught school and took her summer vacations in France and other exotic places, where she could lie on the beach sans vêtements, as she put it, and not be bothered by small-minded gentry and Peeping Toms. She told him, and he understood it, that the naked body could feel things, things in the air, the ether. The skin was sympathetic. It was an organ of sympathy, and clothing kept humans from knowing the truth about one another and was therefore the cause of much of the world’s suffering, including war.
After a conversation with Aunt Millicent, Oliver always sat up late thinking about things, trying to make up his own mind about misery and joy. It was only when he finally undressed and lay on his bed and let the summer night air of New Hampshire slip over his body, and the smell of Aunt Millicent’s two cows, Borage and Brownie, penetrate his skin—for he had learned that smells touch the skin and enter it—it was only when he was naked and quiet in his upstairs room in her old farmhouse, twenty miles south of Canada, which felt like the rest of the world to him, only then could he think in a way that thinking was meant to happen, think with his whole body and not just his mind, and in this state of openness and aloneness he knew that people needed walls because without them the earth became a glorious garden. They needed socks and shoes and shirts and trousers because they couldn’t bear to feel what he was feeling now, the tingling on his arms and on the inside of his legs and even on the tough soles of his feet. The next morning he woke up as he always did, to the smell of frying bacon, and sadly put on his clothes. He was only halfway there and he knew it. Why couldn’t he live and play in that garden? That was the rest of the question, and it bothered him that day and the next and the next, and he imagined soon he would find the answer and yet years went by and he didn’t, and now as a man closing in on sixty, he still hasn’t. It is the question his life was made for. Sometimes, swinging his net and finding a butterfly in it, a particular joy comes over him after the initial surprise of the catch, and just like that he’s in the garden. Brief, oh brief dream. And sometimes, under the influence of a particular liquid vice of his, he senses the garden is near, yet ever moving, lumbering away like a three-wheeled caravan. And just now, clothes off in the rain, his body stung and bruised and beaten by the sheer force of a bailing sky, the garden approached him and he could see inside the minds and bodies of those near to him and could, if he wished, even decipher the epic poem scribbled on his wife’s heart. But he did not wish to. And now the power is gone. Jane and her young man come inside, still laughing. They shake like dogs, the heavy droplets flying off them, and only then turn to say hello. Oliver feels like an overstuffed chair, a piece of ludicrously padded furniture hauled out into the African bush to satisfy effete bottoms. He says, with uncharacteristic grumpi ness, “You’re too wet, both of you.”
“And what are they supposed to do?” asks Dotty, sitting up from her nap and arranging her hair. “It’s raining buckets, Oliver. They can’t dry off outside.”
“We’ve been very bad,” says Jane merrily.
“There’s no avoiding it!” cries Dotty, rising from her cot. “Has anyone invited Euell to eat with us?”
“He ate with us last night,” says Oliver.
“Last night was last night and tonight is tonight. He was Jane’s guest last night; tonight he’ll be mine.”
“Thanks,” says Euell Wigglesworth, “but I—”
“Stop!” Dotty holds up her hand dramatically. “No excuses, please. Remember, Oliver and I were young once too, young and poor as church mice. We’d say no to any invitation that seemed an act of charity, then we’d go home to our grilled cheese sandwiches. That’s all I knew how to cook. Oliver knew how to boil water and open cans.”
“I’d love to stay—”
“Good. That’s settled.”
“But I have to be back at the station this evening, and with these roads and this rain, it’ll be muddy as heck.”
“What do you figure it will take you?” asks Oliver.
“I won’t make it by dark.”
“You better stay the night then,” Dotty insists. “We can’t offer you a cot, but we have a mattress.”
Jane, throughout this interaction, says nothing. She has pulled herself together and is once again the wife of Morris Merkle. Or so it seems to Oliver. Her sparkle is gone, her merriness. She seems suddenly older and more staid, more like Morris himself. Oliver, who is not by nature a jealous man, feels his jealousy waning. He opens and closes his hands a few times to enliven his organ of sympathy—his skin. He looks at Euell Wigglesworth
with a new appreciation, for it no longer matters to him who brings this girl to life, whether it be he or Euell or anyone else, as long as she is brought to life. Brought there and kept there by whatever means necessary. Is this true? he wonders. Having wasted a fair amount of his own happiness and self-respect on lip service to gods and idols he never believed in, he knows, yes, it’s true. By whatever means. “Stay the night,” he hears himself say to the young man so eager to linger. “When this rain lets up we’ll go out and hunt for Speyeria atlantis schellbachi, shall we? I can’t imagine your boss would stand in the way of a man with a net and his prey, especially if the creature bears his name. Come with us, Jane?”
She looks uncertain.
Dotty says, “Of course she’ll go with you.”
“Oh, I don’t know!” cries Jane.
But Oliver senses that somewhere, in the preternatural dimness of the tent, a glove, a gauntlet, has been thrown down. “She’ll go with you,” Dotty repeats, and this time it is impossible not to hear it as a challenge and a command.
The Butterflies of Grand Canyon Page 11
