What say? . . . fair enough? . . . okay?
Pearson is listening. He wrinkles his nose. The newspaper, folded to real estate, comes down. The image of his heavy gold ring passes across the desk. Years ago he’d explained the ring to Fender, holding his hand to the light. I love this business, Fender, he’d said. I have this funny feeling about it. I love it. That’s what this ring has always meant. The first time I slipped it on, it struck me—love! Pearson twisted the ring but Fender never saw it clearly, he was looking away at his shoes, and he still had no idea what the emblem on it represented. Fender, you know, it’s like—you aren’t Catholic, Fender, are you?—well, it’s like being married to the church. Like nuns or monks are. Aren’t they? That’s it. That’s fine. Like monks or nuns.
Pearson is listening . . . listening . . . and it seems unlikely that Fender will be able to surpass him, he’s so alert. But Pearson coaxes. Try. It’s possible. It’s barely possible, Fender. Try. Anyway—that’s all. Just keep up. Keep up.
Fender now imagines that he’s shrugged disdainfully, displaying his palms. He fires off a clever retort. In this weather, Mr. Pearson, he decides he’s saying, smiling wisely, all I’ll get is an earful of ice. The remark falls short of his hopes, somehow.
Fender resumed his chewing. Suppose he had though? He blew softly, feeling the warmth of the fork in his fingers. When they cut their prices like that, they were unloading all their old stock, clearing their warehouses of what would otherwise spoil, no doubt of it. How long would such things keep, frozen like bricks of ice? Antarctic explorers had . . . what? Lethargic bacteria. The beef would spoil first, or the gravy would. Then salt was a factor. Of course they salted the pies. Didn’t salt hasten . . .? He remembered it did. Ham and bacon poorest. Perhaps some preservative was added. Yes, a good question: how long would they last? Funny that such a figure should control the fluctuation. He thought how Pearson would sway to the music of the market like a dancer. Keep your fingers on the pulse. Measure the flow. Calculate the rate.
When Fender had first entered the business, Pearson had taken him in hand and taught him what he could, so there was little point in his standing before Fender’s desk like a startled stag, as if every sale of real estate set up vibrations in the air to which his sensitive organs immediately responded, for Fender knew he gathered his information in a more prosaic way. He read the papers mainly, devoting the largest portion of his day and nearly the whole of his energy to them. He read each line on every page, proceeding patiently from front to rear, therefore including even overseas and national news, the comics and the columns of opinion—those parts of the paper which presumed to paint what Pearson, peering beneath his palm like an Indian, called “the wider prospect,” since it was his fiercely held conviction that events which seemed of world importance were, when you thought about them deeply, but weak misleading echoes of a sound made strongly only once and then in some close place of no real size. Do you realize, Fender, he was fond of saying, that all news is kitchen gossip at the first—is merely nearby, local, neighbor news—and that nothing happens—anywhere—that doesn’t happen on a piece of property? And once when Fender had suggested air and ocean, Pearson, angry, had replied: you’re a water-strider, are you? you regularly fly by flapping? Triumphantly he’d shouted: what’s the airplane, if you please? Elizabeth? what’s Mary? Leonardo? Flandre? France? And he went on with a dizzying list of ships and planes.
In order that no such happening should escape him (at least this seemed to Fender to be the reason), Pearson ran a broad-nibbed pen behind the path of his eye to cancel what he’d read and frequently to decorate the margins with perfectly symmetrical stars he then carefully colored in, so that the paper, when he finished, was a bewildering splay and run of bright blue ink from one end to the other—soaked through with lines, blots, finger smears and stars. Because he read on slowly, cautiously, and artfully, because of his devotion, his passion, his love, because—it was really impossible, Fender thought, to be absolutely certain why, the effect so dwarfed the causes—still, whatever the reason, he remembered everything: births, deaths, divorces, auctions, wills, proceedings of the city council and the courts, all the endless activities of the fraternal orders whose officers and properties he knew (they were the Masons, Moose, Odd Fellows, Elks, Knights Templar, Pythias and Columbus, the Eagles and the Eastern Star), as well as the countless civic programs and charitable resolves of the Chamber of Commerce and the service clubs which he sometimes read aloud in solemn priestly tones while circling the office (these were the Optimists, Rotary, Lions, Kiwanis and Golden Rule), nor did he overlook the movements of the VFW, DAR, AmVets and Legion either, or the apparently infinite interests of every church and synagogue (indeed he had a quip about that), and he seemed to have overcome whatever handicap in age and sex he might have had to keep warmly on the trail of the women’s groups, the young people’s fellowships too, the children’s even (the Future Farmers, for example, the Sunshine Girls, Boy Scouts, Brownies, Rainbows, Hi-Ys and 4-H), also he greedily received the news of the sporting leagues (kittyball, softball, hardball, basketball, bowling, dartball, handball, tennis, ping-pong, volleyball, golf), as well as those dreary items from the clubs of the lonely (fish, stamps, chess, photography, birds) for which his memory was complete, just as it seemed to be for everything . . . for everything . . . for all the advertisements . . . particularly those . . . while at the same time he was passionately interested in political side-taking, the choice of queens, awards of trophies, conventions of salesmen and dentists, all testimonials, fund luncheons, gift announcements, threats of epidemic sickness, sales, transfers, removals, celebrations, weddings, accidents, elections, thefts, and with the let of bids, permits for new construction, licenses and notes of condolence, mergers, promotions, bankruptcies, foreclosures, hearings, fires, suits, settlements, raids, arrests; if there was an address—anywhere—it caught his eye, for an address was the name of a property, and it was important (it was everything!) to know properties—how they fared—because properties were like people, they had characters; they suffered from vicissitudes, as he’d told Fender often, and fell upon evil times like the best of us did, only to rise up again and be renewed as it also happened sometimes; and the consequence of all this continuous, close, and fanatical concern was that Pearson could, when he drove a street, pass judgment on it, read its future, as he’d done so many times in those early days, in the lawns and porches of its houses, in their lamps or curtains or their paint and chimneys, but largely in the lines from the papers that sprang into his mind at the sight of their numbers: three fifty-two, for instance, has diabetes, Fender, he’d say—serious—I wouldn’t give her long . . . then three sixty-four is eighty-seven, very feeble, needs a cane to breathe . . . and there was a golden wedding across the street not long ago . . . ah, here—three more in a row—not a one under seventy, living in these great big houses all alone, in these worn old trees, can’t even crawl the stairs—the same as empty: say! what would you hear if you were a mouse in the basement or a wasp in the attic? not a noise, eh? not a sound, nothing—just the whole house running—running down . . . well, well, we’re being watched, someone wonders why I’ve stopped, she’s peeping between her curtains, see her?—suppose she knew, Fender, hah! suppose she knew . . . this street’s about to move, that’s the fact to remember, it’s a street of old ladies—now are we going to take command or not? . . . you’ve got to be creative, Fender, you’ve got to see . . . here, look at five one oh, that two-steepled business with the porte cochere—all right, what are the possibilities there? that was a coach house once, in back . . . oh come on, come on, it’s easy—friend, it’s easy—you spot the house and instantly—like that!—it fills your mind: name, slogans, programs, the whole package, everything! . . . let’s see—Twin Steeples—no, Twin Pinnacles Funeral Home—Twin Pinnacles! ah! superb!—you haven’t been in the business long enough to know how good that name is, Fender, so don’t make a face . . . no sir—bravo, Pearson, fine frie
nd, bravo!—not Smerz, Block, Nicolay—names of people—no, a place, a lofty position, perfect for final rest—peaks—deserved—sure, a little paint is all, some facing stone, enlarge that window, lots of space for the hearse in back, big basement likely, if it isn’t damp, a few spots hid by shrubbery at the corners of the lot to light it up . . . Twin Pinnacles . . . perfect, perfect . . . paint the turrets gold—with the sun glinting from them, a little suggestion of the Great Gate Above—can’t you see it? a flood lamp at night—ideas! ideas! that’s what this job is, it’s creative . . . you’ve got to consider how the undertaking business is, who needs to move, who might, all that —facts . . . how’s this street to go? that’s what you’ve got to think—will they be lodge halls? offices? or are there too many cheap apartments in this neighborhood already? —there’s one, for instance, with two outside stairs—no good—his driver’s license up a year, he drinks and rust is in his eaves—see those stains? . . . you’ve got to know how far it is to the center of town, what other businesses there are around, what the general direction of the traffic is—north-south, west-east? consider, see? . . . this is your person, Fender—these streets, these buildings, this town—the body of your beloved—yes, yes, yum—and you’ve got to know it . . . think, perceive, consider and create . . . who were those biddies with the string? yeah, fates—well that’s our function, Fender, we’re the fates . . . so maybe dentists, doctors—you’ve got to think—how far is it from the hospital? happen to know? . . . six-tenths of a mile from this corner—not bad, considering . . . see what I mean? here she is, Fender, feel her up, eh? hah! yum . . . oh say, figure, Fender, figure—beauticians? barbers? chapter of the Red Cross? or realtors even! maybe me! hay, maybe Pearson! . . . you’ve got to have everything at the tip—the tip . . . Fender, the thing is: it’s moving, and the thing to ask yourself is: am I going to create, control, direct, manage, make that move, or is it going to manage and move and make me? see? . . . they talk about subdivisions—out in the country—weed fields and drainage ditches—that’s child’s play, sandbox stuff—slides! swings! —but look what’s here, right here! we can subdivide this street, that’s what it comes to, it’s in our hands! . . . responsibility! . . . ah, it’s terrific, this business, Fender, terrific.
Terrific. Years ago. When he seemed a prophet, sometimes a god. At the tip, he’d exclaim, raising his ink-stained fingers. A thrill would shoot through Fender, and he’d repeat the words to himself, considering again the wisdom of his teacher. Everything is property. Pearson’s face would glow, his hair shake. Everything is property. Think of it. Some sort of property. Then he’d rush through the office naming objects, lifting them up. This, and this, and this . . . This ear, he says triumphantly, fingering the lobe, this ear belongs to Isabelle. . . .
Buy at the bottom. Fill your freezer. Fortunate . . . to take advantage of the time . . .
People pass on. In the midst of life, you know, Fender . . . well . . . but property, property endures. Sure, sure, cars go to junk before the people in them do sometimes, but there’s all sorts of property, that’s all, and a house will outlast its builder usually. Lots of things outlast us, Fender. Lots of things. Lots do. Hah hah. Well. That’s it. Land’s damn near immortal. Land lasts forever. That’s why it’s called real, see? oh it makes sense, Fender, old fellow and friend, it makes sense!
A rhythm in the market . . . up and down . . . your fortune . . . if . . .
People are property. Does that seem like a hard saying, people are property? not even real? Oh let me tell you, Fender, we’ve got it all wrong, most of us . . . backwards . . . most of us. People own property—that’s what we say—that’s what we think. Oh sure. Sure. A howler—that one. Listen: property owns people. Everything’s property, and the property that lasts longest—it owns what lasts least. Stands to reason. Fender, Fender, wait’ll you die, you’ll see! So the property that lives, Fender, that lasts and lives and goes right on, Fender, and then goes on again, that overlives us, Fender, that overlives . . . well, that’s the property that’s real, and it—it owns the rest—lock, stock, and barrel—right? Makes sense.
Fundless Fender, freezerless Fender . . .
It made sense, yes. It still made sense. But now it did seem a hard saying . . . hard to bear. His little house possessed him, it was true. He’d been cut to fit its walls. He saw what it permitted. He did not reach beyond the rooms. Up the steps of a glowering, blind-eyed house, how many times had he led them, like pets in search of owners? Pearson was right. The question his buyers should have asked—do I want to belong to this house?—they never asked. What will these floors and corners, these views, these halls and closets, do with my life? Pearson was right. Prop-purr-tee, he’d cry, a lovely sound. And Fender was bothered; he was worried. His car owned him and his shirts and shoes owned him, his socks and ties, even his towels and toothbrush were tyrannical. He moved uneasily in his clothes, staring at his suit. Imagine—there were faint stripes in the trousers he’d never noticed before. They gave him a fright, lurking in the cloth. What else might be? Body too—Pearson would lean over the desk and whisper —your body owns you . . . another house, isn’t it? Up front steps—how many times? He’d scrape the key in the lock and wave them in, the fools, he’d wave them in. Run, he ought to scream, and ring an alarm.
Pearson has entered, beaming, flourishing a magazine. An emperor in here, he says, twisting the magazine into a roll and aiming it at Fender, an emperor—and a man doesn’t get to be an emperor by sitting on his ass—excuse me, Isabelle—but just the same, his ass! anyway—this emperor says the secret is, ah, to live in harmony with nature. That’s what I mean, Fender. That’s what I’ve been telling you all these years. Here it is. Whack. With the flow, Fender, with the flow. Times change—you change. Business, money, people—if they move, Fender, you move. Ride with the punch. Absorb the blow. See? It’s so clear. It’s so easy. It’s so clean. An emperor. Whack. Imagine. Whack. Lived way back there, you know. It’s true. Anyway —a great magazine, Fender. Great. Whack. They weren’t so dumb in those days, were they? Read it. Clear as a bell. Whack. Slick as a whistle. Whack. Neat as a pin, hay? Clean. Whack. And remember what you read. Okay? Whackwhackwhackwhackwhack . . .
The cow stood squarely in a clump of daisies. At least it was some white-petaled flower with an orange or yellow eye. Smiling. He’d cut his finger on a blade of paper. Now he felt it stinging pleasantly, and his shoulders were aching. Then there the peas were finally, huddled together.
Glick, why do you do that? I mean, what are you tearing up all that paper for? Glick carefully folds a sheet and sharpens the crease with his thumbnail. This paper’s a piece of property. He smiles indulgently. You’ve got to have imagination, Fender. I’m subdividing. Numbering lots, figuring sizes, you know, drainage, easements, everything. He pulls at the corners. The land parts cleanly. . . .
Peas. In one pie there might be anywhere from nine to eighteen peas. Eighteen was quite a few. He’d counted peas but never bits of beef or carrot. Now he wondered why. Peas cried out to be counted, they were so green and discrete, nevertheless it was the beef that determined the quality of the product. Automatically he began phrasing the letter. As you are perfectly aware, it is the meat that chiefly determines . . . Pig in a poke, that’s what. He chewed cautiously. Doubtless it never occurred to you that someone would actually trouble to number . . . The world out the window shifted. Houselights streaked the snow. Like the urine of dogs by trees. Though it didn’t seem corrosive but lay lightly on top like something transparent—a diaphanous robe. However it happens that I have been counting the pieces of beef in your pies for some—how long should he say? what would make for the greatest effect? everything took such time—well say for some years, that would put the fear of the public properly back in them. Therefore my data is quite complete and my conclusions well nigh indisputable . . . yes . . . well nigh, that was nice. . . .
Fender was weary—weary of winter. The little energy he had was ebbing. The cloth of his suit was
scraping his knees. The scraping seemed dangerous, his skin felt so thin. Miserable business. Drops of water were wavering at the points of the icicles and he decided there must be a breeze. Then too, the hull of a pea had fastened itself to a molar. He crushed his tongue against it. There ought to be a guarantee but he’d never examined the package. Had he thrown the wrapper away? It was no use, his interest was waning, though he tried to revive it by thinking of the consternation his letter might cause if it reached the right people. Threat of exposure—the Food and Drug Administration, the Federal Trade Commission. Just for a moment he was pleased and the fluid of the pie seemed thick and rich, but his pleasure was quickly gone and he felt himself empty like one of his houses, staring out at the wind and snow, at the undulating lanes of light and shadow, waiting for someone . . . anyone . . . to enter. There would be patches of ice in the streets in the morning, and then the city’s trucks would spread sand and salt about so that by afternoon each automobile would be spraying slush in its wake, and this would collect and freeze in rough gray blocks behind the wheels until, incontinent, the machine let them fall into the street.
Halting in front of Glick, Pearson says somberly: do you know what’s the matter with you, Glick? do you? have you any idea? any real notion, the least comprehension of it? Pearson waits for Glick to surface his troubled, obsequious face. Pearson’s autumnal joke is coming. It is always painful. You spend too much time raking leaflets, he says, passing swiftly through the door to his office where after a moment—always the same—they hear him whoop and roar, then roar again. Fender stares into the mess in his drawer, aimlessly shifting sheets of paper and turning over clips and pins and rubberbands. He scarcely thinks that once all this was in radiant order, each thing bespeaking its place through its nature. Another advantage of living alone—you couldn’t very well say: excuse me, don’t interrupt, I’m counting the peas in this pie; or: I’m composing a letter to those pot pie people; or—No, he was finished for the evening; he was bored by his own voice; yawns stretched his jaws and filled his eyes with tears. The phone calls would have to wait. The snowlight, though soft now, had made his eyes burn, he decided, and he put down his fork to press them tenderly and wipe the moisture from their corners. He resolved, though weakly, to draw the drapes, but as he shifted in his chair the long row of icicles blazed and his breath went out of him. For an instant Fender sat quite still, as someone wounded may who does not know what pain he’ll bring himself or blood he’ll spill, but his eyes were drawn into the string and held while the light from the living room lay burning in them. The purity of the ice was astonishing, the tips were like needles, and they ran together at their source like fingers into palms. Snow was no longer melting and the icicles had a hard dry gleam. He set aside his tray and stood. Fish in a bowl—he felt that conspicuous. He was conscious, too, of the soft warmth of the room. It was shining out to them, but the light that entered was slowly cooled and added to the ice. He tugged at the pull and dragged the curtains across the pane. No sense everyone seeing in. Better to live like a mole out of eyeshot. He’d look at a magazine, he decided, and go to bed early. Indeed he was tired. Always, even as a child, he’d needed his sleep.
In the Heart of the Heart of the Country Page 15
