by Jeffrey Lent
While he was still turned away in a small voice she said, “My father won’t talk about the war.”
He swung slowly to her and said, “Most men don’t.”
“Some do. Several kids I know, their dads were all in the service. And those men, they’ve told stories. They go to the VFW—that’s the—”
“I know what it is. And they sit and drink beer and talk, tell stories. Where they were, what they did, how it was. Yes?”
“My dad goes. On Thursday nights. But he doesn’t talk.”
“Neither do I. Talk about the war. I don’t mean your VFW.” And he made a small smile. “I doubt I would be welcome there, even if I was inclined. But I’m not. Those men, they talk of things that might be true, might not be true. What they might wish was true. Or even, what they say is not what happened but what they wished had happened. Instead of what did. Do you understand?”
“No. Maybe.”
“What is inside those men, all men, what they did or saw, for each it’s different. It’s memory. Memory is like dreams. Parts feel as if you can reach out and touch—other parts are gone. Just, gone. You make sense best you can. Each and every person differently. Sometimes this is because of what you, this person, actually did or saw, witnessed. Other times it’s what you failed to do. And even more times, strangest maybe but like dreams, it’s a collision, better word maybe, collapse, of memory and dream. So you don’t know what is real, what the mind allows us to know. So. How to cope with this? Some men talk, truth or hope of truth. Some stay quiet. Again, truth or hope. And, then, this also, plenty of men know very well what they saw or did and this also makes them talk to try and change, or remain silent—if they deny memory a voice then it does not have one. Yes? You see, I am saying there are as many reasons for how a man responds to war, such terrible war, after, as there are men. How it is.”
She wanted to tell him that her father didn’t talk to most people about almost anything at all. But she didn’t know how to explain this, to explain all of him to this wondrous stranger. So she said, “What he does, my father, is he fixes fiddles. He repairs them, I mean. From accidents or sometimes just age.”
“Fiddles? You mean to say violins?”
“That’s right. Just, most of those who he works for, they play fiddle tunes, old tunes come down within families. Dance music, mostly. But they’re violins. I don’t think a one of them has ever been used to play anything but those old dances; jigs and reels and old ballads.”
“No. You misunderstand. He plays? He also plays these violins?”
“Of course. His dad and grandfather did, too. That’s how it got started.”
Ernst Behr nodded. “So music. A man does not wish to talk but he makes music. You do not understand?”
“Music.” She paused, uncertain. Deeply not wanting to be wrong but suddenly seeing the direct line between what her music meant to her and what his might for her father.
Behr was flushed, lit with his understanding. He said, “Always. Forever. As long as it’s been. Music, the making of music, allows a person to express what they feel but that which words cannot hold. Where language fails. Music, making that, allows the soul to express itself. To release joy, yes, but anguish also. What can’t be said in words can be said in music—No. Can be released in music. Arising from within the battered soul, flowing out, measures of peace found, released. But, also like those stories other men tell, never complete. So is done again and again. Is this the man you’re speaking of?”
“I think so.”
“If you think, so it is. So, you see—he has been telling his stories of the war. His war. Perhaps now you can listen?”
Again she said, “I think so.” And then trembling throughout but not knowing she was until she spoke again she said, “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome, Katey Snow. Now, shall we settle?” He spread his hand, palm down and fingers open over the food on the counter.
At the same time came the light jingle of the brass chimes over the door. His eyes went up and she turned, wanting to see who had broken the conversation; also, who had entered this rare space.
The girl was wearing overalls smeared with dirt and trails of fine sawdust, a pumpkin-orange T-shirt likewise dirty and with dried sweat stains under her armpits, L. L. Bean hunting boots with the rubber bottoms and leather uppers, the boots laced tight around her ankles with the tops spread open and the overalls tucked down within. Her hair was long and blonde, parted roughly in the middle and falling about her face. On her back she had an Army surplus rucksack of green canvas and leather straps. Filled but not bulging. In one hand she held a round leather case, as if for maps. She looked left, right, peering as if seeking something, then her eyes slowly settled upon the two at the counter.
Ernst Behr said, “Good morning, young lady. And how may I assist you?”
So close to the way he’d greeted Katey if not the exact words; she could not remember now. And felt a pang of jealousy or something like that; the intimacy of what he’d just shared with her, how he’d known and responded to her tentative queries suddenly seemed open to whoever walked through the door. And the girl was someone walked off the pages of Life or Newsweek, out of the television news. A creature strange, unknown. And who now lifted one arm to unsling the rucksack and dropped it to the floor, then rested the leather tube across it, gently.
She straightened and spoke, eyes sweeping Katey quickly and then settling on Behr. “Can I get a little honey and tahini? And some pita? I missed breakfast to catch a ride up from Harpswell with Jean to 1 and thumbed down here. Got dumped at a diner and just standing outside the air reeked of rancid grease so I kept coming. I’m about starved, man. Ah, hold on. I’m so burned I’m not thinking. Steven told me to stop here if I could. Feels like a thousand years ago. But I got a list.”
She slid down on her knees and began to dig through her rucksack. “Hold on, hold on, I know it’s somewhere.”
“Steven? You are from Franconia?” Behr said. “You’re hitchhiking, how will you mange? Steven buys bulk lots.”
The girl was cross-legged and held a composition book, leafing through pages. With one hand she kept pushing hair behind one ear only to have it fall free again. She looked up. “Here it is. Yeah. Hundred pounds of whole wheat, forty of lentils, another—well, here, I’ll just tear it out and leave it with you. Steven or one of us’ll drive over next week to pick it up.” She grinned. “If that works. I’m Phoebe.”
She pushed up off the floor and walked over. She had a loose-limbed stride, both easy and sensual, as if she worked outside and also knew her body well, all ways.
Ernst Behr said, “So, Harpswell? You’ve been to the Readings’?”
“We’re having some problems with building. Well, not problems so much as things we wanted to make sure we got right. And since I was the one who drew them, it seemed best for me to take the plans and come see how it should look when it’s done. And ask a few questions. I liked Lawrence well enough but Jean’s a little uptight. You’d’ve thought the whole idea came from Lawrence, the way she acted.”
“I haven’t been there but saw photographs in the paper. The big dome’s impressive. A grand thing. And the article said they’re building a second one. Is that right?”
“Oh, it’s more than that! The second one is set up like a workshop—part office and part hands-on school—where people can come see how it’s done. But what was really groovy is the third dome they’ve got going—made to be a greenhouse to grow food year-round. It’s almost done so this summer they can test out the soil and the irrigation and get the vents working to release heat when it’s too hot and then by fall they’ll have a good idea how it works, practice, not theory, and then see how much they need to fire up the wood heaters and how much the sun and natural condensation works. It’s real gone, man. On the coast of frickin Maine.”
“Ambitious? Yes. But then, the world is full of new ideas, always. Some good, some bad. Exciting when they are good. Did you get the answer
s to your questions, there at Harpswell?”
“Mostly. I think. The inherent tension capacity of the triangle wasn’t really in question—but we’ve been having problems with the curve ratio as we go up. And I think I got that answered. But also, I think we might have some issues with the base platform, we mighta got that wrong and if that’s what it is, well, there’s not any of us going to be happy. But better now than later, is how I see it.”
Behr nodded. “All things are such. More rare to see it so, Phoebe. Let me see the list, now. You say a week, maybe two?” He took the paper and leaned over it, frowning as he ticked an index finger down.
“What’s the problem, man?”
“Oh, there is no problem. I have all of this. But it’s much inventory to hold, not sure when it will be sold. You understand? My suppliers, they’re once a month by truck. What happens, I hold all of this and run out for the people who walk in the door?”
“No, no. I can pay you, I got the bread. It’s no problem.”
“Yes, that is good. But still, these two weeks? I am a small space. This is—” He glanced back at the list, then to Phoebe. “This is five, six hundred pounds of food. Paid for but I’m storing it. Precious room to store what I must buy, for, say, people who walk in and want five pounds of lentils. What do I tell them—the lentils I have are sold so come back a week, maybe two and I will have more?”
“I think that’s your problem, man.”
“And I say Steven may come purchase what he wishes and take it away.” He spread his arms wide. “Look. I am a small space. And that, I like. But my storage is in the basement below—even smaller than this space.”
Katey had been listening, off to the side, ignored, and feeling as if the two were speaking a language she did not know. French she knew better than this exchange. But for a single word—also the vague sense of a door. A possibility.
She said, “Franconia? New Hampshire?”
Phoebe turned and gave Katey a long appraisal up and down that lasted seconds. Phoebe was maybe twenty—Katey’s guess—but also clearly light-years away, and both recognized that. Katey flushed hot and sucked in the smallest bit of lip between her teeth, to remind herself of herself, to not be overwhelmed by this girl. Whose eyes pegged her as the country-mouse that she was. Still, Katey knew she might hold a trump card and so waited in silence. Something she’d learned from her mother. Or, it came to her, perhaps her father as well. Or more so.
“Yeah,” Phoebe said. “Franconia College.” Her voice still larded with doubt.
“Over 302, right?”
Phoebe paused again, reconsidering many things, Katey guessed. And was suddenly nervous herself, for other reasons than before. Phoebe said, “You headed that way?”
I can be, Katey thought. Unsure if she should be but also intrigued. Her mind held the map still and knew it wasn’t more than a three- or four-hour drive. It wasn’t as if she had a plan, a clear plan. She said, “Yup.”
Phoebe took a breath, let it out. Katey got it—remembering when she was a freshman, how the senior girls ignored, or cut glances, remarks. Until they needed something. Phoebe said, “You heard. It’s almost four hundred pounds of food. What you’re driving, can it handle that? You’re not driving a Beetle, are you?”
And Ernst Behr spoke up. “If she is, it wouldn’t matter. An honest hardworking automobile. Load the backseat—it’s no more weight than a couple of good-sized ladies, yes?”
Katey said, “I’m parked right out front. The Dodge pickup truck. Under the hood is a flathead 6. Pile whatever you want in the bed—all it’ll do is make the truck drive better. You need help with that?”
Phoebe had hooded her eyes. Ernst Behr flicked a smile upon Katey, then returned to the list. Katey rolled back on the heels of her sneakers and popped her thumbs through the belt loops of her jeans and waited. Phoebe looked up and said, “Getting this stuff there today would be cool. Bread for gas?”
Katey considered the unknown, then said, “Let’s see how it goes.”
Phoebe’s arms were brown and wiry-strong but Katey kept right up with her as they loaded the factory-sized sacks of flours, beans, grains, the ten-pound tub of honey, another of peanut butter. Several cardboard cases of tinned goods, jarred goods. Then finally a regular paper grocery sack of lesser items Phoebe had purchased for herself. And Katey’s crackers, jar of pear juice, almonds and dried apricots in their own sack. And the book.
Ernst Behr paused her within the store, his hand on her elbow, Phoebe already in the truck, waiting. He said, “They are young, full of ideas, ideals, also. Good people but young. Not as young as you perhaps but perhaps not as old, either. Trust yourself, is what I mean to tell you. And Steven Christensen, he has wisdom but not as much as he thinks. Or what the others think. Remember that. And also, this: On your journey, Katey Snow, remember me. What we talked about, I have talked about with few others. There now, go in peace, keep eyes open wide.”
He was pressing her hand again between both of his and she said, “I will,” and swiftly leaned and kissed his cheek.
She followed the signs for 302 out of town and then once again was traveling through the countryside, aware she was headed west, vaguely toward home and so all that lay behind her seemed also to now be in front of her. And also was vigilant for the road signs as they passed through towns and other roads intersected—for all obvious reasons she didn’t want to make the first wrong turn with this older girl beside her, the cargo in the back. She was filled with questions but wanted to ask the right one. And she didn’t know what that was. So she drove and dug in the paper sack and lifted out the almonds and apricots and set them on the bench seat and then took out the jar of juice and tucked it between her legs. She twisted off the cap and set it upside down on the dashboard. Driving. Aware Phoebe was watching her.
She said, “You came in saying you were hungry. So am I. We can share, or eat your own, I’m happy either way. But can I ask a question?”
“You like tahini?”
“I don’t know what it is.”
“It’s ground-up sesame seeds. Like peanut butter, only better.”
“That sounds good.”
“I’ll make sandwiches. What’s your question?”
It was a pretty June day. A few ragged high white clouds against a blue sky. Both cab windows down and the air through them pleasant, neutral, sweeping through the truck. Rolling over gentle hills, past farms, houses, through small villages. Monday morning. People at work. The road empty. Phoebe had a Swiss army knife and also an old mess kit dug from her backpack resting on the floor at her feet. She twisted off the lid of the tahini jar and used a metal folding spoon to stir the separated oil back into the thicker paste. Between her legs she had an unopened jar of dark wildflower honey and had opened the bag of pita and torn two in half. She paused and glanced at Katey.
Katey said, “I guess it’s two questions.”
“I can handle that.” And grinned. And suddenly she seemed more at ease, relaxed, no longer the older girl but a fellow traveler.
“So, where was it you were coming from? I mean, what were you doing? I didn’t understand most of what you and Mr. Behr were talking about. And, where are we going? I mean, I know where Franconia is, generally. But I never heard of Franconia College and I just spent the last year looking up what I thought was every college in Vermont and New Hampshire plus a few others.”
“Aw, man, where’d you learn to count? I’m kidding. I’m just kind of toasted. Ready to get home. Let’s start there. Franconia College is a different sort of school. Best seen, not described. Which in a couple hours you’ll have the chance to do. Might be your bag, maybe not. But for me, it’s home. At least for now. It’s brothers and sisters. You’ll see.
“And I just spent a week down on the coast with some old folks who were hip to it all a long time ago. They got cool shit going down but they’re old. Like the dude back there with the store—he’s got a good trip happening but thinks he’s in 1935 or something. You
know? Okay, the Readings, Lawrence and Jean? They been there on the coast of Maine growing organic and living with only what they can make or trade for years and years—he was an old socialist or Wobbly. He’s written books, ya know? And he got the dome thing early on and met Bucky a long time ago and so they tore down the house they had there and built a dome and that worked so they built another. Which was why I was there. A crew of us are building one beside the beaver pond at Franconia. And like most things, you get deep enough in and questions come up. So I went over there to talk to the Readings. Larry, what he asked me to call him, he was helpful, looked over our plans and listened to the issues we’re dealing with and then walked me around and pointed out where they’d run into the same problems, or close enough, and how they solved them. Not answers—every moment, every problem, every question in life has a different answer. But good clues; he’s a smart old goat. So I got a pretty good idea what to do once I got home but was helping out, a way to pay for what I’d been given and so spent a couple days working in their gardens, the big ones outside—aw chick, soil smelled so good you could almost eat it, but it was long days and yesterday evening before supper I walked down the spit to one of the tidal pools and there was nobody else there so I stripped down and was being washed clean by the churning water, so sweet that was, I felt like a grandmother was rocking me in her arms and then I finally stepped out—I didn’t want to miss supper, there was only the one chance—and grabbed my clothes and was dancing about to dry off and just feeling the sun at the end of a lovely day and looked up and there was Jean, on the rocks above me. I stood waiting while she walked down and she asked me was I waiting for Lawrence and I told her No and she asked me if he’d told me to come down here and I told her No and she looked me up and down and I looked her straight back, a wizened old woman trying to protect what she couldn’t if he decided not to let her and I knew that and so did she. Then she told me she’d drive me up to 1 first thing in the morning and I told her I was down with that, all I could learn from him I already had, and there wasn’t anything from her I wanted or cared to learn that I hadn’t already.
