Quicker than the eye
Page 16
«Poacher! By God, yes!» Fentriss laughed. «Poacher.»
And damn if the first poacher didn't arrive!
Glancing out at tree in the morning, Fentriss witnessed a runty shadow stretching up, handheld tape recorder poised, warbling and whistling softly at the tree. when this failed, the half-seen poacher tried dove-coos and then orioles and roosters, half dancing in a circle.
«Damn it to hell!» Fentriss leaped out with a shotgun cry: «Is that Wolfgang Prouty poaching my garden? Out, Wolfgang! Go!»
Dropping his recorder, Prouty vaulted a bush, impaled himself on thorns, and vanished.
Fentriss, cursing, picked up an abandoned notepad.
«Nightsong,» it read. On the tape recorder he found a lovely Satie-like bird-choir.
After that, more poachers arrived mid-night to depart at dawn. Their spawn, Fentriss realized, would soon throttle his creativity and still his voice. He loitered full-time in the garden now, not knowing what seed to give his beauties, and heavily watered the lawn to fetch up worms. Wearily he stood guard through sleepless nights, nodding off only to find Wolfgang Prouty's evil minions astride the wall, prompting arias, and one night, by God, perched in the tree itself, humming in hopes of sing-alongs.
A shotgun was the final answer. After its first fiery roar, the garden was empty for a week. That is, until– Someone came very late indeed and committed mayhem.
As quietly as possible, he cut the branches and sawed the limbs.
«Oh, envious composers, dreadful murderers!» cried Fentriss.
And the birds were gone.
And the career of Amadeus Two with it.
«Black!» cried Fentriss.
«Yes, dear friend?» said Black, looking at the bleak sky where once green was.
«Is your car outside?»
«When last I looked.»
«Drive!»
But driving in search didn't do it. It wasn't like calling in lost dogs or telephone-poled cats. They must find and cage an entire Mormon tabernacle team of soprano springtime-in-the-Rockies birdseed lovers to prove one in the hand is worth two in the bush.
But still they hastened from block to block, garden to garden, lurking and listening. Now their spirits soared with an echo of «Hallelujah Chorus» oriole warbling, only to sink in a drab sparrow twilight of despair.
Only when they had crossed and recrossed interminable mazes of asphalt and greens did one of them finally (Black) light his pipe and emit a theory.
«Did you ever think to wonder,» he mused behind a smoke-cloud, «what season of the year this is?»
«Season of the year?» said Fentriss, exasperated.
«Well, coincidentally, wasn't the night the tree fell and the wee songsters blew town, was not that the first fall night of autumn?»
Fentriss clenched a fist and struck his brow.
«You mean?»
«Your friends have flown the coop. Their migration must be above San Miguel Allende just now.»
«If they are migratory birds!»
«Do you doubt it?»
Another pained silence, another blow to the head.
''Shit!''
«Precisely,» said Black.
«Friend,» said Fentriss.
«Sir?»
«Drive home.»
It was a long year, it was a short year, it was a year of anticipation, it was the burgeoning of despair, it was the revival of inspiration, but at its heart, Fentriss knew, just another Tale of Two Cities, but he did not know what the other city was!
How stupid of me, he thought, not to have guessed or imagined that my songsters we're wanderers who each autumn fled south and each springtime swarmed north in A Cappella choirs of sound.
«The waiting,» he told Black, «is madness. The phone never stops-«
The phone rang. He picked it up and addressed it like a child. «Yes. Yes. Of course. Soon. When? Very soon.» And put the phone down. «You see? That was Philadelphia. They want another Cantata as good as the first. At dawn today it was Boston. Yesterday the Vienna Philharmonic. Soon, I say. When? God knows. Lunacy! Where are those angels that once sang me to my rest?»
He threw down maps and weather charts of Mexico, Peru, Guatemala, and the Argentines.
«How far south? Do I scour Buenos Aires or Rio, Mazatlan or Cuernavaca? And then? Wander about with a tin ear, standing under trees waiting for bird-drops like a spotted owl? Will the Argentine critics trot by scoffing to see me leaning on trees, eyes shut, waiting for the quasi-melody, the lost chord? I'd let no one know the cause of my journey, my search, otherwise pandemoniums of laughter. But in what city, under what kind of tree would I wander to stand? A tree like mine? Do they seek the same roosts? or will anything do in Ecuador or Peru? God, I could waste months guessing and come back with birdseed in my hair and bird bombs on my lapels. What to do, Black? Speak!»
«Well, for one thing»-Black stuffed and lit his pipe and exhaled his aromatic concepts-' 'you might clear off this stump and plant a new tree.»
They had been circling the stump and kicking it for inspiration. Fentriss froze with one foot raised. «Say that again?!»
«I said-«
«Good grief, you genius! Let me kiss you!»
«Rather not. Hugs, maybe.»
Fentriss hugged him, wildly. «Friend!»
«Always was.»
«Let's get a shovel and spade.»
«You get. I'll watch.»
Fentriss ran back a minute later with a spade and pickax.
«Sure you won't join me?»
Black sucked his pipe, blew smoke. «Later.»
«How much would a full-grown tree cost?»
«Too much.»
«Yes, but if it were here and the birds did return?» Black let out more smoke. «Might be worth it. Opus Number Two: 'In the Beginning' by Charles Fentriss, stuff like that.»
'In the Beginning,' or maybe 'The Return.''»
«One of those.»
«Or-« Fentriss struck the stump with the pickax. « 'Rebirth.' « He struck again. «'Ode to Joy.' » Another strike.
'Spring Harvest.' « Another. «'Let the Heavens Resound.' How's that, Black?»
«I prefer the other,» said Black.
The stump was pulled and the new tree bought.
«Don't show me the bill,» Fentriss told his accountant. «Pay it.»
And the tallest tree they could find, of the same family as the one dead and gone, was planted.
«What if it dies before my choir returns?» said Fentriss. «What if it lives,» said Black, «and your choir goes elsewhere?»
The tree, planted, seemed in no immediate need to die. Neither did it look particularly vital and ready to welcome small singers from some far southern places.
Meanwhile, the sky, like the tree, was empty. «Don't they know I'm waiting?» said Fentriss. «Not unless,» offered Black, «you majored in cross-continental telepathy.»
«I've checked with Audubon. They say that while the swallows do come back to Capistrano on a special day, give or take a white lie, other migrating species are often one or two weeks late.»
«If I were you,» said Black, «I would plunge into an intense love affair to distract you while you wait.»
«I am fresh out of love affairs.»
«Well, then,» said Black, «suffer.»
The hours passed slower than the minutes, the days passed slower than the hours, the weeks passed slower than the days. Black called. «No birds?»
«No birds.»
«Pity. I can't stand watching you lose weight.» And Black disconnected.
On a final night, when Fentriss had almost yanked the phone out of the wall, fearful of another call from the Boston Symphony, he leaned an ax against the trunk of the new tree and addressed it and the empty sky.
«Last chance,» he said. «If the dawn patrol doesn't show by seven a.m., it's quits.»
And he touched ax-blade against the tree-bole, took two shots of vodka so swiftly that the spirits squirted out both eyes, and went
to bed.
He awoke twice during the night to hear nothing but a soft breeze outside his window, stirring the leaves, with not a ghost of song.
And awoke at dawn with tear-filled eyes, having dreamed that the birds had returned, but knew, in waking, it was only a dream.
And yet…?
Hark, someone might have said in an old novel. List! as in an old play.
Eyes shut, he fine-tuned his ears .
The tree outside, as he arose, looked fatter, as if it had taken on invisible ballasts in the night. There were stirrings there, not of simple breeze or probing winds, but of something in the very leaves that knitted and purled them in rhythms. He dared not look but lay back down to ache his senses and try to know.
A single chirp hovered in the window.
He waited.
Silence.
Go on, he thought.
Another chirp.
Don't breathe, he thought; don't let them know you're listening.
Hush.
A fourth sound, then a fifth note, then a sixth and seventh. My God, he thought, is this a substitute orchestra, a replacement choir come to scare off my loves?
Another five notes.
Perhaps, he prayed, they're only tuning up!
Another twelve notes, of no special timbre or pace, and as he was about to explode like a lunatic conductor and fire the bunch-It happened. Note after note, line after line, fluid melody following spring freshet melody, the whole choir exhaled to blossom the tree with joyous proclamations of return and welcome in chorus.
And as they sang, Fentriss sneaked his hand to find a pad and pen to hide under the covers so that its scratching might not disturb the choir that soared and dipped to soar again, firing the bright air that flowed from the tree to tune his soul with delight and move his hand to remember.
The phone rang. He picked it up swiftly to hear Black ask
if the waiting was over. Without speaking, he held the receiver in the window.
«I'll be damned,» said Black's voice.
«No, anointed,» whispered the composer, scribbling Cantata No.2. Laughing, he called softly to the sky.
«Please. More slowly. Legato, not agitato.»
And the tree and the creatures within the tree obeyed.
Agitato ceased.
Legato prevailed.
Exchange
1996 year
There were too many cards in the file, too many books on the shelves, too many children laughing in the children's room, too many newspapers to fold and stash on the racks …
All in all, too much. Miss Adams pushed her gray hair back over her lined brow, adjusted her gold-rimmed pince-nez, and rang the small silver bell on the library desk, at the same time switching off and on all the lights. The exodus of adults and children was exhausting. Miss Ingraham, the assistant librarian, had gone home early because her father was sick, so it left the burden of stamping, filing, and checking books squarely on Miss Adams' shoulders.
Finally the last book was stamped, the last child fed through the great brass doors, the doors locked, and with immense weariness, Miss Adams moved back up through a silence of forty years of books and being keeper of the books, stood for a long moment by the main desk.
She laid her glasses down on the green blotter, and pressed the bridge of her small-boned nose between thumb and forefinger and held it, eyes shut. What a racket! Children who finger-painted or cartooned frontispieces or rattled their roller skates. High school students arriving with laughters, departing with mindless songs!
Taking up her rubber stamp, she probed the files, weeding out errors, her fingers whispering between Dante and Darwin.
A moment later she heard the rapping on the front-door glass and saw a man's shadow outside, wanting in. She shook her head. The figure pleaded silently, making gestures.
Sighing, Miss Adams opened the door, saw a young man in uniform, and said, «It's late. We're closed.» She glanced at his insignia and added, «Captain.»
«Hold on!» said the captain. «Remember me?»
And repeated it, as she hesitated.
«Remember?»
She studied his face, trying to bring light out of shadow. «Yes, I think I do,» she said at last. «You once borrowed books here.»
«Right.»
«Many years ago,» she added. «Now I almost have you placed.»
As he stood waiting she tried to see him in those other years, but his younger face did not come clear, or a name with it, and his hand reached out now to take hers.
«May I come in?»
«Well.» She hesitated. «Yes.»
She led the way up the steps into the immense twilight of books. The young officer looked around and let his breath out slowly, then reached to take a book and hold it to his nose, inhaling, then almost laughing.
«Don't mind me, Miss Adams. You ever smell new books? Binding, pages, print. Like fresh bread when you're hungry.» He glanced around. «I'm hungry now, but don't even know what for.»
There was a moment of silence, so she asked him how long he might stay.
«Just a few hours. I'm on the train from New York to L.A., so I came up from Chicago to see old places, old friends.» His eyes were troubled and he fretted his cap, turning it in his long, slender fingers.
She said gently, «Is anything wrong? Anything I can help you with?»
He glanced out the window at the dark town, with just a few lights in the windows of the small houses across the way.
«I was surprised,» he said.
«By what?»
«I don't know what I expected. Pretty damn dumb,» he said, looking from her to the windows, «to expect that when I went away, everyone froze in place waiting for me to come home. That when I stepped off the train, all my old pals would unfreeze, run down, meet me at the station. Silly.»
«No,» she said, more easily now. «I think we all imagine that. I visited Paris as a young girl, went back to France when I was forty, and was outraged that no one had waited, buildings had vanished, and all the hotel staff where I had once lived had died, retired, or traveled.»
He nodded at this, but could not seem to go on.
«Did anyone know you were coming?» she asked.
«I wrote a few, but no answers. I figured, hell, they're busy, but they'll be there. They weren't.»
She felt the next words come off her lips and was faintly surprised. «I'm still here,» she said.
«You are,» he said with a quick smile. «And I can't tell you how glad I am.»
He was gazing at her now with such intensity that she had to look away. «You know,» she said, «I must confess you look familiar, but I don't quite fit your face with the boy who came here-«
«Twenty years ago! And as for what he looked like, that other one, me, well-«
He brought out a smallish wallet which held a dozen pictures and handed over a photograph of a boy perhaps twelve years old, with an impish smile and wild blond hair, looking as if he might catapult out of the frame.
«Ah, yes.» Miss Adams adjusted her pince-nez and closed her eyes to remember. «That one. Spaulding. William Henry Spaulding?»
He nodded and peered at the picture in her hands anxiously.
«Was I a lot of trouble?»
«Yes.» She nodded and held the picture closer and glanced up at him. «A fiend.» She handed the picture back. «But I loved you.»
«Did you?» he said and smiled more broadly.
«In spite of you, yes.»
He waited a moment and then said, «Do you still love me?»
She looked to left and right as if the dark stacks held the answer.
«It's a little early to know, isn't it?»
«Forgive.»
«No, no, a good question. Time will tell. Let's not stand like your frozen friends who didn't move. Come along. I've just had some late-night coffee. There may be some left. Give me your cap. Take off that coat. The file index is there. Go look up your old library cards for the hell-heck-of it.»
<
br /> «Are they still there?» In amaze.
«Librarians save everything. You never know who's coming in on the next train. Go.»
When she came back with the coffee, he stood staring down into the index file like a bird fixing its gaze on a half-empty nest. He handed her one of the old purple-stamped cards.
«Migawd,» he said, «I took out a lot of books.»
«Ten at a time. I said no, but you took them. And,» she added, «read them! Here.» She put his cup on top of the file and waited while he drew out canceled card after card and laughed quietly.
«I can't believe. I must not have lived anywhere else but here. May I take this with me, to sit?» He showed the cards. She nodded. «Can you show me around? I mean, maybe I've forgotten something.»
She shook her head and took his elbow. «I doubt that. Come on. Over here, of course, is the adult section.»
«I begged you to let me cross over when I was thirteen. 'You're not ready,' you said. But-«
«I let you cross over anyway?»
«You did. And much thanks.»
Another thought came to him as he looked down at her.
«You used to be taller than me,» he said.
She looked up at him, amused.
«I've noticed that happens quite often in my life, but I can still do this.»
Before he could move, she grabbed his chin in her thumb and forefinger and held tight. His eyes rolled.
He said:
«I remember. When I was really bad you'd hold on and put your face down close and scowl. The scowl did it. After ten seconds of your holding my chin very tight, I behaved for days.»
She nodded, released his chin. He rubbed it and as they moved on he ducked his head, not looking at her.
«Forgive, I hope you won't be upset, but when I was a boy I used to look up and see you behind your desk, so near but far away, and, how can I say this, I used to think that you were Mrs. God, and that the library was a whole world, and that no matter what part of the world or what people or thing I wanted to see and read, you'd find and give it to me.» He stopped, his face coloring. «You did, too. You had the world ready for me every time I asked. There was always a place I hadn't seen, a country I hadn't visited where you took me. I've never forgotten.»