The Old World and Other Stories

by Cary Fagan

  Including her.

  Yes. She didn’t speak during the first couple of meetings. It was on the third that she made a suggestion.

  She was rude, I suppose.

  Not at all. She put up her hand and when called on she stood up and addressed the meeting quite properly. She suggested they rename themselves the Anti-Patriotic Club.

  You aren’t serious.

  Of course the teacher should have cut her off right then and there. But he was too surprised to stop her from spouting subversion while the other students listened with wide eyes. Let’s admit it, children are very impressionable when it comes to rhetoric against authority.

  What did she say exactly?

  That patriotism had been responsible for every war since Troy. She said that in a proper world there wouldn’t be countries, or police, or passports at all. Or armies.

  She impugned our soldiers?

  Not our ordinary soldiers, our generals. And do you think the teacher stopped her then? As we speak, that teacher is on his way to one of our most isolated rural schools to teach kindergarten. But to go on, she said that their duty wasn’t merely to those who lived within our borders, but to all of humanity. By all accounts everyone got excited, voiced agreement, stamped feet. They called out, “Yes, you’re right!” and “Why aren’t they teaching us this!” and the like. Immediately a committee was struck to organize a protest march calling for the end of competitive sports.

  Oh, please!

  Several students began composing an open letter demanding an end to all tests and grading. Somebody found a guitar in the cupboard and began to sing a folk song. Other issues got bandied about — vegetarianism, bicycles instead of cars, and, by the older students, sexual liberation. Only now did the teacher try to take control of the meeting, but the students ignored him, bursting from the room to begin disseminating their brilliant new ideas. By the next morning the entire school had been turned upside down. Students actually jeered during the national anthem.

  Outrageous!

  The zoo had been taken over by the animals. Nobody attended class. All the instruments in the music room were taken out without being signed for, only to be bashed on by kids who didn’t even know how to play. The countries on the world map in the geography room were painted out and the words One World scrawled across. The secretaries fled, afraid for their lives. Some of the kids took over the office and used the mimeograph to produce a magazine with a cover photograph showing a naked — a naked ass.

  And this girl? No doubt she was in the middle of it.

  Not at all. She merely went to the school library and spent the day reading chess books. Fortunately, I managed to get control of the school the next morning. I locked the students in the classrooms and brought in their parents. I let them out only one at a time. Many of them cried, of course. We began a program in re-education. Only that girl hasn’t agreed to participate.

  The cheek! What did she say?

  When we accused her of being a radical, she told us that she wasn’t political at all and that really all she was interested in was chess. In fact she had spent her time working out alternatives to the famous 1932 grandmaster game between —

  I don’t care about that! Just look at her sitting there. Trying to look so innocent. I still can’t fathom how a young girl could cause such an upheaval. Tell me, what do you propose we do?

  I’ve been pondering that. She’s bright, that’s for certain, and I can’t help thinking what an asset she would be if her ideals were only channelled in the right direction. And let’s admit it, the system can always use a little reform, some tweaking here and there to raise people’s enthusiasm. She needs to be made to understand. That’s why I asked for you to come. I want you to go in and talk to her.

  Me? I’m certainly not going to convince her of anything. We need to nip this in the bud. We can’t have this spread to any other schools. You should go in there and tell her what’s what.

  But she has no respect for me. That’s why I called you.

  You’ll just have to change that, won’t you? Go on. I’ll be observing everything.

  Observing! Aren’t you supposed to solve problems like this? But I understand. You’re afraid of the girl.

  Don’t be ridiculous. If anyone is afraid, it’s you who’s shaking in your boots.

  Well, I’m not going in.

  And I’m not doing your job for you.

  Suit yourself. Leave her there.

  Come on, now. Go!

  You go!

  But look, she’s getting up!

  What is she doing?

  She’s knocking on the glass!

  She can’t even see us.

  This is too big for me or you. We’re going to have to go higher up.

  Yes, yes, I absolutely agree. This will have to go to the top.

  FATE

  The car was old but the mechanic had gone over it thoroughly and the trailer was brand spanking new. I was the first person to buy one, the dealer told me that. The money for it came from my uncle, who’d dropped dead at the age of forty-seven. That was the history of our family, the men dying young. My own father had made it to only thirty-five. What was I waiting for?

  Mary Beth wasn’t too pleased at first. For one thing, she was pregnant and in the nauseated phase. For another, our two boys were in school, not to mention they were an ill-behaved handful. But I promised her the experience of a lifetime. I said we’d be back a good couple of months before the baby was due. And when we got back I’d put up those new curtains she wanted.

  “It isn’t fair,” she said. “How can I say no when you’re likely to die three or four decades before me?”

  I grabbed her and kissed her.

  We left at the end of April, when the weather was starting to warm. The first days on the road we were all in good spirits. It wasn’t long before we were seeing new views out the window, and even the boys were well-behaved. At night we’d pull into an empty field or a school playground and make our dinner on the portable oil stove. Then we’d lie on our bunks and sleep soundly. The fresh air had washed us clean. The miles stripped away our dull, old selves.

  And then came the first tragedy.

  I told the older boy, who was eleven and never listened, not to hold out the honey jar to that bear. But he insisted and I thought, well, how else is he going to learn. But the bear went too far and ate the boy. Not all of him, of course, but enough. I couldn’t see explaining what happened to the local authorities so we dug a hole under some trees and buried him. I didn’t have a bible with me so I read a few words from Dante instead.

  Not surprisingly Mary Beth said, “May this bring you to your senses.” But I told her that if we went back now our son’s demise would be for nothing. That we’d be teaching our younger one a lesson in defeatism rather than determination. So we went on.

  The weather became truly fine and the woods were beautiful. We bathed in streams. We ate fish caught with rod and reel. To be honest, all of us found it easier without the older boy and all the noise he made. Our younger one missed him but was glad for his baseball glove and slingshot. He even got a squirrel and we made a stew out of it, pioneer style, although Mary Beth refused to skin the thing and I had to do it. Our son pinned its tail to his baseball cap.

  I had brought with me some of the great books: not just Dante but Plato, Thucydides, Nietzsche. It had been part of a plan to embark on serious study along the way and so every night I read aloud while the others lay in their bunks. Generally they fell asleep within minutes, but I always continued for a good while. I believe the sound of my voice was soothing to them and I hoped that the thoughts of these great men would enter their dreams.

  We reached the mountains. The roads were often in poor condition and sometimes the tires were only inches from the edge of a terrible precipice, yet no matter how loud my passengers pleaded I never fa
iled to call up their courage. We got one flat that I patched and another that I replaced with the spare. It’s funny how you think that you are in the clear just when you are in the greatest danger. It was on the other side of the mountains, as we were sighing with relief, that the second tragedy struck.

  I told our younger son not to walk along the edge of the well. But like his brother, he would not listen. It was a very deep well and his screams came up to us for several long seconds before the splash. Then silence. There was no way for me to get down, as the rope on the bucket was fraying and looked less than reliable. All I could do was use a piece of coal to write some words on a wooden board: RIP Jimmy. And under that: Attention! Contaminated Water.

  Of course my arguments for going on were just the same as before. I believe that Mary Beth was too stunned to argue. I trusted time to bring her back to her naturally buoyant self.

  We came to an arid land, almost desert, with prickly bushes and blowing tumbleweed. Several times the car almost overheated and we had to wait it out. Mary Beth suffered from the heat most, especially on account of her being quite large by that point. The promise I’d made to get back home for the birth had been long forgotten.

  One hot afternoon our car became surrounded by a herd of cattle heading in the other direction. Cowboys rode their horses on the perimeter of the herd but one of them made his way up to us. He tipped his hat and said that there were some mean bandits living in caves near there and that we would be better off turning around.

  “Don’t expect my husband to listen to reason,” said Mary Beth. I couldn’t help smiling when she said it.

  The cowboy turned out to be right. Two days later, in the early hours of dawn, we were asleep in our bunks when a dozen ruffians surrounded the trailer. They threatened to light it on fire so we had no option but to emerge. They wore scarves over their faces. I asked what they wanted, concerned that they would find the remains of my uncle’s money, which I had hidden in various compartments. But before any of them had a chance to answer, Mary Beth stepped forward.

  She was even bigger now and no doubt due within the month. “This is no time for bravery,” I said.

  But she didn’t listen. She went up to the nearest bandit on his horse and said, “Help me up.”

  “Mary Beth?” I said.

  She didn’t speak to me but took the proffered hand, got a foothold on the saddle, and slowly rose onto the back of the horse. To be accurate, it was almost more pony than horse.

  “If we’re going, let’s go,” she said to the bandit.

  I admit to being bitter for several days, until finally I realized that it was probably for the best. Now I could make decisions without rancour. I could be more careful with my funds and stay longer on the road, perhaps indefinitely. At the next town with a garage I had the automobile and the trailer given a good once-over. The car needed an oil change, a new fan belt, and fresh break pads. The chassis of the trailer needed to be welded in a couple of spots. I got a new spare tire. Mary Beth’s and the boys’ clothes I sold to the general store. On a shelf was a beat-up copy of Shakespeare’s plays and a small chess set. I bought them both.

  I got back into the car and began to drive. Before long I had once again left human habitation behind. At night I would read aloud from Othello and then begin a game of chess, taking both sides. In the morning I would move on. Perhaps I’d have a heart attack behind the wheel, the way my father had died while at his streetcar conductor job, or while putting on my socks, like Uncle Dahlbert. It was an adventure in itself just to see how far I could go, and how long I would last before fate came to eat me, or drown me, or otherwise carry me away.

  CHARISMA

  My Stephanie has been taking tap forever, or at least it seems that way. All those after-school classes and then the Christmas and spring shows. But so have a lot of the girls, and some boys too, especially since Rita took over the dance studio when Miss Tierney retired. Rita is just the most charismatic thing in the world. She moved here when she bought the studio, and frankly it’s hard to understand what would make such a pretty and sophisticated girl come to a place like this. But ever since she started, the town has kind of gone dance crazy. Suddenly everybody wants to be Ginger or Fred. Even the adult classes are full. And in the school playground, instead of kids talking about TV shows or the latest hit song, they’re showing each other the heel drop, the spank, the scuff, the paddle, the riff, the bear.

  Of course Rita’s demeanour and looks haven’t hurt. And it’s not as if the men in town haven’t noticed. My own husband said she was just about as fresh as a peach pie. And she wears those cashmere sweaters and toreador pants with bare ankles and little dance slippers, and to be honest if I looked like her I’d do the same. Besides, it’s hard to be annoyed at her when she’s so nice, and she doesn’t flirt with the fathers or show anyone special attention.

  To be strictly honest I think this treating everyone exactly the same is one of her minor faults. It goes without saying that some children are naturally going to be more talented than others. And more dedicated as well. My Stephanie — well, there’s no girl in town more devoted to those dance classes than her. All day long it’s “Miss Rita says arms are as important as feet” and “Miss Rita says perfect execution without feeling is like dry toast without butter.” She even insisted that I let her get her hair bobbed just like Rita so now it’s as short as a boy’s, and to be honest on Stephanie it doesn’t look quite so flattering. But the point is how hard Stephanie has worked. She’s gone to every one of Rita’s extra classes. She had her father install a mirror in her room so she could watch herself practice, the way professional dancers do. That girl has poured her heart into it.

  And now this contest. To be fair it wasn’t Rita’s idea. It was Morris Rittenworf’s. He thought a dance competition would spur the children on to “excel themselves.” Of course I’ve known the Rittenworfs forever and Anita is as sweet as honey but that Morris — well, anyone who’s tried to buy a lawnmower from him knows how pushy he can be. And in my humble opinion the desire to win is not always the best motivation. But a lot of other parents jumped on the bandwagon, and then somebody suggested that it could be a fundraiser to help put a sprung floor in the school gymnasium where the recitals are always held, and of course Rita couldn’t resist that idea, so it was decided then and there.

  I wish Stephanie hadn’t wanted to win so badly. I actually thought she was making herself sick with caring about it. And all that practicing! She got sore ankles and hips. At night she couldn’t calm down enough to sleep. Half the tickets sold right away but then almost none did and rumour was that a whole bunch got given away to just anybody.

  Between you and me, I think a lot of the audience came to see Rita open the program with a solo dance of her own, wearing that slinky black leotard. She got a few whistles along with the applause. Rita then welcomed everyone and reminded us that the most important thing was for the kids to “express themselves and feel the joy of movement.” To which I said to myself, Ha!

  Naturally I watched the other contestants with an eye to comparing them to my Stephanie. Marcy Marker dressed up as a hobo and played the harmonica while she danced. The twins, Lucy and Sally Korman, also twirled batons (were all these props even allowed?). Donald Berton sprinkled cornmeal on the stage and did a soft-shoe; the janitor had to come out and sweep before Stephanie came on. She danced better than I’ve ever seen her perform before. Her smile never wavered. Her arms never stopped moving. I got positively dizzy watching her. When she took her bow I could just see her beaming.

  And then came the Gonzalez kids.

  First of all, their mother, Maria, used to be a singer in a wedding band, which certainly gave her children an advantage. Second, maybe they were just kids but they had an unfair dose of charisma themselves. And third, they used steps that nobody around here had ever seen before. The guitar music began and they just stared at the audience a moment befor
e stamping their feet and making us all jump. They swayed their hips, clapped their hands. Their lithe bodies moved like swans, or snakes, and their feet were deadly little machine guns. The boy spun his sister toward himself and away again. The look in his eyes — well, it could only be described as smouldering.

  I hardly have to tell the results. Stephanie came in second but if she was disappointed she didn’t show it. She looked a picture of happiness as Rita handed her a ten-dollar gift certificate to the studio along with a little trophy. I let her keep the trophy in her room but as for the certificate, I told her that it was time for a new hobby. My husband thought I was being hard on her but I let him know that his opinion on the matter was not wanted. Stephanie cried, but a couple of months later she made the school volleyball team.

  As it turned out, the next year Rita moved back to the city and closed the studio. By then my Stephanie had already become best friends with the Gonzalez girl. She was over at our house all the time, a perfectly nice child. The brother started coming too, and he would always say hello and look at me with those eyes. I started to worry about him hanging around so much. And because I kept my eye on him, I missed what was going on altogether.

  TINY HISTORY

  SEPTEMBER 13, 2016

  Shit, that’s beautiful. Kev, are you looking at this?

  One second.

  Stop texting. This is the most incredible view I’ve ever seen.

  There’s no reception. What’s up with that? Oh, wow, you’re right. It’s sick.

  If everyone would please gather around, and be careful not to go beyond this sign. The rocks can be quite slippery. It is here that Oresta Collings walked on the night of May 13, 1901, after receiving a telegram stating that her fiancé had been killed in the Boer War. She had written a brief poem and left it up in her room in the house —