October

by Al Sarrantonio

  "To Eileen Connel's Celts, on the festival of the Lord of Death, on the eve of the Season of Death, the world is a frightening place. So, too, is the inner world. Connel's work is a triumphant attempt to illuminate search for self-identity. Her heroic young Druid priest, in his battle with Saman —who, in the end, is exposed as little more but a thief—may, ultimately, lose his life, but gains his self. I think you will find Eileen Connel an acute commentator on the human condition."

  Forty minutes later, as Kevin was ending his lecture, as if by choreography, the class bell rang.

  "By the way," Kevin added, amidst the rustling of papers as his students prepared to leave, "Eileen Connel has lived not ten minutes from this campus for the last fifty years. She's been nearly ignored. You and I are going to do something about that."

  As his students filed out, Kevin thought, That's redemption.

  But with a sinking heart, he realized that both his guilt, and his obsessive need to know Eileen Connel's secret, were still firmly in place.

  As Kevin closed the door to his office, someone knocked on it. He opened it to find Henry Beardman.

  "May I speak with you, dear boy?" Beardman said. "Of course."

  Kevin knew that Beardman was through for the day; his Monday schedule contained a single Shakespeare lecture at nine. Here, at eleven, Beardman's breath gave off the sweet-sour odor of scotch.

  Beardman paused, poked a finger at the book Kevin held in his hand to better see the cover.

  "My God, Shakespeare pictures on Connel," he said. "Don't these publishers have any scruples?"

  "Apparently not."

  Beardman walked to Kevin's desk, sat in Kevin's chair, and swiveled it so that he faced Kevin squarely. "We must talk."

  "You sound like Sidney Weiss," Kevin said. "The last time I heard those words, I was nearly booted out of here."

  Beardman waved a hand. "Sidney is gone," he said. "And I am here. And Raymond Fillet still wants your butt."

  Is he the only one? Kevin thought, staring blankly at Beardman.

  "So . . ." Beardman said, rising, placing a soft hand on Kevin's shoulder, "I want you to know I will be your ally. And, I pray, your dear friend."

  "Henry—"

  Beardman held up his hand, turned his head, looked away with false drama. "Oh, tell me not that I am rejected!"

  "Henry," Kevin began, but when Beardman turned to look at him, the pain in his eyes was evident. Kevin was overwhelmed with pity. Beardman obviously understood what was happening to him. His power at the university, whatever it had been, was gone.

  Kevin remembered the Beardman who had taught him at New Polk eight years before—flamboyant, youthfully aging, energetic, brilliant.

  He softened his toneless voice and said gently, putting his own hand on Beardman's shoulder, "Henry, I'm sorry. I do want your friendship, though . . ."

  Beardman quickly recovered, put the remains of a smile on his face, waved his hand cavalierly.

  "Dear boy, we can be that." He patted Kevin on the arm and left Kevin's office, closing the door behind him. Kevin heard him close the door to his own office.

  Kevin went to his desk, turned the Brahms tape over in the cassette player, and sat staring at the Shakespearean cover of Eileen Connel's Season of Witches.

  No redemption, yet.

  There was a bottle of scotch in Henry Beardman's desk, and he poured himself a drink from it. No one drank scotch anymore. No one did anything anymore. There had been a time, he thought, when he had been perfectly acceptable, perfectly current. He had rather come to terms with himself, and, if he remembered correctly, he had even been happy. He must have been nearly fifty, then. And Jeffrey had been his, too. Established, respected, known, in all ways. The village queen, but every village needed one, didn't it? Just like it needed an idiot. And he had his literature, which gave him stature. Dammit, he was good with his Bard.

  The old bastard.

  Maybe Shakespeare was Christopher Marlowe after all? He laughed grimly.

  There was a time when even a thought like this would have sent him into a fury of denunciation. He had seen a messianic English critic go into apoplectic fits at the mere mention of heresy in regard to Shakespeare, and for a time, Beardman's entire first lecture of each semester had been nothing more than a hellfire speech reinforcing William Shakespeare's identity, as well as the authorship of his plays.

  But he had grown tired, especially after Jeffrey had died of that disease, in his arms, poor boy, begging Henry to forgive him, which he had not. Now he knew he could not get through that pulpit speech—its worn pages somewhere in the back of that drawer with the scotch—without laughing, or weeping, or possibly just going to sleep.

  He used to enjoy scotch, too, a Sunday afternoon out in the Hamptons, at Jeffrey's mother's place, that beautiful deck overlooking the salted, lapping ocean, a grayish day with mist coming, the sun very orange as it lazily sank, the Sunday papers scattered around their wicker chairs, and Jeffrey handing him a second scotch sour, just right with sugar, leaning over him, kissing his forehead gently, whispering, "Isn't this wonderful?"

  Yes, it had been.

  He drank again from the scotch, hated the petrol taste now, but it made him swim in memories without drowning. "Ah, well," he said.

  He capped the scotch bottle, put it back in its berth. He stood. His old Irish cap was hanging on the coatrack; he put it on, and his lined raincoat. Cold today, if he remembered. Monday. His early day. A day to play at the past. At least to try.

  That Michaels boy reminded him of the past. Of Jeffrey, a little? Around the eyes, and a certain slimness to him that was similar.

  "Ah, well."

  He left his office. He walked slowly, purposefully, step in front of step. An old professor lost in thought. There were thoughts, all right. No one bothered him, asked to smell his breath. Thinking of Shakespeare? Turning the phrases of an old lecture to recapture their freshness? Perhaps another time.

  He kept his head bowed, walked.

  Off the campus, onto the main street of New Polk. A good half mile. A healthy walk, good for the circulation. Like scotch. He laughed a little. That was good. He was drunker than normal today, that Kevin Michaels, he thought there might have been something there, a sensitivity.

  Walking. He knew where he was going. They all did, the village queens. The place was respectable enough. Some days it was even half and half now. Hetero college seniors had taken the place over in the afternoon because it was nearly empty. There had been no discouragement. That disease. Business was business.

  Henry walked out of cool sunlight, the name Swan Inn scripted in white on the front of the green awning, picture of a swan on a wooden plaque next to the door, one little window with thick glass to the right.

  He pushed through the oak door.

  It was nearly empty. Two at the bar, in the far corner, turned face-to-face. Empty tables. My God, what time was it? He checked his watch against the clock behind the bar, a painted swan behind a plastic lens, quartz run, maybe the battery was going? Half past eleven. That Michaels boy. Usually he waited until three, had lunch, made it seem leisurely.

  The bartender whose name he could never remember was on. Surly, ingrown. Bob?

  "A scotch, please, Bob. Straight up. No ice." Perhaps later a sour?

  As he sat, the bartender looked at him with a miffed expression. Not Bob? He thought of asking, decided not to.

  The door behind him opened, light flashed in, then darkness returned. The two at the end of the bar were joined by two more—a party that moved to a table. He had a second scotch. A television was on in Bob's sight, soap operas. Shakespeare made into soda water. The same plots. Again he thought of ingrown.

  He was getting very drunk. A dangerous time. He remembered now why Bob looked at him, miffed. It was Bob. But Bob hadn't been there long, and Peter at night knew him better. He had been in last week, hadn't he? How could he forget? After many scotches, he had asked Bob The Question. Bob had finally made hi
m leave.

  Perhaps he would leave Bob a tip.

  That young man Michaels—ah well, ah well.

  He was very drunk.

  There was another scotch in front of him. He tasted it, found to his astonishment that it was a scotch sour. Had he ordered it? If he had, he must have passed the dangerous time. He did not remember. He tasted the sour. Good.

  He looked up.

  He was not at the bar. He had moved to a table, there was noise all around him. When had that happened? Had Bob moved him?

  Someone returned to the table with a beer, sat down, looked into his eyes.

  Oh, God.

  He remembered now, the crowds coming in, the soft hand on his shoulder. When? A half hour ago? Into the back, a table in the corner where they could talk. Did he buy the first drinks? No, he had not spent any more money. He must have mentioned a scotch sour . . .

  "Is your drink all right?"

  Henry said, listening intently to himself speak, making sure it was really he who said the words, "Yes, of course it is. . . ."

  "My name is James."

  "Of course, James."

  The long fingers on the hand really were touching his own hand, the eyes really looking into his own.

  Didn't he know this man? Didn't he exclaim, when they had first sat down, a play he had seen years before, on television, the year Jeffrey died?

  James Weston!

  "My Lord," Henry said, taking the other man's hand in his own. "Please forgive me. My old mind, it jumps. Possibly I've had too much to drink. You were wonderful—or have I already said it?—in Midsummer Night's Dream. The PBS production. You obviously love the words, or have I already said that?"

  "Say it again," Weston said. A beautiful smile, the eyes a little hooded—but of course, he was an actor. . . .

  "Why are you here?" Had he asked that, too? And why was James Weston dressed in such a peculiar way? Long, stiff black trousers, suspenders, a white, stiff-looking shirt, sleeves rolled up

  "To rest," Weston said. The soft smile. Yes, he had already asked that question. Such patience, in such a beautiful man.

  "May I . . . ?" Henry said, caressing James Weston's hand, moving his own fingers, an electric touch, over those cold fingers that needed warming. Perhaps he had asked this, also. . . .

  "Would you like to go now?" James Weston said.

  "Of course!"

  Too quickly, he tried to rise. The afternoon a blur of noise around them, the remains of his drink on the table, James's hand rising from the table with his own in it, as if he had been asked to dance, their hands holding, guiding Henry across the floor, a blur, the blurry face of Bob, the bartender, off behind his bar, sour looking, busy, the noise pushing aside for them, excuse us, please. Out into the air.

  Cold. James gently removed Henry's hand from his own, took him diplomatically by the arm. "Come, my friend." Gently, Henry tugged at his raincoat lapels to raise them around his neck.

  They walked. Away from the Swan, away from the university. Henry Beardman's nearby rooms left behind, the clutter, the small, empty spaces.

  "Where—?" Henry asked.

  "I have a place," James answered, the faint hand of the actor on his arm, the guiding light, What light in yonder window breaks—

  They crossed the main road. A modest steel bridge led out into the farms on their right. The land rose slightly ahead, up into the hills out of New Polk, the province of apple orchards and roadside stands.

  A path. Beside a farm stand, cars angled on gravel, the smell of apples in baskets, fresh-faced people with gourds in hand baskets. To the left, off the highway, a huge pumpkin patch ranked to the foot of the hill. Customers picked among the vines, a pile of dusty fat pumpkins, mountain shaped, between farm stand and patch, small, picked rows of pumpkins beside it, toddlers squatting to lift small ones, trotting back to mother . . .

  "This way," James said.

  The path, thin, dusty, rock strewn, beyond the stand and field, up the soft slope of the hill. The sky overhead like a blue canvas. He used to love these days when he was younger, the dying days of the year, before sex was an issue, his childhood. His father's strong hands lifting him, his mother's close embrace under a sky like this, this end-of-year, cold harvest

  "Nearly there," James said. Henry stumbled, looking at the suddenly blurry ground. James helped him up, held his arm in a firmer embrace. The sky again, he looked up, but now it was today and he turned to see James' face.

  "I could easily love you, dear boy," he said.

  James smiled.

  They topped the hill, a spreading plateau to the left blocked with apple trees. They descended, a farmhouse visible below.

  "This is where I'm staying," James said. A nice place, tidy, recently tilled garden, clean porch, the homey creak of an opening door. Henry went in, stumbled over the sill, put his hand out to the wall to steady himself. The interior partly visible in the blur: country furniture, a stone-framed fireplace, hearth rugs over a wide-planked, clean oak floor.

  "Where is the bedroom, James?" He tried to sound tender, but the words, to his regret, were slurred.

  A firm hand took his arm. A guide. Kitchen ahead, small, white tiled. An abrupt left. A short hallway, pine paneling on the walls. Three doors. Bathroom on the right. A larger room straight ahead, door open, to the left another room. He stopped here. A pine bed, unmade, sheets tousled. Once a boy's room, a short line of trophies on a small desk next to the bed.

  In Henry, a wellspring of tenderness rose.

  "Dear boy," he said. He turned to disengage himself from the firm arm, to reach and touch the smooth cheek of the actor. But the firm arm would not let him turn. It tightened on his arm, propelled him forward.

  "Ah," he said. The world became blurry again.

  He felt the bed under him, a cold hand turning him over, pulling roughly at his raincoat.

  "You needn't be so impatient," Henry said. "You shall have what you want."

  The blurriness steadied. James Weston was astride him, face bent back away, reaching for something on the desk. Henry raised his head slightly. He saw James lift a large trophy, a football player in gold plate, arm cocked to pass.

  "Dear boy," Henry said, the blurriness returning, letting his head fall back.

  Something hit his face. There came a moment of disconnection. The alcohol tried to tell him that this was merely prelude, not real pain.

  A second blow came, pushing the alcohol aside. As he tried to focus his eyes, a third blow closed them.

  He cried out, hearing himself, and then the world closed its curtain around him, and darkness came.

  10

  October 23rd

  Davey was awakened by the dog. He turned on his back, threw his hand out, felt it hit something. An apple. When he opened his eyes, the dog was standing over him.

  "Jeez, let me sleep," he said, closing his eyes again, turning back on his side.

  The dog huffed once, pushed at his back with its nose. "All right, I'll get up." He dropped onto his back again, did a sit-up to raise himself, yawned.

  "What time is it?"

  The sun was well up through the trees. Late morning, maybe early afternoon. The day was chilly. Davey shivered inside his jacket, drew the wide zipper up under his chin.

  "What's to eat?" he asked.

  The dog huffed, sat down beside him.

  Davey drew a bunch of apples close by, examined them, picked three that weren't worm-eaten, and ate them. "What do we do for water?"

  The dog huffed again, looked up at him expectantly.

  He stood, brushed himself off, walked to the edge of the tree line. He looked down into the flatland below. Ben Meyer's farmhouse appeared quiet, deserted.

  The dog growled behind him, continued to growl until Davey moved back into the trees.

  "Fine," he said, "I know another place where we can get water."

  They backed through the orchard, exiting the far side. Davey climbed the rock wall, watched the dog jump, easily cle
ar it.

  "Not bad."

  They circled widely away from the Meyer orchards, cutting back toward the road. As Davey remembered, there was a path they hooked up with that brought them down near Packer's Farm Stand, off Route 33. It looked as if Packer's had just opened; a few cars were parked in the gray gravel lot in front; what shelving he could see under the awning was being lined with quart baskets of apples and trays of vegetables.

  "Be quiet," he said to the dog, angling toward the flat back of the building, through a picked-clean pumpkin patch. There, next to a rack of shovels and rakes, was a water spout used to clean vegetables.

  In his peripheral vision to the right and behind them, someone was coming down the path from Meyer's orchard.

  "Down, boy," he said. The two of them crouched flat into a rut, hidden by dry, twisted pumpkin vines.

  The tall man Davey had seen the night before at Meyer's farm made his way stiffly and purposefully toward Route 33, away from the farm stand toward town.

  Davey felt the dog tense beside him. He dug his splayed fingers into the dog's deep coat behind his ears.

  "Easy," he whispered.

  The dog began to growl, let it die out, until the tall figure had passed out of sight.

  "Hell with the farm stand," Davey said. "Ben Meyer will give us water and food."

  They took the path's direct route, until they soon stood on the hill, the farmhouse visible below.

  Davey began to descend the hill.

  The dog stayed where it was, huffing, whining in the back of its throat.

  Davey said, "You saw him go into town. Come on."

  The dog pawed at the ground, growled, refused to move.

  "Stay then," Davey said. He continued down the slope.

  When he got to the bottom, he looked back. The dog was trailing reluctantly behind.