Hilly, along with three other team members, was assigned to George Lundeen’s 1911 Overland, Hilly climbing up in front. George was telling the other boys, “I’d like to see the school organize more teams—a football team, say, and a baseball team. And wouldn’t it be grand if we had a real gymnasium so you could play basketball?”
Hilly was too nervous to reply. The three boys in the backseat didn’t have much to say either. George Lundeen was pretty impressive: could be the boys were intimidated. Excellent.
When they reached the grassy field at the edge of Red Berry, they saw that a running track had been laid out, much like the one in Harvester. George pulled the Overland onto the verge, and the boys in the back tumbled out, heading toward their teammates who’d driven up behind them.
“Good-looking shoes,” George said.
“Mr. Flynn.”
“He’s a good friend.”
“Yes, sir, he’s excellent.”
The boys in the dashes ran first. Harvester took a first, a second, and two thirds. St. Bridget, the biggest town represented, had more runners, more firsts and seconds. Harvester didn’t have a relay team, so that competition was held only between the others.
During the dashes and relays, Hilly paced up and down near the automobiles, away from the running track and his teammates. When a cheer went up from the small crowd, he halted long enough to determine who had won, then resumed pacing.
Tonight, fathers would order a beer in Reagan’s or at a meeting of the Volunteer Fire Brigade, and they’d snap their suspenders and brag of their son’s winning the hundred-yard dash or the four-forty. Hilly imagined having someone brag about him.
“Stillman, step on it,” Timms was calling. “Get over here and line up.”
Moments later, someone shot a starting pistol, and six boys bounded away from the line. Running, Hilly was blind to the others—blind to who was ahead and who behind; blind to the scruffy track, not mown short enough; blind to the seedy, tar-paper hem of Red Berry, a couple hundred yards distant; blind to this domestic sky.
He was winged Mercury now, soaring untethered in a sky anchored close to the sun. Below him were spread millions of acres of sand as blazing as that sun in their radiance and heat. And, there, off to his right, the Sphinx reposed—inscrutable, regal, silent—while a lone ibis, forsaking the Nile, drifted pale as a ghost around the statue’s shoulders.
Past the Sphinx, one pyramid—and then another, and another. He’d like to join that distant caravan, carrying dates and carpets toward Cairo and Alexandria. But now he must change course.
There, beyond a bank of low, thready clouds, the obelisk of the Washington Monument floated into view, while nearby, the Potomac was swimming along, lazy and dark, toward Chesapeake Bay. In irresolute sunlight, the White House shone bravely and over in that direction lay the Capitol building, where John labored.
Hilly, his mother, and his new stepfather, John Flynn, were living in Washington—had been for a couple of years. Returning to Harvester for a visit following some great, unspecified triumph of John’s, half the town met them at the depot. A band played “For He’s a Jolly Good Fellow.”
Young Gus Rabel was there, as were Ozzie Arndt and Nils Petersen, all slapping Hilly on the back and saying, “Remember when we were in the running club? Didn’t we have a helluva time in those days?”
Women exclaimed over Nell’s dress and hat, men pumped John’s hand and gathered up the suitcases. A little parade formed, marching toward Main Street and then north toward the school and John’s house. Someone—members of a committee assembled by Cora and Juliet?—had decorated John’s front stoop and porch with bunting and flags. It was all so jolly, Hilly’s heart was bursting.
John was his hero, the kind of man Hilly hoped to be. A natural leader, he’d heard someone say. Well, he, Hilly, was no natural leader; nobody ever followed him, except to give him a shove. But maybe there was such a thing as an unnatural leader, someone who learned to lead. If so, Hilly might still stand a chance. Then he’d make his mother proud. He knew she was proud of him now, but that was motherpride. Motherpride just was. He needed to know he’d earned it. If he did well today, would that be a start?
Now, in real time, in this Red Berry moment, Hilly’s heart pumped like a great straining oil drill. Perspiration poured from his skin and into his eyes, blurring his vision. Ahead of him was the finish line—though he could not have been certain of this but for the shapes of several people standing beyond it, waiting. One of them was cheering and walking slowly toward the line as Hilly approached. John Flynn—as if Hilly’s dream had conjured him!
Gasping, finally it came to Hilly that he had won his race. And John was there, snapping his suspenders and saying to Abel Timms and everyone else in hearing, “The boy’s a natural. Championship stuff. Championship stuff.”
chapter twenty-nine
THE FIRST NOTE HAD ARRIVED IN 1905, ten years earlier; they had continued, two or three a year, until the latest, several months ago—“Hores git punished.” Who had written it? Was the poor spelling meant to mislead her? And did it matter? Someone hated her. At times the hatred struck her such a blow, she stood turned to stone.
Might it be Adolph Arndt? Nell wondered, as the man turned away from her in the post office. Ten years ago, serving on the school board, he’d voted against her—she was certain. And he made a point of turning away whenever he encountered her. Had he hated her then, and did he still?
Queer that she should be wondering this as she called for her mail, for in the batch was yet another envelope addressed, “Mrs. Stilman, Harvester, Minnesota.” Glancing around, she was tempted to toss the envelope into the wire wastebasket beside the post-office door. But no. She slid it into her bag.
Later, she sat benumbed at the kitchen table, not removing her coat. At length, she picked up a table knife and slit the envelope open: one sheet of lined paper. “John Flyn aint gonna mary a hore with a yellow kid. Get that in yer head.”
The writer could be anyone she encountered on the street, anyone standing behind her in Seidman’s Pharmacy or in Lundeen’s. Huddled at the table, she recalled that day soon after the school-board meeting when Arvina Petersen had walked away from her in Petersen’s Groceries. The little bell above the door had jangled as Nell entered; Arvina had glanced up, an expression of surprise and distaste eclipsing that look of cheerful anticipation routinely cultivated by tradespeople.
The woman had lain her pad of yellow sales slips beside the register and turned as squarely as a wind-up toy soldier, marching down the row of bins containing crackers and sugar and flour and salt. Her heels hit the wooden floor with such aggressive purpose that heads turned. At the rear of the store, she snapped aside the door curtain hung on clacking wooden rings. Those heads that had turned to observe Arvina now spun back to discover the source of her wrath, and to wonder.
The young clerk—Harry, Nell thought he was called—appeared from some nether region as she raced to gather the few items she required, dropping them into the basket on her arm and hurrying to the cash register.
“That be all, Mrs. Stillman?”
She nodded dumbly.
He wrote up the sales slip and tucked the store copy into the metal clip which held her account. Apparently unaware of Nell’s disgrace, he chatted the weather, the condition of the road to Red Berry, and the splendor of the new grain elevator by the depot.
Crumpling her copy of the sales slip into her bag, she rushed out, then stopped short on the top step, trying to recall the direction home.
Now, rising to remove her coat, Nell recalled Arvina Petersen in those days. The woman had worn her hair in braids, twisted into a high crown. Her cheeks, though unrouged, were nonetheless rosy. But as Mam would have observed, Arvina’s eyes were small and set too close, lending her a judgmental aspect—as if she’d been born with a gavel in her hand. In that way, at least, Arvina had changed very little. But was she the tormentor?
Nell surveyed the cramped kitchen an
d small dining space with its shabby furnishings. There were still a few places that provided sanctuary—this little apartment; the Lundeen homes; and her third-grade room. She supposed that the offspring of the poison pen might sit before her in class, but the first rule of that room was: everyone must be safe here.
Fear closed down expansiveness, and surely it was the desire, the need to expand that led an eight-year-old to reach out for a new thought, a new methodology. Also, fear bred hate, and they mustn’t learn hate in her class.
Nell always encouraged her students to share their fears, but she had no desire to divulge her own. She didn’t want to soil those she most trusted: People like John and the Lundeens, and even Gus and Bertha Rabel, lived in kind and privileged worlds. It would be dreadful to sully those worlds.
In the meat market, nevertheless, Gus Rabel often regarded her with concern. “Missus,” he’d say, “what are you needing? A ring of bologna, or a chicken?” But beneath the words, his empathy spoke clearly: “If there are problems, maybe I could help.” Nell was certain that Gus remembered her life with Herbert, that it had been loud and sometimes frightening. Still, she wouldn’t repay his kindness by making him privy to this nastiness.
Maybe if she felt more intimately connected to God and religion, she could turn in that direction. But she’d been born a skeptic—not quite a believer—and you didn’t turn for help to something you weren’t certain was itself standing upon firm ground.
Then, too . . . did Father Gerrold know something? Following Mass, as he stood in the vestibule greeting parishioners, grasping a hand, inquiring about an ill family member, he sometimes cast Nell a speculative look. After all these years, it couldn’t concern Elvira. What, then?
And why was the connection between fear and guilt so strong that when she passed the Virgin and St. Joseph while receiving Communion, she felt censure? She’d committed no great sin. But something about being hated made you feel guilty.
She felt manipulated by the writer. With each note, the scope of her activities shrank. She no longer felt free to walk through town on a whim, but must wait until an errand demanded attention. For Hilly’s sake, Nell continued their walks to the park and cemetery, but the outings were less frequent.
This shrinking was most obvious in the weeks immediately following the arrival of a note. After a month or two passed, she relaxed involuntarily; a person could only hold breath or fear for just so long. In these blessed weeks of calm she allowed herself to imagine that the hatred had burnt itself out.
On her most anxious days, Wodehouse became a place, and she retreated there. Like the apartment and her classroom, Wodehouse protected her, leading her far from Harvester, into London’s Chelsea. There, artists without much money or even talent nevertheless mingled absurdly, critiquing each other’s work in both grave and fawning tones and finding unlikely romance.
Such was the opening story in The Man Upstairs. In the next, Wodehouse spirited Nell off to a village in Hampshire. . . . The stories were compellingly funny and she became lost in them. And that was all she asked—to lose herself in the abundant goodwill of Wodehouse.
What a pity she couldn’t spend all her hours with her nose in his books.
chapter thirty
LIZZIE JESSUP ANSWERED when Nell turned the doorbell clapper. The woman looked even more discomposed than usual.
“Mrs. Stillman.”
“Is Cora at home, Lizzie?”
“She’s in the back parlor.” The young woman held the screen door open and stood aside, mumbling something about war and ships. “Glad I’m not going.”
“I’m so pleased you stopped by,” Cora called, wheeling herself into the hall. “Lizzie, bring us tea and whatever’s sweet.” Turning to Nell: “What I’d really like is a tall whiskey, but I suppose that would be too shocking at three in the afternoon.”
“I’ve come to return 0 Pioneers!” Nell explained.
“Have a seat and put your feet up,” Cora told her, indicating a wicker chaise. Cora’s color was unnaturally high, her movements tremulous.
Nell set aside the book and her bag. Cora needed to be calmed and soothed. “Do you ever wonder how many lives you’ve changed with the books at the Water and Power Company? Think what you set in motion for me when you donated Love Among the Chickens!”
The younger woman cocked her head.
“Mr. Wodehouse is my savior.” Nell tugged off her gloves. “If I’m down in the dumps, I run away to his books. Everybody needs a place like that where they’re happy and . . . safe.” Nell gazed out at the arbor, where the vines were coming into leaf. “You gave me a priceless gift.” She tried to keep the tone light but inviting, if Cora needed to talk.
“I’m pleased to hear it. I’m not sure I have anything comparable. Little Larry, maybe. But you have to be careful not to burden a child with responsibility for your happiness.”
“I understand. Hilly’s far too willing to assume responsibility for my happiness. That can be a weight for both of us.” Nell smiled.
Since Cora wasn’t going to share her preoccupation, Nell set off on another path. “I don’t like the sound of this war, my friend. Have you considered waiting a year to travel, till things settle down?”
“Not you, too! Absolutely not. You sound like George. He wants to cancel.” She smoothed her dress across her thin thighs. “But this is my last chance. And I’m going to be selfish about it, damn it, and maybe even reckless. I’m thirty-five, Nell. The doctor says I may already be too old for the treatment. I have to try.”
“Of course you do.”
“Bless you.” Cora looked tearful.
Nell rose, laying a hand on Cora’s shoulder, thin as a blade. “I should be going.”
“Don’t you dare. You sit right down.” Cora turned her chair. “I’ll be back,” she said, wheeling away.
Minutes later, she returned, two ice-filled glasses held between her thighs, a bottle of whiskey beside her.
“Here,” she said, handing the bottle to Nell, “you pour.” She held up three fingers.
Nell looked reluctant.
“I’ll give you licorice to chew before you leave.”
Nell poured the whiskey and sat down again, lifting her glass to Cora. “As the ice melts, the whiskey dilutes,” Cora assured her.
“Juliet said she wanted to give you and George a bon-voyage party, but you were against it.”
Cora held the glass to her cheek. “If there’s a hullabaloo, people get their hopes up. I don’t want that. Especially not for Larry or George’s parents.” Rolling the glass back and forth across her cheek, she changed the subject, studying Nell: “You and John make a good pair.”
Now it was Nell’s turn to demur.
“And he’s so good with Hilly,” Cora plunged on. “Every boy needs a man in his life, don’t you think?”
“We’re very grateful to John. He’s a wonderful friend.”
“I’m surprised he hasn’t asked you to marry him—or maybe he has?”
Nell squirmed and sipped her liquid courage. “No. He hasn’t.” The probing question was not typical of Cora.
“I wonder why.”
“There’s quite a difference in our ages.”
“Would that matter to you?”
“Oh, Cora, I don’t think I should be discussing John this way.”
“Don’t be absurd. That’s what women friends are for. Would Hilly mind if you got married?”
“Not if it were John.”
“Well, then?”
Nell laughed.
“Damn him for not asking you,” Cora swore. “I’d like to leave knowing that certain things are settled. How old are you? Thirty-five?”
“Thirty-eight in October.”
“You could still have another child.”
“No.” Not really. Beads of perspiration broke out along Nell’s hairline and between her shoulder blades.
“I’d give anything to have another one,” Cora confessed.
Nell was c
urious.
“As I am now,” Cora said, “they tell me it would be too risky. Even so, I wouldn’t mind. Especially for Larry’s sake. Think how he must blame himself, for the way I am.”
“Oh, but that’s . . .”
“Irrational. Of course. But we all have irrational guilts, don’t we? I certainly do—and some that aren’t so irrational.”
“Not you, Cora.”
“Yes, me. I’m a very nice woman. But money can make people meddlesome. We think we have rights we don’t have. We think we can order things the way we want them. But there’s only so much anybody can order. People are messy.”
“I don’t know what you mean.”
“Neither do I. I’m just in a mood.” Cora finished the whiskey and set the glass aside. “Do you ever hear from Elvira?”
No, Nell hadn’t heard from Elvira. And while whole days passed when she didn’t think of her, no week did.
Every time Aunt Martha stopped in, the old woman still trotted out Elvira’s “disgrace” as an unsolved mystery, casting herself as detective. “Girls like that get themselves murdered. It’s peculiar how she hasn’t written, though I daresay her folks wouldn’t be happy to hear from her.”
“Maybe that’s why she hasn’t.”
After the most recent visit, Nell asked herself if the letters could have come from Aunt Martha? But she dismissed the thought; surely not.
Meanwhile, John Flynn’s first year in Congress was dense with work. To keep his law firm going, he hired a young law-school graduate, Apollo Shane. “Funny name,” people said, but they were inclined to accept him, despite that he read Greek and Latin.
Those weeks when John was back in his district, he spent long hours in the old office, meeting with townspeople. Otherwise, he was out on the road.
Good Night, Mr. Wodehouse Page 13
