Natural Enemy

by Jane Langton

  There was something about it that dismayed him. The flaw was a common failing—a note of ownership, of territorial arrogance. My theory, my picture, my poet. The inference was always the same, Emily Dickinson belongs to me.

  On the surface it seemed innocent enough, this habit of grasping at the great and good after they were gone. And yet to Owen there was something violent about it. It was like grave-robbers stealing rings from the fingers of the dead, or groping in the lifeless jaws to extract the gold teeth. It was like an exhumation. These bones are mine. In the article by Peter Wiggins you could almost hear the ringing clatter of his wrecking bar against Emily Dickinson’s tombstone.

  Of course, Wiggins was not alone. In Amherst, Massachusetts, almost everyone laid claim to Emily Dickinson. She was like a colonial plantation, a piece of ephemeral real estate.

  At Main Street, Owen swooped left and pumped to the top of the steep little hill. At the crest he stopped beside the Dickinson house and dragged the bike up the granite steps. THE DICKINSON HOMESTEAD, BY APPOINTMENT ONLY, said the sign at the front walk.

  Owen didn’t want an appointment. Owen knew every square inch of the public rooms. He glanced up now at the windows of the bedroom in which Emily Dickinson had written nearly two thousand poems, the room that had been a haven from intrusion by fools, a place of retreat from the polite people of the town. She was still retreating, decided Owen. In death she had removed to the family plot under the white ash tree in West Cemetery. She had withdrawn to her narrow white coffin, six feet under the ground. But she could escape no farther. Any bunch of idiots could claw at the grass growing on her grave and hold up chunks of turf and claim them for their own.

  Moving down the sidewalk, Owen gazed through the hemlock hedge at the sloping Dickinson garden. The grass was wet. In the oak tree a bird hopped from branch to branch. Owen stared through the hedge, wondering who really owned Emily Dickinson. If anybody in Amherst could be said to possess the woman in this ninety-ninth year after her death, who would it be?

  Oh, Lord, there were so many claimants! In all the five colleges of the Connecticut River Valley there were professors who regarded the poet as property—not to mention the fifty thousand students swarming on the streets of the local towns, Amherst and Northampton and South Hadley. Was there any other place in the world where one literary deity was worshiped so universally? Well, there was Stratford-on-Avon, and Concord, Massachusetts. Did everybody in Stratford own Shakespeare? Did everyone in Concord lay claim to Henry Thoreau? Here in Amherst even a piece of paper whipping down South Pleasant Street was apt to be a title deed, a page from The Complete Poems, unstuck from the paperback edition, fluttering out of somebody’s motorcycle saddlebag. Impulsively, Owen covered his ears as he thought of the sounds of righteous Dickinson ownership, the rattle of a thousand typewriters, the battering of chalk on a hundred classroom blackboards.

  Then he smiled. It wasn’t just people, after all. Even that commonplace bird in the oak tree, there in the Dickinson garden, even that sassy robin who was whistling, head up, chirping a succession of phrases, spattering the whole side yard with cheerful melody, even that small bird could make a claim of its own upon Emily Dickinson. Maybe it was descended from the poet’s own Gabriel In humble circumstances and owned the whole green lawn.

  Mounting his bike again, Owen pushed off and sped along Main Street to the Common. The hour was still early. Except for a couple of joggers loping around its circumference, the Common was deserted. The sun was just surfacing over the Town Hall, shining on the snapping flag, casting a rosy glow on the brick cornices of Merchants Block. Leaning to the side, Owen whizzed around the corner onto North Pleasant Street. Later the crossing would be jammed with students and choked with motor traffic, but at this hour Owen had it to himself.

  North Pleasant Street, too, was deserted. Racing left at the fork, Owen skimmed along too fast on McClellan Street and almost ran into Tom Perry.

  Whoops! Dodging left, Owen shouted “Sorry!” at Tom, who was standing in the street, opening the door of his car. Tom was one of Owen’s superb successes, the youngest full professor at Amherst College, and another deed holder, of course, in the Emily Dickinson real-estate bonanza. Was that the girl he was engaged to, the fabled doctor from Northampton? Speeding away, Owen looked back to nod and smile at the girl, and then he nearly lost his balance in surprise.

  It wasn’t the doctor from Northampton. It was a sophomore English major from U Mass. Once you had seen Alison Grove, you didn’t forget her. This morning Alison was coming out of Tom’s front door, clutching a folded umbrella, teetering along in gold sandals, shivering in a skimpy outfit obviously left over from last night.

  Owen whirled away, keeping eyes front. It was no business of his if Tom Perry brought a random girl home to share his bed. It was none of Owen’s affair at all.

  “Shit,” said Tom Perry to Alison Grove. “The great Owen Kraznik. He would come along right now. Our iniquity is discovered.”

  “Well, who cares?” said Alison, getting into the car. “I mean, like you said you were going to tell your old girlfriend about us anyway. You said you’d break it off. You said she’ll understand, because she’s this really, really good sport.”

  Tom got in beside Alison. “Oh, sure. Next time I see her we’ll have a heart-to-heart talk. But not now. I called her up yesterday and told her how busy I am.” Tom grinned at Alison. “You know, all these midterms to correct, all these conferences with students.” Bending his head, Tom kissed Alison’s bare shoulder. “Like last night. Very important student conference. All kinds of”—Tom kissed Alison’s throat and buried his head in her red-gold hair—“really important stuff to discuss. You know like this—and this—and especially this. Oh, Alison.”

  Alison Grove leaned back and allowed herself to be caressed. It was what she had been born for. She had always known it. But she had taken her time. Like in high school, she had been really just so incredibly fussy. But she had been right to wait for Tom Perry, who was really so incredibly good looking and just so fabulously important. Everybody said so. All the girls on Alison’s floor at Coolidge Hall were incredibly jealous.

  “Well, Owen won’t tell on us anyway,” sighed Tom, sitting up reluctantly. “The saintly Owen Kraznik, he’ll keep it under his hat. Oh, say, that reminds me, didn’t you say you were looking for a part-time job?”

  “Oh, right. My clothing allowance, it’s just so incredibly small.”

  “Well, listen, I understand they’re going to fire Owen’s assistant, Winifred Gaw. Dombey Dell told me. The whole department at U Mass voted to throw her out. So why don’t you go over there this morning and talk to Owen? Maybe he’ll hire you in her place. Tell him I sent you. Owen’s a soft touch. You can wind him around your little finger.”

  “Well, I don’t know. I mean, I don’t know anything about Emily Dickerson. Isn’t he this really big expert on Emily Dickerson?”

  “Dickinson.” For an instant Tom glanced sideways at Alison, aware of a flicker of doubt. He had felt it before, just once or twice. He banished it now by putting his arm around Alison’s creamy shoulders. “An expert? That’s putting it mildly. If anybody in this world owns the right to talk about Emily Dickinson, it’s Owen Kraznik.”

  “Honestly?” said Alison, widening her eyes, really, really impressed.

  “Oh, he’d probably never admit it, being a saint the way he is, but it’s true. Owen Kraznik owns Emily Dickinson, lock, stock, and barrel.”

  3

  … Estates of Cloud

  Tom Perry was right. If some supreme judge had pounded his gavel and pronounced a ruling on the insubstantial domain that was Emily Dickinson, the title of ownership would surely have been awarded to Professor Owen Kraznik of the University of Massachusetts.

  But Owen would never have accepted it. Fiercely, Owen repudiated all claims of vanity. It wasn’t blindness on his part. It wasn’t that he had never noticed his own moral and intellectual superiority to other people. He ha
d discovered it in childhood. But at eight years old it had disturbed him as much as it did now, at forty. How sad for the human race if it could do no better than Owen Kraznik! In the simplicity of his nature and the clarity of his vision, Owen rejected self-congratulation. As his eminence grew, his eye grew milder still. The more he surpassed, the more helplessly he shrugged his shoulders, the more he refrained from needless victories.

  Now, as Owen’s bike plunged along Lincoln Avenue, the University of Massachusetts sprawled in front of him, forty-three acres of trampled grass. Owen swept past the long stretch of concrete sculpture that was the Fine Arts Center, dodged around Memorial Hall and Herter, skidded to a stop in front of Bartlett Hall, chained his bike to a column, and opened the door. Running lightly up to the second floor, he felt his insides clench with apprehension. What if Winnie Gaw were there already, lying enormously in wait? Sooner or later Winnie would discover that her boss was coming in early. And then she would insist on getting there before him, to anticipate his every need.

  Warily, Owen poked his head into the undergraduate English office, then breathed a sigh of relief. It was empty. Crossing to his own small study on the other side, he sat down at his desk and smiled with satisfaction.

  But the telephone had eyes in its head. It began to ring.

  Owen stared at it a minute, then picked it up. “Hello?” he said cautiously.

  But it was all right. It was only his cousin, Dr. Harvey Kloop.

  “Owen? How would you like to come fishing with me at the Quabbin Reservoir? I’ve got a free day at last. My patients are all behaving themselves and nobody seems to be calling on my services as medical examiner. I’ve got my boat all hooked up to the car and I’m ready to go.”

  Owen smiled, picturing the melancholy hollow-cheeked face of his old childhood companion. “Oh, Harvey, I’m sorry. I have to teach today.”

  “Oh, too bad.” And then Owen heard a scuffling noise and a protesting shout, “Hey, wait a minute, Eunice Jane.”

  “Owen?” It was Eunice Jane. “Listen here, Owen, I’m sorry, but Harvey isn’t going anywhere today. He’s sorting his underwear.”

  “He’s what?”

  “And overcoats. He promised me. He said he’d sort his underwear and overcoats right away. Well, the time has come. Now, listen, Owen, while I’ve got you on the phone, I’ve got to tell you. You’ll be amazed. I’ve been working on some more of those fascinating lines of Dickinson’s, those deeply obscure passages, remember? Like the sterile perquisite, Reportless Subjects, to the Quick, the peerless puncture? Well, listen, I know what they mean. Those other fools were wrong. Wait till you hear.”

  Owen could have wept. The injustice of Providence smote him. How could fate have taken Catherine away from him and left Harvey saddled with Eunice Jane?

  At last he made his escape and hung up the phone. Something fell with a crash. A heavy piece of furniture was squealing across the floor, hitting the other side of the wall with a jarring thud.

  Leaping to his feet, Owen threw open the door. Two middle-aged men were flailing at each other in the outer office, tripping over the coatrack, plunging heavily this way and that in the small space between the windows and the door to the hall.

  One of the combatants was Dombey Dell, chairman of the English department, administrator of one hundred and eighty-six separate sections of literature and composition and a teaching staff of seventy-five, to say nothing of an army of teaching assistants. As Owen watched in astonishment, Dombey landed a punch in the other man’s solar plexus, then lost his balance and catapulted into Winifred Gaw’s big potted plant.

  “Oof,” said the other man, swinging wildly at empty air. It was Owen’s old friend from Concord, Homer Kelly, distinguished Thoreau scholar and professor of American literature, and ex-lieutenant detective for Middlesex County. Owen was chagrined to observe that Homer didn’t seem to have any pugilistic know-how, in spite of his early background as a policeman. Homer was throwing his long arms around Dombey Dell in a bear hug and hanging on with all his strength.

  “You lying alphabetarian,” gasped, Dombey, struggling to get his arms free. “You philological sneak!”

  “Good heavens, gentlemen,” cried Owen. “What’s this all about?” Stepping bravely into the fray, he took Homer by the shoulders and dragged him away from Dombey Dell.

  Dombey and Homer glared at each other, breathing hard. Then Homer turned to Owen angrily, and shrugged himself back into his jacket. “I think Professor Dell is troubled by a letter I wrote in the Proceedings of the Modern Language Association, disagreeing with some of his premises on nineteenth-century American usage. He seems to prefer fisticuffs to scholarly discourse.”

  Once again Dombey flung himself at Homer. Taken by surprise, Homer stumbled into Owen, who lost his balance and floundered backward through his office door. Together the three of them fell in a jumble against Owen’s desk. “Look here,” said Owen, his voice muffled under Homer, “why don’t you people join me in a cup of coffee?”

  Grumpily, Dombey and Homer stood up, and then Owen, struggling to his feet, began bustling around among his cupboards and shelves. “Sorry, but I don’t seem to have anything to go with the coffee but these—ah—pretzels? I’m afraid they’re two years old.”

  Dombey and Owen sat down sullenly, but Owen’s clumsy hospitality soon broke the ice. Before long, Dombey was chaffing Owen about his terrible coffee and explaining what he had come for.

  “We took a vote. The entire English faculty. I warned you, Owen. That girl has got to go. Winifred Gaw is no longer an employee of the English department. She is no longer a candidate for the doctor’s degree. She leaves today, you hear that, Owen? You and your lame ducks.”

  Owen was dismayed. Picturing the scene with Winnie, he passed his hand over his eyes. How was he going to tell her? It would be an ordeal of the most harrowing kind.

  But Dombey had no mercy. He turned to Homer. “You should see this Winnie Gaw. What a slob. You know what, Owen? If I looked like Winifred Gaw, I hope I’d have the grace to shoot myself.” Then Dombey snickered, and gestured at the picture on the wall, Owen’s precious copy of the daguerreotype of the young Emily Dickinson. “I must admit that’s what troubles me about our famous local poet. Look at the woman! That’s one plain little lady.”

  Homer Kelly was outraged. “My God, Dombey, that’s the stupidest thing I ever heard. Listen, you dumb cluck, what difference does it make what a great poet looks like?”

  Hostility was boiling up again. Swiftly, Owen pulled the envelope from Peter Wiggins out of his bookbag and waved it at Dombey and Homer. “But perhaps she was truly good-looking after all! I have a letter this morning from a man named Peter Wiggins in Arizona. He owns that controversial photograph of Emily Dickinson. He claims he can prove it’s authentic. He wants to come and give a speech.”

  “Well, good for him,” said Dombey, settling back in his chair. “Because, listen, Owen, I’m telling you a solemn fact. If Emily Dickinson was as homely as that picture on your wall, I hold it against her. I’m sorry to admit it, but it’s something in my glands.”

  Homer said something rude about Dombey’s glands, and Dombey snarled. Owen hastened to intervene. “My dear Dombey, how can it possibly matter? It was all so long” ago.”

  And then Owen made his fatal mistake.

  “After all,” he said, “Emily Dickinson has been dead for a hundred years. Homer’s perfectly correct. It’s the poetry that counts. Nothing else.”

  “That’s right,” growled Homer self-righteously.

  But Dombey was no longer listening. He was calculating under his breath. “It’s true. It will be a hundred years next May.” His eyes brightened. He grinned. “Say, listen, that gives me a superb idea. You know what I’m going to do? I’m going to organize an Emily Dickinson Centennial Symposium on the hundredth anniversary of her death, and invite people from all over the country.” Dombey threw his arms wide and shouted, “All over the world!” Raising his fist, he brou
ght it down on Owen’s desk with a crash. Owen’s books bounced. His coffee cup jiggled. “A hundred years dead! By God, I’ll drag the woman out of her grave! And afterwards, when anybody thinks of Emily Dickinson, who will they think of first? Dombey Dell, that’s who.” Dombey smirked. “Me, in short. In person.”

  “Oh, for Christ’s sake, Dombey,” said Homer, exasperated. “If they think of anybody now and forevermore, it will be Professor Owen Kraznik, you big jerk.”

  “No, no, please, no.” Owen shook his head and closed his eyes in silent suffering. It was the kind of talk that pained him most. He was repelled by Dombey’s display of scholarly megalomania. He knew exactly what would happen. Dombey would organize his conference and prance around on the platform and make himself famous, and at the same time he would say condescending things about the poet. Not only would he be important in his own right, he would be more important than Emily Dickinson herself. It was sickening.

  But Dombey was throwing back his head in a paroxysm of self-congratulation. “Oh, this is going to be a lovely, lovely symposium. We’ll all get a chance to show off. You, too, Owen. You, too, Homer. And we’ll get Tom Perry in on it. The University of Massachusetts and Amherst College, we’ll run it jointly. And I’ll get hold of that guy in Arizona. He can talk about his picture. Oh, wow, isn’t this great. I’ve never had a whole entire conference to call my own. The Emily Dickinson Centennial Symposium, brainchild of Professor Dombey Dudley Dell, founder, guiding star, principal factotum, and distinguished majordomo.”

  “Oh, Dombey, you big ass,” said Homer.

  But Dombey was jumping out of his chair. “Well, say, I’d better get right to work before somebody else thinks of the same thing. Get out my pick and shovel, start digging the woman up.” Dombey jumped over Homer’s huge shins, then paused in the doorway. “Metaphorically speaking, of course,” he said, simpering. “I mean, just as a figure of speech.”