by Paul Zimmer
I think some more about Hemingway. How he was restless and acted tough. “Ernest thought that if you can bring yourself to hit a man hard in the face, you will win a fight,” I tell Louise. “I’ve never had a fist fight, but I’m going to smack Danderman’s nose if he comes sniffing around you again.”
Louise looks annoyed, but I go on boasting, “I’m going to bust him a good one.” But then I begin to think about my cramped up old hands and how much they would hurt if I hit something hard with them. Then about how my poor nose would probably come completely unglued if someone punched it.
I chatter some more, but change my tune a little, “Maybe I’ll just dazzle Danderman with footwork; he’ll never get a glove on me. I’ll be like Billy Conn the first time he fought Joe Louis.” But then I remember—I’m an old guy walking with two canes. “Well, I’ll give him a whack up the side of his head with one of my sticks. I’ll give him a head butt.” Ouch . . .
I get worked up when I think about Danderman, and it is a very strange feeling. “I’ll smack him so he won’t forget!” I am breathing hard, like Beowulf boasting about what he’s going to do when Grendel comes. I’ve never felt this way before. I want to damage Danderman.
“Silly boy,” Louise says. “Cyril, will you calm yourself, please! Remember, he helped us get the blue Dodge. You’re going to have a heart attack. Watch your bobber.”
But I go on stewing.
“Cyril,” Louise says at last, “you are my dearest and only friend. That man is of absolutely no interest to me. You are not challenged. You don’t have to bash him. I don’t want you to get hurt. It’s a beautiful day. Unwind yourself. If the fish know you’re agitated, they won’t bite.”
We sit quietly again, and eventually catch a few small bream. We are excited when the bobbers go down, but throw the fish back. By the time Louise starts driving us back to the home we are both weary.
Being jealous is hard work. I am finding this out. It just plain peters you out.
We slip back into the home like guilty lovers in the early afternoon, but no one even looks at us. It’s almost disappointing.
We wait a few more days before planning our next adventure. Louise wants to go to the bookstore in Viroqua. One morning we slip out of the parking lot in the blue Dodge shortly after breakfast while the home staff is busy cleaning up after the meal. It is so much fun to be screwing off. The day is overcast, but cool and pleasant as Louise drives the county highway over to Viroqua.
Three very literate, efficient women have run the bookstore for years. They are delighted to see Louise. She’d been one of their very good customers, always stopped in the store to browse and buy books when she was grocery shopping in Viroqua, but she hasn’t been here since the death of her husband.
Louise has recently read a review of a new biography of the Brontë sisters. She wants to buy the book. As we were driving to Viroqua I gave her my brief lives of the Brontës—one at a time—Anne, Emily and Charlotte, their sad, amazing, strange existence on the moors, and I even added a little about crazy Branwell, their brother. I’ve got all the Brontës down pretty good. They are a tricky bunch.
“Now you won’t have to buy the book,” I tease Louise when I finish my recitation, but Louise has purchased books all her life; she has a lot of them, and she reads them. She is ready to put her money down for the book. I used to stop occasionally in the Viroqua bookstore, too, before I met Louise. I’d even buy a book once in a while, too, but mostly I just read stuff off the shelves, trying to keep myself up to date on lives. The bookstore ladies were always very kind about this, but sometimes they would shame me into paying for a book. The three of them seem delighted and very surprised to see Louise and me together.
The biography of the Brontës that Louise wants to buy is a big book, a 450 pager, a hardback that costs forty bucks. “What are you going to do?” I ask Louise. “Sell your farm to buy that?” But Louise peels out two twenties from her purse without even gazing at me.
I must be looking particularly cadaverous this morning because the book ladies are peering strangely at me. Funny thing about getting old: some days you feel okay—and once in a while, just for a few minutes, even a little bit good—but then you catch a look in a mirror and realize that you look like you’ve been going to school with a bunch of piranha. It is best not to reflect on yourself too often.
“Cyril, have you been all right?” one of them finally asks.
“Never better,” I tell her. And I meant it.
I’m sure the Brontës have heard about my ordeal. The newspapers picked up on my story and wire services ran it across the country. People are always fascinated by stories of peril, and they seem particularly to like it when someone is able to trick death. There was coverage on some of the prime time news shows, long stories about my ordeal, some “portraits” and other shortened squibs. The home nurses actually started a scrapbook of them. Not too many old guys walk out of the freezer alive. For about a quarter of an hour I was the most famous citizen of Soldiers Grove.
The Brontës are still looking at me. I say finally, “Well, I’m not feeling too bad. A little kink here and there, but I think I’m good for some more time. Sorry I forgot to comb my hair.”
They don’t laugh. They look serious. I must be looking really hammered this morning.
“He’s doing just fine,” Louise finally assures them, as she thumbs through her big new book. “Don’t pay any attention to how he looks.”
“We were really happy to hear you got the big bravery award,” one of them says. “Now maybe you can pay for a book once in a while.” They all giggle.
These women have always enjoyed giving me nudges, and I always try to give them back as good as I get: “Don’t get carried away,” I warn them. “Reading is hard for me these days. Half an hour of it and my eyeballs feel like two gritty mibs at the end of recess. I can barely read the directions on my corn flakes box. Besides, I cashed in that check and put all the money in an old sock. I only kept out enough for chocolate milk and a few Leinenkugels for Louise. Not a penny for books. Now I can’t even remember where I put the sock. That’s the way it goes with old guys like me.”
I notice that the jacket illustration of the new biography of the Brontë sisters uses the portrait painted by their brother, Branwell. At first Branwell had placed himself in the middle of the picture between Emily and Charlotte, but later someone—probably Branwell himself—decided to paint out his own image so that there seems to be a ghost beween Emily and Charlotte, and then the picture was roughly folded up and put aside somewhere.
As the three bookstore ladies stand together watching us, I gently take the big book from Louise’s hand and hold it up so she can compare the cover illustration to the three women standing in front of us. “See. There they are,” I say to Louise, “Anne, Charlotte, and Emily. It’s uncanny!” The resemblance is remarkable.
Louise takes hold of the book, looking back and forth between it and the bookstore women. She nods and giggles. “Yes, it’s perfect.”
I’ve always tried to figure out those bookstore women. Now I know they are the Brontë sisters come from the moors of northern England to the driftless hills of Wisconsin to sell books. How lucky we are they came to Viroqua!
I tell them, “We will never refer to you as anyone else. Just look at them, Louise! The Brontë sisters. I can’t even remember your real names anymore. From this moment on you are Anne, Emily, and Charlotte,” I tell them.
Balaclava
Balaclava is sitting on a toilet in a locked filthy stall in the men’s room of a convenience store just off an Indiana highway. As he strains, he skims his eyeballs over a dusty copy of an area newspaper called the Terre Haute Clarion that he’d found in a waste stack in the hallway just outside the restroom. Now he notices that the issue is months old, and he is ready to wad the stupid, goddamned thing up and pitch it over into the next stall.
Two nights before, Balaclava had almost been fried by the Hoosiers and he’s stil
l shaky about it. He’d been working his way across the state, zigzagging around, sometimes sleeping in the truck, hiding it out of sight when he robbed stores on the edges of little towns. Quick, easy stick-ups—mostly terrified teenage clerks who put their hands up fast and shoveled out the cash when he showed them his big cannon.
If the clerk was a guy, when he had the money he’d give him a rap on his noggin, just enough to stun him, then hustle out and drive the Dodge away before they could come to their senses to see what he was driving. If it was a woman, he’d shove her hard in the face and push her down, warning her not to look before he ran away. He was adding assault to his robbery when he conked the clerks—but to hell with it! His hole was already plenty deep.
But he was growing bored with this penny-ante stuff. What he scored was barely enough to pay for his gas, beef jerky, beer and chips. He needed something big.
A couple of nights before he’d been poking around in a Kwik ’n’ Ezy near Wabash, waiting for some Mars bars grade schoolers to clear out so he could make his heist and get on down the road. Finally, after a lot of petering around, the baby yokels departed. Balaclava was just getting ready to bring out his artillery, when a local police car pulled right up outside the door and two paunchy cops walked in.
He was breathing hard, thought he was going to bite it right then, but the cops walked past him and helped themselves to bags of peanuts from the counter, and started talking with the clerk—a big kid with one hell of a build, probably an ex-local football star.
Everything was very yakkety yak and local. Balaclava has never been easy in the same room with authorities, and he doesn’t like small talk. It was time to move his ass out of there—so he was heading for the door when the big ex-jock boy clerk looked up over the cops’ shoulders and said loudly, “Hey, buddy! You want something?”
The cops turned to look at Balaclava. The fucking kid was just showing off for the bulls—but now all eyes were on him.
And yes, Balaclava is something to see—huge in his ugliness, fierce in his black mackinaw and strange hat snapped up on its sides. “Naw, I’m fine,” he said, “just lookin’ around.” He kept on moving toward the door.
“Hold on a minute, friend,” one of the cops said, and came over to stand in front of him. “You from around here?”
“Just passing through.”
The patrolman was looking him over carefully. Balaclava doesn’t hold up well when the fuzz are close up on him. He doesn’t like the smell of them. He’s had his bellyful of blue boys. He tried to look steady at the guy, but couldn’t mask his distaste. Were they thinking about putting a move on him? He couldn’t quick draw the big gun on his ankle, but he had his hand on the cook’s small pistol in his coat pocket, and it was cocked and loaded. He figured he could probably drop both of them before they got to their holsters.
The cop looked him up and down. “You planning to stick around here for a while?” he asked Balaclava.
“Naw, like I say, I’m just passing through. I’ve got to get to Peoria tonight.”
“That’s a haul,” the cop said. “You better get going.” He didn’t ask to see Balaclava’s driver’s license, but he eyeballed him carefully and Balaclava held the man’s gaze. The cop decided that Balaclava was probably going to be more trouble than he was worth.
“Better roll, mister!” the cop said. “It’s a long way to Peoria.” And Balaclava did it. It bugged his ass to just trot out of that place like some teenie weenie, but he got the hell out of there.
God, he hates it when he’s got to skedaddle like that with his tail between his legs! He thought about coming back later and getting a piece of that show-off kid. He could have made him look like chopped beets. But he kept on going. He didn’t need to invite more trouble.
When he’d pulled the truck from around the corner of the convenience store the cop was standing outside, watching him drive away. Balaclava was glad he’d hammered the license plate up under the bumper. He watched in his rear view mirror, but the bull didn’t turn on his flashers and come after him.
Why do these sons of bitches have to dog him? He cut off the highway onto a side road and drove until he came to another larger road, turned onto this and drove until he came to a huge shopping mall parking lot. He pulled into a back row, selected a big red Ford hombre truck, checking to make sure it didn’t have an alarm system, then cross-wired it, and quickly switched license plates with the other vehicle.
Now he is sitting in the filthy men’s room stall. He tosses the outdated Terre Haute newspaper on the floor. Fucking podunk Indiana! He is reaching for the toilet paper dispenser when a small headline in the paper catches his eye: WISCONSIN SENIOR CITIZEN RECEIVES NATIONAL AWARD FOR BRAVERY. He takes up the paper again. The story is a very brief wire service clip:
“NEW YORK (AP)—An elderly man from Soldiers Grove, Wisconsin, Cyril Solverson, has been named the winner of the Award for Courage from The American Valor Society. The $50,000 award, presented at a black tie ceremony at the Waldorf Astoria in New York on December 17, is only the third such annual award given by the distinguished society.
“Mr. Solverson, still recovering from injuries suffered when he was assaulted and abandoned for dead in a blizzard by a robber, was unable to attend the ceremonies in person. The award was accepted in his name from the society by Mayor Bloomberg, who, in his remarks, marveled at how an older man could struggle four miles after being assaulted, through a raging snowstorm to almost reach his destination.
“ ‘Thank God he was found,’ the mayor commented. ‘We have a tendency in our great city to think that the only real stories come from New York, but they come from Soldiers Grove, Wisconsin, too, and I am proud to accept in Mr. Solverson’s honor, this award for his amazing tale of courage which took place in a remote region of the heartland of our country.’
“The $50,000 prize award money has been forwarded to Mr. Solverson, who is still being treated in a hospital in Wisconsin.”
The toilet paper dispenser is empty. Balaclava curses broadly; suddenly roaring with fury, he batters the side of the metal partition with both his heavy fists. He hears the guy who had been using the urinal next to his stall hustle out of the restroom in midstream without washing his hands.
Balaclava rages and hammers some more, making tremendous thunder, feeling as if he is about to explode: “I never assaulted that mangy fucker!” he shakes his hairy head back and forth. “I let him go!” he is snarling. “Now they make him a hero and give him the whole bank!”
He smashes on the partition some more, shouting, “Fifty thousand bucks! For bravery! Is there an award for mercy? I gave him mercy! That old fucker was peeing his pants and I let him go. Now I’m sleeping in my truck, stealing beef jerky and Twinkies, and that fossil is high on the hog!”
Balaclava booms his fury still more, quivering and groaning with rage, hammering the graffiti in the stall. Eventually he manages to use a crumpled piece of the Terre Haute Clarion to wipe himself.
He roars out of the parking lot, laying dark rubber out onto the highway, but then he clamps down on his temper, sets the cruise control to sixty-five, and drives with steady purpose through the night. Sitting on his rage, but keeping his speed legal, he presses steadily out of Indiana into Illinois, past Peoria, on his way to Soldiers Grove.
CHAPTER 14
Louise
Cyril and I are having many exciting escapades away from the home now, and are becoming almost careless. I sometimes feel that the staff people are purposely ignoring us, just looking the other way as we make our furtive exits. Sometimes we slip back into the home well after the dinner hour and no one questions us. The people at the desk seem almost bemused when they see us, as if they know that something is going on. Oh those two!
I have taken to leaving an occasional nice tip under my plate after I’ve dined in the hall, and sometimes I leave an envelope out for the people who do the cleaning.
I’ve heard that someone is always paying in America. It is th
e way things work, the way things get done—or not done. Little envelopes or massive secret electronic transfers buying favors or silence or service or protection. The whole nation is on the take. I don’t tell Cyril about my tipping because it would only make him fret.
By now we’ve snuck out to most of the reasonable local escape possibilities: decent bars, the few acceptable restaurants, fishing spots, historic sites, antique stores, and often the bookstore in Viroqua to see the Brontë sisters.
Cyril seems to have become more comfortable with the idea of ranging out a bit farther. Perhaps now I can persuade him to dare an overnight somewhere.
Madison is a two-hour drive away. Years ago I went there several times with Heath for appointments at the Department of Natural Resources, but this was during the Vietnam time; the town seemed tense then, almost explosive. The war was horrible, and activists were on the streets daily making quiet statements that frequently turned into loud demonstrations. Heath was an army veteran, but we sometimes joined the protests when we were through with our appointments in Madison. Occasionally as a special treat we’d stay overnight.
I recall a pleasant hotel situated by one of the three lakes. I talk to Cyril about it and, after we have planned carefully, I take the plunge and call the hotel to make reservations for a double room. It is a big chance, but an exhilarating way to further test our capabilities. The drive to Madison takes a little longer than two hours, but to us aged, uncertain travelers it seems like a trip to Tierra del Fuego.
We stop a few times on the way to take bathroom breaks, and at a rest stop to eat our light lunch at a picnic table. When we arrive on the edge of Madison, Cyril uses an old street map to guide us in. He’d found it in the home lounge, unfolds it now and holds it high to give directions like a ship captain to his helmsman. We are both tremendously excited and a little nervous. Cyril gapes in rigid wonder at the large civic and university buildings and Wisconsin capitol dome. He’s never seen anything like this.
