Hank shook his head. “There are always other teachers, William.”
“You were a good teacher. You shouldn’t quit.”
“Thank you. I’m not quitting. I just might have to take a vacation from it, not a whole lot different from yours.”
Now William smiled. “You going to beat drums in the woods?”
“Not exactly.”
“I gave you a hard time in class.”
“No harder than anyone else.”
“It was a good class, but you were a little weak on the brutal legends.”
“Sorry.”
“Those legends were the best, you know, all the eye-for-an-eye stuff. It helped me a lot, when my parents broke up, you know, to read all that shit about vengeance. I mean, so it was made up, so what, it still helped.” William shoved his hands into his Levi’s pockets. “Thanks anyway, you know, for the offer.”
“No problem. You want me to sign this?”
“Yeah.”
Hank signed the form, handed it back. He watched the boy leave his office, his shoulder blades making wings against his white T-shirt. William, removed from his cyberpunk cohorts, William without Metallica on the headphones. William in undomesticated Wyoming, his days beginning with the first ribbon of dawn striping the sky and the cries of hungry animals waiting to be fed. His father might be a lost cause, but a little solitude away from the city might just do some good for this boy. Stripped of his black clothing and painful jewelry, he was showing signs that already a Protean transformation was in progress. Hank would miss his quick wit and how artfully he deviled Kathryn Price. Who was he kidding—he would miss all of them if he left—when he left. He reached into his briefcase for the class rosters in order to take William’s name off the list. Out with it came the file Jack Dodge had pressed on him, the paper clip awry and Chloe’s name leering out in boldface. With the horse dying, the hurried shopping trip, and court, he’d forgotten the papers completely He fingered his sore brow as he read.
Chloe Morgan. No middle initial. Year of birth, 1957, date, August 11; how odd that she was only two days off with her guess. Attending physician, Padraic O’Reilly, M.D. Hank imagined a young intern with a head of flaming red hair catching her, gleeful at the birth process, not yet dunned by overwork and tragedy, fear of malpractice suits. All babies looked alike at birth, didn’t they, pink, bald, and squealing—probably he couldn’t have picked Chloe out from a dozen others. Dodge had gone sleuthing—here was the story of her coming to live at Orangewood, her mother’s forfeiture of parental rights, the succession of foster homes that Chloe the child endured—so many names it had to be an error—but Hank knew it wasn’t. Allegations of child abuse from two homes they’d placed her in. Didn’t anyone look out for her? A psychological report—bad attitude—predictions of trouble. Then a bio on the Gilpins, the last ones who’d taken her in and raised her until she was eighteen—was eighteen grown up? Could a kid like William Strauss be called an adult? Her high school graduation picture—straight blond hair parted down the middle, no lipstick, no heavy eye makeup, but the hard edge was there behind the sweater and forced smile. She looked slightly dangerous, and he felt his pulse quicken because she was dangerous, the most dangerous thing that had ever happened to him, and also the most amazing. The memory of all the time they’d spent in his bed howled through his bones like a hot, dirty Santa Ana wind, tightening his flesh. Never was it enough to have her once, roll over, and go to sleep. Most mornings he woke sore and chapped, his cock rising like a tired recruit, blind but eager to go back inside again. He looked at the picture. Even when she wasn’t smiling, there was the faint hope in her face that at any moment she might change her mind.
Her legal offenses included several parking tickets she never bothered to pay—including a recent one from the college—some juvenile nonsense supposedly “sealed” from her record, but Dodge’s cash-green trowel had pried that loose. She’d briefly shacked up with a twenty-four-year-old when she was fifteen, and the guy’d been arrested for panhandling; Chloe’d been accused of shoplifting groceries; the store owner took pity and let her go. Did Hank know what it was like to be hungry? His parents had always been a half step behind him; Now, dear, do you need anything? Here’s some money, no, just take it. Can we get you a new stereo? Son, why don’t you apply here to school—try this class—business is a good choice, study business. His largest rebellion had been mythology—choosing to spend his time explaining the “little stories,” as Wes McNelly referred to them. He’d never dealt with police other than the occasional speeding ticket; he wrote a check to the court and forgot all about it. He was green, just as Rich Wedler intimated. She might leave him.
The personal stuff bit hard. County-funded abortion at age sixteen—what possible reason did anyone need to know that? Who was responsible for getting her knocked up—this Fats Valentine character she seemed to rank up there with Jesus? Did he go along, hold her hand, or just shrug “tough luck,” and let her walk alone? Medical records—she’d been in the hospital twice, once for the “procedure,” once following a rape. At that sight of those words, something went hollow inside him. When he imagined her savaged, dragging herself to the emergency room to be prodded for evidence, stitched up in those places…the hollowness turned to sour rage, and he had to set the file aside. He walked to the window—Asa’s visual strip—and tried to see past the stucco buildings where the eucalyptus trees slowly swayed in the afternoon breeze. There was no clear view anywhere—the college was a haphazard maze of buildings that grew out of no particular plan. Had he the power, he would have swept them away with a stroke of his hand, cleared a path from here to the ocean. Start over. It was possible to learn too much about a person. You could read their history like some detailed résumé and enlighten yourself as to the actual events of their life, but for every truth, a larger mystery remained separate, unexplored, inviolate. You could never know a person, not completely, not even if you made love to them five times a day. Rich Wedler was waiting for him to drop her; that vet had slept with her; a dozen of those men had looked at him over the lunch table as if he were slumming, wondering when he’d grow bored and discard her. She would leave him. Jack Dodge investigated the women he dated. Hank Oliver? Once in a lifetime, he fell in love with one, whether he deserved her or not. He shoved the papers into the file and loaded the whole mess into his briefcase.
“What we have here is a story about famine and greed,” Hank explained. “It comes from the Karok Indians, which no doubt, all of you who’ve read your text, already know in some detail. But look at it also as a story of transformation. When the greedy father fishes for his family, rather than share equally with his wife and children, he eats the fish himself and carries home the tail, explaining to his children and wife that hungry beggars stopped him along the way, and all that he now has left to share is the tail.
“Now, rather than allow this duplicity to continue, his smart wife sets a trap for him, and catches him in the act of feeding himself first. What happens then is quite interesting in terms of the Indian myths and legends, because they seem rather universally to punish such betrayal, but punish most eloquently, as if to approach metaphor. As the man reaches out to touch his children, they each turn into lilies and plants, his wife—a pine tree. Finally, he is turned into a small bird that can only feed on mosses, and there his transformation ends. But interestingly, his wife and children go on to be made into baskets used in various celebratory dances. On one hand, it’s a straightforward tale with a moral,” he went on, “and teaches the consequences of lying. But additionally, it speaks of the concept ‘to be of use.’ Any reactions?”
His students looked at him, blankly or fascinated, sometimes it was difficult to discern which. Maybe his swollen eye was more interesting than the Karoks. If he quit this job, he was walking into a future with no certainties—Chloe—equally as uncertain whether she would stay. But the budgetary foot was in his backside, nudging. He didn’t want to stay where he wasn’t wanted.
If he kept the news from her, he was a coward, unworthy, the cheapest kind of bastard alive, a moss-sucker. Maybe now that her trouble was over she wouldn’t want to stay with him—maybe she’d walled up that avenue long ago. All he wanted to do was love her, live with her, watch her smile at him in the half light of evening, feel her body up close to his own, hold on.
Twice a student asked him to repeat what he’d just said, and he stopped dead in his tracks—all the memorized lectures were dismissed from his head—as if they had been wiped clean from the cells. He had to go to his briefcase and refer to notes for the first time in years. He found the answer there, the faded precise typing he’d done his first couple of years of teaching—how he’d cared then, how much he’d wanted to give. Now, well, there were the occasional good days, but mostly he looked forward to his paycheck.
“But Mr. Oliver, I still don’t get it. The Greeks were kind of amoral themselves, and the Norse gods were even worse.”
“No argument there.”
“I thought the Native Americans might lighten up a little. Why couldn’t the wife forgive her husband? I mean, he was just hungry. It wasn’t like he didn’t bring his children anything.”
“Gods were vengeful,” he said. “They didn’t just provide explanations for the unexplainable phenomena, they also had to teach consequences. Whenever mortals stole or lied, they were punished.”
CHAPTER
19
Just who are your people?” Iris Oliver asked Chloe over the rim of her fluted wineglass, shimmering with the pale Chablis.
“I don’t know. Regular people, I guess.” After Chloe asked the waiter for burgundy, they’d all ordered white wine, including Hank What did it matter—white wine tasted like mule pee. She could get her mouth around a glass of something dark, red was supposed to build up your blood, and besides, hadn’t she felt a little weak lately, a little run down? The trouble was this wine tasted a little metallic, which figured for rich restaurants, screw up the simplest things and charge double for them. Why ever had she agreed to dinner? They’re my parents, Chloe. I couldn’t exactly say no. Sure, you could. Just tell them we had to go to court this week. That we’re tired. That you want to spend the night in bed with your girlfriend, seeing what it’s like to make love to her without a court case hanging over her head. Chloe…They were polite, but they squinted at her as if she were a necessary border town to be crossed on the way to some spiffy little villa complete with servants.
“Surely you’re on good terms with them?”
Chloe took another sip and set the glass down, shining like a dark, jewel on the linen tablecloth.
“What I meant was, I suspect they’re just some regular people. You see, I didn’t grow up with them.”
Hank’s father set his menu down. He wore steel gray glasses and a pale blue seersucker sport coat, one of those white belts with the swanky gold buckles made from a valuable coin. “Oh?”
“I had a fine set of foster parents, though. Ben and Margaret Gilpin. They used to live right here in town, near the fairgrounds. Ben was an independent trucker, and Margaret worked at the hospital, volunteering, over twenty years. Ben’s dead now, heart failure, and Margaret moved to the Florida Keys to be near her sister. I’m local weed—I went to high school here, studied 4-H and agricultural business, got fixated on horses. Listen to me going on—you ask a simple question and I give you the history of the universe—Hank’s probably told you all this anyway.”
“No,” Iris said. “He hasn’t told us anything.”
“Well, then,” Chloe said, smiling at Hank. “I guess they weren’t wasted words.”
Henry patted Chloe’s hand. “Poor girl,” he said. “Such a sad beginning.”
“I’m fine.” She kept her voice even. “It was all just fine.”
“Don’t you think we should order?” Hank asked. “It’s getting late, and you two have a long drive.”
“Nonsense,” Henry said. “There’s time for another glass of wine. Chloe? Would you pour? Or are you one of those feminists who insist men do for themselves?” He laughed, a great hollow booming that turned heads in the restaurant. “Hank, is there a smudge on your brow? Or is that a bruise?”
“It’s the lighting in here. Dad, really, don’t start in on women’s rights.” Hank started to reach for the carafe, but Chloe intercepted it.
“I don’t hold much with labels,” she said. “As far as I’m concerned, you all can take back the vote for all the good it’s done women. I haven’t voted since I was twenty years old. Nobody real exciting to vote for, is there?” She smiled, tilted the carafe, and poured the old man his wine.
He looked a little put out but drank it anyway.
“My father used to work for the Republican party,” Hank explained quietly “Voting’s one of his pet causes.”
Chloe laughed. “Well, open mouth, insert broken foot,” she said “I’m sorry. Those of us in the blue-collar world have a slightly different outlook on the voting thing.”
“There’s civic duty to consider,” Iris threw in.
“Sure,” Chloe said. “If you have time left over after working fifteen hours a day, you can feel a little bit civic.”
“Hank votes in every election,” his father persisted. “You should, too.”
“And basically what happens is you and I cancel each other’s votes, Dad. Let Chloe be. Between your questions and court, she’s had a tough week.”
She kicked him beneath the table.
“Court? Did you get a traffic ticket?” Iris asked. “Honestly, the police hand them out to all the wrong people. You should have seen this man on the freeway tonight, he nearly forced us off the road. And not a day passes that someone doesn’t give us a rude hand gesture, if you know what I mean. There’s so much crazy driving it plain scares me.”
Hank buttered half of his roll. “It wasn’t traffic. The thing with Hugh Nichols’s land—Hughville. Chloe was involved when the police raid went down. Thanks to American justice, it’s all cleared up now.” He leaned across the table and lifted his glass. “To the American way,” he said. “Long may it wave.”
She bent her head, embarrassed. “Hank, stop it.”
“No,” Henry said. “Hank’s right. Let’s all lift a glass in honor of America.” The candlelight glinted off his lenses, and Chloe tried to read his thoughts. She couldn’t, but she knew the man was looking at her as hard as she was looking at him.
Iris sipped her wine. “Broken leg, court? Your life’s rather dramatic isn’t it?”
“Lately. Most of the time it’s just plain work.”
“I quit working when I married,” Iris said. “I wanted to stay home. I think that’s right.”
“I don’t think I could ever quit working,” Chloe said. “I’d miss the horses too much.”
“I used to bet the horses,” Henry said.
“Did you win in the money?”
“Not often. How about you—you ever bet the horses?”
“I don’t bet, and I don’t hold much with racing, either. I’m not saying all of the industry, but most of it fosters pretty sleazy treatment of animals.” She remembered him suddenly, from the diner. “Decaf and dry toast,” she said.
“Beg pardon?”
“The Wedler Brothers Café—I’m sure I’ve waited on you.”
Chloe felt Hank’s hand squeeze her leg under the table.
“Now I remember. You used to come in and watch the exercise show. You know, in the mornings.”
“I’m sorry?”
“Dad, Chloe waits tables at that little restaurant on the highway,” Hank said. “The one with the cinnamon buns you love.”
“Oh, well, certainly,” Henry said, coloring. “I’ve been a customer there several times in the past.”
Iris said, “Customer? Henry, no wonder your blood pressure won’t come down if you’re sneaking pastry.”
“Not recently, dear. Chloe will back me up, won’t you, sweetie?” He winked.
“The last ti
me you were both there,” she said. “Decaf and dry toast, and something about the cream not being fresh. Listen, I don’t want to start a fight. Maybe we should go back to talking about horses.”
“Great idea.” Hank raised his hand for the waiter.
Chloe studied her wineglass and felt Iris’s eyes on her, seeking answers to questions no one would dare voice.
“So you waitress,” Henry said.
“We make good, affordable food,” Chloe said. “People have to eat.”
Everyone smiled. Henry senior reached across the table and patted Chloe’s hand. As soon as she was politely able, she withdrew it and placed it in her lap.
“Are you a student at the college where Hank teaches?” Henry said. “Is that where you two met?”
“We met there. But I don’t go to college.”
“Hughville—is that the place that’s always in the newspaper?”
“Tell me again about Grandmother’s place,” Hank said suddenly. “Is anyone living there now?”
Iris turned her gaze from Chloe. “The Greers look in on it once a month, Hank, you know that. I suppose one of these days we ought to consider selling it.”
“Not just yet, I hope. I’ve been thinking of taking a vacation there this summer.”
Henry senior laid down his salad fork. “That’s absurd, son. There’s no electricity. You have to pump the water by hand—use an outhouse out back.”
Chloe smiled. “Sounds pretty grim. Where is it, Hank?”
“Northern Arizona. Red-rock country, on the edge of the Navajo reservation. As you come into town there’s a gas station where they give you a free piece of cherry pie with every fill-up.”
“No kidding? Your grandmother’s place?”
“My mother’s mom,” he said. “She’s gone now. She taught school on the reservation for forty years. Mom grew up there. I used to spend summers with my grandmother.”
“Oh, Hank, that was forever ago.”
“Why do you always belittle that time, Mom? You grew up knowing another culture. They let you come to the blessings and dances they won’t even let anthropologists see. I wish you’d write down what you remember.”
Hank & Chloe Page 25
