Abbeville

by Jack Fuller

  After placing the disk off to the side, he began digging with more determination, cutting into the rich, black dirt and piling it next to the hole. When he had gone down a foot and a half, he rested the spade against the fence post and went to Cristina.

  “Do you want to do the honors?” he asked.

  She held the pistol out to him by the barrel.

  He got down on his knees and laid the weapon in its final resting place, where the rainwater would render it inoperable and then slowly leach away the oxides. A surge of feeling washed over him for the passing of one thing into another. He silently prayed the prayer he had prayed so often since they had taken him off to Stateville: “Lord, let me learn to love your commands.”

  Then he stood and shoveled the dirt back and refitted the sod, tamping it down with the sole of his shoe and feeling the moisture come up through the worn leather.

  When he was done, he stood motionless for a moment.

  “Are you talking to Fritz?” Cristina asked.

  Karl did not realize his thoughts had made a sound.

  “I was asking for forgiveness,” he said.

  “You’ve done enough of that, Karl,” she said. “Let’s go home now.”

  He took her hand.

  “Why are we moving away from Abbeville, Cristina?” he said.

  Through her touch it was as if he could actually feel her thoughts.

  “Are you ready to risk it alone with me a while longer?” he said.

  “Do you have to ask?”

  “Who knows how long I’ll last.”

  “Don’t you leave me, Karl Schumpeter, wherever we go.”

  “You agreed to go to Betty’s for my sake,” he said. “And I agreed for her sake. So what about your sake, Mama?”

  “I don’t need much,” she said.

  “Well, for once you’re going to have it,” he said.

  “Karl, are you sure?”

  She gripped his hand more tightly. Maybe she was struggling to feel his unspoken thoughts, too.

  “Only if you are,” he said.

  “I’m sure,” she said.

  When they got home, she disappeared into her room as Karl banked the stove and walked through the house, as he did every night, checking that all was in order—no mice in the traps, doors pulled shut against critters, lights off. As always, he finished at the bathroom door.

  It was open. Drops of water in the discolored old sink told him Cristina had already finished. He shaved and washed, then checked to make sure there were no whiskers in the bowl. Then he emptied his bladder, which seemed more a matter of concentration with every passing year.

  He found his way to his bedroom easily in the dark, removed his pants and shirt, and put them on the chair. Slipping out of his under-shorts and t-shirt, he pulled his nightshirt on over his head, leaving his socks on his feet for warmth.

  Then he felt his way to her door. She always left it open so they could hear each other breathing. But when he reached her bed, it was empty.

  That was strange. He touched his way back to his room. He would have to make another walk through the house to find her.

  “I’m here,” she said from the direction of his bed.

  “I thought you would be asleep,” he said.

  “Well, I hope you’re not disappointed,” she said.

  “It’s been an awfully long while,” he said. “I really don’t know anymore.”

  She reached out and found him.

  “I guess we could try,” he said as he felt her hand pulling him gently toward her.

  “Der Weg ist das Ziel,” she said.

  25

  WHAT IF SOMETHING HAPPENS?” MY MOTHER said when Grampa told her of their decision. “It’s just a question of where we want to be when it does,” said Grampa.

  “You aren’t going to find it as easy as you think,” my mother said.

  “No,” said Grampa. “I don’t suppose we will.”

  In fact, it didn’t take long before things started to go bad. First Grandma came down with a terrible case of the flu. Then Grampa had to have his gall bladder out. With each crisis we raced down to Abbeville, and my mother pressed them to move up to Park Forest like sensible people.

  Much as I admired their grit, it was sad seeing them the way they were. Every visit they seemed to have slipped more.

  Then the big stroke came and took Grampa in his sleep. Grandma stayed with him in bed all night and only called Henry Mueller in the morning.

  “She didn’t want him getting cold,” Henry told my folks.

  When Grandma moved in with us, it changed our lives. My mother and father ceded their bedroom to her and started sleeping in the living room on a couch that folded into a bed. I kept my room, but my mother took over part of my closet and some drawers to make space in the other bedroom for Grandma’s clothes. Even though she had never before hesitated to barge in on me whenever she pleased, the new arrangement felt like an enemy occupation.

  Grandma’s way of coping with loss was collapse and silence. Within a month she was unable to move around on her own. My mother would have to lift her up and hold on to her as she walked.

  As for me, I was mortified. The spectacle of my mother taking Grandma to the bathroom and sitting her down to do her business embarrassed me to the marrow. And my parents sleeping in the living room was a dark secret I felt I could share with no one.

  Not that I didn’t have other secrets. Sometimes when everybody was in bed, I pulled out selected Life Magazines and National Geographics and let the pictures bring on lovely, guilty feelings. Maybe it was a movie starlet in a revealing pose. Or an African woman wearing nothing but a few leaves over the very place I wanted most to know. Or a Polynesian girl no older than me naked to the waist the way Herman Melville described in the book my father had bought me. I didn’t know what to make of the fact that the great author gave me the same feelings the pictures did; I went to that book so often that it fell open to certain pages.

  At school I had felt isolated long before Grandma arrived. But with Grandma at home, I didn’t dare invite anyone over. Passing between classes in the corridors, I either felt that everyone was looking at me or that I was so insignificant that no one could see me at all.

  Then one day Julie Cummings stopped at my locker.

  “Are you going to the Youth Center tonight?” she asked.

  I shoved my jacket back inside and slammed the locker door. There wasn’t anything specific I needed to hide. It wasn’t like I kept in there the magazines or the book that fell open. But something about her being able to look inside made me uncomfortable and excited.

  “I was just hoping I might see you,” she said.

  I regarded her for a moment as if I were a hundred feet away. Her lovely face. Her white blouse revealing just a hint of white elastic below. Her plaid skirt and knee socks. Anybody in school would have wanted to see her.

  “Maybe,” I managed to say.

  “Maybe what?” she teased.

  “Maybe I’ll . . . maybe I’ll . . .”

  “See me?” she said.

  Oh, how I wanted to. But I wanted to see so much more of her than I should that it was impossible for me to meet her eyes.

  “Maybe I’ll go tonight,” I said, “if you’d like me to.”

  “Can’t you see that I would?” she said, and with that, she twirled off into the flow of students passing between classes.

  As soon as I got home, my mother went to the A&P with a neighbor. I holed up in my room and did my homework until I heard her come back. Then I went to the kitchen and idled there while she unpacked the provisions.

  “Can I help you with anything?” I asked.

  “That would be very nice, yes,” she said.

  I did what I could, choosing items whose places on the shelves I was sure of—soda, coffee, cans of soup. Heavier items were best, since they did not tremble in my hands.

  “You’re as jittery as a chicken that’s just seen a fox,” my mother said.

>   I couldn’t tell her it had actually been an angel.

  “I’m going to the Youth Center tonight,” I blurted out.

  My mother peeled the browned, mushy outer leaves from a head of lettuce then pushed them down into the disposal with her fingers.

  “I’ve got the money and a ride,” I said.

  My mother extracted several big carrot sticks, the smudge of the earth still on them until they went under the faucet. Then the onions and celery.

  “There will be plenty of adults there,” I said, “so you don’t have to worry.”

  “Not tonight, honey,” she said without turning from the sink. The cold tap water splashed as she put each carrot and celery stalk under it in turn.

  “I’m not some little kid,” I said.

  She turned up the pressure to rinse the porcelain bowl. Then she shut off the tap.

  “We have to talk to Grandma’s doctor,” she said. “He will be at the hospital tonight. It’s the only time your father and I can see him together.”

  She ruled my life. Everyone ruled my life but me. It was bad enough that Grandma sat there day and night threatening to give the evil eye to anybody I might want to have over. Now I had the first quality chance of happiness in my whole godforsaken life, and they were going to take it away from me.

  She leaned in close to me, looked toward Grandma in the living room, and dropped her voice.

  “I need you to stay with her,” she whispered.

  “It’s not fair,” I said, and I did not care who heard me.

  “I think it may be important, George,” she said, reaching out to bring me to her.

  I turned away, banged out the back door, and left her standing there. Sad wasn’t the half of it.

  I crossed over into the yard of the house behind ours, then down its driveway. The field on the other side of the street lay fallow. Beyond it stood a grove of trees that stretched out along a creek.

  It was not like the river where I had fished with Grampa or even like Otter Creek. Coke bottles lay in the water collecting silt. Baby Ruth wrappers furled under fallen branches like brightly colored fungi. You might even find an occasional wet, filthy sneaker left by some tenderfoot, too scared to go back and retrieve it.

  I thought maybe I should just disappear into these woods forever. Forage for food. Grow wild like the animals. But that wouldn’t get me to my rendezvous with Julie Cummings. I thought about sneaking out after my parents left, but what if Grandma needed me? I was trapped.

  I jumped from rock to slick, shiny rock across the creek. When I reached the other side, I went straight to a tangle of branches and reeds at the base of a big old tree. It looked almost natural, beaten down as it had been by a winter of snow. The entrance to this secret place I had made for myself was just big enough to crawl through on my belly. Inside, it opened out so that I could sit upright with my back against the tree trunk and my legs stretched straight and still be hidden to the world. I eased back and reached into a hole in the trunk, where my fingers found the wax-paper package. The magazine inside was a little moist but intact.

  When I opened it, I saw Julie Cummings in every nude photo. I unzipped my fly and began. When I finished, I closed his eyes and let the vile relief flow through me. I must actually have slept for a few minutes, because I came back to myself with a start. I wiped myself with leaves, pulled up the zipper, and put the magazine back in its hiding place. Then I slid out into the open air and hurried back the way I had come.

  My mother was making dinner. From the smell I could tell it was going to be fish sticks. The car was in the drive, but my father was nowhere to be seen. In the bathroom, I assumed, having a cigarette with the ceiling fan on.

  “Is that you, George?” my mother called.

  Who else would have any reason to come into this house of misery?

  “I’ve made dinner for you and Grandma,” she said as I passed through the living room. “Brendan and I will get something on the way.”

  My heart sank. How much would that slow them down?

  The bathroom door popped open, and my father came out.

  “Well,” he said, “you made it.”

  “Here I am,” I said.

  “Your mother told me about the dance,” said my father. “There will be others.”

  With that she appeared next to him in the doorway. My father put his arm around her.

  “You could ask a friend over,” she said.

  “Who would want to come here?” I said.

  At least they did not make some phony attempt to answer. Soon I heard the ignition of the car whir and catch.

  I put out dinner and ate with Grandma in silence. I had turned on the television and was able to see Huntley-Brinkley through the open doorway. She could not see it from her chair, but she did not seem to care.

  I imagined the scene in the Youth Center, lights dimmed, folding chairs along the walls where people could go to make out, the faint scent of cigarettes, a stack of 45s on the changer, a slow one playing, Julie Cummings pushed up against some other guy’s hard-on.

  “I’m going to my room,” I said.

  When I got there, I found my paperback copy of American Tragedy and went to the place where I had left off. I would study to get the grades to get the scholarship to get to the school that would get me the job that would get me the hell out of this life.

  After a while I went to check on Grandma. She wanted to move back to the living room, so I helped her to her chair next to the window. It was getting dark. I looked at my eighth grade graduation Timex and tried to figure out how long it would be before I heard the rumble and saw the lights of the car swinging into the driveway.

  It was going to be too late. I knew it. At the Youth Center a record fell onto a turntable. “Tears on My Pillow.” Someone’s hand was on Julie’s back at the place where the mysterious white strap showed through. I could not see the boy’s face, but Julie’s eyes were closed.

  I went back to my room and pulled out my algebra book. Then I turned on the transistor radio. Dick Torcelli, the Wild One, was sending out tunes to all the kids cruising the streets looking for parties, to the kids eating hamburgers and fries in drive-in restaurants, to the couples parked in dark places. But not to losers like me.

  Suddenly I heard a key in the front door. I bounded to the living room. Neither of my parents spoke. My mother went straight to Grandma.

  “Let’s let them be alone for a minute,” my father said.

  When we reached my room the Wild One was playing “Save the Last Dance for Me,” and at that moment it seemed the saddest thing in the world.

  “Do you want to get behind the wheel and drive me up to the Convenient?” said my father.

  “I was thinking about the Youth Center,” I said. “It’s still early.”

  My father closed the door.

  “Everyone is there,” I heard myself say.

  “I’m sorry it worked out this way for you, son,” he said. “Was she very pretty?”

  “Who?” I whispered.

  “The one you wanted to be with.”

  “It was stupid even to think she could be interested in me,” I said.

  My father turned out the light and pulled back the curtain from my window.

  “Grandma has cancer,” he said. “It has spread, so there’s nothing they can do.”

  “So she’s going to die, just like Grampa did?” I said.

  “Don’t blame yourself, George,” my father said. “You didn’t know.”

  He cupped his hands around his eyes so he could see into the darkness. Then he motioned me over.

  “Look up into the sky,” he said. “When somebody dies, his energy is not destroyed. It just changes form, like soil into green growth and green growth into soil. The energy persists through eternity; you can see it glowing wherever you look.”

  “But it will never come back again as Grampa or Grandma, will it?” I said.

  “The church says in heaven,” said my father, but I knew he did
not believe in church.

  “I mean here on Earth,” I said.

  “Odds are pretty long against that,” my father said.

  I ENDED UP DECIDING to spend one last night in the old house in Abbeville, feeling that I had found something, or it had found me. I called to check in with Julie.

  “Are you doing any better?” she asked.

  “We’re going to be fine,” I said.

  “I never doubted that,” she said.

  “That’s why,” I said. “How is Rob?”

  “He’s down on himself, what with school about to start.”

  “I’ll have more time with him now,” I said.

  “I think that would help,” she said.

  “Not to mention more time with you,” I said.

  “Big opportunities there for being fine,” she said.

  Upstairs the featherbed enwrapped me like Julie’s arms, and I fell asleep quickly even though it was just getting dark.

  It was not a sound that awakened me but rather the absence of sound: no rumble that precedes a train, no breeze through the window, no air conditioner, no sirens, no fan. Not even a buzzing street-lamp. Surely some animals must have been on the prowl, but if they were, they moved in wild silence.

  At some point I realized that my only hope of respite was to get up and walk. Outside, the moon was just beginning to rise, showing the outlines of things: the X’s of the rail crossing, the tall pyramid of the church steeple. My footsteps on the macadam sounded as loud as strokes of a hammer. I did not want to awaken anyone, so I moved onto the grass where I could walk with a more nocturnal tread. I passed the empty church whose stained-glass windows a few years ago I had paid a fortune to refurbish, the preacher’s house, then out beyond the edge of town, where I returned to the pavement.

  When I got to the cemetery I sat with my back to Grampa’s favorite tree. The moon was not in the right position, so I moved until it rose over their stone.

  NOT LONG BEFORE GRANDMA went to the nursing home two girls showed up at my house early one evening unannounced. One of them was Julie Cummings, the other Judy Jameson, whose popularity had soared when she became the first in the class to get a driver’s license. I was trapped.