by Paul Hawkins
He paused, weighed me in his gaze for a moment. But then he agreed. He seemed surprised at how easy it was to get up from his chair. His crowd of hangers-on did not bat an eye, and I always tell myself they probably did not notice until the tab came. For me it was an easy decision, a mechanical decision: I decided to help protect him from the swindlers, and from himself.
*
The day after Maye Weather's party, Mr. White's meeting with Atalanta clouded his head. He now tried aggressively to put her out of his mind and was successful until he realized she was putting him off as well. She had made no attempt to call or to contact him. It was impersonal. He wondered what flaws she saw in him and suspected he knew. "Get her out of your head," he said to empty air. He needed work and no distractions.
Later that day Mr. White stood with Otto on their back porch looking out at his dismal farm. They saw tilting gray stalks and the broken tractor and feral chickens in the dust.
"Makes you wonder where to begin," Mr. White said.
"Well, I know what you can forget about," Otto said. "The workmen refuse to finish your shed."
"You mean my office?"
"Yes. Rumor spread that you had Maye call the sheriff on those workmen at the party, and now they've organized a boycott of your place. That little incident fed into the perception that you think you're better than everyone else around here."
"Balderdash."
"I know, but that's the word that's gotten around. The carpenters won't come out and finish the project. And the plumber has canceled. I could go on."
"Please don't. This is unfortunate, considering..."
"Yes, considering..?"
Mr. White found something to focus on at the horizon. "Well, because the important people in town saw fit to ignore my party, I decided to show I didn't need them. So I got on the phone and invited some genuinely important people to come out to come visit me to celebrate my return to the States."
Otto scowled. "You didn’t really, didn't you?"
Mr. White nodded. "Yes I did. I was drunk and it was foolish, but they're due to arrive in a few days. Do you think the strike will be over by then?"
"With your money and these tough times, I'm sure you could break the strike, but you would never be respected here again."
"Like I'm respected now? But yes, I know you're right." He turned and fixed Otto with his gaze. "So what should I do?"
Otto frowned. "Well, Mr. White, for starters, you should call up those folks you invited and tell them the party is off – if there's still time."
"Excellent idea," Ernest said. "It'll take some quick work. I have people coming in from Chicago, Pittsburgh, St. Louis, New York, Sacramento, Buenos Aires. The list of invitees is on my bureau, and you know where the telephone is. Let me know how it goes." He strode off quickly.
For the next several hours Otto sat at a desk with a piece of paper in front of him and the telephone at his elbow. By the end of the afternoon he was able to announce that he had successfully contacted and called off all of the invitees except two: the Professor and Woody Guthrie.
"Woody Guthrie?" Mr. White asked. "He's the one I least expected to accept. As for the Professor, I'm inclined to think his visit is a godsend. He did design my museum after all – certainly he'll be able to help me finish my shed."
"You mean your ‘office’?"
"Yes. The man's a genius. The Nazi's had no idea what they doing when they chased him away."
"I'm inclined to think they did."
"Well, yes – I meant the opposite of what I said. I think." He let a spoonful of beet soup trickle from his spoon. "The Professor's liberty is certainly their loss. Shouldn't doubt he'll be the one to strike upon an invention that eventually wins the war against them."
Otto tilted his head measuredly. "I'm sure you'll enjoy his company. Just don't set too high an expectation for his carpentry skills. I have a feeling he is the kind of man who is more at home in the realm of the abstract."
Mr. White tore off a piece of bread. "Nonsense! His cerebral power runs the gamut, from soup to nuts, the entire chain of being." He clapped his hands together. "Good God, I can't wait till he comes!"
*
Two days later a train arrived carrying the two distinguished passengers. The first man who got off was bent and wore a grey worsted wool suit in spite of the blazing heat. He had salt-and-pepper hair, wore round steel glasses, and had on fingerless gloves. He stood on the boardwalk of the depot and blinked at his surroundings through thick lenses.
The man who got off immediately behind him was younger and gaunt. His features looked like rain-etched creek banks. His cheeks were hollow. He wore clothes much like ones White had purchased from a catalog for his scarecrow. A guitar was slung on his back and he carried a duffel in his hand. He held a beaten leather satchel in the other, and he set it down beside the other man, who looked up and thanked him.
"Gentlemen!" Mr. White said, stepping forward and holding his arms out wide. Otto stood a few paces behind him. The heads of Woody Guthrie and The Professor turned toward them. People moving past the depot turned to look.
"Ernest" Woody Guthrie said. "You look as healthy as I expected. Decadence suits you."
"It's not as easy being a capitalist as it once was. There are more rules."
"The great social experiment's outpacing you, I fear - but don't worry - I'll ask the workers' to be kind to you after the revolution."
"Thanks. About that - you see, I have this shed and septic tank...but we can discuss it later." He then turned his attention to the other man. "Welcome Professor. The sophistication of New York is far behind, I fear. But Otto has a room set up the way you like it."
The Professor flashed a benevolent glow at Otto. "I remember you, of course. You are a rare kind man."
Otto smiled. "It's a privilege, Professor." He took up the bags of Woody Guthrie and the Professor, and the four men made their way to the car in a cloud of chatter.
Mr. White and Otto got their two guests settled quickly. Over the next few days Woody took to writing in his journal, composing songs, and making many visits to friends in the region. Ernest acquainted the Professor with the local lore and showed him sites significant to the region's geological and archaeological history, many of which were destined to be flooded by the upcoming lake.
"Is there no plan for their preservation?" the Professor asked.
"The plan is to excavate as many sites as quickly as possible. The university has crews of students at sites up and down the valley, as does the WPA. They've just found habitations along the river bank that are up to 6000 years old. The sin is that there's not more time."
The older man agreed and took pictures of significant objects.
In between trips to historical sites, White and the Professor would often spend hours hunched over plans for his museum, pointing out details and moving cardboard cut-outs around inside the blueprint:
"I think a fourth century stele would go well here." Ernest said.
"Fourth? Or fifth, rather, don't you think. Fifth or nothing, I say."
"Yes, fifth - of course! What was I thinking? It's good to have you here, Professor."
*
Once rumor got around that Woody Guthrie was in town, the musician began to feel obliged to put on a public performance, and in truth he was glad to do so. It was announced in the paper that he would be holding a show. A band of local musicians volunteered their accompaniment and he graciously accepted.
The performance created an awkward situation for Mr. White. The event made him confront the problem of Atalanta once more. Was he expected to invite her? Was he expected to ignore her? Was he expected to invite her so she could ignore him? In the end, he decided that silence offered too many avenues for misinterpretation. So he decided he would break the silence and ask Atalanta to go to the concert with him.
Late afternoon one day he drove over to her house - a small, blueish wooden house set beneath a stand of trees at one corner of a tapering stree
t. He stopped his car, turned off the ignition, and walked across the green blue lawn. He saw her in the fenceless yard out back, taking laundry from the line. She hardly looked like the elegant vision from the night of the party. Her hair was pulled back in a haphazard bun and her lilac cotton dress was faded. Her face was set hard to her work.
She saw him coming. The laundry billowed in the breeze as she pulled at the pins.
"Hello," he said with forced indifference as he came up with big strides. "Woody Guthrie is going to be giving a concert tomorrow night."
"That's nice."
He glimpsed her face but she kept moving to interpose the laundry between them. A threadbare pink towel caught the wind and slapped him. Finally Mr. White just shouted out his question:
"I was wondering if you'd like to go with me?"
She shook her head, took the pins out of her mouth, and dropped them in the basket with the laundry. She marched a straight line for the back porch.
"We should not be seen in public together," she said.
"Why not?"
"Look, it's complicated and I need time. I have things I need to take care of."
"That's not an answer," he called at her heels.
She spun around and looked at him with yellow fire in her sharp brown eyes. It made him stop in his tracks. "I’ve given you my answer and you're not a prosecuting attorney, E.L. When a woman gives you answer like that, you should let it be. Honestly, Ernest. Haven't you learned a thing about women from being all around the world?"
"Not about American women."
She put down the basket and rested her hands on her hips. "Look, you go and entertain your guests and help Woody put on his show. It sounds like a rare, profitable investment of your time. I'll be fine. And you'll be fine – you always are."
He stared at the ground. "You realize I have no idea where we stand."
She pushed the screen door open and held it with her foot while she picked the basket back up. "You have to trust me, Ernest – I have things I have to do. And you have things you need to decide."
"What's that supposed to mean?"
She looked at him. "Do you want to know the truth? I think you came back here because you want to die."
"What?"
"You're a shambles. You need to decide what you want to do, Ernest. I don't have time for discussions like this."
She went inside and the door slammed. He stood and stared at it for a while. Then he joylessly jingled his keys in his hand, frowned, and walked back to his car with a deep uneasiness inside him. He was glad of the distraction of Woody and the Professor.
And indeed the days mellowed from their initial exuberance into a routine of conversations and chores. One afternoon found Woody helping Otto planting tomato plants out back. Otto knew nothing about them but he was following Woody's instructions.
"He's going to let them all die, isn't he?" Woody asked.
"Most likely," Otto agreed. "They'll either wither up or he'll over water them."
Woody paused and looked at Otto while leaning on the handle of his hoe. "Look here," he said, "Have you ever thought it might be time for you to start looking out for yourself?"
Otto continued tamping dirt around the most recent transplant. "Well, he needs somebody. The vultures were picking him apart before I came along – purse-poor royalty, high-toned artists who seldom lifted a paint brush – all trying to get after his wallet. But truth be told now that we're back in the USA I'm inclined to go live near my family again."
"No one could blame a man for that."
"Ernest could. He could make me feel guilty about even entertaining such an idea."
Woody stood up and wiped his forehead beneath the blazing sun and stared at him. "Look, it's good to be compassionate, but don't be so devoted that you don't look out for yourself too – a man's got to take hold of his own life."
Otto nodded.
"Now this may be the pot calling the kettle black, but I think that employer of yours is a bit flighty."
Otto smiled. "I've heard about your flightiness, too, Mr. Guthrie, but you certainly have talent. Don't bash your fingers doing yard work before the show."
Woody grinned, then bent back down to his work.
*
One afternoon, when the light had grown so white and blossomy and torpid that even the contemplation of cardboard stele had become a nearly overwhelming exertion, White turned to the Professor and asked, "Do you believe there could be madwomen of the hills, Professor?"
He rejoined dreamily. "What’s that?"
"Madwomen of the hills – you know, like women in the town, only madder."
The Professor thought, then spoke. "Well Ernest, to understand the concept you must first accept the premise that, for every type or character in town, there is a broader and wilder version of the same in the country, and they are there rather than here precisely for the reason that they cannot abide even the most basic rules of civility. If they exist, they do so because they have untethered themselves from convention; the sky is their roof and the wind their riding crop. They imagine that world is theirs and you are but a chess piece in it, and they play chess with no rule other than a marked affection for the "horsey," and this bit of nonsense should provide as good a clue as any to the disproportion and disorder of their minds."
White thought hard. "Someone said one of them might like me. I am upset."
The Professor frowned. "I would not over-worry. If such a woman has a shine for you, it may well be ethereal, sublime, and harmless. It may not require requiting, or requisition, or whatever the word is. You may be no more than an agitation for her fancy, an idea that would only be ruined by reality, the pearl to her oyster, a bauble for her babble. But consider this, Ernest: tutored by Nature, and unfettered from magazines and advertising, such women could in fact be... extraordinary."
White’s gaze widened in the blousy heat and stupor. "Gosh, Professor."
The Professor looked back at him with a glint of glasses. "Really, Ernest – you have always been an easy mark. I was giving you the bull shit."
White’s eyes lidded quickly and his jaw snapped shut. He cast a sharp but not unfriendly glance at his companion. "My but you’ve picked up the vernacular quickly."
"I like the term – it’s apt and useful."
"In any case, congratulations – you got me, Professor."
"It’s because I know you, Ernest. At the bottom of it all, if nothing else ever proves true there’s this: you’ve always had a weakness for the sirens, and the fancy that when you’re finally done, you’ll collapse into the arms of the Lady of the Lake."
White nodded. The Professor smiled and resigned himself back into the heat and languor, and White imagined the day when he would finally, fatally, faultlessly fall into the mercies a benevolent wad of cotton and someone would tell him he’d fought the good fight, and he would be surrounded by perfume, and everything white would turn to gold.
Chapter 6
Having guests in his house helped take White’s mind off of itself, and in truth he felt himself relax a little bit. He let the days pass without his typical fervent impatience, and he even got out his set of oils paints and went to work on a canvas he set up behind his house, making a study of the dry fields and the line of trees and hint of hills behind them. He would dab at the canvas, stand back and appraise it and nod thoughtfully, but as his work progressed he increasingly frowned. Finally he got lazy and accidentally made the sun too big, so he loaded his paintbrush with every bright color on his palette and drew big angry circles round and round it with his fist. When Otto asked what it was, White barked "L'Orange de Monstre," or "The Monster Orange." Once he heard the title come out of his mouth he cheered up. It was ambiguous and fine. Otto made a mental note to put the masterpiece up in the attic with all the others. He then followed White back into the kitchen.
Suddenly the back screen door flew open and the Professor ran up to Ernest. "I have discovered something I want to show you!" he said.�
� The Professor grabbed Ernest’s sleeve and led him outside and across a field, down the road for a quarter mile or so, then up a dirt trail and past a stand of chattering cottonwoods. There on the other side was an airstrip and a small yellow airplane.
"Oh - that's the cropduster's place. He does a lot of jobs for folks around here."
"She does."
"She?"
A woman of about sixty came out from behind the plane. She had on a man's old leather jacket. She was tall and fit one could see a steely tint in her eyes that gave her dignity and composure. She removed her pilot's helmet and loosened her fading red hair.
She noticed Mr. White and the Professor, smiled, and stepped forward to shake White's hand.
"Hello, Mr. White. We have been neighbors too long for me to have put off an introduction. I'm Sara Owens. The jacket and the plane were my late husband's but I took them on long ago. I helped him with his career so long it was an easy role to step into."
Ernest smiled politely.
Sara walked next to the Professor and slapped an arm around his shoulder. "You have quite a house guest here. Josef heard a knocking noise in my engine when I flew over the last week, so he came to see where the plane landed. He introduced himself and said he thought I ought to lean out my fuel mixture, and sure enough had the engine humming like new again!"
"You know me, Ernest," the Professor said, "I like to be helpful."
"The fresh air seems to be good for him," Sara said. "He looks ten years younger than when I first saw him."
Mr. White noticed that in her proximity the Professor did look younger. And he had taken to standing up straight. In fact, the two of them side-by-side looked instantly compatible, and he had a dawning realization that he was looking at a partnership.
"He has been telling me such interesting stories," Sara said. "He is the most pleasant company. He has let me see things in the world and in history I've never seen from my little postage stamp of experience. And in turn I've tried to put some color in his cheeks. The other day I even let him fly the plane."
"It was fascinating, Ernest!" the Professor said. "The view of this country, from the sky, is remarkable. I feel alive again."
"I didn't know you were dead."
The Professor frowned. "Too sardonic, Ernest – too sardonic! We're all dead until we choose to live."
