Barbara began to brush bits of leaves and grass from her clothes. Carl watched. Presently he made a move to help, patting her gingerly with his big broad hand.
Barbara stopped, rigid.
“Did I hit you?” Carl said.
“No. I’m jumpy.”
They looked at each other. Barbara smiled a little. Carl circled around her. “I’m sorry if I hit you.”
“No. You didn’t.” She finished brushing herself off. “Come on. Back down to civilization.”
Carl nodded, falling in beside her. They made their way back the direction they had come.
“I didn’t hurt your feelings, did I?” Barbara asked.
“No.”
She glanced at him. He was trudging along, his eyes on the ground, his face blank. Was he mad at her? Had she hurt his feelings? It was hard to tell; she knew so little about him.
“Watch your step,” Carl murmured.
Dirt and leaves rained down the slope ahead of them, dislodged by Carl’s huge shoes. He jumped down onto some big roots, helping her down beside him. He was strong. She could feel how strong he was. It was in his hands and arms. In his shoulders. She had felt it when he tried to brush her off. He had struck at her awkwardly, clumsily. Like some sort of big kindly animal. It was the strength of youth. Carl was very young.
But not really so young. Not much younger than she was. She had forgotten how young she was; she had thought for so long about her age, not her youth. Carl was not more than a few years younger than she. Not even that much. They were almost the same age. It was hard to believe, but it was so.
They were the same age, but their lives had not been the same. What kind of life had Carl lived? Books and stamps and microscope slides. A world of ideas. But that was not all. If it had been all, Carl would have gone on and become a biologist. He would still be peering through his microscope at his slides. No, there was more. He had lost faith in those things. Not completely but somewhat. Enough so that he had given up his way of life. His roomful of stamps and books and maps and whatever else he had mentioned.
And in their place, what? What instead? What had he done? What had there been that he had not told her about? She watched him as he strode down, kicking dirt and leaves out of his way. It was hard to tell about him. Maybe he had done things he had not told her about. Things with women. But it was hard to imagine him with a woman. Very hard. It was not possible. He would have run away. She tried to picture him, the great blond boy, his cheeks red, his heart beating—
It could never happen. He would run off.
But she had been mistaken about another man. She had not understood him, and her misunderstanding had worked against her. This other man had appealed to her, too. But he had been very different from Carl. He had not been large; Verne was small and slender. And he was older, not younger than she. Verne was not some friendly, excited animal. He was crafty and cynical, behind his horn-rimmed glasses, with his pipe and his talk and his thin, nervous hands.
She had learned a lot from Verne. There was no getting around that. It had made her wary. She would never go to another man the way she had gone to Verne, naked and warm and blushing, ready to be taken. Taken so easily, as if it were nothing. It would never happen that way again. She was much too wary, now. No man would have her like that again.
But Carl wasn’t a man. He was a boy, a huge, excited boy. It was not the same thing at all. Carl had come to a ledge and was waiting for her, looking up anxiously at her, his big face full of alarm. She smiled down at him, down at his warm blue eyes, so innocent and concerned.
“Thanks,” she murmured.
It was not the same at all. She reached out, and Carl took hold of her hands. Barbara jumped down, gasping. She came to rest beside him, panting and flushed. They were getting to the bottom, down onto level ground again. Carl was still holding onto her hands, gripping her hands tightly with his own. She did not pull away.
“We’re almost there,” Carl said.
Barbara nodded. His hands felt good, wrapped all around her own. She stood quietly, head down a little, by the great blond boy. This was so different, so far removed from all the things that had come before. All the things that had happened to her. It was nice, the pressure of his hands, the cold wind moving through the trees and bushes around them. The silence. No one to bother them. They were completely alone.
Barbara closed her eyes. She felt her body relax. Her arms, her shoulders, her face muscles were beginning to loosen. Her whole frame seemed to be giving away. Like a heated candle it seemed to be melting down, dissolving, a sudden softness creeping through every part of her. What an odd feeling! Would her arms come off, her fingers drop off, now that there was no support, no form on which they could be fastened?
She felt shaky, unsteady on her feet. Inside her all her parts were oozing and thawing. Her organs, the organs of her body, must be bleeding. Blood must be running down them, dripping and dropping, forming puddles and pools, warm and thick. What an awful thought! But that was the way it felt The melting of her insides continued. She thought of the old fairy story about the princess who had a heart of stone. A heart of rock, hard, heavy, lodged inside her like shot.
Her whole body was like this heart. And now it was dissolving back into blood and liquid, wavering and swimming into itself, murky and heated. Heated from underneath, like a caldron bubbling in some witch’s cave.
“Are you all right?” Carl said. “You look so strange.”
“I’m all right.”
She thought how the sun had set fire to her that morning, when she had awakened and found her room warm and bright, rays of sunlight streaming across her, across her bed. Heat was good. It drove off the cold and wet. Cold and wet—She felt suddenly terrified. In cold and wet she might rust or freeze. She needed the sun. Something had to be there, shining around her, warming her, driving off the dampness. Something from outside. The internal fire was not enough. It did not stay long enough to melt everything.
Barbara set her lips. Already, she could feel her organs settling back into their cold shapes. The warmth in her was exhausted, worn out. It was leaving again, as quickly as it had come. The cold was seeping back.
She shuddered. “It’s cold.”
“Yes. We better go.” Carl took his hands away.
“Wait.”
He stopped, questioningly.
“Wait. For me.” She stepped quickly down beside him, walking close by him. “The god damn wind.”
“Oh.”
Barbara rubbed her arms. “I’m freezing. When we get back we can fix coffee.”
“All right.”
“Carl, don’t go so fast. Wait for me.”
Carl slowed down, waiting for her to catch up with him. He was so big—he moved so quickly, crashing down the slope. She was afraid, of the cold wind, the rows of twisted, silent trees. There was no one around for miles. Only silent trees and wind and the fog coming down from the sky, blotting out the sun. Suppose Carl left her? Suppose they got separated? Suppose she were left behind?
“Damn it!” Barbara said. “I can’t walk as fast as you can.”
“Sorry.”
She was breathing quickly, her face flushed. Carl glanced at her, puzzled. She was walking with her head down, stepping carefully. Was she angry at him again? What had he done this time? Carl shook his head. It was hard to tell, with her. Maybe he had read too long.
“We’ll be down soon,” he murmured.
She nodded.
“I guess we stayed up here too long. I lose track of time when I’m reading. That’s a funny thing. The way time gets longer or shorter, depending on what you’re doing. Like at the dentist’s office. Every second seems like an hour.”
He glanced at her but she said nothing.
“That’s not just an illusion,” he murmured. “As I recall, Einstein mentions it in his theory. About how time is elastic.”
They walked in silence.
“Next time we won’t have to stay so long.�
� Carl gripped his package sadly against him. “I’m sorry I made you stay so long. I can see you’re mad at me.”
“I’m not mad.”
“I can tell.”
“How?”
“By the way you look.”
“How do I look?”
“Your face is red and you’re not saying anything. That means you’re mad. Maybe I should throw the whole thing away. Maybe that would be best.” Carl lifted up the brown package. “I think I’ll throw it as far as I can. I used to be pretty good at discus throwing. In school I was second on our team.”
He stopped, legs wide apart, body bent to one side, the package swinging back and forth. He closed one eye, his body tense. He took careful aim.
“Watch. I’m going to throw it over that group of trees. I used to be able to heave things that far.”
“Are you sure you want to do it?”
Carl hesitated, wavering slightly. “Will you let me read some more of it to you?”
Barbara laughed. “Of course.”
Broad smiles broke out all over Carl’s face. “I guess I won’t do it, then.” He put the manuscript back under his arm. “I’ll keep it a while longer.”
“That’s good.”
“You’re not mad at me any more. Your face isn’t flushed with rage.”
“Really?”
“I guess you’ve decided to forgive me.” Carl was beginning to regain his enthusiasm. “I’m glad. I can’t see why people stay mad. Quick to anger, quick to forgive. The Irish are that way. That’s the only way to be. You should never allow emotion to cloud your rational mind for very long. It’s impossible to make decisions when you’re emotionally dominated. Emotion is like liquor or drugs. It distorts reality for you. You can’t see clearly.”
“Is that so?”
“Someday I’m going to make a study of things like that. The non-rational influences that overcome man.”
Suddenly Barbara stopped. “Look.”
“What? What is it?”
“It’s Verne.”
Somebody was coming across the plowed slope toward them, walking slowly across the brown soil Verne gazed up at them through his glasses as he came nearer, his hands in his pockets, his pipe between his teeth.
“Greetings,” he said, stopping.
Carl’s joy faded. “Hello, Verne,” he murmured.
“What you been doing? You’re all over leaves and bits of grass.” Verne brushed Carl’s shoulder.
“We’ve been reading,” Carl said.
“Well, well.”
“Come on,” Barbara said, continuing down the slope. “Let’s go.”
The two men followed her.
“You’re going back with us?” Carl asked Verne.
“Might as well. Nothing else to do.”
“What were you doing out here?”
“Just wandering around. Did you have a good time with your treatise?”
“All right.”
“Good.”
“We’re going to fix something to eat.”
Verne showed interest. “Really? Sounds interesting. What sort of something? I might come along.”
“Come along if you want,” Carl said indifferently.
“Thank you.”
“I thought you said you had work to do.”
“Oh, I finished that.”
Carl said nothing for a while. At the bottom of the slope Barbara stopped and waited for him and Verne to catch up with her. She noticed that his joy had fled.
“Why the glum look?”
“No reason.”
“I’ll tell you what. Would you feel better if I fixed you some waffles?”
Carl brightened. “Sure. That would be fine.”
“We don’t have a waffle iron,” Verne said sourly. “We already went through that, once.”
The three of them went on, back toward the Company grounds.
13
BY EVENING THE fog had come in over all the world. Verne carried a big floor lamp from the manager’s house over to the dorm. He plugged it in by his bed and clicked it on.
“That’s a lot more cheery,” Carl said. He went to the windows and pulled the shades down, one by one. The room filled with yellow light from the floor lamp.
Verne kicked off his shoes and stretched out on his bed, picking up a book. He found his place, adjusting his glasses and pushing the pillow behind him.
“I guess I’ll go to bed,” Carl said.
“Fine.”
“I can’t think of anything else to do.” Carl sat down and untied his shoe laces. He unbuttoned his shirt and tossed it over a chair.
“Fine,” Verne murmured.
Carl got his pajamas out. He finished undressing and began to put the pajamas on.
After a while Verne looked up from his book. “Have a good time today?”
“Sure.”
Verne lowered his book. He contemplated Carl for a long time without speaking. It made Carl feel uneasy. He finished putting on his pajamas and moved aimlessly around the room, picking up things and laying them down.
“Sure I had a good time. It’s nice to have someone to read my concepts to. I don’t often get the chance.”
“Everything go all right? Did she listen?”
“Of course.” Carl lifted his bedcovers back. “I guess I’ll go to bed. I’m tired. I think I’ll lie in bed and meditate. I’ve noticed that you can think more clearly while you’re laying in bed. Your mind is freer from strain.”
He got into bed.
Verne continued to study him. Carl pulled up his covers around his chin. He lay on his back, gazing up at the ceiling above him.
“Are you meditating now?” Verne asked.
“I’m just beginning.”
“How does it feel?”
“Very restful.” Carl closed his eyes. “After I’ve meditated for a long time I drift slowly to sleep. There’s no sudden break between meditation and sleep.”
“I can believe that.”
“You wouldn’t mind moving your light around just a little, would you? It’s easier to do this when there’s not so much light.”
Verne moved the lamp back.
“Thanks. That’s a lot better.” Carl took several deep breaths, trying to relax. But he did not seem to be able to relax. After a while he opened his eyes again. Verne had picked up his book and was reading.
How small Verne was. Small and thin. His wrists were nothing but bone. A little dried-up thing, sitting on the bed, reading silently.
“What’s the book?” Carl asked presently.
“Three Soldiers. Dos Passos.”
“Is it good?”
“It’s all right. I’ve read it before.”
“You’re reading it again?” Carl sat up in bed. “How come?”
“I enjoy it.”
“What’s it about?”
“The First World War.”
“It’s a war novel?”
Verne sighed. He slid off the bed, getting slowly to his feet. “Here.” He tossed the book over onto Carl’s bed. “If you want to read it, go ahead. It isn’t mine, I picked it up while I was in the manager’s house.”
Carl picked up the book and examined it. “I’d like to read it sometime.”
“Fine.”
Carl watched Verne, mildly astonished. Verne was getting ready to go to bed. He unfastened his shirt cuffs and removed his glasses.
“You’re going to bed?”
“That’s right.”
“Because of me?”
Verne considered. “No. No, not because of you.”
“Why, then?”
Verne grunted. He unbuttoned his shirt and tossed it over the back of a chair. For a time he stood scratching himself, yawning and blinking. He looked very odd without his glasses. There were circles around his eyes, wrinkles and lines. He gazed half-blindly ahead of him, as if he could barely see. His chest was small and thin, with almost no hair on it. He was scrawny.
Carl felt a pang of pity. �
�You know, you should get out in the sun more. You should exercise.”
“Christ,” Verne said, in the middle of a yawn. He set his jaw. After a moment he reached around and found his glasses. He fitted them back into place. “Maybe I don’t want to go to bed after all.”
“If you’re not sure you can sleep then don’t go to bed. That’s what causes most insomnia. People going to bed just because they feel it’s time to go to bed, when they don’t really feel sleepy.”
Verne nodded absently, looking around the room.
“You could tell me about Jackson Heights, Maryland,” Carl asked.
“Why?”
“Didn’t you tell me you came from there? I’d like to hear about it.”
“Why do you want to know about it?”
“I’m always interested in places I’ve never been.”
“You wouldn’t be interested in Jackson Heights.”
“How do you know?”
“No one is.” Verne picked up his shirt and began to put it back on again.
“You’re not going to bed?”
“No.”
“What are you going to do?”
“I don’t know. Walk around outside for a while.”
“It’s cold outside. Wait until daytime so you can get a tan. A good healthy tan wouldn’t look bad on you. We could do something. Can you play chess? I have a pocket chess set.”
“Oh?”
Carl sprang out of bed. “They’re fun. The men all lock into place. You can close up the board and leave the men where they are. Then you can finish the game later on. I use it to work out chess problems. You see chess problems in all the newspapers.”
He rummaged in his dresser drawer, looking for the little chess set.
“Never mind,” Verne said wearily. “I’m going outside anyhow.” He moved toward the door, rolling up his shirt sleeves.
Carl straightened up. “Verne—Can I ask you something?”
“What is it?”
“You’re not mad because Barbara and I went up into the hills, are you?”
“Why should I be mad?”
“Well, you knew her in the past. You’re old friends. And I hardly know her at all. And—” He hesitated, smiling. “And after all, I’m so much younger than either of you two.”
Gather Yourselves Together Page 21
