Slow Waltz in Cedar Bend

by Robert James Waller

  Michael paced the classroom, tossing a piece of chalk up and down in his right hand. “Consider, for a moment, the nature of systemic problems, the elements of a puzzling issue and the subtle, intricate relationships among those elements. What we must do is learn how to overcome what I long ago began to call the Archimedean Dilemma.” He always hesitated at this point and looked out at the class. “Who, by the way, was Archimedes?” They all focused on their notebooks, pretending to be doing something.

  He pushed and prodded, and finally a young man (bad complexion, front row) said hesitantly, “Wasn’t he some kind of scientist or something?”

  Michael gave them a two-minute capsule on the life and times of the Greek mathematician. After that, he picked up the thread of the lecture again. “Archimedes said, ‘Give me a lever and a place to stand, and I will move the world.’ That’s what structural modeling is all about, finding a lever, a place to stand, an angle of entry into complexity.” He paused, thinking of Jellie, while the students wrote in their notebooks and wondered if he would ask about Archimedes on the first examination.

  During the second week of school he was looking out the window while covering a fine point in Boolean algebra, looking at nothing except the quaver of now turning leaves in the wind of September, and saw her. At first it didn’t register, since he was working hard at getting the students to appreciate the intellectual leavings of one George Boole, the nineteenth-century mathematician who took formal logic up about fifty notches. But the long-legged walk and tweed cap finally got his attention—Jellie. He stopped talking, he wasn’t sure how long, and watched her wind along a sidewalk, knapsack over her shoulder. Jellie from a distance, always from a distance. When she moved out of sight, he turned back to the class. They were all looking at him in a strange kind of way. His face, maybe, or his body. They saw something, in his eyes or the momentary sag of his shoulders, and they knew they hadn’t seen it before. Michael glanced at the wall clock. Five minutes to go. “That’ll be all for today,” he said. As he scraped up lecture notes from the desk in front, they filed out, some of them giving him sidelong glances and talking to one another. A young woman whispered, “Did you see how he looked? What happened to him all of a sudden?”

  Michael hadn’t realized how much it showed. Jellie was right in believing they had to stay apart. Aside from protecting themselves from each other, people would start to pick up on how they felt, even if they were merely in the same room together. He’d been looking at advertisements for faculty positions in the Chronicle, but at his salary and rank it would be difficult to make a move. Besides, with his mother’s health declining, he felt a responsibility to stay in the middle of the country and not be too far from her. Still there might be something somewhere that met his requirements and took him away from the town where Jellie Braden lived.

  It’s hard to say where all this might have gone if it hadn’t been for the ducks. Probably to the same place by a different route. The history of the situation is this: University presidents relish new buildings, so do Boards of Education. Bingley Hall was just fine—old, but with a patina of learning and struggle rubbed into its corridors and heavy in its air. Still, the president decided one of his premier colleges needed a new building. Presidents don’t bequeath knowledge or grateful students to the world, they leave behind bricks and mortar. Whether those bricks and mortar are actually necessary is irrelevant. The important thing is to get money and build buildings carrying the names either of heavy donors to the university or members of the administration who served the university loyally, though not necessarily brilliantly. The Arthur J. Wilcox College of Business and Economics—you could see the lettering in the dean’s rodentlike eyes as he scooted around Bingley Hall with rolled-up blueprints clutched in his sweaty paws. Fat chance.

  The money could have been used for faculty salaries or student financial aid, but that’s never in the cards. As the president was fond of saying, privately, of course, “It’s much easier to get money for buildings than it is for faculty salaries.” But, in spite of hard economic times in the state, the board floated a bond issue and ponied up $18 million for a new building. That had occurred the previous winter, and final construction plans were now being drawn.

  Arthur posted emerging versions of the plans in the coffee room for everyone to slobber over. Michael was standing there looking at an updated set and noticed the location of the new building had been moved fifty yards from its original site. “They’re going to put the sonuvabitch right over the duck pond,” he said to no one in particular. The other faculty members present looked at him in a way that said, “So what?”

  Michael went to see Arthur and explained to him the rather neat and profound role the pond played in the traditions of the campus. It wasn’t much in terms of water area, elliptically shaped and maybe a hundred feet long by fifty feet wide. But it was home for little geezers with orange legs who looked at Michael when he walked by and went “Quack” when he grinned and said hello to them.

  It was also a place for moonlight walks and tender thoughts, a place where ten thousand engagement rings had been slipped over shaking fingers through the years, not to mention various other assignations getting a little more carnal late at night. When Michael looked out his office window, he could see the ducks on their pond a block away, and often he had found solace in that when dealing with education gone berserk.

  But guys like Arthur J. Wilcox have no appreciation for tradition, it’s not tangible enough. Michael talked hard, but it didn’t register. Arthur just kept saying, “But, Michael, we need a new building.”

  “What about the ducks?” Michael was angry. “Where will they go? Are we going to build a new eighteen-million-dollar pond for them, too?”

  Arthur didn’t understand ducks, either. You could see it on his face. That and the plain wish Michael would just go away and leave him alone with his blueprints.

  Michael was pretty sure he wouldn’t have raised as much hell about the duck pond as he did if he hadn’t been half-crazed with sorting out his feelings in those days, trying to push Jellie far back and out of his mind and failing in that attempt. He worked his way up through the provost, who didn’t understand ducks any better than Arthur. Stomping past Clarice’s desk on his way out of the provost’s office, he turned around, then talked with her for a moment.

  Next he made an appointment to see the president. Michael laid out his case: Move the building, keep the duck pond. The prez was smooth. Years of dealing with demented faculty and recalcitrant alumni who stapled their checkbooks shut when they saw him coming had provided him with a sheen and style worthy of the very best (or worst, depending on your point of view) slithering public relations man.

  “Professor Tillman, I do understand your concerns. Tradition is important, I agree with you. But in evolving times we must sometimes cast off our old traditions and establish new ones. I like ducks, too. In fact, I’m a member of Ducks Unlimited and go duck hunting every fall.”

  Michael was wondering if, in addition to professional incompetence and moral degradation, presidential dismemberment was sufficient cause for loss of tenure.

  One of the best students Michael ever had went on to law school and stayed in Cedar Bend after graduating. Michael called him. “Gene, what can be done to prevent these clowns from pouring cement over ducks and tradition?”

  Gene always had a soft spot for radical causes, so he looked into it. He called back in two days, flat out saying the building couldn’t be halted by legal chicanery. Something to do with state law and a Board of Education master plan for masterful buildings and a master race.

  “Screw ’em, Gene. I’m going to plant myself right in the middle of that pond and make ’em drag me out with chains.”

  “Michael, I’ll defend you free of charge if you do it. But you’re going to lose. You’ll be better off spending your time looking for another home for the ducks.”

  Knowing bureaucrats hate bad publicity more than anything else, Michael w
rote a long article for the university newspaper, making what he thought was a powerful and eloquent plea to save the duck pond. That started a fair amount of debate over the whole affair, which drove Arthur dotty.

  Arthur went completely out of his mind when the longhairs from the Student Socialist Brigade made up signs reading “Save the Ducks” and began marching around Bingley Hall in their Birkenstocks. Recruiters from the Fortune 500 who were on campus interviewing savvy students told Arthur they were looking for good corporate citizens, not radicals. He took them over to the faculty club for cocktails and reassured them this was merely one of those periodic outbreaks coming down to us as a result of universities being too lenient in the sixties and it would soon be over. Afterward he took the recruiters to his office, unrolled his blueprints, and showed them all the wonderful space the new building would have for interview rooms. They liked that a lot better.

  The university newspaper was flooded for a few days with letters pro and con. One of the bookstores printed up T-shirts with the logo Ducks, Not Cement and sold them for twelve dollars each, proving once again capitalism can profit even from the concerns of its enemies. Michael was surprised to see Jellie write a letter to the newspaper in support of his position. It was a nice letter. And he knew it probably caused her trouble at home, since Jimmy had dropped by to talk with him about the issue and seemed utterly amazed, or perhaps bewildered, that Michael could get so worked up over eight or ten ducks.

  But nobody except Michael cared very much. The longhairs marched, Arthur fretted, and the earth-moving machinery was carted into position on the back of big, muddy trucks. Gambling on having a mild winter, the contractors would begin digging on the following Monday. Michael was sure the tame ducks wouldn’t know how to handle the filling of their pond and contacted the Humane Society. He and the society put a notice in the paper saying anyone who wanted to help in getting the ducks moved should show up early Saturday morning and be prepared to get wet.

  Light frost lay upon the grass of autumn when Michael rode the Shadow through early light and parked it by the pond. While he sat on the bike, taking one last look at tradition and little geezers who slap-slapped about on orange legs and flat feet, he noticed someone walking down the road toward the pond. Jellie. Jellie in the morning, Jellie at the duck pond. She wore old jeans and her hiking boots, a heavy sweater and a red stocking cap with Grownup printed on the front. Her hair was in a ponytail, and she was smiling as she walked toward him.

  “Hello, Michael. I came to help you find the ducks a new home.”

  He cared for her more at that moment than ever before.

  “Jellie… thanks for coming. It’s going to be something of a mess, I’m afraid. But the little folks need somewhere to go.”

  She walked over to him, wrapped both her arms around one of his, and leaned against the Shadow, putting her head against his shoulder. The physical contact was unnerving and surprised him, but he thought, Maybe we’re going to work it out and be friends, nothing more. He only thought that for a moment. Being merely Jellie’s friend and nothing more was impossible for him.

  The Humane Society troops pulled in, a professor from the biology department riding along with them. He had cages and a net that could be fired out over the pond with small rockets, which took him about twenty minutes to get set up. Jellie didn’t say much, Michael didn’t say much, watching the professor and his helpers from the Humane Society, all of whom wore chest-high rubber waders. They strung the rocket net along the shore while the ducks woke up and swam around in circles, alarmed and telling everyone who would listen about how they felt.

  Jellie and Michael walked over near the water where the professor was crouched, making adjustments on his apparatus. He straightened up and said, “Ready.” Everyone stood back while he threw bread crumbs onto the water. Alarm is one thing, bread crumbs are something else, and the ducks swam toward them, quacking. When the ducks came within range the biologist fired his rockets, which scared hell out of the ducks. But the net arched across the pond, went down past the face of a rising sun and over ten frightened ducks.

  The biologist waded into the water, motioning for the Humane Society to follow him. They got around on the pond side of the net, gently pushing the net and ducks toward shore. The professor obviously had done this before. He glanced up at Jellie and Michael. “We’ll hand you the ducks. You two can put them in the cages, very carefully, if you please.” So saying, he rolled up his sleeves and began reaching under the net, which now formed a small semicircle near the shore. It was all very crisp, easier than Michael had thought it would be. He and Jellie put the ducks in cages, Jellie petting them and talking in a low, sweet voice as she handled the terrified birds.

  The operation took less than ten minutes. The biologist rolled up his net while Michael and Jellie carried three cages to the Humane Society truck and put them in the back. A woman in a tan shirt with a Humane Society of the United States patch on it said, “We’re taking them out to Heron Lake north of town. You know where that is?”

  Michael nodded. “I’ll follow you on my bike.” He looked over at Jellie. “Want to come? There’s room in the truck, or you can ride with me.”

  She turned to the woman from the Humane Society. “We’ll meet you out there.” At that moment, Michael felt as if some kind of decision beyond transportation had been made.

  He kicked the Shadow’s starter and helped Jellie climb on behind him. She’d never been on a motorcycle before, so he gave her a twenty-second lecture on where to rest her feet and how to lean with him in the curves. She wrapped her arms around his waist and said, “This is fun, Michael,” as he pulled out behind the truck.

  The campus was quiet early on a Saturday, air warming rapidly, prodded on by a fat, red sun. The Shadow rolled smoothly down the streets of Cedar Bend and out into the countryside through tunnels of red and yellow leaves. Jellie’s arms tightened around Michael. He could feel her body tucked against his lower back and rear. They could be far into Minnesota by evening if he just let the Shadow run on toward wherever the highway went.

  They swung into the state park entrance, still following the Humane Society truck and its little cargo. Through the park and on to Heron Lake, lying cool and flat on a windless morning. The ducks were shown the water and knew what to do with it, waddling out of their cages and paddling around, looking for food. The biologist said, “It’ll take them a while to adjust. With all the people at the university handing out grub, they’re not used to foraging on their own. But I’ll check on them every few days. Eventually they’ll get accustomed to life out here. Portions of the lake stay open during winter.”

  This was the way it was meant to be, Michael was thinking as they rode back into town. Jellie and he, and the Shadow, and bright autumn mornings with the road out in front of them. Instead he was taking her home to James Lee Braden HI, who probably had tickets for the football game that afternoon. He glanced at his watch—eight-fifteen—it was going to be a long day and a long life.

  Jellie was trying to say something, but Michael couldn’t hear her over the wind and sound of the engine. He eased off the Shadow, letting it slow down and coast, and tilted his head back toward her. She put her fingers on the side of his neck, speaking in a soft voice, right into his ear: “Michael, can we go to your apartment?” He turned his head for an instant and looked into the gray eyes. She was half smiling, half not smiling. A strange, warm, loving look.

  He nodded and began to shake a little. She laid her cheek against his back and put her hand under his jacket and inside his shirt, moving it slowly back and forth over his chest and stomach. The Shadow took him toward home, as it had taken him there so many times over the years. And it took him and Jellie Bra-den toward a future he’d long ago decided would never come. When they got off the Shadow at his apartment, smoke from burning leaves was drifting through the neighborhood. In the distance voices were singing the university fight song at a morning pep rally.

  He held the door f
or her and they went inside, into the world of a man who lived alone and stayed mostly to himself. Dishes in the sink, a pair of jeans on the floor, streaks on the windows. Small kitchen, large living room, bedroom off through another door. In a corner of the living room nearest the kitchen was a scarred maple table where he took his meals. The three chairs around the table were each of a different kind and Goodwill rough. Plain, ceramic salt and pepper shakers sat on the table next to a stack of paper napkins.

  Near the table and along the wall was his work area. His desk was a nine-foot unfinished door laid across sawhorses. Brick-and-board bookcases flanked the desk, with one long board running over the top of it, holding reference books. In the middle of the desk was a computer, turned on and with words typed across the screen, cursor blinking. The far end of the desk held a stack of audio equipment, tapes in desultory piles on and next to the equipment.

  Jellie took off her stocking cap and laid her coat over the back of a chair. As she looked around, it struck her that she knew very little about Michael Tillman. More than that, she’d never been completely alone with him. “I think I need a drink,” she said. “Do you have anything with alcohol in it?”

  “Beer, wine, and maybe“—he opened a cupboard door and looked inside—“a little whiskey.” He took out the whiskey bottle and held it up. It was a third full. Clarice sometimes preferred whiskey when the nights were long and wild and getting wilder.

  “About two fingers of the Jack Daniel’s over ice with a little water”—Jellie took a deep breath— “should do it.”

  Michael stood for a moment, holding the whiskey bottle, looking at her. “You okay?”

  “Yes.” She smiled and brushed loose strands of hair back from her face. “About eighty percent, at least.”

  “I could take you home if you want.”

  She shook her head, small silver earrings from her early days in India moving as she did it. “Let’s try the Jack Daniel’s first.”