In the Walled City

by Stewart O'Nan

  It was a nice cemetery, clean, well-tended, and desperately Grey thought that Rolandsen would appreciate his coming. Across a pond a backhoe tore at the grass. One of the pallbearers pushed the button and the mechanized lift lowered the box; the priest let fall the handful. Grey thought of Rolandsen inside, hearing it hit; the calm expression of the dead. He had studied hell all summer, but only now did the real threat of the Last Judgment hit him. Van der Weyden had taken his subjects not from life but from the Hôtel-Dieu’s newly dead, so that those patients still living watched the painter —sometimes the same day —recreate their neighbors’ faces. For the first time since his father’s funeral, Grey said a prayer. He thanked the director, picked his way through the stones, got in the squareback, and drove.

  The sky was blazing, the sidewalks empty. He passed a T with a few dark heads in the tinted windows but no cars, no one walking. Was it a holiday, or was he the only one left in the city?

  The Abplanalps had hired landscapers; their stake truck sat in the driveway, rakes and shovels fitted into the sides like weapons at the ready. An older man knelt by the flower bed with a pair of shears, another stood on a short ladder, shaping the hedge. A boy a little younger than Ralph was pushing a deafening gas mower over the yard. He had his shirt off, and at the small of his back his shorts were dark with sweat. He saluted Grey as he passed.

  Inside, Grey drew the curtains so he wouldn’t have to see them. He took apart the Last Judgment, wrapping a rubber band around the stack of pictures. He closed all the windows and put the plants in the sink. He took the checkbook and an old pair of tennis shorts, left a note in the Hansens’ mailbox. The squareback shuddered when it hit fifty, the wolfman shimmered. He stopped at a Store24 outside Quincy for a pair of sunglasses and a paperback murder which tempted him but which he did not touch, instead sleeping, arms crossed over his chest, as the Hyannis boat rocked through the falling dark.

  Calling

  The school bus brakes by the mailbox, a shift of dust and leaves passing as it stops, and out of the door steps Walter, the driver. Far up the double rutted drive, the house has lost its height. Walter notices the flag of the mailbox and reaches in for the sheaf of envelopes. Waste grasses flank the sides of the drive, whipping the wind as he trudges toward the remains of the house. The land beyond the rise comes into view, tan gone gray, stubbled harvest fields, reaper tracks visible. Halfway, he turns to make sure the children haven’t left the bus. He can’t see their faces, only shapes in the split windows. The grasses twitch and whistle, wave to throw off their seed.

  He begins to run, work boots gouging dark moons in the dirt, and as he sprints, shocked at his own speed, as he nears, pumping, he sees there is nothing to run to. Fire has reduced the house to a pile of beams. Yet he does not stop until he reaches the border of seared, blackened grass. In the wreckage sit a stove and refrigerator, their paint bubbled. Walter looks back down the drive to the bus, a matchbox against the woods.

  The barn is intact, as are all the other out-buildings. Before he reaches the barn the stink hits him. Holding his breath, he knocks, hoping to rouse a lowing, ear to the gnat-specked door. Then he must run to exhale.

  Walking back, Walter sees the children’s faces take on eyes, smiles. They are laughing —hurry, sit down, here he comes —and when he climbs on and closes the door, giggles escape. He pops the glove compartment and stuffs the mail between greasy maps.

  Three cheers for the bus driver

  The bus driver, the bus driver

  Three-ee chee-eers for the bus driver

  Who’s with us today

  God bless him —he needs it!

  God bless him —he needs it!

  Three-ee chee-eers for the bus driver who’s with us today

  When the children are all off, he pulls across a brace of handicapped spaces, kills the engine and heads for the principal’s office.

  At the Luna, Kennadaro’s only bar, Jim Ed Steckler is drunk and telling whoever will listen his plans for his next farm. There are others here in worse shape, farms already gone, working shifts at Nabisco in Chickasha or at Harvester up in Carnegie. They listen respectfully, join in damning the seventies land barons, the banks, the presidents who betrayed them, but they know Jim Ed will never farm again, just as they will never farm again. “Hole gets too big, you’re shoveling on yourself,” they say. They run up tabs a beer at a time, discussing the Sooners and Wildcats, sipping, listening to Jim Ed rip his guts out at the rail.

  “You think I’m gonna work one of those corporate bastard’s farms, you’re fucked in the head. Goddammit, there’s still the land, we never given up on it yet and we’re not gonna start now.” He drops his cigarette and, retrieving it, knocks over a stool with his hip. “Goddamn shit.” Marley Simms, his nearest neighbor, also failing, picks up the stool and turns Jim Ed back to the bar, one flannel arm over his shoulders. The others turn back to their beers, muttering. There is no one to fight here, only in Washington or New York. Paper pushers, politicians.

  Jim Ed sees himself in the mirror, beheaded by a fence of bottlenecks. His eyes squint through the smoke, bringing his cheeks up, compressing his face. He laughs at the long-jawed man in the Deere cap, trades a beer salute. They wipe their mouths on their sleeves. Marley guides the mug down to the coaster.

  Nadine Steckler worries the children into their chores, reminding them several times while they wash up. Jim Junior, waiting in his pajamas for the bathroom, grunts, “Yeah, Ma.” To save electricity they heat and light the house with kerosene, and dawn and dusk Nadine wanders through the halls with a hurricane lamp. The children make amateur ghost noises, shadows fly up the staircase. While she knows they are going to lose the farm, Nadine can’t imagine being thrown off the land with nothing to their name besides the pickup. But it is true, she thinks, that is exactly what is going to happen.

  After the children’s breakfast, alone at the sink, she watches the girls go off to their chores, beyond them the fields, and far off, in patches, the Washita bottomlands. She rinses, gazing up into the clear autumn sky, listening to the cyclic rumble of the milkers. Jim opens the barn door, waves and rubs his stomach. She holds up a hand: five minutes.

  He is from Oklahoma City, because none of the locals will touch the job. The FDIC has hired him as far away as the Dakotas for the same reason. He stays at the County Line Motel outside of Kennadaro, fearful of the townspeople. Some of his fellow auctioneers look down on him for doing this kind of work, and he himself feels guilty at times, but it is a job. There are few happy auctions, most are bankruptcy or death. Death attracts a better crowd; bankruptcy, more money.

  He eats at a steakhouse next to the motel, reviewing a list of merchandise provided by the FDIC. Though he has never worked on a farm, he can estimate how large and successful it is by the lists. He circles the items most likely to draw high bids. Representatives from the large farms will keep the prices reasonable on most of the machinery; the state government will take the land. He looks for possible antiques among the stray pieces of surviving furniture —the effects, they are called. Bureau, children’s, ca. 1850, light smoke damage. He finishes his pie and coffee and picks up the check. From the kitchen service window the cook and the waitress watch him read “Have a nice day. Fuck you.” He leaves his regular tip.

  The auctioneer sleeps in his car in the woods. He has the date, time, and place; he will be there when they need him. The gun he usually keeps in his suitcase is under the driver’s seat, butt out, safety off.

  The only picture the editor has of Jim Ed Steckler is from the Kennadaro High yearbook, The Ram. Beneath the acned, buzz-cut teen runs, “4-H I, II, IV; varsity basketball III, IV; motoring club. Jim looks forward to a career in agricultural engineering. College: Undecided.”

  Nadine Smithson is in the next year’s edition, her blonde hair tightly pulled back, two banana curls like pillars framing her broad face.

  Jim Junior is a white head, his body hidden by a driving forward, the bleacher crowd dark
, lost beyond the flash. The ball, between the opposing player’s fingertips and the rim, commands his attention. His mouth is open, his eyes wide. The editor finds it inappropriate.

  Carolyn June Steckler and Marcia Lynn Steckler do not appear in his files. He searches the elementary school homeroom photos, but their faces are too small, and blowing them up would make them grainy.

  He settles for The Ram shots, doubled. On the front page they are seventeen years old.

  Nadine goes into town once a week with Myra Simms. With the telephone shut off, Nadine needs these trips to catch up on gossip. But lately there has been little to say. Both the Simmses’ and Stecklers’ finances are dwindling, and Nadine and Myra have run out of wishful solutions. Each trip, after a few minutes of speculation, they ride silently, watching the miles of fence snake by. In town they walk the store aisles, pointing to things they like, then leave without buying.

  Before the letters from the credit association and the sheriff’s office began, Nadine would wait at the front window for the mail jeep. She walked down the drive in her apron, fresh from the heat of making lunch for the girls. There were flyers from the stores in town and coupons from clearinghouses and letters from her mother. On the way back to the house, the coupons and flyers tucked in her apron pocket, she would read her mother’s letters out loud. Now, the girls in school, the mail threatening, she sits in the back room, reading library novels, trying to ignore the approaching engine.

  Sometimes Jim Ed comes home from town drunk, but she understands. He has been as good a husband as she had hoped for when she was young. On those nights he comes home drunk, she prepares his supper specially and shoos the kids upstairs. After he eats they sit in the back room and talk. They will move, they will both get jobs in town, or in Carnegie or Chickasha. Everything will work out fine, she says. Everything will be all right.

  Fridays, Liza Radley’s parents drive her to Chickasha to see a psychiatrist. One night, the week after the fire, they found her bed empty, her window open. Mrs. Radley checked the dresser: nothing was missing. Fearing kidnappers, Mr. Radley called the sheriff, tugged his boots on, grabbed his shotgun, and ran to their Bronco, dragging his wife by the hand. They coasted across the fields, fog lights on, shouting her name. In the beams she glided, her confirmation dress trailing, the lace hem muddied. When her mother helped her into the cab, Liza said, “Thank you very much.”

  She will have to stay at home until her feet heal, but the doctor says there is no permanent damage. The psychiatrist tells her parents it is a normal reaction. The Radleys hope he is right, know he is wrong.

  His bobber drifting, cap pulled down over his face, Jim Ed sees a green mosaic through the nylon mesh. He has told Nadine he is posting the back fence with No Hunting signs for the early doe season. Every few minutes he jerks the line, expecting nothing, happy to be here, away from everything. But he is not away; they are going to take the farm, and nothing he can do will stop them. He has thought of it since the first letter arrived, hoped against it, as if wishing will make things better. He and Nadine have skimmed their possible escapes, but have no real plans. In the calm —birds, leaves, grass —Jim Ed imagines the farm, imagines his entire life as it could have been, reminding himself that it is not.

  The line digs into his finger, pulling him out of his thoughts. He stands, his cap falling to the ground. The fish yanks to the left, then weakly to the right and dives, dunking the bobber. Jim Ed squats at the edge of the pond and gives him some slack, then reels in. It is a sunfish, spike-finned, rainbow-oiled. Jim Ed tears the barb through the lip and flings the fish high over the pond like a frisbee. It smacks the surface and disappears.

  The girls are in the chicken coop, arguing over their two chicks, Timmy and Tony. Carolyn says Timmy is Tony and that Marcia is stealing him. Marcia counters, accusing Carolyn of trying to steal Timmy from her. They make fists and shout at each other. “Damn,” Marcia says accidentally, and Carolyn runs for the hatch, pretending she is going to tell Mother. Marcia catches her by the arm and trips her, and they roll on the floor, kicking and punching. Crying, Caroline escapes to the house. Marcia switches the chicks, then runs to the barn and hides in the hayloft. She waits in the heavy, sweet air. She thinks she hears Mother calling her name, far away, like in a dream. Is it Mother? Marcia knows she will have to come down soon. It is almost dark out.

  On a stool in the Luna, Marley Simms overhears:

  “Heard he’s offered a job and turned it down, insurance job.”

  “Can’t blame him. Wasn’t born to be any insurance man, no one’s born for that.”

  “Sometimes a person’s got to take what he can get.”

  “And sometimes you’ve got to take a stand. You can’t let yourself be run around by money all the time.”

  “It’s a damn sight better than what he did do. At least you can keep up living on a job, no matter how bad or low-paid. You can get by”

  “So they threw him a bone, that’s real nice. Must’ve made him feel real fine. Insurance job my ass.”

  “Might’ve saved his life.”

  “Now don’t talk that way about Jim Ed. He’s as good as any one of us.”

  Liza Radley and Jim Junior sprawl in the backseat of his Chevelle, smoking cigarettes. Both wear black concert T-shirts with silkscreened dragons snorting gold spangles. Their bare legs balance on the front seat headrests. On the dashboard lie the remains of their post-game snack, cold half-eaten burgers and limp fries. Outside, the Washita boils in the dark trees. They lie back and listen, passing a heavy wine bottle, silent, tired, glad.

  The glow of her cigarette sheds a faint electric orange over her thighs and down the ridge of her shins. Jim wants to remember it all, wants to believe he is actually here; the girl beside him, the girl he has just made love with, must be in his imagination. He feels the towel under his thighs, the chill fall night, the cold wetness in his pubic hair. He sees her lips and eyes burning with beads of light, her face sculpted shadows. Drunk, excited, he promises to remember.

  And why tonight? He has asked her before, pleaded, coaxed, yet always she cried, denied him. They had done everything but. Why tonight? He knows enough not to ask. He knows he will never know why.

  State troopers separate the auctioneer from the bidders. They stand, arms folded, occasionally sneaking a look back at the drab crowd behind them. From his lectern (Marcia’s dresser on end, black ash with greening copper knobs), the auctioneer conducts. Here and there he recognizes a face, places a concern. He touts the machinery in a quick, even voice. The locals try to save some of their buddy’s gear but can’t compete with the pros from out of state. It seems fixed, two bids and a sale, two bids and a sale. Each time he brings his gavel down, the townspeople shout and swear. A new reaper, twenty-foot McCormick, goes for thirty thousand, and the troopers’ eyes sweep the crowd.

  If it were him, the auctioneer thinks, he would not even come. He would not be in that position. He would hate the auctioneer, but at the same time understand. It is not the auctioneer who is taking his farm. The crowd speaks for the dead. They would kill me, he thinks, they would kill all of us. There will be pushing and maybe a punch or two thrown, but in another hour he will be on the road back to Oklahoma City, gunning his rental car to keep up with the trooper escort.

  The pros ignore the effects, which calms the locals. They save what they can. The auctioneer calls them, finishes and leaves, safely. Miles out of Kennadaro, he realizes he has forgotten Marcia’s dresser.

  Nadine chats with the other shoppers more than she shops. Without the girls to look after, she rolls up one aisle and down the next, reading the labels of goods she has never had time to examine. Kippers, oyster sauce, guava jelly. Three-fifty-nine for such a little can! She compares the store’s produce and meat with their own, shakes her head at the wax and fat and preservatives. Her list is small: shampoo, toothpaste (she selects a new toothbrush for Jim Junior, replaces it instantly), toilet paper, marjoram, brown sugar, coffee. Generic product
s beat coupons.

  Waiting for Myra on a bench outside, Nadine watches other wives pushing carts heaped with bags and thinks about assistance, food stamps, welfare. She has always voted against these, but how else will they get along? Somehow, she doesn’t know exactly, but they will. It is not their fault, they have worked hard. They are not welfare cases, they are taxpayers. Food stamps.

  The sheriff waits until everyone else has left, the reporters, the firemen, the coroner; waits until the coroner’s wagon clears the end of the lawn, then pokes through the rubble with his boots trying to find it again. In what had been the back room, he kicks it loose, a melted metal rod, a rifle barrel. Before picking it up, he looks back to the road.

  There is a pond down the hill.

  The last cow falls softly, steel jugs holding the ring of the shot. Jim Ed Steckler closes the barn door and walks up toward the house. It is a cold night, starless, the moon drifting obscured. He gropes the back door for the handle.

  In kerosene softness they sit on the couch, the girls on either side of Nadine, Jim Junior on the end, limp, as if asleep during a late movie. Jim Ed rocks, twisted in the dead convex screen, wrapped in flapping shadows. The rifle leans against the coffee table, throws a black beam up the wall and halfway across the ceiling. Jim Ed reaches down and knocks the lamp over, pushes back and waits for the light.

  Winter Haven