by Tobias Wolff
Above the door of the Founder’s Building was a Latin motto that, roughly translated, meant “God helps those who help themselves.” As Roger recited the names of illustrious graduates Mary was struck by the extent to which they had taken this precept to heart. They had helped themselves to railroads, mines, armies, and states, to empires of finance with outposts all over the world.
Roger took Mary to the chapel and showed her a plaque bearing the names of all the alumni who had been killed in battle, going back to the Civil War. There weren’t many names. Here too, apparently, the graduates had helped themselves. “Oh yes,” Roger said as they were leaving, “I forgot to tell you. The communion rail comes from some church in Europe where Charlemagne used to go.”
They went to the gymnasium, and the two hockey rinks, and the library, where Mary inspected the card catalog as if she’d turn down this job if they didn’t have the right books. “We have a little more time,” Roger said as they went outside. “Would you like to see the power plant?”
Mary wanted to keep busy until the last minute, so she agreed.
Roger led her into the depths of the service building, explaining things about the machine they were about to see, evidently the most advanced in the country. “People think the college is really old-fashioned,” he said, “but it isn’t. They let girls come here now, and some of the teachers are women. In fact, there’s a statute that says they have to interview at least one woman for each opening. There it is.”
They were standing on an iron catwalk above the biggest machine Mary had ever beheld. Roger, who was majoring in earth sciences, said it had been built from a design pioneered by a professor in his department. Where before he had been gabby, Roger now became reverent. It was clear that for him this machine was the soul of the college, that indeed the purpose of the college was to provide outlets for the machine. Together they leaned against the railing and watched it hum.
Mary arrived at the committee room exactly on time for her interview, but the room was empty. Her book was on the table, along with a water pitcher and some glasses. She sat down and picked up the book. The binding cracked as she opened it. The pages were smooth, clean, unread. Mary turned to the first chapter, which began, “It is generally believed that…” How dull, she thought.
Nearly twenty minutes later Louise came in with several men. “Sorry we’re late,” she said. “We don’t have much time so we’d better get started.” She introduced Mary to the committee, but with one exception the names and faces did not stay together. The exception was Dr. Howells, the department chairman, who had a porous blue nose and terrible teeth.
A shiny-faced man to Dr. Howells’s right spoke first. “So,” he said, “I understand you once taught at Brandon College.”
“It was a shame that Brandon had to close,” said a young man with a pipe in his mouth. “There is a place for schools like Brandon.” As he talked the pipe wagged up and down.
“Now you’re in Oregon,” Dr. Howells said. “I’ve never been there. How do you like it?”
“Not very much,” Mary said.
“Is that right?” Dr. Howells leaned toward her. “I thought everyone liked Oregon. I hear it’s very green.”
“That’s true,” Mary said.
“I suppose it rains a lot,” he said.
“Nearly every day.”
“I wouldn’t like that,” he said, shaking his head. “I like it dry. Of course it snows here, and you have your rain now and then, but it’s a dry rain. Have you ever been to Utah? There’s a state for you. Bryce Canyon. The Mormon Tabernacle Choir.”
“Dr. Howells was brought up in Utah,” said the young man with the pipe.
“It was a different place altogether in those days,” Dr. Howells said. “Mrs. Howells and I have always talked about going back when I retire, but now I’m not so sure.”
“We’re a little short on time,” Louise said.
“And here I’ve been going on and on,” Dr. Howells said. “Before we wind things up, is there anything you want to tell us?”
“Yes. I think you should give me the job.” Mary laughed when she said this, but no one laughed back, or even looked at her. They all looked away. Mary understood then that they were not really considering her for the position. She’d been brought here to satisfy a rule. She had no hope.
The men gathered their papers and shook hands with Mary and told her how much they were looking forward to her class. “I can’t get enough of the Marshall Plan,” Dr. Howells said.
“Sorry about that,” Louise said when they were alone. “I didn’t think it would be so bad. That was a real bitcheroo.”
“Tell me something,” Mary said. “You already know who you’re going to hire, don’t you?”
Louise nodded.
“Then why did you bring me here?”
When Louise began to explain about the statute, Mary interrupted. “I know all that. But why me? Why did you pick me?”
Louise walked to the window and spoke with her back to Mary. “Things haven’t been going very well for old Louise,” she said. “I’ve been unhappy, and I thought you might cheer me up. You used to be so funny, and I was sure you’d enjoy the trip—it didn’t cost you anything, and it’s pretty this time of year with the leaves and everything. Mary, you don’t know the things my parents did to me. And Ted is no barrel of laughs either. Or Jonathan, the son of a bitch. I deserve some love and friendship but I don’t get any at all.” She turned and looked at her watch. “It’s almost time for your class. We’d better go.”
“I would rather not give it. After all, there’s not much point, is there?”
“But you have to give it. That’s part of the interview.” Louise handed her a folder. “All you have to do is read this. It isn’t much, considering all the money we’ve laid out to get you here.”
Mary followed Louise down the hall to the lecture room. The professors were sitting in the front row with their legs crossed. They smiled and nodded at Mary. Behind them the room was full of students, some of whom had spilled over into the aisles. One of the professors adjusted the microphone to Mary’s height, crouching down as he went to the podium and back as though he’d prefer not to be seen.
Louise called the room to order, then introduced Mary and gave the subject of the lecture. But Mary had decided to wing it after all. She came to the podium unsure of what she would say; sure only that she would rather die than read Louise’s article. The sun poured through the stained glass onto the people around her, painting their faces. Thick streams of smoke from the young professor’s pipe drifted through a circle of red light at Mary’s feet, turning crimson and twisting like flames.
“I wonder how many of you know,” she began, “that we are in the Long House, the ancient domain of the Five Nations of the Iroquois.”
Two professors looked at each other.
“The Iroquois were without pity,” Mary said. “They hunted people down with clubs and arrows and spears and nets, and blowguns made from elder stalks. They tortured their captives, sparing no one, not even the little children. They took scalps and practiced cannibalism and slavery. Because they had no pity they became powerful, so powerful that no other tribe dared to oppose them. They made the other tribes pay tribute, and when they had nothing more to pay the Iroquois attacked them.”
Several of the professors began to whisper. Dr. Howells was saying something to Louise, who was shaking her head.
“In one of their raids,” Mary said, “they captured two Jesuit priests, Jean de Brébeuf and Gabriel Lalement. They covered Lalement with pitch and set him on fire in front of Brébeuf. When Brébeuf rebuked them they cut off his lips and put a burning iron down his throat. They hung a collar of red-hot hatchets around his neck and poured boiling water over his head. When he continued to preach to them they cut strips of flesh from his body and ate them before his eyes. While he was still alive they scalped him and cut open his breast and drank his blood. Later, their chief tore out Brébeuf’s heart and a
te it, but just before he did this Brébeuf spoke to them one last time. He said—”
“That’s enough!” yelled Dr. Howells, jumping to his feet. Louise stopped shaking her head. Her eyes were perfectly round.
Mary had come to the end of her facts. She did not know what Brébeuf had said. Silence rose up around her; just when she thought she would go under and be lost in it she heard someone whistling in the hallway outside, trilling the notes like a bird, like many birds.
“Mend your lives,” she said. “You have deceived yourselves in the pride of your hearts and the strength of your arms. Though you soar aloft like the eagle, though your nest is set among the stars, thence I will bring you down, says the Lord. Turn from power to love. Be kind. Do justice. Walk humbly.”
Louise was waving her arms. “Mary!” she shouted.
But Mary had more to say, much more. She waved back at Louise, then turned off her hearing aid so that she would not be distracted again.
Next Door
I wake up afraid. My wife is sitting on the edge of my bed, shaking me. “They’re at it again,” she says.
I go to the window. All their lights are on, upstairs and down, as if they have money to burn. He yells, she screams something back, the dog barks. There is a short silence, then the baby cries, poor thing.
“Better not stand there,” says my wife. “They might see you.”
I say, “I’m going to call the police,” knowing she won’t let me.
“Don’t,” she says.
She’s afraid they’ll poison our cat if we complain.
Next door the man is still yelling, but I can’t make out what he’s saying over the dog and the baby. The woman laughs, not really meaning it—“Ha! Ha! Ha!”— and suddenly gives a sharp little cry. Everything goes quiet.
“He struck her,” my wife says. “I felt it just the same as if he struck me.”
Next door the baby gives a long wail and the dog starts up again. The man walks out into his driveway and slams the door.
“Be careful,” my wife says. She gets back into her bed and pulls the cover up to her neck.
The man mumbles to himself and jerks at his fly. Finally he gets it open and walks over to our fence. It’s a white picket fence, ornamental more than anything else. It couldn’t keep anyone out. I put it in myself and planted honeysuckle and bougainvillea all along it.
My wife says, “What’s he doing?”
“Shh,” I say.
He leans against the fence with one hand and with the other he goes to the bathroom on the flowers. He walks the length of the fence like that, not missing any of them. When he’s through he gives Florida a shake, then zips up and heads back across the driveway. He almost slips on the gravel but he catches himself and curses and goes into the house, slamming the door again.
When I turn around my wife is leaning forward, watching me. She raises her eyebrows. “Not again,” she says.
I nod.
“Between him and the dog it’s a wonder you can get anything to grow out there.”
I would rather talk about something else. It depresses me, thinking about the flowers. Next door the woman is shouting. “Listen to that,” I say.
“I used to feel sorry for her,” my wife says. “Not anymore. Not after last month.”
“Ditto,” I say, trying to remember what happened last month. I don’t feel sorry for her either, but then I never have. She yells at the baby, and pardon me, but I’m not about to get all weepy over someone who treats a child like that. She screams things like “I thought I told you to stay in your bedroom!” and here the baby can’t even talk yet.
As far as her looks, I guess you would have to say she’s pretty. But it won’t last. She doesn’t have good bone structure. She has a soft look to her, like she’s never eaten anything but doughnuts and milk shakes. Her skin is white. The baby takes after her, not that you’d expect it to take after him, dark and hairy. Even with his shirt on you can tell that he has hair all over his back and on his shoulders, thick and springy like an Airedale’s.
Now they’re all going at once over there, plus they’ve got the stereo turned on full blast. One of those bands. “It’s the baby I feel sorry for,” I say.
My wife puts her hands over her ears. “I can’t stand another minute of it,” she says. She takes her hands away. “Maybe there’s something on TV.” She sits up. “See who’s on Johnny Carson.”
I turn on the television. It used to be down in the den but I brought it up here a few years ago when my wife got sick. I took care of her myself—made the meals and everything. I got to where I could change the sheets with her still in the bed. I always meant to take the television back down when my wife recovered from her illness, but I never got around to it. It sits between our beds on a little table I made. Johnny is saying something to Sammy Davis Jr., and Ed McMahon is bent over laughing. He’s always so cheerful. If you were going to take a really long voyage you could do worse than bring Ed McMahon along.
My wife wants to know what else is on. “‘El Dorado,’” I read. “‘Brisk adventure yarn about a group of citizens in search of the legendary city of gold.’ It’s got two and a half stars beside it.”
“Citizens of what?” my wife asks.
“It doesn’t say.”
Finally we watch the movie. A blind man comes into a small town. He says that he has been to El Dorado and that he will lead an expedition there for a share of the proceeds. He can’t see, but he’ll call out the landmarks one by one as they ride. At first people make fun of him, though eventually all the leading citizens get together and decide to give it a try. Right away they get attacked by Apaches and some of them want to turn back, but every time they get ready the blind man gives them another landmark, so they keep riding.
Next door the woman is going crazy. She is saying things to him that no person should ever say to another person. It makes my wife restless. She looks at me. “Can I come over?” she says. “Just for a visit?”
I pull down the blankets and she gets in. The bed is just fine for one, but with two of us it’s a tight fit. We are lying on our sides with me in back. I don’t mean for it to happen but before long old Florida begins to stiffen up on me. I put my arms around my wife. I move my hands up onto the Rockies, then on down across the plains, heading south.
“Hey,” she says. “No geography. Not tonight.”
“I’m sorry,” I say.
“Can’t I just visit?”
“Forget it. I said I was sorry.”
The citizens are crossing a desert. They’ve just about run out of water, and their lips are cracked. Though the blind man has delivered a warning, someone drinks from a poisoned well and dies horribly. That night, around the campfire, the others begin to quarrel. Most of them want to go home. “This is no country for a white man,” one says, “and if you ask me nobody has ever been here before.” But the blind man describes a piece of gold so big and pure that it will burn your eyes out if you look directly at it. “I ought to know,” he says. When he’s finished the citizens are silent; one by one they move away and lie down on their bedrolls. They put their hands behind their heads and look up at the stars. A coyote howls.
Hearing the coyote, I remember why my wife stopped feeling sorry for the woman next door. It was a Monday evening, about a month ago, right after I got home from work. The man next door started to beat the dog, and I don’t mean just smacking him once or twice. He was beating him, and he kept at it until the dog couldn’t even cry anymore; you could hear the poor creature’s voice breaking. Finally it stopped. Then, a few minutes later, I heard my wife say “Oh!” and I went into the kitchen to find out what was wrong. She was standing by the window, which looks into the kitchen next door. The man had his wife backed up against the fridge. He had his knee between her legs and she had her knee between his legs and they were kissing really hard. My wife could hardly speak for a couple of hours afterward. Later she said that she would never waste her sympathy on that woman again.
It’s quiet over there. My wife has gone to sleep and so has my arm, which is under her head. I slide it out and open and close my fingers, considering whether to wake her up. I like sleeping in my own bed, and there isn’t enough room for the both of us. Finally I decide that it won’t hurt anything to change places for one night.
I get up and fuss with the plants for a while, watering them and moving some to the window and some back. I trim the coleus, which is starting to get leggy, and put the cuttings in a glass of water on the sill. All the lights are off next door except the one in their bedroom window. I think about the life they have, and how it goes on and on, until it seems like the life they were meant to live. Everybody always says how great it is that human beings are so adaptable, but I don’t know. In Istanbul, a friend of mine saw a man walking down the street with a grand piano on his back. Everyone just moved around him and kept going. It’s awful, what we get used to.
I turn off the television and get into my wife’s bed. Her smell, sweet and heavy, rises off the sheets. It makes me a little dizzy but I like it. It reminds me of gardenias.
The reason I don’t watch the rest of the movie is that I can already see how it will end. The citizens will kill each other off, probably about ten feet from the legendary city of gold, and the blind man will stumble in by himself, not knowing that he has made it back to El Dorado.
I could write a better movie than that. My movie would be about a group of explorers, men and women, who leave behind their homes and their jobs and their families—everything they’ve ever known. They cross the sea and are shipwrecked on the coast of a country that isn’t on their maps. One of them drowns. Another gets attacked by a wild animal and eaten. But the others want to push on. They ford rivers and cross an enormous glacier by dogsled. It takes months. On the glacier they run out of food and for a while there it looks like they might turn on each other, but they don’t. Finally they solve their problem by eating the dogs. That’s the sad part of the movie.
