Listen to that. We have arrived at our station. The noon bell rings across the quad. You may scuffle out. Our time is up.
43
I haven’t seen Mother. I haven’t seen her anywhere — Joey said not quite aloud because he no longer wanted to hear his voice — her face must be hidden in her flowers; but I shall have to see her soon enough, and suffer her shock, and the scorn in her speech: anger before despair. He felt he had a cork in his throat. A sweat, this early in the day, that wet his underarms, served to oil his apprehension.
There were several scenarios that would fit this faculty meeting, and he had endured them all. Why bother with this one, played out in the provinces? It ought to close before opening, since all its conclusions were foregone. Joey had no curiosity about which version would most match the performance the ticket holder had purchased.
Joseph walked slower than slowly; you might say he waded up the street toward a pickup truck that always seemed to be parked in the shade of a tall fir tree, night and day, all seasons the same. It reminded him of the Bumbler; how it had served him, as poor at the wheel as he was; and how steadfastly this example sat in front of its house, ready to run, but never asked. Lucky wheels that no one wanted turned.
The Bumbler, exercising its associative powers, charmed him by returning Miss Spiky, her mullet, and her Billy Bear to his consciousness. He heard her voice — he always heard the singers, it seemed, since Mr. Hirk introduced him to them — she who was one of the good witches of Urichstown, and he fondly remembered — he always heard the high notes, it seemed like, since Mr. Hirk played them on his machine — her brazenly advertised attachment to a child’s toy. Hazel Hawkins — that was she. Maybe, just maybe, Billy Bear was a substitute for a child she had lost. He hadn’t thought of that. But should have. Funny, he felt genuine with her, precisely because she was also putting on a show. To his surprise, he laughed, then snatched it back, as if he’d let fall a naughty remark. How much astonishment could this hour entertain?
It must happen every day: men, women, boys being taken between officers to a judge; or men, women, soldiers, sent to their death, cameras catching them now that the police had, or victims of gunfire spewing from a speeding car, or simply the shower curtain that’s drawn upon a rain of shame. He now knew what fear was: strings of feeling tied into a numbing knot.
Professor Skizzen labored past a piece of broken curb that always marked, for him, a point halfway to or from his classroom, night and day, all seasons the same; except that when he returned, on the other side of the street, it was a cluster of telephone poles weathered to a pale gray that gave his position away. The clump had a slight lean. The way they might have grown in their original woods. The professor felt he had worn this path and won its naming, now that it had become the last half mile of his academic life, and was otherwise unpleasant only in the worst snows and a few winds. A little sign might be enough: Fake’s Walk. The real difficulty was that after his arraignment he would still be alive. To have your name on something beside a shop, you had to be rich and probably dead. And even death would not prevent people such as President Palfrey from his calamities: the short path between Languages and the Science Building was called Snow Way.
Why should this crumble of concrete, returning itself to pebble-speckled sand, be an emblem for his colleagues at the college and always bring them to mind? What would they think? You guys remind me of a broken curb. True, run over and abused, dust to dust was that situation’s ultimate design. Joey’s youth, his energy, his need to succeed, had been a weight upon their collective weakness. For them, the department was serene if not strong because it was never tried or tested.
A few steps beyond Joseph, there were familiar views that never seemed to matter much: a postbox, faded to a sickly green, where he occasionally dropped a missive (that would be Miss Moss’s station); followed by a forsythia bush that leaned out over the sidewalk with no justification but its early blooms, yellower than a banana then, but always badly pruned; a pair of bay windows, like great gray-curtained eyes, came next; however, no one seemed to be alive inside, no one seemed to be in the yard, raking the leaves or otherwise meeting the seasons — the house of the No Ones, he thought of them — and no one came to the door on Halloween; then came the Leffingwell House whose huge columns held up a porch roof no bigger than a party hat, yet whose cumbersome façade actually seemed welcoming. This mansion was featured, despite an outrageous collision of styles, on those occasional tours of painted glass the ladies of the Garden Club organized, not only for the many religious motifs to be seen in its windows, but also because of the dwelling’s exceptional size. Not last, but for continuous company, there was always the hush of the street beneath pair after pair of spanning elms. Skizzen inspected their diseased boughs with genuine sadness, and tried to accept the death of which their droop was a sign.
Professor Skizzen, good day to you, sir. The greeting sprang on him from ambush like a movie Indian. Didn’t mean to startle you, sir, just getting some air myself. It’s going to be a beautiful morning, I can tell. Musn’t waste it, eh? Off to work, are you? That case is full of musical knowledge, I imagine. Will it be lighter on the way home? I dare say it will. Skizzen got turned round. Ah, there, Mr. Leffingwell, isn’t it? You surprised me. Well, it’s my home we are facing. Leffingwell’s arm swept into a wave. I see you pass nearly every day. As regular as the post. Except Sundays, Skizzen said, desperately. He hardly recognized this man who seemed to know him well enough for casual jollity. Oh, I match your favor. I often go by your house on the way to town. Good for my health, you know. I’m sure the walk to school is good for yours. That corner garden gives every passerby a lovely sight, it is so open on that lot, not hidden away, and well tended, a credit to our little community. I imagine it’s your wife’s work. My mother’s, yes, Skizzen said as matter-of-factly as he dared. Be damned to you, he thought.
Ah … You are looking reasonably hearty, a bit pale today maybe. Full of vim and vinegar, I am, on such a morning. Thanks to God. I love it crisp as the crust of good bread, don’t you? I always ate my crusts, Skizzen, a beaten man, managed. Good boy, Mr. Leffingwell replied, good boy. Skizzen stood as if tranced, hearing her voice; recalling how thoroughly he did enjoy that voice once, until her shriek scared him with its accusation. How he liked their amiable banter among the books, the deep pleasure they both took in the slightest exchanges, the quiet that surrounded their conviviality, until their giggles rose like bubbles in a glass.
I’m glad to see you bring some culture to the college, Mr. Leffingwell said, as if to encourage Skizzen’s efforts. I’ve thought, for some years, that it was neglecting the arts, don’t you know, for those courses in fashionable social issues. Not enough emphasis on basics — religion, music, the higher things — these kids need some polish before their insertion into civilization, I’m sure you agree. Teach ’em how to play an instrument. Read a map. Understand geography. Basics. I hear they’ve been running a distillery up there. It’s those fraternities. Evil influence. If we teach geography, Professor Skizzen said, it’s news to me.
Maybelle Leonard’s husband … he does … teach geography. Part-time, I think. A rather large man. Of overflowing disposition. You would have seen him had you visited his furniture store. He sits there and rocks to prove how reliable the recliners are. Doesn’t get up much, even for valued customers. But that’s neither here nor there. It’s somewhere, though, I suppose, Skizzen offered. I remember geography class. The Tigris and Euphrates Rivers. Right? Third grade, I think. Made an impression. We had to outline their course. The rivers, I mean. Locate Eden or something equally sacred God set down between them like an oasis. Not much doing there these days, I guess. Whatever God did. Skizzen’s doom looked suddenly better to him. He took a step toward the school. I sell shoes, Leffingwell blurted. I don’t think you’ve ever visited my shop. It used to be Schafley’s Styles. I think I hid there from someone I didn’t want to run into on the street, Skizzen said with a small smile of satisfaction. I’m enforcing improvements, Leffingwell said, continuing on his own train. Woodbine is ready for some daring designs, don’t you think? Schafley was a bit of a ’fraidy cat. Well, I won’t hold you up any longer. You must have a class to teach. Play marches for the kids, why don’t you. Ha. They’re no-nonsense. Brisk. Instills rigor in the mind and gives a thump to the boot.