Days Like Today (11 page)

‘Are you talking about marriage?’

‘Not necessarily. Love, hatred, desire, jealousy Greed. Fear. Everything.’

‘That preacher stuff about sins and virtues?’

‘People talk about emotions like they’re part of the character but I don’t see how that could be. We all feel things the same way. But our characters are different – as different as fingerprints. I just sometimes think I’m sharing my life with a wild animal and it isn’t me.’

‘Frank, that’s exactly what I’ve been saying. Of course it’s
you. Sure. It ain’t nobody else now, is it? Who else would it be?’

‘If you had kids, you’d see what I mean. They’re so sweet. And then suddenly they go to pieces. They can’t open a box or they can’t get a toy to work and all their anger and grief and persecution comes out. They howl and break things and, Jesus, it’s like Corporal Hicks on pay-day. And what’s it for? That isn’t what teaches you things. It isn’t even the part of you that recognizes principles of justice or aesthetics or morality. Or anything.’

‘Sure, it is. Kids don’t know anything because they just got off the boat. It takes them a while to learn. Once you learn, you’re fine. But that ain’t what you’re like. You pat a cat and it purrs. Rub ’em the wrong way and they hate it. Same with us.’

‘There’s more to it than that. But, like I say, I can’t talk about it. And I don’t understand it. Irene understands. She’s so good with the kids. And that’s part of the reason why. She understands all that.’ He slid his beer glass back and forth a couple of times on the table-top, as if to position himself more accurately against his surroundings. Sherman was sometimes a disquieting companion; there were nights when Franklin could even imagine that he was a figure risen from the dead and that by saving the man’s life he’d made him miss his time for leaving the world.

That was where the strangeness lay: that one moment between life and death. In his mind it remained a monument long after the names of his comrades had ceased to repeat themselves as he was falling asleep. All through college he
used to hear the names, a nightly roll call in the dark:
Abramowits, Bender, Corey, Dubrowski, Enrico, Garfield, Hicks,
Magruder, Oliver, Page, Pettis, Roscoe, Samuelson, Vargas,
Viborg, Weiss, Zemlinski
.

And now he and Sherman were sitting down or standing around, drinking beer and shooting the bull. As if nothing had happened.

‘Do you ever think about the others?’ he asked.

‘They’re doing all right. Most of the ones I ran into after I got out of the hospital – they’re OK. There was only one guy I knew: he was paralysed from the neck down and he just didn’t want to live, so he didn’t.’

‘In the hospital?’

‘Oh, it’s easy if you really don’t want to. You stop cooperating in every way. Pull the plugs out, stop talking, stop trying. Anyway, there was a few of them. But otherwise –’

‘I was thinking about the others. The ones who died.’

‘Well,’ Sherman said, ‘they’re gone.’

At night the whispering went on:

‘Why do you keep sticking up for him?’

‘Because it could have been me.’

‘You think he’d lift a finger to save anybody?’

‘I mean, it could have been me in his place now: never getting out of the hole he’s in because he’s lost hope.’

‘I told you: he feels sorry for himself.’

‘It’s a hard habit to break, once you get down into that mood. Especially if you’re on your own.’

‘He doesn’t try. He moans and he disparages and he
scorns the ones that do try. And why is he all by himself, anyway? Doesn’t he have any family or friends?’

‘That’s just it. I don’t think he does.’

The children were fascinated by him. As they called him Sir and asked questions, he fixed them with a look he might have given to a dangerous insect that was about to jump in his direction. Their laughter and rowdy play disconcerted him. Irene kept the older ones in hand with words and the younger ones with action: picking them up, washing their hands, wiping smears off their faces and sticky goo out of their hair. All day long they were yelling, laughing, screaming, running around, falling down and crying. They drove Sherman crazy.

But she could tame them. He began to realize that little by little, all day long – just by being with them – she was teaching them, like a lioness with her cubs. And they wanted to learn: they were always asking questions. One day the boy, Hagen, walked up to Franklin and asked, ‘What does it mean when you say the days of yore? The days of your what?’

Even the little girl, Pixie, caught parts of the conversation and tried to make sense of the words. Once, when Franklin said, ‘That could cause complications,’ she asked, ‘Daddy going to sew?’

Irene said, ‘No, honey. What your granny does is appliqué. Complicated means something else.’

‘What’s it mean?’

‘Lots of little parts instead of one big piece.’

‘Like a tangerine?’

‘Yes. Tangerines are complicated, apples are simple.’

‘What have you started?’ Franklin said.

‘It’s a perfectly good explanation. If you’ve got a better one, let’s hear it.’

Franklin turned back to Sherman. Irene didn’t waste time gloating. She had too much to do.

All the children liked school; even the baby, Donnie, seemed to respond when the word was spoken. Pixie already went to kindergarten and her older brother and sister had recently finished their time in the classes for four-year-olds and five-year-olds. That wasn’t enough for them. They yearned for grown-up pursuits. They wanted to have jobs, to be parents, to drive cars and to sit at the controls of planes and trains and large ocean liners. They were looking forward to taking their place in the world.

‘They’re so bossy, too,’ Irene complained. ‘Crazy about power. And they’re very concerned about how they look. At their age. I mean, they’ve only just stopped being babies. I don’t know where they get it from. Their friends are exactly the same. I heard them talking about playing doctor and Hagen said, “No, I’m the doctor. You’re the nurse.” And Portia said, “Do I get a uniform?” That was all she was interested in: the clothes.’

‘Doctors and nurses – sounds pretty hot,’ Franklin said.

‘Oh, let them have fun.’

‘You’d be surprised what kids can get up to.’

‘I don’t think it’s going to do them any harm. I’ve warned them about infections. They wouldn’t try injecting themselves or making a blood pact.’

‘Doctors and nurses is usually sexy stuff.’

‘Oh, my goodness – you’re right. I just remembered. My friend Carrie’s cousin got hold of her parents’ enema, or maybe it was even some kind of a douche bag, and there were about seven of us out in the garden shack, lining up to get our thrills.’

‘What? Married nearly six years and suddenly I hear this?’

‘It was wonderful. Carrie’s cousin did all of us and we were going to get a second turn and then – to be fair – I said she should have a chance, too. Carrie was chosen to man the machine because she was the next oldest. She said she had a terrible time trying to start it because her cousin was fat and it was so hard to find just where you were supposed to put the end of the hose thing in.’ She gave a little chuckle and then burst into a loud fit of laughter.

‘Revelations,’ Franklin shouted.

The children ran back into the kitchen, wanting to know what was so funny. In their rush, they piled up at the doorway, jostling in a bunch and then tumbling all over each other like puppies. ‘Look at that,’ Irene said. ‘Once you’re a mother, you’re in the front line for the rest of your life.’

Sherman said, ‘So you liked it?’

‘Of course. We all did. We loved it. Can’t you remember what it was like to be five years old?’

‘I can’t hardly remember last week.’

‘That isn’t the same thing. I mean your childhood. Once you’re grown up, it sort of seals itself off. It’s like a closed world or another country. If you’re a mother, what you have to do is teach your kids how to have a childhood. They
won’t get one without your participation. You share yours with them.’

‘I figure you just try and keep them under control,’ Franklin said. ‘That’s as much as anybody can do.’

‘No, honey. You have to make an effort. Otherwise they’re at a big disadvantage when they grow up. They may be nice but they’re going to be disliked for their bad habits, their bad manners and everything else they never learned right. They’ll be unpleasant people and they’ll make everybody around them unhappy.’

There was a silence during which both men observed her intently.

She said, ‘It’s a big responsibility to be a parent. You put new people into the world and it’s because of your work that they turn out either good or bad.’

Franklin was finally beginning to get so sick of Sherman’s company that if it hadn’t been for Irene’s pestering, he’d have dropped a hint about the length of his stay. That wouldn’t have been difficult; he could say something like: if Sherman planned to hang on in that neck of the woods, they’d have to find him a place of his own because, naturally, he’d want to go out and meet people – women, for instance – and bring them back, and so on, which wouldn’t be comfortable with kids in the house.

Eventually, he’d get around to that. But in the meantime, he was just vaguely annoyed and sometimes bored on their evenings out. One night, under the influence of the tedium, he came out with the story of Jubal’s Field.

Irene’s Aunt Posie, he said, whose real name was Penelope and who was actually a great-great-something aunt, had been told when still a small child that she was to have three things from her father and mother when they died. Those three things were: the oil painting of the Sioux Indian leading his horse along a mountain path; the Civil War dress sword from her father’s side of the family; and the land they called Jubal’s Field, including the water rights and whatever building or buildings were still standing on the place at the time of her inheritance.

The sword had been used by Posie’s parents to cut their wedding cake. It had sentimental associations for all the family. So did the painting, which had captivated her even as a child. All her life she remembered how her grandfather had lifted her up so that she could see it better.

And Jubal’s Field was more than simply a piece of ground. The field was there but beyond it reared the beginning of the woods and the high country, with a pure mountain stream running through it. All of that land was legally attached to the field and it included a springhouse and a tupelo wood. In the fall the leaves of the tupelo trees turned crimson and garnet and wine-red. Against blue sky and the pale, grayish bark of the branches, the masses of scarlet foliage were like something out of a stained-glass window.

When Irene’s grandmother was already a mother, her Aunt Posie told her that once, late in September, she was walking on the carriage trail that passed along the borders of Jubal’s land. She was looking into the ruby-red leaves
against the slope of the hillside, with the bright color of the sky beyond: and all of a sudden a fawn came through the trees. It was a good-sized animal because of the time of year, but still not so big as a full-grown deer, and it went jumping through the fiery wood like a toy on springs. That, Aunt Posie said, was the best thing she’d ever seen in her life except, of course, the faces of the people she loved: the most beautiful scene from nature, anyway – and that included birds, fish and everything, even the full moon during one really cold Christmas when the whole family had piled into four sleighs and gone riding through the valley with the bells and harness jingling.

How Aunt Posie’s oldest brother, Guthrie, managed to trick the other members of his family out of their first, second and third choice of inherited objects, no one knew. You could only guess that it would have been accomplished with a mixture of bribery and emotional manipulation. Aunt Posie hadn’t been married at the time, and for some reason Guthrie assumed that she would remain single and that there was no reason why a person with no descendants should want to inherit anything but money. To whom would she pass things on except to strangers? And heirlooms shouldn’t go out of the family.

‘I don’t know what the rights of it were,’ Franklin said. ‘I guess nobody does now. It’s gone on too long. Irene’s sure. So’s her family.’

‘But?’

‘There’s usually two sides to most things.’

‘I guess that’s so,’ Sherman said. ‘Heads I win.’

*

Sherman’s favorite story was called ‘The White Mule’. It concerned a boy from Arkansas who lived with his widowed mother.

The first time Sherman told him the story, Franklin thought that it was going to be a fantasy like ‘Jack and the Beanstalk’: the mother told her son to take the old white mule to the fair and sell it, because there was nothing left in the house to eat. After the beginning, however, the story turned into a realistic anecdote about a swindle perpetrated in childhood by someone Sherman said he’d met: a man named Jeb. According to the plot, Jeb arrived at the fair and found a shed to put the mule in, but the poor animal was so tired by the long walk that after a few hours it died in its sleep. That was Sherman’s favorite moment. His voice rose melodramatically as he asked, ‘What was he going to do? What was he going to do? His mother was waiting at home, counting on him to bring her the money for food.’

He managed to tell the entire story twice. After that, Franklin would say that he’d heard it already but Sherman kept trying to get through it again. Franklin guessed that the question, ‘What was he going to do?’ had such dreadful relevance to Sherman’s early life that it made him happy to transpose it to a framework where it could be answered.

One evening, by breaking off to discuss other things, Sherman contrived to tell the story for an almost complete third time. ‘Jeb raffled it,’ he said. ‘He sold everybody at the
fair a ticket for five dollars and he said the winning ticket would get a beautiful white mule and if the winner had any complaints at all, he’d give him four times his money back.’

‘You told me. That’s a good story.’