The Music School (28 page)

Bernard’s presence, though less anxious than Morris’s, was bigger; his voice, to ears accustomed to nothing more declamatory than birdsong and nocturnal animals’ rustle, seemed huge, a massive rupture in the web of life. Bernard was wearing a dark suit in the green glade; it was Sunday. He was sweating, angry. “I had Hell’s own time finding you.”

“There’s a stone wall you must keep on your left. I used to get lost myself.” Stanley’s voice sounded strange to him, a dry crackling; he had not used it for days except, in a vague way, to sing.

“Tell me one thing. Are you as crazy as you look?”

“I can shave when I go to town.”

“I didn’t mean just the beard—but, speaking of that, do you know it’s come out orange?”

“I know. I have a mirror.”

“My boys ask, ‘Where’s Uncle Stan?’ ”

“Bring them out. They can spend the night if they’d like. But just them, not their friends. I couldn’t put up too many.”

“Then in your mind this is camping out?”

Stanley wanted to understand; so much importance seemed attached to his understanding. “Camping out?”

“You know what they’re saying in town?”

“About me?”

“They say you’ve become a hermit.”

An odd joy, the tepid blow of morning light, touched Stanley. Dignity and certainty were assigned to the vague thing he had been doing. He had been becoming a hermit. One brother was a contractor, another taught school, another lived in California, and he was a hermit. It was better than a diploma; but he hadn’t earned it. He said cautiously, “I hadn’t thought of it that way.”

Bernard in turn seemed pleased. He shifted his feet as if he had at last found sockets solid enough for their intense weight. “How had you thought of it exactly? Does this have to do with Loretta, or Leinbach, or who?”

Stanley remembered these names. Leinbach was the head custodian and Loretta was a woman who lived alone in a trailer. Leinbach was slender and fussy, with sunken temples and bright broken veins in his nose. Each day he wore a freshly laundered gray shirt to work, carrying his wife on his back in the sheen of her ironing. He demonstrated such jealous concern for the school’s three great boilers that it seemed their heat kept his own blood warm. Loretta was pink and white and smooth, and loved her beer, and laughed when she thought of how life had unhitched her trailer and stranded her on the edge of a cornfield. Morning glories twined up the cinder-block supports that had replaced the trailer’s wheels.
Stanley was always delighted by how thriftily the bathroom and kitchen fixtures, unfolding on nickel-coated hinges, were fitted into their envelopes of space. But at times Loretta was frantic and bitter; a coarse grief and sourceless storm of outrage would cancel out her smoothness and shake the trailer’s dainty compartments. He gathered that somehow even he, Stanley, was wronging her. Once, on the last day before Christmas vacation, he had accidentally smothered the fire in the third boiler with too great a draught of pea coal. Leinbach, his face grim, his veins livid, had rushed to revive the flames with such fierce haste and spat such vile language that Stanley wondered if it had been a quadrant of Leinbach’s own heart he had mistakenly allowed to flicker and choke. This possible confusion cooled, strangely, his feelings for Loretta. There was a passion loose in the world that might burn him. He told Bernard, “No, it’s nobody in particular.”

“Then what? What’s this about? You’ll rot here.”

“Have you seen Leinbach?”

“He told me to tell you to stay away. The school can’t keep a queer on the staff, they must think of the kids.”

This ugly word “queer” (he could see Leinbach’s mouth twist, pronouncing it) made Stanley stubborn. “Because of where I live?”

“And he hasn’t even seen the beard. When are you going to shave?”

“Not when Leinbach tells me.”

Bernard laughed; the noise broke like a shot. “Stay, then. You can start work for me early. I’ve commenced a row of foundations out toward the cemetery hill.”

“If you don’t need me yet, I’d just as soon wait a while.”

Bernard took off his coat and appeared to enter, combatively, into the spirit of the woods. “
I
don’t need
you
, Stan,” he
said. “It’s the other way around.” When Stanley neither admitted this nor argued, Bernard said, louder, “Go crazy, then.”

“It’s the other way, like you say. I’m trying to clear my head.”

“Sit and stink out here. Squat on your own shit. You’ll be crawling down soon enough. Here. I’ll leave you my cigarettes.”

“Bernie, thanks, but I don’t smoke that much out here.”

Stanley was left, after the thrashing footsteps receded from his ears, with the ringing sense—heartening, on the whole—of having struggled with his brother and having achieved the usual postponement of total defeat.

With tendrils of habit the hermit rooted himself in the woods. Solitude is a two-dimensional condition whose problems can be neatly plotted. Pure water ran in a nearby rivulet. Stanley cooked, on a double kerosene burner, canned foods bought once a week at the dying corner store on the near edge of town, a store grateful for his business. Though he had his gun, he shot nothing, for fear of poaching and offending the invisible authorities who left him undisturbed. The cooking conveniently partitioned the days, and, rewarming and combining leftovers, he was able to indulge his fondness for patchwork. The problem of elimination he solved with a succession of deeply dug and gradually refilled holes that he imagined would always exist, as wells of special fertility in the woods. For exercise, he cut fallen wood, and for warmth burned it in the ancient kitchen fireplace that he had cleared in the old manner, by pulling a small pine tree down the chimney. He read very little. Kerosene, lugged through the woods
in a five-gallon can, was too precious to be used for light. On one of his scavenging trips to his old home he went into the dark attic and took two books at random from the dusty stacks his mother had accumulated. She had been a tireless reader—a hermit in her way. Downstairs he found in his hands a dun-colored novel of English society dated 1913 and the moss-green memoirs of an actress who had toured the American West after the Civil War. He read a few pages from one or the other each twilight, in the magical spirit in which people used to read the Bible, expecting not continuous sense but abrupt, fragmentary illumination. And, indeed, he was rarely disappointed, for whether the scene was the ballroom of a Sussex manor house or an improvised arena in Dodge City, the events (the daughter of an impoverished nobleman declines to dance with the son of a powerful industrialist; a Mexican bandit is assassinated during the mad scene of
King Lear
) had the same brilliant surprisingness, quick high tints suggestive of a supernatural world.

It was a rare page that did not contain some sentence striking in its oblique pertinence, curving from the page upward into Stanley’s eyes, his mind, his life.

In such passages Stanley seemed to encounter some angel within himself, a woman sexlessly garbed, demanding he continue his climb up the stairs of his days toward a plateau of final clarification.

Though the days submitted to a design, the nights proved slippery; an uncontrollable intruder appeared—insomnia—to ravage and mock the order of his existence. Several nights, sleep evaded him entirely; often he awoke under a cold moon and, trying to hurry with closed eyes back through the dark door that had blown ajar, found it locked until dawn, with a breath of light, blew it open again. It was as if in lightening himself of so much of the world he had made himself too buoyant to sink—as if in purging himself of so much dross he had violated an animal necessity that took its revenge on his stripped nerves, like teeth that hurt after a cleaning. To relax himself, he would remember women, but his emissions into these ghosts merely amplified his hollowness. Lying awake, he dreamed he was a stone drained of weight, a body without personality, and wondered if his personal existence had ever been actual or was merely an illusion that these women had given him.

First there had been his mother, gloating over him as one of her four growing boys even though in some respects he looked to be the slow one, and then the straggling succession of kind encouragers ending with Loretta, who in intimacy had praised this and that about his body, so that the memory of her, or even the vision of her two-toned trailer sitting with its hitch ensnarled in vines, physically broadened his chest,
tightened his skin. Why, indeed, did he keep a mirror but as a kind of woman, in whom he sought—cocking his head to catch the best light, smoothing his beard, smiling secretively—the angles previously made vivid by admiration? Even when under his mother’s care he had sensed that the very quality which made him laggard in some respects gave his outward form the leisure to fill itself out with a fullness skimped in his less passive brothers. He was glad when Loretta came to see him. It happened late in April. Her incongruous body, in a blue dress and gray sweater, approached through the trees and waded across the treeless farmyard. The farmyard was now filled with ferns that swallowed her ankles. Her ankles were fine for so fat a woman.

“Well, Jesus,” she said, halting. “Look at you.”

“Look at
you
,” he said. “I didn’t know you could walk so far.”

Unlike the others, she had come toward evening. She asked, “Aren’t you going to have me in?”

“Sure,” he said. Her advance was smooth, unstoppable. “It’s not as tidy as your trailer.” He felt fussed and pleased, invaded to his bones, as she stepped across the grooved and pitted threshold and examined the efficient interior he had formed, and found nothing to laugh at.

“You’ve done all right,” she said seriously, awed. Then she laughed.

“What are you laughing at?”

“It reminded me of something, and now I know what. I once knew a Chinese bachelor who lived like this, in the middle of Philly. It smelled like this. Maybe it’s the kerosene. Let me smell you.” She unbuttoned the two top buttons of his shirt, tugged down the neck of his undershirt, put her snub nose against his skin, and sniffed. “You don’t smell Chinese yet, you still smell like Stanley. Your heart’s thumping.”

“It’s been a time.”

“I didn’t think you wanted me to come.”

“I don’t think I did want you to come.”

“But I’m here now, huh?”

“You’re here.”

“How cold does it get at night?”

“Not so bad now. We’ll be O.K. Are you hungry?”

“Thirsty.”

He looked down into her face to see in what sense she meant thirst, but the sun was low and his own body blocked her from the window light, so all he felt of her face was its shadowy warmth and a gingery perfume that perhaps dwelled in her hair. He gave her the cot and put a blanket on the floor beside it, so that each time he awoke that night he saw her above him, her bare bent arm luminous, her heavy body floating cloudlike on the spindly crossed legs of the cot and bellying the underside of the canvas. As if it had become possible to tamper with the sky and move the moon, he reached and touched, and then became confused, for, as her body encircled his and slipped across his fingertips, she seemed now vast and now terribly thin, thin with a child’s expectant thinness as her frame yearned toward some sought position in relation to the fixed stars of his own system.

He slept late, awaking to the sound of her working on his stove. The metallic rummaging annoyed him; she seemed to be tinkering inside his head. From the back, in faded blue, she looked swollen, having feasted on him. She cursed his kerosene burners, which were reluctant to light. He turned her from his stove and, naked, used his body as a wedge to separate her from the instruments, the stove and pans, of his private life. She yielded complacently at first, but by the time he was through her eyes were strained by anger. Dabs of sunlight
shuffled on the coarse floor like coins perpetually being counted. He lay upon an adversary who in a single space of breathing might swell enough to overthrow him. They rose, and her storm came—the tears, the scorn, the stony-voiced repetitions, the pitiable reversals toward tenderness. Looking past her head, his chin burning in the halo of her uncombed hair, he saw the window giving on the morning woods as an aquarium from whose magic jagged world of green leaves stricken with sunshine this weeping would keep him forever sealed. He gave her breakfast and walked her to the edge of the land, where the steel company’s No Trespassing signs were posted.

“I won’t come again,” she said.

“It’s too hard for you,” he told her.

“You know what you’re doing?” she asked, and then answered, “You’re pouring yourself down the drain.”

“I’m just like you in the trailer,” he said, smiling and watching her face for the reflection of his smile. “Independent.”

“No,” she said, in the tone of dry calm that followed her storms, “it’s been forced on me. But you’re choosing.”

How grateful he was, after all, to his visitors!—for each of them left him something to clarify his situation. He was choosing, yes, and, treading back through the woods, welcomed by the calls of unseen birds and the gestures of unnamed plants, he sought for some further choice, some additional dismissal with which he could atone for the night’s parasitic pleasure. He smashed the mirror. He held it squarely above the hearthstone, so the last thing it reflected was a slice of blue zenith, and let it drop. The fragments he swept up and buried in a place far from the house, covering the earth with leaves so he could not find the spot again. But from that sector of woods, for a while, he felt watched, by buried eyes. The
sensation passed in daylight but persisted at night, when it gave his sleep depth, as had knowing when he was a child that his mother, moving around downstairs, would on her way to bed come into his room and touch his forehead and tuck the kicked covers around him. Insomnia ceased to visit him. After Loretta’s visit, he grew drowsy at twilight, was often unable to read a word, and rose with the sun.