A Garden of Earthly Delights (50 page)

Swan shrugged. Deborah turned back to her book.

One day, Clark offered to drive Clara to Tintern. Why? Clara usually drove herself.

“I can be your ‘chaf-fer'—like in the movies.”

Clara laughed. Between her and Revere's oldest son there had always been an easiness she didn't feel with Jonathan, or with Revere himself. Of all the Reveres, Clark was the most like some kid or young guy you'd meet in a migrant camp. Or, one of the younger bus drivers. He was simple, direct, maybe a little crude. When he
spoke with Clara, she could see his eyelids quiver, as if he was wanting to stare at her hard, but knew he'd better not. Now, in the car, he said in an unexpectedly serious voice, “The way Jon's been acting, I don't want to tell Pa. See, it'd just worry him? Maybe you—”

Clark's voice trailed off. He would rely upon Clara to know what he was saying, and what he meant by what he was saying.

Clara knew that Jonathan was often away from the farm. She guessed that he was paying the hired men to do his chores for him, without Revere knowing. He hated the farm, hated living so far out in the country. He missed meals, and more than once he'd missed the Sunday evening Bible sessions.

Clark said, “Jon's been hanging around with these guys, one of them's Jimmy Dorr, he was ahead of me in school and enlisted in the Navy and got discharged ‘dishonorable'—nobody knows why. Him, and some other guys. I heard some things about them.”

“What things, Clark?”

“Just things.” Clark spoke vaguely and sadly. Yet it comforted him, you could see, that Clara had called him by name. When Clara had first come to live at the farm, as Revere's wife and his “stepmother,” he'd said how close their names were:
Clara, Clark.
He'd said it was a nice thing, wasn't it? He had seemed to think it was on purpose.

Now Clark said, shifting his broad shoulders inside his shirt, “I think maybe, I guess it might be—because of Steven.”

“Steven.” Clara had come to prefer “Steven” to “Swan,” at about the time she'd had her hair styled, and her teeth capped. At about the time she'd overheard several Revere women laughing at the name “Swan” at a Christmas gathering.

Goddamn, the name
Swan
embarrassed the hell out of her, now. It was white trash, so clearly. Worse than no name at all.

“Yeah, Steven.” Clark's face had become ruddy, his eyelids had begun to quiver. He was driving Clara's new car, a canary-colored Buick coupe, with both his big hands on the steering wheel, near the top. “See, at school Steven gets along better than Jon does. The teachers like him, he's so smart and works hard. It used to be, Jon was one of the smartest kids, he hadn't even had to work. And now—”

“Whose fault is that?” Clara spoke sharply, then paused as if realizing how she sounded. She went on, “It's too bad. Jonathan is what you call ‘sensitive'—‘high-strung.' ”

Clark laughed. “He's got a hell of a temper, is how I see it.”

“Jon gets along with me all right.” Clara spoke stubbornly, she wasn't accustomed to meeting opposition in Clark.

“Maybe.”

“Yes, he does! He was the one, the only one, to help me with Robert. That time,” Clara said, faltering. “You know.…”

Clark drove in silence, frowning.

“He likes me, Jonathan does. I try to talk to him when I can.”

“Well—”

“What do you know, that I don't know? I don't believe you.”

“Sometimes Jon tells me how he hates Pa. Hates the farm, and hates Pa. But he don't want to walk away, see: he belongs here, and he's thinking about what the, you know, the property is worth. You can't blame him, see—”

“Why would I blame him? Has somebody said I blame him?”

Clara spoke so sharply, Clark had to mollify her.

“Jon was like this a few years ago, I mean he acted weird when our ma was sick. I mean, his temper. He'd get in fights with me despite I could beat him up, one hand behind my back. Then he'd spend all his time reading. Books about Indians, history and stuff like that, that's so boring at school you want to puke, Jon would read, on purpose. And Pa would find him, and tell him to go outside, do his chores, not act like a baby.” Clark shook his head wryly. You could see Clark's ambivalence, recalling these days: he felt sorry for his brother, yet took satisfaction in Jonathan being scolded by their father, who rarely scolded him. “That was before you came to live with us.… When Ma was still alive, see? Back then. But we knew about you, kind of. And Swan—Steven. I mean, people knew. They wouldn't tell us openly but we knew. At school, and like that. I got into some real fights,” Clark said, smiling, “and beat some bastids pretty bad. Some assholes asking for it. Then Uncle Judd told me about it, and how I should be ‘sympathetic' with Pa, and not get into fights. So I tried. But Jon, he wasn't like that. He's weak,
like. He can't control a horse, and the horse knows it, see? O'Grady, any time he wants to O'Grady can run with Jon, he's gonna knock him off his back one day and kill him. Those days when Ma was dying, Jon would sleep out with the horses. He'd sneak away, nobody knew where. He started drinking then, just a kid, and he's drinking now I guess, and not eating right. Ever seen how skinny he is? His chest, ribs …” Clark glanced sidelong at Clara, who was listening attentively; the two were such healthy specimens, with good appetites, and good-looking, it made sense that they were kin, and Jonathan was excluded.

Clara said, tapping at her teeth with a fingernail, “I'm sorry to hear this, Clark. I … like Jonathan.”

“He's O.K.”

“I think he likes me.…”

Clark shrugged.

Clara said, in a sudden flight of fancy, “All of you like me—don't you? You Reveres. Because I sure like
you.
”

Clark laughed, as if his stylish blond stepmother had leaned over to tickle him. “Listen, anybody doesn't like you, Clara, is jealous. Assholes.”

“Well, why shouldn't they like me? Why shouldn't Jonathan like me?” Clara was speaking lightly, yet there was a tremor in her voice. Clark gripped the steering wheel harder, and concentrated upon his driving. Now he'd told Clara what he meant to tell her, he could relax, some. He could let her stew with it. He wasn't all that comfortable around Clara when she was serious, when there was something melancholy and heavy-hearted about her, flat-footed, like you'd expect of an ordinary woman of her age.

The last thing you wanted to feel for Clara Walpole was
sorry.

During Christmas recess, Clara took Swan with her to Hamilton to visit for a week. She was often on the phone making arrangements, and she spent two days packing, excited as a young girl. Swan lay on the bed watching her. He too was excited about the trip, though anxious about staying in a strange place for so many nights. Could he bring enough books to keep him occupied? Who would he talk
with, apart from Clara? His Hamilton cousins were all older. He scarcely knew them. And he felt guilty about leaving his father out here at the farm, when he sensed that Revere didn't want him to go.

Jonathan was behaving so nastily lately, Swan was glad to be free of him.

“By train. ‘By train and by airplane'—‘all around the world.' ”

Clara sang, happily. If sometimes Swan was between her and a mirror he saw how her eyes lifted from him, to focus upon her smiling reflection. Her teeth were so perfect now, and her hair; sometimes she laughed just to see herself. And when Clara was happy, Swan was happy, too.

Part of the excitement was taking a train to Hamilton: just Clara and Swan. Revere had arranged for them to have a
private compartment.

“Because we can afford it, that's why. Other people, they sit in ‘coach.' But not us. Not ‘Reveres.' ”

At the station in Hamilton, Clara took a cab. Her face glowed as her suitcases were placed in the trunk of the cab, and a door was opened for her to slip inside. She wore her new coat, red cashmere wool with a squirrel-fur collar. When Revere's great-aunt greeted her she had no choice but to exclaim, “Why, Clara! How that color becomes you.”

They were guests at the big house on Lakeshore Boulevard. Swan remembered some of the faces but not the names: and hearing them again, he made more of an attempt to retain them. These were the “city people” of whom the Eden County Reveres spoke with both awe and distrust. They were “money people” and not “farm people.” But in his presence, which was of course Clara's presence, conversation was less interesting to Swan: about family, mostly. About the farm, and the health of family members. So boring! When talk turned to him, Steven, he felt acutely awkward, self-conscious. Yes he had “grown.” Yes he was eleven now. He was tall—“five-one.” Blushing to hear himself described as “good-looking” and Christ he hated it when Clara boasted of him, his grades at school. He wanted to laugh angrily at her
I can't help it if I'm smart. It's all I have.

Cocktail time, and Swan was allowed to slip away. Reading upstairs
in the room that was “his.” There was dinner here in Hamilton and not supper and it was served two hours later than the Reveres ate at home: eight o'clock in the evening, pitch-black outside and Swan was starving.

He was anxious to see that Clara, with these Reveres, seemed a little uncomfortable; she spoke less frequently than she did at home, and her laughter was quieter, restrained. Swan saw how his mother's eyes darted about, assessing. There were eight people at the dinner table in addition to Clara and Swan and several were intimidating individuals. A “boy” cousin in his mid-twenties with a fat serious face, who had earned something called a MBA from Harvard University; a middle-aged woman with fluffy dyed-looking hair, who was a “trustee” of the Hamilton Art Museum; a man who looked to be in his mid-thirties, snaky-lean, handsome in a smudged, sullen way, whose relationship with the others wasn't clear to Swan—somebody's “attorney”?

This man, brooding, yet quick to smile and even to laugh, had a habit of tapping his fingers on the tablecloth. He seemed not to know what he was doing, and possibly no one else noticed except Swan. How annoyed Revere was, when Jonathan tapped his fingers at the table! And when Robert had been restless, shifting in his chair. Clumsy with his knife and fork. Chewing with his mouth open.

Nobody would speak of Robert here. His was a name no longer spoken. Outside the dining room windows snow was falling, and Swan thought of how cold and lonely it was in the cemetery where Robert was buried, and how desperate Robert would be, so alone; he hadn't ever liked being alone for five minutes. Clara had taken Swan to visit the cemetery only a few times. Out behind the Lutheran church. Close by Robert's grave marker was another, larger, with the name REVERE chiseled into the stone. And, beside that, another REVERE stone. When you looked around, you saw REVERE everywhere—a garden of them. Swan whispered his name to himself, Steven Revere, and then a quieter voice said his true name, which was Swan Walpole. When it came time, he wanted Swan Walpole on his grave marker.

He'd learned that his true name was Swan Walpole because one
day he'd looked through Clara's things in a bureau drawer. He'd found a marriage license. Clara Walpole. Curt Revere. Some dates and information. And a photograph he'd never seen, his mother and Revere on their wedding day, Clara smiling broadly yet with her lips closed so that her cheeks bunched out, and her eyes narrowed and squinting, Revere smiling gravely, with an almost boyish anticipation. Swan wondered if the people at this table, the Hamilton Reveres, knew anything of Clara Walpole?

Clara said suddenly to the tapping-fingers man, the way you'd snatch something light and fluttering like a butterfly out of the air, “My son has this book about ‘archaeology.' Egyptian things, really old. Like pyramids, ‘sphinxes'? D'you know anything about that?”

The tapping-fingers man stared at Clara as if, for a moment, he hadn't understood a single of her words. Then he said, with a smile that included Swan, “Not much. But a little. I'll take you to the museum tomorrow, how's that? Both of you?”

Clara beamed upon Swan. “Steven, how would you like that?”

And for the first time at dinner, Swan smiled.

It was the Hamilton Art Museum, and Swan had never entered so large and austere a building. In the high-domed foyer, their voices echoed. The tapping-fingers man, whose name was Ransom, first name or last Swan was never to know, spoke quietly to Clara and to Steven, taking Clara by the elbow of her red cashmere coat as they walked through the chilly, near-deserted rooms. Swan was sharply disappointed: there was no sphinx statue, only just photographs in a dim-lit display case. There were many photographs and drawings, of pyramids, scenes along the Nile River, “phases of the moon.” There was a single dwarf-mummy, from the “Middle Kingdom.” Ransom peered at a plaque on the wall and read it, as if Swan couldn't read for himself—“ ‘Egyptian rulers built extraordinary tombs for themselves in which their mummified remains would be preserved, ideally forever. It was believed that if the pharaoh lived forever in the underworld, the nation of Egypt would also flourish.' ” Clara admired a display case of crude stone trinkets and tarnished-looking jewelry. “So long ago, you wonder why people bothered.”