Cartesian Sonata: And Other Novellas (15 page)

If, for instance, he were to move, say, the stuffed long-tailed bird from its place on the coffee table next to the basket filled with pohpuff and petals and put it on top of the glass-enclosed
cabinet on the other side of his bed by the desk, it would dwarf the male and female figurines already there, as well as the miniature porcelain boat and little glass coaster. Even the coaster, if it were shifted, would find competition everywhere; besides, such a thing belongs by the bed, where you might want to set a drinking glass. No higgle-piggle in this house—thoughtful planning, care—for instance, the linen hand towel draped over the back rail of the glass cabinet. Four small shelves were sheltered behind the cabinet doors, the only doors or drawers he’d found which were locked. Inside he’d seen three souvenir teacups and two mugs stuffed with dried weeds. Walt only for a moment remembered and rejected the use of his knife.

At last, Walter slid naked between the cool sheets, as careful as if he were a layer himself, and felt their cool calming touch, the touch of an other who wanted nothing from him but would grow warm when he relaxed and went to sleep in his skin. It seemed a shame to be asleep so many of the hours he’d have in this room, though all these things would quietly remain for him to realize again come morning. When he shifted his bolster to settle his head, Walter discovered another pillow, shorter, flatter, heavily embroidered—he could feel it—from which came a subtle sweet scent as if from long loose hair. In a bed like this he would never need to curl or clench—not beneath his rose-colored knit blanket. On and on it goes … each season in its glory …

Walter drew a bath a Roman would have waded in, and lay in it pretending to be at the end of his day, and that he was about to put on a warm robe and go down to the kitchen for a light snack. His belly button stared up through swirling suds, its eye half
shut with pleasure, and warm steam scented with something unfamiliar moistened his military hair. It was fortunate he habitually shaved with a throwaway piece of plastic, because he hadn’t seen a proper plug for anything electric. He even enjoyed brushing his teeth and, with twin brushes, his hair. He’d wear his best shirt, a proper tie, a thin brown belt, as modest as small change. And he had a choice of mirrors. Nothing could be done about his accounting books or the cowboy cut of his trousers. Not just now. And Ruth would be blazing on the landing. But—think a moment—would she? because—he had to persuade himself to remember—it was morning, and the morning sun would be on the other side of the house, coming in the dining room windows like Niagara Falls.

The room
was
full of light, and a place had been set for him facing the garden: a napkin in a numbered silver hoop, which meant he was expected to stay, an etched juice glass and a plate for fruit, his own jam pot, covered with little green leaves and little red strawberries, cup and saucer for coffee in a pattern so fancy the saucer’s rim was as full of holes as lace, then silver that seemed to smile, knife and fork gleaming with greetings, tiny spoon for the jam, he supposed, cut-glass bowl of butter cooled by cubes of ice, a napkin’d breadbasket, cloth white as white, so all was well, and here he was: Walter cleared his throat, sat as softly as a cat.

Mister Riffytear, is it? Be right out. Sleep tight did you? He heard a knife go chop. Yes … well … very well … yes, he called back. Good. In a moment. And in a moment she put a plate of fruit upon his plate, fluted rounds of orange and kiwi, geez, its face like a peppered flower. Juice? In her other hand, a pitcher, poised. Please. He smiled at Bettie as only happiness can, but saw her face get stern as he lay a fork against a slice of orange. Oh … he knew, put down his knife, withdrew the fork, looked apprehensively solemn. We like to have a little prayer
before the duties of the day begin, Mister Riffytear, if that’s not displeasing to you, Bettie said, in tones that had never heard another answer than the one he gratefully gave her.

Normally, had Walter been asked this question in the abstract, he would have answered in words short and coarse, because displays of belief always made him uncomfortable, whether it was his father railing against the Republicans, or his mother rebuking the flower children, or his sister standing to sing hymns in that soprano of which she was so proud. Right now, he would have had to admit he was apprehensive, but not entirely disconcerted; after all, when had anyone ever prayed over him? except when he imagined he was dead.

Lord, I want to welcome Mister Riffytear, here, to our bed and breakfast, a stranger who’s come a ways from Virginia to stay in a home where every dish we own, and stick that makes our walls, and swatch of cloth that clothes, and bite of toast that warms us to our tasks, is dedicated to your cause, and where your name is praised not merely mouthed the way they do down the street. And I’d like to ask for you to bless this—I believe—dear man as he goes about today’s work, because, although he hasn’t really told us what he does, it’s righteous service I’m sure that he’s about. Bettie seemed to glow with goodwill and Walter went warm, though he would have said it was the morning sun.

Bettie flipped a corner of the napkin. Scones, she said, fresh. Warm as my cheek, I promise, Mister Riffytear. Ah, so nice, I’m sure, your cheek, too. Bettie’s short mouth tried a wide smile. Her small eyes drew her skin into a pucker. We know, she then said to the ceiling so that Walter’s finger had to scuttle from his fork, that it doesn’t matter how you come to God. And any road which leads here is a good one. Coffee? Will you be wanting eggs, a bit of bacon?

Walter ate slowly, which wasn’t his way, cutting the scones carefully in half, buttering their centers with even swipes, taking
a mannerly modest bite, and then letting the cake melt away from its currants. The coffee had a dark rich hearty zing, and his eggs were like suns beneath soft clouds. Bettie mostly stayed out of his way and let Walter seem to sleep inside sensation.

Only as he started up the stairs, returning to his room, his appreciation in a wake behind him, did Walter realize that Bettie had asked the Lord to bless him, but had neglected to ask for God’s approval of the food. It would be all right. A natural oversight. You could take it as asked. Mister Ambrose puffed into view on the landing, suitcases lengthening his arms, breathless and in apparent pain. Walter bounded up the stairs and unburdened him. Here, let me help, Walter said to Emery’s fallen face. And was immediately away, even out through the screen, which he unhooked with the fore edge of a bag, stopping only at the steps to the front porch. A young man and woman were murmuring about their bill. Walter bet Bettie accepted only cash, which certainly suited Walter … to a T, he thought, drinking in the early fall sky, blue as new jeans. Bye bye, said Bettie, now on the scene and following the couple out. Where’s your car, Walter asked. Next to the red wagon in back, the man replied. That was Walter’s car. Walter shot away and put the bags down by their tailpipe. Many thanks, the man said when the couple arrived, having said their farewells and made their thank yous. Not to mention, Walter said, helping him load the trunk. Safe journey. Bye. Bye bye.

Walter was actually pleased that Bettie and Emery were nowhere to be seen when he returned to the house. He had dawdled. The path along the west side of the house was lined with cheeky yellow pansies: thirty-seven blooms. Among his forms, there were no receipts for thanks. Nor did he wish to put his present impulses on parade. Come to think of it, he had a few yellow tablets but their yellow was paler than beer, no match for the egg-yolk yellow of the pansies. Walter thought
Bettie must find it hard to live alongside such noisy ill health. It might have been the beginning of fall, but Walter had spring in his step, so if he was dawdling, he was dawdling at high speed. He also had to consider what he’d need for his trip to Mendota, a chastening thought. Most of his equipment was in the car: a few calculators, files in boxes, pads of forms, records and other books in the trunk. The drive would eat up hours. Walter drove carefully because his license had expired. At least he knew what to expect. He had cleaned up a mess or two for that Karmel Korn Kompany in years past. They weren’t krooks, they were just klumsy, and were feeding too much popcorn to the birds. That kute KKK on their box didn’t help either. He told them as much. Kan it, he said. We already do, and showed him a tin. All concerned had what used to be called a good laugh.

What would he need? damn near just his jacket. Which he’d put away like a gent. A porcelain orange studded with cloves hung from a string in the closet where a row of wooden hangers swayed and clicked like some Eastern musical instrument. A sachet a day keeps Bee Oh away, he hummed, glancing about his bedroom and its possessions with a fondness he knew was a little sappy, before closing the door quietly on his domain. It seemed a shame to leave them here alone, to lose a whole day … They will be here when you get back, his father always promised when he pulled him from his play to do chores. Bettie was beneath, stirring the stagnant parlor. Her long face sure had plenty of space for cheeks. And when he went away she waved out a window.

Mr. Vest was there to greet him again and to fumble with the hook. It was nearly seven and shadows followed Walter in.
His day had been long and arduously dull. Through every moment, he had yearned to be away from where he was, an enamel-topped table at the back of the Karmel Korn Kompany, more sugar than oxygen in an atmosphere jittery with poppety pop, a box like a trash can full of loose papers, and an absence of records so complete the Kompany might as well not exist. Later in the day, while he was putting the triple-K popcorn people back on the map, Walter made the comparison: these rosy-cheeked happy-haired young weirdos might as well have been selling lemonade from a card table on the corner. They bought corn and corn syrup and sugar and popped it and cooked it and colored it and put the poppings in plastic packages and then in pasteboard boxes and shipped some and sold some over the counter under names like Hawaiian Pineapple Surprise, hired an old man to sweep up at day’s end, and paid kids about their age and education to answer the phone and collect money from customers, while managing to meet the rent each month; yet nobody knew how much of Cinnamon Sensation had been bought or sold or barely where and certainly not why; all they knew was they were still in business—hadn’t run out of lemons or the strength to squeeze them—but of what their business had been and done or might do tomorrow, there was scarcely a hint, only the faintest trace like a puff of distant dust … dust of the sort Walter’s red wagon made going fast on fineline back roads.

The loose Kash Kids, that’s what he called them. You’ve got to make deposits. You’ve got to write checks. You’ve got to establish a line of credit. You’ve got to know what your costs are, what your volume is, the favored flavor, what’s up. You’ve got to keep accounts: hire a bookkeeper, buy her a pencil, find her some silence to have thoughts in and a little sugarless air to breathe: let her straighten you out. And the moppets said fine, they would do that, good advice—just what the artless tykes had said
the last time he’d bawled them out—then paid him in small bills like a tout at the track. His last words were: try not to get robbed. And don’t sleep in the shop. They laughed.

Miles down the road, Walter sat in his car and consumed a steak sandwich, a shake, and french fries, with a swiftness which seemed to cancel the occasion, and wondered why had he scolded the Karmel Korn Kids? They were a perfect client. They’d laughed—all right, giggled—but their giggles were not on record.

Walter bet Bettie kept clean accounts. He bet she knew the date on every penny. Not that she was grasping or cheap. The room rate was more than reasonable, and her breakfasts were as sumptuous as her bed, scented with more sophistication than those guys their caramel corn. But she would sweep and scrub her figures the way she scrubbed and swept her house; not a spot of dirt was allowed to smirch, not a speck of dust permitted to mote, not a fly allowed to light, not in her house; and not a transaction, a purchase, or a profit, would be permitted to go astray and leave its inscription in her records to sneak errantly off. Every knickknack knew its place and had felt her rag. Tabletops shone with good health, pillows were plump, drapes were vacuumed on both sides. He felt certain that sachets lay in her handkerchief drawers; that small scented pillows were being flattened by mattresses in all her beds; that she kept tussie-mussies too, deep in her purse; and that flexible stalks of lavender, plaited into dollies like his mother had once done corn, were tossed among her underthings like herbs in a salad.

How are you feeling, Walter said again, because he couldn’t think of anything else to say, but wanted to show concern. Better in the evening when I can watch TV, Emery whistled. Though it’s hard to find anything funny when you don’t dare laugh. It hurts to laugh, Walter wondered. Life is nothing to make light of, Emery said, as if his sentiment had been memorized.
Walter understood that, and said so, but thought that maybe that’s just what he’d been doing, for what did he own? what debts weighed down his pockets, what pets or family held him fast? ah … but on his conscience—or was it the fear of getting caught—there was a weight and a worry darker than an attic closet and heavier than a highboy. There’s a TV in the parlor, Emery offered, if you’d like to catch a game show. Thank you, no, Walter found himself saying, at night I like to keep my windows closed.

And of course his door, though Walter remembered it didn’t latch. He stood in the darkness for a moment realizing he could feel his room’s presence, he could smell it faintly of course, but he knew his many things were there, as his father had said about his toys, waiting: the wooden soldier, the teddy bear, the paper horn. He only had to fumble for a moment turning on a lamp. Its glass shade burned pink and green and clear. Next to the desk a flat-headed brass floor lamp stood a little unsteadily, and Walter went to turn that on as well. Beside it was a painted metal wastebasket with a kind of Grecian frieze around its oval top. On the side of the desk near the air conditioner he had to admire a long-stemmed green plant which graced—yes, graced, that’s how he felt—a wooden stand with a marble top.
Philodendron
was the only word he knew.