Cartesian Sonata: And Other Novellas (16 page)

There were so many many things, yet they didn’t seem to menace. That was because small lives lived their lives inside or on top of larger lives, nested and arranged themselves, their folds folded in like fans, as nature intended; because the dresser’s bulk functioned the way an apartment did, since the families the building contained did not enlarge it any, make it invade the street or the park next door. However, his motel drawers and closets were empty, tabletops and windowsills were bare and simply shiny, beds were scarcely covered, walls unmirrored and neglected, floors a stretch of patternless carpet as arid
as a desert. But inside that misplaced secretary there were all those books, each compressing hundreds of pages into something as simple as a brick, while upon those pages lines of words were layered the way beneath a quilt there was a blanket, beneath the blanket, an embroidered sheet; and the words were several sounds as leaves and blooms and maybe a boat upon a pond were threaded together, making better environments for one another; thus with the cabinet shut, book covers closed, you couldn’t hear any talking going on, the shouting and the singing, yes, quiet as a reading room, though in each reading head there’d be a booming world: that was why his empire was so wide and full, both few and many, near and far.

The world was flooded with ruck. And these things had made their way here, sometimes, like the corded candles, even two by two, to Bettie’s Bed and Breakfast, where they might be borne away in safety, surrounded by peace and solicitude. And one day, when the ruck has receded, they will march out of these rooms, this house, into the world again, to replenish it with properly realized things, and set an example for excellence to strive for, and history to enrich.

With some nervousness, Walter sat himself down at the desk. It had a pull-down writing surface and was made of oak. The desk was open and behind the lid were pigeonholes surmounted by a pair of pillars bearing a pediment decorated with hand-carved leaves and flowers. This section, which backed up behind and above the pigeonholes, held a mirror set directly in its center. There was another level above that where a further frieze of leaves and petals crowned the entire ensemble. He’d seen pictures of Italian hill towns less impressive. Walter felt he was to sleep tonight in an opulent garden, and he planned to revisit all its flowers, but only after exploring this desk, this plot and planting, which he had saved to enliven his evening.

A book lay on the lid like a Bible. Walter realized he hadn’t seen a Bible.
The Collected Poetry of Robert Frost
. Everybody knew Robert Frost, and his great white head of hair. Or was that Carl Sandburg who had the great white head of hair? No dust to blow, not this time. The jacket—on which were pictured dark woods and shadowy water—bravely boasted that all eleven of Frost’s books were snuggled under its covers—see, Walter said to himself, see—and he saw a stack of blurbs on the back by a lot of literary politicians. Walter leafed through lazily, his mind on how nice it was to have a room with a desk like this in it, with a book full of poems like this on it, serious and dark and heavy in the hand. Lots of words here. Lots of poems. “There Are Roughly Zones.” Strange title. Zones?
We sit indoors
, Walt dared to read aloud,
and talk of the cold outside
. Well, it wasn’t cold yet but it would be surely.
And every gust that gathers strength and heaves is a threat to the house
. That seemed a bit strong. Every one?
But the house has long been tried
. True. And the stairs don’t even creak. Go up and down them—not a sound. A poem about a tree?
What comes over a man, is it soul or mind—that to no limits and bounds he can stay confined?
Odd word order, but poetry was poetry, odd as it got. Oh, the zones, Walter now saw, looking ahead, were climates. That’s why the—peach—tree was in trouble.
That though there is no fixed line between right and wrong …
whoops … 
wrong and right
—fooled me
—there are roughly zones whose laws must be obeyed
. Hum. Walter didn’t finish, just held the book on its back for a moment. John F. Kennedy, he saw, had said something. Jeez … 
a body of imperishable verse … we’ll gain joy and understanding
. Well, that was poetry for you. Its whole point. To remind you to plant hardies.

Consulting the front flap before putting the book down, Walter saw a lot of writing on a flyleaf.
Sorrow overtakes the hour
. His glance fell to the conclusion. The poem was signed
B. Meyerhoff. Walter put the book carefully down on the desk—to steady it—and read:

The matter of the poem did not appear to be entirely clear. Poor B. Meyerhoff nevertheless. Bettie, who else?
Befit … befit …
Walter didn’t get
befit
. And
sad
didn’t make sense where it was, though the poem was sad enough, so it had a right to be in it somewhere. Wait. Should sorrow have grace to soften sod! sod with its ever-heavy rod. But then the rain was going to do that. The heart wasn’t buried, was it? Under the sod. Maybe … maybe
bereft
! that’s it! He felt like he did when he got a crossword puzzle definition.
Bereft of the power
was perfect. Walter thought, poor Bettie, what had gone wrong, what had happened to weaken this strong woman? One of Emery’s punishments perhaps, another illness added on to all the others?

Walter was moved. He stood up. It eased his sudden anxiety. How long ago had the poem been written? He faced a mug which contained a shaving brush and said Williams Mug Shaving Soap. No poem there. At the other end of the desk’s crown sat a kerosene lamp in a bowl around which was wrapped a lace
skirt. His chest, which he realized lacked character (it looked weak in the sort of shirt he was wearing), appeared in the mirror. You could sit here and powder your nose. Or shave. In front of the mirror, on a ledge formed by the top of the pigeonholes below, leaned a stiff white card bordered with tiny flowers and tinier leaves. Walter loved the hidden messages the room provided. And the open, even welcoming, complexity of its many things. Attached to one side of the card was a piece of lace as from a sleeve, and a stuffed heart made of a black cloth which had blooms printed on it in blue. Very odd, but an unmenacing mystery. On the other side, at the top, was fastened a cluster of buttons like a bunch of acorns—nuts of some kind—from which dangled several very short strings of miniature pearls. Below these baubles was a handwritten message dated 1993:

Walter tried to do as advised but found he could only say her name. No image magically materialized, as he had, for a moment, hoped. Next to the card, on another white doily with a pink string fringe—boy—upside down and open in a V like a Boy Scout tent, was propped a wedding booklet. On the cover, which was decorated with pale roses and paler leaves, were the words “Our Wedding Day” in silvered Gothic letters—oh boy. Walter held the booklet in his hand while walking about the bedroom in a kind of trance of possession. The desk was a wedding monument … that’s what it was. It was a museum of memory. And maybe this was a bridal bed and maybe this space was the same space as the space of the First Night. The Vows. Yes. I will. I do.

Not Charlyene DeWett of Pequa, Ohio, surely. Something borrowed? something blue? the black blue-blossomed heart? Walter did a loop about the end of his bed and sat in the chair which was cornered there. Truly, his fingers trembled as he opened the booklet. He wasn’t a Paul Pry. These things had been put here purposely to be inspected—admired and enjoyed. And he did admire and enjoy them. What guest, he bet, had ever appreciated these … these appointments as he had … as he was … and as he would?… no one, yes.

Inside were several prefatory pages of poems printed in Gothic again, though silver had been replaced with common black. One was authored by Anonymous and called “Wedding Bells.” Another was by Paul Hamilton Hayne—“Our Wedding Day.” There were a couple of short and sort of silly sayings by Sidney Lanier and Winthrop Praed. Then a bridal prayer by a person named Rankin. Following these sentiments was a page posing as a certificate to assure the world that on this day, which turned out to be the Eighth of October, Nineteen Hundred and Twenty-Five, he—the preacher—Guy Holmes of Camp Point, Illinois—had married Harry H. Meyers and Fae Arline Elliott in the bridegroom’s home. Was this … was this that home? Had to be. Camp Point? Camp Point? little place, near Quincy, wasn’t it? he’d only driven through.

Now—see, you see—Walter said to himself, Camp Point is a place I’ll pay attention to. I won’t just drive blindly by, no, I’ll go slowly up and down the side streets, maybe have a cup of something in the local chuck. My, 1925. Back as far as the books had gone. Circumstances were fortuitous. Yes. That was the word. Listed on the certificate, beneath the parson’s warrant, were the signatures of fifteen guests, ten with the name of Meyers. Missus Holmes was also present, no doubt to help out with the service as she so often had.

On the next page, the bridal gifts were noted in a hurried hand.

Cow?

Gas iron? Wonderful … the names were … the bride’s especially, Fae … Fae … Ar - line. Not Arlene. My.

Hah. An essential. Good old Louise.

A whole set! More likely a silver tray with silver cream and silver sugar, maybe some of those cute small spoons in a tasteful fan.

Clella and Stella … could that be believed? Had he ever heard … well … no Fae either, in his experience, or a Nona. Still … Clella. Walter laughed. And what about that cow?

More damn doilies. Of all the stuff about him, Walter had least affection for the doilies. They were too protective, too inhibiting, stood between things and their use. He mused. Holding the booklet open like a hymnal. Maybe it didn’t mean more doilies, maybe it meant more napkins. He didn’t really know what a buffet set would be.

Of what? Well, of course, Fae would remember and could drop its description.

A few too many trays.

Mertis … man … another one. Made the mind imagine.

Table scarves were runners, weren’t they? elongated doilies.

Were any of these things hereabouts, Walter wondered. Wouldn’t that be wonderful. How could he tell? Perhaps those pillowcases there. Perhaps where his head had slumbered.

And perhaps that gift was this—the cover of his bed, still doing duty.

Sort of a letdown—towel.

Walter was exhausted. He lay the book with great consideration in his lap and closed his eyes and entered a world of wondering … wondering who these people were with their plain strange names, old country names, small-town names, and what the hand-painted plate looked like or what the pictures represented; what the cow was, it couldn’t be a real one, a china cow with a penny slot? and how everyone felt about the wedding and were they all from that town—Camp Point—a practical name, that was for sure—and who loved whom, who hated whom, and how it went with each of them; were they pretty, handsome, or old and bent and ailing, were Mina and Agnes sisters, unwed, awkward of movement, slow of talk; and then whose eyes strayed from calf to bosom, and whose fingers itched to have the loot themselves; which ones had lives that had fully fruited and which ones had withered leaves like Walter’s had; oh, who knew whose secrets, all of it, all, who farmed, who fixed cars, who waited tables, who nursed aged parents; because the past was real, he knew—he knew it—and were these wedding guests gone now; had they become bone and tomb and stone and attic’d objects, gone into the past which filled this room? remaining as a little list of names, souvenirs of a night, so many years ago, when Harry had claimed Fae right here, maybe, in this very place where he …

Which he would have to leave tomorrow. He couldn’t stay another day, could he? The booklet felt as heavy as Frost’s verse. He could say he had more work in the region. But suppose he couldn’t have this room; suppose he had to go to a room in the back, and someone slept here in his stead, some salesman with
samples and slick hair asleep on his pillow, which Walter reached out to pat feebly, full of sorrow for himself; for the fact was, he slowly realized, he didn’t want to go on another hour the way he was, the way he had been going on; he knew he would toss like an ill child all night and no longer enjoy his bed or chest or sofa and its laden coffee table or the messages sewn on pillows or the smell of the soaps; not if he knew he would have to leave and drive off down the road to—still—still, he had nothing scheduled tomorrow, no book to cook—and could he afford to stay in such a place?—not
such
a place—here, right here—could he afford to remain in this house—as reasonable as the rent was, when he often pulled behind a highway sign for cover and slept in his car, out of cash, and parked in parks like a hobo; so where would he go? so alone his pockets felt foreign, so alone his bones hurt from being bunched, and his throat was sore from talking to himself and to his sis and mom and to the figments of his hand.