Horace Afoot (28 page)

“I want to place an announcement in the paper.”

“I’ll take care of it, Brian,” a rusty-sounding voice calls from an office partitioned near the back of the room. An elderly woman puts her head out and beckons me over. “You just finish what you’re working on.”

The young man sinks back down behind the desk, and I make my way through the clutter toward the office in the rear. A small brass
nameplate next to the door reads
Muriel Maydock
. A printed sign taped under the nameplate reads
Don’t ask me why. I just own the goddamn thing
.

“Come in. Come in,” the woman calls from inside the office. “What can I do for you?” She is standing over a drafting table where the next edition of the paper is being laid out. “It’s only Brian and me today. We’re down to four, and one is out sick and the other one is out chasing the only goddamn story we have for the week.” She talks without looking up at me. “If this paper goes to bed by Friday I’ll drop dead from amazement.”

“I need to run an announcement.”

The woman waddles over to a desk and picks up a paper and pencil. I hand her the announcement, which she glances at and puts in a box on the desk. “Are you a subscriber?”

“No.”

She glares at me from under her white helmet of hair, then dismisses me with a wave of the arm. “I should have guessed. You probably don’t even read. None of the young people do anymore. The flat fee for notices and announcements is thirty dollars,” she says, returning to the drafting table. “Since this has to run for three weeks I can give you ten percent off the total.”

“Twenty-seven ?”

“Twenty-seven times three. Eighty-one dollars,” she turns to me, “for three weeks. It’s a bargain.”

I reach into my pocket and take out the last of my cash, still damp from the pocket of the snowsuit. Muriel Maydock jots a note to herself on a slip of paper and takes the bills from me, noting their soggy condition. “I’ll get you some change,” she says.

“Keep it.” I turn to leave.

“Hold on a minute. I know you. You’re the fella walks all over town, aren’t you?” She comes around for a better look. “I almost didn’t recognize you in those new clothes.” She moves into the doorway and crosses her arms, blocking my way out. “You threatened one of my reporters last summer.”

“I did?”

“You did. You said you’d sue me if we printed your name in the paper.”

I lift my shopping bag up underneath my arm, not able to recall exactly what I had said but remembering an encounter in front of the police station.

Muriel Maydock stands in the doorway holding an elbow in the palm of one hand and with the other probing her scalp through taut white hair tied back on her head. “You have some nerve coming in here,” she says, looking up at me. “I heard the tape. Janet played it for me. You said you’d sue this paper if we printed your name or ever mentioned anything about you in print. Remember now?” Her look condenses into a frown. “Never mind the stupidity of it. The press has certain freedoms in this country, in case you weren’t aware.” She pushes past me into the office. “I’m sure I can dig up the tape somewhere. I made Janet give it to me.”

“I meant it in connection with the rape case.”

But Muriel Maydock is already rummaging through her desk. “This paper has never, ever been sued, and it’s been around since 1919. And nobody has ever threatened us with a lawsuit as far as I know either.” She slams the drawer. “Never mind, I can’t find it.”

I stand in the doorway ready to leave, holding my package. Muriel Maydock strides toward me, holding out the money I’ve just given her. “I won’t take it,” she says, waving the bills at me. “You intimidate one of my reporters. You threaten to sue this paper for printing your name. And now you want to
pay
me to print it? Forget it, Mister.”

“I don’t want it.” I turn to leave.

“I don’t want it either. Take it back.” She follows me through the office. “How dare you come in here? What for the love of Christ were you thinking? Ever hear of freedom of speech? We didn’t take your little threat too seriously, I want you to know. But we didn’t print your name either. Janet wanted to, but I said no. Not because I was afraid, Mister. Oh no, I wasn’t. Only because it didn’t matter one way or another.”

I yank open the door and start down the stairs, wanting only to get away from the woman’s carping voice. “Go find another paper to print your goddamn announcement!” She is standing at the top of the stairwell. “And take your goddamn money back. It’s no good here.” The office door slams. At the bottom of the stairs I glance back to see the soggy bills scattered down the staircase. For a moment I consider retrieving
them, then decide to leave them. I know that Muriel Maydock will do it after I’ve left. Or she’ll send Brian to.

When I arrive back home the neighbor’s kid is waiting for me.

“I got some news,” he says eagerly.

“Okay, let’s have it.”

“Miss Foster is pregnant.”

“Who?”

“Miss Foster, the gym teacher in the high school.”

“That doesn’t sound like big news to me, kid.”

“I’ll tell you who did it to her for fifty cents.”

“What do you mean, did it to her?”

The kid flashes a dirty grin. “You know, who made intercourse with her. She ain’t married.”

“I don’t know about this, kid. Do you even know what intercourse means?”

“Sure I do. It’s fucking.”

“I asked if you knew what intercourse means.”

The kid senses a trap and says nothing.

“It comes from Latin.
Inter
, between, and
currere
, to run.”

“Will you pay me if I tell you?” The kid resumes as though I haven’t spoken.

“Tell me what?”

“Who, um,
ran between
Miss Foster?”

“Very funny, kid.” I try to keep a straight face but find that I’m failing. “I don’t think so.”

“Why not?”

“It’s none of my business.”

“But you said …”

“I said I’d pay you for news. Not dirty rumors.”

“It’s not a rumor!” The kid sees me smiling and thinks he has me. Or gossip.

“It’s not gossip, I swear. Everybody knows about it.”

“Well, I’ll be the only one who doesn’t, then. Haven’t you ever heard of invasion of privacy?”

“But it’s in the paper!”

“The paper?”

The kid nods.

“The
Sentinel
?”

Another nod. “They arrested her and everything.”

“Arrested her? For what?”

“For, um,
running between
one of the seniors. The paper didn’t say who ’cause he’s only seventeen, but everybody knows who it is anyway. Want me to tell you?”

“I told you, I don’t want to know about it.”

“I’ll tell you for a quarter.”

“Forget it.”

“A dime, then.”

“Not interested.”

“Okay,” the kid says, bursting with the need to tell and unable to hide his merriment. “I’ll tell you for free!”

“I said I don’t want to know. Go find something else to tell me.”

“But it’s in the news!”

“I don’t care. Bring me something else. I don’t want to know about it.”

The kid backs off a little. “Do you feel sorry for Miss Foster or something? ’Cause they arrested her?”

“Yeah, let’s say I do. So next time how about bringing me something a little further away from home.”

“My mom says they should abortion
her
. Not the baby.”

“The word is abort. What does Dad say?”

“Nothing. He said Miss Foster is cute.”

“What do you think?”

“She should name the baby Tiger.” “Tiger?”

“That’s the basketball team. The Tigers.”

I reach into my pocket and flip the kid a quarter.

“I thought you weren’t going to give me nothin’?”

“It’s not for the news.” I close the door.

“You want me to give you a definition of love?”

“If you’d like.”

“Well, there ain’t one, I hate to tell you. Not unless you’re talking about the love of Jesus.”

“I was thinking more about love in general.”

“You ever been in love?”

“I don’t know. I don’t think so.”

“Well, you’d know it if you had. I don’t think there’s any defining what that feels like.”

“Webster defines love as (1) an intense affection for another person based on familial or personal ties, shared interests and experiences, or (2) an intense attraction to another person based on sexual desire.”

“Sounds like you got your definition right there.”

“I don’t like it.”

“Why not?”

“Because it’s lacking.”

“What’s it lack?”

“An element of necessity, a moral dimension.”

“You mean it’s gotta be good and everybody’s gotta get some?”

“Not exactly.”

“What the hell you mean, then?”

“By necessity I mean that its existence is not predicated on anything, that it is because it is and it cannot be reduced.”

“And the moral part?”

“The moral dimension must result from the necessity of its existence.”

“So why you calling me? All them fancy terms—sounds like you got it all figured out for yourself.”

“I’m looking for more.”

“More? What more?”

“I don’t know, exactly.”

“Well, all as I can say is I’m satisfied with what you said. Can’t think of anything to add to it. I’m not a preacher or a philosopher. I just go for the basics like most people. Love is as love does, I always say. Love your spouse or hate ’em. Love your neighbor or hate ’em. And if you love ’em you leave ’em alone. Let ’em be.”

“And if you hate them?”

“Well, you do exactly the same. Leave ’em alone. Let ’em be. No need to go around smashing up things just ’cause they don’t set with you. I don’t see as you got much choice. Let things be. Don’t go causing trouble. World’s got enough trouble already.”

I hang up and sit for a while to think about the old woman’s pragmatic view of the world. It is a disposition I often wish I could share. The conversation incites more calls, and I spend the rest of the evening punching numbers randomly into the phone and mostly getting nowhere.

Mohr calls at seven the next morning.

“Horace?”

“It’s Lucian.”

“Lucian? Ah, yes. Excuse me. Lucian of Samosata. Of course. Lucian. Lucian.”

“I should thank you for your advice. But there has been a snag.”

“Snag?”

“The
Sentinel
won’t publish my notice, and I don’t know if there is anything I can do about it.”

“They won’t publish it? Why not?”

“It’s a long story. The owner took a dislike to me.”

“Muriel Maydock? She is one of our more enlightened citizens. I’d have thought you two would see eye to eye.”

“We didn’t. Now I have to come up with an alternative that the court will approve. I was thinking of posting notices around town.”

“Does the announcement have to be in a local paper?”

“I didn’t think of that. I’ll find out. How are you feeling?”

“So so. Listen. Today’s the day.”

“The day for what?”

“The dig. It starts this afternoon. The people from the university are here. Are you still interested?”

“How about you? Are you up to it?”

“Don’t worry about me. I don’t need an excuse to get out of this damn place. Should I come by to get you?”

“You’re still driving?”

“I’d be stuck out here if I didn’t have my car. I’ll probably drive it to my grave.”

“I’ll walk out and meet you there.”

“Fine. I’ll get there around noon.”

“See you then.”

Mohr has already hung up.

I am too restless to wait until midday, so I get dressed and drop
The Diatribes of Lucian
into my pack along with an apple and a banana and start out for the mound. It will be the last time I have it all to myself before it gets ripped open by archaeologists.

The streets are quiet this time of morning. It is Saturday, and the people of Oblivion sleep late on Saturday. It has been so long since I have tracked the days of the week that I only recognize Saturday by the quiet early morning and Sunday by the car-jammed parking lots of Oblivion’s churches.

Everything is crisp this morning. The air is crisp, the light is crisp. My legs make a swishing sound as I walk. I pause at the bend where Old Route 47 turns suddenly from south to westward. A flock of birds passes overhead. The fields have begun to sprout and are covered in a fine green silk that captures the morning light and absorbs it directly into the earth. The trees in the distance also shimmer with this same light-green essence,
196 standing by the side of the road I feel like some solitary vessel that has slipped its mooring and is drifting in a vast expanse of quiet.

In the last few days I have committed eight short pieces by Lucian to memory and have begun to copy the Greek into my notepad. I know the alphabet and pronounce the words as I copy them down. The English translation follows line by line, and a dictionary is not necessary. As each paragraph ascends into memory and takes its place with all that already resides there, Horace slips into the background a little and a reassuring vagueness sets in that resembles the vagueness of personality with all its unaccounted-for latencies. Horace will remain a part of me as long as I continue to incubate his words. Besides, short of complete and total amnesia, Lucian’s Greek couldn’t displace Horace’s Latin any more than Horace’s Latin could displace any of the other texts that reside within me, all packed and bundled and bound. At times they run together willy-nilly, and it takes a great effort of will and concentration to separate them. Thus, the luster of the present hour is always borrowed from the background of possibilities and
Das Dasein ist ein Seiendes, das nicht nur unter anderem Seienden vorkommt
and
Beatus ille qui procul negotiis, ut prisca gens mortalium
… Were I blind and bumping into walls I would still have these words to recur to.