Willow finished her beer and left. They were a pretty decent bunch, she
thought as she pedaled home. They treated her like one of the guys,
almost. She was getting used to conversations full of fuck this and
fuck that. It was a relief after the cautious academic world of her
parents. When she arrived home, she was flushed from the ride. Amber
was still out. She made a sandwich and went to bed with Henry Miller
who was dependably self-involved, hip, sexy, and good humored.
3
The next morning, in the News Shop, Parker Ives introduced Patrick to
Wilson. "Willy, you and Patrick get started on the Van Slyke house." He
rubbed his forehead. "She's intense about her roses; better cover them.
The lilacs, too. I'll be around later with more primer."
"Ya, Boss. Let's go, Patrick." Wilson was short and muscular, balding,
with a thick black mustache and a glass eye. He drove at top speed up
the mountain, stopping several miles from town in the driveway of a
white Colonial. Purple lilacs leaned out from each side of the front
door; rose bushes extended to the ends of the house. They covered the
roses with drop cloths and tied a tarpaulin around each lilac. A woman
wearing linen slacks and a cafe-au-lait blouse appeared at the corner
of the house. Her hair was blonde, short, and well cut.
"Good morning. Is Parker here?"
"He will be, later," Wilson said. She nodded and drove away in a
station wagon, tires crunching on gravel.
They worked on ladders, scraping a section and then priming it.
"Willy--is every woman in Woodstock good looking?" Patrick asked.
"Depends how long you look," Wilson said. Parker drove in, and Wilson
jumped from the fourth rung of his ladder. "Break time." They walked
over to Parker's aging blue Mercedes.
"How you doing, Patrick?"
"He's having a little trouble with the pace," Willy said sitting down,
placing his coffee on the grass.
"Up yours," said Patrick.
"But for what you're paying . . . "
"Jesus," Parker said. "What's got into you today?"
Wilson bounced like a monkey, scratching under both armpits. "Or, or.
Grick. Grick."
"This is what happens when he gets to bed early," Parker said to
Patrick. Mrs. Van Slyke returned.
"Parker?" He rose to his feet balancing his coffee, assumed a good
humored expression, and approached Mrs. Van Slyke.
"Her husband's a bad dude," Wilson said. "Nothing you couldn't handle."
His live eye gleamed. "He did a good painting of a boxer, once. They
got married."
"He married the boxer?"
"Smart ass." Wilson shook his head. "Then he slowed down--know what I
mean?" They considered Mrs. Van Slyke who had Parker more or less
pinned against the lilacs. "My woman gets in the way . . . " He
snorted. "I don't even have a studio, paint right in the living room."
"You a painter?"
"All the time, man. What do you do?"
"Read a lot--science. Trying to find out what's true about things."
"I'll tell you one truth," Wilson said. "It don't count until it's on
the wall." He leaped back on his ladder and attacked peeling paint,
banging his scraper on the siding to keep time. Sweat dripped into a
bandanna rolled and tied around his forehead. Patrick got to work.
At four-thirty, Wilson gave him a ride home. Patrick washed and walked
into town where he had a few beers and talked about the war with a guy
named Wendell, a guy named Joe , and Willow, the friend of Amber's. He
left early and slept well.
The week passed quickly. On Friday afternoon he cashed his first check
at the Bank of Orange and Ulster County and walked over to the
Depresso.
"Hey Patrick."
"Sam. Hot one." Sam worked for Parker on another job; he was part of
the morning gathering at the News Shop.
"How you getting along with Willy?"
"Good."
"Crazy bastard," Sam said. "He was in Korea; his father or grandfather
was a general or something."
"My father's in the Army."
"No shit. Yeah, well, Willy--his job was to go out and bring back North
Koreans for the intelligence guys. Told me they went out at night. Said
the North Koreans were supposed to be alive, but it was easier if they
were dead."
"No wonder he's crazy. Hey, Claude."
"What's happening, Patrick?"
"I got paid."
"Don't tell him that," Sam said.
"Mon ami . . . "
"Hi, Claude." A young woman stepped next to Claude and took his arm.
"Who's your friend?" she asked, looking at Patrick.
"This is Patrick."
He remembered her gray eyes; she was the one who had smiled at him on
his first night in town. Up close, he noticed tiny freckles and a gap
between her front teeth.
"I'm Sue," she said.
"Hi."
"Claude is a famous ski jumper, did you know?" She was grinning widely.
"You ski, Patrick?" Claude asked.
"A little."
"I'm from the U.P., did 300 feet at Iron Mountain."
"Yo!"
"No more. Now I go one time a year to the Bear Mountain meet. Little
jump."
"You won last year," Sue said.
"Year before, Cher."
"Claude, have you seen Jim?"
"Not today."
She frowned. "Bye, Claude. Bye, Patrick." Patrick watched her leave.
"So who's Jim?" he asked.
"Her boyfriend--alcoholic dude, a nice guy. She likes you." Claude
drifted along the bar; he knew everyone. Patrick was beginning to feel
at home in the Depresso. Amber had come in twice during the week, once
with Willow and once with a builder named Art. She had smiled at
Patrick, but she wasn't available--although her smile seemed to
indicate that any day she might be. I'm on her list, Patrick thought,
smiling back.
He finished the Darwin book and started _An Introduction to
Mathematics_ by Alfred North Whitehead. One evening in the Depresso,
Sue came over to his table and asked what he was reading. "Listen to
this," he said.
"Operations of thought are like cavalry charges in battle: they are
strictly limited in number; they require fresh horses; they must be
made only at decisive moments."
Sue wrinkled her nose. "Too much." She sat down.
"I mean, this book is a classic. What is math, anyway? Right here,"
Patrick said, patting the cover. "Lays it out. You can learn anything
you want from books."
"Why aren't you in school somewhere?"
"I was; I quit. It was just a place where they put you in a box--a
lawyer box, a doctor box. I didn't want to be in a box. Besides, it was
expensive." Sue giggled.
"So, where are you from, Sue?"
"Michigan, same as Claude--except he's from the U.P."
"What are you doing in Woodstock?"
"Art Students League. I model and take classes."
"Should have known," Patrick said, "everyone I meet is an artist."
"You seen Jim: tall, cute?"
"I don't think so."
"He's a reader, too. He gets a pile of books and a six-pack, lies on
the couch and reads all day." She looked around and sighed. "Later,
Patrick." She left, relaxed and alert, like a fox on the move.
The next night she sat at his table again. "It's hot," she said.
"Want a beer?"
"No thanks."
"I get thirsty staring at white all day," Patrick said.
"You want to go swimming?"
"Sure." Patrick surprised himself. "Where?"
"I know a place."
"I don't have a car."
"I've got my roommate's for the night."
When they got into the car, Sue twisted and reached past Patrick to
arrange something on the back seat behind him. She was sweating
slightly, and he was astonished by her sweet rich smell. "That's
strange," he said, "we've got the same smell. How can that be? Same
genes? I'm mostly Irish. What are you?"
"Half Polish, half Ojibwa," she said. She drove to Shady and followed
the Sawkill creek to a spot where she could pull off the road. She led
Patrick through trees and down a steep path to the stream. It was
nearly dark as they walked over rocks to a bend where a deeper pool
curved along the outer bank. Sue crossed below the pool to a shingle of
rocks and boulders and kicked off her sandals. "Here," she said.
Patrick noticed the orange glow of cigarettes on the opposite bank, but
he couldn't see the faces behind them. He forgot about them when Sue
pulled her T-shirt up over her head and stepped out of her jeans and
underwear. "C'mon, Patrick." Her body was compact and tanned; one curve
flowed naturally into the next. He stripped awkwardly, thinking that
there was a first time for everything, and followed her into the icy
water. She swam up and down, diving and surfacing, blowing water, black
hair sleek behind her ears. Patrick did a few somersaults and floated,
feeling the heat of the day drain out of his body.
"Oooh," she said, walking out of the water and onto the rocks. "Let's
build a fire." They broke dead branches, took a few pages from
Patrick's pocket notebook, and started the fire with her lighter.
Patrick stood in front of the small blaze; Sue sat on her jeans, her
knees drawn up to her breasts.
"Hey TURD face. Where d'ja come from? UNDER A FUCKING ROCK?" Patrick
spun around. He saw a white face in the dark, a man standing behind a
low line of boulders, fifteen feet away. "FUCKING IDIOT?" The man's
voice was twisted, nearly screaming; his eyes were distorted. He was
beefy, too big to mess with. "FUCKING QUEER!" He took a step forward.
Patrick became oddly calm. There was a rock by his ankle, the size of a
grapefruit. He slowly flexed his knees and looked into the man's eyes.
Scoop the rock and smash his face, one motion. The man yelled again.
Patrick held his eyes. Time slowed. A stick snapped behind Patrick, and
the hair rose on the back of his neck. Sue hadn't moved. He was
trapped. He didn't dare turn his head.
"Let's get the hell out of here," a voice said behind him. "Fuck him,
let's get out of here, go get a beer."
"He's an asshole!"
"Yeah, fuck him, let's go get a beer."
The white face hesitated and turned away. The two crashed through the
woods, swearing and shouting.
Patrick put his clothes on as fast as he could. "I was going to kill
him," he said, in shock. "I mean, I knew how. It was already in me."
Sue smiled. "Get dressed, Sue! What if they come back?" She got to her
feet and stood naked on the rocks as though she were in her bedroom,
firelight flickering up her body.
He put out the fire while she dressed. His heart was still pounding as
they climbed up the bank and walked quickly to the car. "Did you see
the other guy?"
"He was in the dark," Sue said. "I couldn't see him."
"He sounded local," Patrick said. "He saved the scene. That guy was
flipped out, gone! Sounded like he was from North Carolina or some
place down there. He was gone."
It was a relief to be on the road.
"I need a beer," he said when they reached town.
"O.K., Patrick, see you," Sue said, stopping in front of the Depresso.
"O.K." He paused. "You are really beautiful." She made a wry smile that
said, "I already know that."
"Night, Patrick."
The next day, during coffee break, he told Wilson what had happened.
"Chicks," Wilson said.
"I never knew I could kill somebody," Patrick said. "I mean--I'm not
the violent type. But it was all inside me, like it was pre-wired or
something. I never looked at that rock, but I knew it was there."
Wilson sighed. "Knife comes in handy sometimes," he said. Patrick took
a folding Opinel out of his pocket. "Too small," Wilson said. His hand
brushed the black handle of the hunting knife he wore on his belt. "Bad
shit," he said. He stood up. "Gotta put the paint on the wall,
Patrick."
That night, Sue did not show up at the Depresso. A week later, she came
into the bar with Jim, laughing and having a good time. She waved at
Patrick like an old friend, but she didn't say anything to him. He felt
less isolated, seeing her. He hadn't touched her, but he knew her smell
and what she looked like underneath those clothes.
On Saturday, Parker invited him to a party at his house. When Patrick
arrived, the downstairs was full of people talking loudly and drinking
steadily. He learned that Parker, too, was a drop out--from
Harvard--and that the Mercedes had belonged to his mother. "You know,"
Patrick said to him after a few beers, "when people talk, I get the
feeling I'm missing something. It's like they're saying one thing but
really talking about something else. It's like there's another layer
underneath everything."
"You're learning," Parker said. Desperation crossed his face. He looked
as though he might get in his car and drive away forever. Instead, he
smiled helplessly and went for another drink. Patrick met Wilson's
wife, Elaine, a short cheerful woman with a plain face and an
extravagant body. Wilson was making pronouncements about the paintings
on Parker's walls, mentioning painters Patrick had never heard of.
Parker's two sons were running about having a great time. Parker and
his wife, Hildy, were both stout blondes with fair complexions and blue
eyes. Their boys were stamped from the same mold. Patrick could see
them someday hauling ladders, driving elegant old cars, and charming
well-to-do housewives.
Joe Burke showed up and introduced Patrick to his lady. "Sally
Daffodil," he called her. She was tall and athletic with a grace and
coloring that was like the flower. They were a good pair, Patrick
thought, funny and open, yet . . . He sensed reserves in them that ran
deep.
Patrick wasn't used to the company of so many sharp people in one room.
Gino Canzoni came in, the foreman of Parker's other, larger, crew. He
was tall and ironic. He had a rep on the crew for fearlessness at great
heights. "My wife, Cree," he said to Patrick. She was dark with slender
intelligent features. She had a blinding smile. The charm and pain and
hint of wildness in her smile obliterated Patrick's defenses.
"Hi," he said. She accepted his surrender.
"Welcome to town," she said gaily. He felt included. Gino and Joe had
grown up in Woodstock and were old friends. The group stood around
telling stories. "Before Gino took me to meet his family," Cree said,
"he told his mother that he had fallen for an older woman from the
Midwest."
"Give her something to worry about," Gino said.
"Six months," she laughed.
"Funny thing was," Gino went on, "the same week that Cree was meeting
everybody, Vassar degree and all that, she was on display at the
checkout counter in the Grand Union--on the cover of Modern Detective."
"A gun to my head," Cree said. "Forced to open a safe."
"Leg shot," Gino said proudly. Sally Daffodil smiled patiently. Joe
looked a bit restless.
"Are you a model?" Patrick asked.
"Was," Cree said and led Sally away. Parker put on a Dixieland album.
Vassar? Gino was a Dartmouth graduate. Joe Burke was doing carpentry
work but had dropped out of Hamilton College. He and Gino were writers
of some kind. Patrick felt that he had stumbled into an alternative
world; the more educated you were, the less money you made, or
something. He didn't understand this world. It attracted him and put
him off. It was free in a way that seemed good. But it was threatening,
somehow. There was something overripe about it. He went outside and had
a non-alternative hamburger, served to him by the older boy. The smell
of meat cooking on the grill was delicious. Smoke rose, drawing
Patrick's eyes up the dark green mountain to the ridge line, an hour's
walk above them.
"So, how do you like our fair town?" Hildy asked.
"Very fair it is," Patrick said. "Good burger!"
"Plenty more where that came from." Patrick heard a trace of Europe in
her voice.
"Are you from Woodstock?"
"I was born in the Netherlands," she said. "We came over not long after
the war."
"I used to live in Germany," Patrick said. "Very different."
"Ja," Hildy said and yelled at Alden, the youngest, to get away from
the road. She turned back to Patrick.
"What brings you to Woodstock?"
"I heard it was an interesting place. My father lived here for a couple
of years, once."
"There are a lot of artists," Hildy said. "Musicians, too. And writers.
They're all artists, I guess. Parker likes having people on his crew he
can talk to. Are you a painter?"
"Nope. I'm not anything yet."