"So, who's watching?" Martin asked.
"Somebody is," Joe said. "Ox wouldn't have told me if he wasn't
worried. FBI? CIA?"
"Martin's a commie pinko," Art said. "Is he on the list?"
"Should be," Joe said.
"What about Morgan? And Gino?"
"Subversives for sure. Down the Pentagon!" Joe raised his cup.
"Down the Pentagon!" echoed across the valley.
"O.K., Patrick," Amber said. "You can turn off the tape recorder."
Patrick took a paper bag from his pack and held up a block of cheddar.
He shook it by his ear.
"Wasn't on," he said.
"Might as well eat it, then," Sally said.
They ate and drank and wandered around the meadow. A washtub bass
joined the music. Willow didn't exactly follow Patrick, but she managed
to be in his general vicinity. She returned to her blanket and read
until the light started to go. There was a book discussion. Patrick
talked about a math book that he was reading, and Joe got started on
significant digits, of all things. "You understand the principle," he
said.
"Natch," Art said, "but here is Morgan, in case anyone needs a
refresher." Willow tried to remember high school physics while she
watched Morgan sit down deliberately. He had powerful shoulders and a
sensitive expression. "Morgan, what are significant digits?"
"Ah," Morgan said, "the concept is that in scientific computation, the
result cannot be more accurate than the least accurate quantity or
measurement involved." There was light applause. Morgan drank deeply.
"Just so," said Joe. "And didn't I have a hell of a time understanding
that? I thought you could make an answer as accurate as you wanted. You
want seven decimal places? No problem." Patrick was sitting forward,
listening intensely. "I finally got the idea, and I never forgot it,"
Joe went on. "Well, there I was in weather school in the Air Force, and
their dew point calculation gave an answer that was more precise than
one of the measurements. 'These decimal points are meaningless,' I said
to the sergeant. Yeah, right. Next thing you know, I'm in front of the
base commander.
"'Burke,' he says, 'you may have a point. But it's a goddamn small one.
Are you an airman or a goddamn philosopher, Burke?'
"'Airman, SIR,' I said."
"Airman Burke," Art toasted.
Willow was impressed. She thought about Stanford--the academic cliques,
the gorgeous football players, the socialites. They were good at what
they did; they were judged by how they performed in their groups; they
lived by accepted rules. These people, in Mead's meadow, were just as
sharp, just as physical (in a different way, maybe a better way), and
just as easy and confident. They were all of the aboves. They were
free. They were alive, or more alive, in a different way. A shiver ran
up her back.
She opened a bottle of wine. The band was tighter, into _When the
Saints Come Marching In_. As the light faded, the uninhabited range of
mountains before them became darker and more mysterious, unexpectedly
comforting. The mountains were timeless, or in a different flow of
time.
"This is what they saw," Patrick said, "the first people." He pointed
across the valley.
"Do you want some wine?" She held up the bottle.
"Change of pace," he said. "Sure."
"Cabernet Sauvigon," she said with new authority. "Your basic meadow
red."
The firelight cast shadows; the group seemed smaller and more
vulnerable. "The first people . . . " Patrick repeated. They were the
first people, now, she realized. She bit down on her lip. Her heart
broke open like a swollen peach.
"There's a little bread left," she said. God, she was crying again.
"You cry a lot," he said.
"Oh, fuck you, Patrick." She poured herself more wine.
"I don't mind it," he said seriously.
"Look, do you want to go?" she asked.
"Sure." Amber was over by the band; she was staying all night or going
over to Art's. Willow told her that she was leaving, and she and
Patrick picked their way slowly through the woods. "I've got to get a
little flashlight," Patrick said as they splashed across the stream.
When they came out onto the road, a patrol car was parked in the
middle. Two cops were ticketing a long line of cars and trucks that
were pulled off to the side. "What's the matter?" Willow asked.
"Blocking the road. Obstructing traffic."
"They are not. What traffic? This is the top of the mountain, for God's
sake."
"You want to give us a hard time?" He was threatening. Patrick pulled
her away.
"Let's go, Willow."
"Have you been drinking, lady? I wouldn't want to see you driving."
"We're walking." Willow glared at the cops and let Patrick guide her
down the road. The band was working on a Dixie version of _America the
Beautiful_; the sax floated high over the tree tops into the night. She
looked back. One of the cops was answering a radio call; the other was
still ticketing. They were trying to ruin everything. "Why, Patrick?"
"Groups," he said, after a moment. "Tribalism. They're afraid of
change. When they get their backs up, Willow, you've got to work around
them. If you challenge them, they get worse. It's weird, but the more
powerful people are, the more frightened they are, usually. You'd think
it would be the other way around."
"We've got to fight back," Willow said.
"We do--by existing." The starlight was sufficient for them to walk
down the middle of the road. They were quiet and then they talked and
then they were quiet again. One person, who had been at the party,
stopped and offered a ride, but they decided to keep walking. Patrick
told her about his parents and his sister, Molly. Nice people. She
wondered where he got the hard edge she sensed beneath the surface. The
Irish? Were his parents closet rebels? Maybe. Probably it was from hard
knocks. For what? >From who? For being honest. That was it. From people
who cut corners with the truth to get ahead or get along. They were the
same that way.
At the bottom of the mountain, they turned down Reynold's Lane to Route
212 and then up the Glasco Turnpike to the Byrdcliffe Road. At AhnRee's
driveway, Willow said "Might as well walk me home."
"My mission," Patrick said. At the door, she suggested that they kill
the bottle, and Patrick followed her in. She filled two glasses. They
flopped into chairs at the kitchen table. She should have been
exhausted, but she wasn't. When the wine was gone, Patrick stood.
Before he spoke, she asked him for a hug, and before he answered she
went to him and put her arms around his neck. His arms went uncertainly
around her. She pressed the whole length of her body against him,
molding herself to his shape. His shoulders were broader than they
looked. As his arms tightened, she felt herself loosen and grow warm.
He took a deep breath. They were losing control. "Patrick," she said.
"Patrick." She pulled away and took his hand. "Let's go out here." She
led him to the porch and kicked off her shoes. Still holding his hand,
she pulled him down onto the bed. She kissed him lightly with open
lips. He was warm and tasted of wine and beer.
"My shoes," he said. She kissed him again, sliding her lips to the
corners of his mouth and back. As he bent forward to take off his
shoes, she unbuttoned her shirt and removed it. She stretched full
length on the bed, naked to the waist, and held out her arms. She heard
his quick intake of breath and felt his palm on her breast.
"Willow?" She pushed up against his hand and began to move slowly from
side to side. There was no more thinking, only a rush of feeling. She
pulled him into her and encouraged him to take her, fuck her, fill her
with his hot hard energy. As he came and collapsed, she hugged him with
her arms and her legs, surrounding him with warmth, keeping him safe.
She remained awake, savoring the moments. It was the right time of the
month. No worries there. Her own need for orgasm was alive and well,
like a promise. She stroked the back of his head, and he mumbled
something in his sleep. God, they were together. She was still herself,
but now she was something else, too. She had a pang of sadness for
squirrelie, alone out there. Squirrelie.
She awoke snuggled against Patrick's back. She reached around and began
to caress him. He was inside her before he was fully awake. She held
him tightly, and as she began to peak she begged him not to stop. She
was driving the train, and Patrick responded. "Baby," she called.
"Ohhhh." She opened like an exploding flower. Another orgasm rolled
through her, and then another and another. Completions. Irreversible.
She cried in wonder and fell back as he came, adding to the warm flood
in which she floated.
Some time later, she said, "The Big Bang Theory? I get it." Patrick
rolled out of bed and dressed.
"I've got to go, Willow," he said.
She wanted him to stay. She wanted to make a good breakfast for them.
She wanted to talk with him for hours, but a deeper voice, surprising
her, said, "Bye, Patrick." He looked at her intently for a moment.
"Bye, Patrick," she repeated softly.
7
Patrick took a quick step and kicked a pebble into the woods along
AhnRee's driveway. It would be fun to practice corner kicks again.
Willow was intense. Nice, too. Dynamite in bed. Who would have thought
it? He blasted another pebble between two trees. Goal! It was going to
be hot later. Breakfast in the News Shop would be a good thing. Coffee.
A fried egg sandwich. Willow's legs wrapped around him, and he relaxed
for a moment remembering her hair against his cheek and over his
shoulders where she had covered him. He felt a new sweetness inside.
His head swam. "Too much," he said to the fans in the woods and ran
twenty yards to wake up.
Billy Jakes slapped him on the back in the News Shop. "Long night, huh
Patrick?"
"Long night, Billy." Just as well he didn't have to work today. He took
a bite of his fried egg sandwich and thought about the first people and
the view from Mead's Meadow. The green of the mountains was so fresh,
empty as one of the new canvases stacked against Hendrik's studio wall.
The first people had done well, really; they deserved a celebration. It
was a righteous Fourth. Martin was there at first. Where had he gone?
Patrick wanted to know more about him. The music was great. And then
those cops--they were really the losers, the ones left out or behind.
Why did that have to be?
"Officer Allen, ha, ha, ha." Patrick turned and saw Billy put an arm
around one of the cops who had been on the mountain, the larger one.
"Gotta smoke? I'm innocent."
"Jesus, Billy. Here, Goddamn it."
"Obliged, Allen. I truly am." Billy took a deep drag.
"I see you drinking on the street, I'm going to lock you up."
"I am much obliged." Billy began to cough. He went outside, and Officer
Allen waved his arm as if to clear the air. There was a polite silence
punctuated by Billy's coughs which grew fainter as he moved down the
sidewalk. Officer Allen left with a newspaper and a supply of
Marlboros.
Gert was sitting on the porch when Patrick arrived home.
"Morning, Gert." She looked him over and smiled broadly.
"Good morning. I've a job for you, if you've a mind to do it."
"Well, I was going to work on the Unified Field Theory, but . . . " The
Big Bang Theory. He started to smile and found himself turning red.
"Aren't we in a good mood," Gert said.
"What needs doing?"
"The attic. I've been cleaning, and I need some boxes brought down to
the shed. They're too heavy for me." She led him up two flights of
stairs and pointed out a group of boxes. "Fred is coming to haul them
away some time next week. It's time to get rid of things."
"No problem. Is that where you keep your gold?" Patrick pointed at a
small iron bound chest secured by a black lock. "Right out of Treasure
Island," he said.
"Other treasures," Gert said. "Could you move it over there by those
books? Good. Just cover it with the same sheet. Thank you." Patrick
made ten trips to the shed, feeling better with each trip. Entering the
attic was like going back in time; emerging in the sunlight and walking
across the lawn was a return to the present, a promise of future.
"I'll cut the grass before it gets hot," he said.
"Now Patrick, I want you to keep track of your time."
"No need, Gert. I mean--if you wanted me to paint the house or
something, that would be different." He liked Gert, but he didn't want
to be on call.
"Very well, Patrick. Perhaps you'll take a glass of lemonade." She
often seemed amused by him.
"I will," he said.
He took a nap in the afternoon and walked into town refreshed and
hungry. The Depresso was mostly empty. He ordered vegetarian chili,
cornbread, and a Heineken. "Thanks, Eve." She smiled enigmatically, her
mind elsewhere. She, too, was from Michigan, like Sue and Claude, an
odd coincidence. Patrick had never been in Michigan, but he imagined
deep woods. Eve swayed like a tall pine as she walked.
She was older than Willow. She had three children. Patrick had seen one
in her arms and the others swarming up her legs, outside on the patio.
She seemed to pace herself--energy for the kids, energy for the
customers--somehow remaining beautiful and ready for more. Ready for a
different life, maybe. Usually, Patrick couldn't take his eyes from her
long strong body, but tonight he saw her more completely, a woman who
had to work too hard.
Dylan came out of the kitchen and began to play a low and rolling
melody. Patrick felt an equality between them. Dylan played the melody
over and over with simple variations, searching for something. Hunting.
In the charged space between Dylan's music and Eve's beauty, Patrick
thought about significant digits. Joe Burke was on to something. The
rubber met the road at significant digits. Mathematics met reality.
Accuracy, significant accuracy, was limited to the precision of the
worst measurement involved. It didn't matter that you could calculate
an equation to any number of decimal places. The answer couldn't be
more accurate than the wobble, the plus or minus, in the coarsest
measurement. To not understand this was to think that mathematics was
reality. Mathematics was a tool. Physical relationships that were
measurable could be expressed in equations, but the equations were
models, not reality. You had to keep the distinction in mind or you
would think you knew things more precisely than you did.
Dylan disappeared into the kitchen, and Patrick ordered another beer.
Models. The word expanded in his mind. Models. Sue was a model. Amber
was a model. Equations were models. Mrs. Van Slyke had been a model. Of
what? Herself? Hendrik's lover? Women in general? It was really the
painting that was the model. Mrs. Van Slyke had modeled for the model.
Patrick's mind began to spin.
He continued his line of thought. Mathematics was a tool for making
models. So was painting. Science and art had that in common. They made
models--of physical reality and of a personal, or human, reality. It
was all about model making. Got it! He looked around the room. Got it!
No one seemed to notice that he had just figured out a biggie. Probably
they all knew it already. He finished his beer and went home, leaving
Eve a big tip.
The next morning he thought of Willow as he was closing the front door
behind him. Chives were blooming by the shed. He picked a handful of
purple blossoms and carried them to Ann's Deli. "Top o' the mornin',"
he said to Willow who was behind the counter.
"Oooh," she said. "Chives!" She put them in a small glass with water
and set them on the counter. She motioned Patrick to the back of the
deli where she put her arms around him. "Patrick?"
"Mmmm." The hug was warm and intense, but there was work, a sandwich,
breakfast . . .
"Good morning," she said happily, letting him go.
"I need a sandwich--got to go to work."
"Roast beef?" She made the sandwich while Patrick chose a pint of
orange juice and a banana.
"Want to meet me at the Depresso later?" he asked.
"I can't tonight," she said.
"Oh." He was surprised by his disappointment.
"Tomorrow?" she offered.
"O.K., good. Around five?" That was better. "Oh, Willow . . . " He
turned in the doorway. "I've been thinking about science and art
again."
"I'll be brave," she promised. Patrick skipped into the News Shop
feeling much better. Parker put him on a job on the Wittenberg Road,
working with Gino's crew. There was a lot of scraping to be done.
Patrick rolled a bandanna the way Wilson did and stripped to the waist.
By break time, he was sweating and relaxed, a large section of one side
done. Parker passed out cups of coffee. Patrick ate his banana. Talk
jumped from the war to cars to women to growing grass to IBM. There was
an IBM plant in Kingston. It had become a symbol of the culture moving
in a bad direction. IBM'rs made good money--it was conceded--but they
had to wear white shirts and ties; they were considered sell outs, one
step removed from robots. Gino told a story about a friend of his who
had struggled through a university degree in engineering.
"He was halfway through, dropped out, and got drafted. He also got
married, but he couldn't live off base until he was finished with a
training program in Alabama. Cleo, his wife, had an apartment in town,
and Eddie stayed too late one night. The main gate closed. He had to be
in formation, or whatever they call it, early in the morning before he
could get back on base." Gino sipped coffee. "There was a river along
one side of the base. He walked into it--at night, pitch black, snakes,
alligators--and started swimming. He made it."
Gino shook his head. "After he got out of the Army, he went back to the
university and got a job at IBM. He was O.K. until one night at
Buckman's. Eddie's father is a builder, and some of his crew were in
there. They got on him.
"'Hey Eddie, like that neon tan, Eddie!'
"'Jesus, watch it, he'll hit you with his slide rule.'
"So, Eddie had a few beers, went home, and said, 'Neon tan,
Cleo--that's it. Fuck it.' That was the end of IBM for Eddie. He's
doing great now; he's building out in California."
"Right on."
"Pretty good catcher, wasn't he?"
"Damned good." Eddie was one of the saved. Patrick was beginning to
feel that way, too. It was good to be 22 and not have to keep your
mouth shut. Gino got to his feet and stretched.
"What a man!"
"Sit down, Gino."
"No compassion."
"It's lonely at the top," Gino said, trudging toward a ladder.
That evening in the Depresso, Patrick finished the mathematics book. He
planned to mail it to Molly on Saturday, when he usually checked the
Post Office for mail. His parents and Molly were the only people who
wrote to him. They were used to mailing to General Delivery wherever he
was living; he hadn't given them Gert's address. And anyway, summer
wasn't going to last forever; he wasn't sure how long he'd be around
Woodstock. Willow. He couldn't really think about her. She was too new,
too big, or something. He felt the sweetness again and was glad that
they were getting together the next night.
Patrick looked out the Depresso window and saw a red Chevy convertible
passing with its top down. Willow was riding on the passenger side, her
hair blowing. Martin. Willow. So that's why she couldn't meet me, he
realized. She looked as though she were having a good time. What do I
do now? he wondered.
The next afternoon, Willow was at the Depresso before him, absorbed in
a paperback. "Hi, there," Patrick said. She looked up and smiled.
"Hi, Patrick. I brought my largest handkerchief."
"What are you reading?"
"_Balthazar_, by Lawrence Durrell."
"I saw you go by with Martin, yesterday."
"Oh, yeah. Martin took me for a drive and showed me his studio. He has
been making recordings."
Patrick looked at her directly and tried to keep his face calm. "Do you
like him?"
"I do. He's nice; he asked me a lot of questions."
"He seemed O.K. to me," Patrick admitted.
"Patrick, are you jealous?"
"Umm . . . "
"Tell you what," she said. "Walk me home tonight and I'll show you how
much I like him." Patrick started to smile.
"It's a deal." The sun came out from behind a cloud. Willow covered his
hand with hers for a moment, and he felt reconnected. "I like you," he
said.
"Now don't go overboard, Patrick."
They ate dinner and walked to Byrdcliffe, taking turns pushing Willow's
bike. Amber was at Art's; they had the house to themselves. They
listened to Dylan and finished a bottle of wine. Patrick undressed for
bed with a surprising lack of embarrassment. It seemed natural. They
clung to each other and stayed awake late, talking and watching the new
moon rise. Willow told him about her parents and her brother and her
dissatisfaction with school.
"If you could do anything you wanted, what would you do?" he asked her.
"I think I'd travel and read a lot. Decide what to do and then do
it--somewhere. But, do it right, you know?"
"Yeah," Patrick said. "It's the only way."
"Babies, too, some day. Speaking of which--if we're going to keep this
up, you better get some of those thingies." Patrick grunted.
"That will be a trip," he said. "Trojans, right? E-Z big tips?"
"They don't care at the drug store," Willow said. "Very big tips."
"Only for you," Patrick said.
"Exactly."
They had to hurry in the morning to get to the Deli in time. Patrick
took his sandwich to the News Shop, ate breakfast, and rode to the
Wittenberg job with Wilson. When he thought of Willow during the day,
he felt easy and excited at the same time. He could actually talk to
her. She understood immediately his point that science and art were
modeling processes. Better yet, she saw that modeling itself was
fundamental--an attempt to understand what was out there and express it
with whatever tools you could use. Sleeping with her was so great. Sex.
Just the comfort of being next to her. It was such a new experience
that he would forget for an hour and then remember with a rush of
pleasure.
There was a police car in front of Gert's when Wilson dropped him off
after work. "What's happening?" Patrick asked.
"You staying here?"
"Yes."
"Name, please." The cop wrote his name down in a small notebook. "Mrs.
Willett's been taken to the hospital," he said.
"Oh, no," Patrick said.
"Sick. Heart attack, maybe," the cop said.
"Where is the hospital?"
"Kingston."
"Damn," Patrick said.
"Hope for the best," the cop said, putting his notebook away. "All you
can do. She's been around here a long time." Patrick went inside. The
house felt empty. There was only one other roomer at the moment, a
middle aged guy who kept to himself, a high school teacher from the
city. Apparently, he spent a month in Woodstock every summer. Bob. He
wasn't around.
Patrick washed and walked into town. He finished a beer quickly and
checked the crowd gathering in the Depresso. Claude was at the end of
the bar. Patrick approached him. "Hey, Claude."
"Patrick."
"Claude, I've got to go to Kingston."
"Some people have all the luck."
"My landlady got taken to the hospital. Do you know where the hospital
is?"
"Benedictine or Kingston?"
"Are there two? I don't know. Kingston, I guess." Claude gave him
directions to both. "I don't have a car," Patrick said. Claude looked
at him.
"Can you drive?"
"Yes." Claude reached in his pocket and handed Patrick a set of keys.
"It's that '56 Ford pickup out there--the black one with the wood
rack."
"Thanks, Claude. What are you going to do?"
"Ahh . . . " Claude glanced around the room and smiled. "We shall see,
mon ami. Leave it behind Mower's when you're done, why don't you. Put
the keys under the seat. I'll get it in the morning."
"O.K." Patrick left and started up the truck. Three minutes later he
was passing the golf course, heading for Kingston on Route 375.
Kingston hospital was easy to find, but Gert wasn't there. He drove
into the general area where he thought he'd find the Benedictine,
trying to remember Claude's directions. He was about to stop and ask
when he saw it on a hill. Gert had been admitted.
Patrick explained the situation and was allowed to see her, but only
for a minute or two. She was pale and looked fragile. An oxygen tube
crossed her face below her nose. Patrick went up close.
"Hi, Gert." She raised her eyebrows in greeting and whispered something
he couldn't hear. He bent closer.
"Call Ginger."
Patrick nodded and said, "I will." Ginger was her niece. She lived in
St. Louis.
"Patrick."
"Yes?"
"That chest--treasure chest--don't let her see it . . . Mine . . . "
"O.K., Gert, O.K. I'll take care of it. But, you'll be home soon." She
smiled faintly and shook her head no.
"My love . . . " she whispered. For a moment she looked young.
"I'll take care of it, Gert." She nodded and closed her eyes. Patrick
left, stepping carefully around monitors. He thanked the nurse and went
out to the parking lot. It was still light. An ambulance pulled up to
an admissions door. It didn't seem right that things outside should be
so normal.
He sat unmoving for five minutes and then realized that he was hungry.
The Park Diner was on the way out of Kingston, heading towards
Woodstock. When Patrick was upset, he ate to settle himself down. He
had a steak sandwich, apple pie, and coffee. He was still in shock. How
could someone be running around one day and then be totaled the next?
Probably she was older than she looked. Damn. There was nothing to do
but go home and call her niece.
Climbing the hill to the village green, Patrick had an urge to drive to
Willow's, but he decided against it. He had to call Gert's niece, and
it wasn't his truck. He parked behind Mower's Market and walked
directly home. He found the number in a small book that Gert kept by
the phone.
"Ginger?"
"Yes."
"This is Patrick O'Shaunessy calling from Woodstock. I hate to tell you
this, but Gert is in the hospital." Ginger said that she would come as
soon as possible. She thanked him and hung up. What else could he do?
He left a note for Bob, explaining the situation, and walked back into
town. He kept seeing Gert--that clear shake of her head, no. Claude had
left the Depresso. Patrick reconsidered driving to Willow's and again
decided that he shouldn't. He drank a beer and went home. As he settled
into bed, he realized that even though he hadn't seen Willow, she had
been there in some sense. He could have seen her. If he had, she would
have been helpful. Thinking of that wasn't as good as having her next
to him in bed, but it was still good, more than he was used to. "Night,
Baby," he said and fell asleep.
8
Willow brought home strawberries and made a shortcake. "Real whipped
cream," Amber said.
"Of course." Willow reached into the refrigerator. "Trumpet flourish,
please."
"Ta da, teedle-oop tee tooo," Amber obliged. "Champagne?"
"A modest vintage, as AhnRee would say. I celebrate. We celebrate."
"You got laid--that's obvious."
Willow poured two glasses. "Biology," she toasted.
"Fucking," Amber said. "Yumm."
"God," Willow said, licking her lips, "strawberries and champagne . . .
Truly, it was a revelation."
"It, Patrick?"
"Patrick, yes. The whole thing."
"It wasn't the first time," Amber said.
"It might as well have been." Willow's face lit up.