The Collected Stories of Hortense Calisher (48 page)

It was about eight o’clock or less when I left the grocery, still to be light for an hour or so, and I decided to go to the woods and think about making out. How else was I going to meet her, otherwise? I could go through our old wood and up to the rim of Willard Pond, just one open place on it, but I couldn’t go round the rim to their side, that’s all theirs, and we younger ones never do—did. They always used to come here. And that’s how it happened between her and me last year. I just went and sat at the edge of our woods, in the high, flat, mossy place I’d known forever, where you could lie and be seen or not seen, as you chose. I used to sit there regularly, day and evening, always at the same times, so that anybody saw me from over there, they’d begin to know. I used to just sit there, and think about making out with girls. And one day, parting the birches, from where she’d come around the rim, there she was. Of course we’d seen each other at the soda parlor, before.

Usually they come in twos, if they come at all. But she came alone; that’s what interested me. I like things interesting in that style. And she felt the same. We found that out quick enough about each other. But in fact, what with her family owning her place for four years now and our summer staring at each other across the soda parlor for two of those, we already knew. There are sides to a soda parlor too of course, or were—ours and theirs. But sometimes, like a wood, it can be crossed.

“Why don’t you ever come and swim,” she said, sitting down as graceful on my moss as if it were her own—which it partly was. She knew why of course. The Pond is private. But they like to ask. To hear us answer. Especially if we’re handsome.

But I wasn’t going to give her that satisfaction.

“Because of the leeches,” I said.

The leeches in the pond—we’d never told any of them, when we sold off a patch of shoreline, that these were in the pond thick as seeds at the edge, or how to avoid them—by flat-diving and swimming out quick—or how to get one off if it fastened on you. Let them find out for themselves. But wouldn’t you know, just as with the land and the shack that wasn’t any good to us, after a while the leeches went away—the summer people’s blood wasn’t rich enough yet. “All goes into their money,” my aunt said. We did used to swim some of course, sneaking it in early or after they’d gone. But I hadn’t seen a leech in years.

“Why, I’ve never seen one, what do they look like?” she said.

Well, no use going over all of it. It wasn’t a large conversation. She never did like to hear me talk much, and all this last year through we didn’t write, didn’t either of us plan any mention of that. And we’d each made out with other persons before.

But she did say that one thing.

“I’d never make out with any other one of you,” she said. “Only you.”

And I thought the same, or even better. It’s like when the one tree knows that the other tree is in the forest, standing by. And I thought to myself that there ought to be a better word for it, than—making out.

So that evening, I went back through the woods, to our joint-owned mossy place, that evening and many more, and daytimes, too. All through what must have been the rest of June, and then July and part of August, I sat there; I hunted up a calendar at home, and counted it out. Except to creep into a store for my aunt—and then I’d sneak into Geraci’s when I could on credit, for it was healthier—I never went up the hill to town at all.

And as I sat there, high in my open eyrie, I could see well enough what they were building. My, it was sharp and bright, as shining as anything on the state highway, with a baby-sized turret, orange-sherbet colored with a rod waiting for the weathercock to be fixed on it, and a plateglass entrance you could see in through, just like the state liquor store. I have excellent sight. I could see it all, like an anthill milling, at all hours of the day and late on into the evening, when they kept worklamps burning. That’s why it went on for so long; they were doing it themselves, as they had learned more and more to do. I could see the boys and girls bending to their jobs, but could not always tell one girl from the other, because of that long hair style falling over their faces, and their same halters and jeans. Sometimes I could. My, how bright and particular and blooming it had gotten to be over there on the lakeshore, and not all with plastic either! Browning that way in their gardens, putting up their preserves in our old Mason jars, even hoisting lumber as if they saw a block-and-tackle every day in the week—they’re getting healthier. I could see well enough what they were up to. I clenched my hands in the moss, and thought about it. It wasn’t so far to across there; it only had always seemed to be.

Then, one day just at the end of summer, she came. It had taken a long devotion of my sitting there, but I had always known she would. And if it had taken longer than last year, this was because back then I’d just been dreaming on it generally, on making out with any girl. I hadn’t been thinking of it with Barbara Blazer.

That’s who it was of course. After all, even after another summer, if it is known where to look, the tree can see the tree.

When she parted the birches and came in, I wondered how I could ever have confused her with the others, even at a distance. Her hair was the longest, long and straight as any sin. A gold hoop hung in the ear I could see. The lobe was red, where the hoop of light pinched it. Her mouth matched the ear. Above, the sun was just going down, ahead of the dusk. My, I said to myself—she looks strange for a member of that mirage. So rosy and separate.

She came and sat down beside me, graceful as ever, on the moss. I dug my fingers in it, but I couldn’t make it just mine any more. It’s too late for it.

“Late this year,” I said. “Aren’t you.”

She tossed back her hair. The other ear had a hoop in it too, and a pulse of red. “Oh, we’re very late—we meant to have it ready by midsummer.” She flicked a look at me, and away, and sighed. “Like father says, you have to work hard to know how hard work
is.
”

For a minute I didn’t answer. Then I said, “Well, you’ll have long enough to use it. If you’re going to stay on longer this year.”

Or all year round. That’s what I’d been telling myself. That’s what my aunt had been telling me. When able.

While the sun went down, she didn’t answer. Then she said low—I will say she speaks low, not screech-owl like some of them—“It was you, wasn’t it, put that pine-pillow heart under my bed pillow, up at the house? After the house was closed?” We were neither looking at the other, but she felt my nod. “You dope,” she said, “wouldn’t you know my mother’d find it before I did. But we were lucky. ‘How sentimental of her,’ my mother said. ‘Guess she wants to show us how much she likes us, to stay on.’ She thought it was your aunt.”

“It was sentimental,” I said. But the thing had been around our family a long time. I thought they liked that. I’d even had to mend it. “I thought you’d like it.” And it was all I had.

“A Pillow of Pine for a Sweetheart of Mine,” she said. “You dope.” But she smiled. “It was pretty grungy by the time I got it. You must have put it there way last fall.”

“I’ve been away since then.”

“I know.” We still weren’t looking at each other. “But we know you all go through the house when we’re not there and look us over. We’ve always known. We can tell.” And then, maybe even not conscious of it, just as I looked at her, she wrinkled her nose.

Anger makes for strength. “I was at
college,
all year.”

“I heard. We’re very proud of you—the only one in town. And that’s why I came over.” Her hair hid her face. She spoke through it. “I thought maybe you could do something with your aunt and uncle. Mainly with your aunt. Before my mother has to tell her. She’s gotten so—careless with herself—not even worth her pay, my mother says. The house was a sight, when we walked in. All spidery. And your uncle remembered to turn the water back on, but left the sump-pump going. Oh that’s all right, we’re sentimental too, my father says—to a point. But—”

I thought she would never be done, and the funny thing was it almost didn’t seem to matter. When it’s too late altogether, what can it matter—once you know that?

“But we’ve had a new baby,” she said. “And around a new baby, you simply can’t have somebody like that. Could you somehow—jack her up?”

It’s all in the balance of it. They don’t intend to be mean.

Laughing helps too. I rolled back against one of the birches, laughing as hard as I could, and then sat up again. “Why she must be forty years old. Your mother.” She’s forty-two; we know everything about them. And how dare she, with her skinny little bikini figure and dyed red curls? When there hadn’t been a baby in our family since me—and my mother’d died of it.

She giggled. “Oh, the country’s great for us. Even the doctor said it. Or maybe it’s the moons.”

“Going to be one tonight,” I said.

Say a thing like that, and it shakes you with it. My hand walked across the ground and took hers.

“Oh golly, don’t say it,” she said. “We’ve got to open the place by the full moon, we’ve promised ourselves. Lanterns and all.” But her voice was false; she wasn’t listening to it half as much as to her hand. She let me keep it. And then at last, she looked up.

It was dusk by now, but I tried to see myself in her eyes like in a mirror; we don’t have a good one at home any more.

“What’s the baby?” I said. “Boy or girl?”

“Girl.” Her hand was still in mine. “You’re so pale,” she said. “Whatever makes you look so pale?”

Must be the hair on my head, I thought; with no barbershop on the hill, I hadn’t had a trim all summer; how do their heads support all that hair?

“How many Barbaras does that make in your family?” For I knew she had at least one sister; couldn’t remember if more. “Will that make her Barbara Three or Four?”

“Her name’s
Anne,
” she said. “What do you mean.” But she knew. Her hand had come away from mine. “That’s moron stuff,” she said. “That’s that awful family with the whiteheaded, pink-eyed children. Down back of the factory. They say that.” Her lip shivered, and she held it with her teeth. They aren’t china. “You were always just Johnny.”

My hand felt lonely. I made like sweeping a cap off my head to my knee. I was standing up by now, braced against the birch. “Let me introduce you. To Johnny One.”

Her hand went to her mouth. She was still on the ground, at my feet. “You were still so handsome,” she said. “Just a little while ago, when you first came back.” She looked about to cry. “What’s the matter with you people?”

“You were watching,” I said. “All the time?”

“Yes—I was watching.” It sounded as if she hated it.

“Can you really see us that well, over there? I always wondered.” I leaned against the birch, which helped. Some of the full grown birches have one high fork, like a giraffe face up there on its long, scribbled bark neck. But this one is just a sapling, with the crotch still low enough to rest an elbow in.

“Not really. But I can always see you.”

It was like our last year’s promise. I dropped back to the ground. That was a relief. I was about to kiss her. Two can suck strength together. Then I saw the black spot on her leg.

“What’s that! Barbara Blazer—you’ve got a leech there.”

“Oh golly, have I? They’re in the lake in droves this year.”

It was on the calf of her right leg. Both of us stared down. I for one never saw anything like it, on us. The little black thing wasn’t deep in yet. But it was already fat and red too. Rich.

“You wait right here,” I said. “I’ll go back for matches. You know what we have to do.” If it’s not too far in, it’ll shrivel. “Or you could come back with me—” I hadn’t meant to say that. But maybe if she saw us at home, with everything still there that couldn’t be sold—the fanlight, and the banister like a turned ribbon, and the floors—maybe they’d see us better. “If it’s in too deep, my aunt has a special knife.” Or did once. “She’s very good at it.”

“Don’t be sil—” Though we had our arms round each other, her voice had turned silvery again. “Don’t be
archai
-ic. We’ve had them all summer. Daddy’s got a compound you just touch them with—they drop right off. And I wouldn’t want your aunt—” In spite of herself, she shivered. I saw the nostril again. But she didn’t mean to. It’s their strength.

“Won’t it suck your strength?” I said. “Hadn’t you better—?” But I knew she could wait. I touched the hoop in her ear—the thinnest wire.

“I’ll go home in a minute,” she said, snuggling deep into my shoulder. “Then I’ll come back.” The voice was last year’s voice. And my mouth was already on her mouth, taking strength.

How did she spring away? They’re like electric, these people. Their feet these days must scarcely touch the ground. There she was, arms spread out against another young birch, yards away. “What’s that awful thing on your lip?”

The moon was up. We could see each other clearly. But I knew she wouldn’t let me move back close, to see myself in her eye-mirror. And I knew what it was. My hand went to my upper lip, rubbing. At first I couldn’t feel anything; then it was there, cool as down under my forefinger. “It’s—my moustache.” But I knew I was looking at her sideways.

“Green?” She whispered it. “Green?”

“It’s the moon. It must be.” I whispered back. Funny though, how you fade all the faster. Once you know.

For she made a sound in her throat like a squirrel. “Johnny. Look at your
hands.
”

It was the nails, really. There was a line of green around each of them. I suppose it takes each person according to his substance. “It’s only our moss,” I said.

But I could only stand there, hands hanging, glad even that I could stand. Even if at first it takes you according to your own nature, in the end, won’t it be all the same? I could feel the down on my lip now without touching it. Growing slow, like a shawl. Like the two girls at the grocery, like my aunt and uncle—I was going back to the green, to the grass, to the ground.

It was then she shrieked; I’ve never heard screech-owl worse. “You’ve got a disease! A mortal disease!” She bent over to the thing on her leg, and brushed at it as if it were me. Her head down low and forward, like a dog covering me, she breathed deep and growling, all the voices of the Blazers, hardened into one. “Keep away. Keep away. Don’t you ever come near us again, any of you.” She shrank back behind the birch tree. “Don’t you ever even let us
remember
you.” And then she ran off, low to the ground and bawling, her hand clapped to her leg.