The Open Curtain (2 page)

He was not the only troublemaker. There was David Nimblett and Paul Boeglin and Kathleen Dunbar. All of them had their moments and could be as bad as he was or even worse, though they would always stay away from him. He took the brunt of the blame, stood out that way somehow. They
were all in seventh grade except for Nan Lutz who had skipped a grade in school and would have been in a higher Sunday school class except that, as the bishop often said, the schools don’t control the Church.
No such thing as “gifted” in church.
Church stuck to the natural order of things—God went by age, not brains or brownnosing.

In twelve months they went through six teachers, including Sister Thomas who began to weep one day at the beginning of class and couldn’t stop even though they became saintly the second she began. Eventually Nan led her to the bathroom and left her there. There was Brother Worster, Pamela Worster’s father, who as his last act shouted to them all to
hold their tongues
and when they literally did told them solemnly and with a shaking voice that he had done his best by them but that they were determined to go to Hell. If he had his way, he said, raising his arm to the square, they’d be in Hell right now. Near the end was Dan Jarman, just back from his mission, young and sleek in a way all the girls in the class admired, who suddenly stopped showing up. For three weeks they had no teacher. When the bishop found out, he took over, though he did not teach them exactly, but just sat with them as they went around one by one reading the scriptures, one verse each, round after round.

When reading aloud, he found, you couldn’t pay attention to what you were reading; your jaws were too busy moving and slipping around the words and trying to make the archaic sentences sound like they made sense. You felt no substance, but there was a formal satisfaction to the act. When, at home, in his daily scripture study with his mother, he asked if he could be the one to read from then on, she was ecstatic, saw it as a sign that he’d finally taken an interest in the Church. But it wasn’t that, not that at all.

He was starting to have an odd relation to words. Phrases from the Bible or elsewhere would catch in his head and keep circling round and about, digging a groove in his brain. The oddest little thing, just a phrase or two. “Lo, verily,” it was for a while. He would be eating a sandwich or watching TV all the while thinking,
Lo, verily.

Then it was high school, ninth grade. At school, in physiology, he was assigned a table with Blair Manning and T. J. Hobbs. Blair had long hair that she curled under. She always wore jeans and a T-shirt, a silver choker around her neck. Sometimes she sat on her hands. She had a pair of tortoiseshell combs, one small, the other large, that she would fidget with while Mr. Fresk was lecturing. Rudd tried to make it early to class so he could take the middle seat and be guaranteed a spot next to Blair. They
started out dissecting a crawfish and by the end of the semester were all sharing a pig fetus.

He called her once after the class was over, at the beginning of the following semester, and waited on the phone until her mother found her.

“Hello?” she finally said.

“Hi,” he said. “It’s Rudd.”

There was a long pause. “Rod who?”

Somehow he ended the conversation and hung up the phone without her quite figuring out who he was.

His hands seemed too big for his body. Sometimes he sat on them, but not the same way Blair did. He tugged on his fingers and thumbs, trying to make his hands look longer, until at church David Nimblett began calling him fish hand, a name that puzzled him more than wounded him. He felt a little sorry for Nimblett, who was nearly as awkward as he himself was, with even thicker glasses and fallen arches to boot.

Rudd’s mother told him he was becoming a handsome man, but his body hung awkwardly around him. He began to live furtively, traveling from locker to classroom without looking up. He didn’t want to be noticed, yet he wanted to be noticed. It was either too complicated or too easy. He was sure it was worse for him than for anyone else, though he couldn’t explain why and knew he would be considered an idiot if he ever said this aloud. He was paralyzed. He gritted his teeth and decided to wait life out.

Blair Manning was walking down the hall and he was coming the other way and she was fiddling with her choker, looking at him. It was too late. There was nothing to do but keep walking forward. He would have to walk right past her. She joggled one finger toward him and said, “Hey, I know you.” He nodded his head, smiling but trying to keep his teeth covered. Her face lit up and then she said, “Pig fetus, right?” and her friends tittered and then he was past, feeling ecstatic and insulted all at once.

That was the problem. Nothing came unmixed. He felt that it was his curse to realize this fact while not being able to do anything to make it more bearable. Everything was humiliating but desperately needed.

He decided to try out for a sport, knowing in advance that it would be disastrous. He was a week late for football, so they gave him a helmet that was too tight and inadequately padded and he stood on the sidelines during practice. His mother bought him wraparound sports goggles that, he found on the first day he came to practice, were several years out of style. After a while, the coach allowed him to run sprints. Then he stood on the
sidelines some more. Someone, one of the seniors that the coach called Wile E. Coyote, kept sneaking up behind him and hitting the back of his helmet as hard as he could. It made his ears ring, sometimes knocked him down, once knocked him out. He woke up to the face of one of the assistant coaches. The coach was still running drills. The assistant coach suggested that maybe football wasn’t the right sport for him, told him to take the rest of the day off and think it over. He went home vowing he would work as hard as he could, would prove to all of them he could do it. He would become a key player. They would eat their words. Instead, he shucked his uniform and never went back.

Serving him breakfast the next day, his mother said she hadn’t thought she was raising a quitter. “How does the quitter like his eggs cooked?” she asked. “Runny?” And later, “The quitter’s actually going to drink
all
his orange juice for once?” He kept nudging at his plate until it slipped off the table and shattered. She stared at him, her face going white then red. She turned away, steadied herself on the lip of the sink. He left the house.

He wandered for several hours, down the streets that went through the river bottoms, along the old dirt track beside the creek, watching the water-skeeters flit across the water’s surface, passing from sun to shadow. He tried to hit them with pebbles, then skipped flat rocks upstream. He climbed an oak tree, sat in the crotch of the branch until his leg fell asleep, then jumped down, limped home.

When he was a sophomore, his English teacher, Mrs. Frohm, praised to the whole class a half-page essay he had written on an Emily Dickinson poem. He was pleased and embarrassed, instantly worried that the others would tease him about it afterwards, which they did. Two days later Mrs. Frohm was dead from an overdose of sleeping pills. He felt vaguely responsible. The principal, a hometown football hero now in his fifties who had a dour, droopy face, decided to have a serious talk with the class about death. Death was wrong, he told them, suicide especially. After closing the door, he brought out the Book of Mormon, telling them that normally school and religion didn’t mix, but that this was a special case. The gist apparently was that Mrs. Frohm was going to Hell. Rudd’s essay had been praised by someone going to Hell. Did that mean he was going to Hell too, or just his essay?

Rudd didn’t know what to wear to the viewing, settled on a red tie and a white shirt, his church pants. He stood in line to get to the body, hands in pockets, wondering what he would feel when he saw her corpse. Her face was pale under the rouge. He got his head down close enough to see the
pores of her skin. Her eyelid, he could see, was just slightly open, two or three strands of cotton visible between the lashes. If there hadn’t been people behind him, he would have touched her skin. Just thinking about it made him feel lightheaded.

It suddenly became too much of a bother to get in trouble in Sunday school. Instead, he sat still in his chair, blanking it out, his arms crossed, answering only when he had no other choice. The answers were the same as they had been when he was six—each year they were taught the same things over and over again in a slightly different format. Even the objections that some of the students raised, he realized, were objections they had been preconditioned to raise for years, easy objections with pat solutions. He could rattle them out as easily as anyone:

Perfect, thought Rudd, same technique fortune-tellers use.

One Sunday, their teacher passed out a slip of mimeographed paper, a genealogical tree on it in blue, slightly blurred ink.

“Today,” he said, “we’re going to learn about family history.”

Rudd was instructed to write his parents’ names in the first two slots. If
you knew your parents’ birthdays or—he suggested, looking at Rudd—death day, you should write that information in the half-slots below marked “b” and “d.” The full slots on the next column were for your name and the names of your brothers and sisters.

Rudd looked at the form. He wrote his father’s name in the first slot.
Gyle Theurer.
He wrote his mother’s name in the second slot.

He crossed to the next column, wrote his name in the first slot. There were five other slots, all of them blank. He looked at the form. It seemed imbalanced, his name crowded at the top as it was.

He began to write his name again in the second slot, then stopped. Crossing out the “R” and the “u,” he wrote instead,
Lael Korth.
Next to “b” he wrote a “?” and then, in parentheses,
bastard.
Beside his father’s name, he drew in another line and wrote,
Anne Korth.
It had been four or five years since he had read the letters. He was surprised he still remembered the names.

He stayed staring at the tree, trying to figure out what it meant. Then suddenly the teacher was behind him, staring down at the paper.

“What’s this?” the teacher asked.

Rudd smiled weakly, turned the paper over.

“You have a brother? Really?”

“A half-brother.”

“Your mother’s never said anything about it.”

Rudd shrugged. “It’s a little complicated,” he said.

Later, when the teacher wasn’t looking, he folded the paper once, then again, and slipped it into his pocket.

That evening, at supper, his mother brought it up. He denied everything.

“Brother Meyers told me all about it,” she said. “He said you even wrote the word
bastard.
What kind of hellion writes the word
bastard
in church? Don’t lie to me.”

He just looked at her, then looked at his fork.

“You don’t have a half-brother,” she said. “I’ve never been with any man but your father.”

“I’m not saying—”

“To be vulgar, I’ve never had intercourse with anyone but your father.”

“But—”

“Are you accusing me of being a whore?”

He shut up. He looked at his hand, saw he was holding the fork tightly,
fingers whitening around it. He let go, watched it clatter onto the plate.

“Mind the china,” she said.

“It’s Dad I’m—”

“There are certain rules in this house—”

“Goddam!” he shouted. “I read the letters. I know.”

“What letters?” she said. “I don’t see any letters.” She snorted. “You and your ‘goddam,’” she said. “The only bastard around here is you, and you weren’t born that way. You had to grow into it.”

“I know—”

“There are rules in this house,” she said. “One of them is to treat the china with care. You know that. You know what the other rules are as well. I don’t have to state them. If you don’t care for them, there’s the door.”

He was shaking but he stayed seated. Later that night, his mother in bed with a headache, he took the telephone book out. He looked through the Provo listings, went on to Mapleton, Orem, Spanish Fork. In Springville he found an A. Korth.

He dialed the number, listened to it ring.

It clicked on, a woman’s voice at the other end.

“Mrs. Korth? Anne Korth?”

There was a long static moment.

“Hello?” he said. “Please,” he said. “Can you help me?”

“You must have the wrong number,” the voice said, and hung up.