Читать книгу Tale of the Taconic Mountains - Mike M.D. Romeling - Страница 10

James Richard Nelson felt very good today. And because he felt so very good, and had some time to spare, he did not take the shortest route to his destination. Instead he strolled around to the row of fountains that ran between the Science and Humanities buildings. From here he could see the window of his own office on the third floor of the Humanities building where the new ivy of Spring crept along the outer walls in a tangled mass. Not that long ago he used to look out his office window at the young lovers who frequented the high-backed benches that surrounded the fountains. That was back before his wife had left him, and he would feel a tingle of envy toward those entwined students, some perhaps in the heady throes of first love. And as he watched, Nelson would try to remember that long ago feeling. Not that he hadn’t loved Marge of course but...well now it was a new ball game. He had his own lover now, and Marge gone but six months. Nelson shook his head slightly to banish this line of thought. Those were problems and complications for another day. Today was his day, a day he had been anticipating for a long time. The other stuff would sort itself out; he would not let it spoil this fine day.

He walked on past the cafeteria where the stale smells of another poor-to-mediocre lunch found their way into the fresh Spring air outside. The smells made Nelson wonder again why George had not suggested they meet somewhere over dinner or at least for drinks. After all, they were old high school friends, separated during their college years, and then improbably reunited when they were both appointed to positions here at Millbank College in southern Vermont. Two years ago, George had somehow wangled his way into Administration. This was fortunate for George because he could not teach worth beans and each year ranked at the bottom of the brutal underground student publication—with offensive purple turkeys on the cover no less—that ranked the professors’ perceived abilities or lack thereof.

Now George no longer had to worry about gaining tenure but only need concern himself with treading lightly through the maze of egos, politics, and inept procedural nonsense that always creep into even the smallest of bureaucracies. But since George was well aware of his own limitations and had no strong feelings about anything in particular beyond surviving his own unexpected good luck, he offended no one. He felt safe, well-placed and delighted.

When George had gotten his promotion, Nelson remembered, the two men had celebrated together all that day and half the night. Why weren’t they doing something like that for this occasion? After all, George had gotten what he wanted; surely he knew this was his friend’s turn. Well maybe there was a bottle of champagne waiting in George’s desk or they would go out somewhere this evening. And as he was still new in Administration, at least compared to most of the other cranky, sleepy stalwarts who would apparently never retire or die, George had told Nelson he needed to be careful that Nelson’s situation be handled strictly by the book with no whiff of favoritism. Everyone knew they were friends. Their wives had taken to each other as well, and so the two couples had made it a habit to get together each Monday evening to play cards, although the men were always careful to sit at the table in such a way that they were able to keep an eye on the football game.

Of course all that was before Marge had left Nelson. There is nothing quite like marital woes to suddenly make things awkward among married friends. The Monday night card games were over of course, and Nelson found himself hovering awkwardly at the faculty cocktail parties as people came up to him and asked with whispery concerned voices, “How are you?” He always gave them the answer they wanted, the highly creative “I’m fine, thank you, how are you?” A few would assure him that they were always around if he needed to talk and, “We must do lunch sometime and how about all this rain we’re having?” No one ever brought up his new girlfriend of course.

Nelson didn’t mind; he’d be free of all this soon enough. Ten years of solid work were behind him now and he looked forward to his year-long sabbatical and writing his novel in the mountains far away from here. All he had to do was struggle through the rest of the Spring Term and he was delivered. Hallelujah.

The elevator door hissed open on the fourth floor of the Administration building and Nelson stopped into the bathroom and looked at himself in the mirror. He combed his hair and started to button his brown corduroy jacket but then decided to keep it open. Taking a final look, he reached up and tousled his hair, trying to make it look fuller. Of course he sometimes, briefly, in moments of weakness, entertained the suspicion his hair was thinning. But he was still clinging to the various fantasies that kept him in denial most of the time. If he could just get rid of those split ends, for instance, everything would be back to where it was. Or else it was just a matter of finding the right conditioner because the damn water was so hard around here. Or maybe he needed to take more vitamins...and anyway it was probably just the normal shedding and regrowth pattern.

George Schott stood up from behind his mammoth desk and held out his hand when Nelson entered. This gesture struck Nelson as oddly formal considering their long association. Nevertheless, he cheerfully shook hands and then seated himself across the desk from his old friend. George hitched his pants up and sat down heavily. Since he had cut down on his drinking, George had taken to eating copious amounts of candy corn for compensation. The result had been considerable weight gain. But at least his complexion was now much less of a tell-tale rosy shade except where his tight collar rubbed irritatingly against his second chin.

“Well now, Jimmy, how the hell are you? It occurs to me we don’t see each other enough these days and when we do it’s all about business.”

Nelson smiled. Nobody but George called him Jimmy, not even when he was a kid. There had been three other James-Jims-Jimmys-Jimbos in his high school class and so gradually Nelson had become his moniker to almost everyone except his mother who called him James Richard, either when she was cross with him or particularly proud of him. This was definitely okay with Nelson who liked his last name better anyway. Sometimes when the two men were drinking and getting tight together, George would drawl his first name out in a vaguely Irish-sounding brogue, Ji-ih-me-ee, and then perhaps forget what the hell he had been about to say. And they would laugh together like morons and say, “fuck it” and clink their glasses of Scotch together as though something meaningful had just happened. Well, they’d had some fun—or at least what passed for fun in those days—but it was just as well over with now. Nelson had known all along with a gnawing unease that he had lingered in that time-wasting, alcohol-fueled rut mostly so he did not have to confront the fact that he was not writing, and not confronting his deteriorating marriage either. Well, no matter; he’d have plenty of time and inspiration to write again now and he was stoked about it.

“I’m great, George. Been looking forward to today.”

George reached into his glass bowl filled with candy corn, popped several pieces into his mouth and chewed reflectively. “As you know Jimmy, the committee asked me, in light of our long association, to give you the decision on your sabbatical proposal. I was only too glad to agree, but of course at that time I had no idea they were going to throw a curve at me.”

Nelson winced. “Are we talking major league curve or little league curve here George?” His own voice suddenly seemed far away.

“Listen Jimmy, we’ve always been straight with each other so I’ll say this right out—the committee said no.”

When faced with devastating tidings, the mind is only too happy to let the irrational take over for a while and suggest that, whatever calamity is under way, it just might conceivably be a bad dream. It’s a kindness of sorts, a way to allow time for a better defense or attack mechanisms to take shape.

“They refused it outright?” Nelson finally spluttered.

George looked longingly at his bowl of candy corn but knew it was the wrong time to do anything so trivial. “Yes, I’m sorry, Jimmy. But they made it clear, in light of your long service and whatnot, that they would entertain another worthier proposal at a later time. Too late for this year I’m afraid.”

It was doubtless the word worthier that enabled Nelson to move instantly from maybe-this-is-a-dream, quickly on through I-can‘t-believe-this-is-happening, to arrive at his final destination—I-am-totally-pissed-off.

“What the hell do they mean by something worthier? They want me to become a Boy Scout leader or something for Christ’s sake. Come on, George, what’s going on here?”

George shifted his weight in the chair which creaked in mild protest. “The committee felt, as I understand it, that in view of our well known financial doldrums, they have to be stricter in what they agree to in these situations. You were just in the wrong place at the wrong time, Jimmy.”

Nelson sat back wearily. Jesus, seven years ago when he had his novel published, he could have moved on to a larger, more prestigious university. He’d even tested the waters discreetly. But in the end he’d decided he’d rather be a big fish in a little pond. Besides, he liked Millbank, nestled away in rustic Vermont with honest-to-god ivy growing up its walls. A lot of these newer colleges looked like strip malls.

“Look, George, I’ve got another novel in my head; I just need the time and the quiet to write it. I’m the only published novelist in this whole damn place. That’s supposed to be a feather in the cap of these crummy hallowed halls isn’t it? So now they won’t give me the chance to do it again? What kind of shit is this?”

George eyed the candy corn again but managed to resist. “It was pointed out that your second novel never got published and it’s been seven years since the first one. You know, Jimmy, it’s the old what have you done for me lately syndrome I guess.”

“Yeah, maybe, but my first one sold almost a half million copies, George. Do you know how rare that is for a first novel? Then my damn editor went to another publishing house and the next guy they assigned me was a moron. On top of that, my agent stumbled onto a blockbuster book by some call girl he found somewhere. And suddenly I couldn’t get this guy on the phone to save my life because he’d run off with the call girl. Everything went wrong at once. And besides, I just recently read my second novel again and bet you can’t guess what I discovered?”

“What was that?”

“Damn thing wasn’t worth a shit.”

George exploded with relieved laughter when he belatedly realized Nelson had made a funny and the tension on his face melted like late March ice. This was why he loved Jimmy; the guy had class, which somehow had always meant to George that maybe he did too, at least by association. No one else had ever made him feel that way, not even his own wife. They really must start getting together again even if Marge was gone and even if they wouldn’t be able to raise hell like in the old days.

“I remember you never let me read the manuscript like you did when you wrote Valley Fires. I still keep that right on my living room shelf, Jimmy. That was a great one.”

“Well you always were a loyal sonofabitch, George, which is more than I can say for this goddamn committee. And listen, what about that old fart, Maynard? They let him gallivant all over South America last year. How do they justify that project and not mine?”

George stiffened up again, sensing they were returning into dangerous and uncomfortable territory. “Well you know, Jimmy, Maynard found and translated a bushel of South American poetry while he was there and he discovered Ortiz and brought him back here. I mean, we’re talking major league talent with Ortiz and we get him for a year right here at little Millbank. Know what I’m saying, Jimmy? There doesn’t look to be that kind of return on your proposal.”

“Jesus, what are we here, a lousy bank or a university?”

“It’s just the way it is, Jimmy.”

Nelson sat back in his chair and sighed. He didn’t want to say anything mean about Ortiz because he himself happened to believe some of the writing coming out of South America was fucking great. Always had been, actually. But it had lately become a bit of a craze. And now, ever since that silly Castenada had spouted his phony mysticism, people were wandering off down there looking for holy men and mushrooms and poets and revolutionaries—it was all so goddamned chic that it was now becoming stupid.

“George, I’ve got such a good novel running around in my head. I can almost taste it. I was going to keep a journal too; was going to record what it was like, after ten years in academia, to be writing again in isolation. Just me and the mountains; just me and fucking Mother Nature. Hell, they might have gotten two books out of me for the price of one. Did the bastards even consider that?”

“I think they did, yeah, but...uh...well maybe I shouldn’t even say this.”

“Say it anyway.”

“But...”

“Say it right now, George.”

“Well, something was said about Thoreau having covered that ground sufficiently. Something like that. Can’t remember exactly.”

“Which one of them said that?”

“I can’t tell you that, Jimmy. That’s why I wish I hadn’t said it at all.” George sighed miserably.

“It was Crickshaw said that, wasn’t it?”

“Come on, Jimmy, cut me a break here.”

“Yeah it was Crickshaw, you don’t have to tell me.” Nelson could see Crickshaw now, peering above his pathetic red bifocals, whining, “I trust we hardly need pay one of our own staff to treat this old ground when we can simply urge our young sluggards to read some Thayer-row,” putting the emphasis on the first syllable with his prissy, phony accent. Then he would have smiled inanely around the table where he no doubt received obedient nods of approval if for no other reasons than he had been at the college for about ten thousand years and besides, they knew soon he would begin farting in the small windowless meeting room, unaware himself because he was growing increasingly deaf.

“You know, George, I’ll bet no one in the universe gets paid as much as Crickshaw does just to be self-importantly senile.”

George finally weakened and took a handful of the candy corn, sliding the glass bowl toward Nelson who waved it away dismissively. At this point George badly wanted to have this unhappy meeting come to a merciful close. Trouble was, he hadn’t a clue how to accomplish it. Dusk was settling around Millbank now and the sounds from the open window were becoming more noticeable. There were shouts and laughter from passing students below and the wind rustled in the shiny leaves of the massive red oak that shaded the building.

Nelson turned toward the window and could see the lights coming on in the dormitories on the far side of the fountains. Suddenly the day seemed old and stale. When he turned back again, George was watching him closely, almost warily.

“What are you thinking, Jimmy?”

“You don’t want to know.”

“Yes I do,” George said, “because I’m worried that you’re thinking I should have been able to pull this off for you, but maybe I dropped the ball.”

“No way, George. Don’t even think about it.”

“Cause if you do, I’ll feel like shit for the rest of my life. I did everything I could, Jimmy, I swear I did. I wish I had more clout around here but I just don’t. Not about things like this.”

“Don’t worry about it, George; it’s not your fault.” Nelson was feeling irritated that after all this, he was now supposed to stroke George into feeling better.

“But look, Jimmy, the committee was unanimous in saying if you wanted a leave of absence there was no problem. We just can’t foot the bill.”

“Yeah, well maybe I’ll just do that. And when I come back, maybe it won’t be here I come back to. I’ve got some money saved.”

“Good. I hope you do it, Jimmy. Maybe give you some time to straighten things out and stuff.”

“You mean with Marge?”

“Well maybe...how is Marge anyway? You know everyone asks me and I have to tell them I don’t know and then they look at me like they don’t believe me.”

Nelson felt himself descend yet further into the pits. First he had to listen to dismal news and now he would have to dredge up his matrimonial state, such as it was—or wasn’t.

“Oh I don’t know, George. She’s back in Pittsfield now living near her mother on the lake. I go down every other Saturday and take Denny out to eat or to the movies or somewhere. Sometimes we even have dinner at her house. We fake it with Denny, as though this is all something temporary even though I don’t think we believe it half the time ourselves anymore. Time will tell I guess.”

George screwed up his courage and said, “You know, Jimmy, it’s hard to see how you could patch things up as long as you’re running around with someone else. Tell me to shut up if you want, but I’m your friend and I have to ask if you’ve really thought this thing through. I mean, yeah, this girl you’ve got hanging on your arm is cute and she’s young and she’ll muck around with you on your mountain climbs and your motorcycle and whatnot, but do you want to throw everything away on this fling? What about Denny? You know Sarah and I would have killed to have a kid and it never happened. Know what I’m saying, Jimmy?”

“Marge left me first, you know.”

“Well, I just hope you make the right choices here, Jimmy. We all do, you know.”

Nelson looked curiously across the desk at George. “Wait a minute now; I get it. You’re bringing all this up to let me know my personal life had something to do with the committee’s decision. Am I right? Hell, don’t bother answering—of course I’m right.”

“Maybe. Remember, Jimmy, this was a divinity school not that long ago. Old traditions linger on.”

“Yeah, well so does cat shit.”

George forced a laugh. This was the cool, funny Jimmy again and he wanted to keep the cool Jimmy going until the meeting was over. “Sort of like that I guess, yeah.”

“That’s disgusting; do you have any idea how many people around here have skeletons in their closets? I can hear them rattling as we speak.” Nelson grabbed the jar of candy corn and shook it violently. “Can you hear the skeletons, George? They fucking sound like this.” He dropped the jar abruptly and slid it back across the desk at George who just barely saved it from landing on his lap.

“Look Jimmy, this is a small place. In a way you’re lucky. Some universities have strict rules about this kind of thing. Date a student and you’re out on your ear.”

“She’s a grad student, George. She’s twenty-one years old for God’s sake.”

“Yeah, whatever. But here you come with your boots practically on and your new girlfriend on your arm and you’re saying, Send me to the mountains and I’ll maybe write a book. Maybe I’ll write two. Just send me to the mountains with my girlfriend.

Nelson’s eyes narrowed. “Is that how you see it too? Kinda thought you’d be on my side, George.”

George stiffened but forced a constricted smile. “Of course I’m on your side, Jimmy. Just trying to tell you how it all went down. I shouldn’t even be telling you most of this. Confidentiality and all that shit. I’m going out on a limb here. Wish I didn’t have to keep reminding you of that.”

Nelson let out his breath in a long hiss. For the first time in years he felt the urge for a cigarette. Or maybe it was an urge to go back that far in time and start over in some way he couldn’t even define. “I know you did whatever you could, George. Forget about it.”

“I did do my best. I swear I did.”

The long awkward silence that followed left both men looking down at their hands as perhaps they both realized that after this, their relationship could never be quite the same again. Outside the window, the sun had passed behind the Blaine Tower dormitory, giving George’s office a false feeling of night approaching. The late afternoon breeze rustled the curtains.

George seized on the silence to change the subject; to keep the cool Jimmy talking and not the angry Jimmy. “So where is this place you’re going to? Over in New York State somewhere, right?”

Nelson looked up for a moment, eyes far away as if he hadn’t heard. He felt like just getting the hell out of there but he finally answered. “Yeah, I found this place over in the Taconics. Little place called Cedar Falls. The town is kind of falling apart I guess. I know a guy used to teach there but then the school closed down and the kids go to school elsewhere now. Said he’d rent me his old house real cheap; been trying to sell it but there are vacant houses all over the place now and he says he’ll probably never unload it. At least not till the New York City weekend crowd starts coming that far north. And that may be a long while. His house is right next to the river. There are woods all over the place and a nice mountain above the town. Guess there are more than a few bizarre characters hanging out there too. Perfect place to write as far as I’m concerned.”

“Well listen, Jimmy, you don’t have to make up your mind right here and now, but of course we’d be interested in knowing as soon as possible if you’re leaving us. And it was mentioned that if a book should come out of it, our own press right here might be interested in publishing it.”

“And would they be interested in paying more than jack-shit for it?”

“Well I don’t know, Jimmy. That’s your neck of the woods. Of course we’re talking about a small university press so...”

“Listen, George, I am going to write a book—a good book—and I’m going to get it published at a legit house and then I’m going to flaunt it in front of Crickshaw and the rest of those petrified fossils around here. You can take that to the bank.”

“Hey I know you will, Jimmy. And listen, I’ll never get in so tight with these people that I wouldn’t always be rooting for ya, know what I mean?”

Nelson nodded. “Yeah I know.” Suddenly he realized they were bantering in much the same way they had years ago; boasting and cheerleading for each other in some watering hole—any one of the corner joints they might haunt—where the smell of stale beer permeated the air and the jukebox was full of songs they didn’t know. Their glasses were kept filled with scotch by a tired barmaid who wanted to be elsewhere, and after they had tipped back a few, Nelson would expound on his coming successes and George would say, yeah I’m with ya all the way baby, and they’d check out anything in skirts as though they were still single. Finally they’d be the last ones there, and the bored barmaid would be on the phone with one hand as she sponged down the tables with the other. Above them, the ceiling fan would whir away, the smoke already long cleared out somewhere into the empty night.

But these were old memories, and not even very good ones. It was time to go—past time really. Nelson stood up to banish those memories and bring this afternoon to a merciful close “Gotta go, George. Wish things were different but so what? Se la vie and all that shit, right?”

And of course George threw his arm around Nelson’s shoulders as they walked to the door. And of course Nelson threw an easy punch into George’s expanding stomach. It was an old ritual—the closing ceremony that in this case did not celebrate anything. Perhaps it never had.