With Shuddering Fall Page 2

  On the opposite hill a few men stood about, talking. Karen could not distinguish her father from the hired men. “So many cows now,” she murmured. “He gets up himself to make them run around at night to keep from freezing.” Jack, staring down at the steps, nodded quickly as if he had meant to say something of the kind himself; in reality, Karen supposed, he had no idea of what she was talking about. With other people Jack was charming, bright, sometimes a little loud; he conversed easily and with a certain delight in himself and his words; with Karen he became vague, worried, groping after her meaning while the time for his reply passed. Even his habitual posture with her was stooped, making him look already old, at least tired and uncertain. Everyone remarked about it.

  They had met at a church picnic when Karen was sixteen. Rather, they had met again: everyone in Pools Brook knew everyone else. Jack was too old for Karen to remember from school—he was about twenty-seven—though he claimed to remember her. He was tall, with a blond, heavy, handsome head, and that day he had worn a new-looking suit and tie, and the girl he was with was dressed in a soft, shiny, rich white outfit. Later it was the girl’s outfit, especially her big straw hat, that Karen remembered. Jack and the girl had drifted by to look at the cattle judging and Jack, whose father was in gypsum, stopped to talk to Karen’s father. Karen liked to hear other people talk to her father; she liked their tones of respect, their careful words, their repeated “Mr. Herz.” Herz, Herz, Herz: it was like an incantation. It always surprised Karen to remember that it was her name too.

  She and her father had only driven over for the judging, and so Karen was dressed in shorts and an old blouse. Oddly enough, the girl’s Sunday clothes did not make Karen feel uncomfortable, but rather pleased her; she smiled and talked with the girl, something she ordinarily did not do, since the company of other girls—of most people—bored her. In talking she had noticed Jack’s eyes easing from her father to her and back again. She sat beside her father on a bench, her arm through his in a parody of decorum, her bare legs stretched out, not yet tanned, measuring themselves against her father’s; and she felt a delicious, curling sensation, as if she were seeing herself through the eyes of the girl Jack was with. Jack and her father talked about the gypsum plant; Mr. Herz, by tradition a farmer, made most of his money out of interests in gypsum mining. In the middle of a conversation about gypsum her father stopped abruptly and laughed: “Ain’t my littlest girl here getting big now!” His words surprised Jack and the girl—Karen could tell by their faces. But Karen laughed, squirming on the bench, squeezing her father’s arm. In his company she was never more than eight or nine years old: she sensed rather than knew this, and it pleased her. She was his littlest girl. Afterward the memory of that meeting was so fine, her impression of Jack so good, that she was glad to see him again . . . though none of their dates had ever lived up to what she expected.

  She and Jack got into the back of Albert’s car. Albert drove carefully, like an old woman. He was a soft, morose man of over thirty, very serious, very quiet. He had been teaching at the town high school as long as Karen could remember and, almost as long as she could remember, he and Celine had been going together. By this time no one except Celine expected anything to come of their courtship. Karen hoped vaguely they would marry, for Celine’s sake, but Albert’s manner, his treatment of Celine—familiar without being interested, concerned without being warm—promised little.

  They stopped at a country tavern, a nameless place set back from the road in a muddy lot. “You oughtn’t to let your students see you here,” Karen said to Albert, teasing. Albert frowned and did not reply. “I was only joking,” Karen said.

  Inside, a few men turned to look at them. The others had beer, Karen had a soft drink that she sipped at continuously, as if she were alone. Jack wore a coat Karen had not seen before; he looked coolly handsome, and when he spoke with the others he presented himself as a proud, superior young man. Certainly he was superior—Karen compared him to the country men sitting at the bar: big, coarse, clumsy hands, whiskery faces, muddy feet. But now, as he spoke of his father’s plans to help him run for the legislature, Karen, as always, could not sense any vitality in their relationship, any feeling in her for him that went beyond a polite interest. Sometimes when he called her she had told him she was not interested in him, that she “didn’t like him much.” Just so would a child speak, she had thought coyly; a child would tell the truth. Not for Karen the intricate games of other girls. She would tell the truth.

  “I suppose I oughtn’t to have come,” Karen said suddenly.

  They looked at her. Jack said, “What do you mean?”

  “I make things awkward for you,” she said. What did she mean? She did not know exactly; she thought remotely that she ought to be somewhere else instead of here—that she had something to do. She could not think exactly what it might be. “I’m not much company.”

  Celine looked up, annoyed. Albert said, “You are company.” He had soft, moist eyes, and Karen thought for the first time that he was a good man—a kind man. “Do you miss school?”

  “Me?” said Karen. “Oh, I suppose so. Yes. I miss some of my friends.”

  “You might be taking a course from me this year,” Albert said. Jack cleared his throat, uncrossed and crossed his legs under the table. “If you like math.”

  Karen sucked at her straw. “I always hated arithmetic,” she said, conscious of Celine’s irritation, conscious too of Albert’s queer interest in her, which she was trying to block. She listened to herself talk. “There was one day in the country school when I was in eighth grade and I had one of my brother’s old math books. The boy behind me, a Revere boy, used to punch my arms and back and squeeze my neck, pull my hair—you know—” she said inexplicably to Jack—“how boys do—And there I had Judd’s old dirty book, numbers and signs to lull the mind away from itself, like a fog. A fog got between you and things. Nothing there was lost but that it was got back again, because of magic—you add a remainder to make a problem check, or look back to see your mistake.” Jack had lit a cigarette and watched her now as if she were making an important point. Celine picked at the peeling label on her bottle of beer and Albert frowned, staring at the table top. There was silence. Evidently they did not know she had finished. “So with a fog like that,” Karen said, smiling, “you wouldn’t know where the pain came from—a boy poking you in the back. All you would know is that you felt pain.”

  Albert smiled along with her. But there was nothing to say. He pretended to be interested in something written on the table.

  “Did the boys bother you much?” said Jack.

  “Sometimes,” said Karen.

  “My poor little sister,” Celine said, smiling tightly, “had to walk home with her brothers. She had the idea that if she walked home alone something would get her.”

  Jack smiled and winked at Karen. “Is that so?”

  “Yes,” Karen said. “Yes.”

  “Country schools are disgraceful—terrible,” Albert said. “My worst childhood memories have to do with what I endured at school in the country. Big farm boys, eighteen years old, in eighth grade—”

  “Did they bother you too?” Karen said.

  “My glasses. They didn’t like my glasses for some reason.”

  Karen laughed. Albert looked perplexed. “Is that funny?” Celine said. She had a bright, blank smile.

  “They still feel the same way,” Karen said. “Only you can’t tell it when you grow up. They do. They do,” she said, lifting her chin to Jack in a slow, challenging gesture. “In grade school they did what they wanted—played running games and ripped your clothes half off, or rubbed your face with snow to make you cry, or took off your glasses and hid them. But now . . . now . . . no one does those things, but don’t they all think about it? Don’t they all want to?”

  “My poor little sister,” Celine said.

  “They all want to,” Karen said. “Don’t tell me.”

  “Do you think I want to?
” said Jack.

  “Yes,” said Karen. Albert’s eyes dropped in confusion, Celine no longer tried to disguise her vexation. “You want to take Albert’s glasses and hide them,” Karen said.

  Jack burst into laughter. Then he stopped. Karen sucked at her soft drink. In the moment of his laughter Karen was reminded of her father—it was so that he laughed, deeply, broadly, giving himself up to it, abandoning himself. At dinner that night he would be cold; Karen would glance at him, smile tentatively, say little during the meal. Afterward, in the parlor, she would approach him discreetly, she would ask him something—about the addition to the barn, about the cattle. Gradually his coldness would ebb; his gaze would accept her, she would be forgiven. There was nothing to be forgiven about, of course, since neither Karen nor her father for an instant believed Karen’s words—“I hate you!”—but the ceremony of forgiveness, the ritualistic subjection and apology, were somehow pleasant.

  “I’m sorry you did decide to quit school,” Albert said. His bringing up of an old, dead subject caused even Celine to grimace secretly. “Of course you could return again next year.”

  “Why did you quit?” Jack asked.

  Karen said nothing, though they looked at her. She was proud of her ability to withdraw from the presence of others so completely that her indifference was not even feigned. Celine understood and said, “I think we ought to be going now, Albert.”

  “Why, what time is it?” Albert said, a little startled. He looked at his watch as if he expected to see something alarming registered there. “It isn’t late, is it? Has my watch stopped?”

  “Do you want to leave, Karen?” Jack said.

  “Yes,” said Karen.

  “Is something wrong?”

  “What could be wrong?” Karen said. She had bent her straw so that it was no longer any good; now she poked it sullenly into the bottle. “Except that people always are attracted to people who don’t care for them. Why is that? Why do they waste their time? It isn’t as if their choices were made intelligently—their choices are made for them. They have nothing to do with it.”

  “What the hell do you mean by that?” said Jack. A dull red flush began to cross his face, moving up from his throat. Celine and Albert breathed sharply.

  “Choices are made for them,” Karen said sententiously. “A girl’s legs somewhere pick a man to love them—or a man’s voice, or the way he lights a cigarette. Isn’t that so?”

  “We really should be leaving,” Celine said.

  “It doesn’t seem to me you would know much about it,” Jack said, bending to Karen. “You haven’t done a hell of a lot of living yet.”

  “I haven’t done any living yet,” Karen said. “But I see things. I can feel them. What do you care for in me, except—”

  “Karen,” Celine said. “Please, Karen.”

  “Except what?” Jack said.

  Albert stood awkwardly, sliding out of the booth. Celine stared at her sister’s blank face. “Please, Karen,” she said, “haven’t you had trouble enough for one day?”

  “Trouble? What trouble?” A certain looseness in Jack’s voice made Karen realize suddenly that he must have been drinking quite a bit; but she had not noticed. She looked at him curiously. “What kind of trouble are you in, little lady? My little Karen?” In spite of the horrified looks of Celine and Albert, Jack took hold of Karen’s shoulders and kissed her. She did not move, not even to raise her arm from the table. “That’s the way it is,” Jack said savagely, pushing her back. “Look at her. Look.” He grabbed Albert’s arm. “Do you wonder at what’s between us? All our relatives and all the gahdam gossipy old ladies? Well, this is what’s between us—this right now. You think it’s ever any different? Do you?”

  “We’ll be leaving now,” Albert said, licking his lips.

  Jack got unsteadily to his feet. Karen had the idea that he was exaggerating his intoxication. “What the trouble was at the Revere wedding was this—all the commotion—it was me, me. Not Karen. Everybody came out from the dancing to see me breaking up that chair in the hall. And Karen standing off a ways with her head down. But it was me that had the trouble—not her. She didn’t care. She didn’t. I’d tell it to her father himself if he asked. But she didn’t care—just stood there. It was nothing to her. She knew that would be worse to a man than fighting, or throwing up all over him—God! With her looking at my forehead like she does!”

  “Then leave her alone! Don’t call her!” Celine said angrily.

  “What the hell have you got to say about it?” Jack said.

  “You heard what she said, what she just told you—Can’t you understand that she means you—”

  “Celine,” Albert said, “we’re leaving. We’re leaving.”

  “Go on then,” Karen said.

  “Aren’t you coming?”

  “No. I want to walk home.”

  “All the way home? Alone?” Albert said.

  “Go on and leave us,” said Jack. “Go on. Thanks for the ride. Go on.”

  After they left, Karen rubbed her eyes. Jack still stood by the booth, watching her suspiciously. The men at the bar stared with interest; a woman had even appeared and stood with a rag crumpled in her hand, watching. “You got yourself any trouble, honey?” the woman called.

  “No,” said Karen. She looked up at Jack and smiled. “Should we walk back?”

  Outside, they walked along the road. Karen stepped precariously on the ice in the ditch. “It’s been frozen so long here,” she said, “I can’t remember warm weather.”

  Jack stood up on the road, waiting. His breath made angry little clouds about his face. Seeing him, Karen was struck by his firm, strong handsomeness, by the uncertain mixture of contempt and victimization she could read in his expression. She ran up to him and took his arm. “There’s a man dying,” she said.

  “Dying? Where?”

  “The old hermit. The crazy hermit,” she said.

  They stared at each other as if Karen’s words made sense.

  “The old man by the creek? Down by your pa’s land?”

  “Yes.”

  “Is he sick bad? What kind of sickness is it?”

  “I don’t know,” said Karen. It surprised her to realize that no one had mentioned Rule’s sickness. “Maybe old age. Or the weather. Something. Do you think he will die?”

  Jack shrugged his shoulders. “Sure,” he said. He grinned bitterly. “Is this another game you’re playing?”

  She swung his arm back and forth. “I feel so alive,” she said softly. “I want to live. I want to love—I want to love,” she said, pulling him along the road. “I feel so happy. Let’s run. Do you want to run? Please—please—”

  Jack walked heavily, resisting her. “You said some pretty bad things back there. About me.”

  Karen did not look around. “I wish we could run,” she said. “I want to do so many things. That man there dying—he looked at me. He was there when I was born and can see my whole life when he looks at me; like my father. I don’t think I would want someone who wasn’t there when I was born.”

  “What do you mean by that?”

  At the side of the road a dense thicket led back to the woods. There branches of small stunted trees and bushes locked and interlocked like lace: surprisingly delicate, clear. Winters here in the northwestern hills of Eden County were long and brutal and recovery from them always seemed to Karen a miracle. In the worst days the snow looked like an incredible sifting of earth and heaven, blotting out both earth and heaven, reducing them to an insane struggle of white that struck at human faces like knives. Summers reeked with heat, and heaven pressed downward so that the sun had to glare through skies of dust. Sometimes there would be holocausts of fire in the woods, churnings and twistings of white smoke rising into the white sky. The brutality of the land somehow evoked joy in Karen. She pulled at Jack’s bare hand again. “Can’t we run!” she whispered.

  “If you don’t want to see me again it’s all right,” Jack said. “I g
ot what you meant back there, about people wasting their time. I got it.”

  “What if I got home and the old man was already dead?” Karen said. “He has a son coming. Maybe his son is here. Did you know him?”

  “Who? Karen, look at me. Just a minute, just for a minute. Is there something wrong with you? You’ve been acting so strange today. It isn’t me—is it? It’s something else. What was that trouble Celine mentioned? Tell me about it.”

  Karen’s heart swelled as she looked about at the drab countryside. It was mixed up in her mind with something to come—something she longed for. She must be getting home to it. She had to hurry. Already it was getting dark. “Run with me, Jack,” she said. For an instant he was going to, and she felt, with real excitement, that if he did so she would love him—she would have to love him. But he shrugged his shoulders. Embarrassed, uneasy. He could not understand her. He could not even see that there was nothing to understand. “Ah, Karen,” he said, “that’s for kids. You’re not a kid any more.”

  “Please, Jack.”

  He saw that she was really excited. Her eyes were bright, blinking rapidly. Her expression was animated, pleased, an expression he did not think he had ever seen on her before. “Look at those birds!” Karen cried. They were dull, gray, shivering birds, fluttering out of the sky and to the stooped trees as though they were falling. “Someone’s throwing them by hand!” Karen said. She hugged herself, smiling, looking around. “I want so much to love,” she said, “I want to love—to love—I want to live—I want—I don’t know—”

  “You’ll do those things, Karen,” Jack said.

  His voice for some reason depressed her. She looked back at him. “I suppose so,” she said. They fell silent. “I hear a car coming somewhere.”

  The car’s engine made a low, ominous sound. It seemed to have appeared from nowhere, already quite loud. “I ought to have driven myself,” Jack said. “But I was afraid—I thought you wouldn’t want to see me alone. After the trouble at Revere’s—”