Barn Blind Page 11

  “But it was fine, really,” Kate was saying. She opened the refrigerator, which Axel had completely cleaned out and washed. “Lovely,” she mumbled, but not “thank you.” No doubt she gave no thought to the agent of the purging. A childhood with servants. “They all won something or other. They were presentable, especially, I have to admit, Peter. Frankly I never thought.” She bit elegantly into a large tomato and juice dripped down her chin with perfect grace. “Aline Elliot-Frobisher was very complimentary. She’s lost that fake English accent, though I must say, the custom-made paddock shoes are almost too much, God forgive her.” There were two thumps on the ceiling. “Oh, I’m so tired. What time is it, anyway? Would you?” Axel went to the foot of the stairs, shouted for quiet, and returned to find her beginning on a cucumber. “Not a vegetable on the showgrounds. Henry is positively carnivorous, you know.”

  “Did you take them out to dinner?”

  “I put it on the Master Charge. It was the only refuge from hotdogs and candy cotton. Mmmm.” He could see that the vegetables were cold, crisp, and refreshing. He almost wanted to join her. The conversation paused while she afforded her carrot a long and admiring inspection. Such a gift for him, this amicable chitchat. She yawned and relaxed and rubbed her eyes with her knuckles, took large gulps from a glass of milk, beneficent milk. It was past one. The big van, parked as yet for less than two hours, had already settled like a house onto the gravel driveway, and in his late-night self-indulgence Axel imagined the children weighing down their beds and everything becoming permanent. He had missed them. He had missed her. He motioned for a bite of her carrot, and she handed it over automatically, without surprise or suspicion. Obviously she was very tired, obviously she was so full of the show that she would have told Jeepers about it, or one of the horses. Even so . . . He handed back the carrot. She took a bite just where he had taken a bite. It was so intimate that he looked away. “Mmmm,” she said, the way she once had when he kissed her, “is there any bread?”

  “Would you like toast?”

  “Oh, no thanks.” After all she was as oblivious of kindness from him as ever. He undid the package anyway, and placed it in front of her. Unbidden, he got the butter. “Dry is fine,” she said. Every utterance tempted him to transgress their agreed-upon boundaries, every utterance bleached, in retrospect, the last seven or eight years of ardent but distant appreciation that he’d been content with. She put her feet up on the chair across from him. The rounded toes, like the toes of orthopedic shoes, made him sentimental. She pulled the center out of a slice of rye bread, rolled it between her palms, ate it, then folded the crust and ate that. It was a performance he had seen before, but never, as now, with this sense of imminent perfection, as if twenty askew years were about to fall into their proper place and solidify.

  “They haven’t got good manners, though,” she said. “I mean, they don’t belch at the table, and they do seem to say thank you more than their little friends, but I’d never noticed before how very standoffish they are. Not forthcoming at all. When Mrs. E.-F. told Peter he was doing well on MacDougal, I thought he was going to fiddle the buttons right off his shirt. It seems like Catholic schools would . . .” Before her was the last of a pint of strawberries. She leaned forward, took a hearty sniff, and smiled. Axel groaned. “Pardon?” she said, but she wasn’t paying much attention. Axel realized that he was sweating in anticipation of the next moments. This chance meeting in the kitchen, this sleepy deviation from their routine separateness, perhaps had been enough. He did not ask that these moments result in bed. He thought he would be more humble than that, and hope for friendship. Insensibly, just for something to say, he said, “I paid the Pony Club girls ten dollars apiece per day.”

  She sat up. “That’s ninety dollars.” Her tone was annoyed.

  His hope immediately died and turned into the wide, precise vision of disappointment. “And cheap at the price. They cleaned all the stalls, fed everything, and gave fly baths to all but the yearlings. They got here at six and sometimes didn’t leave till after six in the evening. Charlotte and Ellen rode some of the green horses, and Charlotte taught a beginner’s lesson.” In paying the girls he knew he had been merely right, not generous, but now, in this moment when the whole history of his marriage seemed available to his insight, he wondered what years of being right had gotten him.

  “The experience is good for them, if they want to go for their B ratings.”

  “They worked hard.”

  “One must work hard for its own sake and not for the sake of money.”

  He tried to be sarcastic. “Filthy lucre?”

  “Well?” As if the last word had been said, she stood up to throw away the remains of her dinner, to put away the bread, to wipe the crumbs off the table.

  “Katherine, you should be ashamed of invoking high-minded principles in order to cheat these girls.” As soon as he said it, as soon as she looked at him with the eyes of a sportsman affronted, he knew that the chasm between them was wider than ever.

  “No one,” she said with apparent calm, “no one is a better sport than I. No one at this stable has ever . . . Why, when I discovered the wrong addition in the point totals at that event in sixty-four, I went straight to the judges without even pausing, without even thinking of pausing, though I knew I would lose because of it. It’s unbearable to have to defend . . .”

  “Money is different. Money . . .”

  “Every Pony Clubber and lesson rider who comes out here gets good value for her money.”

  “And soaked for as much work without pay as possible.”

  “Cheated! Soaked!” The words were crimson to her, and he was astonished that he used them. She took a deep breath and drew herself up. “They understand that we . . .”

  “We could afford it if . . .” He stopped. How had he stumbled into these subjects that spanned all the years of their marriage? “This place is a monument to waste. I cleaned out the refrigerator today, so I know. Let me tell you about all the rotten food that was in there. Are you afraid of it? Is that why you won’t even touch limp lettuce or tomatoes with one or two soft spots, or leftover meat?”

  “I won’t talk about it.”

  “People think you have such a death grip on money, but it just ebbs away and ebbs away.”

  “Why are you attacking me? I’m tired, I’ve had a busy weekend.”

  “I don’t know.”

  She didn’t ask what he didn’t know. She was shocked and fatigued, and he noticed that her hand shook a little as she pitched the strawberry container into the trash. He was still right. There was waste everywhere: wasted horses, growing old in their pastures, wasted clothing, bought on sale, too small and never used, wasted food, wasted tools, books, medical supplies, the wasted talents of his children.

  He hadn’t thought of that before, but of course it was true. No one had ever asked any of them if they even liked horses. “Oh, Lord,” said Axel. There was nothing else to say or think. To go further into that question, into any of the questions raised, was not possible just then, conceivably not possible at all. He tried to think something simple. Wasn’t it good to want his wife again? Wasn’t it purely good, wholly good to wish for the second coming of their marriage? He hoped so, because lately that had been all he wanted.

  6

  ALTHOUGH John hadn’t spent many of his summer nights in the woods, shortly after returning from the horse show it happened as he had hoped. He came perfectly awake in the moonlight, thinking of, or having just dreamt of, the stream at the bottom of the mare pasture. In his dream there had been the mares, as well—silent, peaceful, moving in groups over the silver grass. Usually it was hard, even on hot nights, to get himself out of bed. In the sunlight, working, bored, sweaty, he could not imagine how the darkness could fail to lift him up and move him down the stairs, but at the moment of waking, sleep seemed full and the outside empty; no reconsideration of past magic or daytime anticipation could stand against the turning over, the stretching out, the givi
ng in. Tonight, however, no choice had brought him downstairs and outside, but here he was, on the gravel driveway with his shoes in his hand. The odor of hot dust had subsided, replaced by the fragrance of cut grass. Half tipped onto the driveway was the rotary mower Henry had used before dinner to trim the patch around the house. The moonlight was eerily brilliant, making solid geometry of the buildings.

  Since the horse show, John had felt wicked and lethargic, entirely rearranged by the words and actions that had flown from him during that event. People had avoided him—Lisa Campbell, his brother Peter, his own mother, who was waiting for an apology and a promise that he would write a repentant note to Mrs. Elliot-Frobisher, “who is my friend, a well-bred woman, and a prominent judge, as you know.” At this moment, though, the show and the days since seemed daylit and distant, impossibly gauche. Of course he would write the letter, of course he would approach Peter and make excuses, and accuse himself of poor sportsmanship, although merely losing hadn’t seemed at the time to cause his outburst. Of course he loved Peter. Out here he could say that, but (he lifted his arms and spun around) out here what did it matter?

  What a night it was!

  He got into the car, turned the key in the ignition, let out the brake, and began to roll, crunching, down the driveway. His breathing shook with surprise at what he had done, and once he was going (the speedometer read only five miles per hour, but he was certainly going) he dared not look in the rear-view mirror for fear that he would see all sorts of lights go on in the house, first upstairs, then down. The speedometer crept up to ten, where there was a little red dash. Thinking that this might mean that he should shift, he pushed in the clutch and put the car in second. His breathing eased. At the brink of the hill he stopped, put the car back into first, then gripped the wheel and dropped toward the bridge. He wanted very much to close his eyes, but the bridge swept past, one railing on either side, and he had to press a little on the gas to get to the top of the steeper incline. He entered upon the blacktop, and felt as though he had run five miles. Still, with all modesty, he felt he could say that his first attempts behind the wheel were successful, even talented.

  The blacktop! He turned carefully to the right, crossing the center line, but managing to stay out of the ditch, and then he was going again. Mother’s amber key bob swung and jounced until he was safely into third gear (he vowed not to try fourth, at least tonight) and cruising down the crown of the macadam.

  And so this was it. At Jacob Miller’s there was a light on in the pighouse. At the Hortons’, a spotlight cast a huge illuminated circle around the central buildings. The Zeithamels’ huge grape trellis glowed in the moonlight, and then there was a long stretch of corn and bean fields, a copse of black woodland, and the tiny church they attended on Sundays, with its postage-stamp parking lot and picket fence. He was driving! He was driving! He was a little afraid of the dark drainage ditches on either side of the road, and so he clung to the center line of yellow dashes, but nonetheless he was driving!

  The road dipped and rose and swept around curves. The needle on the speedometer neared thirty-five, and though he felt that he ought to at least touch the brake (to make sure that it worked), he could not bear to, and then he was closing in on town. Outside Wellek’s grocery, he stopped at a sudden stop sign with more of a squeal and more of a bump of his head on the eyeshade than he wished. The car stalled. He’d forgotten the clutch. He jammed it in, turned the key, and was ready again. With a honk and a rush, another car swept past him as he began to creep into the intersection. He jammed on the brake again. The car stalled again. He took a deep breath, decided against going into town, and turned into Wellek’s lot. But getting the car to face the road again was more difficult than he had foreseen. First he had a little trouble with reverse, then he stalled twice. Finally, he got out of the car and went around to the front, to see if he could gain the road without scraping the streetlight stanchion. It was then that he realized he had never turned the headlights on.

  At last, miraculously, tires, bumper, headlights, and steering wheel were pointed in the proper direction; he pressed in the gas pedal and moved slowly back into the road, stopped for the stop sign again, very carefully (clutch, then brake, gas, then clutch), and immediately was back in the countryside again, moving into his favorite, third gear.

  It was like skating or sailing or flying. Shaken as he was by the unexpected difficulty of certain maneuvers, still he wished never to stop, but to speed past the farm into the nocturnal world of dark houses and moonlight. Everything, it seemed, was out there, and how silly it would be simply to turn in the driveway, and go back to bed. Besides (his palms grew sweaty on the steering wheel) there would be no way of knowing until already home whether mother and father and Margaret and Peter and Henry were ranged in front of the house to meet and shame him. Still, he could not realistically disappear in the Datsun. (“He just disappeared!” crowed a voice inside him. “Vanished, never seen again, couldn’t be found!”) Besides everything else, there was another town not too far down the road in this direction, with its stop signs and traffic lights, left turns, and other drivers.

  Just before his own entrance, he pushed in the clutch and coasted to a halt, swallowed hard a couple of times, made the turn. The right corner of the bumper shaved the gatepost. He stopped again, inched forward, stopped again, suddenly intimidated by the steep slope before him. He pushed in the clutch, began to coast, panicked, slammed on the brake. The Datsun skidded slightly in the gravel, its tail slipping to the left, but did, in the end, come to a halt. John was sweating. He started again, this time avoiding the clutch and tapping a little on the brake. Here was the bridge. He resisted the temptation to close his eyes, and was over it. On the next slope the car rolled to a halt and stalled before he could move. He pushed in the clutch and started again. The engine coughed, died, coughed, took hold, and threatened to stall as soon as he moved up the hill, but by going very slowly and giving it lots of gas, he made it.

  At the top of the hill he stopped and got out of the car. Though trembling and having to breathe deeply, he was intensely happy. No matter what was waiting for him at the house, he decided, this moment of terrific happiness was worth it.

  Then he was rather surprised to find that such a moment could be followed by others, that he could find himself at the house, the dark and sleeping house, and that such a moment could be so quickly and completely behind him.

  Through the bars of the big center stall he could make out the reclining form of Queenie, the expectant broodmare that father had brought in the day they’d returned from the show. Returning to the house from his drive, he had been attracted to the barn by a noise, an odd half-whinny. Queenie was overdue, but mother hadn’t been too worried; she was the most experienced broodmare on the farm. MacDougal and Herbie, nearby, were wide awake and rummaging about. Herbie neighed; when John came closer, he could see another form near Queenie’s, though it was dark in the dark straw. Obviously the foal had been born, and Queenie was in the process of licking it off. Best, really, to leave her alone with it. Except that Queenie, though her head was up, was making no moves toward the foal.

  Inspection would demand light, and the prospect of light repelled him. He was not curious. The pale stars, the moonshine, the exhilaration he still felt in his very tissues made Queenie seem hardly real, certainly not tied to him in any way. A foal was a foal. Some lived, some did not, like everything else. Of course this one was probably fine. He turned away, and stepped again into the night air, which was so gossamer, which was so promising and cooperative. A breeze came up, knocking a torn flap of feedbag against the barn door, bringing a whiff of the Millers’ pigs. Everything was crystalline. You no doubt could go into the living room and turn on the radio and pick up Atlanta, or Austin, Texas, or even Spokane, Washington. Johnnie Murphy, whose father was an engineer, and who got to fiddle with the old man’s high-powered radio, said that he had once gotten a Baptist station in Spokane. On a night like tonight any distance wa
s possible in any direction. He hated to go inside and relinquish everything.

  In three years he would be off to college. No matter how much his mother hated him, she couldn’t deny him that. And in a year he would have his license. No matter what, no matter what, he was certain to get something he wanted. Kate was certain, for example, to die, and the farm was certain to pass into other hands, along with the horses, the Catholic Digests, all the useless paraphernalia around him. He was certain, after all, to be left alone, destined to do as he wished, fated to be happy. They would all die or disappear, and he would be speechless and content.

  There were more sounds from the barn. Without thinking about it, he got up to investigate, and without thinking about it, turned on the light, then turned it off. Queenie had stood up. While his eyes were readjusting to the dark, the foal squeaked. It was stupid to look, stupid even to wonder about the animal interchange that was going on. His certainty, his happiness, was rarer than this, and deserved to be cherished. Besides, the foal was alive, making noise, fine. He went outside again, this time distancing himself from the barn, MacDougal’s hangings, and any more squeaks.

  Except that he was immobilized. His sense of the sky, the stars, the auspicious future had vanished. Although he cared less for any equine in the world than he did for the old tractor or the Datsun, although he didn’t find in them even the economic interest that Henry did, he was struck. It was as impossible to go into the house as it was to go back to the barn and turn on the light. “Fuck!” he whispered, kicking the tree he was standing near. “Fuck, fuck, fuck.” Nothing, now, could be saved. Kate was everywhere, even where her names were not stamped, taped, or sewn in. In the posture of every horse, the joining of every board, the grassy space around every tree, was the necessity for invoking her aid. In what he knew about mares and foals as well as what he did not know was the certainty that, if he woke her up, she would know how to fix the situation. Furthermore, the ingrained habit of doing so was as old as he was. A foal was a foal, and when he went back into the barn and looked at it through the bars, he said, “Don’t die. Just don’t die.” Queenie had moved far away from it, to the back corner of the stall. The moon had declined sufficiently so that it was now shining through the stall window, but what could he tell by moonlight? Then it seemed better to know than not know, so he laboriously pulled the barn door to, and switched on the light.