Clair De Lune (3 page)

“Thank you, Mother.”

How much longer must she go on calling her “little Allen”?

She looked up at the stars. They were very bright tonight, millions of them and billions more beyond the reach of the eye. “Remember when we were little,” she said, “how we used to lie out in the yard on quiet summer nights and you would teach us the constellations?”

“Do you remember that?” her mother said, pleased. “I didn't know much more than the Big Dipper and the Seven Sisters—that's not even the proper name but that's what I called it.”

“We thought it was fine. And Halley's Comet, you used to tell us about the time you saw it.”

“Yes, and you always felt sorry for the comet because it had to keep going always and never could stop to rest.”

“I remember.” She still had to remind herself that a comet was an insensible thing with no need of compassion. But what a journey it had to take to get wherever it was going and back! She tried to bend her mind around the magnitude of the circuit, the boundless extent of the universe. And where beyond that was heaven? No one had ever been able to say. Yet there was always a heaven of one sort or another, some celestial muster in the sky, where the true believer, earthly senses intact, would exist forever. And ever and ever. Eternity, time going on and on. The very thought of it scared her out of her skin.

She brought her mind down to the congenial finitude of the earth and the sound of the crickets sawing away in the grass. The night was filled with their anxious summoning.

It seemed urgent, as if they sensed the coming on of the cold and must hurry. From her mother's garden the scent of tomato vines, released by the evening damp, drifted across the yard. Tomorrow they would can tomatoes again. Barring frost, the vines would go on bearing into October. And Gwen was coming in with tomorrow's crop of beans. “Will we have to can those too?”

“Can what?”

“The pole beans.”

“Yes, Gwennie's coming in tomorrow, isn't she? Yes. I suppose we will. There'll be a good many. She says the vines are outdoing themselves this year.”

“Ho-hum.”

Mother laughed. “You never cared much for canning, did you? It won't take long, and you're good help.”

Because she was expected to be. They were disciplined children, she and Dalton, both of them required to help with the chores. Well, they had to do—by the time Dalton was twelve, Dad was gone and he was the man of the house. Some of the chores Allen quite enjoyed: gathering eggs in the morning, gathering kindling for the big cook stove, helping in the garden. As long as she was outdoors she was happy.

Choring or playing, she was outdoors a good part of her childhood and often allowed to run loose. When she was old enough not to drown herself, she spent hours at the creek, paddling about, wading, catching crawdads in the shallows. She climbed trees, stole watermelons with the kids from the next farm out of their own father's patch, and chased turkeys around the barn lot, making them scatter and squawk. In winter she and Dalton and the neighbor kids coasted down snowy pasture slopes on the wash-boiler lid.

Their mother often read to them in the evenings, and both of them learned early to read for themselves. Allen took to it better than Dalton. There were times when she'd rather read than chase turkeys. She read in bed, in the hayloft, in the crotch of an apple tree, upstairs, downstairs, pretending not to hear when called. But Mother never fussed too much about it; she was a reader too.

“Have you finished the book yet?” Allen said. Mother was reading
The Grapes of Wrath.

“Two chapters to go. I had to put it down last night. I just couldn't read any longer, it was so terrible. Those poor souls.”

“That man can write, can't he?”

“He makes it so real. And it was real, that's the worst part. All those families forced out of their homes and no place to go. And the dust! Remember the dust? You couldn't breathe for it. And it was worse in Oklahoma. We had some bad times here, but nothing that bad. I thank the good Lord we didn't lose the farm. Your father bought that farm with his hard-earned money and I was determined to keep it.” She heaved a sigh, as if some great task was over and done with. “We were lucky,” she said.

“Yes.” But Allen knew well enough that it wasn't all luck, but her mother's resolve and hard work.

“And we're still lucky. I'm so thankful I can keep on teaching. And Dalton and Gwennie are doing right well. And now you're going to be a college professor!”

“I'm a long way from that.”

“You'll get there.”

The hell I will, Allen said to herself, rebelling. But then, maybe I will. “Did you always want to be a teacher?” she said. “Didn't you ever want to fly an airplane or dig up mummies in Egypt or travel to Italy or anything like that?”

Mother laughed. “Mercy no! Girls didn't do those things in my day.”

“Some of them did.”

“Nobody I ever knew. No, I just wanted to teach school. That's all I ever cared about. Until I met your father.”

“You find him or did he find you?”

“Well.” Mother chuckled. “I saw him before he saw me. Saw him in the post office one day and made up my mind right there that he was the one I was going to marry.”

“Simple as that.”

“It was, in my case. And we were happy together. We had a good marriage.”

A firm, insistent pronouncement. But it was a good marriage, Allen thought. As far as she knew, though she knew little enough firsthand. All she remembered of her father was that he sang to her and made her laugh and sometimes danced her around the kitchen on his shoulders. They said she looked like him. Sometimes, when she was younger, she'd tried to find him in the mirror, to summon him back.

“I never told you, but he left me once.”

Allen turned her head sharply. “Who did?”

“Your father. For a little while.”

“Why?”

“Oh, we had had some problems. Nothing that couldn't have been worked out. That's what I thought anyway. But Dalton and I came home from church one morning, and he was gone.”

Allen murmured in sympathy, and in surprise at this new view of her father. “Did he leave you a message?”

“There was a letter. Said he was sorry. But he guessed he couldn't worry too much about me. Said I could run the farm as well as he could. And some other things.”

Allen stared into the darkness. Why was her mother telling her this, after all this time? Her father had left her. Why? “But he came back?” she said.

“Um-hum,” Mother said. “I went and got him.”

“Oh.”

She had a good idea where she'd find him. Down in Cape Girardeau with his brother Woodrow. “So I went down there—I waited two or three days, then I got on a train and went down. We had a long talk. And then—well, he came home.”

Allen said, with a little shake of the head, “You must have said all the right things.”

“I don't remember now what I said. But I remember… I cried. I didn't mean to!” she said defiantly. “I'd made up my mind I wasn't going to cry and carry on like some silly little goose. But when he put me on the train and he didn't get on with me, I was crying. I couldn't help it! And then… I guess it was two days later, he came riding in home one morning. He'd come in on the morning train and caught a ride from town with one of the neighbors, who was in there with his wagon.”

Allen listened in silence, embarrassed almost by this confessional, as if she had stumbled in on something private that she wasn't meant to hear.

“I guess he'd never known me to cry before. I don't let myself do it very often. But that time…” She paused and said, like a child admitting guilt, “I loved him and I wanted him back.”

Allen hadn't often heard her mother use that tone, maybe never. Her mother seldom talked about her feelings, much less about feeling vulnerable. And what had she done that made Father leave? Allen could imagine—her always being right, always knowing what's best. Her father was a dreamer, that's what Mother always said about him. Just like her, she said. Mother didn't set much store by dreaming, but she loved him, and he had come back, and soon enough Allen had come along.

Mother said, with a little chuckle, “And you can bet, after that he went to church with me every Sunday!”

And then he died in a cyclone. Struck in the head by the barn door hurling through the air like a leaf as the barn went down. Allen remembered that, though she was only three. Remembered the roar and the quiet and the long scream as her mother ran through the yard. And after that, how still the house was, how she went about on tiptoes so as not to disturb, with a feeling she would recognize years later as a kind of exaltation. Her father's death was something precious handed to her, that made her older and wiser, different from anyone else. It was something to be borne like a sacred vessel, with gravity and great care.

In the comfortable darkness, Mother said, “There was always something about him that I couldn't quite get at. He always seemed a little bit lonely. Oh, he was jolly, always laughing, making jokes. But a part of him was sort of far away … where I couldn't reach.” She drew a long breath and let it out. “Well, I think I'll go in.” She rose, emitting the faint, clean, talcumy scent of a plump woman careful of her bodily habits. “I want to read another chapter. You coming?”

“In a minute.”

“Don't stay too long. Good night, honey. Mother loves you.”

“Love you too. G'night.”

The screen door closed. Light from the kitchen fell into the yard. Mother would be pouring herself a glass of water. Then that light went out and another came on in Mother's bedroom. Allen stretched her arms, stretched her bare legs, and kicked off her slippers to feel the cool grass under her feet.

She listened to the myriad muted sounds of the night and wondered about the nature of love. Wondered about the difference between loving and being loved, and which was more desirable in the long run. But then she'd known neither. And Mother? Loving, it seemed, for her.

She stood up and yawned and stretched. Tomorrow was another day. And after that, only nine more days before she must leave. She was ready.

Three

S
o here was Miss Liles, instructor in a junior college, proud of her position, hopeful, determined, a little scared. Nevertheless, bored stiff at faculty meetings, where she sat like a good child, younger by ten years than most of her colleagues, by twenty or thirty than others.

The only exception was Miss Maxine Boatwright, who was about the same age. Miss Boatwright, along with Mr. Delanier, was the music department; the two of them divided their time between college and high school. Mr. Delanier handled the orchestra, Maxine the choral group. She was tall and pretty and nice as pie, with a smile for everybody and a laugh that ran up the scale, skipped a couple of notes and wound up on something like B flat. They might have become good friends, Allen thought, except that Maxine was always so busy. She had grown up in town and lived at home and had a busy social life. She taught piano lessons on Saturday mornings and poured tea at frequent receptions at the Episcopal church. On Sundays she sat demurely in the family pew with her parents and a younger brother. The family was remarkably handsome, self-assured, and a little haughty, as became the aristocracy.

Maxine was also kept busy by her gentleman friend. His name was Max. (“Max and Maxine!” they said in the faculty ladies' lounge. “Isn't that the cutest thing!?”) He was tall and gorgeous, an officer in a bank, and Episcopalian, like Maxine. From all reports it was Serious. (“Made for each other,” the Ladies said in the lounge. “They call each other Max!”)

In spite of her schedule Maxine did try. “Listen,” she would say almost every week, “we've got to get together and have lunch!” There followed the usual qualifications. “I've got to go to Kansas City this Saturday, right after my lessons. But maybe next.” Or as soon as tests were over, or right after the music teachers' convention.

They did manage it once, one Saturday in October. They went to the Bonne Terre Hotel. But they hardly had a chance to get acquainted. People kept stopping by the table to say hello to Maxine, who was kept busy introducing Allen to all and sundry. After a polite “Happy to know you,” Allen was roundly ignored. Then, right after the fruit cup, Max joined them. They behaved as if it hadn't been arranged, but she had a notion it had been. She had gone home feeling sorry for herself. They were pretty together, Max and Maxine. Being in love looked very attractive. She thought about crying but lost interest and went for a walk instead.

With anything beyond the school she had very little contact. There was not much time for activities out in the town, and few opportunities. The country-club set led a life of its own, out of the reach of schoolteachers, who were considered a lower, though necessary, order. (This did not apply to Maxine, whose credentials were unassailable; her family had always belonged.) She went to church, of course; one was expected to. Raised Methodist, she had drifted to the Episcopalian, drawn by the Gothic architecture of the churches and the pageantry of the service. But although the priest was a good deal more literate than the usual run of preachers back home, she found herself gathering wool during the sermons and more and more wondered why she bothered attending. She no longer adhered to the true faith, having devised a theology for herself, somewhat at variance from the one here prescribed. (If you believe in eternal life, Alice went down a rabbit hole.) She tended to pantheism, a little lower than Tennyson's, perhaps, but comfortable to her.