Elect Mr. Robinson for a Better World: A Novel (15 page)

“Pay attention, Mr. Robinson.”

We were surrounded by picnic tables and waist-high brick-and-mortar grilling stations.

Ben sniffed the air. “Someone’s been cooking here.”

I smelled nothing. The young Webster led a scavenger hunt of the picnic area. From grill to table to grill we crept. And found, finally, deep within one of the sooty, forlorn pits, fragments of smoldering coal, the scattered remains of embers glowing orange beneath white ash, emitting faint smoky traces. Ben bent down over the grill and nosed at its carbon-encrusted iron crossbars, picked here and there with dirty fingers. He came up with some food, which he put in his mouth.

“Chicken,” he said, going down for more.

I rested at one of the tables. These park expeditions were so exhausting. Partly this was due to the tension that came naturally from trekking mapless through a woodland minefield—in my opinion, one absolutely cannot overestimate the effects of something like this, in terms of emotional stress. And there’s the purely physical fatigue accompanying so much
careful walking,
which for me involved a lot of involuntary tensing of the calf during step placement (tensing, actually, of the entire foot, leg, hip, back, shoulder, neck, and head areas—in other words, I guess, everywhere, though the calf muscles, and the Achilles tendons in particular, did seem to be the hot suns of that radiant, full-body cramping, aching, throbbing), and, as well, a lot of exaggeratedly high stepping, which burned boatloads of calories in an also involuntary effort to accomplish movement (of whatever kind, in whatever direction) safely above the terrifying surface of the moonlit earth.

Ben was now licking the surface of the grill. Wet sounds and the poor kid’s head bobbing over the charred metal. It was hard to watch.

“Ben?”

“Yeah?”

“Are you okay?”

“Sure, fine, great,” he said between licks. I took this as pretty clear indication of the alienating effects of malnutrition and exposure to the elements. Obviously Ben was delusional. Still, I had to hand it to him, he was making do, he wasn’t complaining, he was a survivor. He stood upright and wiped his mouth with the greasy back of his hand, adjusted his clothes and said, “There’s something up ahead I want to show you, Mr. Robinson.”

“Lead the way,” I told him, though it was getting late and I very much wanted to go home. I was feeling peckish myself. It was well past the dinner hour. I wanted to get home and let Meredith fix me a nice hot meal. A plate of those fish sticks, maybe, from the bottom of the freezer.

Instead of going home for dinner—the sensible thing to do, what with school scheduled to commence in less than twelve hours, and had I even
begun
to prepare for classes?—instead of heading on home while the night was still young, I followed Ben out of the deserted picnic grounds, up a barren hillside crowned with a ghostly playground full of weed-choked, run-down jungle gyms, swing sets, seesaws, and slides; then past the playground, down the other side of the hill, and onto the rocky path leading to the Japanese garden, at one time one of the finer attractions of Turtle Pond Park. Yes, the Japanese garden was quite the showplace. With its pebble walkways the color of sand, its trickling, carp-ridden brook running between carefully placed, semiprivate “freeform sculpture” seating areas, its exotic imported shrubs waving waxy leaves and tiny pastel blooms that perfumed the air, the Japanese garden made an ideal setting for leisure meditation or a sunny afternoon siesta. And of course it had been, at one time, a favorite meeting place for lovers.

Ben pushed open the garden’s rickety bamboo gates. He made a courteous “after you” hand gesture. He said, “This is the place where my father died.”

He walked into the garden. Gravel crunched under his feet. A few yards beyond the gateway was a bench, one of those elegant, narrow stone benches, and beside the bench a tree that appeared to be a diminutive variety of cherry. All the trees in this garden had botanical markers driven into the ground beside them, featuring common and taxonomic names, indigenous regions, roles in agronomy, medicinal uses, and so forth. This one wore short branches with delicate, lacy leaves. Ben stood beneath the leaves. He was turned away from me. Shadows and moonlight dappled him. He whispered, “It was night. It was after a rain. Dad was lying on this bench. His clothes were wet. I said, Dad. He didn’t answer.”

He stared down at the bench. He was remembering, envisioning his father’s body. I, too, considered that empty bench, its fine gray contours, those graceful rhomboid legs. The seat looked soft, like a cot. It seemed like a comfortable place to rest. Its polished surface captured night’s silver incandescence; the whole bench seemed to glow.

Ben’s voice cracked. “Dad’s eyes were closed, but he wasn’t sleeping.”

He was sobbing. Soft muffled whimpers rising from a deep place. I told him, “It’s okay, man.” Little by little his crying grew louder. Then we were both crying, and the world beyond the borders of the park seemed far away. I said, “Ben, I’m so sorry.” And realized, saying it, that I did in fact feel, in a vague, hard-to-pinpoint way, responsible. But for what? Ben’s father’s death? That was absurd. Or was it? Perhaps I had been wrong, the week previous, perhaps I had been wrong to bury Jim Kunkel’s foot. What good was a foot? Stronger medicine was needed to cleanse this tainted grove. The heart! If only I’d buried the heart.

“It’s my fault, Mr. Robinson. I let Dad out of my sight. We promised to look after each other. We promised. We
promised
.” He was wailing, a bottomless wailing the likes of which is seldom heard. It was thrilling to be in the company of that sound. I raised the tail of my shirt and blew my nose as Ben wept, “While there’s a Benson left alive I won’t leave this park. That was my vow to Dad.”

He rested his hand on his gun. His fingers caressed the butt of the holstered weapon.

“Violence won’t solve anything, Ben.”

“Bullshit, Mr. Robinson.”

I didn’t bother to argue. How could I? In classroom lectures on the medieval Inquisition I’d made the point over and over again that we are all, each and every one of us, heirs to a legacy of blood and grief. Ben’s commitment to kill his father’s killers was nothing less than testament to this inheritance. Ben Webster had once been one of my favorite pupils. Now he stood before me, lean and stripped down to fighting weight.

“Ben, my home school is scheduled to start tomorrow morning. How would you feel about guest-teaching an elective course in wilderness survival?”

“Me?”

“Think about it. I’m sure it would mean a lot to the kids. You could even lead a field trip here in the park, if you wanted.”

His sobbing was diminishing now, becoming gradually quieter. Apparently the teaching gig intrigued him. I said to him, and truly meant this, “Ben, take it from me, you’ll be a natural.”

Then, to make him feel better, I told him, “You know, Ben, certain ancient cultures believed that the souls of the dead rise up and inhabit a tree. The Christian myth of the resurrection is a sophisticated monotheistic variation on this. Now take this cherry tree here by the bench. Some people—and who is to doubt another’s faith, right?—some people would say that maybe, just maybe, your father is
in
that tree.”

“In the tree?”

“Yes, in the tree.” I went over and placed my hand on a level, shoulder-high bough. I patted the bough and smiled good-naturedly, “Chuck, if you’re in there, I just want you to know that an awful lot of people care an awful lot about you, especially your son.”

Ben looked at me with a glassy expression. He told me he wasn’t sure how he felt about any of this, about his father being in the tree; it sounded strange to him. Besides which, he went on to explain, his dad was buried a good distance away from the cherry tree. Ben pointed, “Over there. By the brook.”

“Is there a tree over there? Strictly speaking, it needn’t be a tree. Your dad could be in a bush or the flowers or even a blade of grass. Or if he’s near the brook he might be in one of those goldfish.”

“There aren’t any goldfish. I ate them.”

“Then I guess he’s in
you,
isn’t he?”

The boy wore a stricken look. I backpedaled, saying, “Heh heh, just kidding. Don’t take things so seriously. It was only an idea. Anyway, it’s getting late and I’ve got a long walk ahead of me.”

“Mr. Robinson?”

“Yeah, Ben?”

“Do you believe that stuff about trees and flowers and fish and all?”

Good question. I explained to Ben that, in this instance, my beliefs were of secondary importance, except as a compliment or contrast to his, whatever they might be, vis-à-vis the whole “spirit afterlife” issue. I also pointed out to Ben that, whatever his personal convictions in the matter, it so happens that many societies, around the globe and throughout history, have regarded enclosed gardens like this one, the one we were standing in, as sacrosanct. “Your father’s around here somewhere, Ben. You can bet on it.”

With that I took my leave. Halfway up the hill to the abandoned playground, I turned and looked back. The moon was high. I could see, by its silvery light, the entire Japanese garden: the brook, the walkways, the decorative pagoda; and, not far from the garden’s bamboo gates, hard by the glowing bench, the figure of Ben, hugging the cherry tree, weeping. I decided, then and there, that I’d come back here soon and bury, as a symbol of the lifeblood that passes from fathers to their sons, the ex-mayor’s freezer-paper-wrapped heart. Not, though, without first thawing it out and letting the kids in school pass it around. Jim’s vital organs would make splendid show-and-tell exhibits. Maybe not the genitals. The genitals would serve better in a high school setting. But Jim’s liver, lung, spleen, hand, and assorted viscera—that stuff would be super at any age. I got so revved up, planning the classes I could build around Jim’s anatomy, that I completely forgot the dangers of walking through Turtle Pond Park. I was relaxed and happy, excited about the future, eager to get home and tell Meredith all about my encounter with Ben, how I’d been able to make him feel a little better about his loss. Also, I wanted to make love without contraception, because spending time with Ben had made me imagine how great it would be to have a son of my own, a son who would kill for me, and whom I’d name Ben. And while jogging past the boathouse and into the dense woods, I pictured all the things we’d do together, my son Ben and I, the ball games we’d play and the bikes we’d ride and the fish we’d catch. These father/son tableaux images looked beautiful to me. So beautiful, in fact, that it began to seem inconceivable that Meredith would be anything but wildly enthusiastic about the idea of a son. Certainly she’d share my desire to have sex without contraception, wherever we happened to be at the moment: on the kitchen floor, or on a table or the counter by the sink basin, or on the fold-out sleeper sofa in the living room; or how about out back in the wet sandy mud by the trench! Or just plain in bed, beneath soft cotton sheets, nice and easy, in order to conceive right away.

The forest floor was dark. Not much moonlight reached beneath the tangled canopy of leaves overhead. Ground-level creeping vines were everywhere, there was no avoiding them, it was a real obstacle course. The image of Meredith was my beacon. I kept thinking about how lovely she’d be, pregnant. It was invigorating, sexy in an elemental and potent way, stampeding through the thorns with a hard-on, beating a path to her. By the time I got to the car I was pretty torn up, and I felt good about it. Each scar, each bruise, each bleeding wound, was a badge signifying passion, intensity, and the untamable fires of procreative love.

I jumped in the Toyota. The streets were empty. I navigated in cool style, shifting down before banking on the right-angle curves, four-wheel drifting into the opposing lane with that satisfying high-RPM, low-gear engine whine, then easing out the clutch and accelerating onto the straightaway, surfing the whole road and going fast. I’m not, as a rule, in favor of reckless driving, speed for the sake of speed. However, it’s a good thing, from time to time, to let go of worldly cares and flatten the accelerator to the floor. Tonight the Toyota performed admirably—for a mid-price. On Main Street I caught a glimpse of the
BIG WEEKEND CLEARANCE SALE! ALL MENSWEAR HALF PRICE! EVERYTHING MUST GO!
sign in Dick Morton’s clothing store window, the same sign I’d noticed earlier in the day, on the way to the park; and I remembered my plan to pick up a new bow tie for school. Now, unfortunately, it was too late. The store was long closed. For an instant, cruising along at close to eighty miles per hour, I had an amusing vision of myself slamming on the brakes and skidding to a halt, leaping from the driver’s seat, hurling
Martyrs Mirror
through the plate glass fronting Morton’s store, and ducking in and looting a bow tie—just one tie, that’s all, in a muted paisley or classic two-tone rep stripe, or better yet a bold, high-fashion silk, something tasteful yet with flair to suit my mood. I wouldn’t even care if I got cut on a shard of window glass. Big deal, what’s another cut?

At home, the lights were on. I wheeled into the driveway and secured the hand brake. There was blood on the steering wheel, blood staining the gearshift. A warm trickle made its way down my neck. It felt sweet. I gathered the books and went around back and up the wood-plank steps to the kitchen door.

I could hear, from within the house, the deep and rhythmic pounding of drums.

“Meredith, it’s me, I’m home,” kicking open the door, marching inside. The drum tape was booming loudly enough for the neighbors to hear. The last thing we needed was a noise dispute with the Kinseys or the McElroys. Those kinds of confrontations invariably create discomfort.

But not such discomfort, I’m afraid, as that caused me by the sight of Meredith sprawled on her back on the living room floor, on the plush blue carpet, her nightgown twisted up around her waist, her arms and legs thrashing and kicking and drenched in perspiration that glistened amber beneath the living room’s low-wattage lamplight.