Preston Falls : a novel (18 page)

When the cigarette's half gone, Willis stubs it out in the saucer, lightheaded and about to vomit. He closes his eyes: worse. Well, he won't be getting hooked on these sons of bitches again. Throw 'em out. Put 'em under the faucet and then throw 'em out. So maybe what he'll do is, he'll go and see his mother.

Etna looks close enough on the map—Route 4 all the way to White River Junction, across the river into Hanover—but it's all mountains and fucking little towns, so by the time Willis gets there it's dark and he's got a headache from squinting against sun in the rearview mirror. And probably from thinking the whole way, because he was asshole enough to throw his tape deck out the fucking window.

The porch light's on and all four eyebrow windows are lit up; since she doesn't use the upstairs much, this must be to welcome him. The house I grew up in, he calls this, for simplicity's sake. He sometimes soothes himself with this absolutely bullshit idea that his mother's actually been here the whole time, keeping safe his childhood things: the Thornton W Burgess books, the yellow seven-inch Burl Ives records, the Nichols Stallion cap pistol. In fact, she never set foot in the house from 1963—the year she split for Cambridge with Champ and Willis— until his father died.

His mother comes out onto the porch. As always, she looks an increment older than he expected; as soon as he's adjusted to the last incarnation, she's on to the next. But she looks good: suntan, silver-and-turquoise necklace with earrings to match, white hair in a single long braid. That and the hurt smile make her look like Willie Nelson.

"Come in, weary traveler," she says. "I was just starting to get anxious."

He gives her a one-arm hug. "I didn't know what to bring you, so I didn't bring you anything. You've got aU the same crap here we've got in Preston FaUs."

"Oh, I know; isn't it terrible}" she says. "If I never again taste maple syrup, do you know? Come in, come in,"

His mother got rid of the really butch accoutrements—deer head, gun rack—when she first moved in. And of course the La-Z-Boy. Where

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he used to have a gray metal file cabinet, she's put a dry sink with worn blue paint the color of a robin's egg. But she's kept some of the Ayn Rand touches: Willis follows her into the kitchen, and through her copper cookware hanging from the beams he sees the old IBM wall clock. She's got the radio on—huh, she's bought herself one of those glorified boomboxes made to look like a stack of components. An Optimus: Radio Shack's house brand. Successor to Realistic. It's depressing to picture his mother walking into Radio Shack. He's looking through her meager stack of CDs on the kitchen counter when that fucking jiggety theme music starts up: BUM BUM BUM BUM, BUM BUM BUM BUM, dump tadumpta dump tadumpta. "I'm Noah Adams," says the voice.

"I know this program annoys you," his mother says, reaching for the Power button.

"And I'm — " Silence.

"Thanks," says Willis.

"But really, they are a lifeline up here. Especially living alone. I always send them money. Now, what can I get you? I have some lovely single-malt scotch. With just a little water? That's how the real Scots drink it." So apparently she's been reading the John McPhee collection he sent for her birthday.

"And how is Jean," she says. "And my grandchUdrcn, who I never get to see. Let's sit out on the porch, do you mind? We won't be getting many more evenings like this."

They sit in a pair of bent-willow chairs, angled toward each other. Willis's tire swing used to hang from that branch of that maple tree.

"You won't believe what I found the other day," she says. "The first letter your father ever wrote me."

"In secret code?" he says. Right out of the gate, boy. What a shit he is.

His mother squinches her eyes shut, then opens them and takes a sip of her scotch. "Oh dear. Well, what did I know at twenty-two? A stupid little Smithie." She pronounces it styewpid. "But really, how was I to know? He was very normal, 1 thought. From my vast experience." Sip. "Well, it was such a long time ago. But it has been a strange life." Sip. "So are you off now?"

''Ami off?" he says.

"From your work? Aren't you on sabbatical?"

"Oh right. Two months."

"And you'll be at your farm?"

PRESTON FALLS

"Yeah, the endless project. I just patched a pipe in the bathroom that's probably been leaking since I got the place."

"But it's splendid that you can do that work," she says. "You do take after your father in that respect." Sip. "It has been a strange life. Do you ever hear from Cynthia, by the way?"

"Not since the last time you asked." Cynthia was Willis's girlfriend before he met Jean.

"I always liked her. And she's gone where, again?"

"Madison, Wisconsin, the last I heard."

"Oh yes," she says. "It's supposed to be very civilized." Sip. "How's yours holding out? Dinner's going to be another half hour."

"In that case," he says. Something rubs against his leg: Geoffrey, come to greet him.

"We're having polio coifunghi secchi.'"

"Mam-ma mia," he says, bouncing the heel of his hand off his forehead. "I trust we aren't going to be having visions of the Absolute after the funghi secchi. "

"Dear God, don't even joke about such a thing." Willis's mother had once been talked into eating psilocybin mushrooms during those first years in Cambridge.

"Oh come on," he says. "I was proud of you. I always remember that thing about how you were listening to Beethoven and—"

"Stop."

"—and seeing purple penises wiggling in sync like the—"

"Stop." Hands over her ears.

"—Rockettes. I was hugely impressed," He strokes Geoffrey's head, and the cat arches his back.

"Dear God, imagine telling that to your child. What were you, fifteen? Fourteen? Well, it gives you some idea of the state I was in. Horrible."

"Hey," says Willis. "Sounded great to me."

"Yes, I know." She gets up and takes their glasses into the house.

Willis stares out at the maple tree. Scotch must be kicking in; his legs feel heavy. The light from upstairs catches that tree branch: the rope that held the tire swing is long gone, and even the scar has healed. After it rained, you used to have to lift the tire exactly right to dump the water out, or it would just race around inside.

"Are you in touch with your brother these days?" He didn't hear his

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mother come back out. "He's not still at that dreadful store?" She hands Willis his glass.

"He's making the best of it," says Willis. Better not to tell her Champ was just in Preston Falls. "I admire him for hanging in." He takes a sip; she's put more water in this one.

"Apparently he's still punishing me."

"You could call/7/w, you know."

His mother raises her glass. "Cheers." She sips, then sighs. "I understand his new friend is very nice. I hope she's not on the stuff."

"On the stuff?" Willis says. "I love it. What are you, keeping low company in your old age?"

"Well, whatever the expression is nowadays."

"She seems fine to me," he says. "Of course, she does wear long sleeves and she always seems to have a cold."

''No^ you're punishing me." Sip. "What else shall we talk about?"

"Hmm," he says. "Okay, what did Jeffrey Dahmer say to Lorena Bobbitt?"

"Dear God."

"Nope," he says.

After dinner, Willis pours himself more Macallan, and his mother puts Charade in her VCR. When they get to where Audrey Hepburn says, "You know what's wrong with you? Nothing," Willis gives his mother an appreciative smile, sees she's fallen asleep and touches her arm. She tugs down her skirt, gets up and says good night. Willis watches Charade to the end, with Geoffrey purring on the arm of his chair, then pours more scotch. He stupidly forgot to bring Our Mutual Friend, but he does find the fat old Washington Square Press Pickwick Papers he had in high school. So he reads the trial scene, then some of the shit where Mr. Pickwick gets drunk with Ben Allen and Bob Sawyer. He pours more Macallan, which he brings upstairs along with Pickwick to his old bedroom with the eyebrow window. Sleeping here after all these years is less weird than it used to be, he'll give it that.

And he does sleep. Not even a dream, that he remembers.

When he comes downstairs, she's just putting water in her little Braun espresso maker; stiff strips of bacon are already stacked on a paper towel. She's listening to Morning Edition.

PRESTON FALLS

"Good morning," she says. "Scrambled, yes?"

"Is that some kind of innuendo?" He sits down at the table, ungrateful dog for thinking she might have made some fucking coffee before she started dicking around with bacon and shit. She pours the grease from the skillet into a Medaglia d'Oro can, then cracks four eggs into an earthenware bowl. He can't watch the rest. Eventually he hears the skillet sizzling.

"You don't have to go right back, do you?" She takes two plates down from the cabinet and sets them on the counter, then turns again to the skillet.

"Not right away," he says. "I should start back this afternoon, though, so I can get up early tomorrow and get some work done."

"Oh, fooey," she says.

"Why?"

"Well, I have tickets to the chamber series in Hanover. Elaine Cooper usually goes with me, but they've got Bartok on the program tonight and she can't stand anything at all screechy. What she calls screechy. She's a bit of a wuss—is that the word?"

"She's probably on the stuff," he says. Elaine Cooper is the widow of a Dartmouth history professor whose specialty was Froissart.

"Stop," she says. "I don't suppose I could tempt you."

Fuck, why not. Follow her to the concert in the truck and just leave right from there. A good old late-night drive. "Boy, Bartok—woo, I don't know." He flutters his fingers. "Pretty scary. I guess I better come along in case you need to be talked down."

"Oh, goody," she says, and brings the plates to the table. She's given him four pieces of bacon and most of the eggs. So much for eating better. Well, so he should've said something. "Voila." She sits down, then bounces up again. She's forgotten forks.

His dream comes back up to him out of the dark, like prophecy in a Magic 8 Ball. He and Philip Reed are onstage, singing that Louvin Brothers song: Satan is real, working in spirit.

"Enjoy it," says his mother.

He picks up the stiffest strip of bacon and bites, then has to bring his palm up under his chin to catch a splinter. He pushes down the thought that he could be satanically possessed.

Morning Edition has a report on what happens to computers when the year 2000 hits. The gist is that somebody will think of something.

He's taken the plates to the sink and begun running water, when his

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mother says, "Oh, leave those and come for a walk. I have something to show you."

"And what might that be?"

"You'll see."

He opens his eyes wide and flutters his fingers again. She smiles.

They walk up the old overgrown road that goes behind the house and through the gap in the stone wall. Geoffrey follows this far, then turns back, meowing piteously. Past here you have to push through the saplings that have grown up in the track. A bright-blue sky, but it's turned chilly overnight; Willis left Preston Falls without a jacket, so he's put on a flannel shirt that belonged to his father. They step over the brook where it cuts across the trafl and continue uphill. The old spring-house was over to the left: now it's just a glimpse of gray, mossy boards lying among the raspberry bushes. They follow the stone wall and the line of thick old maple trees, regularly spaced. Once, this was a real road, leading to a long-gone farm.

They pass the cellar hole his father called the Griffin place and keep walking uphill. In what used to be an orchard, his mother stops and touches a rotten old apple tree. "This is it," she^ays. "No, wait. I think I'm turned around. That one." She points to a different tree, similarly ancient and deformed, nearer to the stone wall. "That's where you were conceived."

"Out here?" he says. "Al fresco? My God, you were a couple of bohemians."

"It was just about this time of year—well, obviously, since you were born in July. It wasn't quite so cool, but of course it was later in the day. Dear God, it does come back. We made a little nest of all our clothes. Right there, in that patch of sunshine."

"What do you know," he says. He walks over to the spot. Tufts of grass, ferns, old rotted leaves. A flat rock, flush with the ground. With clothes under them, they wouldn't have felt it. He gets down on one knee, digs his fingers under the edge of the rock and lifts it: ants. He lets the rock back down, stands up and brushes off the knee of his jeans. "And you're sure that time was the one."

"Oh, no question," she says. "This wasn't one of our . . . better periods, shall we say. Though of course not as bad as—you know—it got."

"Right." He looks at the flat rock.

"I never told this to anyone," she says. "But it's so odd: when I woke up this morning I just had the strongest feeling about it. And I remem-

PRESTON FALLS

bered it so clearly. It frightened me all of a sudden—do you know?— to be the only person alive who knew about it. Because for that just to be gone, for it never to have even happened, in a way ... I think if you hadn't been here I would've called poor Elaine Cooper and burdened her with it."

"Well," he says. "I mean, I'm glad you told me. ..."

"I thought you ought to know. Because it was—it's your story, really, more than mine."

"Right," he says.

"Well, so now you know." She shakes her head. "It kills me that it's not precious to you." She begins to weep, then quickly stops herself. "But I suppose it's one more chicken come home to roost, isn't it?"

He puts an arm around her; she seems to shrink and harden. "I'm sorry," he says. "It means a lot to me, that you, you know, brought me here and everything."

"Stop it," she says.

"I'm sorry," he says.