The Moonlight Man (10 page)

“I must be going,” Mrs. Conklin said in a timid voice, as she stood, holding tightly to the arm of the chair.

“Mrs. Conklin dropped by to talk something over with me—” he began, but realized his mistake when Mrs. Conklin gave him a stricken look. “What
is
the matter with me? I mean to say—I picked her up in Mackenzie. She's been concerned about her husband's drinking—”

Catherine cleared her throat, croaked out, “Yes …” and turned to leave the room.

But Mr. Ames grabbed her arm. “Come along with us. I'll drive her home. I have to pick up the lamb anyhow.”

Catherine said, “Thanks”—though she didn't know for what—for his reminding her of supper? She ran upstairs.

Her father called out to her with a kind of maniacal cheerfulness, “Be right back, my girl!”

From her room, she listened to the horrible grinding of gears. Starting the car always agitated him. It sounded now as though he were tearing it apart with a chain saw. There was one last screech before the gears engaged, then a rumble, then silence. She ran downstairs into the kitchen and gulped down a glass of water. In her mind's eye, she saw Mrs. Conklin's pale, almost pretty face, her close-set dark eyes turned beseechingly up to Mr. Ames. What had he been up to?

She knew what he'd been up to. “He's married,” she whispered aloud. “He's old.”

She had heard that caramel tone in his voice even when he spoke to Mrs. Landy. He wanted everyone to be in love with him, Reverend Ross, the village bums. He'd show up next with the farmer's wife, romancing her, too. She twisted away from the sink and sat down at the table. Her head felt full of gravel. He was disgusting! The world traveler, stomping through Mackenzie with his big belly, his actor's voice, showing the hicks what a star he was!

She went outside to the swing and stood next to it, her hand on the sun-warmed wood slats, taking deep breaths the way she did before the dentist gave her a needle. The swallows had begun their late-afternoon flight over the meadow. She watched them for a long time, until they seemed to be flying inside her head, and she felt quiet and somewhat comforted. She went back to the kitchen and made herself a large sandwich. She didn't need him to feed her.

“Catherine?”

He was standing in the doorway, looking at her.

“Whatever you think—you're wrong,” he said.

“Mrs. Conklin just dropped in,” she said coldly. “By parachute, I guess.”

“You might take note of how ineptly I lie,” he said. “That ought to reassure you.”

“Is that what telling lies is for?”

“You don't know how empty people's lives can be,” he said.

“Is Emma's life empty?” she asked, not looking at him.

“Emma doesn't expect me to make her life full,” he replied, but his voice had faltered a little. “I wasn't intending to run off with that young woman,” he went on. “I was spending an hour or so with her. It's true that I ran into her in the grocery store in Mackenzie. I'm from far away, an outsider, someone she can talk to.” He paused. When he continued, his voice was louder, more confident. “She did want to talk to me about his drinking. And I know a bit about that.”

That was like asking the wolf for advice about how to protect the sheep, Catherine thought to herself. What she said was, “You didn't look like you'd been talking.”

He laughed, throwing back his head. “My God! I've sired a Puritan. Do you know about Puritans? It was remarked about them that they objected to bearbaiting as a sport—not because it gave pain to the bears but because it gave pleasure to the spectators. Is that what you're like?”

“None of it's my business,” she said angrily.

“Oh, indeed! You'll think your own thoughts, will you? Listen. I wouldn't take up with anyone whose eyes are so close-set. It's a sign of a treacherous nature, Catherine. I'm not a tempter … ravening through the countryside. Do you think all I want to do is win people? Beguile them?”

“Yes!” she cried. “Yes, I do!”

He sat down suddenly at the kitchen table, banged his knee against a table leg, and exclaimed, “Ouch!” making a pained face at her. She didn't believe that
ouch,
either.

“You were coming on to her. I saw—”

“Listen to me,” he interrupted. “Don't use that junk language to me! ‘Coming on to her …' I'd rather have you grunt like an ape than use such locutions.”

“I don't know what that means,” she said, feeling a certain satisfaction that she'd made him angry.

“Look it up,” he said gruffly.

“When I have the time,” she replied.

He laughed suddenly. It disconcerted her. “All right,” she said grudgingly. “Then you were flirting.”

“That's better,” he said. “In this case, it's untrue. But do you think your old father is past such things? You think flirting is only legal when it's done by the young and beautiful? You'd better get something straight. People flirt on their way to the guillotine.”

“I'm going for a walk.”

“You've been for a walk,” he said sternly. “Anyhow, you had better not leave me alone. I might drive off and grab Mrs. Landy and cozy up to her with ginger beer and forget-me-nots. You'd do much better to peel those potatoes in that bag over there. I slave for you night and day over a hot stove and you don't lift a finger. Here! Take the knife in hand! Peel! I dare say there are scandalous goings-on in that school of yours that would turn your father's hair white with shock!”

He was running all over her, drowning her in language. Still, she felt better. How did he do it? How did he make things that seemed to signify so insignificant? She even had to turn away so he wouldn't see her grin because she was thinking about Mrs. Landy and ginger beer and forget-me-nots. She peeled the potatoes and sliced them thinly as he directed her to do, and was gratified when he praised her work.

He didn't offer to read to her that evening. He had some work of his own to do, he said. Once, unbidden, the face of Mrs. Conklin interposed itself between her eyes and the pages of the Lawrence novel she was reading. She glanced over at him. He had drawn up a small table to his armchair, and he was bent over some pages of typing, a pencil in one hand, his expression concentrated. He seemed to sense her scrutiny. He looked up and smiled at her.

“Can't anyone be happy?” she asked.

“Oh, yes,” he answered at once. “Yes … yes.” He reached out his hand as he often did when he read poetry. “We've been happy here. And you
will
be happy. I know that. Someone said that hope itself is a kind of happiness.” He hesitated a moment, then went on. “When I lash out at life, it's because I'm so disappointed in myself.”

She was grateful for his words, even more grateful for the return of her affection for him. “It's when you don't think about happiness,” he said gently, “that it suddenly comes.” He smiles again and turned his attention back to his work.

“I am happy
now,”
she told herself as she went up the stairs to bed.

It was a gray morning. The rain began to fall just as Mr. Ames and Catherine finished their breakfast. “I have to call Mom today,” she said.

“They're back, then?” he asked.

“They're supposed to be,” she replied.

As she washed up the dishes, she looked through the window at the heavy rain, remembering how they had walked down the dirt road on a morning that seemed so long ago. Only a few days left! Yet she didn't feel sad when she imagined herself back in New York, free to go out and wander around. She would go to the Museum of Natural History, to the great hall of the mastodons where she had spent so many hours as a child staring at the immense, motionless creatures in their amber-lit landscapes. She would be glad to be back in school, listening to Madame Soule talk passionately about the state of the world, about what could be done for whales and seals, for peace, things that were not about personal life but about life itself. When she thought now of the whole living, buzzing hive of girls, each one so different from the other, she felt a rush of eagerness to see them, which even included dangerous Harriet. And there was Philippe. She could visualize him walking toward her on Sherbrook Street, to the bookstore where they often met, so quick, so light on his feet. She was to telephone him tomorrow. He would be waiting for her call in the office of the lumber company in Trois Rivières, which had hired him for the summer. He had given her a piece of paper with a cartoon of himself in a woodsman's outfit, a beard down to his knees, and the telephone number and date and time when she was to call. She always carried it with her, and she took it from her pocket now and looked at it. The paper was smudged from much handling. Her father walked up to stand next to her.

“Secret messages?” he asked. She put the paper away hurriedly.

“It's nothing,” she said. Through the window, she saw a man in uniform walking over the rise to the house. He stepped across the railroad track just as Mrs. Landy appeared a few yards behind him. He paused and waited for her. They spoke together as though they knew each other.

“A soldier?” Catherine inquired of her father.

“That's the Royal Canadian Mounted Policeman,” he answered. “Around here, they'd call him a RCMP.”

“Where's his horse?”

“Obsolete,” said Mr. Ames.

“They're both getting soaked.”

“They don't mind weather like us sissies,” he said.

“I like rain,” she said defensively.

A moment or so later, Mrs. Landy entered the kitchen sighing out her usual, “Good day,” and adding, “RCMP to see you, Mr. Ames.” She took off her wet head scarf and wrung it out over the sink.

Mr. Ames, Catherine following him, went to the door.

The mountie was very young. His face was red as though he blushed perpetually, his eyes deep blue, the pale eyebrows above them the color of wheat. He announced himself to be Macbeth and gave a half salute.

Mr. Ames clapped him on the back and exclaimed, “Wonderful!”

Macbeth looked mildly surprised.

“Have some coffee with us, laddie,” offered Mr. Ames.

“I wouldn't mind—with the rain and all,” Macbeth said shyly.

He stood woodenly in the parlor, staring at the floor, while Catherine tried to think of something interesting to say. Whatever he was looking at seemed to absorb him entirely. Mr. Ames returned with a tole tray and three cups of coffee.

“What can we do for you, Officer Macbeth?” he asked genially. “I hope that's the proper way to speak to you. Where did you get that marvelous name?”

“It's an old family name,” replied Macbeth stolidly. “There's lots of Macbeths in these parts, cousins of mine and all. Well, thank you for the coffee.” He drank down the whole contents of the cup in one gulp. “What I've come to ask you is—have you noticed anybody walking around here with a rifle? There's been a complaint back there in the hills along Ross Road. Barn windows have been shot out.”

“Ross Road?” inquired Mr. Ames blandly. “Would the Reverend Ross own that road?”

“Different family,” said Macbeth.

“We haven't seen a soul,” Mr. Ames said definitely. “My daughter and I are visitors here. In fact, we're returning to the States in a few days. Do sit down, Macbeth. Can I get you some more coffee? Would you like a bit of Lamb's rum in it?”

Catherine shot a stricken glance at him. He hadn't thrown out all the liquor.

“Thanks, no,” Macbeth said. “I took the pledge. I used to drink something terrible.”

“An honest answer,” Mr. Ames observed ponderously.

At least he hadn't been drinking the rum, Catherine told herself. She would have known if he had, wouldn't she? He was asking Macbeth if it was true that the woods were full of bootleggers and the barns full of illegal stills. Macbeth smiled at him and looked even younger. Catherine went off to the kitchen. The conversation was making her uneasy.

Mrs. Landy was wiping down the counter. “How's Jackie?” Catherine asked. She could hear the rumble of her father's voice, Macbeth's clear, mild tones as he replied. Her father would be charming the mountie the way he did everyone—everyone except the Reverend Ross.

“Little Jackie's just fine,” Mrs. Landy said.

“We drove to Lake Rossignol,” Catherine offered.

“That's nice,” Mrs. Landy said, wiping the front of the stove. “It's nice to go to a lake.”

Mrs. Landy could provide a new definition of what a conversation was, Catherine thought.

Her father called out an exuberant good-bye to Macbeth. She went back into the parlor. As she passed the kitchen table, she saw Mrs. Landy's worn black pocketbook lying on it, open. To her surprise, she glimpsed a large, cellophane-wrapped cigar lying on a neatly folded pink tissue.

“Mrs. Landy smokes cigars,” she whispered to her father.

“Good night! How hearty of her! I'm relieved she has a vice,” he whispered back.

He looked very pleased with himself, she noticed. How quickly and easily he had lied. But what if he had been truthful? She could just see the scene in a Canadian courtroom—American visitors convicted of mindless hooliganism. The judge would be someone like Harriet Blacking, who always spoke about “those boors to the south of us,” and had once called the United States “the United Snakes.”

“You lie so fast,” she said, trying to speak impersonally, like a judge, but not succeeding. “You were too charming.”

“My trouble has always been that I'm too charming,” he said. “Never mind that. I'm not trying to set you an example. Don't tell lies because I do. You have the choice, you know. Isn't Macbeth a nice young fellow? Not the usual antagonistic upholder of the law. He looked at you with considerable interest. He doesn't give a fig for barn windows. You're the reason he bothered to stay so long.”