Arthur said nothing.
Frank got comfortable, and said, “Theoretically, they told me that you could shape the tip of the projectile so that it created a vacuum just in front of it as it moved. Theoretically, it could get faster and faster.” He didn’t ask whether Arthur already knew this. The rumor was that the Soviets were quite advanced on this very project; he half expected Arthur to nod, or to let his gaze flicker some acknowledgment, but again there was nothing. He said, “Supersonic.”
Finally, Arthur yawned and looked at Frank. In the day he looked fine, but right now, in this light, he looked cadaverous. How old was he? thought Frank. Frank said, “Arthur, you’re making me think about dead people.”
And Arthur laughed.
As always, his laugh was contagious, and so Frank laughed, too.
“Sorry,” said Arthur. “I was half asleep. I know it didn’t look like it. It never does, but I cultivated that skill in boarding school. It’s been a valuable trick.”
“Spoken like a bureaucrat,” said Frank, “but why did you get up?”
“Why did you get up?”
“Too many women in the house. Makes me nervous.”
“Six women under one roof is fine with me,” said Arthur. “By the way, I like what you’ve done with the entry. The slate floor. It’s appropriate to the style of the house. The chandelier is interesting.”
“Eighteen bulbs,” said Frank.
“Who changes them? It must be twelve feet off the floor.”
“It’s on a pulley. It lowers.”
“I like that,” said Arthur.
For years, Frank had cultivated indifference to personal concerns. If someone had a complaint, Frank thought, it was that person’s job to express it, but, maybe because of the influence of Minnie, he now said, “How are you? Are you all right?”
“That’s an interesting question,” said Arthur. “I’m probably better than I’ve ever been.”
“What have they got you doing?”
“Divulging top-secret information.”
“Pardon me?” said Frank.
“Well, I was so secretive for so long that now, when I talk to news reporters, they think I’ve actually told them something, because, of course, we only do it in long walks in Rock Creek Park, or in garages, where whatever we say is broken up by the sound of revving engines.”
“Are you teasing me?”
“No. Even the KGB does PR. You can only say ‘no comment’ so many times, because ‘no comment’ means ‘yes.’ ”
Frank leaned forward. “But why you?”
Arthur shrugged. “What do I know?”
“You’ve been there since the beginning. You knew about everything.”
“I thought I knew a few things,” said Arthur. “But I don’t know them anymore.”
Shock treatments. A chill ran up Frank’s spine.
—
HENRY OPENED the door of his office on the second knock. In his first office hours of the fall, he expected kids either wanting in or wanting out of one of the three classes he was teaching. Instead, there was a pleasant-looking young man carrying a briefcase, smiling and holding out an envelope. The envelope had Henry’s name on it in Gothic letters. He took it, and opened it.
My dear boy,
Please note the bearer of this missive. He is a brilliant student of mine named Philip Cross who has taken it into his head, now that your poofters have decided to riot and make their presence felt, to try his luck in the U.S. He is about to enroll in that monument to capitalism, the University of Chicago, in literary criticism. Please do not discuss any work of literature with him, as you will not understand a word he says, and it will lower your estimation of our educational system. He is, however, a young man of exceptional grace and intelligence, and I told him that you will introduce him to the mid-continental wilderness, as you so ably introduced me. I have cultivated him assiduously and I defy you to uncover his dialect roots. In addition, he is an excellent chef. Suet is his middle name.
I am, as always, your devoted,
Basil
Henry said, “Philip. Do come in.” He stepped back, and this young man (Henry thought, no more than twenty-one, no taller than five nine, but neatly made) stepped across the threshold. Henry said, “U of Chicago. Good Lord. It’s a jungle down there.”
Philip smiled, opened his mouth, and came out with the most beautiful speaking voice Henry had ever heard, as vibrant, deep, and rounded as a human voice could be. Henry said, “I’m sorry. What did you say?” Philip said, “It does seem a different world than this campus, which is very open.”
“Northwestern is a little bit of Iowa right beside Lake Michigan. It came first, you know, before the town. We take an Iowa approach in many things—for example, we approach student unrest by wondering why the students are unhappy. Down there, they just expel you.”
“Is that a warning?” said Philip.
“Are you restless?” said Henry.
“Basil would say so,” said Philip. He sat down on the windowsill.
So—the young man called his professor “Basil.” Henry said, “His letter indicates that I am not to discuss literature with you, so what else are you interested in?”
“How do you feel about these bouts of campus—”
Henry waited to hear what word he would use—“unrest”? “silliness”? “brutality”? Henry had heard dozens of words applied. His aunt Eloise, who knew the U of Chicago catalyst, Marlene Dixon, slightly and said that she was “well meaning but doctrinaire,” always talked about “campus preliminaries.” Philip said—“rebellions.”
That was nicely limiting, but respectful. He said, “Ask me in ten years. I have no idea. I suppose I am sympathetic, but from a distance. As a medievalist, I am not asked to do teach-ins, but I would if I could think of something to teach. The fate of the Cathars is not a heartening precedent. I think the military draft has been God’s gift to the left.”
Philip smiled. “I didn’t realize God gave gifts to the left, or that those gifts were accepted.”
Oh, he is a charming boy, thought Henry, and Basil was right—he might have been born at the BBC, his pronunciation was so perfect and smooth.
Just then there was a knock, and when he opened the door, Henry saw Marcy Grant, his tallest student, decked out as usual in her giant army-surplus pants held up by a string, her glasses sporting a piece of masking tape, her hair a tangle. She peered at Henry and said, “Oh, Professor Langdon,” then looked around. She smiled her brilliant smile. Someday she would stand up straight and discover that she was a lovely woman. “That’s me,” said Henry.
“I forgot to sign up for the history-of-the-language course, but I thought I had. I already wrote my first paper over the summer.” She held out some typed pages. Henry knew they would be excellent. He took them, set them on the bookcase beside the door, and said, “Come in, I’ll give you a note.”
She squinted at him, then walked through the door. Philip’s response to Marcy wasn’t even curiosity, though whether that was because Marcy was female or because she was a mess, Henry couldn’t tell. Marcy’s response to Philip, though, was gratifying. Her mouth dropped open, and she kept glancing at him while Henry wrote the note to the registrar. Henry said, “Marcy, this is Philip Cross. He’s come over from England to do grad work at Chicago. Philip, my excellent but disorganized student Marcy Grant.”
Marcy exhibited the good manners her Wisconsin mother had impressed upon her—how very nice to meet you, hope you have a good time—but she could go no further. Philip gave her his fingertips and said, “You are very kind,” as if Marcy could now be quietly executed and removed from the company of the civilized. Henry handed her the note and herded her toward the corridor. Henry eased back into the office and closed the door.
Philip had picked up Henry’s monograph, which was sitting on the windowsill, Dialectical Variations in Anglo-Saxon Epic Poetry, Yale University Press, unreviewed in any American publication, but embraced by two scho
lars at Cambridge, one at Oxford, and his mother, Rosanna Vogel Langdon. Henry said, “It could keep you up at night.”
Now the expected knock came, and then Rick Kingsford pushed the door open, calling, “You here, Doc? Oh, hi. How are ya?”
Henry said, “I’m fine, Rick. How are you?”
“Well, I had this cough, but it’s not so bad today. I thought I was gonna havta go to the infirmary, but not yet.” Rick was an enthusiastic student of Old English. He planned to do a translation of “The Seafarer,” with notes, as his thesis. He also carried a thermometer with him at all times and refused to shake hands. When he saw Philip, he recoiled slightly.
“What can I do for you, Rick?” Out of the corner of his eye, he saw that Philip was getting bored.
“I need a form you got, for the thesis credit.”
“Oh, I do have that,” said Henry. “Let’s see.”
Philip stood up and stretched, then looked out the window. Henry opened the top drawer of his filing cabinet and began to go through the folders.
Rick, looking over his shoulder, said, “That’s it, Doc.”
“Oh, good. Is that all you—”
“Hell, no! I mean, I was thinking I was going to do something like free verse; then, the other night, I thought obviously iambic pentameter, but now I’m not so sure. We could have echoes of Ibsen or something.”
Philip was at the door, his hand on the knob. Rick sat down in the chair beside the desk and wiggled around, making himself comfortable. “The words would be English, but the meter would evoke the North, you know? I’m thinking of my guy—let’s say his name is Thor—sailing almost to the Arctic Circle. It’s dark, it’s cold. No Latin-derived words, or, God, Norman French—you don’t want that. Well, maybe a few, but carefully se—”
“Just a minute, Rick, okay?”
As a known campus bachelor, Henry had to be careful, but he did step one step toward Philip.
Their gazes locked. Henry said, “Let me know if you need anything.” Then, “And give my best to Basil if you write.”
“Ta-ta!” said Philip.
The door closed behind him.
“Ta-ta?” exclaimed Rick.
“A bit of slang that could come from Swahili, oddly enough. Now, let’s get on with it, what do you say?” He sounded put out, and Rick looked alarmed.
At dusk, when he was walking home from the university, feeling not quite down but not quite up, thinking that the sixteen weeks of classes just now commencing was a long stretch of talking and reading, he sneezed and put his hand into his jacket pocket for his handkerchief. Instead of his handkerchief, which he now remembered leaving on the corner of his desk, he pulled out a slip of paper. It read, “Philip +, 312-678-3456.” Henry immediately felt much better.
—
“YOU LOOK SO GREAT,” said Ruth.
“Don’t say that,” said Claire. They were having breakfast at the pancake house, which they did every Monday morning. She had her turkey and a dozen eggs in the car, but the temperature was in the forties—she didn’t think the eggs would freeze. Paul wanted a “private Thanksgiving, just us,” but the smallest turkey she’d found was eighteen pounds. She and Ruth didn’t have much in common anymore, but they still referred to each other as “best friends.” Bradley was sitting quietly on the seat between Claire and the wall. He was holding his blueberry muffin, staring at it, turning it, and taking bites. He was concentrating. Claire smoothed his hair.
“Why not?”
“Because whenever Paul says that it’s because I’m pregnant again.”
Ruth laughed, but then said, “You don’t look…”
“No.” Then, “Not yet.” Claire knew this was a sensitive subject, and was sorry she hadn’t thought before saying what she did. She’d been taking the Pill for two months now, and she knew she had put on at least five pounds. She was also wearing contact lenses—she told everyone (including Paul) that that was Paul’s idea. It had been, at one point, but he had sort of forgotten about it. Brad looked up at her. Claire said, “That’s good, BB. You keep eating that. You need that.”
Brad nodded.
“He looks healthy,” said Ruth. “He ate the piece of sausage.”
“My mother says she never produced a picky eater.”
“I wish I’d been a picky eater,” said Ruth. “We heard so much about the starving Armenians that we had the clean-platter club, not the clean-plate club. You have such cute boys,” said Ruth.
“I do,” said Claire. This was how she was to be punished for veering toward a topic that had become taboo between them, the fact that Ruth had been married now for two years to Carl and still had no children. Not even a miscarriage. She would soon be thirty-one; ten years ago, she had planned to have had her own two by this time. Nor was she a member of the Wakonda Country Club, which Paul had joined the previous summer—three-thousand-dollar initiation fee, one-thousand-a-year membership. Claire took Ruth there as often as she wanted, but Carl, a builder, wouldn’t go. Carl was good-looking, as nice as pie, and could fix anything (Claire hired him whenever she could get him), but playing golf and tennis, swimming in a pool, and eating in a formal dining room with a tie on were not for Carl.
Ruth sighed. “I always wanted three.”
Ruth had a way of recasting her old ideas, making them more ambitious rather than less as they got more unattainable. “Sweetie,” said Claire firmly, “it can still happen.”
Ruth’s eyebrows dipped, and she put her fingers over her mouth.
Brad got onto his knees and set the remains of his muffin on his plate, then gazed at the orange slice. Claire picked it up, tasted it, put it back on the plate, and said, “You can eat it. It’s a sweet one.”
Brad shook his head.
Ruth said, “Does he like French toast? I haven’t touched this piece.” She turned her plate toward Claire, and Claire picked up the yellow triangle with Brad’s fork, set it on his plate, then cut it into pieces. She handed the fork to Brad. He said, “Wile Ting.”
Claire said, “The book is in the car. We’ll read it later. In the car is where the wild things are.” Brad grinned.
But it was she who was the wild thing, wasn’t it? thought Claire. There were four stages of wildness: Stage one was being married and falling silently in love with a young and charming man, but doing nothing. Stage two was doing something in the hope of trading your bossy, dissatisfied husband for the beloved young charmer; stage three was allowing the lithe physique and the merry nature of the charmer to occupy your every thought. Stage four was not caring, just acting. She was at stage three. If her analysis was correct, then she was a wild thing, but she didn’t feel wild, only that she was sitting inside the cage with the door open, and that was enough for now.
Brad successfully forked the first bit of French toast into his mouth, and Ruth said, “Good boy. Yummy.” He stabbed at the second.
“You are a good boy,” said Claire. She glanced at her watch. “Time to pick up Gray at nursery school. I’ve got fifteen minutes.”
“The streets are pretty clear. But it’s only a few blocks from here. Why don’t I stay with Brad, and you can bring Gray back here?”
Claire guided Brad’s fork just a bit, and he got the third piece. He seemed to be enjoying it. She said, “I’ll do that. Do you mind?”
Ruth shook her head. Her look was so sad, though, that Claire felt tears coming when she stood up from the booth. Yes, thought Claire, I deserve to have it all blow up, because obviously I do not value what I should. Why this was, she did not know. It was right out of Madame Bovary.
1970
IT WAS ONE THING to break your foot when you were expecting things to continue to disintegrate, as she did in her own house, where she now held both stair railings when she went up and down, but how could you stumble on a single step at Younkers when you were returning a tablecloth your daughter-in-law had given you for Christmas, and fall down so that they practically carried you out, and you went to the hospital, and your
foot was broken? So Rosanna was staying with Claire until she could get around.
Her room was off the kitchen. She was stuck there, either in her bed (very comfortable) or in the easy chair Claire moved in for her. It took her three days to start covering her ears every time Paul talked. If she could have gotten up and closed the door, she would have.
“These eggs are overdone. Did you boil them by the timer? Are you sure? Oh, I’ll eat them anyway. Don’t worry about it. It’s fine. I’ll just have toast. The underside of the toast is too dark. Just one more piece, and watch it this time. Only a little butter. Yes, that’s enough. Well, just a smidgen more. I guess I’m not hungry after all.” How Paul could have possibly reminded Claire of Walter, Rosanna could not imagine.
Then: “What’s the temperature again? No, the outside temperature. Sixteen! Okay, I think Brad needs both the hat and the scarf, and be sure his mittens are pulled up under his sleeves, and then his sleeves pulled down. There was a child Herb Barker saw last week, his feet were frostbitten. Grayson, is your sweater buttoned? Show me! That’s a good boy. Sixteen degrees is sixteen below freezing. Can you count to sixteen? No, don’t use your fingers. Good boy.”
Rosanna could have ascended on billows of rage at the sound of his voice, so she scrunched down under the covers and put her fingers in her ears; she must have dozed off, because, the next thing she knew, Claire was standing over her, saying, “Are you hungry, Mama? I have your breakfast.”
Claire looked neat and clean, and she stood there like one of those maids no one in Iowa had, ready to obey orders.
It was as bad at supper—dinner, Paul called it. Claire was sent to get this and that: Gray dropped his fork, he needed a clean one; Brad’s bib was dirty from lunch; could she heat up the green beans, they were cold; this was butter; really, margarine was better. Chew each bite twenty times, Gray; don’t talk while eating, you could choke; you know what “choke” means? Get something caught in your throat and not be able to breathe—very dangerous. Brad, this is a bean. Say “bean”! A bean is very nutritious. Gray, say “nutritious”! That means “good for you.” Sit straight up in your chair. If you loll back, you are more likely to choke. That’s a good boy.