Read I Am the Cheese Page 3


  A: Maybe the dog is a clue.

  T: The dog?

  A: Yes, the dog. I thought of the dog when I looked out this morning and saw a dog on the grass.

  T: You mean Silver?

  A: Is that his name? Silver? A German shepherd?

  T: Yes, a good dog.

  A: I hate dogs.

  T: All dogs?

  A: Most of them.

  T: Why is that?

  (10-second interval.)

  T: You said the dog is a clue. You mean Silver? Or some other dog?

  A: Some other dog.

  T: Tell me.

  The dog wasn’t big but it made up for its lack of size by its ugliness, the intensity of its eyes and the way it stood there, implacable, blocking their path. There was something threatening about the dog, a sense that the rules didn’t apply, like encountering a crazy person and realizing that anything could happen, anything was possible.

  “What kind of dog is that?” the boy asked, whispering.

  “I don’t know, Adam,” his father said. “I don’t know much about dogs.”

  “What do we do, Dad?”

  “We bluff.”

  The boy looked up at his father in wonder and disbelief. Suddenly, this man did not seem like his father. His father was an insurance agent who went to the office every day and changed his car every two years and belonged to the Rotary Club. He wore hornrimmed glasses and had a mustache—not a shaggy mustache like the ones people wore who also had long hair but a neat trimmed mustache with glints of gray. Adam had always been aware of his father as a father, reading the newspaper, watching baseball and football on television, rooting for the Red Sox and cursing the Patriots, bringing work home from the office at night, reading the newspaper, kissing him good night with a peck on the forehead. A father. Like a cutout figure whose caption said Father. The only time his father emerged as a person was when the subject of books came up. His father’s eyes would shine and he’d shake his head with wonder as he discussed this writer or that writer—writers like Hemingway and Fitzgerald and a lot of others who stirred no recognition in Adam when he was a child. “Wait until you get older, Adam, there are so many great books to be read.” His father often could be found reading late into the night, slumped in his chair, the glasses perched on his long thin nose, lost in the pages of a book, a sudden stranger in the house.

  Now his father seemed like a stranger again, as they stood in the woods confronting the dog. He and his father weren’t the kind of people who ordinarily strolled through the woods. City pavement was more natural under their shoes than grass or woodland paths. “Give me Mother Nature working nervously in neon,” his father once said, “instead of turning the leaves all kinds of colors in the fall.” Then what were they doing here in the first place, in the woods, at least a mile from nowhere? Adam wasn’t sure. Actually, they had been heading for the library, a midafternoon stroll on a windtossed March Saturday. Adam loved to walk along with his father, trying to match his nine-year-old stride to his father’s loping legs. They’d walk along and his father would have to slow down once in a while so that he wouldn’t get too far ahead. His father loved the library—a treasure house, he called it. All those books, all those records. Today, he said, they’d look for Louis Armstrong records and bring them home. Great stuff that Adam also would love—a marvelous old record called “Twelfth Street Rag” in which Louis Armstrong made his trumpet sound like a man staggering drunk along the street. Ah, that Armstrong. His father could do that—arouse Adam’s interest by making him curious: How could a trumpet possibly sound like a man staggering along a street? Or, he’d say, “I’ll show you a mystery novel in which the first two letters of the first word of the first chapter hold the secret to the book!” (“When, Dad, when?”) Anyway, they were on their way to the library for the Armstrong record, bending against the dancing wind, when suddenly his father stopped in his tracks, and Adam, who had been holding his hand, was thrown off balance and almost fell. He looked up at his father, puzzled. His father stood there like a statue in the park, or as if stricken by some terrible disease that had paralyzed him.

  “Let’s go,” his father said, finally snapping into action. He tugged at Adam’s arm. He almost dragged him around the corner and through a narrow alley between Baker’s Drugstore and Admadio’s Furniture.

  “Hey, Dad,” Adam cried. “Where are we going? The library’s not this way.”

  “I know, I know,” his father said, plunging into one of his imitations, this time W. C. Fields, an old-time movie comedian who talked out of the side of his mouth, giving forth fancy and ridiculous words as his father was now doing. “Let us stalk other landscapes as we ponder the wonders of the third month of the year, my boy.” His voice nasal and his fingers flicking the ash from an invisible cigar as he hurried along, pulling Adam with him.

  Adam looked behind—they seemed to be running away. But from whom? From what?

  “Ah, the woods,” his father said, still W. C. Fields as he indicated the beginning of a section of trees and brush that ran for a mile or so toward the state highway.

  As they entered the wooded area, he saw his father glance backward. Adam followed the glance—still nobody there.

  “Everything all right, Dad?” he asked, lips trembling.

  “Just fine, Adam, just fine,” his father said in his own voice.

  So they plunged into the woods, tripping sometimes over tree limbs knocked down during winter storms, crashing through brush as if they were on safari in Africa, and after a while Adam began to enjoy himself.

  “Hey, Dad, this is kind of fun,” Adam said.

  His father, breathing hard, tousled Adam’s hair. “Not as bad as I thought it would be,” he said.

  Adam felt a sense of camaraderie. And that was when they encountered the dog, like an apparition from nowhere, ugly, unidentifiable, a piglike snout, glittering eyes, and yellowed teeth.

  “This is ridiculous,” his father said now.

  Adam knew what his father meant by ridiculous. Here they were being frightened and intimidated and held at bay by, of all things, a dog. Not an armed robber. Not a wild animal. But a dog. Adam felt, in fact, that he and his father might have been running away from a greater danger behind them. But that danger evaporated in the presence of the dog. The dog looked capable of attack and violence, the low growl in its throat menacing, deadly.

  “Let’s back up a little,” his father said.

  But the movement brought a loud growl from the animal. The boy’s heart began to beat wildly.

  “Look, Adam. We’ve got to do something about this.”

  “But what, Dad?” Adam asked, feeling his chin trembling.

  “First, I want you to get out of here.”

  “I want to stay with you, Dad.”

  “Look, the dog will probably let one of us go. Here’s what to do. I’ll take a small step forward—you take a big one backward. That might confuse him. Then take another one while I make a slight movement. But go slow. Don’t upset the beast. Just walk backward. Keep going …”

  “Where will I go?”

  “I heard traffic a while ago. The highway runs to our left.” His father was talking softly, barely moving his lips. “Make it to the highway and flag down a car.”

  “But what about you, Dad?”

  “I think I can handle it alone. I’ll try moving back,” he said.

  “I want to stay with you, Dad.” Actually he wanted to get away, he was terrified of the dog, but he felt as though he’d be betraying his father if he left.

  “You’ll be helping most by going, Adam,” his father said, finality in his voice. “Now, do it slowly …”

  Adam retreated reluctantly, backing up slowly, not daring to glance at the dog, keeping his eyes on the ground, hoping he wouldn’t trip and find himself on the ground, the dog rushing at him. He heard his father muttering, “A dog, for crissakes.” The dog didn’t move. Adam glanced up, the dog’s ferocious eyes were on his father.

/>   Adam took one more step—and the dog attacked, the growl reaching a siren’s howl as the animal leaped toward his father. His father stepped aside, one arm outstretched, the dog’s teeth ripping the sleeve of his father’s jacket. The teeth caught on the jacket for a moment, long enough for his father to fling the animal away, changing its course for an instant. In that instant, his father cried for Adam to run, but Adam was frozen with horror to the spot. His father crouched low, close to the ground, meeting the dog at its level. But Adam saw that his father’s right hand was searching the ground for a weapon, a stone or a stick. The dog, too, was crouched, body sloped forward, chin almost touching the ground. Adam’s father slowly rose from the crouched position; he held a tree limb in his hand. The limb was about an inch thick. He thrust it toward the dog, as if offering the animal a gift. For the first time, the animal seemed confused, the glittering eyes wavering in their intensity. Then without warning, the dog leaped again—but this time at the limb, grasping it with its teeth. His father grabbed the limb with both hands and swung it as the dog closed its jaws around it. He swung furiously, the dog hanging on frantically. Suddenly his father let go of the limb, allowed it to soar away from him, the dog still gripping it in its teeth. Thrown off balance and spinning dizzily in the air, the dog fell awkwardly to the ground, howling now, scurrying to its feet. Adam’s father grabbed another branch, and another. He held tree limbs in each hand now. He looked like a lion tamer in a movie.

  “Come on, you bastard,” his father yelled at the dog.

  Adam had never heard his father swear like that before, although he said “hell” and “damn” once in a while. The sound coming from the dog was not a growl anymore but a kind of cry, a moan, as if it had been injured. And then, as suddenly as it had appeared, it departed, pawing the ground one moment and then turning away the next, thrashing through bushes and thicket.

  Adam’s father turned, mouth open, breath coming in huge gasps, his cheek streaked with dirt and sweat, jacket torn. Adam rushed to him, flung his arms around him. He had never loved his father as much as at that moment.

  T: And that was the clue?

  A: I think so. You said to tell it all from the beginning, if possible. And this was the beginning.

  T: What strikes you as important about that incident?

  A: What do you mean?

  T: I mean—was the encounter with the dog in the woods most important? Or was it what made you and your father enter the woods?

  (5-second interval.)

  A: At the time, my father and I didn’t talk about why we went into the woods. We didn’t say anything to my mother—it was as if we shared a secret. And the dog was such a terrifying experience that it overshadowed everything else. I hadn’t seen anyone following us. My father told my mother that he had felt like taking a walk in the woods because it was the first nice day in March. And by the time it was all over—they found the dog had actually bitten my father and he needed a shot at the hospital—I’d forgotten about the reason why we went into the woods.

  T: What do you think your father saw on the street that made him panic?

  A: I don’t know. Even now, I’m sure he did panic. I’m telling it the way I remembered but that was a long time ago. I was only nine.

  T: But you felt at the time that your father was in flight through the woods?

  A: Yes.

  T: I don’t know. I don’t know.

  (5-second interval.)

  A: May we take a break? I’m tired—drained

  T: Of course. You did well. Try to rest now.

  A: Thank you.

  END TAPE OZK004

  The telephone booth stands outside Howard Johnson’s at the junction of Routes 99 and 119, and the sun splashes on the windows and glass doors of the booth. I get off my bike and walk toward the booth. My shoe rubs against a blister on the heel of my right foot. I bend against the wind and start to search for change in my pocket. I need to talk to Amy Hertz; her voice will sustain me. I should have called her this morning before I left Monument. I should have taken the medicine. I should have stopped in Fairfield and gone to the john or at least bought something to eat, even if only a Hershey bar. Now I am somewhere between Fairfield and Carver and there are all those other places ahead to go through and I am discouraged. I get discouraged very easily. That’s why I need to talk to Amy. She refreshes my spirit, she makes me laugh. I love her.

  I reach the telephone booth after an endless walk, like in a dream when you can’t reach your destination, and I look at my watch and find out that it’s only 1:15. School doesn’t end until 2:15, and it takes her at least fifteen minutes to get home if she doesn’t stop on the way. I look at the telephone in the booth with disgust. Not disgust for the phone but disgust at myself. I have lost all track of time. I will never reach Belton Falls by darkness at this rate and I have to go to the john. I glance at Howard Johnson’s. I’m not hungry but I know that my body requires food for energy, fuel for my trip to Rutterburg. My mother always says that I don’t eat enough and she is always trying to get food into me or bringing home the latest vitamin discovery in the form of candy or chewing gum. My poor mother. I walk my bike to the door of Howard Johnson’s. When I was just a little kid, I called it “Orange Johnson” and we were driving along in the car, my mother and father and me, I was between them in the front seat, and when I said “Orange Johnson” the first time they laughed and laughed and I felt safe and secure and surrounded by love. And sometimes in the night even now I murmur “Orange Johnson” in the dark and feel good again, safe again.

  I really have to go to the john now. I know Howard Johnson’s has rest rooms, but there are at least two problems. First of all, what can I do with the bike? There is no lock and I can’t risk leaving it unguarded because somebody might steal it and I would be marooned here if that happened. The second problem is this: Suppose the bathroom in Howard Johnson’s has no window? That will create all kinds of complications because I can’t stand places without windows. Then I see an immediate solution to the bike problem. The booths are located near the windows and I will sit in a booth, close to the door, and be able to keep an eye on the bike. The second problem is also quickly solved, and I figure that my luck is turning. From my vantage point, I can see a Sunoco station across the street and the rest room sign is visible and there is a window in the door of the one that says Men. Now that relief is imminent, I really have to go to the john and I hurry across the street.

  Later, I stand in the telephone booth and the telephone rings and rings. I know it’s a long shot, I know that Amy Hertz is still in school, but I figure that maybe she came home early. But the phone keeps on ringing and I lose count of the rings.

  My stomach is tight and tense. The hamburger I ate in Howard Johnson’s has turned into a rock in my stomach. I should have ordered something easy to digest: soup or chowder. And I should have taken the medicine with me. My hand is glued with perspiration to the receiver and my fingers feel strange and alien—they are accustomed to the contours of the bike’s handlebars. A headache has begun: iron bars beneath the flesh of my forehead. I am a wreck, but Amy Hertz, even the voice of Amy Hertz, could cure all that.

  The phone is still ringing, unendingly.

  The trucks are headed north on Interstate 99 and their motors grind and groan, lonesome sounds.

  The operator cuts in. “I’m sorry. Your party does not answer.”

  The operator is a man and it’s startling to hear a man’s voice on the line.

  “Will you try a few more times?” I ask, although I know it is futile. Yet, somehow, I find it comforting to know that the phone is ringing in Amy’s home, echoing in the rooms where she eats and sleeps and reads her books and watches television.

  After a while, the operator says, “I’m sorry, sir. There is still no answer.”

  “Thank you,” I say. “Thank you for trying.”

  Immediately, the coins come tumbling out of the phone and I slip them out of the coin-return slot. I push
open the door of the booth—it sticks for a minute and my heart pounds: Will I be trapped inside?—but it finally opens again and I step outside. The sun has disappeared and the clouds are low, pressing downward, almost claustrophobic. Rutterburg seems far away, impossible to reach. My stomach lurches with nausea and my head throbs. I walk toward the bike and my blister hurts. If I could have talked with Amy …

  My next stop is Carver and I check my map. The mileage chart says that one inch represents ten miles and Carver is only about one half inch away. By the time I reach Carver, Amy should be home from school. And maybe I can find a drugstore in Carver and buy aspirins for my headache. I check the bike and I lash my father’s present to the basket. I pull the cap down over my ears—it keeps me warm and shuts out the lonesome sounds of the trucks laboring up the hill on Interstate 99. I look behind but nobody is following me. In Carver, I can probably find a restaurant and order some soup or chowder.

  I get on the bike and tell my legs, Pedal, pedal. It’s as if I have been pedaling forever. I sing to keep up my spirits:

  The farmer in the dell,

  The farmer in the dell …

  But I only sing for a little while because I am tired and I just want to hold on until I reach Carver.

  TAPE OZK005 1350 date deleted T-A

  T: Shall we discuss Amy Hertz?

  A: If you want to.

  (5-second interval.)

  T: Would you describe her as your best friend? Or more?

  More. He thought of the night he and Amy had huddled together under the football stands, the field deserted, winter winds blowing, and how their lips had touched and opened, her tongue darting swiftly seeking his and then touching, and he shivered, not with the cold, but with delight. He had felt her breasts against his chest and his breath had come rapidly, his heart beating dangerously. God, how he loved her.