‘Damn, you know books and sports on television. You’re a triple threat.’
‘Those are the sorts of things that keep you alive when you pass seventy.’
In mild but growing frustration we dismissed one plot device after another until I said: ‘Let’s go and walk on the lawn,’ and as the brisk October air struck us, she said: ‘Damn, this is real football weather.’ Snapping her fingers, she said: ‘Come on, between us we’re bright enough to whip this thing.’
But my thoughts were elsewhere at that point. Very slowly I said: ‘What really infuriates me about big-time college sports as I saw it with my husband and see it now on the newscasts is not the fact that a charismatic coach can earn a million dollars a year from all his extras like TV, camps and endorsements, while his players get nothing. What bugs me is the way male athletes all over the country think they have the God-given right to rape co-eds. Look at the cases in the last year, all parts of the nation. Three football players rape a freshman girl. Four hockey players, two basketball players, and any number of cases that don’t get into the press. What’s going on, that coaches seem to think their star players, to prove their manhood, can rape whomever they wish?’
Afraid that I had ranted, I drew back: ‘I’ll correct that. I doubt the coaches know. I’m sure they don’t condone it.’
A long silence fell, and when I looked at Jenny walking slowly down the slope it was obvious that she was picking her way through a mental minefield. Finally she stopped, indicated a bench and invited me to sit beside her. Then she said quite slowly, choosing her words meticulously: ‘So my Number Five, and he’s the type, outstanding and upstanding—he rapes our heroine. She’s so outraged she reports it immediately, but—and now I borrow from you—he’s up for the Heisman. If he gets it, the university gets it, too. Great publicity, next year’s recruiting that much easier.’
‘Strong beginning.’
Jenny ignored this, for her mind was on the surprise ending to which she was leading me: ‘The university lawyers, some of the faculty, the lesser coaches and especially the head coach, all pressure her to withdraw her charge—they muzzle her. They don’t actually threaten her physically, but she’s scared as hell. In the entire university establishment she has no friend except a black girl who has already fought all the battles a young woman can stand. She advises our heroine: “Forge ahead,” and the following week the black girl’s dropped from school. College authorities cite bad grades and infractions of rules.’
‘You’re writing a powerful revision.’
‘But that’s not the end. Our hero gets the Heisman. Our university garners the accolades. And our heroine gets pregnant.’
Another long silence, then with extreme care: ‘When this is verified, she goes to all the authorities who advised her before and asks what she should do now, and it’s the coach who solves her problem. He provides funds and a doctor for an abortion, but our heroine says she will not go through with it unless the black girl is reinstated. She is, and they go together to the clinic.’
After some moments, I said: ‘Eons ahead of anything I could have devised. But of course you’ll have to hang it on Nebraska State. Can’t use a real place.’
‘No!’ Jenny said with unexpected firmness. ‘Nebraska State is so richly rewarding as is, it must remain untouched. We’ll invent another school.’
‘What one?’
‘How do I know?’ and the force with which this exploded satisfied me that Jenny had been more personally involved in this case than she had revealed, but I knew that now was not the time to explore that dark alley.
For a long time in the October sunlight we sat in silence, and as I studied Jenny with sidelong glances I felt as if I were being granted an interior glimpse of the writing process and I asked myself: ‘I wonder what happened to this young woman on those Western campuses? Don’t expect the truth from her. All writers are inventors, even when describing a landscape. They have to be. They write their interpretations and we’re eager to accept them.’
Finally Jenny spoke: ‘I’m sure I can guess what you’re thinking. No, I was not the girl who became pregnant and was so shamefully treated. I’ve fudged the facts. That girl was black. The black girl in my story, the one who did the befriending, she was white. And I’ll let you guess who she was.’
TUESDAY, 29 OCTOBER: I had decided when my husband died that I would not become what the women in my childhood called ‘a wasting widow,’ meaning a woman of some gentility and acceptable appearance who considered her life ended, and who remained imprisoned in the house her husband left her, preoccupied with hoarding whatever funds she had so that she could pass them on to her children and grandchildren. None of that for me.
Sooner after the funeral than some of my friends might have liked, I resumed the varied community activities that had in the past given me a sense of accomplishment. And because I had been left a great deal of money—it was as much as thirty million—I was able to do the things I wanted.
Like my husband, I supported the town library and paid Ms. Benelli a yearly bonus about which her board remained ignorant. I gave to the college. I quietly put up the funds for Little League baseball in Neumunster, and of course I helped rather generously our small local hospital. The churches that Larrimore had supported I continued to help, and so on.
But what kept me interested in local life, and protective of my own welfare, was my friendly association with the farmers and tradesmen of our community, so that when our new resident Yvonne Marmelle needed a working introduction to her new community, I proved to be the best cicerone she could have had. Starting at nine this morning, I took her for a sweep of our district, providing her with maps, both printed and hand-drawn by me.
‘This is where our road, Cut Off, meets Rhenish Road, and that farm where the old barn has just been bulldozed is the Fenstermacher place, a mournful affair, really. Once had hundreds of acres, but through the decades the family wasted them away. I’ve tried to help Otto, and I adore his wife, but I find their son hard to take. Larrimore and I gave him a kind of scholarship when he was at Neumunster, but he accomplished nothing with it. You’ll come here frequently, I suppose, because Fenstermacher makes the best scrapple in these parts.’
When she asked what that was, I said: ‘You’re not ready for Dresden. It’s what God invented after he made crusted apple brown betty. An indescribable Dutch meat dish that I cut into small strips and fry till they’re crisp. You’ll come here often if you like pork products.… Forgive me, do you eat pork? If not, there goes scrapple and maybe Grenzler, too.’
‘Uncle Judah would rise from his grave if he caught me eating your scrapple, but so would he if he knew I was working for a German firm.’
‘How is Kinetic?’
‘Stabilized rather nicely, thank you. Uncle Judah saved my life, literally. I’ll never forget the day in a Bronx public library when he led me away from the books of childhood with bright covers and showed me the more somber-looking books intended for teens. I was eleven or twelve, my right arm in a cast.’
‘What had happened?’
‘Broke it in a stickball game.’ Then, as if she were hungry to confide in some friend in her new homeland, she made some extraordinary revelations: ‘It was a baseball game, but that’s not what was significant. The first male I ever loved, a red-headed Irish lad, pushed me away in disgust. I fell against the wall and broke my arm. Years later the second man I loved also pushed me away in disgust and again I broke that arm.’ She held it out and started to pull up her sleeve, then stopped: ‘Take my word for it, the two breaks still show.’
Though somewhat shaken by this disturbing account, I continued my tour: ‘In that little house is Mrs. Dietrich, best seamstress in Dresden. She’ll fix your hem half an hour before a party. Needs the money and I try to give her as much business as I can. You should do the same.’
I especially wanted her to know the artisans who could be trusted: ‘The two Moyer brothers over there run the most reliable
garage in town, and this other Moyer down the road—you’ll learn that half the honest people in Dresden are named Moyer—he’s the carpenter Larrimore set up in business when Windsong was finished. Most of the interior features people admire were suggested by Moyer.’
‘You seem to know everyone in town.’
‘That was a decision Larrimore and I made when we started building our permanent home here,’ and when I introduced Yvonne to our high school principal he told her: ‘We consider Mrs. Garland an honorary member of our staff, she does so much to help us.’ To my embarrassment Yvonne asked in her inquisitive way: ‘Like what?’ and he said: ‘Like music scholarships, like a new chemistry lab, like prizes for our oratorical contests.’ He overlooked the participation of which Larrimore was proudest, the three college scholarships for seniors in need of financial aid, some of whom have turned out to be our most productive citizens.
Our last stop was the library, where we met Ms. Benelli. She showed us the facilities Yvonne would be free to use when she became a resident: ‘And what you see here is a mere fragment of what we have, because we’re able to borrow by mail any book in the Pennsylvania state system, and, through that system, almost any book that circulates anywhere in the nation. Treasures, of course, don’t circulate.’ As we moved about, admiring the way she had organized her little domain, she came to us with a copy of that day’s Times: ‘Ms. Marmelle, have you seen the story about you in today’s paper?’ and we reached for it eagerly.
The item, which I read aloud, said that Karl Streibert, professor of creative writing at Temple University in Philadelphia, had decided to leave his current publisher, Kinetic Press, and his longtime editor, Yvonne Marmelle, and move to a smaller house whose well-known liberal tendencies were more in keeping with the values he stood for in his writing.
Up to this point Yvonne had merely listened intently, shaking her head sadly and saying: ‘I suppose it had to happen,’ but what I read next astonished her for some reason I could not fathom: ‘ “Professor Streibert revealed that he had signed a significant contract with Arthur Jameson of Pol Parrot Press.…” ’ As I read these names Yvonne gasped, brought her hand over her face, then broke into a nervous laugh.
‘It would be Pol Parrot!’ she mumbled, but when I tried to discover why this had affected her so strangely she said nothing, so I continued reading: ‘ “With this departure of their avant-garde critic, Kinetic seems in danger of losing contact with younger writers, but Ms. Marmelle’s standby Lukas Yoder is still a potent property and her new discovery Timothy Tull shows promise.” ’
When I stopped reading, she said quietly: ‘Damn him, he could have departed like a gentleman—without those hellish quotes. He’s a nervous little boy, striking out at his mother who won’t let him have a sled.’ Aware that she was even madder than she showed, I tried to divert her with one more local tip: ‘Simon, over there, runs the best beauty parlor in town,’ and she laughed.
When I deposited her at the inn she clasped my hand: ‘I’ve already forgiven him. Thank you for having distracted me by showing me the riches of my new home,’ but I entered a correction: ‘You haven’t seen the real riches yet. I’m giving a dinner party in your honor at our best-known restaurant, a place called Seven and Seven. It’s some distance out of town, but we go there because it provides the famous seven sweets and seven sours that are supposed to be the basis for a decent Pennsylvania Dutch supper. And there will be other surprises.’
WEDNESDAY, 30 OCTOBER: Today Yvonne had work to do with the Yoders, and since I knew this involved business details, I volunteered to stay home, but she would have none of that: ‘Time you saw how an editor earns her living,’ and with Oscar driving we were off on a frenzied review of Grenzler at work.
Our first stop was the Yoders’, where we heard Emma completing a call from Lukas’s agent in New York. When she put down the phone she was eager to share the good news: ‘Stone Walls is going into three new languages. Swedish, Portuguese, Hebrew. That makes eleven so far, with more to come.’
Seeing that Lukas was embarrassed by our celebration, I tried to put him at ease: ‘Is it true that you’ve written your last novel?’ and Emma actually moved in front of him to answer on his behalf: ‘It looks so. He’s doing no writing, just working on his paintings.’
Yvonne, visibly distressed by this frank statement, broke in: ‘Emma, you must not say publicly that Stone Walls is his last book,’ and when the little Dutchwoman asked rather snappishly, ‘Why not?’ Yvonne gave what I considered a first-class explanation: ‘If I should decide, later on, to leave Kinetic … it would be a lot easier for me to land a good job if Lukas came with me.’
When Emma looked mystified, Yvonne added: ‘If I were to go alone, there’d be not much interest. If I took Tull and Sorkin to the new place, there’d be great interest. But if I keep your husband with me, I can write my own ticket.’
When Emma asked: ‘You’re thinking of leaving Kinetic?’ Yvonne replied: ‘Not now. But if things turn sour I need to protect myself. And believe me, your husband is my life jacket. Please take care of him.’ This frank statement of her reliance upon Yoder was received with such warmth that on the spur of the moment Emma cried: ‘You two must join us at the movie shooting tomorrow, down Lancaster way,’ and I reciprocated by inviting the Yoders to my dinner tomorrow night.
Lukas was loath to accept: ‘I’ve work to do,’ but when I added: ‘It’s being held at Seven and Seven near Kutztown,’ Emma cried: ‘What a wonderful feast! We’ll be there.’
When Yvonne revealed that she was contemplating the purchase of a house, the Yoders told her: ‘Before you sign any papers, you’ve got to have Herman Zollicoffer check the place. He’s a genius.’ A phone call assured us that the big Dutchman was home, so the Yoders joined us on a quick drive to the handsome Zollicoffer farm, one of the finest in our region.
The Zollicoffers were excited when they learned that the house Yvonne was interested in was the old Hertzler place: ‘Wonderful well built. Solid. Them floors won’t creak.’ We drove there, and Herman and Lukas inspected everything—roofs, gutters, cellar, water supply, electric wiring—with Emma standing by to write down each repair that would have to be made to make the house acceptable. As I watched these cautious Dutchmen probe into hidden areas that I had not known existed, I understood why their cautious ancestors had made Dresden such a habitable, sturdy place.
Satisfied that any minor weaknesses in the house could easily be corrected, we moved as a committee of six to the real estate offices of Troxel and Bingen, where the senior partner told Yvonne: ‘You can buy it for two hundred forty thousand,’ and Zollicoffer asked right away: ‘Does that include the lot across the street?’ When Troxel nodded, Herman whispered: ‘That’s a steal. Offer two hundred thousand, but only if the Hertzlers agree to make all repairs.’ Mr. Troxel said he’d entertain such an offer and see if the Hertzlers would accept, but Herman warned: ‘Be wary. The Hertzlers are mean, tough people,’ and when Mr. Troxel asked: ‘How do you know?’ Herman said: ‘Because my uncle married one of them.’
When some of us chuckled he said sternly: ‘Don’t laugh. How do you suppose Hertzler got the money to build that house you like? Huge insurance settlement, that’s how,’ and he proceeded with a rural yarn that sounded fictitious except that he had good reason to vouch for it: the wife involved was his aunt who had married Hertzler. ‘Listen to the explanation he gave us later: “The missus and me was in our buggy travelin’ a country road when we was hit from behind by a big black car that threw us out. When I saw my wife lyin’ there unconscious and realized that the rich people in the car with their big insurance policies wasn’t lookin’, I had the presence of mind to kick her in the face.” ’
THURSDAY, 31 OCTOBER: Early this morning Oscar dropped me at the Dresden China, where I met Yvonne and the Yoders, and in their old car—I wanted Oscar to drive us in mine, but they said: ‘On Amish roads a big Cadillac competing with buggies would look crazy’—we headed south. With
Emma driving, Yvonne in the other front seat, and Lukas and me talking in back, we drove to where the cameras were set up on a dirt road east of Lancaster.
A crew of more than eighty was working at a stately pace shooting a simple scene, each of whose many parts had to contribute properly to the image of a peaceful Amish farm on an October day in the 1880s. All camera work had to focus on the north side of the country road, where no telephone wires intruded.
The basic take, as they called it, was not complicated, at least insofar as we visitors understood it. None of us could place the incident in the book, but an assistant to the producers explained: ‘We needed a scene to depict the solemn, rural aspects of Amish life and our writers came up with this one. It’s not only visually impressive, it also moves the story line forward. A traditional black buggy, drawn by a fine-looking horse properly groomed, will come along the road from right to left, driven by the young Amish man who is wearing suspenders. His wife is with him. From a distance to the left the camera will pick up a smaller black buggy, which contains only one man. He is surly and wears no suspenders; his buggy will pass closest to the camera, so that we can keep him in strong focus and see his grim expression.
‘Obviously, the timing of the scene, especially of the progress of the two carriages, will be crucial, demanding quite a few dry runs so as to place the surly man coming from the left before the camera at the moment when we can watch his reaction when he sees his enemy in the other carriage. That timing’s difficult enough, but to give the extended scene additional emotional content, we want two schoolchildren, a boy and a girl in their own distinctive garb, to be walking along the road, oblivious to the two buggies, which they see every day.
‘Finally, cameras and carts and children must be so placed and timed that the rear of the picture will be framed by that handsome red barn whose sides were painted by our company artists with red and green hex signs. The Lancaster scholar advising us on the film warned: “Most Amish farmers refrained from painting hex signs on their barns not because they ignored superstitions but because sign painters charged too much.” As one Amish man told us: “It would be chust like wanity.” But the men producing the film pointed out: “A million people have read Mr. Yoder’s other book Hex. We did, and we’ll want to see hex signs, and there they are.” ’