I filled the seven mason jars.
Rag fuses.
And then for some time I squatted there in the chilly dark, rocking on my heels, full of rage, full of hurt, quite literally beside myself. There were two Thomas Chipperings. A lonely seven-year-old and a man of shipwrecked, terrified middle age.
My teeth chattered. Something was happening to me.
I do not mean to suggest that I was “crazy,” or “sick,” or “off balance”—nothing of the sort. I got by. I survived. On the surface I was my suave old self.
Still, the next several weeks amounted to an almost intolerable holding pattern. I had the explosive how; I needed the where and when. And while it would be nice to report that events followed a straight line toward apocalyptic showdown—that I instantly retaliated—the world does not operate by such linear principles. The world meanders. Hence I watched and waited. I kept my eyes open for opportunity. Sooner or later, I reasoned, the contemptible Tampa crew would show up in Owago, and on that fine day I would be throwing a welcome-home party of unforgettable magnitude.
Meanwhile, to pass the time, I had Mrs. Robert Kooshof—often—and I had my new day care responsibilities, both of which helped to bolster those cracking walls inside me.
Back to basics, in other words.
Language.
Partly to calm myself, partly because I am a born teacher, I threw myself body and soul into the linguistic education of my toddling charges. (I had taken the job reluctantly, at the command of Mrs. Kooshof, yet soon found it among the more profitable experiences of my academic life.) Even at ages three and four, my exuberant tutees seemed captivated by my lectures on the etymology of such key terms as spot and jump and Dick and Jane. Where any other instructor might have focused on a moth-eaten mongrel named Spot, I proceeded to the heart of the matter, forming a circle of chairs and discussing with my pupils the overarching nature of spottedness in general. Together, we rubbed our eyes and spotted spots. We spotted one another points at marbles, spot-checked our pronunciation, examined spot rot on an apple—spotlighted, in short, that innocuous yet wondrously polytypic word spot. (I did not, as was later charged, discuss with my three- and four-year-olds the infamous G-spot, nor did I allude to “spotting” in the cyclical or menstrual sense. Otherwise, our lessons were comprehensive.)
This is not to say that things went smoothly at all times. On one occasion, I recall, a sprightly go-getter by the name of Evelyn complained about a “sore spot” in her tummy. “I’m sick,” she kept moaning, to which I responded with my trademark asperity. “We are not playing games here,” I informed the little troublemaker. “A sore spot where, exactly?”
“My tummy!” Evelyn snarled. “Sick!”
“A spot of the flu, perhaps?”
“Sick!”
A war of the wills ensued, concluding with a decidedly high-pitched tantrum on young Evelyn’s part, and it was not long before the center’s chief administrator (a somewhat overripened melon by the name of Miss Askold Wick) arrived to separate us. We were ordered into our corners, as it were, after which it was suggested to me that I stick to the textual canon.
I raised an eyebrow. “You’re referring, I imagine, to that infantile ‘See Spot jump’ nonsense?”
“Right,” said Miss Askold Wick. “And we don’t permit spitting brawls.”
“I did not spit. She spat.”
So, yes: moments of strain. But by and large the day care job kept me on an even keel.
Less satisfactory was my domestic situation. Financial considerations had compelled me to give up my apartment in Minneapolis; by mid-May I had more or less moved in with Mrs. Robert Kooshof. The tensions, I must say, were severe. First and foremost, I had forfeited the independence of bachelorhood; I was no longer sovereign in my own domain. Her palace. Her rules. Like some callow teenager, I was made to carry out the garbage, mop floors, change storm windows—all in exchange for a paltry weekly allowance. True enough, Mrs. Robert Kooshof paid the bills. And true, too, she offered solace in the wake of my abrupt departure from academia. Nonetheless, life in small-town Owago seemed a terribly stiff price to pay. (The local night life, as one example, consisted of a shopping mall, a few seedy taverns, an aluminum-sided polka hall called The Coliseum.) For all of us, no doubt, a return to the environs of youth will prove difficult at best, but in my own case it had a very distinct tail-between-the-legs quality. I had outgrown the place; I cared little for accordion music.
So then. Given a temperament like mine, how does one survive in such drear circumstances?
One takes to drink.
One watches Melrose Place.
One builds bombs.
I did not wish to kill. Only to rock the complacent Zylstra world, alert them to the consequences of tampering with the spiritual well-being of Thomas H. Chippering.
To this end, on an early Saturday morning in late May, I strolled the three blocks down to Perkins Park, placed one of my rigged mason jars on an old sliding board, checked for bystanders, struck a match, lighted the rag fuse, and then rapidly scrambled for cover.
Six times I attempted the test. Six times the rag fuse fizzled.
One can only imagine my gloom. Still, I was nothing if not determined—enterprising too—and at 9:00 A.M. sharp I entered the Ben Franklin store on Main Street.
“Firecrackers,” I said to the young lady behind the cash register. “Two packs, if you will. Deluxe. Price is no object.”
The vacuous (though soignée) young chippie stared at me with eyes as dusty and barren as Tunisia.
“Firecrackers?” she mumbled. “They’re illegal.”
“But surely you must—”
“We don’t.”
I gestured at a large, self-congratulatory sign above the front door. “What about your motto?” I said severely. “Right there in black and white—‘You want it, we got it.’ That’s what it says. You can read, can you not?”
“Not firecrackers, though.”
“I want firecrackers.”
“Try South Dakota,” she said, “or wait till the Fourth.”
“The Fourth?”
“Of July. You can count, can’t you?” The insolent young Popsicle thrust four stiff fingers at me. “Cruise the neighborhoods. Any kid in town can fix you up.”
I nodded.
“The Fourth,” I said, and turned away. “Meanwhile, you will be hearing from the chamber of commerce.”
Frayed nerves, obviously.
On a certain level, however, those days in Owago had a flat, repetitive tranquillity, which my spirit, if not my intelligence, found recuperative. I fattened on Mrs. Kooshof’s Midwestern cuisine. I had my teaching duties, my evening strolls up and down North Fourth Street, my nightly romps with Mrs. Robert Kooshof. (Our engagement had brought out the animal in her.) In a sense, one could realistically say, this fallow period amounted to a trial marriage—nuptial routines, nuptial responsibilities.
Grueling, yes, but I learned a few surprising facts along the way:
Mrs. Robert Kooshof was not of Dutch ancestry. (Maiden name O’Neill. Imagine my shock.) Her father had been a Democratic governor of South Dakota, later a two-term United States senator. Her brother, Jeffrey, was a movie actor whose name you might recognize. (I did not.) She had twice been pregnant. (Abortion at age twenty-three, miscarriage at age thirty-three.) She had anchored a victorious women’s relay at the 1981 U.S. Collegiate Swimming Championships, the gold medal now at rest beneath a stack of scented silk underwear. (I sniffed around, yes.) She was addicted to over-the-counter sleep aids. She was an heiress. She was filthy rich. (Her grandfather had patented the machine that puts down those repetitive white stripes on every highway in America.) My beloved’s bank account, I was stunned to learn, contained in excess of nine hundred thousand dollars, with God knows how much more squirreled away in stocks and bonds.
None of these facts had been brought to my attention, most crucially her wealth, and I remember marching into the living room one evening w
ith a four-page bank statement in hand. (Nuptial rights: I had been snooping.)
“And what is this?” I demanded.
Mrs. Kooshof glanced up from her knitting. “Oh, yes. I tried to—”
“We are increasing my allowance,” I said. “Retroactively. With interest. You might have said something.”
She stared at me for an uncomfortable length of time, her expression weary. “God knows I tried. Ten trillion times.”
“You tried?”
“Sure, but I can never get a word in edge—”
“Totally inaccurate,” I snapped, and with a flourish dropped the bank statement in her lap. “I trust you have no other such shocks in store.”
“Well, if you really want to discuss the—”
“Is it all yours?”
“What?”
“In your lap. Those statements. The cash.”
My well-heeled companion rolled her shoulders. “I guess the divorce will cost me, but after that … I mean, it’s mine, yes. Ours.”
“Oh, yes?”
She smiled. “We’re engaged, aren’t we?”
We were indeed.
“Call me Donna,” she said.
Over the rest of the evening the two of us reviewed her holdings with an eye on our shared future. The grand total remained in doubt, but as we retired for our nightly frolics I found myself tooling merrily down the golden-brick road of life, measuring the miles, counting up the infinite white stripes.
“There is something I should mention,” Mrs. Kooshof said at breakfast the next morning. “Once we’re married, I’ll want to try my hand at—”
“Not now,” I told her. “The kiddies await.”
“I want—”
“We’re covering the word cat today. I thought I might try out a few derivatives like … catty, cat-and-mouse. Cathouse might be a bit much.”
I polished off my coffee and began to rise, but Mrs. Kooshof pinned me to my seat with a glare.
“Just listen for once,” she said. “You were complaining that I don’t tell you things, so now I’m telling you. I want to get into a business of some sort. Do something productive. I have my own goals, you know.”
I looked at the kitchen clock. “Very well,” I said, “but let us be brief. Business? What sort?”
“I’m not sure. Selling pots, maybe.”
“Pots?”
“Flowerpots. You know, like that one I made for you last week. The one I stenciled with little roses.” She paused. “You remember, don’t you?”
“Of course I remember.”
“You don’t.”
(She was correct. My short-term memory had been dulled by domesticity.)
I covered with a yawn. “Pots sound splendid,” I told her. “And I’m sure you will add to your fortune one hard-earned nickel at a time.”
“So you think—”
“Turnover may be slow.”
Mrs. Kooshof thought about it for a time. “Well, I could sell other stuff too. Scarves. Jewelry.”
“Oh, indeed?” I said, then quickly reminded her that the town was already equipped with a satisfactory jewelry outlet, the very establishment in which we had not long ago purchased an absurdly overpriced engagement ring. “Which brings up another subject,” I continued briskly. “You can tear up that IOU. What incredible nerve.”
“But you’re the male, Thomas. You’re supposed to—”
“Male?” I snorted. “Do I call you Dutch?”
“I’m not Dutch. Besides, I don’t see—”
“Dutch or no Dutch,” I said, “we go dutch. Engagements rings and all.”
Mrs. Kooshof made an inscrutable sound in the back of her throat. “Either way,” she said, “I still need to do something with myself. And it has to be—I don’t know—something meaningful.”
“Selling pots?”
“I’d make them, Thomas.”
“And then what?”
She shrugged. “Open a shop. Rent space.”
“Fine. But the last I heard … Surely you don’t plan on staying in Owago?”
She rotated her jaw defiantly. “All I know is this: I won’t be one more miserable housewife. I’ve been down that road. Never again.”
At that point I pushed to my feet.
“Do what you must,” I said, and stood looking down at her. “For what it’s worth, however, I do not intend to squander the remainder of my life in this little one-hen town. I’m here to settle a few scores, nothing else.”
“Scores? What are you up to?”
“That’s my affair. But I suggest you consider selling pots in some other part of the world.”
“Such as where?”
“Fiji,” I said, and departed.
Dead town, dead time.
Example one: A night out at The Coliseum. Turquoise tie clasps.
Example two: A “sauerkraut feed” at the National Guard Armory off Windom Street.
Example three: An operetta staged by the League of Women Voters, complete with …
Why bother?
The town of Owago amounted to a sanitarium of sorts, a dull and altogether dulling magic mountain of the prairie (minus any hint of elevation). Now and then, through Ned and Velva Zylstra, I would hear word of Lorna Sue, who was doing well in her new life, and of Herbie, who by all reports was also thriving in the carcinogenic Florida sunshine. Plainly, my efforts at subversion had produced no lasting results. (Hence the need for more explosive methods.) The tycoon still bounced along in Lorna Sue’s well-worn leather saddle; Herbie remained the brother-in-waiting, biding his time, no doubt preparing for that moment when he would do unto the tycoon that which the tycoon had once done so maliciously unto me. (Why else follow her to Tampa? Why else lie panting at her feet like an orphaned puppy?)
So let me be very clear. I had not recovered from Lorna Sue. I still grieved. I raged. At times I found myself talking aloud to her, responding to criticisms, reasoning with her, asking such fundamental questions as these: Who quit and who did not? Who slipped instantly into a new bed, new arms, new everything? Who remarried? Who shifted loyalties? Who lives in Tampa? Who lives in limbo? Who cannot forget? Who, in fact, loved whom?
She will never answer me, not directly.
Instead, in my addled thoughts, she will whisper, “Tom, I showered you with love.”
She will whisper, “You made me leave.”
As if she had no volition of her own.
As if she were innocent by reason of sloth.
On certain sleepless occasions, in the dead of night, I would slide out of bed and get dressed and stroll the hundred yards to Lorna Sue’s old yellow house. The purpose of these wee-hour pilgrimages eluded me. Reconnaissance, of course—that was how I justified it—but it also involved some sort of obeisance to history, a reknotting of certain long-loosened ties of the heart. Stupidly, not really sad, not really anything, I would peer up at the darkened attic windows, behind which Lorna Sue used to play with her dolls, and soon I would find myself wondering how love itself could vanish like last month’s joke. Along the east side of the house, in shadows, I would stop before a small, gnarled apple tree, never very productive, almost barren, in whose limbs I had once been cradled as a little boy, sometimes with Herbie, sometimes with Lorna Sue, doing whatever it is children do in the branches of an apple tree. Amazing ourselves. Making believe. (It was up in that tree, on a summer afternoon in 1952, that Herbie had first proposed manufacturing bombs out of mason jars and gasoline.) For all three of us there had been a sense of safety up there, a kind of coziness; we felt hidden from the world, and above it. The Magic Tree, Lorna Sue had called it, and somehow I had believed this.
Peculiar, is it not, how the mind works?
Over the years that twisted old apple tree had kept growing in my memory, magnifying itself as the objects of youth often do. And yet, now, in the graying bleakness of my middle age, the tree struck me as scrawny and forlorn and laughable. It held no magic. It meant nothing. It was a tree.
Only two incidents stand out during those empty days in Owago. I bumped into Faith Graffenteen. I became Captain Nineteen.
Faith comes first.
I had last seen her at my high school graduation ceremony, or in that approximate period, but in memory I had carried her through the years as a skinny, hawk-faced, horny little twelve-year-old. Unlike the old apple tree, Faith’s growth had been stunted in my head, fast-frozen at that moment when she approached me in my front yard, bent back my thumb, and demanded that I kiss her. (How could I forget? The consequences vis-à-vis Lorna Sue had been considerable. Beyond that, the incident had established a fundamental pattern of my life: i.e., confusion of the romantic and the martial arts.)
All considered, Faith had changed very little—still slim, still tough, still predatory. Predictably enough, she had married a solid, stouthearted, and extremely well-off physician, who had provided her with three children and a fancy glass-sided house on Lake Owago. Among her kids, as it turned out, was none other than the precocious young Evelyn, and it was this happenstance that brought about our reunion. Little Evelyn, it seems, had taken to muttering a phrase or two from Shakespeare at the dinner table; her mother could not wholly appreciate the fact that her talented, well-schooled four-year-old had mastered portions of Lady Macbeth’s famous “Out, damned spot” soliloquy.
Things began, in other words, on a sour note. I cannot report that Faith actually “stormed” into my classroom on that blustery Monday morning, but it is certainly true that her demeanor was far from friendly.
A few seconds elapsed before we recognized each other.
“You,” she grunted. “It figures.”
The subsequent conversation need not be transcribed in all its minutiae. Suffice it to say that Faith stuck to her guns, I to mine, and that the dispute eventually reached arbitration in the offices of Miss Askold Wick.
I took the high ground.
“In this classroom,” I declared vehemently, “there will be no tampering with art, certainly no butchery at the whim of a tone-deaf housewife.” I gave Faith a contemptuous stare. “What would you prefer—‘Out, yucky spot?’ ”