In the Heart of the Heart of the Country Page 4

  Hours of insanity and escape . . . tear paper into thread-thin strips—not easy . . . then to slide lines of words from one side of a page to another, vainly hoping the difference will be agreeable . . . instead of a passionate particularity, to try for a ringing singularity . . . cancel, scratch, XXXXX . . . stop.

  The gentle Turgenev (and one of our masters, surely, if we love this arrogantly modest art), writing about Fathers and Children—writing about himself—said: ‘Only the chosen few are able to transmit to posterity not only the content but also the form of their thoughts and views, their personality, which, generally speaking, is of no concern to the masses.’ The form. That is what the long search is for; because form, as Aristotle has instructed us, is the soul itself, the life in any thing, and of any immortal thing the whole. It is the B in being. The chosen few . . . the happy few . . . that little band of brothers . . . Well, the chosen cannot choose themselves, however they connive at it.

  And he asked his fellow Russian writers to guard their language. ‘Treat this mighty weapon with respect,’ he begged, ‘in skilled hands it can work miracles.’ But miracles cannot be chosen either. And for those of us who have worked none, respect we can still manage. The folly of a hope sustains us: that next time the skill will be there, and the miracle will ensue.

  So I am still the obscure man who wrote these words, and if someone were to ask me once again of the circumstances of my birth, I think I should answer finally that I was born somewhere in the middle of my first book; that life, so far, has not been extensive; that my native state is Anger, a place nowhere on the continent but rather somewhere at the bottom of my belly; that I presently dwell in the Sicily of the soul, the Mexico of the mind, the tower at Duino, the garden house in Rye; and that I shall be happy to rent, sell, or give away these stories, which I would have furnished far more richly if I could have borne the cost, to anyone who might want to visit them, or—hallelujah—reside. In lieu of that unlikelihood, however, I am fashioning a reader for these fictions . . . of what kind, you ask? well, skilled and generous with attention, for one thing, patient with longeurs, forgiving of every error and the author’s self-indulgence, avid for details . . . ah, and a lover of lists, a twiddler of lines. Shall this reader be given occasionally to mouthing a word aloud or wanting to read to a companion in a piercing library whisper? yes; and shall this reader be one whose heartbeat alters with the tenses of the verbs? that would be nice; and shall every allusion be caught like a cold? no, eaten like a fish, whole, fins and skin; and shall there be a wide brow wrinkled with wonder at the rhetoric? sharp intakes of breath? and the thoughts found profound and the sentiments felt to be of the best kind? yes, and the patterns applauded . . . but we won’t need to put hair or nose upon our reader, or any other opening or lure . . . not a muscle need be imagined . . . it is a body quite indifferent to time, to diet . . . it’s only eyes . . . what? oh, it will be a kind of slowpoke on the page, a sipper of sentences, full of reflective pauses, thus a finger for holding its place should be appointed; a mover of lips, then? just so, yes, large soft moist ones, naturally red, naturally supple, but made only for shaping syllables, you understand, for singing . . . singing. And shall this reader, as the book is opened, shadow the page like a palm? yes, perhaps that would be best (mind the strain on the spirit, though, no glasses correct that); and shall this reader sink into the paper? become the print? and blossom on the other side with pleasure and sensation . . . from the touch of mind, and the love that lasts in language? yes. Let’s imagine such a being, then. And begin. And then begin.

  St. Louis, Missouri

  May 26, 1976

  January 26, 1981

  IN THE HEART OF THE HEART OF THE COUNTRY

  For Joanne, Oliver, and Allan

  THE PEDERSEN KID

  Part One

  I

  Big Hans yelled, so I came out. The barn was dark, but the sun burned on the snow. Hans was carrying something from the crib. I yelled, but Big Hans didn’t hear. He was in the house with what he had before I reached the steps.

  It was the Pedersen kid. Hans had put the kid on the kitchen table like you would a ham and started the kettle. He wasn’t saying anything. I guess he figured one yell from the crib was enough noise. Ma was fumbling with the kid’s clothes which were stiff with ice. She made a sound like whew from every breath. The kettle filled and Hans said,

  Get some snow and call your pa.

  Why?

  Get some snow.

  I took the big pail from under the sink and the shovel by the stove. I tried not to hurry and nobody said anything. There was a drift over the edge of the porch so I spaded some out of that. When I brought the pail in, Hans said,

  There’s coal dust in that. Get more.

  A little coal won’t hurt.

  Get more.

  Coal’s warming.

  It’s not enough. Shut your mouth and get your pa.

  Ma had rolled out some dough on the table where Hans had dropped the Pedersen kid like a filling. Most of the kid’s clothes were on the floor where they were going to make a puddle. Hans began rubbing snow on the kid’s face. Ma stopped trying to pull his things off and simply stood by the table with her hands held away from her as if they were wet, staring first at Big Hans and then at the kid.

  Get.

  Why?

  I told you.

  It’s Pa I mean—

  I know what you mean. Get.

  I found a cardboard box that condensed milk had come in and I shoveled it full of snow. It was too small as I figured it would be. I found another with rags and an old sponge I threw out. Campbell’s soup. I filled it too, using the rest of the drift. Snow would melt through the bottom of the boxes but that was all right with me. By now the kid was naked. I was satisfied mine was bigger.

  Looks like a sick shoat.

  Shut up and get your pa.

  He’s asleep.

  Yeah.

  He don’t like to get waked.

  I know that. Don’t I know that as good as you? Get him.

  What good’ll he be?

  We’re going to need his whiskey.

  He can fix that need all right. He’s good for fixing the crack in his face. If it ain’t all gone.

  The kettle was whistling.

  What are we going to do with these? ma said.

  Wait, Hed. Now I want you to get. I’m tired of talking. Get, you hear?

  What are we going to do with them? They’re all wet, she said.

  I went to wake the old man. He didn’t like being roused. It was too hard and far to come, the sleep he was in. He didn’t give a damn about the Pedersen kid, any more than I did. Pedersen’s kid was just a kid. He didn’t carry any weight. Not like I did. And the old man would be mad, unable to see, coming that way from where he was asleep. I decided I hated Big Hans, though this was hardly something new for me. I hated Big Hans just then because I was thinking how Pa’s eyes would blink at me—as if I were the sun off the snow and burning to blind him. His eyes were old and they’d never seen well, but shone on by whiskey they’d glare at my noise, growing red and raising up his rage. I decided I hated the Pedersen kid too, dying in our kitchen while I was away where I couldn’t watch, dying just to pleasure Hans and making me go up snapping steps and down a drafty hall, Pa lumped under the covers at the end like dung covered with snow, snoring and whistling. Oh he’d not care about the Pedersen kid. He’d not care about getting waked so he could give up some of his liquor to a slit of a kid and maybe lose one of his hiding places in the bargain. That would make him mad enough if he was sober. I tried not to hurry though it was cold and the Pedersen kid was in the kitchen.

  He was all shoveled up like I thought he’d be. I shoved at his shoulder, calling his name. I think he heard his name. His name stopped the snoring, but he didn’t move except to roll a little when I shoved him. The covers slid down his skinny neck so I saw his head, fuzzed like a dandelion gone to seed, but his face was turned to the wall—there was
the pale shadow of his nose on the plaster —and I thought: well you don’t look much like a pig-drunk bully now. I couldn’t be sure he was still asleep. He was a cagey sonofabitch. He’d heard his name. I shook him a little harder and made some noise. Pap-pap-pap-hey, I said.

  I was leaning too far over. I knew better. He always slept close to the wall so you had to lean to reach him. Oh he was smart. It put you off. I knew better but I was thinking of the Pedersen kid mother-naked in all that dough. When his arm came up I ducked away but it caught me on the side of the neck, watering my eyes, and I backed off to cough. Pa was on his side, looking at me, his eyes winking, the hand that had hit me a fist in the pillow.

  Get the hell out of here.

  I didn’t say anything—my throat wasn’t clear—but I watched him. He was like a mean horse to come at from the rear. It was better, though, he’d hit me. He was bitter when he missed.

  Get the hell out of here.

  Big Hans sent me. He told me to wake you.

  A fat turd to Big Hans. Get out of here.

  He found the Pedersen kid by the crib.

  Get the hell out.

  Pa pulled at the covers. He was tasting his mouth.

  The kid’s froze like a pump. Hans is rubbing him with snow. He’s got him in the kitchen.

  Pedersen?

  No, Pa. It’s the Pedersen kid. The kid.

  Nothing to steal from the crib.

  Not stealing, Pa. He was just lying there. Hans found him froze. That’s where he was when Hans found him.

  Pa laughed.

  I ain’t hid nothing in the crib.

  You don’t understand, Pa. The Pedersen kid. The kid—

  I shittin well understand.

  Pa had his head up, glaring, his teeth gnawing at the place where he’d grown a mustache once.

  I shittin well understand. You know I don’t want to see Pedersen. That cock. Why should I? That fairy farmer. What did he come for, hey? God dammit, get. And don’t come back. Find out some shittin something. You’re a fool. Both you and Hans. Pedersen. That cock. That fairy farmer. Don’t come back. Out. Shit. Out. Out out.

  He was shouting and breathing hard and closing his fist on the pillow. He had long black hairs on his wrist. They curled around the cuff of his nightshirt.

  Big Hans made me come. Big Hans said—

  A fat turd to Big Hans. He’s an even bigger turd than you. Fat, too, fool, hey? I taught him, dammit, and I’ll teach you. Out. You want me to drop my pot?

  He was about to get up so I got out, slamming the door. He was beginning to see he was too mad to sleep. Then he threw things. Once he went after Hans and dumped his pot over the banister. Pa’d been shit-sick in that pot. Hans got an ax. He didn’t even bother to wipe himself off and he chopped part of Pa’s door down before he stopped. He might not have gone that far if Pa hadn’t been locked in laughing fit to shake the house. That pot put Pa in an awful good humor—whenever he thought of it. I always felt the thought was present in both of them, stirring in their chests like a laugh or a growl, as eager as an animal to be out. I heard Pa cursing all the way downstairs.

  Hans had laid steaming towels over the kid’s chest and stomach. He was rubbing snow on the kid’s legs and feet. Water from the snow and water from the towels had run off the kid to the table where the dough was, and the dough was turning pasty, sticking to the kid’s back and behind.

  Ain’t he going to wake up?

  What about your pa?

  He was awake when I left.

  What’d he say? Did you get the whiskey?

  He said a fat turd to Big Hans.

  Don’t be smart. Did you ask him about the whiskey?

  Yeah.

  Well?

  He said a fat turd to Big Hans.

  Don’t be smart. What’s he going to do?

  Go back to sleep most likely.

  You’d best get that whiskey.

  You go. Take the ax. Pa’s scared to hell of axes.

  Listen to me, Jorge, I’ve had enough of your sassing. This kid’s froze bad. If I don’t get some whiskey down him he might die. You want the kid to die? Do you? Well, get your pa and get that whiskey.

  Pa don’t care about the kid.

  Jorge.

  Well he don’t. He don’t care at all, and I don’t care to get my head busted neither. He don’t care, and I don’t care to have his shit flung on me. He don’t care about anybody. All he cares about is his whiskey and that dry crack in his face. Get pig-drunk—that’s what he wants. He don’t care about nothing else at all. Nothing. Not Pedersen’s kid neither. That cock. Not the kid neither.

  I’ll get the spirits, ma said.

  I’d wound Big Hans up tight. I was ready to jump but when ma said she’d get the whiskey it surprised him like it surprised me, and he ran down. Ma never went near the old man when he was sleeping it off. Not any more. Not for years. The first thing every morning when she washed her face she could see the scar on her chin where he’d cut her with a boot cleat, and maybe she saw him heaving it again, the dirty sock popping out as it flew. It should have been nearly as easy for her to remember that as it was for Big Hans to remember going after the ax while he was still spattered with Pa’s sour yellow sick insides.

  No you won’t, Big Hans said.

  Yes, Hans, if they’re needed, ma said.

  Hans shook his head but neither of us tried to stop her. If we had, then one of us would have had to go instead. Hans rubbed the kid with more snow . . . rubbed . . . rubbed.

  I’ll get more snow, I said.

  I took the pail and shovel and went out on the porch. I don’t know where ma went. I thought she’d gone upstairs and expected to hear she had. She had surprised Hans like she had surprised me when she said she’d go, and then she surprised him again when she came back so quick like she must have, because when I came in with the snow she was there with a bottle with three white feathers on its label and Hans was holding it angrily by the throat. Oh he was being queer and careful, pawing about in the drawer and holding the bottle like a snake at the length of his arm. He was awful angry because he’d thought ma was going to do something big, something heroic even, especially for her —I know him . . . I know him . . . we felt the same sometimes—while ma wasn’t thinking about that at all, not anything like that. There was no way of getting even. It wasn’t like getting cheated at the fair. They were always trying, so you got to expect it. Now Hans had given ma something of his—we both had when we thought she was going straight to Pa—something valuable, a piece of better feeling; but since she didn’t know we’d given it to her, there was no easy way of getting it back.

  Hans cut the foil off finally and unscrewed the cap. He was put out too because there was only one way of understanding what she’d done. Ma had found one of Pa’s hiding places. She’d found one and she hadn’t said a word while Big Hans and I had hunted and hunted as we always did all winter, every winter since the spring that Hans had come and I had looked in the privy and found the first one. Pa had a knack for hiding. He knew we were looking and he enjoyed it. But now ma. She’d found it by luck most likely but she hadn’t said anything and we didn’t know how long ago it’d been or how many other ones she’d found, saying nothing. Pa was sure to find out. Sometimes he didn’t seem to because he hid them so well he couldn’t find them himself or because he looked and didn’t find anything and figured he hadn’t hid one after all or had drunk it up. But he’d find out about this one because we were using it. A fool could see what was going on. If he found out ma found it—that’d be bad. He took pride in his hiding. It was all the pride he had. I guess fooling Hans and me took doing. But he didn’t figure ma for much. He didn’t figure her at all. And if he found out—a woman had—then it’d be bad.

  Hans poured some in a tumbler.

  You going to put more towels on him?