“All right, all right—I am going to Rutterburg, Vermont,” I sing out, lifting my voice above the sound of the rain. A rumble of thunder answers me—the gods are listening—and I press my back against the tree and I feel stronger suddenly, as if I am part of it all, part of the tree and part of the storm, part of the thunder and part of the rain. I lift my face and the rain pours down. And I begin to sing:
The farmer in the dell,
The farmer in the dell …
TAPE OZK006 1830 date deleted T-A
T: So. We have arrived at the point where your suspicions were aroused.
A: I don’t remember arriving at that point.
T: Are you playing games?
A: No. Why should I play games? I’m on the edge of panic half the time. Why should I play games?
(5-second interval.)
T: Forgive me. If I seem—abrupt, critical—it is only for your sake.
A: I know.
(7-second interval.)
T: Let me refresh your memory. At the last meeting, you mentioned the telephone call from Amy, from her father’s office. The visiting editor from Rawlings. Did that arouse your suspicions?
A: It made me feel—funny.
T: How do you mean, “funny”?
A: Well, what Amy said about there being no Farmers, no Farmer family, in Rawlings. And even the way I had tried to cover up. As if I had to cover up, instinctively. As if I knew something was wrong.
T: And what did you think was wrong?
A: I didn’t know.
T: Did you think your father had been lying to you all that time? That you and your family didn’t come from Rawlings?
A: No. I couldn’t allow myself to think that and yet I kept getting these funny feelings—remembering that night we ran away. That seemed to be mixed up with it all.
T: Did you confront your father?
A: No. I couldn’t do that. But I felt that I could probably find out some other way.
T: What other way?
A: Oh, it was vague. Maybe look in old picture albums, old papers and letters, for some proof that we actually lived in Rawlings, that I’d been born there. And yet, it wasn’t that pressing. I mean—I wasn’t really in a panic.
T: It did not bother you too much, then?
A: Yes, it did. But only when I took the time to think about it. I was busy with school. With Amy and her Numbers.
T: You did not mention the visiting editor and your doubts about Rawlings to your mother or father?
A: No.
T: That seems like the most natural course you could have taken.
A: Maybe. But I didn’t want to.
(8-second interval.)
T: But you finally did something about it, didn’t you?
A: Did I?
(5-second interval.)
T: Yes, because otherwise we wouldn’t be sitting here talking about it, would we? You would not have brought up Amy’s telephone call at all, would you have?
A: I guess not.
T: So tell me. What did you do about it?
(5-second interval.)
T: Tell me.
A: I can’t remember exactly.
(15-second interval.)
But, of course, he did remember, finally. It was all clear and lucid now, unforgettable. He knew that his father kept his private and official papers in the bottom drawer of the desk in the den. An insurance agent required a desk at home, where he could fill out the never-ending series of reports and keep the documents and the other paraphernalia of his trade. Adam knew that the bottom drawer contained certain certificates that were taken out only on special occasions. Like the time he needed a birth certificate to show that he was old enough to join the Boy Scouts. (Adam dropped out after a few meetings—he wasn’t interested in standing at attention, tying knots, or going on hikes.) Ordinarily, his father locked the drawer. The key hung on his key chain, along with the house keys and car keys and some others. His father always tossed the chain casually on an end table near the front door when he came into the house. Adam waited for his opportunity.
Actually, he was barely conscious of his desire to check the bottom drawer. He had become convinced that the visiting editor had made a mistake. Amy had never mentioned his visit again. Looking at his father in his proper suit and tie, Adam was ashamed of his suspicions. In fact, what suspicions, really? And yet that day when he saw the key chain on the table, and knowing that his father was out mowing the lawn, Adam knew that he would look into the bottom drawer. He picked up the key chain; the keys were cool to his touch. He could hear the lawn mower at the far end of the front lawn. Perfect. His mother was upstairs. She was always upstairs these days. She came down to prepare the meals and do the housework but increasingly she stayed in her room. At any rate, his father’s desk was located in a spot from which he could observe the steps going upstairs.
Keeping his mind blank and his motives muffled, Adam walked to the desk, inserted the small key into the drawer lock, turned it, and pulled the drawer open. The drawer contained a dozen or so brown envelopes. Adam lifted out a few. The envelopes were identified with his father’s familiar scrawl: Mortgage. U.S. Treasury Bonds. New England Tel. and Tel. Stocks. Birth Certificates.
He opened this last envelope and took out the three crisp sheets of paper inside. They were official looking, a blue seal at the bottom. Signed by Tobias Simpson, Town Clerk, Rawlings, Pa. Adam inspected the certificate that bore his name: Adam David Farmer. “We gave you my name as your middle name,” his father had explained long ago, “because two Davids would confuse everyone.” Adam inspected the certificate—and it all checked out. His birthday, February 14. Valentine’s Day. His mother was sentimental about birthdays and Adam’s in particular. She shopped for days and always baked a special cake. “A lovely day to be born, Adam, a day of love and tenderness,” she said. He looked at his father’s and mother’s birth certificates. Same official-looking paper, same signature: Tobias Simpson, Town Clerk.
Adam flicked through the other envelopes. Insurance policies. Social Security cards. He looked at his card and his number. It was new-looking, fresh, untouched. Why would someone his age need a Social Security number? Suspicion made him pause and in that pause, the sound of the lawn mower grew louder, and Adam held his breath. The lawn mower’s motor receded and Adam exhaled. He remembered that you needed a Social Security number to open a bank account and his parents had presented him with his own bank book and fifty dollars deposited in his name on his tenth birthday. There was only one envelope left in the drawer. It was sealed. Adam held it in his hand, the envelope almost weightless. He knew that he could not risk opening it. And he also knew that it probably contained nothing suspicious at all. In fact, he felt ridiculous and guilty investigating the contents of the drawer.
Still curious, he held the envelope up to the light and could see faint outlines of a document inside. The document looked familiar: the blue seal at the bottom. He realized that the envelope contained another birth certificate or something similar. The blue seal was identical to the seal on the other birth certificates. Why another certificate? Had someone else been born that he knew nothing about? Did he have an unknown brother or sister maybe? This was crazy, this was ridiculous. It could all be explained easily. But he had to open this envelope. He had to find out. He had to know.
He inspected the envelope. Plain, white, undistinguished. Like any other envelope he’d often seen on his father’s desk. He searched the desk now, opening drawers, and came upon a bunch of white envelopes. He compared them with the sealed envelopes. They were the same. It would be easy …
The sound of the power mower suddenly died; an emptiness filled the air. Adam was too much committed to his search to stop now even though his father might be heading for the house for a glass of beer or to rest awhile. He quickly tore open the sealed envelope and withdrew the certificate. It was a birth certificate all right. Signed and sealed by the same Tobias Simpson, Town Clerk, Rawlings, Pa. At first, Adam though
t the certificate was a duplicate of his own because his name was written on the paper: Adam David Farmer. But the date was different. This date was July 14. The year was correct, exactly as it appeared on the first birth certificate. But a different date. A different birthday. He had two birth certificates, two birthdays. Crazily, he thought, Was I born twice? And his hands began to tremble so badly that he could barely slip the certificate back into an envelope. His tongue was dry when he tried to lick the envelope. His hands shook as he replaced all the stuff in the drawer, turned the key in the lock, slipped the torn envelope into his pocket. He heard his father’s footsteps at the back door as he returned the keys to the table. He went downstairs and hid in the cellar until the trembling stopped.
T: And what did you do about it?
A: Nothing. There was nothing I could do. I figured it was a mistake. I figured that when we left Rawlings, my father had arranged for the birth certificates to be made out—we’d need them wherever we were going—and that the town clerk, that Tobias Simpson, had made a mistake and given him the wrong one or something. Wrote down the wrong date. And probably my father didn’t notice it until later and had to send back for the right one.
T: But why this reaction of yours? You trembled, you shook, you had the shivers. You hid in the cellar.(8-second interval.)
A: That was my first reaction. Later I got myself under control and tried to be reasonable about it all. There had to be a simple explanation. But—
T: But what?
A: But I wondered, Why did he keep the birth certificate if it was wrong, had the wrong date? And why did he keep it sealed?
T: What did you do about it?
(5-second interval.)
A: I’m tired. I’ve got a headache.
T: What did you do about it?
A: It’s late. I want to go to bed.
T: What did you do about it?
A: I can’t remember. It’s too hazy.
T: What did you do about it?
(6-second interval.)
A: Nothing …
But he did do something. He became a spy, a secret agent in his own home, listening at doorways, eavesdropping on telephone conversations, watchful and wary and suspicious.
“What’s the matter—don’t you feel well?” his mother asked. She was always solicitous about him, concerned and worried, emerging from her sad cocoon to fuss over him.
“I’m all right, Mom,” he answered.
But he would study his mother, even though she was so sweet and innocent that he felt guilty for his doubts. He wondered what secrets she harbored, what dark knowledge she kept hidden within her. Was this what made her sad, what kept her in her room during the day, closeted in the house all the time, seldom venturing into the outside world? And his father—what about his father? In his proper clothes, his suit and vest, his morning newspaper. What secrets lurked in him? Or am I dramatizing? Adam wondered. He wanted to be a writer, to capture drama on paper. Was he really manufacturing mysteries to satisfy his literary longings, finding mysteries where they did not in fact exist?
Although Amy was the most important person in his life, he couldn’t bring himself to talk to her about the doubts that tormented him. He was afraid she would laugh. He was afraid to lessen himself in her eyes. She had brought brightness and gaiety to his life and he didn’t want to risk losing it all. That’s why he submitted to the Numbers, accompanying her on those heady and hilarious but somehow terrible trips to the A&P and the Holiday Inn. When he thought of telling her what was bothering him and anticipating her reaction—Amy who never took anything seriously—he drew back and remained silent. A tortured silence. And he continued to spy, to probe, to watch …
T: And what did you find out, finally?
A: Too much. And not enough.
T: Do you really believe that or are you merely being clever?
(5-second interval.)
T: I am sorry to be so blunt. Please explain what you mean.
A: I wasn’t trying to be a wise guy. I was telling the truth. I found out, for instance, about my mother’s Thursday night telephone calls. And when I realized what the calls were all about, it was both too much and not enough. It was worse than just knowing about the birth certificates.
T: Tell me about the telephone calls.
(10-second interval.)
A: I have a feeling you already know about them. I have a feeling you know everything, even my blank spots.
T: Then why should I make you go through it all? Why should I carry on this charade?
A: I don’t know.
T: You disappoint me. Can’t you think of the one person who will benefit?
(5-second interval.)
A: Me. Me. Me. That’s what you said at the beginning. But I never asked for it. I never asked to benefit by it.
(4-second interval.)
A: I have a headache.
T: Don’t retreat now. Don’t retreat. Tell me about the phone calls your mother made.
(5-second interval.)
A: There really isn’t very much to tell.
Actually, there was a lot to tell but he didn’t want to speak anymore, he wanted only to say the minimum, to say the words that would satisfy Brint and then go back to his room, to rest and relax. He didn’t want to pick up the burden of remembering any longer. He wanted to coast awhile, float, not let it matter, drift. This is why he hated Brint sometimes. Because he interrupted the sweet drifting. With his questions. His incessant, never-ending questions.
T: Tell me what there is to tell, whether it’s very much or not.
A: I don’t know if I want to talk about the call.
And yet there was something good in the talking, in the discoveries. He had learned that the talking was discovery, words would come to his tongue that he had not known were lying in wait for him. The facts of his life would appear the moment he told them. The empty spaces were filled, the terrifying blankness that loomed before him sometimes at night in the darkness when he’d wake up, not knowing who he was or where he was. In the talking, the blank spots were filled in.
T: What about your mother and the telephone calls?
A: The calls were made every Thursday …
Adam had been aware of the calls and not aware of them. He knew that Thursdays were his mother’s best days. She was usually downstairs waiting for him when he got home from school. There was always the aroma of newly baked cookies or cake in the kitchen—something chocolate. Adam loved chocolate and on Thursdays his mother prepared a chocolate treat for him and watched with pleasure as he wolfed it down. Sometimes she hummed or sang as she worked around the house, dusting or mopping up. Early in the evening on Thursdays she would disappear into the bedroom, closing the door behind her. Adam was cautioned not to use the telephone at that hour. “Your mother’s special telephone hour,” his father had explained a long time ago. Adam had accepted the explanation without question and the telephone hour became part of the fabric of the household. He figured that his mother had set aside this time of day to complete all her calls to friends (but what friends?), to relatives (they had no living relatives, his father had informed him with regret a long time ago), her committeewomen (his mother was too shy and withdrawn to be active in social or civic affairs). And yet the telephone hour had gone on for so long a time that Adam had never really questioned its purpose or reason. It belonged to the world of adults, and adults often did things, sometimes ridiculous, sometimes beyond his comprehension, but they were allowed to do them simply because they were adults. They needed no other reason.
His suspicions aroused by the two birth certificates and the tantalizing problem they presented, Adam began to question the familiar, everyday events of his life, and the comings and goings of his mother and father. He watched for telltale clues, any remark or action, that could not be explained. He listened avidly for any mention of Rawlings, Pennsylvania. None. The routine of their lives went on without incident, and Adam told himself that he was looking for trouble where none
existed. He told himself that both the birth certificates and the strange stuff about Rawlings could be explained away.
One Thursday evening, his mother excused herself as usual and went upstairs to the bedroom, closing the door. His father went downstairs to the cellar; he had transformed part of the cellar into a combination recreation room and office, pine-paneled, with some office paraphernalia plus a Ping-Pong table and a television set. He and his father played Ping-Pong occasionally, but most of the time his father used the room for business purposes, writing reports and policies there and meeting once in a while with businessmen or insurance company officials. On that particular Thursday, with his mother upstairs and his father downstairs, Adam spotted the extension telephone hanging on the wall of the den. He drew a sharp breath. Holding the breath, he made his way across the room like a sleepwalker. He placed his hand on the telephone; the instrument was cool to his touch, and the coolness established reality, the reality of what he was about to do: eavesdrop on his mother. He thought of Amy’s belief in mischief. He exhaled, letting the air seep out of his mouth, and then picked up the receiver, slowly, painstakingly.
He heard a voice he did not recognize. A soft voice, cultured, more than cultured, detached, as if speaking from far away, not far away in distance but in something else. A woman’s voice.
“… it’s beautiful here, Louise, this is the loveliest time of the year.”
Then his mother’s voice: “It must be so peaceful there, Martha, so safe, so secure.”
“But it’s not a retreat from the world,” the voice answered, a gentle admonishment in the words. “It’s not simply a place to hide, Louise. You know that. Otherwise, there would be no point in being here, would there?”
“Of course, of course,” his mother said. “Only, when I think of all that’s happened, I envy you, Martha.”
“Enough of that, enough.” The gentle chiding was there again. Although the woman’s voice didn’t disclose any evidence of great age, she spoke to Adam’s mother as if she were much older and his mother a child.
“And now tell me, Louise, about Adam. How’s my fine nephew doing? What has he been up to this week?”