Even before Tom hangs up the phone, I decide that the Burlington Solution is dead. I cross Pamela’s name off the list and appoint myself as Lucy’s temporary guardian. Am I better qualified to take care of Lucy than Pamela is? No, in most ways probably not, but my gut tells me that I’m responsible for her – whether I like it or not.
Tom hangs up the phone and shakes his head. “That’s one pissed-off lady,” he says.
“Forget Pamela,” I answer.
“What do you mean?”
“I mean we’re not going to Burlington.”
“Oh? Since when?”
“Since now. We’ll stay here until the car is fixed, and then we’ll all go back to Brooklyn together.”
“And what are you planning to do with Lucy?”
“She’ll live with me in my apartment.”
“When we talked about it yesterday, you said you weren’t interested.”
“I’ve changed my mind.”
“So we’ve driven all the way up here for nothing.”
“Not really. Look around you, Tom. We’ve landed in paradise. A couple of days of rest and relaxation, and we’ll go home feeling like new men.”
Lucy is no more than ten feet from us as we exchange these words, and she hears every syllable we say. When I turn to look at her, she’s blowing kisses to me with both hands – arms extended after each smack of her lips, like a triumphant leading lady on opening night. I’m happy to see her so happy, but I’m also scared. Do I have any idea what I’m getting myself into?
Suddenly, I remember a line from a film I saw back in the late seventies. The title eludes me, both the story and characters have passed into oblivion, but the words are still ringing in my head, as if I heard them only yesterday. “Children are a consolation for everything – except having children.”
As Stanley shows us to our rooms on the top floor, he explains that Peg, the late Mrs. Chowder (“dead for four years now”), was responsible for choosing the furniture, the bed linens, the wallpaper, the Venetian blinds, the rugs, the lamps, the curtains, and every one of the many small objects that sit on top of the various tables, nightstands, and bureaus: the lace doilies, the ashtrays, the candlestick holders, the books. “A woman of impeccable taste,” he says. To my mind, the décor is overly precious, a nostalgic attempt to re-create the atmosphere of a bygone New England that was in fact much grimmer and sparer than the soft, girlish rooms I am looking at now. But no matter. Everything is clean and comfortable, and there is one redeeming element that undercuts the otherwise pervasive tone of kitsch and fussiness: the pictures hanging on the walls. Contrary to what one might expect, there are no needlepoint samplers, no badly executed watercolors of snowy Vermont landscapes, no Currier and Ives reproductions. The walls are covered with eight-by-ten black-and-white photographs of old Hollywood comedy stars. This is Stanley’s single contribution to the look of the rooms, but it makes all the difference, injecting a dose of wit and levity into the staid surroundings. Of the three rooms he has prepared for us, one is devoted to the Marx Brothers, another to Buster Keaton, and the last to Laurel and Hardy. Tom and I give Lucy first choice, and she opts for Stan and Ollie at the end of the hall. Tom selects Buster, and I wind up between them with Groucho, Harpo, Chico, Zeppo, and Margaret Dumont.
First perusal of the grounds. Immediately after unpacking our bags, we go outside to visit Stanley’s famous lawn. For several minutes, I am prey to a steady flow of shifting sensations. The feel of the soft, well-tended grass underfoot. The sound of a horsefly buzzing past my ear. The smell of the grass. The smells of the honeysuckle and lilac bushes. The bright red tulips planted around the edge of the house. The air begins to vibrate, and a moment later a small breeze is wafting over my face.
I drift along with my three companions and the dog, musing about absurd things. Stanley informs us that the property extends over a hundred acres, and I imagine how simple it would be to construct more buildings if the population of the Hotel Existence outgrows the capacity of the main house. I am dreaming Tom’s dream and reveling in the possibilities. Sixty acres of woods. A pond. A neglected apple orchard, a collection of abandoned beehives, a shack in the woods for distilling maple syrup. And the grass of Stanley’s lawn – the lovely, unending grass, stretching all around us and beyond.
It will never happen, I tell myself. Harry’s scheme is bound to fail, and even if it doesn’t, why should I presume Stanley would be willing to sell his house? On the other hand, what if Stanley stays with us and becomes a partner in the enterprise? Is he the sort of man who would grasp what Tom is hoping to achieve? I decide that I have to get to know him better, that I must spend as much time in his company as I can.
After twenty minutes or so, we circle back in the direction of the house. Stanley dashes into the garage to fetch some lawn chairs for us, and once we’re installed, he excuses himself and disappears into the house. He has work to do, but the first paying guests in the history of the Chowder Inn are free to loaf in the sunlight as long as they want.
For a couple of minutes, I watch Lucy run across the lawn, throwing sticks to the dog. To my left, Tom is reading a play by Don DeLillo. I look up at the sky and study the passing clouds. A hawk wheels into view and then vanishes. When the hawk returns, I close my eyes. Within seconds, I am fast asleep.
At five o’clock, Honey Chowder makes her first appearance, pulling up in front of the house with a carload of groceries and two cases of wine. By now, Tom and I have left the lawn chairs and are sitting on the porch, talking about politics. We interrupt our denunciations of Bush II and the Republican Party, walk down the steps to the white Honda, and introduce ourselves to Stanley’s daughter.
She’s a large, freckle-faced woman with beefy upper arms and a bone-crunching handshake. She brims with confidence, with humor, with good will. A bit overbearing, perhaps, but what can you expect from a fourth-grade schoolteacher? Her voice is loud and somewhat hoarse, but I like it that she seems so ready to laugh, is unafraid of the bigness of her personality. She’s a competent, can-do girl, I decide, and no doubt good fun in bed. Not pretty, but not not-pretty either. Radiant blue eyes, full lips, a thick mane of reddish-blonde hair. As we help her unload the grocery bags from the trunk of the car, I see her eyeing Tom with something more than detached curiosity. The lunkhead notices nothing, but I begin to wonder if this bossy, brainy young woman isn’t the answer to my prayers. No more ethereal B.P.M.s, but an unmarried woman desperate to hook a man. A steamroller. A tornado. A hungry, fast-talking wench who could flatten our boy into submission.
For the second time that afternoon, I decide to keep my thoughts to myself and say nothing to Tom.
As Stanley promised, she cooks us an excellent dinner. Watercress soup, a pork loin roast, string beans with almonds, crème caramel for dessert, and generous pourings of wine. I feel a twinge of sympathy for Pamela and the aborted feast she was preparing for us, but I doubt the fare in Burlington could surpass what bedecks the table at the Chowder Inn.
The victorious Lucy, now liberated from her impending bondage, shows up at the table wearing her red-and-white checkered dress, her black patent-leather shoes, and her white anklets with the lacy fringes on top. I don’t know if Stanley is impervious to the behavior of others or just overly discreet, but he still hasn’t commented on Lucy’s silence. Ten minutes into the meal, however, his blunt, sharp-eyed daughter begins asking questions.
“What’s wrong with her?” she says. “Doesn’t she know how to talk?”
“Of course she does,” I reply. “She just doesn’t want to.”
“Doesn’t want to?” Honey says. “What does that mean?”
“It’s a test,” I explain, blurting out the first lie that pops into my head. “Lucy and I were talking the other day about hard things, and we decided that not talking is about the hardest thing a person can do. So we made a pact. Lucy agreed not to say a word for three days. If she can hold up her end of the bargain, I’ve promised to give her fifty dol
lars. Isn’t that right, Lucy?”
Lucy nods.
“And how many days are left?” I continue.
Lucy holds up two fingers.
Ah, I say to myself, there we have it. The kid has finally fessed up. In two more days, the torture will come to an end.
Honey squints her eyes, at once dubious and alarmed. Children are her business, after all, and she senses that something is off. But I’m a stranger to her, and rather than press me about the queer and unhealthy game I’ve been playing with this little girl, she comes at the problem from another angle.
“Why isn’t the child in school?” she asks. “It’s Monday, June fifth. Summer vacation doesn’t begin for another three weeks.”
“Because … “I say, scrambling to concoct another fib, “Lucy goes to a private school … and the academic year is shorter there than at public schools. She had her last class on Friday.”
Again, I’m convinced that Honey doesn’t believe me. But short of crossing the line into an unacceptable rudeness, she can’t very well go on interrogating me about matters that don’t concern her. I like this chunky, forthright Chowder of a woman, and I also like her old man, who is sitting across the table from me, quietly chewing his food and sipping his wine, but I have no intention of letting them in on our family secrets. It’s not that I’m ashamed of who we are – but my God, I tell myself, what a family it is. What a motley bunch of messed-up, floundering souls. What stunning examples of human imperfection. A father whose daughter wants nothing to do with him anymore. A brother who hasn’t seen or heard from his sister in three years. And a little girl who’s run away from home and refuses to speak. No, I’m not about to expose the Chowders to the truth of our fractured, good-for-nothing little clan. Not tonight I’m not. Not tonight, and no doubt not ever.
Tom must be thinking thoughts similar to mine, for he hastily jumps in and tries to steer the table talk in another direction. He begins by asking Honey about her work. How long has she been doing it, what motivated her to become a teacher in the first place, what does she think of the Brattleboro system, and so on. His questions are bland, stultifying in their banality, and as I look at his face while he talks to Honey, I can tell that he has no interest in her – not as a woman, not even as a person. But Honey is too tough to allow Tom’s indifference to prevent her from giving bright and charming answers, and before long she is the one guiding the conversation, bombarding our boy with dozens of questions of her own. Her aggressiveness rocks Tom back on his heels for a few moments, but when he understands that his interlocutor is fully as clever as he is, he rises to the occasion and starts giving as good as he gets. Stanley and I scarcely say a word, but we are both amused by the verbal sparring match that has broken out before our eyes. Inevitably, the talk veers to politics and the upcoming elections in November. Tom rails against the right-wing takeover of America. He cites the near destruction of Clinton, the anti-abortion movement, the gun lobby, the fascist propaganda of talk-radio shows, the cowardice of the press, the ban on the teaching of evolution in certain states. “We’re marching backward,” he says. “Every day, we lose another piece of our country. If Bush is elected, there won’t be anything left.” To my surprise, Honey is in total agreement with him. Peace reigns for approximately thirty seconds, and then she announces that she’s planning to vote for Nader.
“Don’t do that,” Tom says. “A vote for Nader is a vote for Bush.”
“No, it’s not,” Honey says. “It’s a vote for Nader. Besides, Gore will win Vermont. If I wasn’t sure of that, I’d vote for him. This way I can make my little protest and still keep Bush out of office.”
“I don’t know about Vermont,” Tom says, “but I do know it’s going to be a close election. If enough people think like you in the swing states, Bush will win.”
Honey struggles to suppress a smile. Tom is so damned earnest, she’s itching to knock him from his high horse with some loopy, off-the-wall remark. I can see the joke coming, and I cross my fingers that it’s a good one.
“Do you know what happened the last time a nation listened to a bush?” Honey asks.
No one says a word.
“Its people wandered in the desert for forty years.”
In spite of himself, Tom bursts out laughing.
The jousting contest has been brought to a sudden, decisive end, and Honey is the clear winner.
I don’t want to get carried away, but I suspect that Tom has met his match. Whether anything comes of it is another story, to be told by time and the mysterious inclinations of the flesh. I tell myself to stay tuned for further developments.
Early the next morning, I call Al Junior at the gas station, but he still hasn’t solved the riddle of the car. “I’m working on it now,” he says. “As soon as I have the answer, I’ll be in touch.”
I marvel at how little this news affects me. If anything, I’m glad to be stuck on our hilltop for another day, glad not to have to think about returning to New York just yet.
I have a job to do that morning, but it’s impossible to get Stanley to sit down long enough to engage him in a serious conversation. He cooks and serves us breakfast, but the moment he puts the plates in front of us, he rushes out of the kitchen and goes upstairs to make the beds. After that, he’s busy with various projects around the house: screwing in lightbulbs, beating carpets, repairing broken window sashes. There’s nothing to be done but look for an opportunity later in the day.
The morning air is cool and misty. We’re wearing sweaters as we walk out onto the front porch and scan the wet, dew-drenched lawn. Eventually, the clouds will burn away and we’ll be given another sparkling afternoon, but for now the shrubs and trees are barely visible.
Lucy has found a book in her room, and she carries it with her onto the porch. It’s a small paperback, and since her hand is covering the title, I ask her to show me what it is. Riders of the Purple Sage, by Zane Grey. I ask her if it’s any good, and she gives a vigorous nod of approval. Not just good, she seems to be telling me, but a masterpiece for all time. I find it a curious choice for a nine-year-old girl, but who am I to object? The kid likes to read, I say to myself, and I consider that a positive development, proof that our little runaway is no mental sluggard.
Tom plants himself in the chair next to mine as Lucy stretches out on the glider with her Western. He lights up an after-breakfast cigarette and says, “Do you think Al Junior will ever fix the car?”
“Probably,” I answer. “But I’m in no rush to get out of here. Are you?”
“No, not really. I’m beginning to like this place.”
“Do you remember our dinner with Harry last week?”
“When you spilled the red wine on your pants? How could I forget it?”
“I’ve been thinking about some of the things you said that night.”
“As I remember it, I said a lot of things. Most of them stupid things. Monumentally stupid things.”
“You were out of sorts. But you didn’t say anything stupid.”
“You must have been too drunk to notice.”
“Drunk or not, there’s one thing I have to know. Did you mean it about wanting to get out of the city – or was it just talk?”
“I meant it, but it was also just talk.”
“It can’t be both. It has to be one or the other.”
“I meant it, but I also know it will never happen. Therefore, it was just talk.”
“And what about Harry’s deal?”
“Just talk. You should know that about Harry by now. If anyone is ‘just talk,’ it’s our old friend Harry Brightman.”
“I’m not going to disagree with you. But just for the sake of argument, imagine he was telling the truth. Imagine he’s about to come into big money and would be willing to dump it into a country house. What would you say then?”
“I’d say, ‘Let’s go ahead and do it.’”
“Good. Now think carefully. If you could buy any place in the world, where would you want it to
be?”
“I haven’t thought that far ahead. Somewhere isolated, though. A place where other people wouldn’t be right on top of us.”
“Somewhere like the Chowder Inn?”
“Yeah. Now that you mention it, this spot would work just fine.”
“Why don’t we ask Stanley if he’s willing to sell?”
“What for? We don’t have enough money to buy.”
“You’re forgetting Harry.”
“No, I’m not. Harry has his good points, but he’s the last man I’d count on for something like this.”
“I admit it’s a million-to-one shot, but just in case Harry’s horse comes in, why not talk to Stanley? Just for the fun of it. If he says he’s interested, at least we’ll know what the Hotel Existence looks like.”
“Even if we never live here.”
“Exactly. Even if we never come back for the rest of our days.”