Herbert Rowbarge

  Deep into January, with a thin gauze of snow snagged across the stiff brown stubble of the fields, Lollie’s baby was born. Dick held the bundled infant to his heart and whispered, “Frank. We’ll call him Frank, honey. All right? After my brother that was drowned.” And Lollie nodded weakly from the tumbled bed.

  But she did not “feel much better,” not at all. The labor had been long and brutal, some fragile inner web had given way. Infection flared, spread wide, took over. In five days she was dead.

  And in the spring a dazed and vulnerable Dick gave in at last. They would sell the farm. He and Herbert and Frank would sell the farm—and buy a merry-go-round.

  But they did not sell the farm at once. For Herbert, eager as he was to be off and away, wanted to “do it right,” as he said to Dick. “First we’ll get the place in the best shape we can. That way it’ll bring more money. And I got to find out all I can about what’s the best merry-go-round to buy.” Now that things were going his way, he was brisk, sure, efficient. He had taken charge.

  He began to read the newspapers, that summer of ’99, ignoring the Boer War and other far-off things that didn’t matter, in favor of goings-on at home with regard to various kinds of machines. And off and on he traveled, when the money, and his presence, could be spared—walking, hitching rides on wagons, taking trains only when he had to. He went to Philadelphia, to the G. A. Dentzel Steam & Horsepower Caroussell Company; to Troy, to the Babcock plant; to Buffalo to see the Armitage Herschall factory. He even went to Kansas, where a man named Parker was making a portable machine called a carry-us-all. And at last he decided on Armitage Herschall. “They’re the closest,” he explained to Dick, “and in most ways the best.”

  But there seemed to be more to it than finding the best machine. “Look here, Dick,” said Herbert. “It’s just a question of time before they get ‘em runnin’ electric, like these new electric buggies they got comin’ on so fast. They’ll be better that way, and cleaner. And I been reading up on some of these parks they got. There’s Coney Island, and another place out East called Prospect Park, and over to New Jersey they got one they call the Music Circus. Looks to me like it’s better to pick one place, the way they’re doin’, where we can settle down, put up our machine, go electric when the time comes, and let the people come to us.”

  Dick brightened. “Say, that’d be all right! We could even do it here—we already got the land.”

  “Gaitsburg? Why’d anyone want to come to this jerkwater town?”

  “Well,” said Dick, chastened, “I don’t know, Bertie, but it’d be easy enough, comin’ by the river and all.”

  “Listen, Dick, nobody’s comin’ by the river any more. This place is the end of the world. You never been anywhere—you don’t know what some of these other parts is like.”

  Dick had been to Cuba, but that, apparently, was not the same thing.

  “Anyway,” Herbert went on with ill-concealed impatience, “we got to sell this piece of land before we can buy the machine and some other piece of land. You know that. We been over it fifty times.”

  “Oh—well—yeah, that’s right,” said Dick. But he was sorrowful, and sometimes wondered how he had come to agree to anything so drastic. It had happened almost without his knowing it, and a lot of the time he felt confused. Selling the farm was like selling a piece of his heart. Still, Herbert claimed the largest piece of that heart. He always would. And Dick couldn’t help admiring Herbert’s grasp of it all, all the difficult details.

  “I expect,” said Herbert expansively, “we can find us a spot right here in Ohio.”

  This much, at least, was a relief. To go out of state—well, that would be so foreign. West Virginia was only a mile away, across the river. But it was full of West Virginians. And Dick had had enough of foreigners in Cuba.

  Herbert made one more trip, in the fall of 1900. He had picked out a possible location with the help of a pile of maps, and now he needed to see it in the flesh. He came back thoroughly satisfied. “Red Man Lake, that’s our place,” he said to Dick. “Right up near the highest point in the state. They got a bunch of caves up there already that people come a long ways to see.”

  “Umm,” said Dick. He was sitting with little Frank on his knee, playing peekaboo with a napkin, but it was clear that he was heavyhearted.

  “What’s the matter?” Herbert demanded.

  With Herbert gone upstate, Dick had again lost sight of his shaky conviction that what they were about to do was right. “Well, Bertie,” he said now, resting his chin forlornly on Frank’s warm, tousled head, “I just been thinkin’. I mean, how’ll it be for Frank? I got to start thinkin’ about Frank. Why, he’s almost two years old! A farm is a lot more secure, somehow, isn’t it? You know, somethin’ to leave him when I die.”

  “First place,” said Herbert smoothly, knowing the battle was long since won, “first place, Dick, you’re not gonna die. They got no floods upstate gonna carry you off like you lost your own folks. Second place, you can’t do nothin’ on a farm when you only got one leg. Third place, we’re gonna make us a big pile of money up there, Dick. A big pile. Why, shoot, Frank can even go to college when he grows up, if you want him to.”

  “College?”

  “Sure, college. Why not? And he can have a pony, and a big house to live in, and hold his head up anywhere he goes.”

  Dick nodded slowly. Herbert always made it sound so good—as if he, Dick, would be cheating Frank, somehow, if now he should back away. “Yeah, well,” he sighed at last, “I guess you’re right.”

  “Course I’m right,” said Herbert kindly. And then he delivered the coup de grace: “You can take him for some real fishin’, too, up on the lake. You can’t do that here, on the river, not with one leg and the bottom all slippery. But up there, Dick, they got rowboats. Good fishin’ out of rowboats, just sittin’ down, all easy, right out in the middle of the lake.”

  They sold the farm the following spring, changing its twenty acres and its house and barn, plus cow, ten chickens, and a rooster, for three acres on the banks of Red Man Lake, in a little town called Mussel Point—three acres of lake-front land, and for one thousand dollars, a twelve-horse merry-go-round.

  Sunday, May 25, 1952

  Babe and Louisa Rowbarge have been to Sunday services this morning without Aunt Opal—her cold has turned out to be genuine—and now they walk away from the Lake Presbyterian Church in a thoughtful mood. Dr. Bray, the minister, has delivered himself of a throbbing harangue on the subject of honoring thy father and mother, and in spite of the fact that Babe and Louisa know, like everyone else in the congregation, that his wrath has been largely fueled by his son, Carmichael Bray, known fondly by high-school classmates as “Donkey,” who the night before reeled home to the parsonage at 3 a.m. mellow and smelling of the cork, as the saying goes, though the Junior Prom had officially closed at eleven—Carmichael has long been a difficulty and in fact sat this morning in a front pew, looking more deaf than remorseful—in spite of the fact that Babe and Louisa know all this, still it’s hard not to take a sermon personally.

  “We always do the best we can for Daddy,” says Louisa defensively, as they move down the sunsplotched sidewalk.

  “And would’ve for Mother if we could’ve,” Babe adds.

  “We’ve never done anything bad,” says Louisa.

  “No, but he wasn’t talking about us, necessarily,” Babe reminds her.

  “I know, but still,” says Louisa. “I always come out of church feeling guilty. Do you think that’s how we’re meant to feel?”

  “I don’t know,” says Babe. “Probably.”

  Louisa frowns and says, “The thing is, I try to honor Daddy, I really do, but he does make me mad sometimes, the way he won’t try to tell us apart, even now, and … well, you know.”

  “I know,” says Babe.

  “But then I remember how old he’s getting,” Louisa goes on, “and I feel just terrible. I know I ought to be more patient.”

  ??
?I don’t see how you could be more patient,” says Babe, “or me, either. It’s not as if we yelled at him or slammed doors or anything.”

  They have reached by now the place on the street where the Rowbarge Lincoln and the Loose Oldsmobile stand grill to trunk, baking their chrome serenely in the sunshine. The insides of both—both sets of wool upholstery—look stuffy with accumulated heat, and rather than submit to being baked themselves, the twins open up a door apiece to let a small breeze in while they stand on the grassy curb and think about their father.

  “Anyway,” says Babe, “he’s not so old. Look at Mr. Festeen—almost eighty! He’s out of the hospital, by the way. It turned out to be nothing after all.”

  “That’s good,” says Louisa. “I hope he’ll stay all right till Joe and Tammie’s wedding.” There is silence between them for a moment, and then Louisa says, “Sometimes in church I think about them getting married there. Mother and Daddy, I mean.”

  “I know,” says Babe. “Me, too. I can just see them standing on the steps afterwards, like that picture Aunt Opal’s got on the piano.”

  “Yes, I love that picture,” says Louisa. “Mother looks so happy. And Daddy looks—well, now that I come to think of it, Daddy just looks like Daddy.”

  “He hasn’t changed very much,” says Babe.

  “No,” says Louisa.

  “So that’s what I mean,” says Babe. “You talk about him like he had one foot in the grave or something. Why, he could easily live … oh, another twenty years, I suppose.”

  This observation sends them both into a second silence from which they are roused by a bee who has strayed into the Oldsmobile.

  “Oh, now, look at that,” says Babe. “We’d better get him out.”

  She hurries around to the driver’s side and opens the door, and she from that side and Louisa from the other, both bobbing, ducking, and squealing, flap awkwardly at the bee with their pocketbooks. The bee, all grace and danger, buzzes lazy figure eights near the ceiling, settles, and strolls calmly at the base of the windshield, ignoring them.

  “Blast!” says Babe. “Now what?”

  From the sidewalk a melodious voice asks, “Having a problem, ladies?” It is Dr. Bray. He is a heavy man with a barrel chest and large red hands who is playing in life the role of a pale, narrow man with small white hands. In the pulpit it’s rather effective, for his passion is intense. But out of the pulpit he tends to vacillate, so that public opinion sometimes sways toward him, and sometimes toward his erring son, Carmichael.

  “Oh, good morning, Dr. Bray,” says Babe. “There’s a bee in my car.”

  “Ah!” he says. “And you’re afraid of bees.”

  “Well,” says Louisa, “they sting!”

  Dr. Bray steps to the curb and leans into the Oldsmobile. “Like most of us,” he says, his voice somewhat muffled, “they only sting when they’re attacked.” The bee has resumed its figure eights, and Dr. Bray, straightening up, says, “We’ll have to wait until it lands somewhere. Tell me—where was Mrs. Loose this morning? Not ill, I hope?”

  “She’s got a cold,” says Babe. “She’ll be all right.”

  “I’m relieved to hear it,” he says. “Now if we could just bring your dear father into the flock!”

  Louisa, embarrassed, says, “Oh, well.”

  The bee makes a landing on the dashboard and Dr. Bray leans in again. All at once he is not small and pale, but large and vengeful. With a swift, heavy movement, he brings a hard red palm down on the bee so forcefully that the car bounces.

  “My goodness!” says Louisa.

  The minister steps back, the dead bee between finger and thumb. “When you strike at a king, strike hard,” he says with a gentle smile, and drops the bee into the gutter.

  “Well … thank you,” says Babe.

  “We were just going to shoo him out,” says Louisa faintly.

  Dr. Bray does not hear the reproach in her voice. “I’m glad I was here to help,” he says. “Good day, ladies.”

  When he’s gone, Babe says, “I wonder if he beats up on Carmichael.”

  “Daddy never laid a glove on us,” says Louisa. “Poor bee.”

  The congregation has dispersed by now and the street is hushed with Sunday. “I’d better get going,” says Babe. “It’s almost time for dinner.”

  But Louisa isn’t ready to let her go. Not quite. “Babe,” she says, leaning down to speak through the open door as, from the other side, her sister slides in under the wheel, “Babe, do you really think he’ll live another twenty years?”

  “Daddy?” says Babe. “He could.”

  “We’ll be sixty-five by then,” says Louisa wonderingly. “Old ourselves.”

  “We’re not really young now,” says Babe.

  The bee forgotten, Louisa says, “I’m tired of living apart.”

  “I know, dear,” says Babe. “Me, too.”

  Louisa straightens up, then leans once more into the Oldsmobile. “Babe,” she says, “are you sorry we never got married?”

  “Married? Certainly not! Who could ever love and understand us as much as we do?”

  “That’s what I always think,” says Louisa gratefully. And then she says, her eyes suddenly alight, “Listen, Babe, this is the last Sunday before the park opens. Let’s rent a rowboat this afternoon, if they don’t need us for anything, and go for a row on the lake while it’s still not crowded.”

  “That’s a wonderful idea!” Babe exclaims.

  “Oh, good. I’ll pick you up. Let’s wear our denim wrap skirt.”

  “All right,” says Babe. “And the pink blouse. And a hat, too—it’s a hot sun.”

  “Which hat?”

  “Oh—the natural straw, I guess. No point in getting all dressy.”

  “All right,” says Louisa. “Doesn’t it sound like fun? Oh, Babe, I just love summer.”

  “Me, too,” says Babe. “Me, too.”

  August 1903

  Herbert Rowbarge stood in front of the bureau, brushing his hair. It was important to look as good as possible, because he was taking Ruby Nill for a Sunday row on the lake, and so he leaned forward impatiently, trying to see himself better. The mirror was in every way inadequate—far too small, its surface blotched, a very irritating mirror—and Herbert Rowbarge scowled.

  “Whatcha doin’ now, Uncle Bertie?” asked little Frank from the bed behind. Little Frank was sitting cross-legged, eating an applesauce sandwich, and his cheeks and smock were generously smeared.

  “For goodness’ sake, go eat that stuff somewhere else, can’t you?” Herbert barked.

  Frank chewed calmly, swallowed, and repeated, “Whatcha doin’ now?”

  “I’m brushing my hair.” Herbert leaned forward again toward the mirror, with narrowed eyes. He wished little Frank would go away. He wished his hair would hold its center part. He wished … and then he paused. A twinkling sensation had skipped down his spine as he looked into the eyes of his reflection, and, brush in midair, he waited, frozen, to see if it would come again.

  Every once in a while it happened, that twinkling sensation, when he saw himself in mirrors, and it always made him giddy and confused, and unable to decide whether the feeling was terrible or sweet. “I’m going crazy,” he would think, fleetingly, and then the sensation would pass. So he stayed away from mirrors as much as he could, but you couldn’t stay away altogether. This jacket, now, with its gay blue stripes—trying it on at the haberdasher’s, he had stepped in front of a big double mirror at the back of the store and for the first time had seen himself, all six feet of him, standing there beside himself—a pair of Herberts, head to toe—and had had to turn away at once and walk about, trying to look casual, till the feeling went away. It had been very strong that day, so strong it frightened him. Still, it had been worth it. The jacket was exactly right. It had cost a lot, but you couldn’t court a girl like Ruby Nill in rags and tatters. And anyway, they were making a fair amount of money, he and Dick, this second summer in Mussel Point, running the m
erry-go-round and the new shooting gallery. He could afford the jacket, and the straw hat waiting on a chair beside the bureau. He picked up the hat and put it on, tilting it at a rakish angle.

  “Whatcha doin’ now?” said little Frank.

  “What’s it look like I’m doing?” Herbert roared, exasperated. “I’m putting on my hat.”

  “Why?” said Frank.

  Herbert stalked out of the bedroom and went down the hall to the parlor. This cottage—it was far too small, just like the mirror. Three in one bedroom was too much like the Home. Worse, even, since one of the three was only four years old. Well, they would be doing better soon. Soon he and Dick would each have a house of their own, and his would not be anything like this. His would have an upstairs to it, and an indoor bathroom. “Now, listen, Dick,” he said, “you got to get Frank off the bed. He’s getting applesauce all over everything.”

  Dick put down the newspaper he’d been reading. “Says here,” he reported, “fellow went all the way across the Irish Channel in a balloon.”

  “Balloon, eh?” said Herbert. “That’s interesting. Maybe we should get a balloon ride. We could run it back and forth across the lake.”

  “Gee, I dunno, Bertie,” said Dick, stretching out his good leg with a comfortable sigh. “You already got a list a mile long, things you want to get.”

  “That’s right,” said Herbert, “and I’m going to get ’em, too. All of ’em.”

  Dick shook his head at this, smiling, but as usual he was full of admiration. And astonishment.

  “How do I look?” asked Herbert, readjusting the hat.

  “Real nice,” said Dick. “You goin’ out to see Ruby?”

  “Yep. Taking her rowing.”

  “Bertie,” said Dick carefully, “how come you’re spending every Sunday on Ruby? You don’t even like her. Least, that’s what you said before.”