“If you want.”
Carl lay back on the grass, resting his head on his arm, a short distance from Barbara.
“You’re interested in a lot of things,” Barbara said.
“I guess I am.”
“In a way I wish I had your enthusiasm. It’s been a year since I read a whole book. I start reading, but I don’t finish anything. I haven’t done any real reading since I was in school. I used to read all the time, then. Books and books. Like the girl in the ad.”
“The ad?”
“The girl without a date. In her room.”
“Oh. That girl.”
“But a friend tipped her off and everything changed. Toothpaste or mouthwash or deodorant. Or the right bra. I always thought that went a little more to the heart of things. The right bra. Those ads didn’t mince around. The little profile ads on the back page of the newspaper.”
“Books aren’t really so important,” Carl said. “I used to think so but I don’t any more. I don’t read as much as I used to. I’m getting out of the habit. For a while I was reading Proust. I read and read, but I never got through more than the first couple of books. I’d start a sentence and by the time it finished I’d have forgotten the beginning.”
There was silence. “What part of the country do you come from?” Barbara murmured, after a time.
“Oh, we came originally from Denver. When I was about three we moved to California. My mother died while we were in California. I went to live with my grandparents. I moved around. I was living in St. Louis when I went to work for the Company. They moved me from the domestic branch over here. I applied for overseas work when I signed up.”
“How long ago was that?”
“About five years ago. Good Lord. I’ve been working for the Company five years.”
“How old were you when you started?”
“Eighteen. Almost nineteen.”
“Why did you want to work for the Company?”
“The draft, partly. I was tired of school. I had been going to the university for a while. I wanted to get a job. And I wanted to get a job that would keep me out of military service. Sometimes I think I made a mistake, but at the time I really wanted to give up school and work.”
“Why?”
“Well, I had been going to school so long. I was tired of being a school boy. I wanted to earn my own way. Support myself. Get out in the world.”
“Don’t you miss school?”
“I had already begun to lose faith in books.”
“That early?”
“I lost faith in my books and my microscope and slides and Bunsen burner. My maps and notes and papers.”
“Why?”
“Well, I was in a period of internal turmoil. I didn’t know what I wanted to do. I had been interested in a lot of things, but they never turned into anything that was important. They never seemed to get out of the hobby stage. I found myself in a world that was made up of quite different things than my slides and notes and books. There didn’t seem to be any connection between—between all the things in my room and what I ran into outside.”
Barbara sat up. She took out her cigarettes and lit up. Carl watched her, turning his head on one side.
“How about you?” he said.
“Me?”
“Where did you come from?”
Barbara laughed. “From Boston.”
“I thought you had a New England accent! I was right.”
“It’s not a New England accent. It’s not anything. Damn it—why do people always think they’re so clever when they figure out where you come from?”
“I’m sorry.”
“Boston people talk completely differently from me.”
“I’ve never been in Boston. What’s Boston like?”
“Like any other town, I suppose.”
“What do you remember about it?”
“Not much. A few impressions.” Barbara leaned back again, against the warm grass. She folded her arms, cigarette smoke drifting up. “When I think of Boston I remember the Common. I remember that first.”
“The Boston Common?”
“It’s like a park. A public park. When it was hot in the evenings, in the summer time, we used to go out and sleep on the grass. Like this. Warm and dry. With the sky full of endless stars.”
“Was that the kind of weather you had there?”
“Not all the time.” She laughed. “Sometimes we had the worst possible weather. One night I was walking home. I had a job as a waitress after school, in a one-arm beanery, near the campus. It was about midnight. All of a sudden it began to rain. Great sheets of rain, coming down, blowing along, trees bending, signs blown over. I started to run. I ran and ran until I came to the Common, all dark and soggy. I ran right across it. Finally I came to a wall of some sort. I hid under the edge of the wall, where the rain didn’t come. Water was pouring down on all sides of me. Nobody was out. Nothing but rain. I got out my cigarettes and my matches. I was just beginning to smoke. I lit every match, all twenty, one after another. They were water logged, I guess. None of them lit. There was water dripping off me, my hair, my clothes. And no one around. Only the rain and the grass. And the wall behind me.”
“That’s what you remember about Boston?”
“Yes.”
“Did you ever get home?”
“Finally.”
Carl considered. “Strange how things like that will stick in your mind. Bits and fragments from your past. Snatches, like tunes. Phrases. A few words.”
Barbara smiled. “Do you have a past, Carl?”
He nodded.
“How old are you? Twenty-three?”
“Yes. How did you know?”
“You were eighteen when you began to work for the Company. You said that was five years ago.”
“Oh.” Carl rubbed his chin.
“What’s the matter?”
“I wondered if I looked twenty-three. Sometimes I think I look older, and then sometimes I’m sure I look just like some kid. When I go to shave in the morning I always get a sort of a shock. I think I’ll see a kid of fourteen, with long shaggy hair and—and skin trouble.”
“Do you want to be fourteen again?”
“No! I really don’t. I’m glad it’s behind me, all those years. My boyhood.”
“You said you were interested in things, then.”
“Yes. I had books, and drawings, and my microscope, and my electric motor, and the chemistry set. But there was a sort of unhealthiness about it. I was so much involved in things, running from one thing to another. Like ants running around a hot stove. Faster and faster. I had a whole roomful of things, boxes and piles and heaps. A desk of things, every drawer stuffed full. Maps on the walls. Rows of books. I stayed home from school all the time, to work on my things.”
“Was that so bad?”
“There was something unhealthy about it. Inside my room—And outside, everything was different. Two worlds, my room full of things, and the things outside.” Carl stared off into space, frowning. “It was hard for me to get across. Over to the outside things. There was something about them that didn’t make sense. At least, the things in my room made sense. I knew what they were for. Why they existed and did what they did. But the things outside—”
“What happened outside?”
“I remember one thing. There was an old cat, a worn out old yellow tomcat that lived at the house behind us. All torn, ears cut, one eye missing, nothing left of his tail but the bone and a few patches of fur. He was old. Finally he got sick and lay out in the yard, their yard. The people who owned him never even went near him. He lay out in the long grass with the sagging porch swing and the beer bottles, with all the flies buzzing around him.”
“I saw him out of the bathroom window, lying in the grass, gasping and dying. I went to the refrigerator and got some ground meat my mother was saving for supper. I took the meat out to him. The grass was long and wet. I remember how it felt under my feet, against my pants. It was
hot—the sun was bright. I sat down on a board in the grass and pushed the food toward the cat. I was about nine years old, I think. I held out the food, but the cat was dead. For a long time I sat looking down at him. His one good eye stared sightlessly up at me. Flies crawled all over his skinny body, over his skin and fur, into his mouth. I would have dug a hole and buried him, but I didn’t think of it. A boy of nine wouldn’t know that. After a while I went back inside the house, and put the meat away.”
They were silent. Barbara said nothing. A few birds came hopping across the lawn, past the garden of flowers, big dark birds, listening for worms. Carl watched them hopping by, cocking their heads, waiting, then going on. The birch trees by the side of the house swayed back and forth with the faint afternoon wind.
“It’s too bad when people don’t take care of their pets,” Barbara said presently.
“Well, perhaps it was a good thing. At least, for me. It had quite an effect on me. I never really got over it. Seeing the cat there, in the wet grass.”
“What kind of an effect?”
“It was the kind of thing that made me begin to lose interest in my hobbies. That made me see that something was wrong. I started moving away from all my hobbies and things. Once in a while I wish I had them back. Once in a while I find myself thinking about them. They filled up so much of my life. I could have gone on. Becoming a biologist. Something to do with microscopes and slides. Perhaps I should have. I dream about it. I dream about some old book store, with old adventure magazines piled up. Or a stamp store with rare stamps still on the old covers. I saved stamps and magazines. I had heaps of dusty things.”
Carl closed his eyes, putting his arm across his face to blot out the sun. He sighed.
“It’s nice,” Barbara said.
“Yes, it’s very warm and comfortable. The grass and the sun. Waiting for the new owners to come. Dozing and lying and waiting. While the grass grows around us. It’s growing right now, while we’re lying here. Up and up. Higher all the time.” Carl’s voice trailed off. “Up around us. Covering us.”
“Why do you say that?”
“As if we had all died. All of us that are still here. The few still left. Stretched out calmly, with our arms folded across our chests. Waiting for the undertakers to come. That’s them—the new owners. Our undertakers. Coming from over the hills. Soon well be able to hear the sound. The rumble of their—of their hearses. The distant rumble, coming closer and closer.”
He yawned and became silent.
Barbara turned her head, gazing at Carl lying beside her, stretched out on the grass, his arm over his eyes, his mouth open. He looked very young. His skin was pale and clear. He was big. Six feet, probably. A lot bigger than most men she had known. But Carl wasn’t a man. He was still a boy. A boy, thinking about his microscope and stamps and books.
But someday he would begin to get old, too. He would dry up and wither away like everyone else. What he said was true. They would all die, and their remains would be turned under the ground, under the damp ground. Under the grass. Where the sun didn’t shine at all. Where it was cold and dark, and things moved around. Blind things, reaching and feeling. Cold clammy things that touched and felt That oozed along.
Barbara sat up. Sweat trickled down the back of her neck. It was hot A bright, hot day. She took a deep breath of the fresh air. It smelled good. It smelled of all the flowers and the birch trees. And the drying grass around them. She gazed down at the boy. He had taken his arm from his face. His heavy blond hair glistened in the sun. How smooth his skin was! Even his chin and neck. Did he really shave? Probably not very often. Barbara watched him for a long time without moving. He was big and young, very young. Still thinking about his childhood. He was like the day. Like the sunlight and the trees and the garden of flowers. He was blond and glistening and full of life. She could see perspiration glowing on his neck, above his shirt. He was warm from the sun; she was warm, too. She rubbed her arms, yawning sleepily.
Carl opened his eyes. “This is Mark Twain weather,” he said. “Along the Mississippi. Catfish and rafts.”
His eyes were blue. Warm, friendly blue.
“Makes you want to sleep.”
“Then sleep.”
“No.” She drew back suddenly, away from him. “No thanks.” For some reason she had thought of Verne, and the sagging cot in her room. The covers, the clothes. Verne and the cup of lukewarm whisky. “I’ve slept enough, in my time.”
“You know, if a person computed the total hours spent in sleeping during his lifetime—”
“We already discussed that once, today.”
“That’s so. I guess we did. Sorry.”
Barbara nodded.
“It’s interesting, though,” Carl said presently. “Interesting to think about. Sleep involves time. Time is the fundamental problem of philosophy.” He waited hopefully, but Barbara said nothing. She had lit a second cigarette and was staring down at it, deep in meditation.
“What?” she said abruptly.
“I was just talking about time.”
“Oh.”
“What are you thinking about?”
“Nothing.” She shook her head. “Nothing at all. Go on with what you were saying.”
“I was just talking. You know, I’ve started an essay about this kind of thing. Time and change. Death, growth. Trying to sum up what I think. A sort of treatise.”
She nodded.
“A summary of what I believe. A philosophical credo. I have it all wrapped up with brown paper and cord, to make sure nothing happens to it.”
“Is it finished?”
“Almost. I have to get somebody to type it up for me. It’s in longhand.”
“What are you going to do with it?”
“I don’t know. I’m not sure.”
“Are you going to try to have it published?”
“Well, I could get it published, if I wanted. I know a woman that works for one of the big publishing places. But I don’t think I’ll do that.” Carl plucked vaguely at a stalk of grass. “I think I’ll just keep it around to look at, from time to time. It has no universal value. I may well be the only person who ever reads it.”
“Maybe you could show it to me, sometime.”
Carl brightened. “That’s an interesting idea. I might read you parts of it. Not long parts, of course. A few sections here and there.”
“That would be nice.”
Carl warmed up. “You wouldn’t mind, would you? If it bored you, we could stop instantly. Most of it is pretty dull, but you might be interested in some parts. I’ll go over it and pick out the interesting parts. What do you say? Do you mind listening to some of it?”
“I’d like to.” Barbara studied the boy thoughtfully. He was smiling at her, his eyes large and blue. Again she thought of him, standing timidly outside her door. Standing in the hall, gathering himself together to knock. Trying to get up enough courage to do what he wanted to do. Twice he had done that. The first night, while she was putting all her things away. And then again, while she and Verne were in the room together. Both times he had come, the big tall boy with his honest blue eyes, his blond hair. Siegfried… The innocent youth, come to redeem and save.
Carl’s face was devoid of guile. His smile was warm and open, without secret meaning or intent. Now he wanted to read his essay to her. What did it mean? Anything beyond what he said it meant? No. Carl was as open and guileless as Christ Himself. If it were anybody else asking her—But she could not imagine him telling a lie. She could not imagine the great blond features screwed up into deceit.
“Yes, I’d like to,” she said again.
“Fine.”
Barbara got slowly to her feet, putting out her cigarette. “Where are you going?”
“It’s getting cold. I’m going in.”
“Is it?” Carl scrambled up. “You’re going inside already?”
“Want to walk along?”
“Sure. You’re not—not mad at me, are you?”
r /> “Mad? Why should I be mad?”
“I don’t know. Do you mind listening to my essay? If you do, just say so.”
“I don’t mind.”
“I don’t want to impose on you.”
“For Christ’s sake!”
Carl shrank away, pain flushing across his face. Like a struck child. She was sorry instantly. She put out her hand, touching him on the shoulder.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to snarl. I have a lot on my mind. Things to worry about.”
He blinked hopefully, regaining some of his lost joy. “I guess I talk too much.”
Barbara put her arm through his. “Let’s go. Come along. We’ll get burned if we stay out any longer.”
“That’s right,” Carl said. “It’s hard to tell about that. The wind blows over you and gives you the false notion that you’re not directly in the path of the sun’s rays. You don’t feel it, but all the time—”
He stopped, seeing that she wasn’t listening. She was thinking again, far off in thought. Frowning a little. As if a bug were buzzing around her head, while she was trying to think. Carl became silent.
“Where shall we go?” Barbara said suddenly.
“Wherever you want.”
“Let’s go fix some coffee.”
“All right.”
“You can read to me tomorrow. How would that be? If it’s a nice day. We’ll sit outside and read.”
“Fine.” Carl beamed. “It’s much more fun to read out in the sunlight, instead of inside. Reading inside has a kind of museum quality about it. Stuffy. Like dry dust.”
Barbara walked across the grass, Carl following behind her. She felt vague annoyance; why did he have to worry everything to death? On and on he went, shaking each subject until there wasn’t anything left in it.
But he was like a child. A big child that had never learned. She slowed down, waiting for him to catch up.
“The hills look nice,” Carl said.
Already, he had forgotten. She sighed. Like some big overgrown child. “Yes, they look fine.”
They walked along together. Carl put his hands in his pockets, kicking at rocks ahead of him. Neither of them said anything. Carl gazed around at the trees and the sky and the distant hills.