Part 13 (1/2)

I unlocked the cabin and opened all the windows. We started to carry and stow. A lot of the things were too heavy for Paul and everything he carried he seemed to handle badly. He picked things up only with the tips of his fingers. When I told him to take the shotgun in, he carried it awkwardly by the b.u.t.t rather than where it balanced. He carried one of the shovels by its blade. When we were through, there was sweat on his face and he seemed red and hot He still wore his pea coat.

It was after five when we finished. The bugs were out and it was getting cool. Last fall Susan and I had bought a cheap stereo and put it in the cabin. I put on the Benny Goodman 1938 jazz concert while I made a fire. I had a beer while I started supper. Paul came in from looking at the lake and got a c.o.ke out of the refrigerator. He went into the living room. In a minute he was back.

”Didn't you bring a television?” he said.

”No,” I said.

He snorted angrily and went back in the living room. I figured he'd stare at the record player. Anything in a pinch.

I opened a large can of beans and put them in a pan to heat. While they heated I put out some pickles and rye bread, ketchup, plates, and utensils. Then I panfried two steaks. We ate at a table in the living room, the kitchen was too small, listening to the Goodman band, watching the fire move, and smelling the wood smoke. Paul still wore the pea coat although the room was warm from the fire.

After supper I got out my book and started to read. Paul picked up the record alb.u.ms and looked at them and put them back in disgust. He looked out the window. He went outside to look around but came back in almost at once. The bugs were out as it got dark.

”You shoulda brought a TV,” he said once.

”Read,” I said. ”There's books there.”

”I don't like to read.”

”It's better than looking at the lamp fixtures till bedtime, isn't it?”

”No.”

I kept reading.

Paul said, ”What's that book?”

”A Distant Mirror,” I said.

”What's it about?”

”The fourteenth century.”

He was quiet. Sap oozed out of the end of a log and sputtered onto the hot ash beneath it.

”What do you want to read about the fourteen hundreds for?” Paul said.

”Thirteen hundreds,” I said. ”Just like the nineteen hundreds are the twentieth century.”

Paul shrugged. ”So why do you want to read about it?”

I put the book down. ”I like to know what life was like for them,” I said. ”I like the sense of connection over six hundred years that I can get.”

”I think it's boring,” Paul said.

”Compared to what?” I said.

He shrugged.

”I think it's boring compared to taking Susan Silverman to Paris,” I said. ”Things are relative.”

He didn't say anything.

”I know more about being human when I know more about their lives. I get a certain amount of perspective. The time was full of people that killed, tortured, suffered, struggled, and agonized for things that seemed worth anything to them. Now they've been dead for six hundred years. What's it all about, Ozymandias?”

”Huh?”

” 'Ozymandias'? It's a poem. Here, I'll show you.” I got up and found a book in the box I hadn't unpacked yet.

”Listen,” I said. I read the poem to him. Deliberately in the firelit room. It was about his level.

He said, ”She your girl friend?”

I said, ”What?”

He said, ”Susan Silverman. She your girl friend?”

”Yes,” I said.

”You going to get married?”

”I don't know.”

”You love her?”

”Yes.”

”How about her?” he said.

”Does she love me?”

He nodded.

”Yes,” I said.

”Then why don't you get married?”

”I'm not sure. Mostly it's a question of how we'd affect each other, I suppose. Would I interfere with her work? Would she interfere with mine? That sort of thing.”

”Wouldn't she quit work?”

”No.”

”Why not? I would. I wouldn't work if I didn't have to.”

”She likes her work. Makes her feel good about herself. Me too. If you just did it for money, of course you'd want to quit. But if you do it because you like to...” I gestured with my hand. ”What do you like to do?”