Part 17 (1/2)
”But you could,” she insisted. ”You'd just have to adapt your mind to the idea of an altered reality, a new set of rules.”
”What about you?” I asked. ”What if you could no longer practice math?”
”That doesn't make sense,” she said. ”There will always be math. It's the most fundamental building block of the universe. Humankind can live without MTV and Banana Republic-even, in a pinch, without literature-but not without math.”
”For argument's sake,” I insisted, ”let's just say that's part of the deal. No math for you. Ever.”
”That's different,” she said. ”Everything in your life right now is just a hobby, it's expendable. But math is my calling. You don't give up your calling, no matter what.”
I stood up and stepped away, tossing the last of my lemonade on the ground. It quickly sunk into the earth, leaving a dark spot on the dirt. ”I'll wait for you in the car.”
”Don't be so sensitive,” Lila said.
”This calling of yours. What has it gotten you? No friends, that's for sure. No boyfriends. Maybe I don't know what I'm supposed to do with my life, but at least I won't die a virgin.” It was the meanest thing I could think of to say. Later, I would regret it, but at the time I wanted to hurt her, the way she'd hurt me by pointing out what I feared was my greatest shortcoming. For a genius, finding one's life's purpose was easy. For the rest of us, it was a considerably more difficult task.
After that, I sat in the car in the driveway, doors open, Billy Idol cranked up high on the tape deck. From behind my sungla.s.ses, I watched Lila riding Dorothy through the pasture. She looked natural on the horse, like she was meant to be there. It was almost two hours before she came out to the car. At some point I dozed off. When I woke up the tape had run out, and Lila was sitting in the driver's seat, trying to get the car to start. ”I think you killed the battery,” she said.
”I'm sorry.”
”No, I'm sorry. You're going to be great at whatever you do.”
”Thanks,” I mumbled. I wasn't entirely ready to forgive her yet, but I appreciated the apology. The weird thing about Lila was that she could say a thing like that-about my having no calling-without any malice; to her, it was simply a matter of stating the truth. It wouldn't have occurred to her that her honesty might be hurtful.
”I mean it,” she said. ”You will.” She gave my arm a little squeeze. ”I'll go find William and ask him to give us a jump-start.”
A few minutes later, she came out of the house with a big guy in overalls and a Giants cap. I couldn't tell if he was wearing the overalls ironically or not. ”William, meet my sister, Ellie,” Lila said. ”Ellie, William.”
William tipped his hat and mumbled, ”Nice to meet you,” then went off to get his truck and jumper cables. He hooked up the cables and Lila sat in the driver's seat, turning the ignition on command. He had our car running again in a couple of minutes. When he was finished, he propped his forearms on Lila's open window, leaned into the car, and said, ”Should be all right as long as you keep the engine running.”
”He smells like sweat and apple pie,” I said to Lila, as we pulled out onto the main road.
”You say that like it's a good thing,” Lila said.
”Isn't it?”
She didn't answer.
”I think he likes you,” I said.
”William?” she said, laughing. ”We've got absolutely nothing in common. Actually, he's more your type than mine.”
”How's that?”
”He's really into music. He was in some weird band.”
It was a nothing comment, something I quickly forgot. I rarely went back to the farm, and the only other time I saw William was on the day, a year or two later, when I went out there with Lila to sell Dorothy. Now, as I sat on the stool in front of the cow, swis.h.i.+ng the warm milk around in a plastic cup, I thought about that afternoon so long ago, the good-looking guy who seemed to have a little crush on Lila. At the time, it had seemed so insignificant. William, Billy-it was starting to make sense. What have I done my beautiful one/what have I done?
AFTER MILKING THE COWS, FRANK TOOK THE KIDS on a hayride. ”What about seat belts?” said the blonde woman who'd been struggling to get her kids out of their car seats when I arrived.
”It's a hay wagon, honey,” Frank said. ”Doesn't come with seat belts.”
”I don't know,” the mom said, but her kids screamed until she let them ride.
Afterward, Frank showed everyone to the smokehouse, where a whole pig hung by its feet, head dangling. The throat had been slit, but the face still looked alarmingly piglike. The boy who had led the ”Drink it!” cheer after I milked Tabitha ran out of the smokehouse, sobbing.
After the smokehouse there was a pumpkin-carving contest. At precisely four-thirty, Frank thanked everyone for coming and sent them all home with a free slice of sugar pie. I stood with him in front of the house and watched the last car roll slowly down the driveway.
Thirty-five.
THE FOYER OF THE FARMHOUSE WAS LARGE and square, with wide-plank floors and fading floral wallpaper. In the center of the room was a wrought-iron sewing machine table, on which stood a vase filled with sunflowers. Upon stepping inside, I was struck by a profound sense of deja vu. I must have been in the house with Lila on one of my handful of visits to the farm, although I had no distinct memory of it. The place smelled of floor polish, potpourri, and the musty, burnt odor that lingers after a rug has been cleaned with an old vacuum cleaner. In the room to the right, which was filled with old settees and high-backed chairs, the pale green carpet bore the marks of a recent vacuuming.
Across from the front door, a staircase led up to the second floor. There was a sudden movement upstairs, followed by the creaking of the floorboards, and I glanced up to see someone retreating into one of the upstairs rooms-a white flash of elbow, the dark shadow of a shoe. Swirls of dust circulated in bars of light at the top of the staircase.
”This way,” Frank said, leading me through the carpeted room, past a large flat-screen television and a bookcase crowded with videos and DVDs, into the kitchen. The kitchen was s.p.a.cious and light-filled. A gleaming, stainless-steel refrigerator towered next to an antique Wedgwood stove. A diner-style booth, complete with red vinyl seats, had been built into the bay window. The effect was charming and somewhat unsettling. I imagined the way a marriage and family would unfold inside this house, indecisively, haphazard as the decor. I suspected most houses shared more in common with this place than with my own childhood home, where each piece of furniture was chosen with an eye for its relations.h.i.+p to the others, and where every object had its proper place.
”Have a seat,” Frank said. The vinyl squeaked as I slid into the booth. The seats smelled as though they'd been scoured with Lysol, and the gleaming windows reeked of Windex.
”Regular or decaf?” Frank asked.
”Regular, please.”
He took a canister of chicory coffee down from the cupboard and measured the ground coffee into an old percolator. Just as he was setting it on the stove, a phone rang, and he excused himself. He was gone for several minutes. When the percolator began rattling, I turned off the burner and poured the coffee into cups, glad to have something to do. I wandered around the kitchen, hoping to find something that would give me clues about the elusive Billy Boudreaux. But the photos on the fridge were mainly of a little girl-elementary school shots, Girl Scout camp, high school graduation, what appeared to be a Hawaiian vacation. A collection of ceramic cookie jars shaped like various Disney characters lined a high shelf, and a set of copper pots and pans hung from a metal rack above the island.
Frank returned. ”Sorry about that. It was my daughter.”
”The one in the pictures?”
”Yep. She's doing a semester down in the Florida Keys, studying the effect of global warming on sponge life and coral reefs. They have this underwater laboratory down there called Aquarius, sixty feet below the surface, and they broadcast in real time over the Internet. It's addictive. First thing in the morning I'm sitting at my computer, hoping to catch a glimpse of Tally with the tanks strapped to her back.”
He put a plate of brownies on the table between us. ”I'd have never guessed she'd decide on a career in marine biology,” he continued. ”Her mother and I are completely land-bound. I'm ashamed to confess I don't even know how to swim. But that's what kids do-they surprise you. You have any?” He glanced at my left hand.
”Not yet.”
For a few more minutes we made small talk, as if neither of us quite knew how to broach the obvious subject. We talked about Tally, and the farm, and his wife's previous career as the curator of a small art gallery in the city. I asked him about the large collection of DVDs and videos I'd seen in the other room, to which he replied that he was something of a movie buff. ”Actually, I inherited them from my brother, Will,” he said. ”More than half of those are his. Over the years I've been expanding the collection.”
”Inherited?”
”He has no use for them now, of course.”
I waited for him to say more by way of explanation. But he didn't elaborate. For a few seconds neither of us spoke. Frank kept nibbling at the brownies, like a nervous habit. He must have eaten four of them before we finally got around to the subject we'd been dancing around all day.
”You said you've been waiting for me,” I said finally. ”Why?”
”One thing I've learned in this life is that the past always resurfaces. It simply stood to reason that you'd come around one day. You've been here before. It's all a big circle, right?”