43

 

       WES      

 

    I stand outside the curtain for a minute, listening.  When she says she gives up and quits pestering him, I push the curtain aside and put my head in.  He looks at me strangely, watches as I leave the curtain fall back and come into the room.  We exchange our greetings like two old generals on opposing sides who, despite the colors of our uniforms, are ht only two who agree on the substance of the dispute or the ground rules for an honorable confrontation.  I'm aware that he is scrutinizing me.  He always does, every time we come here.  I try to act as if I don't notice.  She goes on talking.  When I realize from the querulous tone of her voice that she has asked a question, I say, Maybe we should let him get some rest.

    His eyes register something like hurt.

    She rises and brushes some loose hair back from his brow.  He watches me raptly as we leave, ducking our heads through the curtain.  It's a peculiar feeling knowing that someone is lying somewhere thinking about you and you having no idea why.  I feel I should at least return the attention.

    The kitchen is empty, so we go outside.  Her father is working around the other side of the house.  His hammer falls with the deliberate and practiced rhythm of a professional, a man who knows that what will come will come in good time, will not be rushed.  Her mother is puttering, legs splayed, head down, in the garden.  She glances up at the sound of the door but goes back to whatever she's doing without a word or gesture.

    Have a nice talk?  Susan asks it almost rhetorically; she means it as small talk but I choose not to take it that way.

    I suppose.  Your father is having quite a time.  I think the whole thing has gotten away from him.

    How do you mean?  I have her attention now.

    I don't know.  It's as if the house has him in it's power.  He doesn't seem able to stop.  But he's having himself a ball while he's at it.

    I get the feeling my mother thinks he's obsessed by it.

    The house?

    She frowns.  No.  More the work, I'd say. 

    I hadn't thought of it that way, but it makes sense.  I can see that, I tell her.  I can see that.

    Well, after the grand tour, what do you think of it?

    I smile.  We exchange looks.  But even as we're doing it, I feel snobbish and artificial.  I don't really answer for a moment.  I don't know.  Just looking at it, I could say we could use it in an add campaign for what happens when you don't consult an architect.  Obviously it's a mess.  He just added this here and that there until he either got tired adding or ran out of room.  It's a classically botched job of spatial planning, but I have to say it has charm.  I don't know what it is, but there's something there that transcends architecture.  It's like when you find out some big old decadent mansion is built around an old log cabin; it's still as ugly but just knowing that makes a difference in how you'll look at it.  It's not visual, I don't know what it is.  They don't teach it in school.

    Well, he seems happy doing it.

    Yeah, I'd say the whole thing backfired.

    What do you mean, backfired?

    Her mother looks up again as if wondering why we're still standing in the same place, why we haven't come out to talk squash and cucumbers.  Susan waves a little but makes no move to step off the porch.  What do you mean, backfired?

    Well, I had it figured out that your grandfather suggested the whole thing as a way of getting things stirred up, of getting everybody on everybody else's back.  Drive your father crazy.

    Why?

    I shrug.  That's just the way I see your grandfather.  He likes to sit back and watch them go at it, so he sets them against each other whenever he can.  It's how he gets his jollies.

    She's silent.  Her eyes travel the orchard.

    How many times has your mother told you how he tells her something and your aunt something else?  How often does it cause a fight?  Or at least some sarcastic jabbing and sparring.

    He forgets.

    Maybe.

    And maybe not?

    I shrug.  Neither of us speaks for a few minutes.  Finally, I say, Well anyway, if I'm right, it backfired.  Nobody's too upset, or if they are they're not very vocal about it, and your father's turned it around.  Remember how torn he was about it back in April?  Now he's having the time of his life.

    You're usually right about them, but

    I know.

    I don't like to think that about him.

    I know.  But you yourself told me of times he'd give Eric something he knew Doug wanted, something Eric couldn't have cared less about.  Why else would he do something like that?

    I don't know.

    I don't think it's anything to get upset about.  It's just a game to him.  Imagine yourself in his place.  It's just that he's losing this time.  Your father's enjoying himself too much.

    Again we are quiet.  A breeze catches the trees and tosses them momentarily.

    I think I'll go and see my old friend, the dog.  I step off the porch into the sand piled there.

    She laughs.

    I must respond to the sound peculiarly because it redoubles and she seems quite amused at my reaction.  Oh, I'm not laughing at you.  I just remembered, Grandpa says he's going to bring the dog into the house to stay.

    With your folks planning to move up here?  Ha.  After all this years of keeping the poor thing out there?  Need I say more?  Your father has an interesting counter though.

    She just looks at me quizzically.

    He's going to make a pantry out of your grandfather's bedroom.  Wall in the one archway and the window.

    He told you that?

    I nod.

    He told you it was because of the dog?

    No.  I didn't mean it that way.

    Why would he do that?

    It's his house.

    It's as if the idea stuns her. Yes, I guess it is.