What new with Levin in the September weeks before classes began?
His world—inside he was Levin, although the New Levin, man of purpose after largely wasted years. For Mrs. Beaty, an old widow alone with her roomer in a bulky two-story white frame house, he performed chores he hadn’t conceived doing before, in exchange for something off the rent. Levin mowed lawns front and rear—the health of the grass was amazing, it sprouted overnight and every week he had to cut. On a shaky ladder that left him with nervous knees he gathered yellow pears, shying away from the bees sucking the sweet wounds of fruit. The cherry tree had yielded, thank God, at the end of June, and the walnut wasn’t due till late October. The landlady had eight trees on her hundred by seventy-five, including an orange-berried mountain ash, new to his eye.
Three weeks after he had arrived, after a night of rain Levin raked off the front lawn the first enormous leaves, fallen like wet rags from the sycamores in front of the old houses across the street; he had thought, until the old woman told him no, that they were from some Bunyanesque species of maple tree.
A truck dumped a backbreaking load of practically orange sawdust in the alley, and Levin slowly shoveled it through a window into the cellar—working up respect for the shovelers of the world—where it gave off a Christmas-tree fragrance that all but levitated the house. Mrs. Beaty demonstrated how to light the sawdust furnace and Levin agreed to keep it hot when the weather got cold, load the hopper twice a day, and every month vacuum the dust filters in the heat blower. He learned a sickle was not a scythe when he laboriously cut down and dug up a weedy flower garden she could no longer take care of, and discovered last season’s walnuts and acorns, six varieties of worms, a soggy doll, and thickly-rusted screw driver from yesteryear. The past hides but is present. Watching a robin straining to snap a worm out of the earth Levin momentarily thought of himself as a latter-day Thoreau, but gave that up—he had come too late to nature. He whitewashed cellar walls until his beard dripped like the brush he was using; hosed the clapboard front of the house; again on a ladder, dug leaves out of rain gutters; changed washers in water taps; and though it worried him to work with electricity, even replaced wall switches where old ones were broken. Levin was surprised at all an inexperienced hand could do with only a slight loss of blood. He seriously considered taking up hunting and fishing, and planned to visit Seattle and San Francisco as soon as he had a few dollars in his pocket.
Mrs. Beaty lived and let live, a woman of sixty-nine, gone half deaf; she wore a gray comb in her gray hair and a hearing button in her left ear but rarely turned it on except to answer the phone when she “felt” it ringing, and to talk with Levin when he ate in the kitchen—this was their major involvement.
Sometimes when he avoided her he realized she was avoiding him. She went to bed at eight each night, except on the rare nights she entertained; and early the next morning, wearing galoshes to protect her shoes from the wet grass, was already snipping flowers, or poking into the shrubbery around the house. She lived unself-consciously in the presence of her dead husband’s cabinetry, rocking chair, pipes; his tools were still hanging above his workbench in the cellar. She had, she sometimes said, nothing against the world, and Levin envied her a little. She actively cleaned, baked, canned and sewed; she cooked well and was generous with food although careful with a dime. The cat got scraps. Levin did better; more than once she insisted on adding something to his inexpensive meals. And to make things livelier she promised another roomer soon, a graduate student from Syria. She took in only a gentleman or two, she said; ladies were too hard on hot water, the telephone, and the gentlemen. She said she was a minister’s daughter and then remarked how nice it was to have a “scholar” in the house. For a full week she called him “Dr. Levin,” but he denied it until she reverted to “mister.” Once or twice, apropos of nothing, she said she knew Dr. Gilley quite well. Her husband had worked for him more than once and they had gone fishing together. She was not well acquainted with Mrs. Gilley but had heard about her from mutual friends.
Levin enjoyed the run of the house; never before had he lived where inside was so close to out. In a tenement, each descent to the street was an expedition through dank caves and dreary tunnels. He enjoyed the cherry tree reaching its knotty, mildewed branches to his back window. At the side he had a view of the wooded hills, changing shape and color as the clouds did. He could see the mountains from three windows. Not locking doors when he went out was new to him and he worried things might be stolen but soon stopped locking his doors. He noticed bicycles and toys left on lawns overnight and was pleased this could be done.
Levin’s large room, next to the smaller one awaiting the Syrian student, was lit in sunlight during the afternoon. It grew hot for a while but sea breezes cooled it at four. At night he slept under two blankets, another kindness of nature. His white metal bed was an old-fashioned double-he suspected it had been Mrs. Beaty’s marriage bed; he slept on its right side, on his right; he dreamed too often on his left. The desk he used was a good-sized walnut table built by the carpenter; it stood at the window with a view to the hills. Levin sat there often during the day writing in a thick hard-covered notebook he had used years ago as a commonplace book, and had recently revived. He wrote in it summaries of books he thought highly of, copying out passages. One section of the notebook was for “insights,” and a few pages in the middle detailed “plans.” He often read over sentences he had copied, such as “To change intention changes fortune”—Montaigne ; “Important principles may and must be inflexible” —A. Lincoln, and was lately writing them into short essays he tried his hand at. Among Levin’s “insights” were: “The new life hangs on an old soul,” and “I am one who creates his own peril.” Also, “The danger of the times is the betrayal of man” —S. Levin. He exhorted himself to “keep the circle broken.” He was a conscientious becomer but worried that it had taken him so long to get started. The future burned in his head. Time not converted to good use tormented him; he liked having his new alarm clock around because it helped, in a primitive way, to organize him. Sleep loosened the nuts and bolts of his defenses, but time used to good purpose tightened them. Sitting at his desk, he studied
The Elements,
did the workbook exercises, and read all the essays in
Science in Technology,
taking notes from which to develop class lessons. He wished there were a poem or two in the book.
Levin warned himself to get out of the room more often. The warning was urgent so he walked. The country was conveniently fifteen minutes in any direction; if through downtown, then across a white plank bridge over the Sacajawea
River. He tramped for miles along dirt roads, wherever they led, usually from one farm to another. For weeks the blue sky was cloudless but lately huge white masses drifted in from the Pacific, floating toward the east. He wore his raincoat and carried a large umbrella; he did not like to be caught in a storm and soaked. A city boy let loose, Levin took in all the sights, stopping for five minutes at his first row of rural mailboxes. He enjoyed the variety of aging and ancient barns. In bright sunlight the stubble of grain- or grass-harvested fields looked like snow on the ground. One farm had a green scrub oak at its center that seemed to be growing in snow. The illusion created pleasure. He watched farmers burning the harvest stubble and afterward the fields were black, a sight he had never imagined. One day, as he walked past a black field, a visible funnel of wind whirled over it and headed for him. Levin wildly wondered whether to run, grab a fence post, or lie still in the road; then the little twister turned and blew another way. Within a week men on tractors were harrowing the burnt fields, and the rich brown earth looked newly combed and awaiting planting. The sight of the expectant earth raised a hunger in Levin’s throat. He yearned for the return of spring, a terrifying habit he strongly resisted: the season was not yet officially autumn. He was now dead set against the destruction of unlived time. As he walked, he enjoyed surprises of landscape: the variety of green, yellow, brown, apd black fields, compositions with distant trees, the poetry of perspective. Without investment to speak of he had become rich in sight of nature, a satisfying wealth. In the past he had had almost none of this, though in winter he had tenaciously watched the frozen city trees for the first signs of budding; observed with reluctance the growth of leaves; walked alone at night close to full-blown summer trees; and in autumn followed dead leaves to their graves. Now he took in miles of countryside—a marvelous invention. He had never seen so many horses, sheep, pigs across fences. The heavy Herefords (he had looked them up) turned white faces to the
road as he went by. He had never seen one in the open before, or black Angus; they had never seen a Levin.
The image of autumn was already in his eye, but he did not compel it, as he had in the past compelled every flower and tree, to solace, or mourn with, his spirit. He saw almost the moment when strings of white birch leaves faded from green to yellow; and under the green skirts of maples, bunches of leaves flared gold. Except for a scarlet vine on a fence there were few reds—this into October, a green and yellow autumn, less poignant than his last year’s. Except on warm days it took a sharp sniffer to unearth its bouquet, for an almost monotonous freshness of air dampened the effects of odor. He missed the smell of change and its associations, the sense of unwilled motion toward an inevitable end, of winter coming and what of one’s life in a cold season? What most moved him was memory. Yet when the autumn day was momentarily cloudless, blue-skied, still to the point of a dog’s bark miles away, it sometimes burdened the heart.
One afternoon after a long lonely walk, a mood induced, he thought, by the odor of wood smoke in the air, Levin stopped off at the Gilleys.
Pauline, coming to the door in tight violet toreador pants and a paint-smeared shirt, drew back when she saw him.
“Oh, you frightened me,” she laughed in embarrassment, “I wasn’t expecting anyone. That is, a guest.”
“Excuse me,” Levin said. “Is your husband home?”
“Why no,” she said, controlled now. “He’s downtown doing something at the bank. After that he was planning to go to the hardware store to buy a toilet seat for our split one in the upstairs bathroom—the kids slam them down so hard. Would you care to come in? The house is a mess, I’ve been painting chairs.”
But he saw from her distraction she wished he wouldn’t. Levin said thanks and moved away. He said he would see Gerald in the office. The screen door slammed behind her.
“‘Come see us often,’” he mimicked her.
Unwilling to be enticed by old habits of loneness, in late September Levin went to call on Assistant Professor Joseph Bucket. On Gilley’s advice he had previously telephoned George Bullock, but he and his family, after returning from Carmel, had taken off for the coast. Bucket already interested Levin because of what he had heard about him. Mrs. Beaty knew the mother, the widow of a logger killed in the woods when the son was fifteen. He had transferred, after two years at Cascadia College, to the University at Gettysburg, then had served a year in the army, been discharged for an asthmatic condition, and after three hand-to-mouth years at graduate school in Arizona, Bucket had returned as an instructor in English at the College, his Ph.D. uncompleted. He had come back with a pregnant wife and three children. Since they were too poor to buy a house, and to rent a decent place at that time was impossible, Bucket borrowed as much as he could and began to build. Besides teaching and working on his house, he carried on odd-jobs all over town. Now, four years, two more kids, and a promotion later, he was still building, and still writing his dissertation. There was about this man’s experience, as Levin had heard it, a quality that made him think they could be friends.
Bucket lived on the worn side of town, just over a twisting fork of the Sacajawea, a narrow arm of the river at times laden with logs floating down from the hills to a lumbermill at the southeastern edge of Easchester. One afternoon, Levin, wandering past the squarish two-story gray house, sporting a porch much too large for it, discovered the assistant professor on his hands and knees on the steeply-pitched high gabled roof, hammering nails into loose shingles and replacing others.
“Excuse me,” Levin called up, “Professor Bucket?”
“Speaking.” Bucket glanced down to see who it was, then turned cautiously, supporting himself against one of the two-by-fours temporarily nailed down. He was a long skinny man,
about thirty-five, with a narrow face and meaty ears, and he wore large horn-rimmed glasses.
“Maybe I came at the wrong time?” Levin apologized. “I’m the new instructor in the English department. I happened to be passing by and thought I’d say hello.”
Bucket, in cement-stained levis, large army surplus shoes, and a loose, thick home-knit green sweater, rested his hammer and can of nails behind a two-by-four, and still on hands and knees, examined Levin.
“That’s kind of you. Sorry I can’t talk just now. I’m not inhospitable, I’d like you to know, but I have to settle a leak that’s been plaguing us, before it gets too dark to work.”
Levin remained stationary in disappointment.
“Registration Week begins Monday, and since, as I understand it, we have offices on the same floor, we’ll not be without opportunity to converse.”
“With pleasure,” Levin replied. He had harbored a sneaking hope that once they had got started talking Bucket would invite him to come back that evening.