Horace Afoot (29 page)

As I round the bend and continue toward the mound the rising sun is at my back. All the excess preoccupations of the morning begin to melt away, and a rising tide of good feeling begins to well up. Can this be?—and the moment the question breaks the calm surface of the mood a measure of it drops away, and I stop walking for a moment to try to recapture it. Horace comes up gasping:

I can’t recall the rest of the ode but stand for several minutes caught in this freakish conjunction of poetry and nature, waiting for the good mood of moments before to reassert itself. The flow of words slows to a trickle, and the gentle breeze across the newly planted field blooms across my shoulders and trembles through my hair. If I had a walking stick and a topcoat and were standing atop the light-drenched peak of a mountain like Caspar David Friedrich’s Wanderer, I think my mood would be no different—except that that wanderer was stirred by some powerful Germanic evocation of wild Nature and Spirit, and I am standing not in a wilderness but on a paved road beside a cultivated field, and on the horizon is an ancient mound about to be excavated and a high-tech munitions factory, and the only Spirit stirring within me is the quiet flight of words and the decocted meanings of texts that I have learned and taken too much to heart.

Parked behind a tree at the base of the mound is Tom Schroeder’s motorcycle. The bike has been positioned so that it is not visible from the road. Schroeder is nowhere to be seen. I conclude from the dew on the seat that it has been parked for some time and wait beside it for a few minutes just in case he suddenly materializes with a can of gas or a wrench or whatever it is he has had to fetch to restart the machine. After a short wait, it occurs to me that maybe he is up top. I walk around to the gate and climb over it at my usual spot.

Instead of going up along the path, I circle at the base and start up from the opposite side. Near the top I crouch behind a thicket. A jack-rabbit bursts from underneath, speeds down the slope, and disappears into the undergrowth at the bottom. A minute or two passes. I am unable to see over the crest, so I inch forward, staying near the tangle of weeds and branches sprouting around the bush. Suddenly a low moan breaks the silence, accompanied by a laugh and a woman’s voice. My pulse begins to race, and I shrink back for a moment. A few seconds pass and a chorus of moaning begins. I creep forward again until over the crest of the mound the naked figure of Sylvia rises in outline against the blue morning sky. She is bent over him, back curled, hands planted on the ground beside his shoulders. They are lying on a sleeping bag beside a small heap of clothing. A fire smolders lightly; a half-gallon bottle of Jack
Daniels is planted in the grass near to hand. I begin to inch back as Schroeder’s supine body heaves upward; lifts the straddling Sylvia, flips her, and sets her down underneath him. Her legs curl up around his thighs, and he begins a rapid tupping that in a few seconds breaks up in spasms and a strained howl. After a few moments he pries himself away and leans back on his haunches, glances down at his slackened penis, grabs the bottle by the handle, and drinks from it. I can see the angel tattooed on his chest. When he tips the bottle upward his long, stringy hair falls away and I can see his face as he drinks. His gorge rises once, twice, three times, and when the retching stops he grins stupidly and hands the bottle to Sylvia. She rises up on one elbow and drinks, spilling down her chin. Schroeder leans forward and slurps the dribbled liquor from her face. She lets out a peal of laughter, plants the bottle in the ground, and pulls Schroeder down to her. He falls toward her with a grunt, toward one more possibility of possibilities.

I back away, crouched, keeping low to the ground. When I’ve dropped far enough from the crest I stand and walk quickly back, climbing the fence at the gate. I sit down at the ruined picnic table in what was once a shaded pull-off and now serves only as a muddy turnaround for cars and trucks and a place to hurl garbage.

Sylvia and Schroeder? I glance toward the summit, and the thought of them mingled together combines with the memory of my awful encounter with her, and I see that garrulous asshole seizing his opportunity without a moment’s hesitation. It was bound to happen, only a matter of time before they beat their miserable paths toward each other. It’s not my business, yet I am disturbed by what I have seen. I don’t think it is concern or outrage or jealousy or lust or moral indignation but merely the hollow vertigo, the primal thrill of peeking.

I return home and read for a few hours, turning to the essay on the
ordo amoris
. But the phenomenological shadings and gradations of the various powers of love don’t clarify much for me, and if it is true that
loving can be characterized as correct or false—insofar as acts of love can be in harmony with or oppose what is worthy of love—then is it possible that what I have seen is an aberration? That Sylvia and Schroeder’s coupling is a gross mistake? All philosophizing aside, my instinct tells me it is—and that the answer to the question, What draws them together? lies with Sylvia, not Schroeder.

The neighbor’s kid pounds on the door, his knock now irritatingly familiar. I put the book down and go to answer it.

“My dad said you’re an asshole.”

“Oh yeah? When did he say that?”

“I heard him talking to Mom last night.”

“What else did he say?”

“Will you give me a dollar?”

“Okay.”

“He said you’re a nut and they should put you in a stray jacket and lock you up.”

“It’s
strait-jacket
.”

“That’s what I said, stray jacket.”

“What else did your dad say?”

“He says somebody’s going to run you over one day.”

“Did he say who, by any chance?”

The kid shakes his head. “He said that people don’t like the way you just walk around doing nothing and that you should get a job like everyone else and you’re asking for trouble.”

“What did Mom say to that?”

“She said he was right and that she heard you were a millionaire but she thinks you’re a shady character and you’ve been giving her the creeps since you moved in.”

“What else did she say?”

“Nothing.”

“What about your dad?”

“He says you’re not a millionaire but probably got a record or something.”

“What else?”

“He said never trust a man without a car.”

I laugh. “That, my friend, is worth two bucks.”

The kid grins and takes the money. “Thanks!”

“Do your parents know you come over here like this?”

“No.”

“Would they be mad?”

“I only come when they’re not home.”

He dashes off in a thrill. I go into the kitchen and heat up a small portion of leftover beans and rice and walk back to the mound. Schroeder’s motorcycle is still leaning up against the tree when I arrive, and there is no sign that anyone else has been here since I left. I sit down at the bench, facing the nearly empty Semantech parking lot across the road. A large flock of blackbirds has landed. They seem to be feeding on something. I cross the road and stand at the fence for a better view. It isn’t crumbs they are feeding on. They are drinking from a large puddle of bile-green antifreeze that has spilled onto the asphalt. I search the grass for a stone and hurl it into the middle of the flock. They scatter into the air, then return moments later for more. I throw a few more stones, but the birds return each time.

A while later Mohr arrives. He pulls off the road and crunches to a stop near the picnic bench. With a look of fierce concentration he raises the gearshift and twists off the ignition before lifting a hand and waving to me. He has difficulty opening the door, and I walk over to open it for him. He takes his time getting out, reaching for his cane and a new safari hat that he dons as soon as he has extracted himself from the car. A costume of stiffly pressed khaki trousers, shirt, and multipocketed bush jacket hangs like drapery from his tiny frame. The shiny brown leather boots on his feet are laced neatly to the top—the merry anthropologist. “Are we the first to arrive?” he asks, making directly for the picnic bench with a less than steady gait.

“Not exactly.” I close the car door and follow him over. The bench creaks under our weight.

Mohr takes his hat off and adjusts the band. He is completely bald underneath, his head a tiny orb protruding from the stiff collar of the bush jacket.

“The owner of that motorcycle is up there with a woman. They’re having sex.”

“You don’t say?” Mohr says without a trace of sarcasm. He puts the hat back on and looks over toward Schroeder’s motorcycle.

“I went up there a few hours ago and found them going at it.”

“How funny. Did you tell them they were about to lose their privacy?” He pronounces
privacy
the British way—as in privy.

“I figured they’d come down soon enough.”

“And they haven’t?”

I shake my head.

“Well, good for them!” Mohr lets out a laugh. “But they’re in for an unwelcome interruption.” He reaches into the breast pocket of his jacket and takes out an antique gold watch on a chain. He fumbles to open the cover. “It’s just after noon. They should have arrived by now.”

“Are you well enough to be out here?”

Mohr tucks the watch back into his pocket. “No,” he says flatly. “But I’m not well enough to
be
anywhere.” He parses his words as if inured to them. “So it makes no difference.” After a short pause he begins rummaging through the pockets of his jacket. “Besides, I have bought all these new toys and I want to play with them.” He begins placing them on the picnic table, naming them as he goes. “Compass. Magnifier. Knife. Measuring tape. Spyglass. Camera. Snakebite kit. Brushes—soft, medium, hard bristle. Pocket flask.” He twists off the cap. “With real brandy!” He sips and offers me the flask. The brandy settles into my stomach with a nice burn.

“They look like antiques.”

“They are antiques! Except for the camera, of course. It’s the newest model I could find.” A whirring of tiny gears as he slides the black compact case apart to demonstrate all the camera’s features.

I examine the rest of his gear, taking each item and turning it over in my hands. They are wonderful old brass instruments, cleverly hinged and solidly fitted together in early industrial fashion. The spyglass is tucked into a felt-lined leather case and looks as if it might have belonged to John James Audubon himself.

We make small talk and fidget with the various instruments. I photograph Mohr and he photographs me, and I set the camera on the end of the table and set the timer to photograph the two of us together. Mohr
lifts his arm across my shoulder for the pose and I place my arm across his, feeling his scrawniness underneath and the poignancy of the gesture as the camera’s timer winds a self-conscious infinity into the moment.

When the picture-taking is over Mohr fills me in on library gossip. Mrs. Entwhistle, he says, is beginning to sabotage his project to digitize the archive collections. She wants to spend the money buying more books and periodicals and was surprised to discover that the funds Mohr had raised came with strings attached. He begins to chuckle and for a moment seems about to launch into a coughing fit but settles back against the picnic table, cane across his knees. “She was indignant,” he brags, “accused me of arranging it so that she had no discretion over the money.”

“Did you?”

Mohr grins. “Of course I did. She thinks the archive doesn’t belong there. Too much trouble. A bunch of papers. She’d like to transfer it all somewhere else. Preferably the State Historical Society.”

“Maybe that’s not such a bad idea.”

Mohr shakes his head and taps the end of his cane in the dirt. “The archive was set up by the Wilkington Trust. The library didn’t come until much later. It would be like moving this mound to another county to be with the mounds there.” He cuts off abruptly and takes a handkerchief from his pocket and holds it to his forehead for a moment, wiping underneath the brim of the hat. “Besides, my manuscripts are part of that archive now. The idea of moving them somewhere else is upsetting.”

“Manuscripts?”

“My history of the town. From trading post until today.”

“I’d forgotten about that.”

“And my bibliography.”

“Bibliography?”

“On death.”

“I thought you were joking about that.”

“It’s no joke. I now have over a thousand sources.”

“What about the history? Is it finished?”

Mohr shakes his head. “I never meant to finish it.”

“Why not?”

“Where to end it?”