Barn Sale
Jane's Breakfast
Flying Machines
The Mexican (revised)
Partners
Grand Opening
The Committee
Artist In Residence
Saturday
Sunday
Monday
Tuesday
The Ice Storm
Saturnalia
Melt Down
ADDENDA
Jane's Apple Fritters Recipe
Jane's Venison Meatballs
A Brief History of Susquehanna, New York
Tuesday, June 26, 2007
Thursday, March 01, 2007
Melt Down
Sheriff Thom gave the all clear at 7am Saturday morning. Some left immediately; others lingered over breakfast just the same. The roads were still a mess, but the weather was mild. The temperature was over 50, overcast and calm. The ice and snow were melting away, the runoff spilling into a maze of pools and puddles on the still frozen ground.
The sun was beginning to break through at 7:30 when the Sheriff left. The ice storm was over with no reports, so far, or anything too serious. Electricity had been restored to 70% of the county already. Still, no rest for the weary. The arts festival was ending that day, which would be a handful on a good day. But that would have to wait. Deputy Nance had called at 7:15 to pass on the news that Paul Giardino’s herd of trophy animals had been spotted running loose along DeRuyter creek. An impromptu posse of dogs from a few farms had formed and was tracking and chasing the critters.
Sheriff walked around his car to the driver’s side and got in, noticing that the temperature seemed to drop about 40 degrees when he stepped out of the sunlight. He worried that the pack of dogs would create additional problems, called Nance back and told him to get the county’s animal control officers on it. Jane ran out and waved him down before he could drive away, passed a bacon and eggs sandwich to him through the window. Sheriff thanked her and drove off. A few hundred yards down the road he lifted the edge of the bread and peeked to see if it was real bacon, as if Jane might be watching him.
By 9am the breakfast service was winding down. Everyone who had spent the night had eaten early. After the Sheriff left cars from town began showing up. Tired as she and Ray were, Jane did not have the heart to refuse them. It was the last busy day. Anyway, the dining room was only half full, and two of the tables were holdovers. Professor Loomis and David were at one of them, chatting with Pygmy and Casper. Ray kept offering them refills on coffee and they kept accepting. Finally at 10 David announced that he and Pygmy better get over to the festival.
Casper, Pygmy, and David all thanked Jane for her hospitality. “The Festival thanks you” added Pygmy. Jane smiled graciously but had no idea what that meant.
David gave Jane a little brotherly hug. “We’ll be back tomorrow morning.” On his way out David did a double take. “Oh, say, you know what, we’d like you three to come to the banquet tonight as our guests, join us at our table. Will you do that for me?” He turned the charm on Jane as he said that, smiling coyly. He noticed that it worked. Jane kept her composure but he could tell.
“Sure. Thanks. I’ll be there.” Jane said.
David looked at Ray, then at Donald Loomis, who was still working on a coffee and not paying much attention.
“Me too?” Ray asked.
David nodded. “Of course, you too, and the Professor. Will you join us, professor?”
“Join you. Join you where? Oh yes, the banquet, um, sure” said Loomis. “At the faculty club, right? What time is it?” He was relieved to hear that the seating was at 6pm, cocktails at 5pm. He did not like to eat late, and wasn’t crazy about driving at night. He looked at his watch and announced that he had to get going as well. He accepted David’s offer of a ride home.
Casper, David, Donald and Pygmy left and the place was fairly empty the rest of the day. By 2pm the dining room and kitchen were all cleaned up and set for Sunday. Jose helped Ray load a week’s worth of trash on the flatbed and they went off to the dump, Jose driving. Jane figured no license at all was better than a suspended one. Jane sat in the dining room pleased with herself. She had always felt she could succeed in business if she had the opportunity; by her standards the restaurant was a success. Seemed like her brother didn’t quite agree with her, judging by some of the things he said, but that was kind of the way he was, pessimistic, or maybe it was about sibling rivalry. Didn’t matter. She still loved him.
She wandered around the house, inspecting it in a new light. It was a restaurant now. She had showed that Veronica that she could do it too. Well, not the Bed part. Not yet.
Jane put a couple more logs on the fire, poured herself a cup of coffee and sat at the fireside table to drink it, the table which David and Donald liked to sit at. She sat down in David’s chair, leaned back like he sometimes did. She closed her eyes and imagined what the banquet would be like, fell asleep without taking a sip of the coffee.
The sidetrack to the Professor’s took much longer than expected. Loomis Hollow Road was still shut down so they had to reverse course back to Jane’s and circle around on DeRuyter Road, then south on Route 8 and back north to the Professor’s. Pygmy and Casper were bickering over something inconsequential, too. David reflected that Casper and Pygmy had never gotten along, different personalities. Maybe jealousy was involved, with David at the center, although that didn’t make sense either since David’s relationships with each of them was long in the past. David could have just asked them but that was too easy. It was more fun to figure that stuff out.
So they made the much longer than usual drive from the Professor’s to campus in a tense and sour silence, both Casper and Pygmy stony silent in the bright sunlight, the wild landscape of tree limbs and branches passing without being remarked upon. Once or twice David made cheery comments to break the ice. They reached campus at noon. David used his parking spot by the art school.
They took the shortcut across the soccer field to the quadrangle. The last day of the festival there were no lectures or workshops. Nominally it was gallery day, the idea being to highlight the works, particularly the student works. In good weather, like that day, people congregated on the quad or on the playing fields, tossed Frisbees, played music, sat on the lawn. The ground was far too wet for sitting. Even Frisbee was messy. Mostly people milled around talking about the ice storm and what they did during it. Spirits were generally pretty high.
Students were beginning to trickle back into town and onto campus from spring break. The festival attendees had vacated Greektown that morning. It was being reclaimed by the fraternities and sororities, who were cautiously surveying the incidental property damage left by 7 nights of serious partying. Even after the repairs the profits were considerable, several thousand for the larger houses.
By 2pm the sun was high and it was 66 degrees, felt like 80 in the sun. The quad was getting pretty crowded as more and more students combined with festival attendees. David and Pygmy had never seen it as busy, or as boisterous. A day earlier the attendees had been shivering in winter outfits, stressed out by the storm, tired out from a week of partying. Who knew where the students had been on spring break. No doubt they had been partying all week too. They just didn’t show it.
David was making some comment to Pygmy along the lines of Shaw’s adage about youth being wasted on youth when an unseen commotion bubbled up across the quad from them. David and Pygmy followed the buzz with their eyes, straining to see what was going on. A naked young man with a long beard emerged, followed by another, and then by one, two, three coeds, or possibly young female attendees. They were all young and had nice bodies. It was hard to see with so many people crowded into the quad. Naked bodies appeared and disappeared.
The bearded young man whom the others appeared to be following leapt up onto the edge of the fountain and balanced on one leg, flailing his arms to maintain his balance. A loud cheer went up from the crowd. A naked girl climbed up and stood next to him, pumped her fists in the air. The crowd approved. She was very fair with long red hair, reminiscent, at a distance anyway, of Botticelli or Giotto. The bearded cupped his hands to his mouth and yelled something which David and Pygmy could not make out. Then the girl playfully pushed him and he fell backwards into the water.
Within a minute there were 50 naked people climbing on or bathing in the fountain, and as many or more in the process of disrobing. How word got to town in unclear but less than 5 minutes later the Sheriff was informed of 911 calls about an orgy on campus.
“and just what in hell am I supposed to do about that?” he thought aloud. Then he had a disturbing realization. The runaway herd had last been spotted a mile east of campus, and the pack of dogs, now even larger, was still in pursuit. One of his deputies had assembled a couple of animal control wardens and several volunteers. They were working to corner the herd well enough to use tranquilizer darts. Sheriff was very disturbed after he spoke to the deputy on the radio and learned the plan was to drive them into the quad, where they could block the exits and capture at least some of the animals.
“No!” the Sheriff commanded, “Bad idea.” The plan was highly unlikely to work since the animals were running loose, eluding all approaches. The elk and the buffalo were running together, spooked and disoriented. “Just get the dogs for now” he ordered, leaving the how to the animal control wardens, “that’ll maybe calm the herd down. Where the hell are those yaks?”
Another deputy broke in to tell the Sheriff that the state police were on their way to campus in response to a complaint about nude and nascivious behavior. Sheriff told the deputy he’d look into the campus complaint himself, then switched back to the first call: “What about the yaks?” he asked.
“I have no update for you on that” said the deputy.
Sheriff got to campus before the state troopers, checked out the scene on the quad. Apart from the nudity he didn’t see any wild or criminal behavior. More work was unwelcome. There already was the aftermath of the ice storm to contend with, a media event of a homicide investigation, and a stampeding herd of elk and buffalo, and maybe a herd of yak somewhere.
At the sight of the sheriff the fountain emptied out. The troopers arrived, looked around a bit and saw no nudity. Sheriff told them it was all over so they reported as much to the barracks and left.
Sheriff told the crowd “No more!” in a quiet but authoritative voice, meaning the nudity. He then called the station and advised he was going to take his dinner break.
The nudity thing was over anyway. It was time to leave for some, and getting close to banquet time. The western end of the quad was already in shadow. It looked like rain to Jane and Ray as they drove to campus. They stopped off at Ray’s house on the way so he could shower and dress. Ray put on a white shirt with cufflinks, light brown corduroys, and a hounds tooth sport jacket. He chose a maroon tie, the only clean one. He liked to dress, occasionally, and this was an occasion, the first time in his adult life he’d been invited to a social function.
They got to the banquet midway through cocktail hour. The room seemed awfully crowded to Jane and Ray but turnout was much lower than expected. Many people cancelled due to the weather, wanting to leave for home, antsy about getting stuck again. Ray and Jane stood by the entrance, intimidated by the apparent sophistication of the crowd. They felt foolish to just stand there and too self conscious to move. They spotted Professor across the room and gravitated to him. Professor had already taken his seat at their dinner table and was chatting with the German guy, Casper. Jane plopped down next to Professor. Ray walked around the table, reading the place names until he came to his.
“Where’s your drinks?” asked the Professor with a twinkle, holding up a highball glass in one hand and pointing at it with the other. He covered his mouth and sort of half sighed and half hiccoughed. Jane was startled to see the effects of alcohol on him. Not that he was even tipsy, just a little high spirited, which was far enough out of character for her.
Casper stood up and, ever polite, asked if he could have the pleasure of getting their drinks.
“Open bar!” intoned Professor. Jane and Ray didn’t know the term. Jane said just a coke for her. Ray opted for Early Times on the rocks.
“A double” he corrected as Casper walked away. Jane kicked him under the table. Ray shrugged back at her. Then someone with a microphone was trying to get the room’s attention. He saw Pygmy up on the podium with David and a couple of other people. The room hushed up. David was talking, blah blah blah, art stuff, festival this and that. Pygmy was sitting on a chair behind him, dressed in a dark skirt and multicolored sweater. Casper brought the drinks. Ray sipped his and pretended to listen to David. Did Pygmy just smile at him?
The waiters began to roll out the carts before David finished. David wanted to scold them, turned up the mic and called for everyone’s attention. “Just one more thing before we start pigging out – this is actually about pigging out – a lot of you have been talking about the wonderful little country restaurant that just opened, Jane’s Breakfast. Jane’s here with us tonight..” David took a sip of water, “...so I want to also thank Jane Thom” he pointed at the head table, “Jane?” Jane stood up and there was polite applause. The waiters had carried on with the soup course despite David’s scolding. “OK, let’s eat” he intoned.
David and Pygmy joined the others at the head table, the seating order going David, Jane, Pygymy, Ray, Casper, Donald with two places vacant. Rodrigo caught an early flight. Skid preferred to watch the NCAA basketball tournament. David proposed “a toast to Jane’s place.” The others raised their glasses and said cheers. Ray drained his second double, vaguely miffed that Jane was getting all the credit when he had put his time and money into the place too. Food was awfully good, though. He was really psyched about the prime rib; had to have been a couple of years since he last had it, at somebody’s wedding.
To Ray’s right Casper and Professor were immersed in a private discussion of cowboys or something, about the James-Colter Gang coming to Chenango County in 1868. News to Ray. Professor was explaining that he had seen ample documentary evidence about Jesse James being there, and meeting up with members of the Loomis gang. Wash Loomis had been killed three years earlier, so Wash and Jesse could not have met. Then Professor drew some parallels between the circumstances of both men’s deaths – at home, unarmed and not suspecting anything.
After dessert the waiter came by to clear the dishes and Ray asked for a fourth drink. Jane, who had been keeping count, overruled the request. She was the only sober person at the table, she figured. Casper and Donald were just slightly tipsy. She wondered if Donald would be okay driving home in the dark, offered to give him a lift but it turned out he ridden in with Casper, who was going to drop him off as well.
At 8pm the dancing started. Casper and Donald excused themselves and left. Jane followed suit. Ray stayed behind, claiming that Skid would give him a lift later. He kind of felt like another drink. David moved over into Jane’s chair, next to Pygmy. Ten or so couples whirled around under the big chandelier to Jimmy Ruffin singing “What Becomes of the Broken Hearted.” David and Pygmy were gabbing. Ray closed his eyes and nodded his head in time to the music. David got up and asked what Ray was drinking (double Jack Daniels, Pygmy passed). David went off to the bar. Ray drained the remnants of his fifth drink. As he set the glass on the table he felt a hand on his leg, just above the knee. He looked down at Pygmy’s hand, then turned to face her, attempted a smile.
Pygmy stood up and held out her hand. “Let’s dance!” She pulled Ray up and walked out on the floor, Ray lumbering along in tow behind her. At first they were separate, Pygmy energetically sashaying around him. The DJ segued into the Supremes’ “Got Him Back In My Arms Again.” The most Ray could do was move side to side to no particular beat. Pygmy took him by the hands and led him around the floor. Ray was not too drunk to enjoy the motion, indeed after a few more numbers somehow gained clarity and coordination. They stayed on the floor for a good half hour. David gave up on them and went off to chat with other friends.
Back at the table Ray slumped into his chair, suddenly tired and a bit sweaty. Pygmy waved over the waiter and requested a couple of coffees. The ballroom had thinned out. David had taken off at some point. The music was still playing but the staff had turned up the lights, a not so subtle signal that the affair was in overtime.
“What about the wood stove?” Pygmy asked. She took a handful of packets of sugar, squeezed them together and opened them all in one motion, spilling half the contents on the table, pouring the rest in Ray’s cup.
“I don’t take sugar” he admonished her, “Wood stove?” He looked around in confusion.
“You were going to come over and give me an estimate for putting in a wood stove.”
“Oh that, right. Sure, I’ll come over. When do you want me to come over?”
“How about now?”
“Now!?”
“Yeah.”
“Well, okay, I guess.” He winced at the sweetness of his coffee, hiccupped once loudly.
“Okay, let’s go.”
They went to the coatroom and got Pygmy’s wrap. Ray just had the sports jacket. Outside it was still warm, for March, but drizzling. “You up for walking?” Pygmy asked, although there was no alternative. Ray nodded and off then went, taking the shortcut pedestrian bridge across the Susquehanna River. The rain picked up a couple of hundred yards from the house, and they started to run as best they could, which was not very well in Ray’s case. Pygmy circled an arm around his waist to support him and he kept a tentative hand on her shoulder for balance as they loped through the dark, often stepping smack into deep puddles of cold water. By the time they reached the porch of Pygmy’s house they were more than soaked.
Pygmy hung the keys on a hook by the front door and hung her coat in the closet. She turned towards Ray, who stood in the open doorway, apparently awaiting further instructions. “Coat?” she motioned for Ray to hand her his. Ray wrestled out of his jacket, which was pretty much soaked. Pygmy frowned at the water dripping off it, went to put it in the laundry room to dry. Ray reached behind and pulled the door closed. He looked at the posters and artwork on the vestibule walls, not recognizing any of the reproductions nor realizing that all the original works were Pygmy’s.
Pygmy returned, drying her hair with a towel as she walked, speaking hands-free on her cell phone to someone about an interview time, a second towel draped over her right shoulder and a stack of mail wedged under her left arm. She told Ray to “take the towel and come in!, come in!” and walked away again apologizing to whomever she was speaking to.
Ray rummaged through the kitchen for a measuring tape, thinking he might as well make some measurements while Pygmy was on the phone. He looked over the living room, trying to figure out where to put the wood stove. The vent could go anywhere along the wall. He burned another10 minutes on the effort, jotted down the measurements and some notes, then plopped down on one of the sofas and waited for Pygmy to finish her call. After another 10 minutes of staring at all the stuff in her living room he picked up a copy of Art Forum from the coffee table, sat down on the sofa and flipped through the magazine. She must have a nuclear-powered cell phone, he wondered, no battery could last that long. She was always on it! Ray felt himself getting annoyed at her about the cell phone. He looked around the room, feeling bored. Pygmy walked over to and by him, making eyes and smiling at him, absent-mindedly stroking his cheek while she walked by, jabbering away on the phone the whole time. The touch jolted Ray in a few places but he didn’t show it. He stood up and took a couple of steps after her, then stopped, backed up and sat down, confused but happy. He reread Art Forum and after a while Pygmy reappeared, and walked by again, caressed his arm this time, still talking. Ray reached for her hand and held her from going. Pygmy writhed around as if she wanted to get away. To her surprise and disappointment he let her go. She left the living room for the third time, and for 10 minutes Ray heard her in the kitchen, talking and laughing.
Then it goes quiet and for a minute Ray is listening, waiting to hear her speak but Pygmy comes out of the kitchen without the cell phone and comes right over to the sofa and pushes him down on it and climbs on top of him, leans forward and gives him a lingering kiss on the lips. The thrill knocked Ray speechless for a moment; he just stared at her like a puppy. Next thing Pygmy is standing up and yanking on his arm to get him to stand up. When he realizes what she wants he stands and she leads him across the living room towards the stairs, unbuttoning her blouse and shedding it as she reached the bottom of the stairs. She pulled her hand from his and turned to face him, removed the rest of her clothing, slowly. Ray again was dumbstruck. Pygmy turned and walked halfway up the stairs, stopped and looked over her shoulder. Ray was still at the base of the stairs. Pygmy turned around and put her hands on her hips, elbows out, ordered him to c’mon. Ray obliged with slow steps towards her. She waited until he got one step away before resuming her climb. He followed her down the hallway and into her bedroom. Pygmy scampered under the covers.
“Ooh it’s cold!” she loudly exclaimed. “Turn out the light and get in here.”
Ray turned out the light and went over to the bed.
“Um, maybe you should take your shoes off and undress first.” Pygmy suggested.
Ray sat down on the edge of the bed and took off his shoes and socks, then stood up and dropped his trousers and underwear. His hands began to tremble as he unbuttoned his shirt. He turned away from her so she wouldn’t notice, fumbling over a tight button while Pygmy admired the rear view. Finally he just tugged the button loose and took his shirt and tshirt off, and climbed into bed and under the covers with her.
Pygmy noticed his hands shaking and saw him pull the button off. She lifted the covers to look at him. He was laying there like he didn’t have hands. She reached over him to turn out the lamp. She snuggled up close to him and kissed him. “Damn, honey, you’re acting like it’s your first time” she said.
..............THE END
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The sun was beginning to break through at 7:30 when the Sheriff left. The ice storm was over with no reports, so far, or anything too serious. Electricity had been restored to 70% of the county already. Still, no rest for the weary. The arts festival was ending that day, which would be a handful on a good day. But that would have to wait. Deputy Nance had called at 7:15 to pass on the news that Paul Giardino’s herd of trophy animals had been spotted running loose along DeRuyter creek. An impromptu posse of dogs from a few farms had formed and was tracking and chasing the critters.
Sheriff walked around his car to the driver’s side and got in, noticing that the temperature seemed to drop about 40 degrees when he stepped out of the sunlight. He worried that the pack of dogs would create additional problems, called Nance back and told him to get the county’s animal control officers on it. Jane ran out and waved him down before he could drive away, passed a bacon and eggs sandwich to him through the window. Sheriff thanked her and drove off. A few hundred yards down the road he lifted the edge of the bread and peeked to see if it was real bacon, as if Jane might be watching him.
By 9am the breakfast service was winding down. Everyone who had spent the night had eaten early. After the Sheriff left cars from town began showing up. Tired as she and Ray were, Jane did not have the heart to refuse them. It was the last busy day. Anyway, the dining room was only half full, and two of the tables were holdovers. Professor Loomis and David were at one of them, chatting with Pygmy and Casper. Ray kept offering them refills on coffee and they kept accepting. Finally at 10 David announced that he and Pygmy better get over to the festival.
Casper, Pygmy, and David all thanked Jane for her hospitality. “The Festival thanks you” added Pygmy. Jane smiled graciously but had no idea what that meant.
David gave Jane a little brotherly hug. “We’ll be back tomorrow morning.” On his way out David did a double take. “Oh, say, you know what, we’d like you three to come to the banquet tonight as our guests, join us at our table. Will you do that for me?” He turned the charm on Jane as he said that, smiling coyly. He noticed that it worked. Jane kept her composure but he could tell.
“Sure. Thanks. I’ll be there.” Jane said.
David looked at Ray, then at Donald Loomis, who was still working on a coffee and not paying much attention.
“Me too?” Ray asked.
David nodded. “Of course, you too, and the Professor. Will you join us, professor?”
“Join you. Join you where? Oh yes, the banquet, um, sure” said Loomis. “At the faculty club, right? What time is it?” He was relieved to hear that the seating was at 6pm, cocktails at 5pm. He did not like to eat late, and wasn’t crazy about driving at night. He looked at his watch and announced that he had to get going as well. He accepted David’s offer of a ride home.
Casper, David, Donald and Pygmy left and the place was fairly empty the rest of the day. By 2pm the dining room and kitchen were all cleaned up and set for Sunday. Jose helped Ray load a week’s worth of trash on the flatbed and they went off to the dump, Jose driving. Jane figured no license at all was better than a suspended one. Jane sat in the dining room pleased with herself. She had always felt she could succeed in business if she had the opportunity; by her standards the restaurant was a success. Seemed like her brother didn’t quite agree with her, judging by some of the things he said, but that was kind of the way he was, pessimistic, or maybe it was about sibling rivalry. Didn’t matter. She still loved him.
She wandered around the house, inspecting it in a new light. It was a restaurant now. She had showed that Veronica that she could do it too. Well, not the Bed part. Not yet.
Jane put a couple more logs on the fire, poured herself a cup of coffee and sat at the fireside table to drink it, the table which David and Donald liked to sit at. She sat down in David’s chair, leaned back like he sometimes did. She closed her eyes and imagined what the banquet would be like, fell asleep without taking a sip of the coffee.
The sidetrack to the Professor’s took much longer than expected. Loomis Hollow Road was still shut down so they had to reverse course back to Jane’s and circle around on DeRuyter Road, then south on Route 8 and back north to the Professor’s. Pygmy and Casper were bickering over something inconsequential, too. David reflected that Casper and Pygmy had never gotten along, different personalities. Maybe jealousy was involved, with David at the center, although that didn’t make sense either since David’s relationships with each of them was long in the past. David could have just asked them but that was too easy. It was more fun to figure that stuff out.
So they made the much longer than usual drive from the Professor’s to campus in a tense and sour silence, both Casper and Pygmy stony silent in the bright sunlight, the wild landscape of tree limbs and branches passing without being remarked upon. Once or twice David made cheery comments to break the ice. They reached campus at noon. David used his parking spot by the art school.
They took the shortcut across the soccer field to the quadrangle. The last day of the festival there were no lectures or workshops. Nominally it was gallery day, the idea being to highlight the works, particularly the student works. In good weather, like that day, people congregated on the quad or on the playing fields, tossed Frisbees, played music, sat on the lawn. The ground was far too wet for sitting. Even Frisbee was messy. Mostly people milled around talking about the ice storm and what they did during it. Spirits were generally pretty high.
Students were beginning to trickle back into town and onto campus from spring break. The festival attendees had vacated Greektown that morning. It was being reclaimed by the fraternities and sororities, who were cautiously surveying the incidental property damage left by 7 nights of serious partying. Even after the repairs the profits were considerable, several thousand for the larger houses.
By 2pm the sun was high and it was 66 degrees, felt like 80 in the sun. The quad was getting pretty crowded as more and more students combined with festival attendees. David and Pygmy had never seen it as busy, or as boisterous. A day earlier the attendees had been shivering in winter outfits, stressed out by the storm, tired out from a week of partying. Who knew where the students had been on spring break. No doubt they had been partying all week too. They just didn’t show it.
David was making some comment to Pygmy along the lines of Shaw’s adage about youth being wasted on youth when an unseen commotion bubbled up across the quad from them. David and Pygmy followed the buzz with their eyes, straining to see what was going on. A naked young man with a long beard emerged, followed by another, and then by one, two, three coeds, or possibly young female attendees. They were all young and had nice bodies. It was hard to see with so many people crowded into the quad. Naked bodies appeared and disappeared.
The bearded young man whom the others appeared to be following leapt up onto the edge of the fountain and balanced on one leg, flailing his arms to maintain his balance. A loud cheer went up from the crowd. A naked girl climbed up and stood next to him, pumped her fists in the air. The crowd approved. She was very fair with long red hair, reminiscent, at a distance anyway, of Botticelli or Giotto. The bearded cupped his hands to his mouth and yelled something which David and Pygmy could not make out. Then the girl playfully pushed him and he fell backwards into the water.
Within a minute there were 50 naked people climbing on or bathing in the fountain, and as many or more in the process of disrobing. How word got to town in unclear but less than 5 minutes later the Sheriff was informed of 911 calls about an orgy on campus.
“and just what in hell am I supposed to do about that?” he thought aloud. Then he had a disturbing realization. The runaway herd had last been spotted a mile east of campus, and the pack of dogs, now even larger, was still in pursuit. One of his deputies had assembled a couple of animal control wardens and several volunteers. They were working to corner the herd well enough to use tranquilizer darts. Sheriff was very disturbed after he spoke to the deputy on the radio and learned the plan was to drive them into the quad, where they could block the exits and capture at least some of the animals.
“No!” the Sheriff commanded, “Bad idea.” The plan was highly unlikely to work since the animals were running loose, eluding all approaches. The elk and the buffalo were running together, spooked and disoriented. “Just get the dogs for now” he ordered, leaving the how to the animal control wardens, “that’ll maybe calm the herd down. Where the hell are those yaks?”
Another deputy broke in to tell the Sheriff that the state police were on their way to campus in response to a complaint about nude and nascivious behavior. Sheriff told the deputy he’d look into the campus complaint himself, then switched back to the first call: “What about the yaks?” he asked.
“I have no update for you on that” said the deputy.
Sheriff got to campus before the state troopers, checked out the scene on the quad. Apart from the nudity he didn’t see any wild or criminal behavior. More work was unwelcome. There already was the aftermath of the ice storm to contend with, a media event of a homicide investigation, and a stampeding herd of elk and buffalo, and maybe a herd of yak somewhere.
At the sight of the sheriff the fountain emptied out. The troopers arrived, looked around a bit and saw no nudity. Sheriff told them it was all over so they reported as much to the barracks and left.
Sheriff told the crowd “No more!” in a quiet but authoritative voice, meaning the nudity. He then called the station and advised he was going to take his dinner break.
The nudity thing was over anyway. It was time to leave for some, and getting close to banquet time. The western end of the quad was already in shadow. It looked like rain to Jane and Ray as they drove to campus. They stopped off at Ray’s house on the way so he could shower and dress. Ray put on a white shirt with cufflinks, light brown corduroys, and a hounds tooth sport jacket. He chose a maroon tie, the only clean one. He liked to dress, occasionally, and this was an occasion, the first time in his adult life he’d been invited to a social function.
They got to the banquet midway through cocktail hour. The room seemed awfully crowded to Jane and Ray but turnout was much lower than expected. Many people cancelled due to the weather, wanting to leave for home, antsy about getting stuck again. Ray and Jane stood by the entrance, intimidated by the apparent sophistication of the crowd. They felt foolish to just stand there and too self conscious to move. They spotted Professor across the room and gravitated to him. Professor had already taken his seat at their dinner table and was chatting with the German guy, Casper. Jane plopped down next to Professor. Ray walked around the table, reading the place names until he came to his.
“Where’s your drinks?” asked the Professor with a twinkle, holding up a highball glass in one hand and pointing at it with the other. He covered his mouth and sort of half sighed and half hiccoughed. Jane was startled to see the effects of alcohol on him. Not that he was even tipsy, just a little high spirited, which was far enough out of character for her.
Casper stood up and, ever polite, asked if he could have the pleasure of getting their drinks.
“Open bar!” intoned Professor. Jane and Ray didn’t know the term. Jane said just a coke for her. Ray opted for Early Times on the rocks.
“A double” he corrected as Casper walked away. Jane kicked him under the table. Ray shrugged back at her. Then someone with a microphone was trying to get the room’s attention. He saw Pygmy up on the podium with David and a couple of other people. The room hushed up. David was talking, blah blah blah, art stuff, festival this and that. Pygmy was sitting on a chair behind him, dressed in a dark skirt and multicolored sweater. Casper brought the drinks. Ray sipped his and pretended to listen to David. Did Pygmy just smile at him?
The waiters began to roll out the carts before David finished. David wanted to scold them, turned up the mic and called for everyone’s attention. “Just one more thing before we start pigging out – this is actually about pigging out – a lot of you have been talking about the wonderful little country restaurant that just opened, Jane’s Breakfast. Jane’s here with us tonight..” David took a sip of water, “...so I want to also thank Jane Thom” he pointed at the head table, “Jane?” Jane stood up and there was polite applause. The waiters had carried on with the soup course despite David’s scolding. “OK, let’s eat” he intoned.
David and Pygmy joined the others at the head table, the seating order going David, Jane, Pygymy, Ray, Casper, Donald with two places vacant. Rodrigo caught an early flight. Skid preferred to watch the NCAA basketball tournament. David proposed “a toast to Jane’s place.” The others raised their glasses and said cheers. Ray drained his second double, vaguely miffed that Jane was getting all the credit when he had put his time and money into the place too. Food was awfully good, though. He was really psyched about the prime rib; had to have been a couple of years since he last had it, at somebody’s wedding.
To Ray’s right Casper and Professor were immersed in a private discussion of cowboys or something, about the James-Colter Gang coming to Chenango County in 1868. News to Ray. Professor was explaining that he had seen ample documentary evidence about Jesse James being there, and meeting up with members of the Loomis gang. Wash Loomis had been killed three years earlier, so Wash and Jesse could not have met. Then Professor drew some parallels between the circumstances of both men’s deaths – at home, unarmed and not suspecting anything.
After dessert the waiter came by to clear the dishes and Ray asked for a fourth drink. Jane, who had been keeping count, overruled the request. She was the only sober person at the table, she figured. Casper and Donald were just slightly tipsy. She wondered if Donald would be okay driving home in the dark, offered to give him a lift but it turned out he ridden in with Casper, who was going to drop him off as well.
At 8pm the dancing started. Casper and Donald excused themselves and left. Jane followed suit. Ray stayed behind, claiming that Skid would give him a lift later. He kind of felt like another drink. David moved over into Jane’s chair, next to Pygmy. Ten or so couples whirled around under the big chandelier to Jimmy Ruffin singing “What Becomes of the Broken Hearted.” David and Pygmy were gabbing. Ray closed his eyes and nodded his head in time to the music. David got up and asked what Ray was drinking (double Jack Daniels, Pygmy passed). David went off to the bar. Ray drained the remnants of his fifth drink. As he set the glass on the table he felt a hand on his leg, just above the knee. He looked down at Pygmy’s hand, then turned to face her, attempted a smile.
Pygmy stood up and held out her hand. “Let’s dance!” She pulled Ray up and walked out on the floor, Ray lumbering along in tow behind her. At first they were separate, Pygmy energetically sashaying around him. The DJ segued into the Supremes’ “Got Him Back In My Arms Again.” The most Ray could do was move side to side to no particular beat. Pygmy took him by the hands and led him around the floor. Ray was not too drunk to enjoy the motion, indeed after a few more numbers somehow gained clarity and coordination. They stayed on the floor for a good half hour. David gave up on them and went off to chat with other friends.
Back at the table Ray slumped into his chair, suddenly tired and a bit sweaty. Pygmy waved over the waiter and requested a couple of coffees. The ballroom had thinned out. David had taken off at some point. The music was still playing but the staff had turned up the lights, a not so subtle signal that the affair was in overtime.
“What about the wood stove?” Pygmy asked. She took a handful of packets of sugar, squeezed them together and opened them all in one motion, spilling half the contents on the table, pouring the rest in Ray’s cup.
“I don’t take sugar” he admonished her, “Wood stove?” He looked around in confusion.
“You were going to come over and give me an estimate for putting in a wood stove.”
“Oh that, right. Sure, I’ll come over. When do you want me to come over?”
“How about now?”
“Now!?”
“Yeah.”
“Well, okay, I guess.” He winced at the sweetness of his coffee, hiccupped once loudly.
“Okay, let’s go.”
They went to the coatroom and got Pygmy’s wrap. Ray just had the sports jacket. Outside it was still warm, for March, but drizzling. “You up for walking?” Pygmy asked, although there was no alternative. Ray nodded and off then went, taking the shortcut pedestrian bridge across the Susquehanna River. The rain picked up a couple of hundred yards from the house, and they started to run as best they could, which was not very well in Ray’s case. Pygmy circled an arm around his waist to support him and he kept a tentative hand on her shoulder for balance as they loped through the dark, often stepping smack into deep puddles of cold water. By the time they reached the porch of Pygmy’s house they were more than soaked.
Pygmy hung the keys on a hook by the front door and hung her coat in the closet. She turned towards Ray, who stood in the open doorway, apparently awaiting further instructions. “Coat?” she motioned for Ray to hand her his. Ray wrestled out of his jacket, which was pretty much soaked. Pygmy frowned at the water dripping off it, went to put it in the laundry room to dry. Ray reached behind and pulled the door closed. He looked at the posters and artwork on the vestibule walls, not recognizing any of the reproductions nor realizing that all the original works were Pygmy’s.
Pygmy returned, drying her hair with a towel as she walked, speaking hands-free on her cell phone to someone about an interview time, a second towel draped over her right shoulder and a stack of mail wedged under her left arm. She told Ray to “take the towel and come in!, come in!” and walked away again apologizing to whomever she was speaking to.
Ray rummaged through the kitchen for a measuring tape, thinking he might as well make some measurements while Pygmy was on the phone. He looked over the living room, trying to figure out where to put the wood stove. The vent could go anywhere along the wall. He burned another10 minutes on the effort, jotted down the measurements and some notes, then plopped down on one of the sofas and waited for Pygmy to finish her call. After another 10 minutes of staring at all the stuff in her living room he picked up a copy of Art Forum from the coffee table, sat down on the sofa and flipped through the magazine. She must have a nuclear-powered cell phone, he wondered, no battery could last that long. She was always on it! Ray felt himself getting annoyed at her about the cell phone. He looked around the room, feeling bored. Pygmy walked over to and by him, making eyes and smiling at him, absent-mindedly stroking his cheek while she walked by, jabbering away on the phone the whole time. The touch jolted Ray in a few places but he didn’t show it. He stood up and took a couple of steps after her, then stopped, backed up and sat down, confused but happy. He reread Art Forum and after a while Pygmy reappeared, and walked by again, caressed his arm this time, still talking. Ray reached for her hand and held her from going. Pygmy writhed around as if she wanted to get away. To her surprise and disappointment he let her go. She left the living room for the third time, and for 10 minutes Ray heard her in the kitchen, talking and laughing.
Then it goes quiet and for a minute Ray is listening, waiting to hear her speak but Pygmy comes out of the kitchen without the cell phone and comes right over to the sofa and pushes him down on it and climbs on top of him, leans forward and gives him a lingering kiss on the lips. The thrill knocked Ray speechless for a moment; he just stared at her like a puppy. Next thing Pygmy is standing up and yanking on his arm to get him to stand up. When he realizes what she wants he stands and she leads him across the living room towards the stairs, unbuttoning her blouse and shedding it as she reached the bottom of the stairs. She pulled her hand from his and turned to face him, removed the rest of her clothing, slowly. Ray again was dumbstruck. Pygmy turned and walked halfway up the stairs, stopped and looked over her shoulder. Ray was still at the base of the stairs. Pygmy turned around and put her hands on her hips, elbows out, ordered him to c’mon. Ray obliged with slow steps towards her. She waited until he got one step away before resuming her climb. He followed her down the hallway and into her bedroom. Pygmy scampered under the covers.
“Ooh it’s cold!” she loudly exclaimed. “Turn out the light and get in here.”
Ray turned out the light and went over to the bed.
“Um, maybe you should take your shoes off and undress first.” Pygmy suggested.
Ray sat down on the edge of the bed and took off his shoes and socks, then stood up and dropped his trousers and underwear. His hands began to tremble as he unbuttoned his shirt. He turned away from her so she wouldn’t notice, fumbling over a tight button while Pygmy admired the rear view. Finally he just tugged the button loose and took his shirt and tshirt off, and climbed into bed and under the covers with her.
Pygmy noticed his hands shaking and saw him pull the button off. She lifted the covers to look at him. He was laying there like he didn’t have hands. She reached over him to turn out the lamp. She snuggled up close to him and kissed him. “Damn, honey, you’re acting like it’s your first time” she said.
..............THE END
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Thursday, February 22, 2007
Saturnalia
At 10am on Friday there were 37 customers stranded in Jane’s. It took Ray a split second to figure that out – all 32 seats were occupied and there were 5 people standing, not counting Skid, himself, the Sheriff,or, of course, Jane. Jose was off somewhere, which was unfortunate since they sorely needed help. The novelty of beind isolated in a farmhouse during an ice storm was wearing off. The Sheriff had made a simple announcement that it would take at least several hours before power was restored and the roads were cleared of fallen trees and other debris. Until then the winter storm emergency would be in effect and no motor vehicle traffic was allowed, except for a veritable emergency (no, the Arts Festival does not qualify.)
The Sheriff advised that he would be in constant touch with his deputies and the state police and would pass along any news as soon as he heard. Although the temperature was well above freezing the sky was overcast and many roads were slick with black ice. The afternoon forecast was for winds gusting to 30mph, and more freezing weather and snow was possible. A low pressure front had stalled a high pressure front, or something like that, leaving it anybody’s guess what would happen next.
Sheriff Thom looked around the dining room to check the reaction. The people could not have been more subdued. The last two days of the Festival were the most exciting, especially the parties, which ran continuously from Thursday night to Sunday morning. Everyone wanted to be on campus, or at least in Greektown. Breakfast had been great, but now they were stuck at Jane’s with nothing to do.
A young man jumped up and scolded the man sitting next to him: “I told you we should have stayed on campus.” He stalked out of the room, into the front yard.
Sheriff shrugged.
David Prendergast stood up and called for everyone’s attention, feeling obliged to make a statement to the attendees. “I’m sure we all wish we could get back to the Festival. Sheriff Thom is doing everything he can to help. We’re fortunate that he happens to be with us. Meanwhile let’s just relax. We can’t control the weather, or how long it will take to clear the roads.”
Sheriff nodded at David, pleased to let someone else hold the reins. He slipped off upstairs to the bedroom he was using as a makeshift office. It was possible that the roads would be cleared before dark, but more likely not. Noon Saturday was what the state police were saying, and they were usually pretty close. He had held that back from the assemblage.
The front door opened and Professor Donald Loomis stood in the doorframe, his face ruddy from exertion. He tapped his ski boots against the frame to remove snow and ice. “Well,” he announced to the room with a smile, “ that took longer than usual.” There was enough snow in places. Most of the route was bare, or icy, so he walked more than skiied. Even klister didn’t work well on the muddy nice. It was possibly the last ski day of the season so he just had to get out. Early birds were heading north already.
“Hey Professor!” cried Skid. “How’s the skiing?” Few in the room knew the Professor, but it was evident he had come some time and distance, which provided an instant topic of conversation. Some of the stranded had already reached their threshold for boredom.
Professor was surprised that the room was full so late in the morning, and disappointed that his usual table was taken. He had hoped to read the newspaper over coffee by the fireplace before heading back to his house. It had taken over 3 hours to get to Jane’s and he expected it would take as long to get back. Casper offered the Professor his own seat but the Professor declined.
Jane led him into the kitchen and fed him there, cobbling together an omelette of green onions, tomatoes, and woodchuck bacon. Professor was too hungry to notice the last, wolfed down his food while Jane made small talk about the weather and the restaurant. It had been an auspicious three weeks since the place opened, now Jane was beginning to think ahead to Sunday, when the festival would be over and the town back to normal.
“Well, you’ve got one steady customer” offered the Professor. He took a sip of coffee and wiped his mouth, thinking that the bacon had been oddly greasy. He looked up and innocently met Jane’s eye. If he had had a child, he reflected, he would have been proud if she turned out like Jane, self-reliant and content to remain in Chenango County and keep the farm operational. He wished he had been more of a neighbor over the years. So much had changed.
“A penny for your thoughts, Donald”
“Well” Professor harrumphed, “I’m just a nostalgic old man but I love what you’ve done. I do like company, you know. I know I’m regarded as an eccentric loner, and I suppose I am, but...but that’s just one side of me.”
Jane smiled encouragingly. She never thought of the Professor as eccentric or a loner. He was a neighborhood celebrity, if someone who lives several miles away can be considered a neighbor. Everyone else in the area was a farmer, or an outsider.
Then she considered whether she was a loner, too. Although Jose lived in the guesthouse she had been living alone in the house for over 20 years. Earlier on she had lots of friends, and a social life. But her friends got busy with their own families and many moved out of the area. Apart from Veronica Verploenck she was barely in touch with anyone.
“Well I don’t know if people think I’m eccentric but I guess I’m something of a loner.”
Professor decided to change the subject: “Seems like that David Prendergast is another steady customer,” he caught her eye again, “ maybe more than that.”
Jane laughed, would have blushed if she hadn’t. “I don’t think he’s interested in me. He probably has girlfriends in New York City, or on campus, all those coeds you know?”
Professor didn’t know, certainly not empirically. “If that’s so why does he come here all the time, alone?”
Ray knocked and entered without waiting for a cue. “Hi, Professor. Jane, what are we going to do about lunch?”
“And you have Ray, too” Professor observed. “I think you have a success story here, Jane. You might not get rich but it’ll help. Anyway, this is best thing to happen here in years.” Like 50 years, thought the Professor.
“There’s no telling what this place might become” opined Ray, firmly believing his words. “In nice weather people will drive out from town and a lot of places – Afton, Bainbridge, Oxford, Sydney, even Binghamton or Cortland - a drive in the country and a hearty breakfast, or lunch. Hell, we might even open for dinner.”
“Dinner!?” Jane arched her eyebrows, wondering what other thoughts Ray had about the restaurant. “Hmm. Hadn’t thought about that. Let’s talk about today’s lunch – can I get you anything else, Donald? Do you want to stay around? I’ll bring down some more chairs and see if I can get you your table by the fireplace.”
Professor had a hard time disguising his enthusiasm for the idea. He was actually excited by the crowd in the dining room. He only knew David, and the German fellow Casper. The others were a very Bohemian sort. He would like nothing more than to read by the fireside and surreptitiously observe the room. Come to think of it David and Casper were the same type, but also met Professor’s standards for being gentlemen.
Jane ordered Ray to bring down a few more chairs. Ray asked again about lunch but Jane said not to worry. She went out into the dining room to see about the Professor’s table. As it turned out it was David’s table at the moment. Casper, Rodrigo, and Pygmy were with him. They shifted their chairs to allow for a fifth chair for the Professor.
Casper was elated at the opportunity to continue talking about Washington Loomis, Jesse James, and the wild west. As a boy in Cologne he went to Western movies every week. He knew of course that New York was on the east coast but so what, it was on the same continent. He also knew that Jesse James died in Minnesota, so if Minnesota why not New York, why not Chenango County. However he was too well mannered to impose on the Professor, who seemed to want to read quietly. They had all day, after all, and perhaps longer.
“Jeez I’m bored” someone announced to no one in particular. It was just past noon. An optimistic few hoped that the Sheriff would pop out at any time and tell them it was okay to go back to campus. Ray put on the country music radio station for entertainment. Jane held back on bringing down the television from her bedroom, figuring to do that in the evening if they were still there. There wasn’t much to do. Nobody was really dressed for the weather. It was wet and very windy, a clammy sort of cool. The ground was either mushy or slippery. Still, people went out just to have something to do, walked out to the road and walked back and forth on the blacktop, skirting around the fallen limbs and other debris. Cell phone use was discouraged, and service was problematic at best.
Someone asked Jane if she had Monopoly, a chess set, or a deck of cards. No to the first two but she found a few old decks of cards in the attic and a couple of other board games. She also allowed anyone who wished to read to rummage through the boxes of books up there. By 1pm things were as settled as they would get, each to his own devices to pass the time.
She checked in with her brother to see how things stood. He was uncharacteristically curt with her: “I said I would tell people the news when I got any news.” He seemed depressed to her, sitting by the telephone, worrying over a folio of police documents.
“I’m going to be fixing lunch pretty soon. Can I bring you up something?”
“Sure. Anything. Take your time. I’m fine.” He didn’t look at all fine. She knew he was stressed out over a homicide investigation, and of course the ice storm. Now he has Paul Giardino filing a complaint about Jose rustling his yak. Her brother was only 4 years older but his years as sheriff had taken a toll.
Pygmy and David volunteered to help Jane and Ray in the kitchen. They spend more time gabbing than cooking so lunch isn’t ready until after 5pm. People eat very slowly, hoping that before they finish the Sheriff will come out and allow them to leave. At 7pm the Sheriff finally appears and tells them the roads will be opened at 8am on Saturday.
“But it’s Friday and I haven’t gotten laid yet!”
Sheriff Thom recoiled, then had the notion to arrest the brazen young man who stood face to face with him. He chose to ignore the man. The room knew that there was no question about it, they would be spending the night at Jane’s. Everyone felt inconvenienced, and Jane had to somehow accommodate them all. Nearly everyone would have to sleep in chairs or on the floor. Professor could have the sofa. Her brother would sleep in one of the guest bedrooms. Pygmy would get the other, along with three other females. Jane reflected that there was a 7:1 male:female ratio.
Just when Jane was thinking ‘cheer up, things could get worse’ Sheriff told Jane about the complaint against Jose.
“Why in hell would Jose rustle any animals? And what the hell is a yak?”
“That’s not all – someone at the county offices told Cornelia Cabot Holmes about it and she has gone out and retained counsel for Jose. So two Johnnie Cochrans are going to fight over it. Takes it out of my hands.” Sheriff raised his hands, palms forward “I’m already over budget for the year, and no, I don’t know what a yak is either, but there was, supposedly, elk and buffalo. Personally I wouldn’t be surprised if it was black market livestock, but that’s just between you and me.”
About 8pm the wind died and rain stopped. The temperature was still rising, slowly, hovering at 50. It seemed crazy not to be able to leave. Ray took the television downstairs and set it up in the dining room, where it could only get PBS so for the first hour it was “Wall Street Week”. followed by “The Albany Report.” The Lawrence Welk Show made a few fans that night. When the station signed off with “The Star Spangled Banner” the entire room sang along. Then Jane just said it was time to dim the lights and the house quieted down and went to sleep.
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The Sheriff advised that he would be in constant touch with his deputies and the state police and would pass along any news as soon as he heard. Although the temperature was well above freezing the sky was overcast and many roads were slick with black ice. The afternoon forecast was for winds gusting to 30mph, and more freezing weather and snow was possible. A low pressure front had stalled a high pressure front, or something like that, leaving it anybody’s guess what would happen next.
Sheriff Thom looked around the dining room to check the reaction. The people could not have been more subdued. The last two days of the Festival were the most exciting, especially the parties, which ran continuously from Thursday night to Sunday morning. Everyone wanted to be on campus, or at least in Greektown. Breakfast had been great, but now they were stuck at Jane’s with nothing to do.
A young man jumped up and scolded the man sitting next to him: “I told you we should have stayed on campus.” He stalked out of the room, into the front yard.
Sheriff shrugged.
David Prendergast stood up and called for everyone’s attention, feeling obliged to make a statement to the attendees. “I’m sure we all wish we could get back to the Festival. Sheriff Thom is doing everything he can to help. We’re fortunate that he happens to be with us. Meanwhile let’s just relax. We can’t control the weather, or how long it will take to clear the roads.”
Sheriff nodded at David, pleased to let someone else hold the reins. He slipped off upstairs to the bedroom he was using as a makeshift office. It was possible that the roads would be cleared before dark, but more likely not. Noon Saturday was what the state police were saying, and they were usually pretty close. He had held that back from the assemblage.
The front door opened and Professor Donald Loomis stood in the doorframe, his face ruddy from exertion. He tapped his ski boots against the frame to remove snow and ice. “Well,” he announced to the room with a smile, “ that took longer than usual.” There was enough snow in places. Most of the route was bare, or icy, so he walked more than skiied. Even klister didn’t work well on the muddy nice. It was possibly the last ski day of the season so he just had to get out. Early birds were heading north already.
“Hey Professor!” cried Skid. “How’s the skiing?” Few in the room knew the Professor, but it was evident he had come some time and distance, which provided an instant topic of conversation. Some of the stranded had already reached their threshold for boredom.
Professor was surprised that the room was full so late in the morning, and disappointed that his usual table was taken. He had hoped to read the newspaper over coffee by the fireplace before heading back to his house. It had taken over 3 hours to get to Jane’s and he expected it would take as long to get back. Casper offered the Professor his own seat but the Professor declined.
Jane led him into the kitchen and fed him there, cobbling together an omelette of green onions, tomatoes, and woodchuck bacon. Professor was too hungry to notice the last, wolfed down his food while Jane made small talk about the weather and the restaurant. It had been an auspicious three weeks since the place opened, now Jane was beginning to think ahead to Sunday, when the festival would be over and the town back to normal.
“Well, you’ve got one steady customer” offered the Professor. He took a sip of coffee and wiped his mouth, thinking that the bacon had been oddly greasy. He looked up and innocently met Jane’s eye. If he had had a child, he reflected, he would have been proud if she turned out like Jane, self-reliant and content to remain in Chenango County and keep the farm operational. He wished he had been more of a neighbor over the years. So much had changed.
“A penny for your thoughts, Donald”
“Well” Professor harrumphed, “I’m just a nostalgic old man but I love what you’ve done. I do like company, you know. I know I’m regarded as an eccentric loner, and I suppose I am, but...but that’s just one side of me.”
Jane smiled encouragingly. She never thought of the Professor as eccentric or a loner. He was a neighborhood celebrity, if someone who lives several miles away can be considered a neighbor. Everyone else in the area was a farmer, or an outsider.
Then she considered whether she was a loner, too. Although Jose lived in the guesthouse she had been living alone in the house for over 20 years. Earlier on she had lots of friends, and a social life. But her friends got busy with their own families and many moved out of the area. Apart from Veronica Verploenck she was barely in touch with anyone.
“Well I don’t know if people think I’m eccentric but I guess I’m something of a loner.”
Professor decided to change the subject: “Seems like that David Prendergast is another steady customer,” he caught her eye again, “ maybe more than that.”
Jane laughed, would have blushed if she hadn’t. “I don’t think he’s interested in me. He probably has girlfriends in New York City, or on campus, all those coeds you know?”
Professor didn’t know, certainly not empirically. “If that’s so why does he come here all the time, alone?”
Ray knocked and entered without waiting for a cue. “Hi, Professor. Jane, what are we going to do about lunch?”
“And you have Ray, too” Professor observed. “I think you have a success story here, Jane. You might not get rich but it’ll help. Anyway, this is best thing to happen here in years.” Like 50 years, thought the Professor.
“There’s no telling what this place might become” opined Ray, firmly believing his words. “In nice weather people will drive out from town and a lot of places – Afton, Bainbridge, Oxford, Sydney, even Binghamton or Cortland - a drive in the country and a hearty breakfast, or lunch. Hell, we might even open for dinner.”
“Dinner!?” Jane arched her eyebrows, wondering what other thoughts Ray had about the restaurant. “Hmm. Hadn’t thought about that. Let’s talk about today’s lunch – can I get you anything else, Donald? Do you want to stay around? I’ll bring down some more chairs and see if I can get you your table by the fireplace.”
Professor had a hard time disguising his enthusiasm for the idea. He was actually excited by the crowd in the dining room. He only knew David, and the German fellow Casper. The others were a very Bohemian sort. He would like nothing more than to read by the fireside and surreptitiously observe the room. Come to think of it David and Casper were the same type, but also met Professor’s standards for being gentlemen.
Jane ordered Ray to bring down a few more chairs. Ray asked again about lunch but Jane said not to worry. She went out into the dining room to see about the Professor’s table. As it turned out it was David’s table at the moment. Casper, Rodrigo, and Pygmy were with him. They shifted their chairs to allow for a fifth chair for the Professor.
Casper was elated at the opportunity to continue talking about Washington Loomis, Jesse James, and the wild west. As a boy in Cologne he went to Western movies every week. He knew of course that New York was on the east coast but so what, it was on the same continent. He also knew that Jesse James died in Minnesota, so if Minnesota why not New York, why not Chenango County. However he was too well mannered to impose on the Professor, who seemed to want to read quietly. They had all day, after all, and perhaps longer.
“Jeez I’m bored” someone announced to no one in particular. It was just past noon. An optimistic few hoped that the Sheriff would pop out at any time and tell them it was okay to go back to campus. Ray put on the country music radio station for entertainment. Jane held back on bringing down the television from her bedroom, figuring to do that in the evening if they were still there. There wasn’t much to do. Nobody was really dressed for the weather. It was wet and very windy, a clammy sort of cool. The ground was either mushy or slippery. Still, people went out just to have something to do, walked out to the road and walked back and forth on the blacktop, skirting around the fallen limbs and other debris. Cell phone use was discouraged, and service was problematic at best.
Someone asked Jane if she had Monopoly, a chess set, or a deck of cards. No to the first two but she found a few old decks of cards in the attic and a couple of other board games. She also allowed anyone who wished to read to rummage through the boxes of books up there. By 1pm things were as settled as they would get, each to his own devices to pass the time.
She checked in with her brother to see how things stood. He was uncharacteristically curt with her: “I said I would tell people the news when I got any news.” He seemed depressed to her, sitting by the telephone, worrying over a folio of police documents.
“I’m going to be fixing lunch pretty soon. Can I bring you up something?”
“Sure. Anything. Take your time. I’m fine.” He didn’t look at all fine. She knew he was stressed out over a homicide investigation, and of course the ice storm. Now he has Paul Giardino filing a complaint about Jose rustling his yak. Her brother was only 4 years older but his years as sheriff had taken a toll.
Pygmy and David volunteered to help Jane and Ray in the kitchen. They spend more time gabbing than cooking so lunch isn’t ready until after 5pm. People eat very slowly, hoping that before they finish the Sheriff will come out and allow them to leave. At 7pm the Sheriff finally appears and tells them the roads will be opened at 8am on Saturday.
“But it’s Friday and I haven’t gotten laid yet!”
Sheriff Thom recoiled, then had the notion to arrest the brazen young man who stood face to face with him. He chose to ignore the man. The room knew that there was no question about it, they would be spending the night at Jane’s. Everyone felt inconvenienced, and Jane had to somehow accommodate them all. Nearly everyone would have to sleep in chairs or on the floor. Professor could have the sofa. Her brother would sleep in one of the guest bedrooms. Pygmy would get the other, along with three other females. Jane reflected that there was a 7:1 male:female ratio.
Just when Jane was thinking ‘cheer up, things could get worse’ Sheriff told Jane about the complaint against Jose.
“Why in hell would Jose rustle any animals? And what the hell is a yak?”
“That’s not all – someone at the county offices told Cornelia Cabot Holmes about it and she has gone out and retained counsel for Jose. So two Johnnie Cochrans are going to fight over it. Takes it out of my hands.” Sheriff raised his hands, palms forward “I’m already over budget for the year, and no, I don’t know what a yak is either, but there was, supposedly, elk and buffalo. Personally I wouldn’t be surprised if it was black market livestock, but that’s just between you and me.”
About 8pm the wind died and rain stopped. The temperature was still rising, slowly, hovering at 50. It seemed crazy not to be able to leave. Ray took the television downstairs and set it up in the dining room, where it could only get PBS so for the first hour it was “Wall Street Week”. followed by “The Albany Report.” The Lawrence Welk Show made a few fans that night. When the station signed off with “The Star Spangled Banner” the entire room sang along. Then Jane just said it was time to dim the lights and the house quieted down and went to sleep.
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Sunday, February 18, 2007
The Ice Storm
Paul Giardino wasn’t sure that moving to Chenango County was working for him. It was supposed to be a whistle stop on the road to the governor’s mansion – establish residency, serve a term or two as state senator, then become governor. He thought it would be easy to secure the Republican nomination, which was as good as getting elected since the county was 70% Republican. He had made all the right moves – joining the party, schmoozing the key players, flying them down to Giants Stadium, even hosting them on his yacht for the Super Bowl forcrisake. Did they do the right thing? Fuck no. They teased him along like it was in the bag but twice, twice!, they had fucked him for the nomination, this time for a dentist (!) whose license was suspended (!!). What the fuck! They come out of their private conference and nobody’s making eye contact with him so he knows it’s bad. One by one they take him aside and apologize, telling him they tried to sway the committee. Bullshit! He had more than half of them on his side. No way he could have lost.
Paul stared into his drink, feeling sorry for himself, jiggling the melting ice cubes. It was 3am but he was in no mood to go to bed. He was accustomed to having his way. In the last two weeks he had suffered two serious setbacks. First he had lost out on a beautiful tract of land. 1500 acres right where he expected the intersection of I-88 and I-83 to be. Cornelia stole that one. Then tonight he gets stabbed in the back for the nomination for state senator.
He reached for the bottle of Chivas and topped off his drink, swiveled on his stool to offer a refill for his date, holding up the bottle and arching his eyebrows by way of invitation. But his date had given up on him and retired 2 or 3 drinks earlier. He stared at the girl’s fur, draped over the chair back and tried to remember what she looked like, some model or actress, pretty disappointing actually. He wished Pygmy was with him. Now that was a woman he could get excited about, even marry. He pondered whether a biracial marriage would work for or against his political aspirations.
Coincidentally, at the same moment that Paul was drunkenly thinking of Pygmy, Pygmy was drunkenly thinking of Paul, kneeling on the floor in her bathroom, about to call Ralph on the big white telephone. The $10,000 donation that Paul had given to the festival had bounced. Evidently he had put a stop payment on the check and not told Pygmy. That was just like him. Use people and then stiff them. Make promises and break them. And to think that she almost had feelings for him, before. Well, she did have feelings for him, but he was poison. She leaned over the edge of the commode and gave it up for Ralph.
Then the lights went out, at Paul’s secluded estate and at Pygmy’s house, indeed all over Chenango and several other counties the lights went out. The parties in Greektown were still going, lights or no lights. Maybe better without them. The theme for Wednesday, as usual, was karaoke. In the dark, without the recorded music or the video backdrop, the revelry cruised on its own momentum. Here and there a few relatively clear-headed attendees sought to restore the power, groped around basements in search of circuit breakers while most everyone just stayed put and groped the immediate vicinity.
Those who ventured outside discovered that three inches of soggy snow had fallen. A very tall young man stepped out on the porch of one of the frat houses and promptly slipped on the ice and fell. The pitch of the porch propelled him towards the front steps. He reached for the wrought iron handrail to keep from sliding down the steps, but the handrail itself was coated with ice and his efforts to hold a grip on it were futile. He watched his fingers slowly slide off the handrail and then he was a human sled, gracefully gliding down the walkway, across the lawn, into the driveway and down the driveway into the street. He hit the curb and spilled up onto the lawn across the street, hooked his arm around a maple sapling.
The young man raised his free hand in a signal of triumph to his compatriots, but absent the street lights no one in the frat house could see him.
“Brian, are you okay?” someone shouted from an upstairs window.
Brian laughed merrily, cupped his hands to his mouth and shouted “fine,”, but the little tree buckled under his weight and he began to slide away down the street towards the river. Fortunately for him there was a fence between him and the water. He came to rest, finally, and was able to stand up, but it was useless to try to get back to the house; after a few steps the ice carried him back to the fence.
Then a couple of his friends ventured out on the porch to see what was happening. A few minutes later they were beside Brian at the fence, three very bright and creative minds boggled by black ice and gravity. Coatless, they might have contracted pneumonia from the frosty damp exposure. Their salvation came in the unlikely form of Skid, who had been out since midnight with the plow, dumping rock salt on top of the ice.
Skid knew it was already too late for the rock salt to do any good, but he got paid doubletime and could just drive around all night so he didn’t much care. He did all the village streets and was heading for campus when he saw the three men in the headlights. They crowded into the passenger seat and Skid drove them back up the driveway. It took 15 minutes to get them inside the house from the truck, using several bedsheets knotted together as an impromptu lifeline. One of the men offered Skid a 50 dollar bill, fully expecting Skid to at least balk once but Skid just tucked the bill in his pocket and said “Awesome.”
“Don’t go! Don’t go!” someone shouted at Skid. “Tell us what’s going on.”
Skid shrugged. “Fucked if I know. Looks like an ice storm. Power’s off all over town.”
“How long will it be out?”
“Probably hours. Maybe days.” Skid’s words quickly spread throughout Greektown, along with various accounts of Brian’s misadventure. Now that the mystery had a name, ice storm, and an expected duration, everyone settled down. By 4am Greektown was quiet, the earliest end for Karaoke Night that anyone could recall. Most people just went to bed, if they could find it, and otherwise went with whatever the next best thing was.
Not all the power was out in Susquehanna. Pygmy’s house was one of the few exceptions. Pygmy brushed her teeth, rinsed, and studied her reflection in the mirror. She was still a bit nauseous and her head was beginning to ache. If she lay down she would sleep at least to noon, probably longer, and she couldn’t afford that. Three more days! How would she make it? She brushed her teeth a second time, then made and drank several cups of Cuban coffee, sitting on a sheepskin by the fireplace. She’d gut it out until the evening and then crash. David could cover the evening for her; it was the least he could do for her. She put a Nick Drake cd on and wrapped an afghan around her shoulders, closed her eyes and drifted off to sleep.
She woke up for a nature call at 7am, flicked on the Bose to catch NPR, caught the news about the ice storm and all the power outages, went through an absurd moment of wondering whether she had a power outage. She had no hangover at all, felt pretty good and rested. Then again, she was laying in bed, and she knew from experience that standing up could make a world of difference.
She tempted fate by getting up and going to the window to look see what it looked like. The answer was “white and messy.” She had seen ice storms before but this one was the worst. The landscape was white again, salted with a riot of twigs and branches of all sizes. Quite a few trees were uprooted, fallen over onto the ground, or other trees, or whatever was unfortunate enough to be in the way. The radio said it was 30 degrees, and forecast a high of 45. Ironically the sky was clear and the Sun was bright, so Pygmy figured everything would be okay for the Festival. She felt okay, good enough to take care of business.
First order of business was to get through to Paul Giardino and address the stopped check for 10 large. She dialed his mobile and got him on the 5th ring.
“Paul” a tired voice intoned.
“Motherfucker!” Pygmy saluted.
“Pygmy, I’m sorry – let me explain.”
“No explanation necessary. Just make with the mon-nay. I’m trying to keep 2,000 freaked out people happy. I thought I had a solid budget and then when I go to the bank I have to suffer the embarrassment of Miss Thing smirking at me about the bad check that I deposited. I don’t care what your explanation is. Where the fuck is the money?” She slammed the phone into the cradle and went off to shower. Fuck Paul Giardino and his $10,000. Don’t really need it anyway, and certainly don’t need him. Then she turned her thoughts to the present: lip gloss? Etc.
Paul had an impulse to make amends, but it passed. Pygmy fascinated him, attracted him for sure, but somehow, he couldn’t put his finger on it, he and she didn’t click.
Paul had been fucking people over for so long he had long since forgotten that people have feelings, or principles, or stuff like that. It was just natural for him to stop payment on checks, if he even wrote one. Sometimes he just refused to pay on account that the work was late or not good enough. Occasionally he’d relent after several months and pay half, or a tenth. He liked people, thought of himself as a people person. He just had a problem letting go of money.
He somehow believed that Pygmy understood him. He sat down and wrote another check for $10,000. He most likely would stop that check too, so he tore it up and made a mental note to get a cashiers check. He needed to move on. It was past 7. He had to get out to his “sportsmen’s paradise” – a 400-acre farm that he had converted into a luxury shooting gallery, where hunting parties of himself and an entourage of pro athletes and politicians gunned down exotic critters, who were fenced in for easy killing.
A few times each year Paul threw a weekend hunting party. The first outing for 2001 was the week after the Festival. Two NFL hall of famers were among the guests. Paul had elk and buffalo as usual, and in honor of his special guests, yak, which he confused with an African antelope. Too bad he had to pay cash up front. How were they going to hunt yak? The things didn’t even move. He’d give them to the zoo, anonymously of course. Too late to get anything else so make do with what he had.
He was glad that he had the Hummer, as glad, maybe more, that he had a gas generator to supply the electric during the outage. The roads were dicey. The radio said it was a winter storm emergency which meant no travel except for emergency but he did have a Hummer and he had no problem getting to his hunting preserve. As he drove up the hill he had a good long view of the barn doors flapping in the breeze. There were no animals inside. They were all, it seemed, in a single herd heading into the woods, a human figure with a staff walking behind the herd. Paul called and the figure turned around. Paul saw that it was Jose, the Mexican who worked for the Sheriff’s sister Jane. The herd and Jose vanished into the woods.
Back on campus, gas powered generators were supplying electricity and all the attendees, and quite a few townies, sought refuge there. Everyone was thrilled to have light and heat, and a chance to recharge their cell phones.
The Festival proceeded on its normal schedule, quite a contrast to the chaotic remnants of the ice storm. The temperature was not quite 40 but it seemed warm in the bright sun. The ice and snow were beginning to melt but they still dominated the landscape. Every few seconds there was the popping sound of a tree limb snapping off under the weight on it. Every few minutes came the whoosh and crash of a just uprooted tree.
The ice storm became the center of attention. Attendees found it more interesting than the Festival. David Prendergast noted as much in his opening remarks, invited people to go out and enjoy the spectacle – not the damage but the abstract expressionist canvas of twig and branch on snow.
“David, Why are you so sober?” someone shouted from the audience.
“Who says I am?” answered David.
At 10am David slipped away in his Land Rover to meet up with Casper for breakfast at Jane’s. Pygmy wanted a ride, too. He drove through town to pick her up, antsy about being seen, maybe ticketed, by a deputy. He liked his chances. There were enough other vehicles out in violation of the winter storm emergency.
It wasn’t easy getting out to Jane’s, took nearly an hour. The place was packed, too. Like most farms Jane had a gas powered generator and was doing business as usual. Her brother was doing business as usual too – ticketing each arrival with a $200 citation for violating the winter storm emergency and tartly advising that they best not leave the premises by motor vehicle until said winter storm emergency was lifted.
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Paul stared into his drink, feeling sorry for himself, jiggling the melting ice cubes. It was 3am but he was in no mood to go to bed. He was accustomed to having his way. In the last two weeks he had suffered two serious setbacks. First he had lost out on a beautiful tract of land. 1500 acres right where he expected the intersection of I-88 and I-83 to be. Cornelia stole that one. Then tonight he gets stabbed in the back for the nomination for state senator.
He reached for the bottle of Chivas and topped off his drink, swiveled on his stool to offer a refill for his date, holding up the bottle and arching his eyebrows by way of invitation. But his date had given up on him and retired 2 or 3 drinks earlier. He stared at the girl’s fur, draped over the chair back and tried to remember what she looked like, some model or actress, pretty disappointing actually. He wished Pygmy was with him. Now that was a woman he could get excited about, even marry. He pondered whether a biracial marriage would work for or against his political aspirations.
Coincidentally, at the same moment that Paul was drunkenly thinking of Pygmy, Pygmy was drunkenly thinking of Paul, kneeling on the floor in her bathroom, about to call Ralph on the big white telephone. The $10,000 donation that Paul had given to the festival had bounced. Evidently he had put a stop payment on the check and not told Pygmy. That was just like him. Use people and then stiff them. Make promises and break them. And to think that she almost had feelings for him, before. Well, she did have feelings for him, but he was poison. She leaned over the edge of the commode and gave it up for Ralph.
Then the lights went out, at Paul’s secluded estate and at Pygmy’s house, indeed all over Chenango and several other counties the lights went out. The parties in Greektown were still going, lights or no lights. Maybe better without them. The theme for Wednesday, as usual, was karaoke. In the dark, without the recorded music or the video backdrop, the revelry cruised on its own momentum. Here and there a few relatively clear-headed attendees sought to restore the power, groped around basements in search of circuit breakers while most everyone just stayed put and groped the immediate vicinity.
Those who ventured outside discovered that three inches of soggy snow had fallen. A very tall young man stepped out on the porch of one of the frat houses and promptly slipped on the ice and fell. The pitch of the porch propelled him towards the front steps. He reached for the wrought iron handrail to keep from sliding down the steps, but the handrail itself was coated with ice and his efforts to hold a grip on it were futile. He watched his fingers slowly slide off the handrail and then he was a human sled, gracefully gliding down the walkway, across the lawn, into the driveway and down the driveway into the street. He hit the curb and spilled up onto the lawn across the street, hooked his arm around a maple sapling.
The young man raised his free hand in a signal of triumph to his compatriots, but absent the street lights no one in the frat house could see him.
“Brian, are you okay?” someone shouted from an upstairs window.
Brian laughed merrily, cupped his hands to his mouth and shouted “fine,”, but the little tree buckled under his weight and he began to slide away down the street towards the river. Fortunately for him there was a fence between him and the water. He came to rest, finally, and was able to stand up, but it was useless to try to get back to the house; after a few steps the ice carried him back to the fence.
Then a couple of his friends ventured out on the porch to see what was happening. A few minutes later they were beside Brian at the fence, three very bright and creative minds boggled by black ice and gravity. Coatless, they might have contracted pneumonia from the frosty damp exposure. Their salvation came in the unlikely form of Skid, who had been out since midnight with the plow, dumping rock salt on top of the ice.
Skid knew it was already too late for the rock salt to do any good, but he got paid doubletime and could just drive around all night so he didn’t much care. He did all the village streets and was heading for campus when he saw the three men in the headlights. They crowded into the passenger seat and Skid drove them back up the driveway. It took 15 minutes to get them inside the house from the truck, using several bedsheets knotted together as an impromptu lifeline. One of the men offered Skid a 50 dollar bill, fully expecting Skid to at least balk once but Skid just tucked the bill in his pocket and said “Awesome.”
“Don’t go! Don’t go!” someone shouted at Skid. “Tell us what’s going on.”
Skid shrugged. “Fucked if I know. Looks like an ice storm. Power’s off all over town.”
“How long will it be out?”
“Probably hours. Maybe days.” Skid’s words quickly spread throughout Greektown, along with various accounts of Brian’s misadventure. Now that the mystery had a name, ice storm, and an expected duration, everyone settled down. By 4am Greektown was quiet, the earliest end for Karaoke Night that anyone could recall. Most people just went to bed, if they could find it, and otherwise went with whatever the next best thing was.
Not all the power was out in Susquehanna. Pygmy’s house was one of the few exceptions. Pygmy brushed her teeth, rinsed, and studied her reflection in the mirror. She was still a bit nauseous and her head was beginning to ache. If she lay down she would sleep at least to noon, probably longer, and she couldn’t afford that. Three more days! How would she make it? She brushed her teeth a second time, then made and drank several cups of Cuban coffee, sitting on a sheepskin by the fireplace. She’d gut it out until the evening and then crash. David could cover the evening for her; it was the least he could do for her. She put a Nick Drake cd on and wrapped an afghan around her shoulders, closed her eyes and drifted off to sleep.
She woke up for a nature call at 7am, flicked on the Bose to catch NPR, caught the news about the ice storm and all the power outages, went through an absurd moment of wondering whether she had a power outage. She had no hangover at all, felt pretty good and rested. Then again, she was laying in bed, and she knew from experience that standing up could make a world of difference.
She tempted fate by getting up and going to the window to look see what it looked like. The answer was “white and messy.” She had seen ice storms before but this one was the worst. The landscape was white again, salted with a riot of twigs and branches of all sizes. Quite a few trees were uprooted, fallen over onto the ground, or other trees, or whatever was unfortunate enough to be in the way. The radio said it was 30 degrees, and forecast a high of 45. Ironically the sky was clear and the Sun was bright, so Pygmy figured everything would be okay for the Festival. She felt okay, good enough to take care of business.
First order of business was to get through to Paul Giardino and address the stopped check for 10 large. She dialed his mobile and got him on the 5th ring.
“Paul” a tired voice intoned.
“Motherfucker!” Pygmy saluted.
“Pygmy, I’m sorry – let me explain.”
“No explanation necessary. Just make with the mon-nay. I’m trying to keep 2,000 freaked out people happy. I thought I had a solid budget and then when I go to the bank I have to suffer the embarrassment of Miss Thing smirking at me about the bad check that I deposited. I don’t care what your explanation is. Where the fuck is the money?” She slammed the phone into the cradle and went off to shower. Fuck Paul Giardino and his $10,000. Don’t really need it anyway, and certainly don’t need him. Then she turned her thoughts to the present: lip gloss? Etc.
Paul had an impulse to make amends, but it passed. Pygmy fascinated him, attracted him for sure, but somehow, he couldn’t put his finger on it, he and she didn’t click.
Paul had been fucking people over for so long he had long since forgotten that people have feelings, or principles, or stuff like that. It was just natural for him to stop payment on checks, if he even wrote one. Sometimes he just refused to pay on account that the work was late or not good enough. Occasionally he’d relent after several months and pay half, or a tenth. He liked people, thought of himself as a people person. He just had a problem letting go of money.
He somehow believed that Pygmy understood him. He sat down and wrote another check for $10,000. He most likely would stop that check too, so he tore it up and made a mental note to get a cashiers check. He needed to move on. It was past 7. He had to get out to his “sportsmen’s paradise” – a 400-acre farm that he had converted into a luxury shooting gallery, where hunting parties of himself and an entourage of pro athletes and politicians gunned down exotic critters, who were fenced in for easy killing.
A few times each year Paul threw a weekend hunting party. The first outing for 2001 was the week after the Festival. Two NFL hall of famers were among the guests. Paul had elk and buffalo as usual, and in honor of his special guests, yak, which he confused with an African antelope. Too bad he had to pay cash up front. How were they going to hunt yak? The things didn’t even move. He’d give them to the zoo, anonymously of course. Too late to get anything else so make do with what he had.
He was glad that he had the Hummer, as glad, maybe more, that he had a gas generator to supply the electric during the outage. The roads were dicey. The radio said it was a winter storm emergency which meant no travel except for emergency but he did have a Hummer and he had no problem getting to his hunting preserve. As he drove up the hill he had a good long view of the barn doors flapping in the breeze. There were no animals inside. They were all, it seemed, in a single herd heading into the woods, a human figure with a staff walking behind the herd. Paul called and the figure turned around. Paul saw that it was Jose, the Mexican who worked for the Sheriff’s sister Jane. The herd and Jose vanished into the woods.
Back on campus, gas powered generators were supplying electricity and all the attendees, and quite a few townies, sought refuge there. Everyone was thrilled to have light and heat, and a chance to recharge their cell phones.
The Festival proceeded on its normal schedule, quite a contrast to the chaotic remnants of the ice storm. The temperature was not quite 40 but it seemed warm in the bright sun. The ice and snow were beginning to melt but they still dominated the landscape. Every few seconds there was the popping sound of a tree limb snapping off under the weight on it. Every few minutes came the whoosh and crash of a just uprooted tree.
The ice storm became the center of attention. Attendees found it more interesting than the Festival. David Prendergast noted as much in his opening remarks, invited people to go out and enjoy the spectacle – not the damage but the abstract expressionist canvas of twig and branch on snow.
“David, Why are you so sober?” someone shouted from the audience.
“Who says I am?” answered David.
At 10am David slipped away in his Land Rover to meet up with Casper for breakfast at Jane’s. Pygmy wanted a ride, too. He drove through town to pick her up, antsy about being seen, maybe ticketed, by a deputy. He liked his chances. There were enough other vehicles out in violation of the winter storm emergency.
It wasn’t easy getting out to Jane’s, took nearly an hour. The place was packed, too. Like most farms Jane had a gas powered generator and was doing business as usual. Her brother was doing business as usual too – ticketing each arrival with a $200 citation for violating the winter storm emergency and tartly advising that they best not leave the premises by motor vehicle until said winter storm emergency was lifted.
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Thursday, January 18, 2007
Tuesday
The wait for a table at Jane’s was at least a half hour. There was a lineup on the front porch by 5:30, a very loud and lively crowd, talking and laughing. As soon as Ray unlocked the front door the dining room filled up, the prize tables being the ones flanking the fireplace. The weather had turned a bit wintry that morning, below freezing and breezy, so Ray got a good fire going. It took Jane and him 15 minutes just to get everyone menus and coffee.
Against her better judgment Jane had hired Skid as a host. No one else was willing to be there at 6am. Skid stood out on the porch, by the front door, with a clipboard with a single sheet of 8x11 paper. He wrote people’s names randomly, so he had to guess at who was next, and then at where they were, so he just went to whatever car seemed to have been waiting the longest. There were a few complaints, not too many by Skid’s standards. The clipboard gave him a feeling of authority, the same as when he was driving the big snow plow.
Professor Loomis pulled in Jane’s driveway at 7:00 that morning. He was surprised to see the crowd on the porch. He walked up to the front door and found himself face to face with Skid.
“Name?” asked Skid, as if he didn’t know who the Professor was.
Donald Loomis was more amused than annoyed. “Loomis” he replied with a straight face as he gently pushed past Skid and reached for the doorknob.
“Half hour to an hour, Professor” exclaimed Skid. He reached to interpose his arm between the Professor and the door. “unless you want an express seating upgrade.”
Professor was instantly more annoyed than amused. Things might have gotten ugly if Ray hadn’t opened the front door just then. A couple of the early parties were leaving. Ray showed the Professor to a table, not his usual fireside table. Professor was astonished to see the room so busy. It looked and sounded more like a frat party at midnight than a country diner at 7am.
It had not occurred to Professor, Ray, Jane or Skid that the customers had been partying all night. Indeed Professor’s thoughts of a frat party were on the money. Because of the shortage of hotel rooms some of the wealthier attendees rented fraternity and sorority houses. There were parties every night at each of them, all night, all out parties, the best and worst parts of frat house booze bingeing and snobby New York City disco VIP lounge decadence.
The frat and sorority houses were in the Greektown Ghetto, or just Greektown, a long semicircular drive on the far edge of campus with 20 or so big ugly red brick/white shuttered center entrance Colonials, vintage 1920’s but eerily similar to a development of McMansions. Greektown was a good half mile from the village of Susquehanna, far enough that the sound of frat parties did not disturb anyone in town. During festival week the parties were louder and longer. It was really more like one big party than 20 different ones. People drifted from one party to another, and anyway the good parties overflowed onto the lawns and patios of Greektown, music blaring from several sources, the combined buzz of music, laughter, singing and shouting enough to wake some of the townspeople.
Enough to keep Cornelia Cabot-Holmes awake past midnight despite the ear plugs. Cornelia had rented the largest house, Gamma Phi Beta, following the counsel of a Tibetan Buddhist high lama named Pancha, one of her spiritual advisors. The house had 15 bedrooms but only 3 were in use, one by Cornelia, one by Pancha, and the third by two low ranking lamas.
Cornelia woke up in a bad mood, tired and sore, feeling like she had hardly slept because of all the noise. Someone was shouting something incomprehensible right outside her bedroom. She went to the window and saw two men merrily urinating on a privet hedge, drunkenly chanting improvised lyrics to “Macarena” as they sashayed around the building, their heads bobbing, pumping their free hands to keep time. An audience of a couple dozen egged them on.
Cornelia repressed the urge to open the window and scold the men. She believed too strongly in karma for that. She showered, wrapped herself in a saffron sari, and went down to the living room to pray at the shrine which Pancha had set up for them. In her prayers she sought, as always, the Quiet Place, where she could see things. The lack of sleep did not matter. That was longing. The effrontery of the partiers did not matter. That was vanity. She closed her eyes and relaxed, let her thoughts empty.
She sat in a full lotus and faced east. She wore finger cymbals on the thumb and ring finger of each hand. She began a meditation that Pancha called the 100 lotus breaths. It entailed drawing a deep, yogic breath, visualizing its passage, chakra by chakra, to the lotus. In the same motion she slowly lifted her hands from her knees, palms addressing heaven, until they were level with her shoulders. It always seemed like the hands raised themselves, or were pushed by the air rushing into her belly, the motions synchronized so that her hands arrived just at the apex of her breath. Then she clinked the finger cymbals and exhaled very slowly, following the overtones well past the audible range, repeatedly chanting om mani padme hum, her hands floating back down until they returned to her knees, and the cycle would begin again.
100 lotus breaths later Cornelia was good to go, The partying was a welcome distraction. It reminded her that she had a serious mission. Not really her mission. She was the instrument. It was a pure coincidence that she was at SUNY Chenango the same time as the Arts Festival. She was there to locate New Lhasa. That had been her mission for 30 years, and she’d been working at it all that time without really understanding, not the way she did then. Pancha had clarified it for her.
Indeed she had already accomplished many good works in the interest of Tibetan Buddhism and the Tibetan people, contributing untold amounts of money towards the preservation of traditions and the resettlement of refugees. She had funded the construction of monasteries in Colorado, Alberta, Vermont, and North Carolina. She made several trips to India and Bhutan each year to personally supervise the liberation of religious artifacts from Tibet. Pancha had shown her a higher mission – the establishment of a Buddhist community in North America, an opportunity to bring enligtenment to the Land of Liberty.
Cornelia thought about New Lhasa as she sipped barley tea in the kitchen. Pancha and the other monks were just getting up. She would take them to that country restaurant for breakfast. It was too noisy on campus and that diner in town had been awful. They could drive around the countryside after breakfast, scout out possible locations for New Lhasa.
While Cornelia sipped her tea and waited for the lamas to be ready, Donald Loomis sat at his table drumming his fingers in impatience. His third cup of coffee was stone cold and he had yet to put in his order. He didn’t really care what he ate as long it included scrambled eggs and toast. The place was downright boisterous too, one loud table leaving only to be replaced by an even rowdier bunch, sometimes even 7 people squeezed in at a table for 4. One could tolerate it for a week, he supposed. So many things had changed in Chenango County in his time. What was next? Would New York City overtake the area the way it had overtaken the Hudson Valley?
David Prendergast tapped Donald on the shoulder and inquired if he and his friend could join the table. Professor was relieved to see David and the German fellow, Casper. “Yes, of course, please do” said Donald. “To tell you the truth I was about to give up. I’ve been here at least a half hour and haven’t even ordered. And it’s so busy. Where are these people from?”
David raised his eyebrows. “Half hour?!” He caught Ray’s attention and waved him over. Ray apologized profusely, took their orders and went off to the kitchen. Scrambled eggs and woodchuck bacon for all. Casper wasn’t sure what a woodchuck was but was more interested to resume Sunday’s discussion of Jesse James and Washington Loomis. Unfortunately for him the Professor had no memory of that conversation and was initially unsure where to begin.
Cornelia and the lamas arrived around 8:30am, slightly past the peak of the after hours crowd. The porch wasn’t as mobbed and the waiting time was down to 15 minutes. Skid was able to relax a bit. He was busy counting his “tips” when he noticed Cornelia and the three monks. Cornelia led them single file through the front yard, lifting the hem of the yellow sari clear of the mud. Pancha walked flatfooted behind her in orange dhotis and dollar store flip flops, his footfalls splattering the sari from behind. He had the most awesome hunting jacket Skid had ever seen, a bright orange ski jacket with some weird embroidery on it.
“Hey, nice coat” Skid offered as Cornelia and Pancha came up the steps. One of the other lamas had a long trumpet with him, which out of the corner of his eye Skid mistook for a rifle. Skid was so distracted (the chick was pretty foxy) that he forgot to do the host thing. Cornelia opened the door and went in, Pancha right behind her.
“You can’t take that in there!” Skid barked at the other two lamas as they made for the door. The lamas did not understand. They smiled and made a praying sort of gesture at Skid. “Oh” said Skid, seeing that it was not a gun. One of the lamas noticed Skid staring at the long trumpet, raised it to his mouth and sent a very long, very low note in the direction of the big sycamore.
“Awesome” said Skid. The monk grinned and slipped in the door. The other people who were waiting didn’t think it was too awesome, neither the sound of the trumpet nor the fact that Cornelia’s party got seated right away while they had to wait.
Jose was at the chicken coop, gathering more eggs for Jane, when he heard the sound. He walked across the barnyard and around the house to investigate. He looked at Skid and the people waiting for tables, walked around the driveway and out on the road, then back to the house and into the dining room. Ray was surprised to see him there. He hardly ever was in the house, and even then only in the kitchen.
“What’s up, Jose?” Ray asked. Jose paid him no attention, walked straight to Cornelia’s table and prostrated himself in a turtle pose, face pressed into the floorboards with the hands folded atop his head. He was moaning, or something, thought Ray.
Jane was watching from the kitchen door. “What’s going on?” she asked Ray. Ray shrugged.
Cornelia looked down at the chubby figure which was wedged between her at Pancha. Jose continued to babble. Pancha was babbling back at him. Cornelia caught a couple of words of Tibetan but they made no sense. The other two lamas were standing, eyes wide, mouths agape. Pancha sat there serenely, as if he had expected Jose.
Jane walked over and put a tentative hand on Jose’s right shoulder. Jose did not seem to notice.
“Old Jose finally found someone to talk to” observed Ray.
Jane looked at Pancha, then at Jose, then back to Pancha. “Are you speaking Spanish?”
Pancha chortled. “Spanish! No, we’re speaking Tibetan, southern dialect.”
“Why would they speak Spanish?” Cornelia wanted to know.
“Well, Jose’s Mexican.” Jane explained.
Cornelia was amazed. Imagine a Tibetan speaking Mexican turning up at her table in the middle of nowhere New York. Then again was it really that surprising? Clearly there was a reaon why Jose had crossed the paths of Cornelia and the monks at this karmic point in the space-time continuum. This had to be about New Lhasa. There were others. People were here. People were coming. It was all too much. Something was being revealed here, and it was up to them, Pancha and her, to discern what. For sure it was positive, a directive to proceed with the establishment of New Lhasa. Just exactly where and when needed to be nailed down. That’s why Jose is here, concluded Cornelia. She jumped up from her seat.
“Pancha – ask him where and when” she exhorted.
Pancha took the sunglasses out of the breast pocket of his ski jacket and put them on. “Where and when? What do you mean?”
“Please, just ask him where and when.”
Pancha hid his annoyance and did as Cornelia bid. He said something to Jose and a spirited discussion followed for a couple of minutes. The other two lamas joined in from time to time. A couple of times it seemed like they were just telling each other jokes.
“What did he say?” Cornelia pressed. Jane and Ray were no less interested. Indeed the entire room has fallen silent, everyone watching Cornelia, Jose, and the lamas.
Pancha shrugged. “He just tell us about the village he comes from in the southern part of Tibet. He left a long time ago. He doesn’t know when.”
Jane still didn’t get it. “So, you can understand Jose” she asked Pancha. As she said that it dawned on her. “Do you mean he’s from Tibet?”
“Of course. He is from Tibet. Why is that a surprise? Didn’t you know that?” Pancha was getting confused himself. He explained to Jose that everyone thought he was Mexican. That made Jose laugh, which made Jane feel good. “Why did you think he was Mexican?”
Jane felt a twinge of dizziness, had to lean on the table for support. “So, he’s not Mexican. So is his name really Jose? Why is he here? How did he get here.”
Pancha and Jose conferred again for a minute or so, more seriously and quietly than before. Pancha reflected for a few seconds before translating. “He says his name is not important. He like Jose. It sound a little like Jose.”
“A little like that. What is his real name?” Cornelia interjected. Pancha whispered something in Cornelia’s ear. Cornelia nodded.
“Whoa, are you going to tell us too.” Skid had been watching too and was throwing in his two cents.
Cornelia gave Skid a dirty look. “He says Jose is a good name” she fairly snarled, in a Buddhist southern belle sort of way.
“But why did he come here. What does he want?” Jane cried.
Pancha and Jose fell into another side discussion while Jane recounted for Cornelia the circumstances under which Jose had appeared at the farm. Pancha interrupted them before Jane got very far. “He say he’s happy here.”
“Is that all? You and him were talking to 5 minutes and he only said that he’s happy here.”
“Yes, that’s the main thing. He’s happy here. He wants to stay here.”
“But how did he get here. Wht did he come here?”
Pancha smiled and relaxed back in his seat, adjusted his sunglasses. “He says that’s his business.”
Jose looked at Jane and smiled. Jane smiled back. Nothing had changed for them.
Ray didn’t think much of it. Not much difference between Mexico and Tibet in his atlas.
Cornelia was flat out in an altered state. If she had had any doubt that New Lhasa was the right thing to do it was surely dispeled. This was the right time and place. They were very warm. It would be revelead.
Next chapter
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Against her better judgment Jane had hired Skid as a host. No one else was willing to be there at 6am. Skid stood out on the porch, by the front door, with a clipboard with a single sheet of 8x11 paper. He wrote people’s names randomly, so he had to guess at who was next, and then at where they were, so he just went to whatever car seemed to have been waiting the longest. There were a few complaints, not too many by Skid’s standards. The clipboard gave him a feeling of authority, the same as when he was driving the big snow plow.
Professor Loomis pulled in Jane’s driveway at 7:00 that morning. He was surprised to see the crowd on the porch. He walked up to the front door and found himself face to face with Skid.
“Name?” asked Skid, as if he didn’t know who the Professor was.
Donald Loomis was more amused than annoyed. “Loomis” he replied with a straight face as he gently pushed past Skid and reached for the doorknob.
“Half hour to an hour, Professor” exclaimed Skid. He reached to interpose his arm between the Professor and the door. “unless you want an express seating upgrade.”
Professor was instantly more annoyed than amused. Things might have gotten ugly if Ray hadn’t opened the front door just then. A couple of the early parties were leaving. Ray showed the Professor to a table, not his usual fireside table. Professor was astonished to see the room so busy. It looked and sounded more like a frat party at midnight than a country diner at 7am.
It had not occurred to Professor, Ray, Jane or Skid that the customers had been partying all night. Indeed Professor’s thoughts of a frat party were on the money. Because of the shortage of hotel rooms some of the wealthier attendees rented fraternity and sorority houses. There were parties every night at each of them, all night, all out parties, the best and worst parts of frat house booze bingeing and snobby New York City disco VIP lounge decadence.
The frat and sorority houses were in the Greektown Ghetto, or just Greektown, a long semicircular drive on the far edge of campus with 20 or so big ugly red brick/white shuttered center entrance Colonials, vintage 1920’s but eerily similar to a development of McMansions. Greektown was a good half mile from the village of Susquehanna, far enough that the sound of frat parties did not disturb anyone in town. During festival week the parties were louder and longer. It was really more like one big party than 20 different ones. People drifted from one party to another, and anyway the good parties overflowed onto the lawns and patios of Greektown, music blaring from several sources, the combined buzz of music, laughter, singing and shouting enough to wake some of the townspeople.
Enough to keep Cornelia Cabot-Holmes awake past midnight despite the ear plugs. Cornelia had rented the largest house, Gamma Phi Beta, following the counsel of a Tibetan Buddhist high lama named Pancha, one of her spiritual advisors. The house had 15 bedrooms but only 3 were in use, one by Cornelia, one by Pancha, and the third by two low ranking lamas.
Cornelia woke up in a bad mood, tired and sore, feeling like she had hardly slept because of all the noise. Someone was shouting something incomprehensible right outside her bedroom. She went to the window and saw two men merrily urinating on a privet hedge, drunkenly chanting improvised lyrics to “Macarena” as they sashayed around the building, their heads bobbing, pumping their free hands to keep time. An audience of a couple dozen egged them on.
Cornelia repressed the urge to open the window and scold the men. She believed too strongly in karma for that. She showered, wrapped herself in a saffron sari, and went down to the living room to pray at the shrine which Pancha had set up for them. In her prayers she sought, as always, the Quiet Place, where she could see things. The lack of sleep did not matter. That was longing. The effrontery of the partiers did not matter. That was vanity. She closed her eyes and relaxed, let her thoughts empty.
She sat in a full lotus and faced east. She wore finger cymbals on the thumb and ring finger of each hand. She began a meditation that Pancha called the 100 lotus breaths. It entailed drawing a deep, yogic breath, visualizing its passage, chakra by chakra, to the lotus. In the same motion she slowly lifted her hands from her knees, palms addressing heaven, until they were level with her shoulders. It always seemed like the hands raised themselves, or were pushed by the air rushing into her belly, the motions synchronized so that her hands arrived just at the apex of her breath. Then she clinked the finger cymbals and exhaled very slowly, following the overtones well past the audible range, repeatedly chanting om mani padme hum, her hands floating back down until they returned to her knees, and the cycle would begin again.
100 lotus breaths later Cornelia was good to go, The partying was a welcome distraction. It reminded her that she had a serious mission. Not really her mission. She was the instrument. It was a pure coincidence that she was at SUNY Chenango the same time as the Arts Festival. She was there to locate New Lhasa. That had been her mission for 30 years, and she’d been working at it all that time without really understanding, not the way she did then. Pancha had clarified it for her.
Indeed she had already accomplished many good works in the interest of Tibetan Buddhism and the Tibetan people, contributing untold amounts of money towards the preservation of traditions and the resettlement of refugees. She had funded the construction of monasteries in Colorado, Alberta, Vermont, and North Carolina. She made several trips to India and Bhutan each year to personally supervise the liberation of religious artifacts from Tibet. Pancha had shown her a higher mission – the establishment of a Buddhist community in North America, an opportunity to bring enligtenment to the Land of Liberty.
Cornelia thought about New Lhasa as she sipped barley tea in the kitchen. Pancha and the other monks were just getting up. She would take them to that country restaurant for breakfast. It was too noisy on campus and that diner in town had been awful. They could drive around the countryside after breakfast, scout out possible locations for New Lhasa.
While Cornelia sipped her tea and waited for the lamas to be ready, Donald Loomis sat at his table drumming his fingers in impatience. His third cup of coffee was stone cold and he had yet to put in his order. He didn’t really care what he ate as long it included scrambled eggs and toast. The place was downright boisterous too, one loud table leaving only to be replaced by an even rowdier bunch, sometimes even 7 people squeezed in at a table for 4. One could tolerate it for a week, he supposed. So many things had changed in Chenango County in his time. What was next? Would New York City overtake the area the way it had overtaken the Hudson Valley?
David Prendergast tapped Donald on the shoulder and inquired if he and his friend could join the table. Professor was relieved to see David and the German fellow, Casper. “Yes, of course, please do” said Donald. “To tell you the truth I was about to give up. I’ve been here at least a half hour and haven’t even ordered. And it’s so busy. Where are these people from?”
David raised his eyebrows. “Half hour?!” He caught Ray’s attention and waved him over. Ray apologized profusely, took their orders and went off to the kitchen. Scrambled eggs and woodchuck bacon for all. Casper wasn’t sure what a woodchuck was but was more interested to resume Sunday’s discussion of Jesse James and Washington Loomis. Unfortunately for him the Professor had no memory of that conversation and was initially unsure where to begin.
Cornelia and the lamas arrived around 8:30am, slightly past the peak of the after hours crowd. The porch wasn’t as mobbed and the waiting time was down to 15 minutes. Skid was able to relax a bit. He was busy counting his “tips” when he noticed Cornelia and the three monks. Cornelia led them single file through the front yard, lifting the hem of the yellow sari clear of the mud. Pancha walked flatfooted behind her in orange dhotis and dollar store flip flops, his footfalls splattering the sari from behind. He had the most awesome hunting jacket Skid had ever seen, a bright orange ski jacket with some weird embroidery on it.
“Hey, nice coat” Skid offered as Cornelia and Pancha came up the steps. One of the other lamas had a long trumpet with him, which out of the corner of his eye Skid mistook for a rifle. Skid was so distracted (the chick was pretty foxy) that he forgot to do the host thing. Cornelia opened the door and went in, Pancha right behind her.
“You can’t take that in there!” Skid barked at the other two lamas as they made for the door. The lamas did not understand. They smiled and made a praying sort of gesture at Skid. “Oh” said Skid, seeing that it was not a gun. One of the lamas noticed Skid staring at the long trumpet, raised it to his mouth and sent a very long, very low note in the direction of the big sycamore.
“Awesome” said Skid. The monk grinned and slipped in the door. The other people who were waiting didn’t think it was too awesome, neither the sound of the trumpet nor the fact that Cornelia’s party got seated right away while they had to wait.
Jose was at the chicken coop, gathering more eggs for Jane, when he heard the sound. He walked across the barnyard and around the house to investigate. He looked at Skid and the people waiting for tables, walked around the driveway and out on the road, then back to the house and into the dining room. Ray was surprised to see him there. He hardly ever was in the house, and even then only in the kitchen.
“What’s up, Jose?” Ray asked. Jose paid him no attention, walked straight to Cornelia’s table and prostrated himself in a turtle pose, face pressed into the floorboards with the hands folded atop his head. He was moaning, or something, thought Ray.
Jane was watching from the kitchen door. “What’s going on?” she asked Ray. Ray shrugged.
Cornelia looked down at the chubby figure which was wedged between her at Pancha. Jose continued to babble. Pancha was babbling back at him. Cornelia caught a couple of words of Tibetan but they made no sense. The other two lamas were standing, eyes wide, mouths agape. Pancha sat there serenely, as if he had expected Jose.
Jane walked over and put a tentative hand on Jose’s right shoulder. Jose did not seem to notice.
“Old Jose finally found someone to talk to” observed Ray.
Jane looked at Pancha, then at Jose, then back to Pancha. “Are you speaking Spanish?”
Pancha chortled. “Spanish! No, we’re speaking Tibetan, southern dialect.”
“Why would they speak Spanish?” Cornelia wanted to know.
“Well, Jose’s Mexican.” Jane explained.
Cornelia was amazed. Imagine a Tibetan speaking Mexican turning up at her table in the middle of nowhere New York. Then again was it really that surprising? Clearly there was a reaon why Jose had crossed the paths of Cornelia and the monks at this karmic point in the space-time continuum. This had to be about New Lhasa. There were others. People were here. People were coming. It was all too much. Something was being revealed here, and it was up to them, Pancha and her, to discern what. For sure it was positive, a directive to proceed with the establishment of New Lhasa. Just exactly where and when needed to be nailed down. That’s why Jose is here, concluded Cornelia. She jumped up from her seat.
“Pancha – ask him where and when” she exhorted.
Pancha took the sunglasses out of the breast pocket of his ski jacket and put them on. “Where and when? What do you mean?”
“Please, just ask him where and when.”
Pancha hid his annoyance and did as Cornelia bid. He said something to Jose and a spirited discussion followed for a couple of minutes. The other two lamas joined in from time to time. A couple of times it seemed like they were just telling each other jokes.
“What did he say?” Cornelia pressed. Jane and Ray were no less interested. Indeed the entire room has fallen silent, everyone watching Cornelia, Jose, and the lamas.
Pancha shrugged. “He just tell us about the village he comes from in the southern part of Tibet. He left a long time ago. He doesn’t know when.”
Jane still didn’t get it. “So, you can understand Jose” she asked Pancha. As she said that it dawned on her. “Do you mean he’s from Tibet?”
“Of course. He is from Tibet. Why is that a surprise? Didn’t you know that?” Pancha was getting confused himself. He explained to Jose that everyone thought he was Mexican. That made Jose laugh, which made Jane feel good. “Why did you think he was Mexican?”
Jane felt a twinge of dizziness, had to lean on the table for support. “So, he’s not Mexican. So is his name really Jose? Why is he here? How did he get here.”
Pancha and Jose conferred again for a minute or so, more seriously and quietly than before. Pancha reflected for a few seconds before translating. “He says his name is not important. He like Jose. It sound a little like Jose.”
“A little like that. What is his real name?” Cornelia interjected. Pancha whispered something in Cornelia’s ear. Cornelia nodded.
“Whoa, are you going to tell us too.” Skid had been watching too and was throwing in his two cents.
Cornelia gave Skid a dirty look. “He says Jose is a good name” she fairly snarled, in a Buddhist southern belle sort of way.
“But why did he come here. What does he want?” Jane cried.
Pancha and Jose fell into another side discussion while Jane recounted for Cornelia the circumstances under which Jose had appeared at the farm. Pancha interrupted them before Jane got very far. “He say he’s happy here.”
“Is that all? You and him were talking to 5 minutes and he only said that he’s happy here.”
“Yes, that’s the main thing. He’s happy here. He wants to stay here.”
“But how did he get here. Wht did he come here?”
Pancha smiled and relaxed back in his seat, adjusted his sunglasses. “He says that’s his business.”
Jose looked at Jane and smiled. Jane smiled back. Nothing had changed for them.
Ray didn’t think much of it. Not much difference between Mexico and Tibet in his atlas.
Cornelia was flat out in an altered state. If she had had any doubt that New Lhasa was the right thing to do it was surely dispeled. This was the right time and place. They were very warm. It would be revelead.
Next chapter
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Wednesday, January 17, 2007
Monday
Hoot Daviess moved his notebook computer to the desk by the window so he could observe the town square while he worked on that week’s editorial for the Penny Saver. Naturally it would be about the Arts Festival. He should have done it Sunday night, right after the opening ceremonies. Instead he had just a couple of hours to get it done.
Easter was just a couple of weeks off. Hoot thought the theme of resurrection and renewal would be appropriate. He looked out the window at the crowded square, the shops busy with bargain hunters. At the other end of the square, in the small park next to the bank, two young men were playing basketball. It was a nice day for March, 45-50 and sunny, and the town seemed vibrant and prosperous with all the activity. Hoot began to type: “This will be the 25th Annual Chenango Arts Festival. The Festival has changed the town’s fortunes. 24 years earlier the first festival was held in an impoverished town. Half the shops in the village were vacant, unemployment was 15%, some farms had been abandoned. Susquehanna was in a decline like so many other rural towns, with little hope of change. Susquehanna, our dear hometown, was in the process of becoming like Afton….”
Hoot sat back and frowned at the screen. The Penny Saver had some 100 subscribers in Afton whom he didn’t wish to lose. There had always been a rivalry between the two towns, through times of prosperity and difficulty. Susquehanna had been bouncing back the past few years while Afton continued to suffer hard times and a population decline. Hoot erased “ like Afton” and replaced it with “another victim.” He didn’t like that either, got out the thesaurus and went through the alternatives it listed for “victim.” He looked out the window again, at the basketball game. It looked like Ray Tate and his cousin were playing a spirited game on one-on-one, pretty physical. There was his word – competitive! Until the festival had come along “Susquehanna, our dear hometown, had been losing its competitiveness.”
That got Hoot on a roll. He banged out the rest of the editorial in half an hour, even managed to get in a dig at Afton in the process. Afton was Susquehanna High School’s traditional rival. Hoot himself had suited up three times for the Thanksgiving football game, had made a couple of tackles in the Big One, the ’65 game when Susquehanna scored twice in the last 3 minutes to preserve an undefeated season, which no team since had accomplished. Hoot reread the editorial, hoping to find a way to blend in a mention of the fighting spirit of Susquehanna High School. He tried adding a paragraph at the end: “We should all be grateful to David Prendergast and the work he has done to build the Festival to what it’s become – a world class event which draws an international audience to our beloved town. The Festival has fueled a dramatic turnaround of the town’s fortunes. You, my friends and neighbors, my fellow Susquehannans, have always had spirit, the competitive spirit, the same spirit that high school boys bring to the football field and basketball court.” He glanced out at the court to see if Ray and Skid were still playing. “Let us show our guests the good side of Susquehanna, in that same competitive spirit. Let us show our appreciation and our hospitality. True, these people are different from us, and we should be tolerant of them. They come from other countries, other lifestyles. Let us open our arms and hearts to them.”
Hoot clicked on the save button and leaned back in his chair. “Nailed it!” he said aloud. He read through the editorial and saved it again, just in case. It was the best thing he had ever written. In content it made about the same points as all the previous editorials he wrote at festival time – things had been bad for Susquehanna but now they were better; the attendees were mainly gay weirdos from hostile foreign countries; indulge them because they spend a lot of money.
Speaking of money the week of the festival the diner was packed pretty much from 6am to the extended (from 2pm) closing time of 7pm. Hoot stood up and stretched, checked his watch to see if it was time to get back downstairs to the diner for the lunch rush. There were always enough people who had never eaten at Hoot’s Diner. Some even liked it, or at least came back. It was barely 11am and already there were a few parties out on the sidewalk, waiting for a table. The diner did more business in that one week than it had done since Thanksgiving.
He gave the editorial one final read and decided the edition was ready to go. He stepped out on the little balcony and enjoyed the cool air. There had to be a couple of hundred people milling around the town square, most of them underdressed. In the sun it seemed much warmer than 45 degrees. A few people were throwing a frisbee over by the basketball court. Skid nearly got hit by an errant toss. “Interference!” he cried, demanding to have the ball back after a missed shot.
Ray shrugged and flipped the ball to him. They weren’t keeping score so what did it matter? Skid was 2 years older and more of an athlete than Ray. The gap had been wider when they were growing up. Skid had always been the team captain, or the first one chosen. Ray was often the last to be picked for basketball or football, or odd man out. Skid had put on a beer belly and didn’t have much stamina. Ray was as uncoordinated as ever, and smoked too much, but hard work (when he could get it) had made him strong and fit.
Two men asked if Ray and Skid wanted to play two-on-two, a game of 15, winners out. Ray was willing but Skid said he was spent. They let the men have the ball, pointed out Skid’s pickup truck, told them to just leave the ball in the truck when they were done.
“I didn’t want to play with those fags.” Skid whispered as they crossed the square.
Ray looked over his shoulder at the two men. “How do you know they’re fags? They look like normal guys to me.”
“They’re all fags. Well, a lot of them are. Artists. You can’t tell by what they look like.”
“What do you mean you can’t tell by what they look like? How do you know, then?”
“You can just tell.” Skid said. Ray let it go at that, figuring Skid was just woofing. What did if matter if those two guys were gay. Sure, some, maybe a lot of the people who came to the festival looked or acted different. That was part of the deal, wasn’t it? For a week the town was completely different, busy and bustling, way more interesting than the deserted boondocks it was for the other 51 weeks, college or no college.
Ray’s parents had pretty much the same attitude as Skid. For that matter so did a lot of the townspeople. They’re hypocrites, thought Ray, happy to have the money come to town but not the people who spent it. That had changed some in the past ten years as the festival became more and more popular, and the townies and delegates more and more familiar with each other. Quite a few homeowners rented spare rooms for the week. Some even rented their houses. The severe shortage of hotel rooms in the area drove the prices to the same price point as upscale New York City hotels in high season.
Skid and Ray sat on the bench by where the old Greyhound office had been. A beautiful woman came out of the CVS across the street and smiled at them for some reason. She was wearing a dark blue dufflecoat, jeans, cowboy boots and a furry hat like Russians sometimes wear. She had a big white button on her coat which read “Fuck Art.” Ray smiled back and waved, but got no response, the woman melting into the flow of people moving in both directions on Main Street.
“Yep” Ray philosophized out loud, “this town really sucks.”
Skid didn’t get the connection, though of course he agreed. He leaned over the back of the bench and spit loudly through clenched teeth, spraying a bit on the Hoot’s Diner sign behind them.
“Ewww. Gross” exclaimed a girl from the backseat of a passing car.
Skid gave her the finger. “I’m going home for lunch. What are you doing?”
“Work, I guess, Got a repair job over that professor’s house.”
“Professor? You mean that girl I saw you with? Is she a professor?”
“Yeah, and she’s not a girl, she’s over 40.”
“No way!”
“Yeah, she’s 43.”
“Fooled me. I though she was 30.”
“Hey, it takes time to be a professor.”
“You seem to know a lot about her. You got something going?” Skid knew that he didn’t.
Ray rolled his eyes. “Yeah, I got something going, work.” Ray and Skid bumped fists and jerked their hands upwards, their ritual farewell of some years’ standing.
“Later”
“Bye”
Ray got his tools out of Skid’s truck and walked with the crowd, slowly making his way down the quarter mile of shops on Main Street. He was happy to be alone for the moment, anonymous amongst so many strangers. Maybe they took him for an artist, too. He studied the way the people looked and were dressed, especially the females. He wondered where everyone came from, what their lives were like, how his life would be if he lived where they lived, did what they did.
He turned off of Main onto River Street just before the bridge to campus and walked on the path alongside the Susquehanna. There were still plenty of chunks of ice floating in the muddy stream. He passed a lone mallard foraging in the shallows. Spring felt good, even though it wasn’t quite Spring, even though there’d as likely as not be another blizzard in March or April.
A half mile from Main Street he could still sense the crowded streets, hear the people talking. He passed Sycamore, the last of the village streets, and walked on eastward on River Street, now just plain Route 7. Pygmy’s house was about 100 yards past Sycamore, the old Grayson’s Mill place. The ruins of the millrace were still evident from the street as one approached from the town. The house was over 100 years old, a rambling white Queen Anne Victorian with a wraparound porch and a large widow’s walk on top.
The building was very solid but sorely in need of updating and cosmetic work. The windows were all old-fashioned single pane, the electric only 60 amps, the plumbing a mixed bag of lead, clay, and galvanized with just some copper. That was his job today, fix the hash that someone had made of the copper pipes in the basement, a plumber (supposedly) from Oneonta whom Pygmy had paid $400 for the worst plumbing job Ray had ever seen, converting the pantry to a laundry room and hooking up the washer and dryer.
There was a note taped to the front door: “Had to go to campus. Door’s unlocked. Call my cell if you need me. 607 765 0756.” He let himself in and immediately set to work in the basement. The beams were eye level so he had to move around stooped over, head cocked to one side to keep it from bumping against the pipes and beams. The light was poor, too. Not much in the way of windows and only one of the light sockets had a working bulb, 40 watts at that. Good thing he packed a good flashlight.
He moved from fitting to fitting, shaving off the old solder, getting the pipe good and clean before soldering it properly. The guy who did the job for Pygmy had really slopped on a lot of solder. No wonder it cracked and leaked. How long had Pygmy been living with the problem?
Ray took his sweet time yet still finished faster than he expected. He hit his head only once, a good one that left a painful bump, He packed up and walked back upstairs, calling out “hello” a couple of times in case Pygmy had returned home while he was at work. He was pretty sure she hadn’t since he would have heard the door, or her footsteps above.
Pygmy rushed home to fetch some papers she had forgotten. She had also forgotten all about Ray and the plumbing job, was leaning on the door, fiddling with the key ring’s eight identical looking Yale keys to get the one which unlocked the door, forgetting too that she had left the door unlocked. Ray didn’t realize she was there. Otherwise he would have opened the door more carefully. Pygmy certainly didn’t expect the door to open, stumbled helplessly forward into Ray and his toolbox.
“God! Don’t DO that!” she gasped, catching her balance. She straightened up, left hand clasped to her chest. She was not in a good mood, needed a little down time after a day of tension and frustration trying to do the festival’s tasks and keep everybody happy. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to snap at you.”
Ray was frozen, feeling like he should be apologizing. “Sorry” he said. It sounded like a kitten’s mewing to him.
“No, no, My bad” said Pygmy. “I see you’ve been busy.” She squeezed past him, took off her coat and hung it up, walked on into the kitchen.
“All done.” He said, following her.
Pygmy smiled. “Cool. $35.00, right. Are you sure that’s enough.” She took out her wallet and handed Ray the money.
Ray nodded. “A deal’s a deal.” Jeez. Hadn’t taken even an hour. If only all jobs were like that.
Pygmy pulled a bottle of scotch and two tumblers from a cupboard, showed the works to Ray as a way of offering. Ray nodded. Pygmy poured a couple of fingers for each of them, handed one of the glasses to Ray. “Can you come back after the festival? There’s some more work I’d like you to do.”
“Sure, love to” said Ray. “How’s the festival going?”
Pygmy made an equivocating, comme çi comme ça expression, punctuated it with a sigh. “Same as always. Exhiliarating. Exhausting.” She leaned back against the counter and stretched. “Good. All Good.” She smiled. She bit her lip, suddenly realizing that she left her notebook in one of the conference rooms.
“Are you sure? Are you okay?” Ray asked.
“Yeah, more or less. Why? Do I look not okay?”
“Well, you’ve been stirring your drink with your finger.”
Pygmy looked down at her finger like it was a pet doing a trick. “Oh that. Nervous habit.” She extracted her finger and sprinkled a dash of salt on it, then popped it in her mouth. She ran upstairs and a moment later back down with a sheaf of papers which she crammed into her bag. “Gotta run” she exclaimed, “just close the door behind you. Stop by after the festival.”
She grabbed her coat and slipped into it, struggling to find the left sleeve until Ray held it for her. She squeezed past him and out the door, her hand accidently brushing his chest. Ray watched her run up the front walk, the spot her hand had touched buzzing. He picked up his tools and walked out too. He’d have to find a ride home now. He walked back to Main Street, hoping that Skid was around. The spot on his chest was still buzzing.
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Easter was just a couple of weeks off. Hoot thought the theme of resurrection and renewal would be appropriate. He looked out the window at the crowded square, the shops busy with bargain hunters. At the other end of the square, in the small park next to the bank, two young men were playing basketball. It was a nice day for March, 45-50 and sunny, and the town seemed vibrant and prosperous with all the activity. Hoot began to type: “This will be the 25th Annual Chenango Arts Festival. The Festival has changed the town’s fortunes. 24 years earlier the first festival was held in an impoverished town. Half the shops in the village were vacant, unemployment was 15%, some farms had been abandoned. Susquehanna was in a decline like so many other rural towns, with little hope of change. Susquehanna, our dear hometown, was in the process of becoming like Afton….”
Hoot sat back and frowned at the screen. The Penny Saver had some 100 subscribers in Afton whom he didn’t wish to lose. There had always been a rivalry between the two towns, through times of prosperity and difficulty. Susquehanna had been bouncing back the past few years while Afton continued to suffer hard times and a population decline. Hoot erased “ like Afton” and replaced it with “another victim.” He didn’t like that either, got out the thesaurus and went through the alternatives it listed for “victim.” He looked out the window again, at the basketball game. It looked like Ray Tate and his cousin were playing a spirited game on one-on-one, pretty physical. There was his word – competitive! Until the festival had come along “Susquehanna, our dear hometown, had been losing its competitiveness.”
That got Hoot on a roll. He banged out the rest of the editorial in half an hour, even managed to get in a dig at Afton in the process. Afton was Susquehanna High School’s traditional rival. Hoot himself had suited up three times for the Thanksgiving football game, had made a couple of tackles in the Big One, the ’65 game when Susquehanna scored twice in the last 3 minutes to preserve an undefeated season, which no team since had accomplished. Hoot reread the editorial, hoping to find a way to blend in a mention of the fighting spirit of Susquehanna High School. He tried adding a paragraph at the end: “We should all be grateful to David Prendergast and the work he has done to build the Festival to what it’s become – a world class event which draws an international audience to our beloved town. The Festival has fueled a dramatic turnaround of the town’s fortunes. You, my friends and neighbors, my fellow Susquehannans, have always had spirit, the competitive spirit, the same spirit that high school boys bring to the football field and basketball court.” He glanced out at the court to see if Ray and Skid were still playing. “Let us show our guests the good side of Susquehanna, in that same competitive spirit. Let us show our appreciation and our hospitality. True, these people are different from us, and we should be tolerant of them. They come from other countries, other lifestyles. Let us open our arms and hearts to them.”
Hoot clicked on the save button and leaned back in his chair. “Nailed it!” he said aloud. He read through the editorial and saved it again, just in case. It was the best thing he had ever written. In content it made about the same points as all the previous editorials he wrote at festival time – things had been bad for Susquehanna but now they were better; the attendees were mainly gay weirdos from hostile foreign countries; indulge them because they spend a lot of money.
Speaking of money the week of the festival the diner was packed pretty much from 6am to the extended (from 2pm) closing time of 7pm. Hoot stood up and stretched, checked his watch to see if it was time to get back downstairs to the diner for the lunch rush. There were always enough people who had never eaten at Hoot’s Diner. Some even liked it, or at least came back. It was barely 11am and already there were a few parties out on the sidewalk, waiting for a table. The diner did more business in that one week than it had done since Thanksgiving.
He gave the editorial one final read and decided the edition was ready to go. He stepped out on the little balcony and enjoyed the cool air. There had to be a couple of hundred people milling around the town square, most of them underdressed. In the sun it seemed much warmer than 45 degrees. A few people were throwing a frisbee over by the basketball court. Skid nearly got hit by an errant toss. “Interference!” he cried, demanding to have the ball back after a missed shot.
Ray shrugged and flipped the ball to him. They weren’t keeping score so what did it matter? Skid was 2 years older and more of an athlete than Ray. The gap had been wider when they were growing up. Skid had always been the team captain, or the first one chosen. Ray was often the last to be picked for basketball or football, or odd man out. Skid had put on a beer belly and didn’t have much stamina. Ray was as uncoordinated as ever, and smoked too much, but hard work (when he could get it) had made him strong and fit.
Two men asked if Ray and Skid wanted to play two-on-two, a game of 15, winners out. Ray was willing but Skid said he was spent. They let the men have the ball, pointed out Skid’s pickup truck, told them to just leave the ball in the truck when they were done.
“I didn’t want to play with those fags.” Skid whispered as they crossed the square.
Ray looked over his shoulder at the two men. “How do you know they’re fags? They look like normal guys to me.”
“They’re all fags. Well, a lot of them are. Artists. You can’t tell by what they look like.”
“What do you mean you can’t tell by what they look like? How do you know, then?”
“You can just tell.” Skid said. Ray let it go at that, figuring Skid was just woofing. What did if matter if those two guys were gay. Sure, some, maybe a lot of the people who came to the festival looked or acted different. That was part of the deal, wasn’t it? For a week the town was completely different, busy and bustling, way more interesting than the deserted boondocks it was for the other 51 weeks, college or no college.
Ray’s parents had pretty much the same attitude as Skid. For that matter so did a lot of the townspeople. They’re hypocrites, thought Ray, happy to have the money come to town but not the people who spent it. That had changed some in the past ten years as the festival became more and more popular, and the townies and delegates more and more familiar with each other. Quite a few homeowners rented spare rooms for the week. Some even rented their houses. The severe shortage of hotel rooms in the area drove the prices to the same price point as upscale New York City hotels in high season.
Skid and Ray sat on the bench by where the old Greyhound office had been. A beautiful woman came out of the CVS across the street and smiled at them for some reason. She was wearing a dark blue dufflecoat, jeans, cowboy boots and a furry hat like Russians sometimes wear. She had a big white button on her coat which read “Fuck Art.” Ray smiled back and waved, but got no response, the woman melting into the flow of people moving in both directions on Main Street.
“Yep” Ray philosophized out loud, “this town really sucks.”
Skid didn’t get the connection, though of course he agreed. He leaned over the back of the bench and spit loudly through clenched teeth, spraying a bit on the Hoot’s Diner sign behind them.
“Ewww. Gross” exclaimed a girl from the backseat of a passing car.
Skid gave her the finger. “I’m going home for lunch. What are you doing?”
“Work, I guess, Got a repair job over that professor’s house.”
“Professor? You mean that girl I saw you with? Is she a professor?”
“Yeah, and she’s not a girl, she’s over 40.”
“No way!”
“Yeah, she’s 43.”
“Fooled me. I though she was 30.”
“Hey, it takes time to be a professor.”
“You seem to know a lot about her. You got something going?” Skid knew that he didn’t.
Ray rolled his eyes. “Yeah, I got something going, work.” Ray and Skid bumped fists and jerked their hands upwards, their ritual farewell of some years’ standing.
“Later”
“Bye”
Ray got his tools out of Skid’s truck and walked with the crowd, slowly making his way down the quarter mile of shops on Main Street. He was happy to be alone for the moment, anonymous amongst so many strangers. Maybe they took him for an artist, too. He studied the way the people looked and were dressed, especially the females. He wondered where everyone came from, what their lives were like, how his life would be if he lived where they lived, did what they did.
He turned off of Main onto River Street just before the bridge to campus and walked on the path alongside the Susquehanna. There were still plenty of chunks of ice floating in the muddy stream. He passed a lone mallard foraging in the shallows. Spring felt good, even though it wasn’t quite Spring, even though there’d as likely as not be another blizzard in March or April.
A half mile from Main Street he could still sense the crowded streets, hear the people talking. He passed Sycamore, the last of the village streets, and walked on eastward on River Street, now just plain Route 7. Pygmy’s house was about 100 yards past Sycamore, the old Grayson’s Mill place. The ruins of the millrace were still evident from the street as one approached from the town. The house was over 100 years old, a rambling white Queen Anne Victorian with a wraparound porch and a large widow’s walk on top.
The building was very solid but sorely in need of updating and cosmetic work. The windows were all old-fashioned single pane, the electric only 60 amps, the plumbing a mixed bag of lead, clay, and galvanized with just some copper. That was his job today, fix the hash that someone had made of the copper pipes in the basement, a plumber (supposedly) from Oneonta whom Pygmy had paid $400 for the worst plumbing job Ray had ever seen, converting the pantry to a laundry room and hooking up the washer and dryer.
There was a note taped to the front door: “Had to go to campus. Door’s unlocked. Call my cell if you need me. 607 765 0756.” He let himself in and immediately set to work in the basement. The beams were eye level so he had to move around stooped over, head cocked to one side to keep it from bumping against the pipes and beams. The light was poor, too. Not much in the way of windows and only one of the light sockets had a working bulb, 40 watts at that. Good thing he packed a good flashlight.
He moved from fitting to fitting, shaving off the old solder, getting the pipe good and clean before soldering it properly. The guy who did the job for Pygmy had really slopped on a lot of solder. No wonder it cracked and leaked. How long had Pygmy been living with the problem?
Ray took his sweet time yet still finished faster than he expected. He hit his head only once, a good one that left a painful bump, He packed up and walked back upstairs, calling out “hello” a couple of times in case Pygmy had returned home while he was at work. He was pretty sure she hadn’t since he would have heard the door, or her footsteps above.
Pygmy rushed home to fetch some papers she had forgotten. She had also forgotten all about Ray and the plumbing job, was leaning on the door, fiddling with the key ring’s eight identical looking Yale keys to get the one which unlocked the door, forgetting too that she had left the door unlocked. Ray didn’t realize she was there. Otherwise he would have opened the door more carefully. Pygmy certainly didn’t expect the door to open, stumbled helplessly forward into Ray and his toolbox.
“God! Don’t DO that!” she gasped, catching her balance. She straightened up, left hand clasped to her chest. She was not in a good mood, needed a little down time after a day of tension and frustration trying to do the festival’s tasks and keep everybody happy. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to snap at you.”
Ray was frozen, feeling like he should be apologizing. “Sorry” he said. It sounded like a kitten’s mewing to him.
“No, no, My bad” said Pygmy. “I see you’ve been busy.” She squeezed past him, took off her coat and hung it up, walked on into the kitchen.
“All done.” He said, following her.
Pygmy smiled. “Cool. $35.00, right. Are you sure that’s enough.” She took out her wallet and handed Ray the money.
Ray nodded. “A deal’s a deal.” Jeez. Hadn’t taken even an hour. If only all jobs were like that.
Pygmy pulled a bottle of scotch and two tumblers from a cupboard, showed the works to Ray as a way of offering. Ray nodded. Pygmy poured a couple of fingers for each of them, handed one of the glasses to Ray. “Can you come back after the festival? There’s some more work I’d like you to do.”
“Sure, love to” said Ray. “How’s the festival going?”
Pygmy made an equivocating, comme çi comme ça expression, punctuated it with a sigh. “Same as always. Exhiliarating. Exhausting.” She leaned back against the counter and stretched. “Good. All Good.” She smiled. She bit her lip, suddenly realizing that she left her notebook in one of the conference rooms.
“Are you sure? Are you okay?” Ray asked.
“Yeah, more or less. Why? Do I look not okay?”
“Well, you’ve been stirring your drink with your finger.”
Pygmy looked down at her finger like it was a pet doing a trick. “Oh that. Nervous habit.” She extracted her finger and sprinkled a dash of salt on it, then popped it in her mouth. She ran upstairs and a moment later back down with a sheaf of papers which she crammed into her bag. “Gotta run” she exclaimed, “just close the door behind you. Stop by after the festival.”
She grabbed her coat and slipped into it, struggling to find the left sleeve until Ray held it for her. She squeezed past him and out the door, her hand accidently brushing his chest. Ray watched her run up the front walk, the spot her hand had touched buzzing. He picked up his tools and walked out too. He’d have to find a ride home now. He walked back to Main Street, hoping that Skid was around. The spot on his chest was still buzzing.
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Wednesday, November 15, 2006
Sunday
Jane’s cocoa wasn’t tasting so good to Pygmy at the moment, not that it was any less tasty than Saturday’s. She was about to explode and take out both Paul Giardino and Cornelia Cabot Holmes. Those two had been bickering nonstop since they arrived at Jane’s. It was the opening day of the festival and Pygmy was on edge to begin with, so she was beyond tasting anything but frusttration.
It had seemed like a great idea, bring them and Veronica together over a super breakfast and get a good start on the day. Pygmy expected that they’d set aside their differences and get in the spirit of the festival, focus on the opening ceremonies. At least they could behave like adults.
Paul had started it by making a big deal about woodchuck bacon, ordered two sides of it, knowing it would disgust Cornelia. Indeed, Cornelia pushed her oatmeal away, claimed to be unable to eat. They needled each other for the next ten minutes, first about diet, then about ethics, then just random digs and insults. Pygymy twice tried to bring up the subject of the festival, but Cornelia and Paul were too locked up to notice.
Pygmy felt like she was brokering Mideast peace talks, finally just lost it and shouted “Shut the fuck up” four times over, loudly enough for Jane to hear in the kitchen. Jane was talking to her brother, the sheriff, at the time. They both came out into the dining room to see what the commotion was about.
“What seems to be the problem?” Jane asked.
Pygmy, Paul, Cornelia, and Veronica sat dumb faced. Pygmy wanted to apologize but could not find the words, her head still flushed with annoyance at Cornelia and Paul, a migraine starting to swell up. Cornelia and Paul were embarrased to be the focus of Jane’s ire. Veronica was wondering how it all got started; after all they were just having breakfast, nothing at all happened.
“They were just having a difference of opinion is all” Ray explained. He had been watching with interest, as nonplussed as Veronica.
“A difference of opinion?” Sheriff Thom asked, somewhat rhetorically.
“Sorry” offered Pygymy, finally feeling clear enough to speak. She blamed only herself, and being on edge was no excuse.
Jane nodded her tentative acceptance of Pygmy’s apology, subject to better behavior in the future. She went back into the kitchen, followed by her brother. He had a problem investigation on his hands, a grisly murder which had attracted the interest of media in Syracuse and Albany (so far), the first homicide in Chenango County since 1989. He had driven down from Norwich to escape the relentless attention, have a bite to eat and mull over the case in peace and quiet. His was sure that it was the husband, but he had no motive and no witnesses. The circumstantial evidence was compelling for him, but the DA didn’t even want to convene a grand jury based on it. He was telling Jane about the case when the flare up happened. Jane was just listening, being an ear so her brother could think out loud, vent a bit.
Pygmy took a sip of cocoa. The other three were all head down into their food, including Cornelia. The cocoa tasted okay but she was still a bit tense and her head still ached. The silence helped. She wanted to discuss a few essential details about the show. She looked over at Ray, who smiled and winked at her to buoy her recovery.
“Could I please have some ice water?” she asked. Ray got the pitcher from the service stand and topped off all four glasses. The other three continued to eat in silence. Pygmy appraised them in turn. None of them had any real interest in art or the festival. She mused over the fact that rich people, “important” people, are so big on charity and cultural events, love to serve on organizing commitees and be known as benefactors. Why?
She figured Paul just wanted to flesh out his resume. Two years earlier he was also after Pygymy, had taken her on what was supposed to be a romantic weekend, in his mind anyway. He had her flown down to Teterboro in his corporate jet to join him in his skybox at Giants Stadium to watch the Giants in the playoffs. She liked football enough to watch it occasionally, if someone else had it on. She had never been to a game. She was surprised at the size of the skybox, larger than the Manhattan Avenue apartment she had grown up in, surprised too that there were a dozen or so other guests there. Some of them were ex-players. Paul introduced them, expecting Pygmy to be wowed but Pygmy didn’t know who they were.
Everyone seemed to be drinking and by halftime the effects were showing. There was an incident, someone brushed against her, might have been accidental. Somehow Pygmy did not think so. She went to the loo to recover. Paul was in the hallway when she emerged, kind of went all over her. An hour later she was back in the air, alone, wondering what she expected anyway. She felt nothing for him, so why did she even go to the stupid Giants game? She thought they were just friends, a mutual respect thing. She liked him because he lived large, he liked her because she was creative, strong, and self-sufficient.
That was the year that Paul had joined the committee. He showed up on campus the week after the game to apologize. His sincerity impressed her enough to have lunch with him at the faculty club. He said he wanted to “do something for the school.” Pygmy told him about the festival, which he had never heard of, and he signed right up. Just having his name on the letterhead was enough. He didn’t put much time into it, just attended 2 or 3 meetings, sometimes via telephone.
Cornelia was slightly more hands on than Paul. She showed up at most of the meetings and some of the festival events. Cornelia had been on the committee since before Pygmy’s time. She had a crush on David going back to 1967. She was a sophomore at Barnard, majoring in psychology and philosophy. She didn’t attend many classes, was more involved with the commune she started on East 3rd Street. She met David at a party. She wasn’t his type, too naïve and too much into the hippy thing. He tried to tell her nicely. She understood but continued to show up at his openings, and at the bars David frequented. One night at Max’s David was feeling generous; invited her to his table. They got tipsy and spent the next three days together. That was it, David claimed. After that they were just friends, meaning she kept in touch and David pretty much ignored her, until he joined COVA, started the festival and needed an infusion of cash.
She was an only child, spoiled beyond recognition. Both of Cornelia’s parents were absurdly rich, Leonard “Sonny” Holmes, a Tulsa oilman/cattle rancher, and Priscilla “Binky” Cabot, herself sole heir to a manufacturing fortune. She grew up with homes in Tulsa and Boston, went to school in Switzerland. Her parents were opposed to her moving to New York, insisted that she reside at the Pierre and hired a chauffeur/bodyguard to look after her. She financed 100% of the commune’s expenses from her allowance, the impact barely noticeable.
The commune broke up following the drug-induced suicide of its nominal guru, Leo, a happy go lucky Puerto Rican flower child from the Bronx who felt trapped in the role. “Bad Trip From The 5th Floor” read the Post’s headline, with a photo of two cops on the sidewalk, flanking Leo’s covered body. Cornelia stopped taking LSD, or any other drugs, dropped out of school and went on an extended trip to India and Nepal, where she immersed herself in Tibetan Buddhism. Her parents died in a plane crash while she was abroad, her father himself the pilot, touring the ranch when bad weather hit. She came home for the funeral, two months shy of her 21st birthday.
Or so David told the story.
Pygmy thought about that. Her parents (stepfather anyway) were still alive and well and living in the same rent-controlled apartment on Manhattan Avenue, both pushing 70. She had left home way too young, which must have hurt her parents. She felt guilty about that. She never really was hostile to them, just acted like it for a few years. They were closer than ever and that gave her a comfort that nothing else could. What did Cornelia have? Paul? David?
Neither Cornelia nor Paul were much help in the day to day details of planning and managing the festival. Veronica was more productive in that regard. Pygmy knew very little about Veronica, had only known her for a couple of months and had not had much opportunity to get to know her. Local girl who moved away, got divorced and moved back fairly recently, opened a Bed and Breakfast, sold real estate as well. She wasn’t very outgoing for a realtor, Pygmy thought, seemed to be the shy, self-effacing type, anxious to please. Pygmy had no complaints about her. On the contrary she found Veronica reliable and efficient, was more and more dependent on being able to delegate tasks to her. Indeed she was counting on Veronica to coordinate all the staff and student volunteers who would be working the opening day ceremonies, and was confident that Veronica would do well. That would free her up to be on the podium with David and the featured speakers.
David would turn up an hour or so before the program started. He’d only be in the way before then. He usually spent the afternoon at home, entertaining some close friends. This time he had added Donald Loomis to the party, a spur of the moment invitation over breakfast that morning at Jane’s. Professor was surprised. It had beens years and years since he’d been invited to anything off campus.
David’s place was on state route 255, a few miles south of the hollow, about a mile north of I-88. David told Loomis that it was across the road from the Grubaker farm, a house and another building on the hillside. Loomis knew the Grubakers’ place but did not recall a house on the west side of the road. It was easy enough to spot David’s place from a half mile away, perched way up the drumlin, at least 300 yards. He recognized the house when he saw it. It was a bungalow in the prairie/craftsman style, built by a professor at SUNY Binghamton back when that school was still Harpur College. Now it came back to him, he and his wife had been invited there once. The professor’s name was Murphy, Something Murphy. That must have been 1955. It was dark inside. That was all that came back to him. The second building hadn’t been there.
The driveway was insanely long. Professor parked on the shoulder of the road and walked uphill. The snow had melted off the driveway, leaving it very muddy, but it was hardpacked and there was enough gravel for a car to make it, even with rear-wheel driver. He had skiied over 700 miles that season so it took little effort. David watched in amazement as he bounded up the hillside, made a mental note that he had to get back to regular workouts.
As he drew closer, Loomis studied the second building. It was a simpler structure, a tallish A-frame with skylights and a second floor deck, roughly 30x60. Professor wondered if David was also a stargazing buff. The deck commanded an extraordinary view in three directions. It was about 500 feet above the river, which could be traced about 10 miles to the east. This was where the river exactly followed the contact zone between the Susquehanna Hills and the Appachians. He had read that in “Roadside Geology Of New York.” When he had visited the house the first time it was summer and the view, though thrilling, was quite different with all the foliage. Now it was a study in white, evergreen, and grey, bare hills in every direction, the long valley stretching to the east.
David came out of the second building to greet the Professor, apologized that he was “in the middle of something” he wished to finish up. He followed David up a wooden stair onto the deck and inside sliding glass doors. The upstairs was one large room, 25 feet wide and 50 feet long, with four skylights and 3 picture windows along each side. The only furniture in the room was a beat up sectional sofa facing the doors, 3 or 4 feet inside. There was paint splattered all over the floor and walls. A number of canvasses on stretchers or frames were propped along the back wall. There were brushes, tubes and buckets of paint, palettes, and empty cans strewn around as well, leaving little room to walk. Professor sat on the sofa and watched David as he applied brush to canvas on an easel.
“I’ve done this every winter. Every winter the view changes.”
Professor regarded the painting in progress and then the view. “How do you mean that? I don’t see where there’s much manmade difference, and the hills haven’t moved.”
“Ah, but the light changes, and the color.”
“Of course. I should have thought about that.” said the Professor, thinking once again about the night sky.
David smiled and put the brush in a can. “Enough for now.” They walked to the far end of the room where there was another stair leading down to the first floor. “My workshop” David explained, gesturing at a diametrically opposite environment, altogether neat and orderly. There was a lathe in one corner and a lithograph press in another. One wall had shelving built along most of its length, with cubicles for supplies and tools. The other wall had a series of specialized workbenches, with equipment for lapidary, engraving, silkscreening, sewing, and woodwork. In the middle of the floor was a potting wheel and chair.
“Do you do all those things?” Professor asked.
“Sure, hobby stuff. Mostly I paint.” David answered.
A car horn honked. The first of the other guests had arrived. They went out to meet them, an art dealer and an artist from Toronto. The four went into the bungalow. It was also one large room, about 30 feet square, sparsely furnished. It was quite dark, the walls paneled in cedar, the floor wideplank pine with a dark stain. A cobblestone fireplace took up much of the northern wall, a wide slate bench along its front, a long black leather sofa facing it. There wasn’t much of a kitchen; evidently cooking was not one of David’s passions.
The four took seats at a dining table. There were eight places set. David wheeled over a cart with a built-in liquor cabinet and served drinks. The Canadians had scotch and water. Donald passed. David fixed himself a bloody mary, complete with celery and bitters, and put on a Paolo Conte CD. It occurred to the professor how masculine the place was, the sort of décor one associated with the West. The Canadians, however, seemed not at all masculine.
Another couple of men arrived, a German named Casper, which seemed odd, who spoke with an accent, and a Venezuelan named Rodrigo whose English was flawless. David and the other guests fell into a spirited gossip and conversation about art. Professor changed his mind and had a bloody mary when drinks were offered again. The last two guests, New Yorkers, showed up at 12:30. Professor was onto his second drink and forgot their names within five minutes. David went over to the kitchen area and put something in the microwave. Everyone crowed over the aroma that wafted out.
It took David longer than expected to heat everything up, and in his tipsiness he dropped and lost the dish of pickled beets. He pulled himself together well enough to get the rest of it served without incident. David had convinced Jane to cater the affair, told her to make anything she wished, as long as it had three courses and dessert and fed eight. The first course was corn chowder with buttermilk biscuits, the second a salad of fennel, radicchio, hickory nuts, and feta cheese with a dressing of lemon juice and olive oil. The main course, minus the beets, was venison meatballs with brown gravy and scalloped potatoes. Dessert was pumpkin pie. All the guests were suitably impressed, even the snobby New Yorkers, who were actually natives of North Carolina. David was delighted.
They moved to the fireside for coffee and “un digestif” as David put it. Rodrigo asked the professor if Loomis Hollow was named after his family.
“Not to my knowledge” replied the professor, which naturally the others found a curious way of putting it. “That is to say I have not found any generalogical link between the family it was named for and mine. Any relationship would go back to the 16th century at the latest. Of course, there might not be any relationship at all.”
“So are there two Loomis families here?” asked David.
“Well, it’s simply a coincidence. The hollow is named for a family that doesn’t live here any longer. My grandfather moved her from Philadelphia, settled in the hollow around 1880, when Loomis Hollow was already its name.”
Casper was intrigued, but had not followed all of it. “But how do you know that you’re not related? What do you know about the other family?” he asked.
“Ah! The Loomis clan was notorious, horse thieves and burglars who operated with impugnity for many years. They victimized hundreds, perhaps thousands of people in Central New York, from Lake Ontario to Cooperstown and everywhere inbetween. They didn’t so much live in Loomis Hollow as use it to stage some of their nefarious operations. They rustled horses and sold them down in Maryland and Virginia, to the Confederacy.”
“So, they were rebels?” one of the Canadians was asking.
“Not at all. They also stole horses down there and sold those horses to the same people they had stolen from up here. They might have done the same out west as well. There is some evidence, hearsay evidence, that they did business with the James Gang, even that Jesse James was seen around Loomis Hollow.”
The other seven were all riveted to the professor’s words.
“Who is this Jesse James, please?” Casper, the German, wanted to know.
David looked at his watch and announced that fascinating as the subject was, it was time to venture on to campus.
Next chapter
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It had seemed like a great idea, bring them and Veronica together over a super breakfast and get a good start on the day. Pygmy expected that they’d set aside their differences and get in the spirit of the festival, focus on the opening ceremonies. At least they could behave like adults.
Paul had started it by making a big deal about woodchuck bacon, ordered two sides of it, knowing it would disgust Cornelia. Indeed, Cornelia pushed her oatmeal away, claimed to be unable to eat. They needled each other for the next ten minutes, first about diet, then about ethics, then just random digs and insults. Pygymy twice tried to bring up the subject of the festival, but Cornelia and Paul were too locked up to notice.
Pygmy felt like she was brokering Mideast peace talks, finally just lost it and shouted “Shut the fuck up” four times over, loudly enough for Jane to hear in the kitchen. Jane was talking to her brother, the sheriff, at the time. They both came out into the dining room to see what the commotion was about.
“What seems to be the problem?” Jane asked.
Pygmy, Paul, Cornelia, and Veronica sat dumb faced. Pygmy wanted to apologize but could not find the words, her head still flushed with annoyance at Cornelia and Paul, a migraine starting to swell up. Cornelia and Paul were embarrased to be the focus of Jane’s ire. Veronica was wondering how it all got started; after all they were just having breakfast, nothing at all happened.
“They were just having a difference of opinion is all” Ray explained. He had been watching with interest, as nonplussed as Veronica.
“A difference of opinion?” Sheriff Thom asked, somewhat rhetorically.
“Sorry” offered Pygymy, finally feeling clear enough to speak. She blamed only herself, and being on edge was no excuse.
Jane nodded her tentative acceptance of Pygmy’s apology, subject to better behavior in the future. She went back into the kitchen, followed by her brother. He had a problem investigation on his hands, a grisly murder which had attracted the interest of media in Syracuse and Albany (so far), the first homicide in Chenango County since 1989. He had driven down from Norwich to escape the relentless attention, have a bite to eat and mull over the case in peace and quiet. His was sure that it was the husband, but he had no motive and no witnesses. The circumstantial evidence was compelling for him, but the DA didn’t even want to convene a grand jury based on it. He was telling Jane about the case when the flare up happened. Jane was just listening, being an ear so her brother could think out loud, vent a bit.
Pygmy took a sip of cocoa. The other three were all head down into their food, including Cornelia. The cocoa tasted okay but she was still a bit tense and her head still ached. The silence helped. She wanted to discuss a few essential details about the show. She looked over at Ray, who smiled and winked at her to buoy her recovery.
“Could I please have some ice water?” she asked. Ray got the pitcher from the service stand and topped off all four glasses. The other three continued to eat in silence. Pygmy appraised them in turn. None of them had any real interest in art or the festival. She mused over the fact that rich people, “important” people, are so big on charity and cultural events, love to serve on organizing commitees and be known as benefactors. Why?
She figured Paul just wanted to flesh out his resume. Two years earlier he was also after Pygymy, had taken her on what was supposed to be a romantic weekend, in his mind anyway. He had her flown down to Teterboro in his corporate jet to join him in his skybox at Giants Stadium to watch the Giants in the playoffs. She liked football enough to watch it occasionally, if someone else had it on. She had never been to a game. She was surprised at the size of the skybox, larger than the Manhattan Avenue apartment she had grown up in, surprised too that there were a dozen or so other guests there. Some of them were ex-players. Paul introduced them, expecting Pygmy to be wowed but Pygmy didn’t know who they were.
Everyone seemed to be drinking and by halftime the effects were showing. There was an incident, someone brushed against her, might have been accidental. Somehow Pygmy did not think so. She went to the loo to recover. Paul was in the hallway when she emerged, kind of went all over her. An hour later she was back in the air, alone, wondering what she expected anyway. She felt nothing for him, so why did she even go to the stupid Giants game? She thought they were just friends, a mutual respect thing. She liked him because he lived large, he liked her because she was creative, strong, and self-sufficient.
That was the year that Paul had joined the committee. He showed up on campus the week after the game to apologize. His sincerity impressed her enough to have lunch with him at the faculty club. He said he wanted to “do something for the school.” Pygmy told him about the festival, which he had never heard of, and he signed right up. Just having his name on the letterhead was enough. He didn’t put much time into it, just attended 2 or 3 meetings, sometimes via telephone.
Cornelia was slightly more hands on than Paul. She showed up at most of the meetings and some of the festival events. Cornelia had been on the committee since before Pygmy’s time. She had a crush on David going back to 1967. She was a sophomore at Barnard, majoring in psychology and philosophy. She didn’t attend many classes, was more involved with the commune she started on East 3rd Street. She met David at a party. She wasn’t his type, too naïve and too much into the hippy thing. He tried to tell her nicely. She understood but continued to show up at his openings, and at the bars David frequented. One night at Max’s David was feeling generous; invited her to his table. They got tipsy and spent the next three days together. That was it, David claimed. After that they were just friends, meaning she kept in touch and David pretty much ignored her, until he joined COVA, started the festival and needed an infusion of cash.
She was an only child, spoiled beyond recognition. Both of Cornelia’s parents were absurdly rich, Leonard “Sonny” Holmes, a Tulsa oilman/cattle rancher, and Priscilla “Binky” Cabot, herself sole heir to a manufacturing fortune. She grew up with homes in Tulsa and Boston, went to school in Switzerland. Her parents were opposed to her moving to New York, insisted that she reside at the Pierre and hired a chauffeur/bodyguard to look after her. She financed 100% of the commune’s expenses from her allowance, the impact barely noticeable.
The commune broke up following the drug-induced suicide of its nominal guru, Leo, a happy go lucky Puerto Rican flower child from the Bronx who felt trapped in the role. “Bad Trip From The 5th Floor” read the Post’s headline, with a photo of two cops on the sidewalk, flanking Leo’s covered body. Cornelia stopped taking LSD, or any other drugs, dropped out of school and went on an extended trip to India and Nepal, where she immersed herself in Tibetan Buddhism. Her parents died in a plane crash while she was abroad, her father himself the pilot, touring the ranch when bad weather hit. She came home for the funeral, two months shy of her 21st birthday.
Or so David told the story.
Pygmy thought about that. Her parents (stepfather anyway) were still alive and well and living in the same rent-controlled apartment on Manhattan Avenue, both pushing 70. She had left home way too young, which must have hurt her parents. She felt guilty about that. She never really was hostile to them, just acted like it for a few years. They were closer than ever and that gave her a comfort that nothing else could. What did Cornelia have? Paul? David?
Neither Cornelia nor Paul were much help in the day to day details of planning and managing the festival. Veronica was more productive in that regard. Pygmy knew very little about Veronica, had only known her for a couple of months and had not had much opportunity to get to know her. Local girl who moved away, got divorced and moved back fairly recently, opened a Bed and Breakfast, sold real estate as well. She wasn’t very outgoing for a realtor, Pygmy thought, seemed to be the shy, self-effacing type, anxious to please. Pygmy had no complaints about her. On the contrary she found Veronica reliable and efficient, was more and more dependent on being able to delegate tasks to her. Indeed she was counting on Veronica to coordinate all the staff and student volunteers who would be working the opening day ceremonies, and was confident that Veronica would do well. That would free her up to be on the podium with David and the featured speakers.
David would turn up an hour or so before the program started. He’d only be in the way before then. He usually spent the afternoon at home, entertaining some close friends. This time he had added Donald Loomis to the party, a spur of the moment invitation over breakfast that morning at Jane’s. Professor was surprised. It had beens years and years since he’d been invited to anything off campus.
David’s place was on state route 255, a few miles south of the hollow, about a mile north of I-88. David told Loomis that it was across the road from the Grubaker farm, a house and another building on the hillside. Loomis knew the Grubakers’ place but did not recall a house on the west side of the road. It was easy enough to spot David’s place from a half mile away, perched way up the drumlin, at least 300 yards. He recognized the house when he saw it. It was a bungalow in the prairie/craftsman style, built by a professor at SUNY Binghamton back when that school was still Harpur College. Now it came back to him, he and his wife had been invited there once. The professor’s name was Murphy, Something Murphy. That must have been 1955. It was dark inside. That was all that came back to him. The second building hadn’t been there.
The driveway was insanely long. Professor parked on the shoulder of the road and walked uphill. The snow had melted off the driveway, leaving it very muddy, but it was hardpacked and there was enough gravel for a car to make it, even with rear-wheel driver. He had skiied over 700 miles that season so it took little effort. David watched in amazement as he bounded up the hillside, made a mental note that he had to get back to regular workouts.
As he drew closer, Loomis studied the second building. It was a simpler structure, a tallish A-frame with skylights and a second floor deck, roughly 30x60. Professor wondered if David was also a stargazing buff. The deck commanded an extraordinary view in three directions. It was about 500 feet above the river, which could be traced about 10 miles to the east. This was where the river exactly followed the contact zone between the Susquehanna Hills and the Appachians. He had read that in “Roadside Geology Of New York.” When he had visited the house the first time it was summer and the view, though thrilling, was quite different with all the foliage. Now it was a study in white, evergreen, and grey, bare hills in every direction, the long valley stretching to the east.
David came out of the second building to greet the Professor, apologized that he was “in the middle of something” he wished to finish up. He followed David up a wooden stair onto the deck and inside sliding glass doors. The upstairs was one large room, 25 feet wide and 50 feet long, with four skylights and 3 picture windows along each side. The only furniture in the room was a beat up sectional sofa facing the doors, 3 or 4 feet inside. There was paint splattered all over the floor and walls. A number of canvasses on stretchers or frames were propped along the back wall. There were brushes, tubes and buckets of paint, palettes, and empty cans strewn around as well, leaving little room to walk. Professor sat on the sofa and watched David as he applied brush to canvas on an easel.
“I’ve done this every winter. Every winter the view changes.”
Professor regarded the painting in progress and then the view. “How do you mean that? I don’t see where there’s much manmade difference, and the hills haven’t moved.”
“Ah, but the light changes, and the color.”
“Of course. I should have thought about that.” said the Professor, thinking once again about the night sky.
David smiled and put the brush in a can. “Enough for now.” They walked to the far end of the room where there was another stair leading down to the first floor. “My workshop” David explained, gesturing at a diametrically opposite environment, altogether neat and orderly. There was a lathe in one corner and a lithograph press in another. One wall had shelving built along most of its length, with cubicles for supplies and tools. The other wall had a series of specialized workbenches, with equipment for lapidary, engraving, silkscreening, sewing, and woodwork. In the middle of the floor was a potting wheel and chair.
“Do you do all those things?” Professor asked.
“Sure, hobby stuff. Mostly I paint.” David answered.
A car horn honked. The first of the other guests had arrived. They went out to meet them, an art dealer and an artist from Toronto. The four went into the bungalow. It was also one large room, about 30 feet square, sparsely furnished. It was quite dark, the walls paneled in cedar, the floor wideplank pine with a dark stain. A cobblestone fireplace took up much of the northern wall, a wide slate bench along its front, a long black leather sofa facing it. There wasn’t much of a kitchen; evidently cooking was not one of David’s passions.
The four took seats at a dining table. There were eight places set. David wheeled over a cart with a built-in liquor cabinet and served drinks. The Canadians had scotch and water. Donald passed. David fixed himself a bloody mary, complete with celery and bitters, and put on a Paolo Conte CD. It occurred to the professor how masculine the place was, the sort of décor one associated with the West. The Canadians, however, seemed not at all masculine.
Another couple of men arrived, a German named Casper, which seemed odd, who spoke with an accent, and a Venezuelan named Rodrigo whose English was flawless. David and the other guests fell into a spirited gossip and conversation about art. Professor changed his mind and had a bloody mary when drinks were offered again. The last two guests, New Yorkers, showed up at 12:30. Professor was onto his second drink and forgot their names within five minutes. David went over to the kitchen area and put something in the microwave. Everyone crowed over the aroma that wafted out.
It took David longer than expected to heat everything up, and in his tipsiness he dropped and lost the dish of pickled beets. He pulled himself together well enough to get the rest of it served without incident. David had convinced Jane to cater the affair, told her to make anything she wished, as long as it had three courses and dessert and fed eight. The first course was corn chowder with buttermilk biscuits, the second a salad of fennel, radicchio, hickory nuts, and feta cheese with a dressing of lemon juice and olive oil. The main course, minus the beets, was venison meatballs with brown gravy and scalloped potatoes. Dessert was pumpkin pie. All the guests were suitably impressed, even the snobby New Yorkers, who were actually natives of North Carolina. David was delighted.
They moved to the fireside for coffee and “un digestif” as David put it. Rodrigo asked the professor if Loomis Hollow was named after his family.
“Not to my knowledge” replied the professor, which naturally the others found a curious way of putting it. “That is to say I have not found any generalogical link between the family it was named for and mine. Any relationship would go back to the 16th century at the latest. Of course, there might not be any relationship at all.”
“So are there two Loomis families here?” asked David.
“Well, it’s simply a coincidence. The hollow is named for a family that doesn’t live here any longer. My grandfather moved her from Philadelphia, settled in the hollow around 1880, when Loomis Hollow was already its name.”
Casper was intrigued, but had not followed all of it. “But how do you know that you’re not related? What do you know about the other family?” he asked.
“Ah! The Loomis clan was notorious, horse thieves and burglars who operated with impugnity for many years. They victimized hundreds, perhaps thousands of people in Central New York, from Lake Ontario to Cooperstown and everywhere inbetween. They didn’t so much live in Loomis Hollow as use it to stage some of their nefarious operations. They rustled horses and sold them down in Maryland and Virginia, to the Confederacy.”
“So, they were rebels?” one of the Canadians was asking.
“Not at all. They also stole horses down there and sold those horses to the same people they had stolen from up here. They might have done the same out west as well. There is some evidence, hearsay evidence, that they did business with the James Gang, even that Jesse James was seen around Loomis Hollow.”
The other seven were all riveted to the professor’s words.
“Who is this Jesse James, please?” Casper, the German, wanted to know.
David looked at his watch and announced that fascinating as the subject was, it was time to venture on to campus.
Next chapter
Back to table of contents
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