to Poitra's place, unlocked his front door with my duplicate, returned his spares to the middle drawer, and left.
It was dark. I'd been in there for maybe six hours and it felt as if I'd been gone for the winter. I got in the MG and started it up and let the motor idle while I thought. In the dark November night the car was cold. When the engine warmed up I put the heater fan on. One of the things I thought about was the fact that Poitras seemed to be heavily invested in teen sex and that he was Executive Coordinator of the Student Guidance and Counseling Administration. Another thing that I thought about was that he must have more than his state salary coming in to support the life-style he maintained. In Massachusetts that's not unusual. In Massachusetts people don't do state work for the salary. It's the fringe benefits-rapine and pillage-that attract the best and the brightest here.
Chapter 20
Susan and I lay in bed in her house on Thanksgiving morning. It was sunny outside the window, and it looked like it wouldn't be cold. I looked at the bedside clock. 7:35. No sound. The room was whitewashed and furnished with colonial pine, and the full flood of sunlight made it almost dazzling in its simple brightness.
Susan said; "You think it's too early to open the champagne?"
"We could mix it with orange juice and argue for vitamins," I said.
Susan took my hand under the covers and we lay quietly on our backs amongst the flowered sheets and pillows. "What does Hawk do on Thanksgiving?" Susan said.
"I have no idea," I said. "Probably has honey-roasted pheasant served to him by an Abyssinian maiden with a dulcimer." "You are peculiar," Susan said. "You trust Hawk with your life or mine. You expect him to risk his life for you -I know you'd risk yours for him-and you don't even know what he does on Thanksgiving. Did you think about inviting him out for dinner?"
"Hawk?" I said.
"Yes." "Have Hawk for Thanksgiving dinner?"
"Certainly. Doesn't he have holidays?"
"Suze," I said. "You just don't have Hawk for Thanksgiving dinner."
"Why not?"
"Well, it's…" I tried to think of the right way to say it. Hawk and I both knew and we knew without having to say it or even think it. "You know how in medieval landscape painting the artists would often include an allegorical representation of death to remind us that it is always present and imminent?"
She nodded.
"That's like inviting Hawk to Thanksgiving dinner. He'd be the figure in the landscape, and that would compromise him. Hawk would not want you to invite him."
"That doesn't make any sense," Susan said.
"It would to Hawk," I said.
Susan was quiet, her hand in mine, our bodies close together. Then she said, "It's where you lose me, this arcane male thing. It's like a set of rituals from a religion that no longer exists, the rules of a kingdom that disappeared before memory. It can't be questioned or explained, it simply is-like gravity or inertia."
"I know," I said.
"I realize it's a source of strength for you," she said, and turned her head from profile to full face, lying close to mine on the pillow, "but you pay a high price for it too, and so does Hawk."
"Hawk higher than I do," I said.
"Because of me?"
"Yes. I have you. He has no one."
"He has you," she said.
I said, "He and I are part of the same cold place. You aren't. You're the source of warmth. Hawk has none. You're what makes me different from Hawk."
"How different?" she said. Close to me her eyes were enormous.
"I'm here for Thanksgiving dinner," I said.
"Yes," she said. "You are. Let's get to it."
I said nothing about Mitchell Poitras and Amy Gurwitz and the Department of Education. It was just Susan and me today, and I would wait till tomorrow for anything else.
Susan started the coffee and I built a large fire in the den. We squeezed a small pitcher of orange juice and shared it while .I mixed up some johnnycake batter and dropped spoonfuls of it onto the hot griddle. Johnnycake is made with
It was dark. I'd been in there for maybe six hours and it felt as if I'd been gone for the winter. I got in the MG and started it up and let the motor idle while I thought. In the dark November night the car was cold. When the engine warmed up I put the heater fan on. One of the things I thought about was the fact that Poitras seemed to be heavily invested in teen sex and that he was Executive Coordinator of the Student Guidance and Counseling Administration. Another thing that I thought about was that he must have more than his state salary coming in to support the life-style he maintained. In Massachusetts that's not unusual. In Massachusetts people don't do state work for the salary. It's the fringe benefits-rapine and pillage-that attract the best and the brightest here.
Chapter 20
Susan and I lay in bed in her house on Thanksgiving morning. It was sunny outside the window, and it looked like it wouldn't be cold. I looked at the bedside clock. 7:35. No sound. The room was whitewashed and furnished with colonial pine, and the full flood of sunlight made it almost dazzling in its simple brightness.
Susan said; "You think it's too early to open the champagne?"
"We could mix it with orange juice and argue for vitamins," I said.
Susan took my hand under the covers and we lay quietly on our backs amongst the flowered sheets and pillows. "What does Hawk do on Thanksgiving?" Susan said.
"I have no idea," I said. "Probably has honey-roasted pheasant served to him by an Abyssinian maiden with a dulcimer." "You are peculiar," Susan said. "You trust Hawk with your life or mine. You expect him to risk his life for you -I know you'd risk yours for him-and you don't even know what he does on Thanksgiving. Did you think about inviting him out for dinner?"
"Hawk?" I said.
"Yes." "Have Hawk for Thanksgiving dinner?"
"Certainly. Doesn't he have holidays?"
"Suze," I said. "You just don't have Hawk for Thanksgiving dinner."
"Why not?"
"Well, it's…" I tried to think of the right way to say it. Hawk and I both knew and we knew without having to say it or even think it. "You know how in medieval landscape painting the artists would often include an allegorical representation of death to remind us that it is always present and imminent?"
She nodded.
"That's like inviting Hawk to Thanksgiving dinner. He'd be the figure in the landscape, and that would compromise him. Hawk would not want you to invite him."
"That doesn't make any sense," Susan said.
"It would to Hawk," I said.
Susan was quiet, her hand in mine, our bodies close together. Then she said, "It's where you lose me, this arcane male thing. It's like a set of rituals from a religion that no longer exists, the rules of a kingdom that disappeared before memory. It can't be questioned or explained, it simply is-like gravity or inertia."
"I know," I said.
"I realize it's a source of strength for you," she said, and turned her head from profile to full face, lying close to mine on the pillow, "but you pay a high price for it too, and so does Hawk."
"Hawk higher than I do," I said.
"Because of me?"
"Yes. I have you. He has no one."
"He has you," she said.
I said, "He and I are part of the same cold place. You aren't. You're the source of warmth. Hawk has none. You're what makes me different from Hawk."
"How different?" she said. Close to me her eyes were enormous.
"I'm here for Thanksgiving dinner," I said.
"Yes," she said. "You are. Let's get to it."
I said nothing about Mitchell Poitras and Amy Gurwitz and the Department of Education. It was just Susan and me today, and I would wait till tomorrow for anything else.
Susan started the coffee and I built a large fire in the den. We squeezed a small pitcher of orange juice and shared it while .I mixed up some johnnycake batter and dropped spoonfuls of it onto the hot griddle. Johnnycake is made with
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