was the key to life, full days, early to bed, early to rise. Maybe one didn’t need extraordinary inner resources to live in the remote regions, after all. I had a meatloaf sandwich and went to bed with the wild-flower guide. I didn’t get much further than the names, but they were wonderful. The names could hypnotize: hoary alyssum, pip-sissewa, blind gentian, early saxifrage, pink lady’s slipper, painted touch-me-not, false Solomon’s seal, common fleabane, sandwort, spotted Joe-Pye weed, and pearly everlasting.…
Jellyroll started barking before dawn. I awoke with that odd feeling of not knowing where I was. I had to force myself to remember. Jellyroll pawed at the front door, barked, looked over his shoulder at me, and pawed some more. The rest of the house was pitch dark, and I had no idea where I’d left the matches. One had to remember matches if one lived in a gas house.
I groped into the kitchen for the flashlight I’d seen earlier. I was struck by the night fears, the little-boy fears. I managed to get the flashlight and shine my way to the front door. There was nothing on the porch, nothing lurking against the walls. I went out on the porch.
The dog pack. They stood in a semicircle below, near the foot of the stairs, but none made a move to come up.
“Stay,” I told Jellyroll.
We watched each other. I shone the light on them. A couple wagged their tails. Others milled and paced excitedly. Their tongues lolled. Their eyes glowed, startling yellow or green discs.
ELEVEN
I stayed up for the sake of the sunrise. I sat at the picnic table dressed in everything I owned drinking coffee and watching the sky lighten until I could see the water in Dog Cove, the birds, the geology, and I felt at peace here, in tune with the sad, persistent rhythm at the center of things. Some man-made music, if carefully chosen, might merge with the music of the spheres. I set up my boom box on the railing and played the female vocalists tape I’d made before leaving NYC. I had been neglecting vocalists of late. Billie Holiday sang: “Stormy weather, since my man and I ain’t been together—keeps raining all the time.”
Suddenly, from nowhere, listening to that haunted voice, I slid back into that state of abject eroticism. I ached for contact. I have sexy thoughts all the time, say riding the IRT or walking Jellyroll in the park or listening to music at home. I assume everyone does. They pass. I move on to other matters, but this was different. This was reminiscent of the mad adolescent lust of last-period civics class in seventh grade. Mrs. Fosdick was telling us about the Russians. The Russians always lie, she was saying. You can
trust
them to lie. In fact, they’ll stop at nothing to stomp out America and Jesus, too.
If Mrs. Fosdick had been a Russian and offered me a look at her soft, pendulous, warm, naked flesh, even a fleeting peek from afar, through binoculars, I would have signed myself into slavery.
I went inside and phoned Crystal at the tournament site. I just wanted to hear her voice. Maybe I could catch her before hermorning match. When she said hello, I could tell that she wasn’t getting the good rolls.
“I’m out,” she said. “Eliminated before lunch yesterday. They had me for breakfast.”
“Were you missing balls?” I asked.
“No, I was blowing position. Even the easy position. I’d get out of line, and you know what happens then.”
“It must have been tough to concentrate.”
“You should have seen Gracie Cobb’s eyes when she saw I couldn’t run balls. Like the eyes on those African scavenger birds. What do you call them? You were watching a nature show on them.”
“Vultures?”
“No, the other ones.”
“Griffins?”
“Yeah, that’s how she looked at me. Like a griffin looking at a dying antelope.”
“If you’ll come here, I’ll pay for the trip, and coddle and cosset you when you arrive.”
“Yeah? What’s it like there?”
“Warm and moist,” I said,
Jellyroll started barking before dawn. I awoke with that odd feeling of not knowing where I was. I had to force myself to remember. Jellyroll pawed at the front door, barked, looked over his shoulder at me, and pawed some more. The rest of the house was pitch dark, and I had no idea where I’d left the matches. One had to remember matches if one lived in a gas house.
I groped into the kitchen for the flashlight I’d seen earlier. I was struck by the night fears, the little-boy fears. I managed to get the flashlight and shine my way to the front door. There was nothing on the porch, nothing lurking against the walls. I went out on the porch.
The dog pack. They stood in a semicircle below, near the foot of the stairs, but none made a move to come up.
“Stay,” I told Jellyroll.
We watched each other. I shone the light on them. A couple wagged their tails. Others milled and paced excitedly. Their tongues lolled. Their eyes glowed, startling yellow or green discs.
ELEVEN
I stayed up for the sake of the sunrise. I sat at the picnic table dressed in everything I owned drinking coffee and watching the sky lighten until I could see the water in Dog Cove, the birds, the geology, and I felt at peace here, in tune with the sad, persistent rhythm at the center of things. Some man-made music, if carefully chosen, might merge with the music of the spheres. I set up my boom box on the railing and played the female vocalists tape I’d made before leaving NYC. I had been neglecting vocalists of late. Billie Holiday sang: “Stormy weather, since my man and I ain’t been together—keeps raining all the time.”
Suddenly, from nowhere, listening to that haunted voice, I slid back into that state of abject eroticism. I ached for contact. I have sexy thoughts all the time, say riding the IRT or walking Jellyroll in the park or listening to music at home. I assume everyone does. They pass. I move on to other matters, but this was different. This was reminiscent of the mad adolescent lust of last-period civics class in seventh grade. Mrs. Fosdick was telling us about the Russians. The Russians always lie, she was saying. You can
trust
them to lie. In fact, they’ll stop at nothing to stomp out America and Jesus, too.
If Mrs. Fosdick had been a Russian and offered me a look at her soft, pendulous, warm, naked flesh, even a fleeting peek from afar, through binoculars, I would have signed myself into slavery.
I went inside and phoned Crystal at the tournament site. I just wanted to hear her voice. Maybe I could catch her before hermorning match. When she said hello, I could tell that she wasn’t getting the good rolls.
“I’m out,” she said. “Eliminated before lunch yesterday. They had me for breakfast.”
“Were you missing balls?” I asked.
“No, I was blowing position. Even the easy position. I’d get out of line, and you know what happens then.”
“It must have been tough to concentrate.”
“You should have seen Gracie Cobb’s eyes when she saw I couldn’t run balls. Like the eyes on those African scavenger birds. What do you call them? You were watching a nature show on them.”
“Vultures?”
“No, the other ones.”
“Griffins?”
“Yeah, that’s how she looked at me. Like a griffin looking at a dying antelope.”
“If you’ll come here, I’ll pay for the trip, and coddle and cosset you when you arrive.”
“Yeah? What’s it like there?”
“Warm and moist,” I said,
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