sacred
reality. As I remember it, Harvard ended up investigating his research methods because his conclusions were so bizarre.”
On they talked. The dust glittered in the long afternoon shafts of light. They talked about the treatment of the Iraqi translators
inside the Green Zone, they talked about the fragility of habeas corpus, and they argued about the most recent published story
by Jenna’s writer, the Saint. They all knew better than to ask Dickie about his own writing, as he never spoke about it. He
laughed when Jenna admitted that, after interviewing authors for most of her life, she didn’t really, with the exception of
the Saint’s oeuvre, give a shit anymore about the creative process. She didn’t know why everyone was so interested in the
mystery of creation—let it be! Let it happen without questioning it. When she looked back at her college classmates, she realized
that you could not have predicted who would become the real artists, those who would be disciplined enough to use their talents.
Even though she didn’t want to hear about their work schedules and where they got their ideas, she hadn’t gotten over being
surprised by the unlikely people who had burst through with their gifts.
Dickie said that it was true, that even if you thought you’d identified the real writers in a classroom there was often someone
ten or twenty years later whom you’d hear on the radio reading his poems while you happened to be driving to the recycling
center.
Sally curled up on the swing and napped while they talked about the ouster of an opera singer from the Met, a woman whose
contract was not renewed because of her girth. Dickie sang a snippet of a Puccini aria, and wondered what the world was coming
to if a diva wasn’t allowed to weigh 280 pounds. Although they knew better, they believed on the porch that everyone in the
country was held by their same fascinations, that everyone read the same magazines and novels, that the culture had not moved
beyond 1955, that their enthusiasms were those of the mainstream. This mirage was a great comfort.
When Frank announced that the meat, which must cook for seven hours, had another two to absorb the spices, to saturate itself
with its juices, Jenna wondered if her guests might like to see Prairie Wind Farm. It was, after all, the showplace of Hartley.
They could take a walk through the copses, Dickie would remember when he was a shy boy in the wilds of South Dakota, and when
they returned it would be a respectable hour, finally, for cocktails. It did occur to Jenna that Charlie might be working,
that they might spot him through an arbor arranging the roots of a bush in a deep hole, mending a fence, or he might be standing
still, face to the heavens, in a field of poppies. Laura Rider was sure to be there, too, encouraging her customers to buy,
to plant, to cultivate, to discover their own artistry.
As Jenna was waiting for Sally to get her purse, she pictured Charlie in her kitchen. Charlie airborne, descending upon them;
Charlie suddenly beside her. She and Frank, Dickie, and Sally were all accustomed to accommodating people who did not have
their own frames of references. They would draw Charlie out. They would be interested in him as a bit of Hartley sociology,
as an artifact. An artifact? A bit of Hartley sociology? Had she drunk too much gin? Why was she inserting Charlie into her
party as local color? Why throw him in, even imaginatively, with Sally—Dr. Karmauth—and Dickie, the genius, not to mention
the Honorable Judge Voden, author of
Traditions of Law and Jurisprudence
? But surely if Charlie were present he’d perform admirably, or well enough, anyway. In his self-deprecating way he’d defend
his UFOs. He’d suggest that the movie executives, the TV producers, and the average citizen had had the same visual experiences
at the same time in the early 1960s because the aliens maybe—who could
reality. As I remember it, Harvard ended up investigating his research methods because his conclusions were so bizarre.”
On they talked. The dust glittered in the long afternoon shafts of light. They talked about the treatment of the Iraqi translators
inside the Green Zone, they talked about the fragility of habeas corpus, and they argued about the most recent published story
by Jenna’s writer, the Saint. They all knew better than to ask Dickie about his own writing, as he never spoke about it. He
laughed when Jenna admitted that, after interviewing authors for most of her life, she didn’t really, with the exception of
the Saint’s oeuvre, give a shit anymore about the creative process. She didn’t know why everyone was so interested in the
mystery of creation—let it be! Let it happen without questioning it. When she looked back at her college classmates, she realized
that you could not have predicted who would become the real artists, those who would be disciplined enough to use their talents.
Even though she didn’t want to hear about their work schedules and where they got their ideas, she hadn’t gotten over being
surprised by the unlikely people who had burst through with their gifts.
Dickie said that it was true, that even if you thought you’d identified the real writers in a classroom there was often someone
ten or twenty years later whom you’d hear on the radio reading his poems while you happened to be driving to the recycling
center.
Sally curled up on the swing and napped while they talked about the ouster of an opera singer from the Met, a woman whose
contract was not renewed because of her girth. Dickie sang a snippet of a Puccini aria, and wondered what the world was coming
to if a diva wasn’t allowed to weigh 280 pounds. Although they knew better, they believed on the porch that everyone in the
country was held by their same fascinations, that everyone read the same magazines and novels, that the culture had not moved
beyond 1955, that their enthusiasms were those of the mainstream. This mirage was a great comfort.
When Frank announced that the meat, which must cook for seven hours, had another two to absorb the spices, to saturate itself
with its juices, Jenna wondered if her guests might like to see Prairie Wind Farm. It was, after all, the showplace of Hartley.
They could take a walk through the copses, Dickie would remember when he was a shy boy in the wilds of South Dakota, and when
they returned it would be a respectable hour, finally, for cocktails. It did occur to Jenna that Charlie might be working,
that they might spot him through an arbor arranging the roots of a bush in a deep hole, mending a fence, or he might be standing
still, face to the heavens, in a field of poppies. Laura Rider was sure to be there, too, encouraging her customers to buy,
to plant, to cultivate, to discover their own artistry.
As Jenna was waiting for Sally to get her purse, she pictured Charlie in her kitchen. Charlie airborne, descending upon them;
Charlie suddenly beside her. She and Frank, Dickie, and Sally were all accustomed to accommodating people who did not have
their own frames of references. They would draw Charlie out. They would be interested in him as a bit of Hartley sociology,
as an artifact. An artifact? A bit of Hartley sociology? Had she drunk too much gin? Why was she inserting Charlie into her
party as local color? Why throw him in, even imaginatively, with Sally—Dr. Karmauth—and Dickie, the genius, not to mention
the Honorable Judge Voden, author of
Traditions of Law and Jurisprudence
? But surely if Charlie were present he’d perform admirably, or well enough, anyway. In his self-deprecating way he’d defend
his UFOs. He’d suggest that the movie executives, the TV producers, and the average citizen had had the same visual experiences
at the same time in the early 1960s because the aliens maybe—who could
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