say?—were real. He would wonder if the consciousness
hadn’t became collective in an instant.
“Are you all right?” Dickie had appeared in the hall and was putting his skinny arms around her. If only Jenna had been attracted
to Dickie, she could have run off with him. She loved him best. If she had been interviewing Dickie instead of Frank Voden
at the college radio station when she was eighteen, it would perhaps have been the poet who guided her into adulthood. But
it wasn’t too late! They could escape to a southern climate, leave Sally—who was always caring, and always composed, too—leave
her to sing with Frank. It would probably be tedious to be married to someone who had long depressions and occasional affairs,
someone who worked so privately, but in the moment, listening to his poet’s heart beating, she liked the idea; that is, it
made sense to be in love—if she were going to be in love—with someone who wrote so exquisitely and truthfully.
At Prairie Wind Farm they walked aimlessly along the same wooded corridors Charlie had shown Jenna the week before. She had
failed to think through the expedition, failed to realize that her friends, quiet people on their own, were inveterate talkers
in company, that they would not stop the conversation to appreciate the Riders’ accomplishments. The place was as fantastical
as before; she had not exaggerated its haunting loveliness to herself or the others. Charlie had sent her a few amusing character
sketches of his employees, and she had a new respect for his ability to manage his workers and keep the grounds looking so
dewy. When she saw him in the distance by the clapboard farmhouse where he lived, she longed once more for that feeling she’d
had with him; it had been as if she were a girl, as if they’d both been released backward to their long-ago selves. Why did
she keep returning to that sense of him, and why did such a witless thing seem beautiful? She wondered about the Riders’ house,
if it was filled with the artful whimsy and simplicity of the gardens, if they had transformed their ordinary Midwestern farmhouse
into a dreamscape.
The friends were strolling without purpose, despite Frank’s repeating that they should start for home, that the lamb was in
grave danger of drying out. The three came along after Jenna with their heads down, discussing whether they should play Scrabble
in French.
“You always win in French,” Sally was saying to Dickie, “whereas some of us have a chance in English.”
“Remember the time we played in German?” Dickie said rapturously.
“Gloating does not become you,” his wife said. “And you do it so seldom it always comes as a shock.”
Jenna did not want to play Scrabble after dinner in any language. Frank, as always, would work solely for the score, unjustly
racking up a huge number of points with easy words; Dickie would conjure his turn out of five vowels and one
j
; Sally would be motherly and praise all efforts; and Jenna, useful only in setting up opportunities so the others could rush
in and triumph, would drink more and grow sleepy. She looked about herself, at the planting beyond the path, at the sea of
grasses which she thought were bergamot and Culver’s root and butterfly weed and senna, among other things that she could
not name. It seemed again not enough to look upon the beauty; she wanted, somehow, to splash into it, as if the flowers were
water, as if she could run out into the waves of Mrs. Rider’s design. She wondered again about their house, and how the couple
moved around inside it, husband and wife, co-workers, sometimes friends, and no doubt sometimes enemies. She wondered if she’d
ever be able to grasp again that peculiar solace she’d felt before, when she’d walked with Charlie.
When they got home, she went right upstairs to check her e-mail. Vanessa hadn’t written or called in two days, which was cause
for either
hadn’t became collective in an instant.
“Are you all right?” Dickie had appeared in the hall and was putting his skinny arms around her. If only Jenna had been attracted
to Dickie, she could have run off with him. She loved him best. If she had been interviewing Dickie instead of Frank Voden
at the college radio station when she was eighteen, it would perhaps have been the poet who guided her into adulthood. But
it wasn’t too late! They could escape to a southern climate, leave Sally—who was always caring, and always composed, too—leave
her to sing with Frank. It would probably be tedious to be married to someone who had long depressions and occasional affairs,
someone who worked so privately, but in the moment, listening to his poet’s heart beating, she liked the idea; that is, it
made sense to be in love—if she were going to be in love—with someone who wrote so exquisitely and truthfully.
At Prairie Wind Farm they walked aimlessly along the same wooded corridors Charlie had shown Jenna the week before. She had
failed to think through the expedition, failed to realize that her friends, quiet people on their own, were inveterate talkers
in company, that they would not stop the conversation to appreciate the Riders’ accomplishments. The place was as fantastical
as before; she had not exaggerated its haunting loveliness to herself or the others. Charlie had sent her a few amusing character
sketches of his employees, and she had a new respect for his ability to manage his workers and keep the grounds looking so
dewy. When she saw him in the distance by the clapboard farmhouse where he lived, she longed once more for that feeling she’d
had with him; it had been as if she were a girl, as if they’d both been released backward to their long-ago selves. Why did
she keep returning to that sense of him, and why did such a witless thing seem beautiful? She wondered about the Riders’ house,
if it was filled with the artful whimsy and simplicity of the gardens, if they had transformed their ordinary Midwestern farmhouse
into a dreamscape.
The friends were strolling without purpose, despite Frank’s repeating that they should start for home, that the lamb was in
grave danger of drying out. The three came along after Jenna with their heads down, discussing whether they should play Scrabble
in French.
“You always win in French,” Sally was saying to Dickie, “whereas some of us have a chance in English.”
“Remember the time we played in German?” Dickie said rapturously.
“Gloating does not become you,” his wife said. “And you do it so seldom it always comes as a shock.”
Jenna did not want to play Scrabble after dinner in any language. Frank, as always, would work solely for the score, unjustly
racking up a huge number of points with easy words; Dickie would conjure his turn out of five vowels and one
j
; Sally would be motherly and praise all efforts; and Jenna, useful only in setting up opportunities so the others could rush
in and triumph, would drink more and grow sleepy. She looked about herself, at the planting beyond the path, at the sea of
grasses which she thought were bergamot and Culver’s root and butterfly weed and senna, among other things that she could
not name. It seemed again not enough to look upon the beauty; she wanted, somehow, to splash into it, as if the flowers were
water, as if she could run out into the waves of Mrs. Rider’s design. She wondered again about their house, and how the couple
moved around inside it, husband and wife, co-workers, sometimes friends, and no doubt sometimes enemies. She wondered if she’d
ever be able to grasp again that peculiar solace she’d felt before, when she’d walked with Charlie.
When they got home, she went right upstairs to check her e-mail. Vanessa hadn’t written or called in two days, which was cause
for either
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