The Portable Veblen by Elizabeth Mckenzie Page B

special books on his own parents’ shelves, and Veblen couldn’t have said it better about the power these books had on her in her youth. The collection consisted of at least sixty volumes, made up of anything by or to do with Veblen. Melanie’s incomplete PhD dissertation, not officially bound but in a regular notebook, was the end piece. All of that energy for Mr. Veblen in due course siphoning into her daughter, Veblen.
    Linus was now showing Paul his collection of fossils and arrowheads. Paul was nodding politely. “This one I found in Utah, just outside Moab, sticking out of the red soil like a thumb.”
    “Nice,” Paul said.
    “I had a beauty, seven-tiered, about eight inches long, red jasper, and I made the mistake of turning it over to the Natural History Museum in Los Angeles. Well, they have a warehouse, and they cataloged it, and it disappeared, never to be seen again. Never displayed the thing. I wish I’d kept it.”
    “Well, don’t blame the institution. It’s a repository of artifacts, and, even so, it adds to the body of knowledge. It was a good contribution,” Paul said.
    “I don’t suppose I could entice you to help us with a chore, Paul,” Melanie interrupted, “with some Key lime pie as a reward?”
    “What chore?” Veblen asked, suspiciously.
    “Well, last winter, a full year ago, we had that massive storm that ripped the roof off our chicken house, which I want to use as a studio, and the roof flew down into the ravine. I can’t go down there because of my ankles. But Linus could easily bring it up if he had the help of a strong fellow like Paul.”
    “Don’t say that around my dad,” Paul said. “He’ll give you a list of chores I’d mess up owing to my supposed laziness. Where is it?”
    Linus said, “Come on, Melanie, that’s a terrible job. We don’t want to subject Paul to that.”
    “It’s in the ravine?” Paul asked.
    “At the very bottom. Past the still.”
    This was a mysterious rusted hulk they had discovered down there years before, deciding it had to be an old moonshiner’s still.
    “Let’s take a look,” Paul said.
    They moved outside. Lake County was coming up in the world, and to the north one could see newly planted vineyards ringing the hills across the valley. On site the land dropped off sharply around the hammerhead, giving way to the gnarled thicket of blackberry brambles, twelve feet deep in some places, harsh and naked in winter, like a farm of cat-o’-nine-tails. Somewhere below lay the tin roof.
    “We’ve got overalls,” said Linus. “It’s not that heavy, but the shape’s awkward.”
    “Gloves?” Paul requested, as if asking for a scalpel.
    “Good leather gloves.”
    “Hmm. What about boots?”
    “I’m a size thirteen,” said Linus.
    “Better big than small.”
    “Are you sure?” Veblen faltered. Her mother’s gall affronted, and yet she was deeply gratified that Paul was rising to the occasion, and strangely, his affability made her feel loved.
    “I’ll get the gear,” Linus said.
    Paul followed him inside and emerged shortly in mechanic’s overalls, the big paint-stained boots, the heavy gloves. Linus came next, in his version of the same outfit. “The path starts over here,” Linus said. He held two machetes and some clippers and handed one of each to Paul. “Just hack away.”
    “All right, let’s do it,” Paul said.
    “Thataway!” said Linus.
    The men began to fight and hack through the brambles. Veblen watched Paul trying to free his sleeve from a rack of thorns.
    Her mother murmured, “This is a very good sign.”
    They went back inside, and Veblen’s mother lay down on the couch.
    “That job’s about the worst you could have cooked up,” Veblen complained.
    “Paul is an able-bodied man. He should be able to help his future father-in-law with this. So what are you going to wear for the wedding?”
    “Wait here.” Veblen retrieved her purse and removed a picture of a dress she’d printed. Talking