Robert Wilson: A Hidden Place

Anna Blaise, he thought, tasting the name: Anna Blaise, Anna Blaise.

He had heard, during the long evening, the restless treadle of her sewing machine, her radio playing briefly. Then silence. Later on, the quick compression of bedsprings.

The house made its own sounds, sighs and moans. Travis had propped open the window with a hardware-store expansion screen and every once in a while a breeze picked up the corner of the sheet. Sleep, he thought, and it was a prayer now: sleep, oh, sleep.

Shortly after midnight he heard footsteps on the stairway beyond his door.

Slow, heavy footsteps coming up from below. Aunt Liza didn’t carry that much bulk—it could only be Creath.

This time of night! Travis thought.

The footsteps paused outside his door and then proceeded upward.

Strange, Travis thought.

And now they were over his head. Creath, for sure.

A brief, low burr of conversation. Anna’s voice like faraway music, Creath’s like the grumble of some rusted old machine.

The repetitive complaint of the bedsprings.

Jesus God Almighty, Travis thought, that poor little girl!—and he covered his ears with his pillow.

The evenings were essentially the same for the next week and a half: an elaborate ritual dinner, Anna’s opacity and silences, Creath’s clenched-fist approach to conversation. Later there might be radio, Creath lighting up a cigar and occupying the parlor easy chair for the duration of “Amos Andy” or Ed Wynn or, Sundays, Father Coughlin’s “Golden Hour of the Little Flower.” Then everybody eased upstairs to hot and insulated beds, and Travis, if he stayed awake, might hear Creath tiptoeing into the attic room… not always, but too often. It forced Travis to look at his Aunt Liza’s nervous flutters with a greater degree of sympathy: she knows, he thought, she must know.

Weekdays Creath drove him down to the ice plant before dawn. The thought of all that ice had made Travis imagine the plant might be a nice place in which to endure this long summer. But—although he did sometimes enter the cool length of the storeroom where block ice lay stacked like uncut fragments from some fairy-tale diamond mine—most of his work was in the tin shed where the refrigerating machinery roared and thumped, perversely twenty degrees hotter than the outside air. The work he did was mostly lifting and cleaning, and he quickly learned that the other men who worked here, mechanics and loaders and drivers, considered him a liability, contemptible, the boss’s nephew. He ate bagged lunches alone in a weedy field beyond the loading dock, staring into the brown Fresnel River. The ice industry was doomed, Creath had said, victim of the goddamned Kelvinator. It might survive a while longer here in Haute Montagne, but orders were already way down for this time of year. Travis found the knowledge perversely consoling. The work itself was tedious and frustrating, and when the frustration threatened to overwhelm him he decided to ask Nancy Wilcox for a date.

That Friday evening after work he told Creath to let him off at the corner of Lambeth and The Spur. Creath accelerated his Model A pickup through a yellow light and said, “Your aunt will have dinner ready. You not hungry?”

“I’ll get something down here.” He avoided the older man’s eyes. “Maybe see a movie.”

“Waste of money,” Creath said, but he downshifted the truck and slowed long enough to allow Travis to leap out.

There were still a couple of hours of daylight left. The sky was a powdery blue, the shadows stark and angular. He went directly to the diner. Nancy Wilcox had not been on his mind nearly as much as Anna Blaise… but Anna Blaise was a mystery, at once violated and aloof, as unapproachable as a cat. Nancy was someone he might talk to.

She was there in the murky interior of the diner. An overhead fan stirred the air. The tables were all busy and there was a second waitress on duty. He sat at the counter, smiled, ordered the chuck steak and a coleslaw side and wondered how to approach her.

He was not shy with women, not in the ordinary sense, but he had had only a pittance of real experience. Back home only Millie Gardner, the neighbor girl, had spoken much with him, and by the time Travis left Millie was just turning twelve and had already begun to grow aloof. Other than that he had talked to his mother, his schoolteachers, a couple of girls doing what they obviously perceived as a kind of distasteful social work when he was left conspicuously alone at school functions. It was humiliating; but there were others who were, in a way, worse off; who were ostracized for some mental or physical deformity and not solely on account of their family situation. And although he had often enough prayed that it was otherwise, Travis knew, at least, that he was not despised altogether for himself.

But that was back home. This was a new place. Here it was still possible that Travis could expect some of what he had so far been pointedly denied. Nobody knew him here, and that simple fact was as tantalizing as a promise.

He lingered over the steaming plate of food, which he did not much want, killing time. There was no good opportunity to talk. Nancy moved deftly between the tall aluminum coffee urn and the soda fountain, balanced plates on her arms, pinned table orders on the silver carousel for the kitchen to pick up. He watched her pluck a strand of steamed black hair out of her eyes and thought: well, this is impossible. Nevertheless he lingered over his coffee and asked for refills. The hot black coffee made his heart beat faster. His eyes were on her constantly. And he thought: she at least notices me here.

In time the tables began to empty, the humidity eased. She filled his cup for the third time and said, “Eight o’clock.”

He looked at her, stupefied.

She put her elbows on the counter. “That’s when I get off. Eight o’clock. That’s what you want to know, isn’t it?”

“I guess it is.”

“I’ve seen the Cagney film at the Rialto but there’s a new one at the Fox. Jewel Robbery. William Powell and Kay Francis. You like William Powell?”

“He’s pretty good.”

Travis had seen three moving pictures in his life. She smiled. “Well, I guess I’m going over there after work.”

“I guess so am I,” he said.

She surprised him by stopping off at the Haute Montagne Public Library and slipping three fat volumes into the night depository: a Hemingway novel, a book on astronomy, and something by a German named Carl Gustav Jung.

Travis said, “You read all that?”

“Uh-huh.” She gave him that smile again: it was harder now, defiant, and he guessed she must have been ribbed about her reading. “Don’t you read?”

“Magazines mostly” In fact he had had a fair amount of time for reading in the long winters back home. She would already have seen the dime western; and he was not prepared to admit to the stacks of stolen, borrowed, or dearly bought science fiction and adventure pulps he had ploughed through. Not when she was dumping Carl Gustav Jung into the night slot.

They moved along the darkened sidewalks back toward Lawson Spur and the Fox Theater.

There was a short line at the ticket box and Travis saw other girls there, high-school girls or just older, and observed how they looked at Nancy Wilcox, the crabbed sidelong glances and covert stares. It was a phenomenon he recognized, and he thought: What is there about her? He paid for two tickets and they sat together in the mezzanine, gazing down silently for a time at the plush velvet curtains over the screen while a fat woman played overtures on the Wurlitzer. Travis felt the girl’s warm pressure next to him. She smelled good, he thought, some perfume and just a lingering indication that she had put in a long day in a hot restaurant. It was a wholesome smell. It aroused him and it made him nervous: he wondered what was expected of him, whether he should hold her hand or keep to himself. He did not want to insult her. Then the lights flickered down, the organ hissed into silence, the movie started. It was one of those cock-tail-and-evening-gown movies, everybody pronouncing calculated bon mots in rooms that seemed to Travis too impossibly large and lushly furnished. He watched in a sort of dazed incomprehension, and when Nancy pressed her body toward him he intertwined his arm with hers and they were, at least, that close.