Charles Baxter - Saul and Patsy

“Just ring the bell.”

After a moment, the porch light went on, yellow, probably a bug light, Saul thought; and then under the oddly colored glare a very young woman appeared, pale blond hair and skin, very pretty, but under the effect of the bulb looking a bit jaundiced. With her fists she was rubbing her eyes with sleepiness. She wore a bathrobe decorated with huge blue flowers. Saul and Patsy explained themselves and their predicament— Saul was sure he had seen this young woman before — and she invited them in to use the phone. When they entered, the dog — old, with a gray muzzle — growled from under the living-room table but did not bother to get up. After Patsy and the woman, whose name was Anne, began talking, it developed that they had met before in the bank where Patsy worked as a teller. They leaned toward each other. Their voices quickly rose in the transfiguration of friendliness as they disappeared into the kitchen. They seemed suddenly chipper and cheery to Saul, as if a new party had started. He had the impression that women enjoyed being friendly, whereas for men it was an effort. At least it was an effort for him. He heard Patsy dialing a number on an old rotary phone, laughing and whispering as she did so.

He was left alone in the living room. Having nothing else to do, he looked around: high ceilings and elaborate wainscoting, lamps, table, rug, dog, calendar, the usual crucifix on the wall above the TV. There was something about the room that bothered him, and it took a moment before he knew what it was. It felt like a museum of earlier American feelings. Not a single ironic sentence had ever been spoken here. Everything in the room was sincere, everything except himself. In the midst of all this midwestern earnestness, he was the one thing wrong. What was he doing here? What was he doing anywhere? He was accustomed to asking himself such questions.

Mad Dog’s party now seemed to be months, or years, ago.

“Mr. Bernstein?”

Saul turned around and saw the man of the house, who at first glance still seemed to be a boy, standing at the bottom of the stairs. He had his arms crossed, and he wore a sleepy but alert look on his face. He had on boxer shorts and a T-shirt, and Saul recognized, underneath the brown hair and the beard, a student from last year, Emory. . something. Emory McPhee. That was it. A good-looking, solid kid. He had married this woman, Anne, last year, both of them barely eighteen years old, and moved out to this place. That was it. That was who they were. He had heard that Emory had become a housepainter.

“Emory,” Saul said. The boy was stocky — he had played varsity football starting in his sophomore year — and he looked at Saul now with sleepy inquisitiveness. “Emory, my wife and I have had an accident, over there, on the other side of your field.”

“What kind of accident, Mr. Bernstein? Are you okay?”

“We drove off the road.” Saul waited, his hands in his pockets. Then he said the rest of it. “The car turned over on us. But I think we’re all right.”

“Wow,” Emory said. “You’re lucky you weren’t hurt. That’s amazing. Good thing it wasn’t worse.”

“Well, yes, but the car was going slow.” Saul always sounded stupid to himself late at night. The boy’s bland, blue-eyed gaze stayed on him now, not moving, genial but inquisitorial, and Saul thought of all the people who had hated school, never liked even a minute of it except maybe the sports, and maintained a low-level suspicion of teachers for the rest of their lives. They voted down school-bond issues. They didn’t even like to buy pencils.

“How’d you go off the road?”

“I fell asleep, Emory. We’d been to a party at Mr. Bettermine’s and I fell asleep at the wheel. Never happened to me before.”

“Wow,” Emory said again, but slowly this time, with no real surprise or inflection in his voice. He shrugged his shoulders, then bent down as if he were doing calisthenics. Saul knew that his own breath smelled of beer, so there was no point in going into that. “Do you want a cup of coffee? I’d offer you a beer, but we don’t have it.” Besides, you’ve already had one too many.

Saul tried to smile, an effort. “I don’t think so, Emory. Not tonight.” He looked down at the floor, at his socks — he had taken off his muddy shoes — and saw an ashtray filled with cigarette butts. “But I would like a cigarette, if you could spare one.”

“Sure.” The boy reached down and offered the pack in Saul’s direction. “Didn’t know you smoked. Didn’t know you had any vices at all.” He smiled. “Until now.”

They exchanged a look. “I’m like everybody else,” Saul said. “Sometimes the right thing just gets loose from me and I don’t do it.” He picked up a book of matches. He would have to watch his sentences: that one hadn’t made any sense. On the outside of the matchbook was an advertisement.

SECRETS OF THE UNIVERSE

***see inside***

Saul put the matchbook into his pocket after lighting up.

“Were you drunk?” the boy asked suddenly.

“No, I don’t think so.”

“Teachers shouldn’t drink,” Emory said. “That’s my belief.”

“Well, maybe not.”

Saul inhaled from the cigarette, and Emory came closer toward him and sat down on the floor. He gave off the smell of turpentine, and he had two or three tiny flecks of white paint in his hair close to his ear. He rubbed at his boy’s beard again. “Do you remember me from school?”

Saul leaned back. He tried to think. “Sure, of course I do. You sat in the back and you played with a ballpoint pen. You used to sketch the other kids in the class. Once when we were doing the First World War, you said it didn’t make any sense no matter how much you read about it. I remember your report on the League of Nations. You stared out the window a lot. You sat near Annie in my class, and you passed notes to her.”

“I didn’t think you’d notice that much about me. Or remember.” Emory whistled toward the dog, who thumped her tail and waddled over toward Emory’s lap. “I wasn’t very good. I thought it was a waste of time, no offense. I wanted to get married, that’s all. I wanted to get married to Anne, and I wanted to be outside, not stuck inside, doing something, making a living, earning money. The thing is, I’m different now.” He stood up, as if he were about to demonstrate how different he had become or had thought of something important to say.

“How are you different?”

“I’m real happy,” Emory said, looking toward the kitchen. “I bet you don’t believe that. I bet you think: Here’s this kid and his wife and baby, out here, ignorant as a couple of plain pigs, and how could they be happy? But it’s weird. You can’t tell about anything.” He was looking away from Saul. “Schools tell you that people like me aren’t supposed to be happy or. . what’s that word you used in class all the time? ‘Fulfilled’? Yeah, that’s it.” He sneered at Saul so quickly that it was like a flashbulb popping. “We’re not supposed to be that. But we’re doing okay. But then I’m not trying to tell you anything.”

“I know, Emory. I know that.” Saul raised his hand to his scalp and touched his bald spot.

“Hell,” Emory said, apparently building up steam, “you could work all your life to be as happy as Anne and me, and you might not do it. People. . they try to be happy. They work at it. But it doesn’t always take.” He laughed. “I shouldn’t be talking to you this way, Mr. Bernstein, and I wouldn’t be, except it’s the middle of the night, and I’m saying stuff. You know, I respected you. But now here you are, in my living room, and I remember the grades you gave me, all those D’s, like you thought I’d never do anything in life except fail. But you can’t hurt me now because I’m not in school anymore. So I apologize. See, I apologize for messing up in school and I forgive you for flunking me out.”