Charles Baxter - Saul and Patsy

Emory held out his hand, and Saul stood up and took it, thinking that he might be making a mistake.

“You shouldn’t flunk people out of school,” Emory said, “if you’re going to get drunk and roll cars.”

Saul held on to Emory’s hand and tried to grip hard and diligently in return. “I didn’t get drunk, Emory. I fell asleep. And you didn’t flunk out. You dropped out.”

Emory released his hand. “Well, I don’t care,” he said. “I was sleeping when you came to our door. I don’t go to parties anymore because I have to get up and work. I sleep because I’m married and working. I can’t see anything outside of that.”

Saul suddenly wanted Patsy back in this room, so that they could go. Who the hell did this boy think he was, anyway?

“Well, none of this is nothing,” Emory said at last. “I don’t blame you for anything at all. Maybe you did me a favor. I had to do something in my life, so I rented this farm. I’m reading up on horticulture.” He pronounced the word carefully and proudly. “You want to sleep on the floor, you can, or on the sofa there. And there’s a spare bed upstairs, you want it.”

“Sorry about the bother,” Saul said.

“No trouble.”

“I appreciate it.”

“Forget it.” Emory patted the dog.

“But thanks.”

“Sure.”

The two men looked at each other for a moment, and Saul had one of his momentary envy-shocks: he looked at this man, this boy — he couldn’t decide which he was — his hair standing up, and he thought: Whatever else he is, this kid is real. Emory was living in the real. Saul felt himself floating up out of the unreal and rapidly sinking back into it, the lagoon of self-consciousness and irony.

In a kind of desperation, Saul looked at the wall, where someone had hung a picture of a horse with a woman beside it, drawn in pencil, and framed in a cheap dime-store frame. The woman was probably Anne. She looked approximately like her. “Nice picture.”

“I drew it.”

“You have real talent, Emory,” Saul said, insincerely examining the details. “You could be an artist.”

“I am an artist,” Emory said, staring at his old teacher. He picked at a scab on his calf. He turned his back to Saul. “I could draw from when I was a kid.” A baby’s cry came from upstairs. Emory looked at the ceiling, then exhaled.

“What kind of horse is that?” Saul asked, in what he vowed silently would be his final effort at politeness this evening. “Is that any kind of horse in particular?”

Emory was going back up the stairs. Then he faced Saul. “Every horse is some horse in particular, Mr. Bernstein. There aren’t any horses in general. You can sleep there on the sofa if you want to. Good night.”

“Good night.”

Whatever had happened to the God of the Old Testament, Saul wondered, looking at Emory’s crucifix, the God that had chosen Israel above the other nations? Why had He allowed this scene to take place and why had He allowed Emory McPhee, this dropout, to make him feel like a putz? The Red Sea had not parted for Saul in a long time, in any sense; he felt he had about as much clout with God as, perhaps, a sparrow did. The whole evening had been a joke at Saul’s expense. He heard God laughing, a sound like surf on rocks.

When Patsy and Anne came out of the kitchen, announcing that an all-night towing service was on its way and would probably have the car turned over and running in about half an hour, Saul smiled as if everything would be exactly as fine as they claimed. Anne and Patsy were laughing. The flowers on Anne’s bathrobe were laughing. God was, even now, laughing and enjoying the joke. Feeling like a zombie, and not laughing himself, but wearing the smile of the classically undead, Saul hooked his hand into Patsy’s and went back outside. Some nights, he knew, had a way of not ending. This would be one.

“How was Emory?” Patsy asked.

“Emory? Oh, Emory was fine,” Saul told her.

On the days following, Saul began to be obsessed with happiness, an unhealthy obsession, he knew, but he couldn’t get rid of it. On some days he could not get out of bed to go to work without groaning and reaching for his hair, as if to drag himself up bodily for the working day.

Prior to his accident and his meeting with Emory McPhee, Saul had managed to forget about happiness, a state that had once bothered him for its general inaccessibility. Now he believed that, compared to others, he was, except for his marriage, actually and truly unhappy, especially since his mind insisted on thinking about the problem, poring over it, ragging him on and on. It was like the discontent of adolescence, the discontent with situations, but this was larger, the discontent with being itself, a psychic itch with nowhere to scratch. This was like Schopenhauer arriving at the door with a big suitcase, settling down for a long stay in the brain.

Patsy wasn’t ordinary for many reasons, but also because she loved Saul. Nevertheless, she was happy, like a character in Chekhov who can’t help but proclaim a satisfaction with life every few minutes. She did want a better job, and, in some sense, a different life. Early in the summer he stole glances at her as she turned the pansies over in their pots, tamping them out and planting them in the flower beds near the front walk. Blue sky, aggressive sun. She was squatting down in her shorts, wearing one of Saul’s old flannel shirts flecked with dirt and the sleeves rolled up to the elbows. Her hair fell backward down her shoulders. From the front window he watched her and studied her hands, those slender fingers doing their work. Helplessly, his eyes took in the clothed outlines of his wife. He was hers. That was that. She liked being a woman. She liked it in a way that, Saul now knew, he himself did not like being a man. There was the guilt, for one thing, for the manly hobbies of war and the thoroughgoing destruction of the earth. Patriarchy, carnage, rape, pleasurable bloodletting, fanatic greed, and bloodsport: Saul would admit a gender responsibility for all these if anyone asked him to acknowledge it, though no one ever did.

Patsy wiped her forehead with the back of her hand, saw Saul, and waved at him, turning her head slightly, tilting it, as she did whenever she caught sight of him. She smiled, a smile he had gladly given his life away for, a look of radiant intelligence. She was into the real, too; she didn’t ponder it, she just planted flowers, if that was what she wanted to do. Beyond her was the driveway and their Chevrolet with its bashed-in roof. Her smile faded. It always did when she noticed him studying her.

Saul turned from the window — it was Saturday morning — and tried to think for a moment of what to do next. Taking a Detroit Tigers cap off the front-hall hat rack, he went outside and with great care put it, from behind and unannounced, on Patsy’s head. “Save you from sunburn,” he said when she turned around and looked at him. “Save you from heat-stroke.”

“I want a motorcycle,” Patsy said. “I’ve been thinking about it. We don’t need another car, but I do want a motorcycle. I always have. Women can ride motorcycles, Saul, don’t deny it. Oh, and another thing.” She dropped one hand into the dirt and balanced herself on it. “This morning I was trying to think of where the Cayuse Indians lived, and I couldn’t remember, and we don’t have an encyclopedia to check. We need that.” She put her hand over her eyes, to shade them. “Saul, why are you looking like that? Are you in a state?”

“No, I’m not in a state.”

“Yes, you are. Damn it, I have to break out sometimes. I’ve just got to. I’ll die here otherwise. A motorcycle would do wonders for both of us, Saul. A small one, not one of those hogs. Do you like my petunias? Should I have some purple over there? Maybe this is too much red and white. What would you think of some dianthus right there?” She pointed with her trowel. “Or maybe some sweet william?”