David Gates - Preston Falls

"I know this program annoys you," his mother says, reaching for the Power button.

"And I'm — " Silence.

"Thanks," says Willis.

"But really, they are a lifeline up here. Especially living alone. I always send them money. Now, what can I get you? I have some lovely single-malt scotch. With just a little water? That's how the real Scots drink it." So apparently she's been reading the John McPhee collection he sent for her birthday.

"And how is Jean," she says. "And my grandchUdrcn, who I never get to see. Let's sit out on the porch, do you mind? We won't be getting many more evenings like this."

They sit in a pair of bent-willow chairs, angled toward each other. Willis's tire swing used to hang from that branch of that maple tree.

"You won't believe what I found the other day," she says. "The first letter your father ever wrote me."

"In secret code?" he says. Right out of the gate, boy. What a shit he is.

His mother squinches her eyes shut, then opens them and takes a sip of her scotch. "Oh dear. Well, what did I know at twenty-two? A stupid little Smithie." She pronounces it styewpid. "But really, how was I to know? He was very normal, 1 thought. From my vast experience." Sip. "Well, it was such a long time ago. But it has been a strange life." Sip. "So are you off now?"

''Ami off?" he says.

"From your work? Aren't you on sabbatical?"

"Oh right. Two months."

"And you'll be at your farm?"

PRESTON FALLS

"Yeah, the endless project. I just patched a pipe in the bathroom that's probably been leaking since I got the place."

"But it's splendid that you can do that work," she says. "You do take after your father in that respect." Sip. "It has been a strange life. Do you ever hear from Cynthia, by the way?"

"Not since the last time you asked." Cynthia was Willis's girlfriend before he met Jean.

"I always liked her. And she's gone where, again?"

"Madison, Wisconsin, the last I heard."

"Oh yes," she says. "It's supposed to be very civilized." Sip. "How's yours holding out? Dinner's going to be another half hour."

"In that case," he says. Something rubs against his leg: Geoffrey, come to greet him.

"We're having polio coifunghi secchi.'"

"Mam-ma mia," he says, bouncing the heel of his hand off his forehead. "I trust we aren't going to be having visions of the Absolute after the funghi secchi. "

"Dear God, don't even joke about such a thing." Willis's mother had once been talked into eating psilocybin mushrooms during those first years in Cambridge.

"Oh come on," he says. "I was proud of you. I always remember that thing about how you were listening to Beethoven and—"

"Stop."

"— and seeing purple penises wiggling in sync like the—"

"Stop." Hands over her ears.

"— Rockettes. I was hugely impressed," He strokes Geoffrey's head, and the cat arches his back.

"Dear God, imagine telling that to your child. What were you, fifteen? Fourteen? Well, it gives you some idea of the state I was in. Horrible."

"Hey," says Willis. "Sounded great to me."

"Yes, I know." She gets up and takes their glasses into the house.

Willis stares out at the maple tree. Scotch must be kicking in; his legs feel heavy. The light from upstairs catches that tree branch: the rope that held the tire swing is long gone, and even the scar has healed. After it rained, you used to have to lift the tire exactly right to dump the water out, or it would just race around inside.

"Are you in touch with your brother these days?" He didn't hear his

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mother come back out. "He's not still at that dreadful store?" She hands Willis his glass.

"He's making the best of it," says Willis. Better not to tell her Champ was just in Preston Falls. "I admire him for hanging in." He takes a sip; she's put more water in this one.

"Apparently he's still punishing me."

"You could call/7/w, you know."

His mother raises her glass. "Cheers." She sips, then sighs. "I understand his new friend is very nice. I hope she's not on the stuff."

"On the stuff?" Willis says. "I love it. What are you, keeping low company in your old age?"

"Well, whatever the expression is nowadays."

"She seems fine to me," he says. "Of course, she does wear long sleeves and she always seems to have a cold."

''No^ you're punishing me." Sip. "What else shall we talk about?"

"Hmm," he says. "Okay, what did Jeffrey Dahmer say to Lorena Bobbitt?"

"Dear God."

"Nope," he says.

After dinner, Willis pours himself more Macallan, and his mother puts Charade in her VCR. When they get to where Audrey Hepburn says, "You know what's wrong with you? Nothing," Willis gives his mother an appreciative smile, sees she's fallen asleep and touches her arm. She tugs down her skirt, gets up and says good night. Willis watches Charade to the end, with Geoffrey purring on the arm of his chair, then pours more scotch. He stupidly forgot to bring Our Mutual Friend, but he does find the fat old Washington Square Press Pickwick Papers he had in high school. So he reads the trial scene, then some of the shit where Mr. Pickwick gets drunk with Ben Allen and Bob Sawyer. He pours more Macallan, which he brings upstairs along with Pickwick to his old bedroom with the eyebrow window. Sleeping here after all these years is less weird than it used to be, he'll give it that.

And he does sleep. Not even a dream, that he remembers.

When he comes downstairs, she's just putting water in her little Braun espresso maker; stiff strips of bacon are already stacked on a paper towel. She's listening to Morning Edition.

PRESTON FALLS

"Good morning," she says. "Scrambled, yes?"

"Is that some kind of innuendo?" He sits down at the table, ungrateful dog for thinking she might have made some fucking coffee before she started dicking around with bacon and shit. She pours the grease from the skillet into a Medaglia d'Oro can, then cracks four eggs into an earthenware bowl. He can't watch the rest. Eventually he hears the skillet sizzling.

"You don't have to go right back, do you?" She takes two plates down from the cabinet and sets them on the counter, then turns again to the skillet.

"Not right away," he says. "I should start back this afternoon, though, so I can get up early tomorrow and get some work done."

"Oh, fooey," she says.

"Why?"

"Well, I have tickets to the chamber series in Hanover. Elaine Cooper usually goes with me, but they've got Bartok on the program tonight and she can't stand anything at all screechy. What she calls screechy. She's a bit of a wuss — is that the word?"

"She's probably on the stuff," he says. Elaine Cooper is the widow of a Dartmouth history professor whose specialty was Froissart.

"Stop," she says. "I don't suppose I could tempt you."

Fuck, why not. Follow her to the concert in the truck and just leave right from there. A good old late-night drive. "Boy, Bartok — woo, I don't know." He flutters his fingers. "Pretty scary. I guess I better come along in case you need to be talked down."

"Oh, goody," she says, and brings the plates to the table. She's given him four pieces of bacon and most of the eggs. So much for eating better. Well, so he should've said something. "Voila." She sits down, then bounces up again. She's forgotten forks.

His dream comes back up to him out of the dark, like prophecy in a Magic 8 Ball. He and Philip Reed are onstage, singing that Louvin Brothers song: Satan is real, working in spirit.

"Enjoy it," says his mother.

He picks up the stiffest strip of bacon and bites, then has to bring his palm up under his chin to catch a splinter. He pushes down the thought that he could be satanically possessed.

Morning Edition has a report on what happens to computers when the year 2000 hits. The gist is that somebody will think of something.