Thomas Mcguane - The Cadence of Grass

The light of day revealed a cavalcade of shadows on a still landscape of snow. The city was out of order. Evelyn dead-bolted her front door and pulled the phone cord from the wall. In the bathroom mirror, she seemed such a haggard preview of her own old age that she waved to herself, then went into the bedroom where she reflected on her fate in walking past Dr. Randy’s house. She pictured him washing their cocktail glasses, and she recalled his ludicrous appearance in the front door, pajamas flapping in the gale. These reminders of her freedom gave her the peace to sleep.

In the deep snow outside, the plow was as quiet as a sailing ship.

Evelyn got up, made coffee and plugged in the phone; it was the middle of the afternoon. While she was on the back porch refilling her bird feeder and before the coffee was done, the phone rang. It was, of all people, Dr. Edith Crusoe, who was in town and wished to see her, “oh so briefly.” Evelyn complied as cordially as she could and got off the phone, trying not to start thinking about something to which she could hardly look forward. Though Paul’s mother had little interest in the fortunes of her son’s marriage, separation, divorce or any other aspect of his domestic arrangements, she was keenly interested that he get on in life; therefore, she felt his present malaise was something she ought to do something about. That, and she so stated, was why she had driven all the way over from Missoula solely to meet with Evelyn. She’d raised Paul with the belief that he needed only the broadest views to get through life in the West; these included nativism, appropriate settlement and the dizzying romance of low rainfall. It went right over his head. He only thought about such large themes when he was smoking reefer or had the flu.

Evelyn found her erstwhile mother-in-law in the lobby of the Holiday Inn, reading a large, old book with a Dewey-decimal sticker on the back. Her coat and green canvas purse were piled in front of her, and she wore low-heeled pumps, a pleated blue wool skirt and a shawl-collared red sweater with coins for buttons. Evelyn took this all in, faintly hoping for some sartorial concord; but in her baggy but clean pants, Sorel felt packs and down jacket she was clearly of another mind.

As Evelyn arrived, Dr. Crusoe put down the book and accusingly wagged a travel prospectus published by the state. “Skiing, snowmobiling, lake sailing, trout fishing, you name it. Clearly the locals think the water will last forever. This mess began with the last Homestead Act and won’t end until desertification turns the West into a vast parking lot for sport-utility vehicles.” She stood at her considerable height. “These are happy times for anyone untroubled by the extinction of wildlife and the destruction of the countryside. I know you invited me for coffee, but what chance might I have for substituting a highball? I have already determined the presence of an adequate ‘nightery’ on the grounds.”

“Sure, that’s fine.”

“Do you still drink?”

“You bet.” They headed for the lounge, which was already enlivened by five plastered individuals piecing together “Luck Be a Lady” over the piano. Judging by the fervor of the lyrics, “luck” was the only word that gave them any confidence. They did far better with “Love and Marriage,” positively roaring the phrase “goes together like a horse and carriage.” The songbirds greeted Evelyn by name as she cringed past, leading Dr. Crusoe to a distant table while giving the waitress a small nod.

“It’s a gift to be able to just have fun and let time pass without a quarrel,” Paul’s mother said, beaming at the boozers around the piano.

Evelyn knew her to be an old bar fly, but it was interesting to see her in action, generating accompanying theories.

“The lush life, a peaceful part of America.” She ducked her head into her collar out of delight with this remark.

“Are you still teaching, Edith?”

“ What ?”

“Are you still actually teaching?”

“Good God, let me have a drink first.”

The waitress took their order, anxiously glancing over at the group by the piano, which included two car dealers, a CPA and a chiropractor the other three swore by. The latter had the pianist by the back of the neck, and it looked as if he’d get satisfactory playing out of him or else work him till he did. The pianist, now coerced into the moronic anthem “My Way,” looked frail, even ill, behind his wire-rimmed glasses. Evelyn indicated his plight to Dr. Crusoe, who commented, “It’s Jung’s wounded prince. If he can’t play alone or in that cerebral jazz quartet he dreams about, he doesn’t want to play at all. But his talent is small and those men need music to bolster them on their more vigorous quest.”

Evelyn wanted to kick her in her big butt. “Car sales, tax returns, lower back pain?”

“Fine!” said Dr. Crusoe. “Work must be done.” Flushed with her third highball, she bobbed an ice cube with her forefinger. “To answer your question, I’m still teaching, and of course that consists now and forevermore of my award-winning, oft-recorded seminar on rainfall, What Comes Down, Must Go Up.” She let out a whoop and gulped from her highball. When she replaced the glass on the table, she looked straight at Evelyn without seeing her. Evelyn felt the gaze go through and past her. She waited as the hooch made the long drop. Dr. Crusoe’s lips parted slowly at the desired effect.

Evelyn said, “Was there a special reason you wished to see me?”

Mrs. Crusoe was staring off into a dark, empty corner. “I’m never sorry when politicians die,” she said.

“Right…”

“Oh yes, dear, there was a reason, and naturally I escape into prevarication where my interference might be unwelcome. First of all, I never extended my sympathy to you on the death of your father.”

“Thank you.”

“And are you recovered?”

“Yes and no.”

“‘ Yes and no ’?”

“Well, we were never sure he liked us.”

“Liked you! Of course he liked you; he was your father.”

“Somehow this was different.”

“Really? I don’t see how. I met your father. A commanding presence. And normal in every way. I despise it when your age group extracts some poor old male from the culture that made him, all the things he survived, only to conclude he was a brute. It’s banal.”

“Like I say, this must’ve been different. He was a brute.”

“And Natalie believes this too?”

“No, but she’s been hurt by it.”

“Oh, crap.”

“He never smiled once.”

“That’s fact masquerading as theory.”

“We were very wrapped up in him, but I don’t think he ever really saw us.”

“Did you,” asked Dr. Crusoe with a magisterial lifting of her whole person, “give him anything to see?”

Evelyn inspected her thumbnail, then looked off.

“Go to hell, Edith.”

Paul’s mother rotated slightly from the waist, lifting her arm high over her head and wiggling her hand fervidly. Fearing immediate attack, Evelyn failed to realize Dr. Crusoe was merely ordering another drink. “When the time comes,” she said, “I shall go uncomplainingly.” Once again, she shook the tourist brochure. “If, as is here claimed, this is heaven, then I intend to go trippingly to the alternative you have just suggested.” The defeated pianist was now rendering “Thanks for the Memories,” and it was clear that Dr. Crusoe would have preferred being in the chorus. “Evelyn, let me get to my point. I’m here to ask if there is anything I can say to make you consider reconciling with Paul.” She tilted her head and peered down into her drink with one eye like a parrot.

“No.”