Walker Percy - Love in the Ruins - The Adventures of a Bad Catholic at a Time Near the End of the World

Perhaps I’ll even work at night. Happy is the man who can do science at midnight, of a Tuesday, in the fall, free of ghosts, exorcised by love and music of all past Octobers. Clasp Lola on Halloween and howl down the yellow moon and go to the lab and induce great simple hypotheses.

The rain slackens but still drums steadily on the orange tile roof of Howard Johnson’s.

“You’re so smart ,” says Lola, giving me a hug.

“And you’re a fine girl.” I speak into the sweet heavy slump of her biceps. “What a lovely strong back you have. It’s good being here, isn’t it?”

“Lovely.”

“You’re such a good girl and you play such good music.”

“Do you really think I’m good?” She lifts her head.

“Yes,” I say, frowning, realizing I’ve stirred up her Texas competitiveness. She’s told me before about winning regional cello contests in West Texas.

“How good?”

“At music? The best,” I say, hoping to make her forget about it and locking my fingers in the small of her back, a deep wondrous swale.

But her horned fingertips absently play a passacaglia on my spine as her mind casts ahead.

“You know what I think I’ll do?”

“What?”

“Enter Yellow Rose in the Dallas show.”

“Good.” At least she’s off music contests.

“Then take up Billy Sol on his idea of a winter tour.”

“You have a truly splendid back. What a back. It’s extremely strong.”

“That’s nothing, feel this.”

So saying, she locks her legs around my waist in a non-erotic schoolboy’s wrestling hold and bears down.

“Good Lord,” I say, blinking to clear the fog from my eyes.

“What do you think of that?”

“Amazing.”

“Nobody ever beat Lola at anything.”

“I believe you.” Sometimes I think that men are the only single-minded lovers, loving for love, that women love with the idea of winning, winning either at love or cello-playing or what. “Billy Sol? Winter tour?”

“Yes, darl. You want Lola to keep up her music, don’t you?”

“Sure.”

“This is Lola’s big chance.” Up and down goes the fingering hand warm as a horn on my backbone.

“Chance to do what?”

Billy Sol, it turns out, is Billy Sol Simpson of the music department at Texas A & M, who has offered her the “junior swing” for starters. It’s a tour of the junior colleges of Texas, of which there are forty or fifty — with himself, Billy Sol, as her accompanist. After that, who knows? Maybe the senior circuit: Baylor, T.C.U., S.M.U., and suchlike.

“Well, I don’t know,” I say, thinking of this guy Billy Sol squiring her around Beaumont Baptist College and West Texas Junior College at Pecos. Should I trust her to a Texas A & M piano player?

“Shoot, you ought to see Billy Sol. Just a big old prisspot, but a real good boy. He’s been wonderful to me.”

“I’m glad.”

“Don’t you be like that — you want me to squeeze you again?”

“No.”

“Anyhow, you’re coming with us. You’ll need a break from your researches.”

“Yes!” All of a sudden I feel happy again.

For a fact, it doesn’t sound bad at all, swinging out through all those lost lonesome Texas towns, setting up in Alamo Plaza motels bejeweled in the dusk under those great empty heart-stopping skies. A few toddies and I’ll sit in the back row of the LBJ Memorial auditorium behind rows of fresh-eyed, clean-necked, short-haired God-believing Protestant boys and girls, many dumb but many also smart, smart the way Van Cliburn was smart, who came from Texas too, making straight A’s at everything and taking the prize in Moscow, while big prissy Billy Sol tinkles away on the Steinway and Lola clasps her cello between her knees and sends old Brahms singing out into the great God-haunted Texas night.

… And afterwards eat a big steak and drink more toddies and make love and watch Japanese 3-D science-fiction late movies. (Dear God, I hope Lola won’t develop an obsession about winning, winning horse shows and music contests, the way Doris got hooked on antiques, Englishmen, and Hindoo religion.)

I must have been shaking my head, for she raises hers and looks at me. “What?”

But I don’t tell her. Instead I remind her that if worst comes to worst this afternoon, there may not be any horse shows or junior swings through Texas.

“Oh. You’re right,” she says, feigning gravity. She doesn’t really believe that anything could go wrong with the U.S.A. or at least with Texas.

Her fingering drifts off my back. She’s asleep. Her breath comes strong and sweet in my neck, as hay-sweet as her sorrel mare’s.

Carefully I ease myself free of her slack heavy-frail body.

What a strong fine girl. If worst came to worst, she and I could rebuild Tara with our bare hands.

“Chief, the news is worse.” Ellen watches me as I fix two gin fizzes. “Don’t you think you’re firing the sunset gun a little too early and too often?”

“What has happened now?”

“There are riots in New Orleans, and riots over here. The students are fighting the National Guard, the Lefts are fighting the Knotheads, the blacks are fighting the whites. The Jews are being persecuted.”

“What are the Christians doing?”

“Nothing.”

“Turn on the TV.”

“It’s on. The station went off the air.”

“Then they’ve taken the transmitter,” I say half to myself.

“What’s that, Chief?”

“Nothing.”

“Did you enjoy the concert?”

“What concert? Oh yes.”

“I heard from Dr. Immelmann again.”

“How did you hear from him?”

“On the Anser-Phone.”

“I thought you said it was dead.”

“It was. I don’t understand it.”

“What did he say?”

“He said to tell you ‘it’ was going to happen this afternoon.”

“It?”

“He said you would know what I meant.”

The gin fizz is good. Already the little albumen molecules are singing in my brain. My neck is swelling. I take a pill to prevent hives.

“What else did he say?”

“That if anything happens, we’re to stay here. That we’re safe with you because you can protect us with your lapsometer. He said you should watch and wait.”

“Watch for what?”

“He said you would know. Signs and portents, he said. He told me, don’t go back and get your coat.”

“Hm. Did he say how long we should wait here?”

“He said it might be months.”

“Did you ask him about your aunt and my mother?”

“He said they would be fine. Chief, do you know what is going to happen?”

“No. At least I am not sure.”

“What are you going to do?”

“Right now I have to see how Moira is.”

“Well, excuse me!”

“What’s the matter?”

“Frankly I don’t see what you see in either one of them.”

“They’re both fine girls. I’m very fond of them. I may as well tell you that I’m thinking of marrying again.”

“Congratulations. But don’t you have one girl too many?”

“Things are going to be very unsettled for the next few weeks,” I say vaguely.

“What does that mean?”

I shrug.

Ellen uncrosses her legs and leans forward. “Well, what do you mean? Do you mean you want to — marry both of them?”

“Right now, I’m responsible for all three of you.”

My scalp is beginning to quilt.

Ellen blinks. “I’m not sure I understand you.”

“It’s a question of honor.”

“Honor?”

“I don’t believe a man should trifle with a girl.”

“Well yes, but—!”

“However, if a man’s intentions are honorable—”