David Wroblewski - The Story of Edgar Sawtelle

THEY DIDN’T SAY WHERE HIS FATHER was going, only that it was a long day’s drive before he would return with Claude. It was late May and school was in session, though barely, and when he asked to go along he knew the answer would be no. That morning he and Almondine and his mother watched the truck top the hill on Town Line Road and then they walked to the barn for morning chores. A pile of secondhand LPs and an old suitcase-style record player occupied a lower shelf of the workshop. Two pennies had been taped to the needle arm, covering the lightning-bolt Z in the “Zenith” embossed in the fluted metal. Through the speaker grill a person could make out the filaments glowing igneous orange in their silver-nippled tubes. His mother unsleeved one of her favorite records and set it on the turntable. Edgar cleaned the kennel to the sound of Patsy Cline’s voice. When he finished he found his mother in the whelping room. She was holding a pup in the air in front of her, examining it and singing under her breath how she was crazy for tryin’, crazy for cryin’, crazy for loving it.

The truck was still gone when he got off the school bus that afternoon. His mother enlisted his help retrieving sheets from the clothesline.

“Don’t they smell great?” she said, holding the fabric to her face. “It’s so nice to hang them out again.”

They tramped up the stairs to the spare room, located across the hallway from Edgar’s bedroom. That morning it had been brimming with stacks of Dog World and Field and Stream and a menagerie of castoff furniture and broken appliances and many other familiars. A rollaway bed with a pinstriped mattress closed up clam-style. A set of seat-split kitchen chairs. Two brass floor lamps, teetering like long-legged birds. And most of all, innumerable cross-flapped cardboard boxes, which he’d spent long afternoons digging through hoping to unearth an old photo album. They had photographs of every dog they’d ever raised but none of themselves. Perhaps, he’d thought, one of those boxes held some faded image that would reveal how his mother and father had met.

His mother swung the door open with a flourish.

“What do you think?” she asked. “I’ll give you a hint. Personally, I can’t believe the difference.”

She was right. The room was transformed. The boxes were gone. The window glass sparkled. The wooden floor had been swept and mopped and the foldaway bed had been laid out flat and at its head a little table he had never seen before acted as a nightstand. A warm breeze sucked the freshly laundered curtains against the screen and blew them out again and somehow the whole room smelled like a lemon orchard.

Great, he signed. It’s never looked this good.

“Of course not, it’s been filled with junk! Know what the best part is? Your father says that this used to be Claude’s room when he was growing up. Can you imagine that? Here, you get that side.” She billowed a sheet over the mattress and they tucked their way up from the foot of the bed. Each of them stuffed a pillow into a pillowcase. His mother kept looking at him as they worked. Finally she stopped and stood up.

“What’s bothering you?”

Nothing. I don’t know. He paused and looked around. What did you do with everything?

“I found some nooks and crannies. A lot of it I put in the basement. I thought you and your father could cart those old chairs to the dump this weekend.”

Then she slipped into sign, which she performed unhurriedly and with great precision.

Did you want to ask me something about Claude?

Have I ever met him? When I was little?

No. I’ve only met him once myself. He enlisted in the navy the year before I met your father, and he’s only been back once, for your grandfather’s funeral.

Why did he join the navy?

I don’t know. Sometimes people enlist to see more of the world. Your father says Claude didn’t always get along with your grandfather. That’s another reason people enlist. Or maybe none of those things.

How long is he staying?

A while. Until he finds a place of his own. He’s been gone a long time. He might not stay at all. This might be too small of a place for him now.

Does he know about the dogs?

She laughed. He grew up here. He probably doesn’t know them like your father does, not anymore. He sold his share of the kennel to your father when your grandfather died.

Edgar nodded. After they were finished he waited until his mother was occupied and then carried the lamps up from the basement to his room. He set them on opposite ends of his bookshelves, and he and Almondine spent the afternoon pulling books off the shelves and leafing through them.

IT WAS LONG AFTER DARK when the headlights of the truck swept the living room walls. Edgar and his mother and Almondine waited on the back porch while his father turned the truck around by the barn. The porch light glinted off the glass of the windshield and the truck rolled to a stop. His father got out of the cab, his expression serious, even cross, though it softened when he looked up at them. He gave a small, silent wave, then walked to the rear of the truck and opened the topper and lifted out a lone suitcase. At first Claude stayed inside the cab, visible only in silhouette. He craned his neck to look around. Then the passenger door swung open and he stepped out and Edgar’s father walked up beside him.

It was impossible not to make comparisons. His father’s brother wore an ill-fitting serge suit, in which he looked uneasy and shabbily formal. From the way it hung on him, he was the thinner of the two. Claude’s hair was black where his father’s was peppered. He stood with a slightly stooped posture, perhaps from the long drive, which made it hard to tell who was taller. And Claude didn’t wear glasses. In all, Edgar’s first impression was of someone quite different from his father, but then Claude turned to look at the barn and in profile the similarities jumped out-the shapes of their noses and chins and foreheads. And when they walked into the side yard, their gaits were identical, as if their bodies were hinged in precisely the same way. Edgar had a sudden, strange thought: that’s what it’s like to have a brother.

“Looks about the same,” Claude was saying. His voice was deeper than Edgar’s father’s, and gravelly. “I guess I expected things to have changed some.”

“There’s more difference than you think,” his father said. Edgar could hear the irritation in his tone from across the yard. “We repainted a couple of years back, but we stayed with white. The sashes on the two front windows rotted out so we replaced them with that big picture window-you’ll see when we get inside. And a lot of the wiring and plumbing has been fixed, stuff you can’t see.”

“That’s new,” Claude said, nodding at the pale green LP gas cylinder beside the house.

“We got rid of the coal furnace almost ten years ago,” his father said. He put his hand lightly on Claude’s back and his voice sounded friendly again. “Come on, let’s go in. We can look around later.”

He steered Claude toward the porch. When they reached the steps, Claude went up first. Edgar’s mother held the door, and Claude stepped through and turned.

“Hello, Trudy,” he said.

“Hello, Claude,” she said. “Welcome home. It’s nice to have you here.” She hugged him briefly, squeezing up her shoulders in an embrace that was both friendly and slightly formal. Then she stepped back, and Edgar felt her hand on his shoulder.

“Claude, meet Edgar,” she said.

Claude shifted his gaze from Trudy and held out his hand. Edgar shook it, though awkwardly. He was surprised at how hard Claude squeezed, how it made him aware of the bones in his hands, and how callused Claude’s palms were. Edgar felt like he was gripping a hand made of wood. Claude looked him up and down.