Anne Tyler - The Tin Can Tree

'I don't need a doctor, Ansel.'

'Terrible things can happen.'

'Oh, for heaven's sake,' she said. 'I'm not about to die on you.'

'You never know. You never can -'

She pulled away from him, this time so hard that he had to let her go, and reached out for Simon's hand instead, in case she got dizzier. Simon accepted her hand like a grave responsibility and led her soberly, toward the house. Ansel followed, panting from all this unexpected exercise.

'We'll go to my house,' he said, 'where I have iced tea.'

'No, thank you.'

'I want you to go to my house. I feel responsible. And anyway, I'm lonely. James has gone off to Dan Thompson's.'

'Oh, all right,' Joan said. It was true that she didn't want to go back to that parlour again. They veered toward the Greens' end of the house, with Ansel parting weeds ahead of them and kicking aside bits of rusted car parts so that Joan could have a clear passage. When they reached the back door he held it open for them and ushered them in with a bow, though neither Simon or Joan paid any attention to him.

'Head on to the front room,' he said. ‘I’ll tell you what, Joan: you can lie on my couch.'

'Oh, well, Ansel, I don't need -'

'It's not often I let someone do that.'

'All right,' she said, and went on toward the couch, feeling too aching to argue. The house smelled like James -a mixture of darkroom chemicals and shaving soap and sunshine – and there was a little of that medicine smell of Ansel's there too. She lay back on the couch and closed her eyes.

Ansel brought iced tea, with the ice cubes tinkling in the glasses and a sprig of fresh mint floating on top. It surprised her, because Ansel was used to being waited on himself. She had thought he wouldn't even know where the glasses were. He set the tray down on the coffee table and handed a glass to both Simon and Joan. Then he picked up his own glass and carried it over to the easy chair, where he sat down a little uncertainly, as if he had never sat there before. Maybe he hadn't. 'Cheers,' he said, and held his glass up high. 'In reference to this doctor business, Joan -'

'I feel fine .'

'But maybe you should see one anyway,' said Simon. 'You just don't know what might have happened.'

'Nothing happened. Will you hush?'

She took a sip of iced tea and closed her eyes. It felt good to be cool again. The room was dim and quiet, and the couch was comfortable, and the heat of outdoors had made her feel relaxed and sleepy.

'What else is good,' Ansel was telling Simon, 'is to drink iced tea with peppermint candy on it. You ever tried that?' His voice was far away and faint, because Joan was half-asleep. She heard him shift his position in the creaky old chair. 'You ever tried it?' he asked again.

'No,' said Simon. He was still being cautious with Ansel, although Joan couldn't figure out why.

'You ought to have your mother make it for you,' Ansel told him.

'She won't care.'

'Sure she will. Sure she will.'

'We drink mainly Cokes,' said Simon.

"This is better.'

There was a long silence. Joan reached over to set her glass on the floor, and then she lay down again and put the back of her hand across her eyes to shut the light out.

'James is at Dan Thompson's,' Ansel said.

'You told me that,' said Simon.

'He just walked out and left me here, alone.'

'I don't care.'

'If I drop dead today, he'll forget what name to put on the headstone.'

'I don't care.'

'Ah, well,' Ansel sighed, and there was the sound of his stretching in the chair. "There is a collection, in this world,' he said, 'of people who could die and be mourned approximately a week. If they're lucky. Then that's the end of it. You think I'm one?'

'I don't know,' said Simon. 'I'm not listening.'

'Oh.'

There was another pause, and someone's ice tinkled. Ansel's, probably. Ansel said, 'I'm going to go away from here.'

'Everyone is,' said Simon.

'What?'

'Grown-ups can go and not even let on they're going. I wish I could.’

'You can come with me,' Ansel said.

'Where's that?'

‘This town of mine. This place I come from.'

'Is it north?' Simon asked.

'North of what?'

'North north. Is it?'

'It's south,' said Ansel.

'Oh. I want to go north.'

'It's all the same. Who you kidding? This town has got a cop that acts like a night watchman. He goes through the town on foggy nights crying out the hours, singing "Sunshine on the Mountain" and all other sunny songs, middle of the night. Ain't that a thing to wake in the night to, boy.'

'Yeah, 'said Simon.

'To wake up after a nightmare to.'

'Yeah.'

The throbbing in Joan's head kept time to Ansel's words. She wanted to leave now, and stop listening to that thin voice of his going on and on, but the throbbing made a weight on her head that kept her down. She listened dreamily, without interrupting.

'Lately I've been thinking about home,' Ansel said. 'It was the funeral that did it, somehow.'

'You didn't go to the funeral.'

'It did it anyway. The only problem is, it's hard to know what way to think about it. No telling how it's changed, and I get no letters from there. James does, from our sisters. He writes them once a month, letters all full of facts, but when he gets an answer he pretends he doesn't. I don't know why. I mean he goes on writing but never mentions what their letters to him have said, never comments on them. Why do you think he does that?'

'I don't know,' Simon said. 'This cop, does he sing every night?'

'Just about. And there's a feed store that gives away free hats. Big straw hats, with red plumes curling down like Sir Walter Raleigh's. Walk down Sedad Street and it's just an acre of people wearing hats, red plumes bobbing up and down. Merchants wearing hats, farmers wearing hats, everyone but little old ladies wearing hats. Old ladies don't like them hats. You go down to Harper's River and find little boys and coloured men fishing in leaky boats, wearing red-plumed hats. Why, you can tell when you're coming home again. You look out the bus window into those country fields and find farmers plowing, wearing hats with red plumes, and the mules wearing them too but with holes cut in them for the ears to stick out. That's how you know you're nearing home.'

'How about me?' asked Simon.

'How about you.'

'If I was to ask, would they give me one too?'

'Why, surely.'

'I'll ask, then.'

'You do that.'

More ice tinkled. Joan's hand had stuck to her damp forehead and she took it away, making a tearing sound, and sighed and turned over on her side.

'What exactly is the name of this town?' Simon asked.

'Caraway, N.C.'

'Is there buses to it?'

'Six a day.'

'Is there people my age?'

'Is there?' Ansel asked, and he laughed suddenly, a chuckle deep in his throat so that he sounded a little like James, ' Is there, boy. Well, lots. I ought to know. Another thing. This is something I've never seen in any other town, now: the boys wear one gold ring in their ear.'

'Earrings?'

'Oh, no. No, this is like pirates wear. Pierce their ears and put one gold hoop through. Everyone did it.'

'Did you?'

'My family didn't want me to. Well, I wasn't actually “ in " that particular group, anyway. But James was. He had a hoop, but he took it off finally. Only got one because the family told him not to. Eventually everyone takes them off, when they've grown up and settled down. You'll hear someone say, "So-and-so's engaged now. He's got a steady job, and there's no more gold in his ear." But I never had gold in my ear to begin with.'

'Does it hurt?' Simon asked.