Ethan Canin - A Doubter's Almanac

“Of course you do. There’s no hurry.”

He shielded his eyes and gazed out at the cove. “Look at those boats, kids. You built a couple of marvelously seaworthy craft out there. They’re quite something, aren’t they?”

“Well, thanks, Dad,” said Paulie.

My parents were not affectionate people — certainly not my father — but my mother rose from the couch then and crossed to him, smoothing the front of her blouse. At the window she reached her arms around his neck and rested her head for a moment on his chest.

“Who’d like to have a sea battle in one of those things?” said Dad.

“I would,” I said.

“I think we all would,” said Mom. “Wouldn’t we, Paulie?”

“Good,” said Dad. “Because that’s just what we need right now — a good old sea battle. A good old Battle of Trafalgar. How about it, everyone?”

AT DINNER THE next day, my mother made pork chops and applesauce and scalloped potatoes, my father’s favorites. She left everything heating in the pans until we heard the shed door slap shut. When we saw him making his way down from the woods, we all sat at the table. He was finishing off a cigarette, and his cheeks were sunburned from our day on the lake. Something about him seemed quite different. Mom clicked her tongue and whispered, “Don’t say a word till he’s had a chance to eat something. He’ll bring it up when he’s ready.”

He came in and sat down. He took a sip of water, then turned his head and glanced back up at the shed.

“You look stricken,” said Paulie.

“Shh,” said my mother.

“Well, no. I’m not stricken at all.”

My mother dished out his applesauce and went back to the stove for the potatoes. “Well, how did your work go out there today?”

“It went fine, Helena.”

“Tell us,” said Paulie.

“Sweetheart,” said my mother.

“What do you want to know?”

“Paulie — shhh, please .”

“Are we going to move or not?”

“Paulie!”

“No, I’m happy to talk about it.” He leaned over and crushed his cigarette into the ashtray on the windowsill. “What do you want to know?”

“Well, okay then,” said Mom. She looked at Paulie. “In that case, I, for one, would like to know how he asked.”

“In the normal way, dear.” He took a bite of pork chop and slowly chewed it. “There’s a position open, in topology.”

“Oh, Milo!” My mother set the applesauce at the center of the table and slid back into her seat. “That’s perfect.”

He cut off another bite of pork. “It’s not perfect.”

“Why not?”

“Because it’s algebraic topology, Helena.”

“Well, close enough.”

“Close enough? To what?”

“To what you do.”

“It’s not close in the least to what I do.”

“Well, that’s okay.”

“It’s a bunch of equation hashers.”

“You’ll just have to make it your own, then.”

“I’ll just have to do what ?” He dropped his fork and turned to the window. Then he said, “And it’s probationary, on top of that.”

“Well, what does that mean?”

“It means it’s an”—he could hardly say it—“it’s an assistant professorship.”

There was a silence. My mother reached for the water pitcher and refilled our glasses. “Oh dear,” she said. Then, after a moment, “Well, I think that must be procedural.”

“Procedural?”

“I just don’t see Knudson doing anything like that himself. Remember, you’re a Fields Medalist.”

“You’re damn right I remember that.”

“It’s some kind of university work-around. I’m sure it’s a technicality.”

“The technicality, Helena, is that they’d have my balls in a nutcracker.”

I laughed. Dad glanced over.

“No, they wouldn’t,” said Mom.

“I never expected to have to go begging.”

“You didn’t, Milo. They begged. Knudson came all the way out here to ask you.”

“So what? If it were an endowed chair, I might consider it. But it’s not. It’s an assistant professorship. An assistant. Fucking. Professorship.” He pushed back his chair and got up. Then he moved into the kitchen and bent to drink from the faucet. Over his shoulder, he called out, “But at least the pig’s out on his ass.”

“What is that, Milo?”

“Yevgeny Detmeyer’s on his way out — to Chicago, I think. At least I got that much.” Through the door I saw him spit. “Good riddance to the bastard.”

“Oh, honey, I wonder if that’s why it happened so suddenly.”

“ Suddenly? I left fifteen years ago, Helena.”

Paulie said, “Are we moving or aren’t we? Mom, what happened?”

“Your father and I will have to discuss it.”

“Oh, no we won’t.”

“Of course we will. We can talk about it after dinner. But right now we want to hear your thoughts about it, kids.” She turned. “Tell us what you think of the news.”

“It’s not news, Helena.” He strode back to the table and pulled out his chair. “I like it fine right here. That’s the news. One crappy last-minute offer from a washed-up tyrant doesn’t change one goddamn thing. I’m fine right where I am.”

“I am, too, but—”

“It’s too late, Helena.”

“Of course it’s not.”

“It is.”

“Milo. Please.”

“Helena, I already said no to them.” Then he sat down, took another bite of pork, and said, “So, kids, what do you think of that news?”

I FOLLOWED THE sound up the bed of the creek. It wasn’t coming from the beaver marsh. As I moved upstream, it grew louder. A dull, steady cracking, like the unhurried blow of a hammer. The sun had just risen, and I was a half hour into my dose. I’d taken a strong one.

At the peak of a rise, I climbed into a pine tree. When I reached a certain height, I saw him. He was a short way ahead in the clearing, swinging a branch against a tree. After one of the blows, the branch flew from his grip, and he picked it up again, stumbling. He swung it against the next tree, falling over when it hit. Again it flew into the brush. Again he rose, stumbling, and set off after it.

—

THAT NIGHT AT dinner, the sign above my mother’s head read:

I HAVE BEEN WOUNDED

I looked over at Bernie, who was crowded into the corner on his mat. He wouldn’t meet my eye. I turned to Paulie, who took no notice. Mom had made hamburgers. My sister was eating hers the way she always did, as though she’d never tasted one before. After each bite, she opened the bun and looked inside.

“So, Paulie,” I said. “How was your day?”

She looked up curiously. “What?”

“How was your day?”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, how was your day?”

She glanced at my mother. “Did something happen to him?”

My father was examining me, too, tearing off bites of his burger and eyeing me across the table like a cop deciding whether to pull his handcuffs.

That’s when my mother made a sound — a single high-pitched gulp that might not have been so startling if it had been included among wails or sobs, or even among a string of odd laughs. But it wasn’t. It stood there alone, a solitary, warbling gasp like the call of a loon. She took a sip of water and kept the glass at her lips.

“What on earth was that?” said my father.

“Just be quiet, Dad,” said Paulie.

He tore off another bite of burger. “Was it Princeton?”

“Come on, Dad.”

“Is that what you’re crying about? About Princeton University? Well, I’ll tell you”—he looked around the table—“I’ll say it again. Fuck. Princeton. University.”