Northern Lights

He walked to the end of the block and back again. One of the dogs trotted over to be scratched. The town was dead. He could hear the muffled sound of the organ inside the church. The town did not particularly depress him, but at the same time he often wondered why anyone still lived there. Wolff was there to sell coffee and medicine. The barber was there to cut Wolff’s hair into a flat crewcut once a week. The grocer was there to sell food to the barber. The farmers were there, trying to grow corn in the forest to sell to the grocer, and Perry was there to keep the farms going, to tell them when to use fertilizer, to fill out subsidy applications and loan applications, to watch the Swedes try to grow corn on land meant for pine and Indians. He didn’t know. It didn’t make sense. Once he’d asked his father why they didn’t just move on to Duluth, and the old man went crazy, charging into one of his fiery sermons about the virtues of hardship and how Perry’s grandfather had built the house out of the forest’s own timber and how a town was like tempered steel and how a transplanted tree never grows as tall or as fine as one rooted in native soil. The lesson of the sermon, if not the logic, always stuck with Perry. The old man died and Perry stayed on. And Harvey got drafted. Old Harvey. Harvey was different. Ever since the old man died, Harvey talked about leaving the town, and one day with the help of the draft board he did leave. A confused time. Harvey the Bull. He was a bull but he was no soldier. As kids they hadn’t even played war games. Indians were better, better targets for games with their leather jackets, sour faces, bad teeth and greasy hair, Chippewa mostly. They’d stalked the Indians, crawled on bellies in the weeds behind the house, yelped and bellowed. But never war games. Nothing serious. Trapping games and capture-the-flag and forts in the forest, not far from Pliney’s Pond, snow forts in winter and tree forts in summer, great camouflage in the fall, but never war games. And no one in Sawmill Landing knew a damn about the war anyway. It wasn’t talked about in the drugstore. Then gangbusters, bang, old Harvey gets drafted, good old Bishop Markham and Herb Wolff on the draft board – sorry, Harvey’s number was up, something like that, proper optimism and good humour, a little sympathy, proper pride. Perry stayed out of it. Nothing he could do, and the war wasn’t real anyway, and, besides, it seemed somehow natural that a rascal and bull like Harvey was the one to go off to the war. In that sleepwalking, slothful departure there had been no time to counter the nagging thought that the speed of it all, the blinding foggy invisible force behind it, was a sure sign that Harvey would come home maimed. Because no one knew a damn about it. Vietnam was outside the town orbit. ‘A mess,’ was what people would say if forced to comment, but a mess was still not a war, and it did not become a war until Harvey went to fight in it. Two Indian boys went with him. Their picture was on the front page of the town paper, Harvey in the centre, grinning and posing, his arms wrapped around the two dull-eyed Indian boys. In September, one of the Indians got killed and the paper carried a short obituary with an American flag stencilled in. But even then it wasn’t really a war. It wasn’t a war until Harvey got himself wounded and the paper carried another front-page story, pictures of Harvey in his football uniform, pictures of the old house, pictures of Perry and Grace, a picture of the dead old man in his preacher’s robes, a long history of the family, and for a time the war was really a war, though even then it was all jumbled and formless. No sides, no maps to chart progress on, no tides to imagine surging back and forth, no real battles or victories or defeats. In the tangled density of it all, Perry sometimes wondered if the whole show were a masquerade for Harvey to dress in khaki and display his bigballed outdoorsmanship, proving all over again how well he’d followed the old man into the woods, how much he’d learned, to show forever that he was the Bull.

The dog trotted back to the church steps.

Perry sat on the kerb again, cleaned his glasses, leaned back. Tips of high pine poked over the store fronts.

Grace came out with cigarettes and coffee. ‘Eleven thirty,’ she said. ‘Herb says it’s always a little late.’

‘I just wish that bus would get in.’

Then he saw it. It was as though it had been there all along, poised in turn around the corner, waiting to be seen. He saw it and heard it simultaneously. It was the giant Greyhound. It might have been the same silver monster that took Harvey to war in the first place.

It swung off the tar road, changing gears and growling.

Herb Wolff hurried out. ‘There she is, there she is!’ he wailed. He brushed his coat and stood erect. ‘There she is, all right.’

The bus cleared the turn.

‘Sure wish everybody was here for this,’ said Wolff. ‘This is something. Harvey! I can’t believe it.’

Perry took a step and stood alone. The Greyhound’s brakes hissed and forms moved behind the tinted windows and Perry searched for familiar movements. The door opened with another strange hiss, and the great grey cave was transfixing dust and trembling. Perry peered into the tinted glass.

Harvey stepped off alone. He carried a black bag with white stitching.

‘Well, hey!’ he said.

Without seeing, Perry gave him a great hug.

‘Hey!’

‘Yeah, you look fine. You do!’

‘And my God, here’s Grace! Grace. You’re beautiful.’ They hugged and Grace was smiling and wet-eyed and Perry was grinning.

‘Yeah, yeah. You’ve got some tan there.’

‘Sure!’

‘You look great. You do, I can’t believe it.’

‘Skinny! Look at that.’

‘Hey, it’s old Wolff! How the devil is old Wolffie?’

‘This is something. It is. You look great, Harv. You do. This is really something.’

‘I’m fine. I am. Where’s my parade? Shouldn’t they have trumpets and flags and things? How’s my honey-Grace?’

Grace kissed him again, still clutching his arm. ‘Happy, happy,’ she said. ‘You’re so skinny, aren’t you?’

‘Skinny? Lean and mean. How’s my brother? How’s brother Paul?’

‘I’m fine. Here, let me have that bag. I can’t get over it, you look great. Really.’

‘I am great,’ Harvey said. ‘Now where the devil is everybody?’

‘Sunday.’

‘Sunday? Is it Sunday? Sunday! Incredible.’

‘Give me that blasted bag.’

‘Come on,’ Grace said. ‘Let’s get you home. Some skinny hero.’

Everybody started hugging again, then Harvey released the bag and Perry took it and they stood in a circle on the street. Harvey’s bad eye was barely noticeable. He was tall and too skinny. His voice had the old nasal tinkle. ‘Sunday!’ he said. ‘Some bloody day to come home on. Where’s old Jud Harmor? Thought sure old Jud would be here with bands and ticker tape and stuff.’

‘He’s around. Here, let’s get into the car and we’ll get you home. You did get skinny, didn’t you?’

‘Sure, and you got chubby. You look great anyway. And Grace. Grace is still a honey. And even old Wolffie looks good, so what we need is a good drink to celebrate. Hey, Wolffie! You got a nice drink we can all celebrate with?’

Wolff blinked and shook his head.

‘No bloody drink?’

‘No. Geez, I’m sorry. Really. Nobody said anything about … I would’ve had the whole town here if somebody just …’

‘No bloody drink? No parade, no drink. Where the devil is everybody? Some awful hero worship.’

‘Everybody’s in church, Harv.’

‘Some hero worship.’ Harvey grinned and pointed at his bad eye. ‘So, how you like my pretty souvenir? Better than a lousy limp, don’t you think?’

‘Doesn’t look bad at all.’

‘I’m thinking about patching her up. You know? A little class.’

‘Doesn’t look bad at all, Harv.’

‘Glad you like it. Now all we need is a drink and everybody’s happy. Are you happy, Wolff?’

Wolff vigorously shook his head, grinning.

‘Fine. Everybody’s happy.’

Grace took Harvey’s arm and walked him towards the car. Church bells began ringing. One of the dogs began to bark, sitting back on its haunches with its nose up towards the steeple. Perry was trembling. He opened the trunk and threw the bag in and slammed it shut.

‘Remind me never to come home again on Sunday,’ Harvey said.

‘Anytime is a good time. You look great.’

‘Glad I didn’t wear my uniform. Look plain silly coming home in a uniform and no parade.’ Harvey shook hands with Wolff, then stood with his hands on his hips and looked up and down Mainstreet. The bells were ringing loud.

‘Let’s get you home.’

‘So long, Wolffie,’ Harvey said. ‘You’re a helluva man. Good man. War’s over, baby.’

Wolff grinned.

Perry started the engine and backed up and drove up Mainstreet.

‘That weasel,’ Harvey said.

Perry awoke before dawn. He went to the pond, sat on the rocks, waited for daylight. Then he showered and dressed and had coffee and drove into town. It was still early and the shops were closed. He cruised up Acorn Street, past Addie’s boarding house. Her window was on the top floor but it was shuttered and there were no lights. He drove back up Mainstreet. It was Monday, there was nothing much to do. He unlocked the office, rolled up the blinds, sat at his desk. The pens were in their glass jar, papers were in folders, the desk was clean and in order, the folders were filed. He put his head in his arms. His mouth was dry from a night of drinking beer and laughing and listening to Harvey tell about the bus ride from Minneapolis, the hospital, a few things about the war.

After a time he got up to sweep the office. Then he switched on the ceiling fan. He typed out a loan application for a dumbeyed farmer named Lars Nielson. Then he made coffee. Then he put the application into an envelope and typed the address on to a sticker and stuck the sticker to the envelope, then he drank his coffee. There was nothing much to do. He should’ve become a preacher he thought. The town needed a good preacher. Stenberg, the crusty usurper. And Harvey was home. And Grace was happy and wanted a child. There was nothing much to do. He drank more coffee and passed the morning at the window, watching the town come to life, watching morning shadows come out of the eastern forest, pass over the town. He was melancholy but it was an entirely rational melancholia, nothing outright crazy about it. He should’ve become a preacher. And Harvey was home and Grace was happy, except she wanted a child, and the old man was dead, and Perry was thinking that things would have been better if he’d become a preacher. With the old man gone, the town needed a good preacher.

The ceiling fan spun round and round. He typed out soil reports, read the morning paper, then towards noon he gave up, locking the office and walking on to the street to mail the Nielson application. He felt flabby and restless. It was another hot day. The tips of some of the pines were turning brown. Standing on the post office steps, he looked up the street and wondered what to do next. A tractor turned off Route 18. Black smoke coming from a pipe on the hood obscured the farmer’s face. Perry decided to find Addie for a long lunch.

She was not in the library. He browsed the stacks, waiting, finally taking a world atlas into the reading room where he smoked and looked at the maps and pictures. It was something he and Harvey used to do, a passion for maps and exotic unseen places. He sat over the atlas a long time. Except for the fans and a woman stacking books behind him, the library was quiet.

He was not sure how long he slept, if at all, but suddenly he was wide awake, surprised to find himself in the chair. The atlas had fallen to his lap. He’d been thinking about Harvey’s bad eye. Thinking or dreaming, he wasn’t sure. The eye was brilliant blue, rolling untethered like a marble, opaque and shining as though lighted from within. The dead eye seemed to have its own life, rolling about in the socket, reckless and eager and full of trouble and blue light.

Feeling a little foolish, Perry blinked and rubbed his eyes and returned the atlas to the shelf.

It was nearly one o’clock.

The woman stacking books looked at him suspiciously.

He grinned at her and shrugged. ‘Just waiting for Addie,’ he said.

‘Snoring, too.’

‘I’m sorry. You don’t know what time Addie’s coming in?’

‘I guess I know, all right, Mr Perry,’ the woman said. She was eyeing his shirt. He looked down and saw a cigarette burn the size of a quarter. ‘Addie’s off today, anyhow,’ the woman said. ‘Monday, you know. You oughta know that by now, Mr Perry.’ She didn’t smile. ‘She works Saturdays so she’s got Monday off, you oughta know that by now.’

‘I forgot.’

He bought a case of beer and some groceries. Walking back to the car, he came across Jud Harmor. Jud saw him first. The old mayor was standing in front of the town hall, hands in his hip pockets, brown shirt and brown cotton pants, the straw hat pushed back on his skull.

‘Been lookin’ for you,’ Jud said.

‘Hey, Jud.’ Perry shifted the groceries to his other arm and prepared to listen.

‘I been lookin’ for you.’

Perry nodded and waited. There was a bright sun on Jud’s face. Under his chin, a large cancer splotch cut down the throat and disappeared under the old man’s shirt. He was lean and tough-looking and sly-looking and he looked like Perry’s father sometimes. At a certain age, all the old men began to look alike.

‘Anyhow,’ said Jud, ‘I been lookin’ for you. Wolff says Harvey’s back.’

‘Yesterday.’

Jud nodded, looking up Mainstreet.

‘Came on the bus yesterday,’ Perry said. ‘He called a few days ago – last week.’

Jud nodded, still surveyed the hot street. ‘Guess somebody should’ve told me.’

‘Sorry, Jud. We were just thinking he’d want to ease back in. You know? No big show or anything.’

‘Somebody should’ve told me, anyhow. I should’ve been there.’

Perry nodded. ‘Sorry.’

Jud squinted up the street. There was no traffic. The two lonely dogs were sleeping on the steps of Damascus Lutheran. ‘Anyhow,’ said Jud, ‘I should’ve been there. Harvey being a hero and all.’ He laughed into a cough.

‘Oh, I wouldn’t say he’s exactly a hero, Jud. I wouldn’t say that. He got his eye hurt and that’s about the end of it really.’

‘Shit,’ the old mayor said, ‘you think I don’t know that? Bound to happen sooner or later. Like your old man, you know, same damn thing. Anyhow, he’s gonna want a parade now.’

‘What?’

‘A parade, for Chrissake! I guess he’ll want a parade now, horns and sirens and floats.’

‘Oh.’

Jud squinted and coughed and shook his head. He brought up a wad of phlegm from his throat, leaned forward and casually spat into the street. ‘Well, ahhhh, I guess you can tell your pa I’ll get that parade arranged. I guess I can do that much.’

‘He’s dead, Jud,’ Perry said carefully.

Jud squinted. ‘Thought he just got himself wounded in the eye?’

‘No, my old man. He’s dead.’

Jud laughed. ‘Shit! You think I didn’t know that?’

Perry grinned. He shifted the groceries again.

‘Anyhow,’ said Jud, ‘you get the word to Harvey, okay?’

Jud coughed and spat a big bubble of mucus into the street. ‘Shit! Wolff says it’s the first thing of Harvey asked about … a parade. Don’t worry, I’ll get it for him, ram it right through, no problem at all.’

‘There’s no need for it, Jud.’

‘Just tell him, son.’ The old mayor sighed. ‘You better get on home then. Groceries there are leakin’ all over you.’ He pushed the straw hat forward. ‘You say hey to your pa, now.’

Perry grinned. ‘Okay, Jud.’

Jud cackled. ‘Your pa’s dead!’

‘Yeah.’

I never said he was crazy, you know.’

‘I know, Jud.’

‘What about your ma?’

‘She’s dead, too, Jud.’

‘Jesus.’ Old Jud spat into the street. ‘Dropping like flies, aren’t they? Well, what about Harvey?’

‘Harvey’s fine.’

‘Mother of Mercy.’

‘Right.’

‘Don’t let your old man shove you around, you hear me?’

‘Okay, Jud. Thanks.’

‘Not Harvey either.’

‘Okay.’

‘So long now, Reverend.’

Perry grinned and saluted and started off, then stopped. ‘Jud?’

The old man was staring after him.

‘Jud, you haven’t seen Addie?’

Jud Harmor pulled off his hat to think. His skull was shiny.

‘Addie. The girl who works in the library. You haven’t seen her today?’

‘Addie,’ Jud said, looking about. ‘Newcomer.’

‘A year or so. She works in the library. Just a kid. You call her Geronimo sometimes.’

Jud grinned. ‘Shit, you mean ol’ Geronimo. Some ass, right? Sure, I know her all right. You’re talkin’ about ol’ Geronimo.’

‘You haven’t seen her?’

‘Wish so,’ Jud said. ‘Wish I had. Some ass, don’t you think? No disrespect, Reverend. What you want ol’ Geronimo for?’

‘Nothing. Just looking for her. Thanks, Jud.’

‘Aren’t thinkin’ of converting her? That’d be some awful wasted hunk of redskin ass, I’ll say that.’

‘Don’t worry, Jud.’

‘No disrespect, Reverend.’

‘So long, Jud.’

‘Say hey to your pa, now.’

Perry smiled and waved.

‘He’s dead!’ Jud hollered.

‘You’re some politician, Jud.’

‘And you ain’t exactly a reverend, neither.’ The old man waved. ‘Take care, son. Tell that brother Harvey I’ll get his blasted parade for him, hear?’

‘Okay.’

‘You tell him now. Get his medals patched on.’

‘I will.’

‘And listen. Hey! I wanted you to tell him this. Tell him that losing one eye never hurt a blind man. You tell him that for me. Perk him up.’

‘Okay, Jud.’

‘Tell him the town thinks he’s a hero. Tell him we’re all proud.’ Jud was grinning, waving his hat. ‘Tell him anything you want. A pack of lies, anyway. Okay? Hell, tell him he’s lucky to be alive, that’s what. Tell him I thought he was dead or something, that’ll clear his head awhile. That Harvey. Some rascal, isn’t he? You got to be careful now.’

‘Okay, Jud.’

‘Take her easy, son.’

‘Okay.’

‘Geronimo!’ he wailed, and coughed, and spat in the street.

Perry decided to try the lake.

He swung off Route 18 and parked along the path leading to the beach. He walked fast, beginning to worry about the time.

At a small footbridge he slowed for breath, then kept on at an easier pace as the path gradually widened and the forest thinned out, finally ending in a sandy clearing that looked down on the lake.

He stopped there. He was but of shape and sweating. Addie’s Olds was parked along the gravel lane that ran from the lake to the junk yard. He felt a little better. He found some shade and sat down to wait.

The lake was hard grey-blue, so calm it looked iced over, and there were no clouds, and it was mid-afternoon of summer with nothing to do. He put his hand down and squeezed the roll of fat under his ribs. Harvey’d never had that problem. Why not? Something to do with dominant and recessive genetics, most likely; or breeding, the old man’s feeling at the time, or their separate moods, black bile and yellow, it was hard to say. The Bull, said the old man about Harvey, and that was that, and it was too bad. And like Jud said, maybe the old man wasn’t crazy after all. Thinking about old Jud, Perry started grinning. Hard to tell if the old mayor was playing a great fool’s game, darting in and out of time as if it didn’t matter or exist, always confusing the living with the dead and Perry with Harvey and both of them with the old man. Every two years either Herb Wolff or Bishop Markham opposed Jud in the town elections, and every two years Jud got re-elected. Everything was always the same, Jud and the trees and the lake.

He sat in the shade and waited. He pitched stones down the embankment and watched them roll to the beach. He thought awhile about doing some exercises. Sweat off the fat rolls, turn lean, watch Grace’s happy face, stir up some energy, get healthy, sit-up and push-up himself into bullhood and happiness. It was awfully hot.

The first movement was gentle. It was just a splash of light in the lake. He watched the splashes lap towards him like waves, moving in delicate arcs closer, and he stood up to watch.

She swam close to shore then turned and swam on her back.

Her arms reached from the water and dipped. He was too far away to hear the sound of her swimming.

After a time she waded ashore. She bent forward, her hands braced on her knees, her hair flopping forward in a wet black bunch.

She was very slender. She walked on her heels, and she was wet and her skin was walnut-coloured and shining.

Perry moved down the embankment for a better look. He was smiling. He found a log and sat down again, his hands folded nervously.

She wore a white swimsuit.

With her back to him, she walked on up the beach, stopping now and then to bend down, picking things up, throwing pebbles out into the lake, skipping rocks. She was slender and she walked and played like an athlete, bent forward and swinging her arms and walking on her heels. She walked a quarter mile up the beach. For a moment she disappeared in a stand of pines, then she was back and coming towards him.

She walked with her chin forward. Perry wanted to laugh. He was smiling and watching and sweating. Her hair lay over her shoulders in two black heaps, and she was lean and athletic, walked with long loping steps, on her heels, her arms swinging.

Perry watched her come down the beach. Her shoulders were brown.

Then, like a deer, she stopped. She seemed to look in his direction, her head turning up. Then she sprang for the water.

It startled him. He called out, but she dived headlong for the lake and white spray flashed and she was gone under and the lake bubbled ivory from the spot where she dived.

Finally emerging, she shook her head. Then she sprang high like a fish. She seemed to hover there, a strong golden arc suspended over the water, then she went under, her feet kicking at the last instant.

She emerged again further out.

‘Addie!’ he shouted. He stood up and waved.

She raised her hand. He couldn’t be sure if it were a wave or another swimming stroke, for the hand poised for only a moment then it was gone and she was swimming again for the centre of the lake. He grinned. She could be very quick. He could not make out her face. He waved hard.

She swam straight out, long arched strokes, and soon he saw only the wake of her swimming. He felt fine. He walked away slowly, for it was a hot day.

That July was quiet. The forest was being burnt out. People in town talked about forest fires, and the farmers talked about how the corn was already ruined, and Perry and Harvey walked and fished and played some tennis.

Except for the heat, it was not a bad time. Harvey was cheerful, always eager to get into the woods. He talked about building a house in Nassau, about taking a bike tour through Canada, about going to live in Montana or Oregon. While he never talked much about the war or losing his eye, he didn’t seem bitter and even sometimes appeared to treat it all as a great adventure that, if opportunity came, he wouldn’t mind repeating. At night they sometimes played Scrabble, sometimes watched television, sometimes drove in for a beer at Franz’s Glen. It was not such a bad time. The newspaper sent out a reporter and Harvey was written up again, the lead story, and Grace clipped the piece and pasted it into a scrapbook. She had a scrapbook for Harvey and another for Perry. Harvey’s was nearly full. She said she was keeping them for her old age and for her children when they came. In town, everyone asked about Harvey, raved about the newspaper article. There were pictures of Harvey and Perry and Grace and the old house.

‘It’s a pack of lies,’ said Harvey.

‘It says you’re a hero. See here?’

‘True, true enough,’ he said. ‘But it’s still a pack of lies. I’m gonna sue and retire to Tibet. I’ve always wanted to retire to Tibet. You two can visit me. How does that sound? I’ll have you flown out. I’ll sue them for every penny.’

‘It calls you a hero,’ Grace said. ‘Look at that. You’re a hero.’

‘That’s the only truth in the whole article.’

‘It says you’re fondly remembered by everyone in town. Look, it’s got Herb Wolff saying what a fine fellow you are. And Bishop Markham and the mayor. It says the mayor’s going to give you a parade.’

‘Should hope so. My God. How many heroes does one town need before they fork over a few parades? I should hope so. Maybe I won’t sue if they fork over a nice parade. Does it say the hero lost his eye?’

‘No,’ Grace said. ‘It says you were badly wounded and that you served your community and country and everything.’

Harvey had his stocking feet near the fire. He was lying on the floor, head on a pillow. ‘I don’t know,’ he said. ‘This is some ticklish decision. I’ll have to get myself a crooked lawyer. I don’t know. Suing is always ticklish, you know. Maybe I’ll just accept the parade and sordid apologies. A tough decision. What do you think? Tibet sounds awfully good, doesn’t it? Or maybe Africa. A hundred thousand could take us a long way. A trip to Africa, small enough price for a pack of lies. Let’s have a beer. Let’s drink to Jud’s parade, what do you say?’

Harvey’s face was red by the fire. It was relaxing time, after-supper time, and they drank beer and played Scrabble.

In a while, Harvey got up and went outside. Perry knew where he was going. An hour later, Harvey was still in the bomb shelter.

Through July, they stayed close to the house. Harvey settled himself into the upstairs bedroom, sleeping late, sometimes walking alone into the woods.

There was no rain.

They stayed close to the house, but with Harvey there was a new sense of motion, energy that seemed to bundle and gather. At night Perry sometimes heard him through the old timbers, pacing upstairs, moving things, flushing the toilet, going out to sit in the bomb shelter. They stayed close to the house and surrounding woods. Perry would drive in to work, roll up the blinds, daydream, drive home. He didn’t see anything of Addie. She was awfully young anyway.

Harvey talked about Africa and Nassau, talked on and on. He talked about fishing and the woods and the old days with their father. He talked about buying a sailboat and sailing the Mediterranean with a locker full of food and drink, getting a tan, getting healthy, enjoying things, having some adventures. He talked about buying a house in Alaska. Or Boston or Miami or Las Vegas or Berlin or Australia, jumbling them all together sometimes, getting red and eager.

‘We’ve got to get out and really see these woods,’ he said one Saturday. ‘Seriously. Do you realize these woods are the best left in the entire country? Seriously. Lord knows how long they’ll last. You’ve got to get deep into them. None of this piddling around on the outskirts, you’ve got to get right in. When you start to think about it, there just isn’t a lot of forest left anymore. We ought to go, you and me.’

‘Not me, Harv. Mosquitoes and all that. You know how I hate mosquitoes.’

Harvey made a face. ‘Some day it’s going to be maggots. Think about old Jud. All he’s got to look forward to is worms and maggots. Seriously. We could go deep into the woods. Bring backpacks and make a trip out of it. I can show you some of the places the old man took me.’ He picked up steam. ‘I mean, seriously. You can’t believe how wild it is once you get a way in. Nothing but trees and lakes. Wild is the wrong word. What’s the word?’

‘Nasty.’

‘Wild.’

‘Bugs.’

‘Then we’ll go this winter. How’s that? You won’t find mosquitoes in the winter. I’ll guarantee it.’

‘Snow.’

‘You don’t like snow? What the devil’s wrong with some snow? God’s own stuff. Clean and pretty and white. Beautiful stuff. God’s own stuff.’

‘Snow, cold, freeze. They go together. They give me the creeps. Why don’t we go down to Iowa for a nice vacation? That sounds better. We can visit Grace’s folks and have a fine time.’

‘Iowa,’ Harvey said with scorn. ‘Some adventure. What we need is a good adventure.’

‘I have an adventure,’ Perry said. ‘I’m a pioneer in this town. Scratching for a living, married, trying to help a bunch of crazy farmers grow corn in the woods, living in my father’s house. That’s an adventure.’

‘Curses to you.’

‘Ha.’

‘Damns and darns.’

‘Sorry.’

‘We’ll go to Africa then,’ Harvey said. ‘Off to Africa. Do you have a problem with Africa?’

‘I suppose not. More bugs. Tigers and lions and cannibals. Minor stuff. Do you know anything about Africa, Harv?’

‘I’ll learn. I learned about My Khe. I can learn about Africa.’

‘My Khe. Is that in Africa?’

‘My Khe is a place in Asia,’ Harvey said. ‘Asia, Africa, Australia, Alaska. The big As. Adventure, the big A.’

‘You’ll forget yourself, Harv. Let’s go see about Grace’s supper.’

‘Grace is such a good sort.’

‘Come on.’

‘And the Arrowhead, another big A. You have to think about all this stuff. When you think about it, it’s awfully interesting. You have to think about all the adventurous places that go back to the first letter of our alphabet. Think of Afghanistan. Think of Algiers and Atlantis and Allen-town. Aruba and Athens. Athens, Lordy. I’d love to go to Athens. We ought to go. Just pull out of this burg and go.’

Grace came to the porch.

‘You’re really an extraordinary sort,’ Harvey said. ‘You must be American.’

‘Through and through,’ she laughed. ‘Come have supper.’

‘Full-breasted American, I like that. You don’t see many full-breasted Americans in Africa. Will you go to Africa with us?’

‘Oh, yes. I’ll start saving for it.’

‘You have to start talking my brother into it. Paul is very down on Africa. Paul is actually very down on the big A, you know. He didn’t pay attention as a kid. Didn’t listen to the old man, and look where it’s got him. Doesn’t respect the big A! Grace, you’ll have to persuade him to join us. Otherwise, well, we’ll run off together, how’s that? We’ll capture inchworms. Have ’em stuffed and mounted on the walls. Brother Paul loves stuffed inchworms and all other of God’s bugs. Don’t you? Sure. Brother Paul is actually quite religious. Learned it from the old man, right?’