“Well, it’s in boxes, sir. Not yet inventoried. .,” I said, the merest hint of an Australian accent now coloring my speech. And then he asked me the question I feared.
“You’re working with Harvey? Old Pemble?” He snickered and winked, sharing an obscure joke.
“No.” I smiled as best I could. “The, the new. . he’s visiting, from. . Oxford: Welch. He’s here briefly, I gather. Filling in for. .”
“Pemble! Of course! I’d forgotten he’s abroad. I’m out of touch.” Billy sighed. “With the department I mean. You hit a certain age you’re so busy oiling your joints and calming your rashes, your stomach gasses — you’ve no time for much else. What’s your name, son?” And I said, and I have no idea why I said this, but I said:
“My name is Charter Chase.”
“Entre nous, Charter,” Billy whispered fiercely, “You’re lucky Old Pemble is abroad. Well, I’m off! But. .” He looked deeply into my eyes as if reading me and said: “But I should make you dinner, lonely scholar that I suppose you are.”
A can is kicked, he sees it rise above the dust and for an instant catch fire in the light of the moon. Asthma is “it.” She stands with her foot on the can in triumph as the others return to the Circle. She closes her marvelous eyes and begins to count. If Vanderloon could see her, he would say that Asthma is currently the “superior principle.” She plays the part of the bird; the others play the fish. And the bird always catches the fish. It is never the other way around.
Somewhere hidden among the darkest of cosmic star houses, Pea Pod weeps. Her tears are just another thread in the fabric of time. Time — that obstinate, irascible persona non grata, a finger in every pie. He looks at the can. There it is, casting a shadow, like a dolmen for an ant. Right at the center of everything.
A shout! Asthma is triumphant! Having caught her first fish, crouching behind the Tutweiler’s orgone box.
Somewhere in the sky the sobbing has silenced, at least for now. The sound of the evening news rises to the stars and like a venomous ink of squids hooked to a rusting respirator, canned laughter oxidizes in the air. Gratified by the vision of Asthma owning the can with her foot, that triumphant stance, the way she tilts her head to one side, her hand over her eyes as she counts, her short brown hair stirring in the breeze, he decides to call it a day and returns to his current refuge, the spotless Utilities House, where a nice jar of elderberry jam, made by the Provost’s visiting sister-in-law, and a new loaf of Wonder Bread await him.
The next day everything changes. .
Everything changes. Because Billy, Professor Emeritus, lonely, long in tooth, all angles, all elbows and knees (and he has always been this way, graceful and unwieldy at the same time, his broad shoulders holding it all together), open-faced, of sunny disposition, an optimist, wearing a cotton shirt the color of Dijon mustard, hunts down Charter Chase and finds him.
“There you are!” he says. “I’ve been looking all over. Been prowling the stacks!” He puts out his hand and they shake, like gentlemen. Billy cuts to the chase. “Charter,” he says, “I’ve been wondering about. . well. About your digs. Are they adequate?”
“Ah. . well. .” Charter laughs uncomfortably. “You know what it is like to be a poor student, but—”
“Of course I do!” Billy cries. “Indeed I do! So here’s the thing, son,” and he pats Charter on the shoulder paternally (or so Charter supposes, having never received anything like this from his father). “I live alone,” Billy continues as they make their way together down the steep library steps and into the full light of day. “The house is far too big. I barely enter the upstairs. There’s an entire living space up there, bedroom, bath, study.” They approach Faculty Circle and he points to one of the several gracious faux-Tudor houses with pitched roofs and screened-in porches. The stucco façade is a pleasant shade of sand, the wooden window frames painted a rich chocolate. “The place is shipshape of course. Nicely kept up by buildings and grounds. But I imagine you are familiar with the Circle.”
Charter is not only familiar with the Circle, but with Billy’s house. It was Billy’s countertop that had once provided him with a cooling pie. Charter nods. Says, “Yes. The Provost had a little get-together for the foreign students a while ago—”
“Of course!” Billy considers his rehearsed delivery. “Uh,” he says. “Here’s the thing. Here you are, a Fulbright scholar far from home living — or so I imagine — in inadequate housing and, well, surely you can see where I am coming from.”
“Sir. I do. I do. I do not dare. . it’s too kind, far too kind.” Charter runs his fingers through hair he knows is in need of some attention, and which Billy addresses at once.
“Have you, have you. . been to an American barber?”
“No, sir—”
“Billy.”
“No, Billy. Short on funds and as you can see I am personally not too handy in that direction.”
“I’ll take you to town. I know a good man there. Now, the upstairs is nicely done up.” They stand together on the Circle now, looking at his house, which shares a lawn and a lilac hedge with Asthma’s.
“Terrific closets. Full use of the screen porch,” Billy says, “the kitchen. Do you cook?”
“No—”
“Of course not. You are busy. With Loon! Who could have imagined this! My own days of being busy are over. I’ll cook for the two of us. I am bored cooking for myself. Losing touch! Look at this scar.” He throws a hand into Charter’s face. “Trimming a radish.” He thrusts the tip of a thumb into his mouth and sucks it. “I am, therefore, in all simplicity, no strings attached, proposing a proper dwelling, nicely done up by Margaret, who blessedly is gone to Wisconsin and out of our hair, yours and mine. One of the perks of being a college professor — in case of divorce, the professor cannot give the spouse the house! My campus digs are. . on the house! On the house!” He laughs almost to tears, raving as they pace together around the Circle. I’ll get the upstairs tidied up and then, Charter, it’s yours. In the meantime, come for supper. Are you free?” Charter nods. “Six. I’ll show you your digs, get the cleaning lady — she’ll be here later in the week — to give the place a thorough. . Do you need help moving?”
“Sir, Billy. You will be amazed by the little I have. My things, such a nuisance, but it’s o.k., really, were lost in transit. The authorities. . nothing doing!” (Already Charter was picking up on Billy’s manner of speech.) “Nothing doing! But, hey! I get by! On a shoestring, of course. .”
“That’s my boy!” Billy slaps Charter on the back. “Till six!” And off he goes.
Charter has a new good-looking back pack purloined from Hum Hall at the final semester’s end a month earlier: solid canvas duck, color of good tobacco, hand sewn, leather trim and straps — a Brunchhauser! He will pick up a pair of serviceable rubber-soled leather boots, heavy for the season but good for walking the woods, a top-of-the-line sweater, and two handsome striped shirts, all currently in a gym locker. He makes his way to the gym and showers, thinking: This could be good. Despite the risks. The heavy price if discovered. Then, suddenly ecstatic, he roars. That night he writes:
The chapel bells guide my hours. To their chimes (every fifteen minutes!) time unspools, the seasons and their constellations spill across campus like a sea. I set off for Billy’s a few minutes before six and arrived just as the bells chimed: