«There was a time,» said Lambert, «when I wanted to go with him. But I couldn’t. We were born late in our parents’ life. They were old when we were still young. Someone had to stay here with them. And after they were gone, I found I couldn’t leave. These hills, these woods, the streams had become too much a part of me.»
Anderson nodded. «I can understand that. It is reflected in your writing. You became the pastoral spokesman of the century. I am quoting others, but certainly you know that.»
Lambert grunted. «Nature writing. At one time, it was in the great American tradition. When I first started writing it, fifty years ago, it had gone out of style. No one understood it, no one wanted it. No one saw the need for it. But now it’s back again. Every damn fool who can manage to put three words together is writing it again.»
«But none as well as you.»
«I’ve been at it longer. I have more practice doing it.»
«Now,» said Anderson, «there is greater need of it. A reminder of a heritage that we almost lost.»
«Perhaps,» said Lambert.
«To get back to your brother …»
«A moment, please,» said Lambert. «You have been asking me a lot of questions. No preliminaries. No easy build up. None of the usual conversational amenities. You simply came barging in and began asking questions. You tell me your name and that you are from the university, but that is all. For the record, Mr. Anderson, please tell me what you are.»
«I am sorry,» said Anderson. «I’ll admit to little tact, despite the fact that is one of the basics of my profession. I should know its value. I’m with the psychology department and …»
«Psychology?»
«Yes, psychology.»
«I would have thought,» said Lambert, «that you were in English or, perhaps, ecology or some subject dealing with the environment. How come a psychologist would drop by to talk with a nature writer?»
«Please bear with me,» Anderson pleaded. «I went at this all wrong. Let us start again. I came, really, to talk about your brother.»
«What about my brother? How could you know about him? Folks hereabouts know, but no one else. In my writings, I have never mentioned him.»
«I spent a week last summer at a fishing camp only a few miles from here. I heard about him then.»
«And some of those you talked with told you I never had a brother.»
«That is it, exactly. You see, I have this study I have been working on for the last five years…»
«I don’t know how the story ever got started,» said Lambert, «that I never had a brother. I have paid no attention to it, and I don’t see why you …»
«Mr. Lambert,» said Anderson, «please pardon me. I’ve checked the birth records at the county seat and the census …»
«I can remember it,» said Lambert, «as if it were only yesterday, the day my brother left. We were working in the barn, there across the road. The barn is no longer used now and, as you can see, has fallen in upon itself. But then it was used. My father farmed the meadow over there that runs along the creek. That land grew, still would grow if someone used it, the most beautiful corn that you ever saw. Better corn than the Iowa prairie land. Better than any place on earth. I farmed it for years after my father died, but I no longer farm it. I went out of the farming business a good ten years ago. Sold off all the stock and machinery. Now I keep a little kitchen garden. Not too large. It needn’t be too large. There is only …»
«You were saying about your brother?»
«Yes, I guess I was. Phil and I were working in the barn one day. It was a rainy day—no, not really a rainy day, just drizzling. We were repairing harness. Yes, harness. My father was a strange man in many ways. Strange in reasonable sorts of ways. He didn’t believe in using machinery any more than necessary. There was never a tractor on the place. He thought horses were better. On a small place like this, they were. I used them myself until I finally had to sell them. It was an emotional wrench to sell them. The horses and I were friends. But, anyhow, the two of us were working at the harness when Phil said to me, out of the thin air, that he was going to the port and try to get a job on one of the ships. We had talked about it, off and on, before, and both of us had a hankering to go, but it was a surprise to me when Phil spoke up and said that he was going. I had no idea that he had made up his mind. There is something about this that you have to understand—the time, the circumstance, the newness and excitement of travel to the stars in that day of more than fifty years ago. There were days, far back in our history, when New England boys ran off to sea. In that time of fifty years ago, they were running off to space…»
Telling it, he remembered it, as he had told Anderson, as if it were only yesterday. It all came clear and real again, even to the musty scent of last year’s hay in the loft above them. Pigeons were cooing in the upper reaches of the barn, and, up in the hillside pasture, a lonesome cow was bawling.
The horses stamped in their stalls and made small sounds, munching at the hay remaining in their mangers.
«I made up my mind last night,» said Phil, «but I didn’t tell you because I wanted to be sure. I could wait, of course, but if I wait, there’s the chance I’ll never go. I don’t want to live out my life here wishing I had gone.
«You’ll tell pa, won’t you? After I am gone. Sometime this afternoon, giving me a chance to get away.»
«He wouldn’t follow you,» said Edward Lambert. «It would be best for you to tell him. He might reason with you, but he wouldn’t stop your going.»
«If I tell him, I will never go,» said Phil. «I’ll see the look upon his face and I’ll never go. You’ll have to do this much for me, Ed. You’ll have to tell him so I won’t see the look upon his face.»
«How can you get on a ship? They don’t want a green farm boy. They want people who are trained.»
«There’ll be a ship,» said Phil, «that is scheduled to lift off, but with a crew member or two not there. They won’t wait for them, they won’t waste the time to hunt them down. They’ll take anyone who’s there. In a day or two, I’ll find that kind of ship.»
Lambert remembered once again how he had stood in the barn door, watching his brother walking down the road, his boots splashing in the puddles, his figure blurred by the mist-like drizzle. For a long time after he could no longer see him, long after the grayness of the drizzle had blotted out his form, he had still imagined he would see him, an ever smaller figure trudging down the road. He recalled the tightness in his chest, the choke within his throat, the terrible, gut-twisting heaviness of grief at his brother’s leaving. As if a part of him were gone, as if he had been torn in two, as if only half of him were left.
«We were twins,» he told Anderson. «Identical twins. We were closer than most brothers. We lived in one another’s pocket. We did everything together. Each of us felt the same about the other. It took a lot of courage for Phil to walk away like that.»
«And a lot of courage and affection on your part,» said Anderson, «to let him walk away. But he did come back again?»
«Not for a long time. Not until after both our parents were dead. Then he came walking down the road, just the way he’d left. But he didn’t stay. Only for a day or two. He was anxious to be off. As if he were being driven.»
Although that was not exactly right, he told himself. Nervous. Jumpy. Looking back across his shoulder. As if he were being followed. Looking back to make sure the Follower was not there.
«He came a few more times,» he said. «Years apart. He never stayed too long. He was anxious to get back.»
«How can you explain this idea that people have that you never had a brother?» asked Anderson. «How do you explain the silence of the records?»