Joseph thought that the highway needed repair. The asphalt, without a good curb, was being slowly squeezed thin at the edges, and places where pots would form by next spring were visible, even from where he was standing. This stretch, at any rate, needed work, its no-pass yellow line as faint as a cola straw; but roads like this one only trickled from town to town so the concern for them was equally meager and intermittent. You could tell he was marooned in small farm country because of the frequency of light trucks, many of which looked as if they were ready to be returned to this dump where they might have been bought. Debbie’s husband (Joseph forced himself to think “Boulder”) doubtless had a red one parked in his potato barn.
Joey dreamed that he ran to the middle of the road like an old-time highwayman, flagged down a truck with a (providentially provided) wimpy driver, whom he dragged unceremoniously out of his cab, to drive the rig to Woodbine at reckless speeds with whoops of glee. He wanted out of this place where he was presently cold, had the need of a pee, feet that were tired, a heart that was fearful, and a revulsion for scrap yards, cinders, and fat people. When the light failed he’d have to shortcut through the lot to reach the road into Lowell, and there he could expect … what? I’ve never been there, he thought, but it is hardly even a dot upon the map, a dim dot, at that. The warehouse that lived a vacant field away had burned some time ago and was only now a dark smear; the gas station had gone up in the same fire; and the nearby store was boarded and apparently abandoned. It was altogether not a nice spot for a picnic. Yes, here he’d put pee before picnic. The sign for the trailer farm remained, however, like an old-fashioned storyteller who never tires.
An hour passed. One-half more. A quarter. Minutes at the last. Skizzen patrolled the yard briskly to keep warm, reaching miserable conclusions about himself before turning around like a sentry to repeat the excoriation. Now and then a car would appear with dimmers lit. He might have to repair to Lowell, poor sanctuary that it doubtless was, because he was beginning to feel the cold change in his pocket. Also true: he was a mite scared. And he felt utterly out of place, lost, disowned, discolored, used up by misuse: just what he had been told would be the fate of the Bumbler if he continued to ride the clutch.
Oh hell he’d have to go. Why hide? Pretend you are in Paris. Skizzen stepped nimbly across the short drive into the junkyard and darted behind the trailer where he peed copiously and in a worthy stream. You are excused, he said aloud to the place where the propane was once attached. The return to his station was leisurely. Perhaps his anxiety had been nothing more than a bladder problem.
More cars had their eyes lit. He felt seen.
Then the bus was upon him. Now numb, he had stared at it without recognition. It was not gracious about pulling over, but the bus stopped. Its door opened with an exaggerated sigh. He slowly climbed the steps toward the driver, his fingers familiar with the rituals of the fare. He thought it would be pleasant to sit awhile before a nice fire. But none of his chimneys drew. There were no Miss Spikys among the passengers who were few: two asleep, one a-chew. There would be no place to spit. Please God, make it gum. Joseph sat in the rear near a high school kid with a book bag and immediately closed his eyes. He wanted that Greyhound to drive him away from his past, but his past had assumed the shape and function of the bus.
40
He was about to be denounced. Joey Joseph Skizzen, Associate Professor of Music, was certain of it. He would walk to the college as he always walked. He would try to stroll, to regulate his breathing. His briefcase would hang from his left hand. So would all afterthoughts. For this tribunal, he should be dressed in his imposture. Why not wear the golfing knickers that made him seem so Viennese, with his little goatee combed and his cap firmly settled upon his head. He’d bring with him an occasional verb at the end of a sentence to attach, and a soft guttural sound to release from his throat as quickly as a cat from its carrier, so that his inquisitors would have before them the complete creature and object of their suspicions.
He had pulled the brown envelope out of his postbox at the college; saw that it was one of those reserved for interdepartmental use, with lines along one side where multiple senders and receivers could be scribbled in — discipline here, name and rank there, office box the only address, day’s date no longer the day’s date — and where old routings waited for reuse; so he stuffed it calmly in his case, as he stuffed every bit of academic business, to wait its time — banality in a velope — and enjoyed his calm and measured walk home where he could untrouble himself at leisure with a few wedges of apple and the perusal of one of his beloved newspapers. Yes, by this time in his researches, he realized he relished bad news. The world grew every day more obscene, more cruel, more painful to endure. Now and then a leaf went to pieces beneath his shoe. It had been a dry autumn. Most trees were still green, though a few had grown somber. Somber had been the daily news, but Skizzen had found the normal climate of his life quite temperate these recent years, now that he had reduced his courses to a habit, had respect from every eye he thought counted, and administered his health in happy doses.
In the early years of his tenure he had regularly stood himself up against the wall; he had imagined the day of denunciation; he had rehearsed again and again his defense; he had hidden himself in one of secrecy’s smaller closets. He began to realize that repetition was a principal element in his nature. He was constantly revising the habits of his life, his thinking. It was like learning to play the piano. Anfang … Beginning is difficult, but practice makes perfect. Turning doorknobs, climbing stairs, tossing upon the table before every class his little hat, setting down his briefcase, rolling his big toy dice — always working the room for laughs. Before he began … Anfang ist … hard. Practice … Then when the time came … and it would come … he would be ready; he would be indomitable. He would polish the expected until it disappeared. Yet …
He was unprepared for the message he withdrew. Its tone was rather preemptory, even for a dean, and now that he had taken the message’s first blow, he thought that its address was very formal, “impersonal” might be the most accurate word, and its brevity — one that left its occasioning as dark as a locket snapped shut upon a once-loved face — in the neighborhood of rude. In a matter of extreme academic urgency and concern, his presence was requested at the office of the dean on … the call was only a day from his receipt of the paper he had in his hand … short notice indeed … for a party … even for … a demand; yet it said — what was it? was its form the form for a note? its shape the shape of a routine letter? its brevity the brevity of a memo? — it said — let’s see — it said that his presence was requested, not required; it described its subject as one of academic urgency, not criminal misrepresentation; it was a matter that needed no preparation; its subject was to be kept, indeed, from any possibility of private pondering or public gossip until the topic sprang from the dean’s agenda, which was probably not written down — anywhere — off in the air like an arrow from its bow. It was he it was aimed at. He was sure of that. The shadow of his fingers showed through the paper. Yet now he could see that its contents had multiple addresses, and these might account for the impersonal tone. Morton Rinse. Mort was there. Why? The dean, Franklyn Funk, whose name should have been on a five-dollar bill — was said to be the author, but why should he address himself? — good God! Hazel Hazlet, the librarian! whose formidable face had incited many a schoolboy jest — Andrew “Kit” Carson from history, with his heavy mane of white hair — and Steve Smullion from biology — a group chosen to travel quite across the board — but no coach — was that significant? — no college president; well, the dean wouldn’t, would he? address his boss as he might a subordinate. Palfrey could be present. Palfrey might have used the dean as a cover. That would explain the strange address. Why else would you include yourself? though it might be the way Joey wrote imaginary notes to Joseph. Skizzen felt Palfrey would be Palfrey, and when the president entered the seminar room, his jowls sagging still farther toward his throat because of the sadness and concern they bore, Joey would know the final score.