By Robert Earle
The gathering darkness fell like a soft rain joining the earth and the sky. You might think you could scoop up the summer evening with your hands and drink it. By straining his eyes, Jay saw swooping bats. Along came the fireflies. Chittering crickets drowned the sound of the plashing stream where heâ€™d caught two trout that morning. They stopped biting when Eleanor joined him. He knew her orange sweater would spook the trout. He waded out ofÂ the stream because sheâ€™d brought him coffee. Fishing over.
â€œLorrie still asleep?â€ she had asked.
â€œShe sleeps until eight.â€
â€œI couldnâ€™t ever do that.â€ She looked as though she hadnâ€™t slept in years, her face a sculptorâ€™s clay mock-up of crevasses and life-bruises and mud-slide flesh.
It was one of the first straightforward things sheâ€™d ever said to him about herself. Most of her remarks were ironic distractions and unintelligible grumbles. When she said â€œOh, cherry pie! I love cherry pie!â€ it meant she hated cherry pie. When she said, â€œYes, letâ€™s go to the store down the road and see what they have,â€ it meant she hated the country store with its tin-patched wood floor and racks of bandanas and cans of beans and tins of chewing tobacco and stacks of stale peanut butter crackers. But the fact that she couldnâ€™t sleep was really her.
She pretended to be interested in his two trout. â€œWhat are you going to do with them?â€
â€œFry them for breakfast.â€
â€œIâ€™ll bet Steve would eat one. On vacation he does all this stuff heâ€™d never do.â€
â€œBut you wouldnâ€™t?â€
Her smile furrowed her well-plowed cheeks and made the wrinkled skin on her forehead tighten up to her red hairline. â€œI like my trout raw. Chewier that way.â€
â€œWhy couldnâ€™t you sleep?â€
â€œToo many visions of snakes under the bed. Ugh, Vermont. Â Shouldnâ€™t you be hiking through brambles and risking your life on some muddy river bank to get your fish?â€
â€œNot if you pay three thousand dollars rent a week. Then you fish out your back door.â€
â€œGod aâ€˜mighty itâ€™s boring out here.â€
â€œSteve like it?â€
â€œWhen Steve spends money doing something, he likes it whether he likes it or not. Heâ€™ll eat one of those trout and hate every bite of it and smile as he swallows.â€
â€œWhat do you like?â€
â€œLorrie and I are going antiquing if she ever gets up.â€
He had lain awake in the darkness between three and four-thirty himself. He had wanted to get so tired the day before that he would sleep well, but the bike ride with Steve had failed. Steve couldnâ€™t peddle up the endless Vermont hills.
â€œIâ€™m too old for this. Isnâ€™t there a bar anywhere around here?â€
He helped her off her boulder and went to the $3,000 per week house where he lay his fish on the back stoop and gutted them. Inside she gave him more coffee and said,Â â€œIâ€™m keeping my distance,â€ as he fried the fish and some potatoes and onions in a large cast iron skillet.
Steve came in wearing the sheep headâ€™s costume that had become his white hair and beard. â€œHey, fish!â€
â€œYou hate fish,â€ Eleanor said.
â€œWhat do you mean I hate fish? I do out of the supermarket, not the water.â€ He groaned, stretching. â€œNo biking for me today.â€
â€œWant to walk some instead?â€ Jay asked.
â€œWhat a novel idea,â€ Eleanor said.
â€œMaybe Iâ€™ll follow the girls around antiquing,â€ Steve said, always eager to spend time in Lorrieâ€™s company.
â€œNot if you value your life,â€ Eleanor said.
Jay sat on the porch in the evening, reflecting on how the day had unfolded after that. Heâ€™d lain on a very soft, velour-covered sofa in the library reading an ancient volume of ‘The World as Will and Idea’ by Schopenhauer, one of those inexplicable books cached on the shelves of high-priced vacation rentals all over America. Steve brought in two glasses of wine. 10am. The aging men toasted one another. Jay tried to return to his book, but Steve wanted to talk real estate. Jay asked who needed more money.
Steve brushed him off. â€œCome on, man, itâ€™s a game. What could we buy around here that would make money? Donâ€™t think this house makes money?â€
Jay felt like a trout trapped between two rocks, the wine he didnâ€™t want and Steveâ€™s company.Â He didnâ€™t answer. He had no idea what they could buy in Vermont that would make money.
â€œAll right, you understand stuff like that?â€ Steve asked, meaning Schopenhauer.
â€œBarely. Forty years since I read him in college. The great pessimist, all of us driven by a Will we canâ€™t affect or understand.â€
Theyâ€™d been freshmen roommates, Jay feeling he was finished with life, Steve eager to get started.
â€œI have to make some calls,â€ Steve said. â€œOkay if I do it here?â€
Jay said, â€œSure, Iâ€™ll listen.â€
â€œThat wasnâ€™t what I meant. Keep reading, professor.â€
Jay listened, though. Steve spoke to his lawyer, stock broker, and a guy selling a vintage Mustang. He made deals in each case, though unable to to persuade Jay to go in halves on the Mustang, which they could share, six months on the east coast, six on the west, a great delivery drive in between. Steve opened another bottle of wine.
â€œWhat â€™s kept us friends so long?â€ he asked, giving Jay no chance to answer. â€œI think itâ€™s never crossing wires. Weâ€™re complementary. Iâ€™m high, youâ€™re low. You donâ€™t care and I never stop caring. Tell Schopenhauer thereâ€™s willpower for you.â€
â€œI will next time I see him.â€
Steve liked it when Jay sounded like Eleanor. Acerbic. Sharing a house in Vermont had been his idea. Eleanor had done summer stock in Vermont years ago. Steve was a stagehand. He began to talk about how empty heâ€™d feel without her. Jay asked if something was wrong.
Steve said, â€œNo, but weâ€™re getting old.â€
Jay put the Schopenhauer on the table and swung his legs off the sofa. â€œThereâ€™s a place where we can fly falcons. Letâ€™s go.â€
â€œWe donâ€™t have the car.â€
Steve said, â€œIâ€™m sixty-eight! Iâ€™m loaded! Iâ€™m going to take a nap.â€