Little, Big

“I guess we can eat this now,” Mother came in to say. “Sort of pot luck. Bring your glasses. Bring the bottle, Smoky—I’m having another.” And at the dining table Sophie sat in tears because she had set without thinking a place for Auberon, who always came to eat on this day, Saturday. “How could I just forget,” she said through the napkin covering her face. “He loved us so much…” Still with the napkin over her face, she went quickly out. Smoky seemed hardly to have seen her face since he arrived, only her retreating back.

“She and you were his favorites,” Cloud said, touching Daily Alice’s hand.

“I suppose I’ll go up and see Sophie,” Mother said, irresolute by the door.

“Sit down, Mother,” Doc said softly. “It’s not one of those times.” He helped Smoky to one of the three bowls of potato salad there were among the funeral offerings. “Well. Berry et al. It was thirty some years ago…”

“You lose track of time,” Mother said. “It’s more like forty-five.”

“Anyway. We’re very out-of-the-way up here. Rather than trouble the State about our kids and all, we’d set up a little private school. Nothing fancy at all. But it began to appear that our school had to meet Standards. State Standards. Now the kids could read and write as well as any, and learned their math; but the Standards said they had to learn as well History, and Civics whatever that is or was, and a lot of other stuff we just didn’t think was necessary. If you know how to read, the World of Books is open to you, after all; and if you like to read, you’ll read. If you don’t, you’ll forget whatever anybody makes you read, anyway. People around here aren’t ignoramuses; just have an idea—or rather a lot of different ideas— about what’s important to know, and very little of it’s taught in school.

“Well, it turns out that our little school was closed down, and all the kids went outside to school for a couple of years…”

“They said our Standards didn’t fit our students for the real world,” Mother said.

“What’s so real about it?” Cloud said testily. “What I’ve seen lately doesn’t seem so real to me.”

“This was forty years ago, Nora.”

“Hasn’t gotten any realer since then.”

“I went to the public school for a while,” Mother said. “It didn’t seem so bad. Only you always had to be there at exactly the same time every day, spring or winter, rain or shine; and they didn’t let you out till exactly the same hour every day, as well.” She marveled, looking back on it.

“How was the Civics and all that,” Daily Alice asked, squeezing Smoky’s hand under the table because the answer was a venerable clincher.

“You know what?” Mother said to Smoky. “I don’t remember a single thing about them. Not a single thing.”

And that was just how the School System had appeared to Smoky. Most of the kids he had known forgot everything they learned in school as soon as they left those (to him) mysterious halls. “Boy,” he’d say, “you ought to go to school with my father. He never lets you forget a thing.” On the other hand, when they questioned him about schoolroom fixtures like the Pledge of Allegiance or Arbor Day or Prince Henry the Navigator, he was made of ignorance. They thought he was strange, when they noticed him at all.

“So Claude Berry’s dad got in trouble for keeping him out of the public school, and it became a case,” Cloud was saying. “All the way to the State Supreme Court.”

“Bent our bank accounts out of shape,” Doc said.

“And eventually was decided in our favor,” Mom said.

“Because,” Cloud said, “It was a religious thing, we claimed. Like the Amish, do you know about them?” She smiled slyly. “Religious.”

“A landmark decision,” Mom said.

“Nobody’s heard of it, though,” Doc said, wiping his lips. “I think, the court surprised itself by the way it decided, and it was kept quiet; don’t want to start people thinking, get their wind up, so to speak. But we’ve had no trouble since then.”

“We had good advice,” Cloud said, lowering her eyes; and they all consented silently to that.

Smoky, taking another glass of sherry and arguing from ignorance, began talking about a loophole in the Standards he knew of—that is, himself—and the superior education he’d anyway received, and how he wouldn’t have it any other way, when Doctor Drinkwater suddenly struck the table with his palm, gavel-style, and beamed on Smoky, the light of a bright idea in his eyes.

What About It

“What about that?” Daily Alice said to him much later when they lay in bed.

“What?”

“What Dad suggested.”

They had just the sheet over them in the heat, which only since midnight had begun to break apart into breezes. The long white hills and dales made by her body shifted cataclysmically and settled into a different country. “I don’t know,” he said,, feeling muzzy and thoughtless, helpless against sleep. He tried to think of some more pointed answer, but instead fell off into sleep. She shifted nervously again and he was snatched back.

“What.”

“I think of Auberon,” she said quietly, wiping her face on her pillow. He took her up then, and she hid her face in the hollow of his shoulder and sniffed. He stroked her hair, running his fingers soothingly through it, which she loved as much as a cat does, until she slept. And when she was asleep, he found himself staring into the sparkling phantasmal ceiling, surprised by sleeplessness, not having heard of the rule whereby one spouse can trade a restlessness for the other’s sleep—a rule spelled out in no marriage contract.

Well, what about it then?

He had been taken in here, adopted, it seemed not an issue that he would ever leave. Since nothing had before been said about their future together, he hadn’t thought about it himself: he was unaccustomed to having a future is what it was, since his present had always been so ill-defined.

But now, anonymous no more, he must make a decision. He put his hands behind his head, carefully so as not to disturb her still-fresh sleep. What sort of a person was he, if he was now a sort of person? Anonymous, he had been as well everything as nothing; now he would grow qualities, a character, likes and dislikes. And did he like or dislike the idea of living in this house, teaching at their school, being—well, religious he supposed was how they would put it? Did it suit his character?

He looked at the dim range of snowy mountains which Daily Alice made beside him. If he was a character, she had made him one. And if he was a character, he was probably a minor one: a minor character in someone else’s story, this tall story he had got himself into. He would have his entrances and exits, contribute a line of dialogue now and then. Whether the character would be crabby schoolmaster or something else didn’t seem to matter much, and would be decided along the way. Well then.

He examined himself carefully for feelings of resentment at this. He did feel a certain nostalgia for his vanished anonymity, for the infinity of possibilities it contained; but he also felt her breathing next to him, and the house’s breathing around him, and in rhythm with them he fell asleep, nothing decided.

While the moon smoothly shifted the shadows from one side of Edgewood to the other, Daily Alice dreamed that she stood in a flower-starred field where on a hill there grew an oak tree and a thorn in deep embrace, their branches intertwined like fingers. Far down the hall, Sophie dreamed that there was a tiny door in her elbow, open a crack, through which the wind blew, blowing on her heart. Doctor Drinkwater dreamed he sat before his typewriter and wrote this: “There is an aged, aged insect who lives in a hole in the ground. One June he puts on his summer straw, and takes his pipe and his staff and his lamp in half his hands, and follows the worm and the root to the stair that leads up to the door into blue summer.” This seemed immensely significant to him, but when he awoke he wouldn’t be able to remember a word of it, try as he might. Mother beside him dreamed her husband wasn’t in his study at all, but with her in the kitchen, where she drew tin cookie-sheets endlessly out of the oven; the baked things on them were brown and round, and when he asked her what they were, she said “Years.”