Listen, p.11
Listen, page 11
A three-story white house sat at the end of the block. The Castle on the Hill was within striking distance across the road.
“This is your house?”
“Oh, no, not mine, but it’s where I live. Up there, the apartment on the third floor. That’s where I’ve lived for twenty-five years. Would you like to come up?”
“You wouldn’t mind?”
“I’ll fix us a drink,” he said. “You can ask your questions.”
Liam followed Glover up the steep stairwell. It was dark, narrow, and claustrophobic. He unlocked his door, turned on the light, and stepped aside for Liam to enter. The apartment was a single room. Red drapes hung over the narrow window. There was a bathroom and a small closet next to it that had been converted into a bar. A beaded curtain hung where the door once was. Though small and modest, the bar was clearly Glover’s festive place.
A curio, filled with all manner of figurines, sat against the far wall. A small writing table and an easy chair were placed next to the window. The bed took up most of the remaining space. The apartment, a converted attic, had a slanted roof with barely enough room to stand upright.
“Cozy,” Liam said.
“Take the chair there,” he said. “Scotch?”
“Scotch is fine. You’ve lived in this same apartment all this time?”
“Mostly so,” he said.
Liam waited while Glover fixed drinks. “On the rocks OK?” he asked, handing him the drink.
Liam nodded. “Ever been married, Glover?”
“No,” he said.
“Family?”
“My parents have been gone many years now. I was an only child.”
“You don’t have a kitchen. Where do you eat?”
“The café down on Main. Been eating there many years now. I don’t even have to order. Just walk in, and they put it on the grill.”
“No kids of your own?”
“No.”
“What do you do for fun?”
“I take trips to the city, like I said. Look for my figurines. Go to the concerts. I play the organ now and again at the Presbyterian church, weddings and such mostly. They let me practice any time I want.”
“But you didn’t pursue music professionally?”
“Didn’t work out,” he said. “Anyway, I’m content. I do my job. I dress people up, and they feel good when they leave. I know exactly where I will be and what I’ll be doing every day. That isn’t all bad, you know. That’s more than a lot of folks can say. Another drink?” he asked.
Liam emptied his glass and handed it to Glover. “Thanks,” he said.
Glover fixed him another, filling his glass to the top with ice. He brought the bottle over and set it between them on the little table.
“Saves running back and forth,” he said.
Liam took a drink and looked around the room. Much thought had been given to the placement of every object in the tiny apartment. Glover’s shoes, polished to a gleam, were lined up side by side under his bed, and a shelf of books was within easy reach.
“You went to work at the store straight out of school, then?”
“Did a stint in the army first,” he said. “Wartime, you know.”
“I see. You a religious man, Glover?”
“Do I believe in God?”
“That’s the question.”
“No.”
“What do you believe?”
“I believe I’m part of this universe, whatever that is. I’m part of it, see. Dead or alive doesn’t matter, and no one can take that away. No one.”
He poured more scotch into their glasses, and the room shifted a little under Liam. He rubbed at his face, which had gone slightly numb. He usually didn’t press on the religion question, but he felt there was more to the answer than he was getting. He stirred the ice in his drink with his finger and took another sip.
“Are you certain about that, Glover? You could be wrong, you know?”
Glover shrugged his shoulders and looked at the level in his glass. “I’m not certain at all,” he said. “No one knows whether there is an afterlife, no matter how much they proclaim it. Oh, they wish there was. They believe it and wish it more than anything. But wanting and wishing don’t necessarily make it so. In the end, they don’t know any more than me, which is precious little.”
“But they know as much as you. You can’t say they’re wrong either.”
“We are equal in our ignorance, and I give ’em leave to believe anything they want. Give me the same leave, if you please, because none of us knows for sure. What I do know with some certainty is that here is where I was before I was born. Here is where I am now that I’ve been born. It seems logical, though arguable I suppose, that here is where I’ll be after I’m dead.”
“You’ve given this considerable thought, Glover.”
He said nothing for a long moment. Getting up, he lit an incense burner, and the room filled with lavender.
“I haven’t talked about this much before, not to anyone. It’s not something I would want spread around, you understand. At the same time, I want it not to be forgotten.”
“What do you mean?”
“I was overseas during the war. Most of us were in that time, you know.” He paused and studied his glass. “I met this girl.” He looked over at Liam. “It was more than that. I fell in love with this girl. I fell crazy mad in love. She was my light and my reason for living. I was going to be everything for her, make her proud, give her all she ever dreamed of having. I was determined to be important, just for her, you know.” He hesitated, putting his finger under his glasses, rubbing his eyes. “But she died, see, and then I died. I already know what death is.”
“I’m sorry to bring all this up, Glover,” he said.
Glover continued speaking, softly, as if to himself. “You see, to be dead is to do the same thing every day, to live in this little apartment, to eat the same food at the same café every day of your life, and then to walk up that hill alone every evening. I know what death is because I am already dead.”
“This girl?” Liam said. “There’s been no other in your life?”
Glover looked over at him, his eyes filling. “No,” he said. “And I don’t want her to be forgotten. She shouldn’t be forgotten, so I want you to do me a favor.”
“What kind of favor?”
“I want her name put in your report. I want it to be there in the Library of Congress.”
“What was her name?”
“Rosie Dell,” he said, picking up the bottle. “How about another?”
Liam stepped out the door of Glover’s apartment house with his head buzzing. The moon hung behind the Castle on the Hill, its turret floodlit and proud in the night sky. The evening classes were turning out, and students poured from the front door, talking and laughing as they made their way into the darkness.
At the last moment, Liam turned for the castle, working his way through the students and into the library. Pulling Wolfe’s book off the shelf, he opened it to the title page, finding a note there from Eden. She was to meet him in the turret with news. His spirits lifted. He hadn’t been certain they’d ever meet again.
As he walked back down the hill to the Pribble in the darkness, he could see the dim light in Glover’s window. He thought of him alone up there with his figurines, and his sad memories of Rosie Dell.
chapter 19
Liam slept late, really late, and woke up with a hangover. Glover Emerson could put away a lot of scotch in a short span of time. By the end of the interview, the bottle had been nearly empty.
Getting up, he looked in the mirror, which was a mistake. Some things a person should not see so early in the morning. His meeting with Eden was scheduled for that night. By then, with luck, his eyes would no longer be a stoplight red.
After a pot of coffee, he attempted to write up Glover’s interview. Having forgotten his notebook yet again, he was forced to rely on his memory, which had taken a substantial blow from Glover’s bottle.
He began again. Her name was Rosie Dell, and she was the only one whose name Glover Emerson asked to be included in this interview. Liam went on to describe Glover’s quarters and his love of music, how it reflected the passion of his life, how his loneliness was pervasive and had formed the very structure of his existence. He wrote how, despite everything, Glover Emerson had taken some measure of satisfaction from what was by most standards a fruitless job. Despite all, he had carved out a presence—a practical, if lonesome, life.
Liam worked straight through lunch hour, his stomach yet a bit unstable. Later, he lay down for a short nap, only to sleep through the entire afternoon. After a shower and a shave, he perked up enough to want to escape from his room for a while. He checked his watch and decided there was ample time for a walk before the meeting with Eden at the castle.
The day was warm and gentle, and Liam soon found himself strolling the downtown streets of Atlas. His interview with Glover still vivid in his mind, he swung by the café on Main where Glover claimed to have eaten all those years. It was just as he had described it—a plain and dreary establishment with the daily menu scratched out on a small blackboard near the entrance.
From there, he headed south up the hill toward the castle. The turret soared above the treetops, backlit with the gold of sunset. He soon came to the Presbyterian church that sat on the corner of Third Street. It was a red brick structure with vaulted roof and sweeping grounds. A concrete tower, aside from the structure proper, lifted skyward with its dazzling array of bronze bells. A cross rose yet higher from its pinnacle, disappearing into the thin, blue sky. The door of the church was open, and music drifted out onto the street.
He made his way closer and could see that it was Glover Emerson. He sat at the organ, a mammoth instrument of keyboards and pedals and valves, leaning into his memories, lost in the passion and sorrow of the moment. The sounds emanating from the organ lifted and filled the church with a powerful resonance. The music flowed and trembled and spiraled into the heavens as Glover mourned once again the loss of Rosie Dell.
Eden was waiting for Liam when he got to the turret, standing at the slot window looking out over the town.
“Eden?” he said from the doorway.
She turned. “Liam, I was afraid you missed my message.”
“I found it waiting,” he said.
Her hair, lit in the soft light of dusk, fell about her face, and he could see that she bore good news.
“I got the job,” she said. “I’m to start tomorrow, and it’s all because of your help.”
He closed the door behind him. “I’d like to take the credit, but it was you who got the job. I’m very proud of you, Eden.”
She came to him, hooking her arm through his. “It looks like it’s going to be hard work, but it’s a start.”
“That’s great, Eden.”
“Do you think I’ll be all right?”
“Absolutely. And what about your father?”
“Yes. He was for it.”
“I have the feeling it’s just the beginning of good things for you,” he said.
“Yes,” she said. “If this can happen, so can other things. Maybe someday people will want my paintings too.”
“And why not?” he said.
He moved some of the supply boxes around for a place to sit. The sun cast its final light on the turret, and there were voices far below, distant and indecipherable. She sat across from him, her hands in her lap.
“Do you really think I could paint for a living someday, Liam?”
“I do indeed,” he said. “You first have to dream it before it can happen.”
“I wonder when. I wonder where.”
“To a place on the horizon that births great artists,” he said. “One day perhaps you could get a scholarship or who knows what.”
“Yes,” she said. “Who knows?”
The bells from the church downtown rang out, and Liam thought about Glover and how quickly his life had narrowed, how completely his dreams had succumbed to the realities of life.
“You must never give way, Eden. You must never take time for granted.”
“Liam, maybe you might look at my work? No one has ever seen it before, not really. I’ve been afraid, you know.”
“I’d be pleased to,” he said. “When you are ready.”
“Oh, Liam,” she said clasping her hands. “I’ve made this all about me. What about you?”
“Me? The interviews? They are coming along. I find them rather illuminating in ways, just listening to people, you know. I’ve never really done that. So few of us have, I suppose.”
“Oh, you are a good listener, Liam,” she said. “I don’t know what I would have done without you.”
“It’s something I’ve not worked at much in the past, I admit. By the way, I’ve had some rather good news of my own.”
“Oh, tell me,” she said.
“The advertising job is looking promising.”
Eden looked up at him. “The one in the city, you mean?”
“It isn’t a done deal, not yet, but Hattie thinks it’s mine if I want it.”
“Hattie?” she said.
“Hattie Cooper, the administrative assistant here at the college. You remember her. She’s the one who suggested the factory job for you. It’s her father’s real estate business. He’s quite successful, you know, and I would have a chance to get in on the ground floor.”
Eden sat back, quiet. “You might be leaving?”
“Well,” he said, “it’s not certain, and I have a commitment to the Project. But it would pay well, and it would have a future. The FWP is just temporary. I’d be foolish not to at least consider the proposition.”
“I’m sure you would be very good at it, Liam, and they would be lucky to get you. But . . . I mean, I would miss you.”
“Well, I would miss you too. In any case, it hasn’t happened. We can worry about all that later. Right now, we celebrate Eden’s new job.”
“Yes,” she said. “And if I don’t get out of here, I will miss my ride. Check the message book, Liam. I’ll leave a note first chance to tell you how I’m doing or if I’ve been fired.”
He walked her to the turret door. He could hear the hum of distant voices in the stairwell below. She paused at the door and kissed his cheek.
“Thank you, Liam,” she said.
He watched her as she scurried down the stairs. At the landing, she turned and waved. He went to the slot window and waited for her to exit below. Soon he spotted her walking away, her step light and excited. And as she moved into the trees at the edge of campus, she turned briefly for a look up at the turret.
chapter 20
Eden dressed in work clothes and made her way to the broom factory before sunup. She was waiting at the door when the others arrived. Few spoke, aside from the older man, who said he would be the one to teach her how to trim the brooms.
His lesson was short and wordless for the most part, and she was soon lost in a mind-numbing and repetitive task. No one stopped for lunch but worked straight through, determined to meet their daily count.
By late afternoon, her legs ached and her fingers were blistered from the grueling work. Dust from the broomcorn seeped into her skin like wood ash. But she worked on, determined to see it through. At three, Seth Ubel made his rounds, stopping at each station, his hand on his waist as he checked the quality and quantity of the day’s production.
After counting her pieces, he said, “Step it up, honey, or you ain’t going to make gas money. We make brooms here, and it’s brooms that pay the bills. No brooms, no money. You understand?”
“Yes, sir,” she said. “I’ll get the hang of it.”
At quitting time, the employees gathered up their work and cleared the way for the next day. New bales of broomcorn were brought in, and the machines were lubricated for the next morning’s shift.
She took a moment to look around at the others, women with their arms scratched and bruised, men with drawn faces and weary eyes. Her back throbbed from bending over the brooms, and her arms trembled with fatigue. Over the day, it had become clear why the only jobs in town were at the broom factory. It was dirty, paralyzing labor, driven by money and the poor folks who desperately needed it.
She walked home exhausted, her blistered hands aching. A burning rash had formed under her collar from broomcorn dust and perspiration. Her father was just coming in from the barn when she got home. He set the milk bucket on the table.
“Well?” he said.
She went to the kitchen sink and washed the grime from her hands. “I’m trimming brooms,” she said. “It’s hard, and it’s hot.”
“Sounds like field work to me,” he said. “Most folks do it, want to or not.”
She dried her hands and nodded. There was more to say, but she was too exhausted to say it.
“I’m turning in,” she said.
“No supper?”
She shook her head. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”
The familiarity of her shed was comforting in its way, as it had always been. She lay down on the bed and let the weariness drain away. The sunset shone through the window and lit her paintings in its glow. She remembered the time she’d spent with each, like old friends they were, some cheerful, some resistant, some exhausting but thrilling in the end. To the last, they all belonged to her, and someday she hoped that she could return to them in the way that she desired.
By midweek, she had begun to harden against the repetition and toil of broom making. Her response to its monotony was not to think of other things, or to imagine the beauty of the world elsewhere, but instead to deaden thought altogether. In that, the drudgery and tedium of the work were kept at bay.
