Stone Lake: part 30

A Star Tribune serialized novel by Richard Horberg

Chapter 10

The story so far: George Schuelke expounds on cheaters.

One Sunday afternoon early in December, Allen met Annette Bowman at Iverson's Drug Store. They sat in a corner booth, examining Allen's list of great novels while eating hot fudge sundaes.

Iverson's Drug Store was one of the few businesses allowed to stay open on Sunday in Stone Lake, so there were a number of people in the establishment, a short line at the prescription window and three or four people at the counter enjoying an afternoon treat. Allen saw none of his students in the store. Nor, he thought, did anyone see him back in the corner booth. Not, he told himself, that it mattered in the least.

Annette Bowman was even more attractive than the last time he'd seen her — and certainly more cheerful. She wore a long-sleeved, cream-colored sweater and a pleated skirt. Her hair looked freshly washed, buoyant. A becoming trace of lipstick enhanced her mouth. She did not look like the mother of a high school senior. Leaning over his list, which he had placed between them, she was charmingly enthusiastic.

"What about 'Lord Jim'?" she asked. "I've never heard of it. It's a good book?"

"Why shouldn't you have put it on the list?"

He was in trouble again. "Well, it's an all-male cast, let's say. I don't know if it would appeal to a woman."

"But it appeals to you?"

"It certainly does. One of the nice things about Conrad is that you meet — very vividly — people from all over the world. He's a master at creating character, 19th-century style, of course."

"I've never met anyone from other parts of the world. But it's one of the things I dream about. Here I am, living in Stone Lake, Minnesota, and wishing I were in London or Shanghai, or even Budapest."

"Oh, a seaport would make it all the more romantic."

He asked her if she was a romantic. She said she wasn't sure. So he told her about the difference between romantics and realists, that the former view life as it should be, full of adventure and excitement and fascinating people, while the latter see life as it is, more ordinary and pedestrian. "Romantics are like children," he said, "wanting everything. And when they get it, it's never enough. So they end up destroying it all. Realists, on the other hand, view life with level eyes. They take your measure pretty fast. They don't glamorize you with impossible expectations. Realists are likely to be healthy people. But romantics have more fun."

He looked at her with a smile. She smiled back. "I want everything," she said. "I have the impossible expectations. I wouldn't even mind destroying everything. The truth is, I've never had anything."

"Spoken like a true romantic."

"You too?" she wondered.

They moved on to other books. "What about 'A Passage to India'?" she asked. "That sounds romantic."

"Not really. The title is a quotation from Walt Whitman. But it does have a couple of interesting women in it, Mrs. Moore and Adela Quested. You might like it."

She licked her spoon. "Oh, and what about 'The Great Gatsby'? I've heard of that, of course."

"Yes, a good novel. For once Fitzgerald got it right. It's a love story, told backwards. If it had been told chronologically, it wouldn't be nearly as good — a conventional romance. Somehow, he happened to tell it crooked and it worked. I think it surprised him as much as anybody else. Perhaps I shouldn't say it, but I think the rest of his work is second-rate. Sentimental and exaggerated. Adolescent stuff. If I were you, I'd read Hemingway instead." He pointed to the list. " 'A Farewell to Arms'. It's all understatement. In spite of Hemingway's big poses, he's all understatement."

She had a pencil in her hand. She put a check in front of Hemingway. "Tell me about 'Ethan Frome'."

"You like tragedies?"

He nodded. "Remember what Hemingway once said: 'If two people love each other, there can be no happy ending.' "

She gazed at him earnestly. "I like the way you talk. But I think I'm going to put off 'Ethan Frome' for the time being. I've had enough of little towns, especially in the winter. I've had enough of tragedies."

He said he didn't blame her.

"Please don't think me superficial" — she gave him a sheepish smile — "but what's the lightest book on your list?"

She put a check before 'The History of Mr. Polly'. "What else?" she asked.

They had both finished their sundaes. He glanced up at the counter. "How about a cup of coffee first?" he asked.

"Oh, thank you. I'd love a cup of coffee. Make mine black, please."

He went up to the counter and got two cups of coffee, one black, one with cream. "Another light novel," he said, coming back, "is light in the best sense of the word — 'Babbitt' by Sinclair Lewis. It's a satiric novel making fun of the American businessman. I think it's much better than 'Main Street', which is rather old-fashioned. It drags. 'Babbitt' is modern. It moves. It has energy."

"You know everything, don't you?" she said with a smile.

"And more."

He was aware of her arms. Even beneath her sweater he knew they were very slender, the kind of arms that made him shiver with pleasure.