A Star Tribune serialized novel by Richard Horberg

Chapter 8 continues

The story so far: Allen remembers his days with Mary Zane.

She didn't say "Take me with you." But she was intrigued. She told him that he'd changed since she last saw him, that she thought she'd had him all figured out but must have been wrong — apparently they were much more alike than she'd thought. And when they were back in the car, she let him kiss her a little more passionately.

One day he got another letter from her, written again on blue paper with blue, slanting lines. A much longer letter. In it she told him that she had moved from Roy, Montana, to Moscow, Idaho, where she had accepted a job as a nurse at the University of Idaho Infirmary. In truth, she did not so much tell him this as assume that he already knew, in the same way that she sometimes mentioned names he had never heard of — a sister, perhaps, and a young brother — as though he were well acquainted with them. She was, of course, clever — "Any words not found in Webster," she wrote, "have just been added to the language by yours truly, for reasons we'll not discuss here."

She described in some detail a hill to which she often retreated when she had time, a hill which she called her own. She was sitting as she wrote, she told him, on a bubble in the western quarter of a big skillet of hot fudge which suddenly and for reasons unknown had solidified just as it reached a boil. "The Cook," she wrote, "has just dropped several tablespoons of butter which here and there has melted and run down over several hills." She asked him if he'd ever wondered why the world is a skillet of melted fudge. If not, she suggested that he do it now. And she included a recipe for hot fudge.

He had never been to Idaho — he appreciated her inventiveness — but he wondered why the earth was brown and yellow. He wondered, on a different level, if when he answered the letter he should tell her that such an extended metaphor is called a conceit. He wondered if he should point out the dangers of mixed metaphors to her, as well as to consider whether or not it was appropriate to compare something as domestic as making fudge to something as grand as nature. (Better not, he thought, warning himself not to play the schoolmaster.)

Afterwards, she resorted to small talk, what she had said to someone, what someone else had said to her. Eager for every word, he was nevertheless a little disappointed again that she did not talk about their relationship, nor the things they had done when she was in Minneapolis. Had she forgotten? Or was she being discreet?

In the final paragraph, she told him that she appreciated his letters and told her friends about them. But she wished there was some way he could let her know when he was teasing. Often she wasn't sure. And she reminded him that some of his "double-edged" remarks could change their tune by the time they got to her. He might look upon them one way, she another.

When he had finished reading the letter, he told himself that what she referred to as "teasing" was really irony and that his intent was only to be amusing. Yet he had to admit that, in his attempts to impress and entertain her, he might occasionally have been a bit high-handed. The truth was that he wanted to be the dominant partner in their correspondence. He wanted her to look up to him, to admire his intelligence and flair, his toughness and his gift with words. He wanted her to love him.

If she did, where would they go from there?

He told himself that, if all went well, they could be a great couple: she on her favorite stallion, hair flying in the wind, and he in his '41 Chevy, Queen Pearl, just ahead of her, back seat full of books.

Chapter 9

One Saturday morning Allen was coming out of the drug store with a paper bag in his hand — toothpaste, shaving cream and a Nut Goodie — when he almost bumped into a large man dressed entirely in black. He stopped at once. It was Rev. Miracle Mayfield — minus his white collar.

"Allen Post," the clergyman said. "Good morning, sir."

Allen returned the greeting, surprised that the man still remembered his name. Was he keeping an eye on him? Had he done something wrong?

But the clergyman was all smiles. "Your day of rest," he said. "Mine of preparation."

"Writing your sermon," Allen said.

"Writing my sermon."

They were about to part when the reverend called him back. "Oh, by the way," he said, "I hear you've been talking about sex to your 11th graders."

Allen was surprised, then recalled "The Chrysanthemums," Elisa's attraction to the tinker, the classroom discussion.

"You mean the John Steinbeck story?"

"Yes. A great writer."

"The sex was all symbolic," Allen said. "In the story…"

Rev. Mayfield raised his hand, laughing as though he had told a joke. "It's all right, young man," he said. "It's perfectly all right. The good Lord created sex and we practice it."

Allen had no idea where the conversation was going. "That's the way I look at it too," he said, not quite honestly.

They turned to part again. The minister called him back once more. "Oh, another thing. I've also heard that you've been telling the girls in your class not to get pregnant until they're 30."

"I think I said 25."

The minister laughed heartily. "It's all right, it's all right," he said. "Just having a little fun. Keep up the good work, Mr. Post."

Puzzled, Allen watched him enter the drug store and approach the pharmacist as though he were God himself, radiating glory among the sinners. He wondered who the minister had been talking to. Then he took the Nut Goodie out of the bag and ate it.

Tomorrow: Chapter 9 continues.