Scissors, Paper, Rock Read online

  With his foot Raphael pushes open the door. He carries two mugs of coffee, which he sets on the workbench. “I brought your coffee.”

  “I can see that.” Tom Hardin points with his plane, the old-fashioned kind with the knob and the crossblade, that requires muscle and a good eye. “Set it over there.”

  “So how are you feeling?”

  “Not bad.” How good can a dying man feel? Tom Hardin holds his tongue.

  “Mind if I look on?”

  “No, not at all.” All through his childhood Raphael never set foot in the shop except under threat of a whipping. Now he wants to look on. It is this, the changing of things, that angers Tom Hardin. For all their lives he and Raphael have hardly spoken to each other except to snap and back off. When circumstance forced them to speak on any subject of consequence, they found themselves brought to some cliff, over whose edge lay a fact of Raphael’s life for which Tom Hardin had no words and about which Raphael seemed eager to keep silence. How was it possible to talk about something when no speakable words existed to name it? Snap and back off—that was safest, even if afterwards Tom Hardin felt some kind of guilt that was itself unnamable.

  But now Tom Hardin is dying and they are supposed to get along, here is Raphael asking to be taught in a month what it took Tom Hardin himself a lifetime to learn. “What kind of wood is that?” Raphael asks, pointing.

  “Gingko. Came from the monastery walk. You remember those big trees where you used to park for midnight mass.”

  Raphael shakes his head. “I guess that was before my time.”

  Tom Hardin puts on his glasses and holds the wood to the window. Raphael flips on the overhead fluorescent. With the board Tom Hardin swats the switch off. “I need the sun to look at this.” He turns it back and forth in the window’s square of light.

  “Well.” Raphael stands and brushes his jeans of wood shavings. “Time for my session with Miss Camilla. You want your coffee? It’s cold.”

  “Leave it. I’ll drink it.”

  Raphael shuts the door behind him with a careful click.

  The last time Tom Hardin drank coffee his stomach seized up in knots, but he has not told this to anyone. When he sees that Raphael is inside Miss Camilla’s house he takes the coffee, opens the door, and pours it on the ground.

  In 1953, when Camilla Perkins was forty years old, she moved to Strang Knob and applied to the parish board to teach penmanship and English in the Catholic grade school. Hiring her would be a radical step: she’d be their first lay teacher. Tom Hardin, who was on the parish board, knew they decided to hire her because they believed her safely into spinsterhood, no temptation for the high school boys or the men of the parish.

  She was tall, thin, arch; curlicues of dyed black hair dangled over her arching forehead, penciled eyebrows arched over deep-socketed, protruding eyes. When she moved in next door Rose Ella had dismissed her as plain—Tom Hardin himself had agreed.

  But she’d been in Strang Knob only a few months before this became clear: She was a city woman, come from Chicago, who had about her if nothing else the allure of contrast. Here in Strang Knob the women of Tom Hardin’s generation were lined and sagging from childbearing. Weighed down by babies, groceries, laundry, gravity, they’d grown thick in the hips; they’d slowed their steps and words and thoughts.

  At forty Miss Camilla was plain, but with her years her blanched skin stretched tight. She’d come to speak and walk with a forward-moving intensity that commanded attention: she was a teacher.

  At forty-one Tom Hardin had too many children and a life that was slipping through his hands. Raphael, number seven, was due that December. Tom Hardin felt trapped. When that November friends asked him to go deer hunting in upstate Wisconsin he fled, leaving Rose Ella a three-word note: “I’ll be back.” In it he folded two crisp one-hundred-dollar bills.

  “Guilt money,” Miss Camilla told him later on their first drive to High Bridge. She was blunt about this, like everything else; it was another reason Tom Hardin liked her. Women under Strang Knob were not raised to be blunt. Daughter of a Strang Knob woman, Camilla Perkins had not been raised to be blunt, but she was plain and came to understand this early on. “What have I to lose,” she’d said to Tom Hardin.

  Rose Ella, who was married and not plain, could not bring herself to voice her anger. She took the two hundred dollars that Tom Hardin left to buy food and Christmas presents for the children and bought herself a new coat. In 1953 two hundred dollars bought a very nice coat indeed—a scarlet wool knee-length affair with a real mink collar. Miss Camilla learned all this because five days after Tom Hardin left to hunt deer, Rose Ella came to her backdoor, the scarlet knee-length fur-collared coat flapping about her swollen belly, to beg for money to buy groceries until Tom Hardin returned. Miss Camilla had just bought a new car and was none too well off herself, and so for the next two weeks the six Hardin children ate supper crammed around Miss Camilla’s walnut gateleg table, with Bette C., the youngest, perched on a stack of Compton’s Pictorials.

  Tom Hardin looks up from his workbench to see Miss Camilla hobbling across the yard. She has had two heart attacks; she has been told she will not survive the third, and that it may come at any time. Weather permitting she comes over daily to his shop. On this cold January day, weather most certainly should not be permitting, but she is coming. Tom Hardin likes her for that.

  He pulls up stools by the stove, pours them both a finger of whiskey in plastic cups. Miss Camilla raises hers to the rafters. “The meeting of the Mostly Alive is called to order,” she says gaily. He raises his cup, touches it to his lips, sets it down with a grimace. “Forty years of making this stuff and all of a sudden I can’t stand the taste of it.”

  “I saw Raphael leave,” Miss Camilla says. “I saw you pour out your coffee. You really think it’s important to hide that from him? He’s a grown man, you know. He’s no stranger to trouble. He left a job to be with you.”

  “Any job that he can just up and quit can’t be much of a job,” Tom Hardin says. “In my day you knew a man by his work. Furniture, or tobacco, or plumbing—things you could call a name.”

  “Like whiskey.” Miss Camilla raises her cup.

  “Like whiskey. Now all they turn out is paper. And to me one piece of paper looks pretty much like the next.”

  “Raphael worked at a library in San Francisco. A big library, which you know perfectly well. A fine job, I might add, that he must have good reasons for leaving, which you don’t know and which you’ve never asked after.”

  “How do you know what I know,” Tom Hardin says, but he grins at her impertinence.

  “Between teaching your children, knowing you for almost forty years, and listening to Rose Ella complain about your faults, I think I have a good idea of what you know. A better idea, I think, than you, sometimes.” She touches her whiskey to her lips.

  Tom Hardin takes up his glue bottle and finds it clogged. He tries to squeeze it open by force of strength, but he can’t squeeze hard enough to clear the spout. He takes out a knife and carves away the dried glue. “Everything is so goddamn slow,” he says.

  Miss Camilla drains her cup.

  Live dangerously: he scrabbles among the litter on the workbench until he finds the prime block of his best walnut. To its four sides he glues thin planks of pale gingko. He clamps this work in a vise, then sits heavily, breathing hard. “You watched through all that. Rafe would have asked five questions, not one of them worth the time it took to spit out.”

  “And he would know more than I do.”

  “He would know the names of things, but he wouldn’t know how to do them. I’ll bet you could come back here tomorrow and do what I just did, do it in the same amount of time and do it good.”

  “Well,” Miss Camilla says. “Do it well, and I would do it well, I will be happy to do it well.” She stands and picks up her cane. “It was good to talk to you. Try to remember: you work well; you do good work.”

  Tom Hardin returned
from that upper Midwest hunting trip with a magnificent ten-point rack. Raphael was born a week later. In that week Rose Ella lay around the house, swollen and waiting, while he went to the shop to mount the antlers on a plaque of worm-eaten chestnut he’d saved for a special occasion.

  Tom Hardin required of his sons that they earn the right to enter his shop. Excepting his oldest friends, the men of the town stood outside until invited in. On his second night back from Wisconsin, Miss Camilla strode in, refusing him so much as a knock. She planted her squat black pumps on the poplar planks. Burned by the heat of her arching gaze, Tom Hardin saw her for the first time as something other than plain. “You have abused your wife,” she said. “You must apologize.”

  “Apologize, hell. She’s got her coat.” Fresh from a hunt, ten-point rack on the bench before him, Tom Hardin was feeling rambunctious. He was sanding the chestnut plank. He shook it at her, not meaning to threaten, only wanting to make clear who here was boss.

  She jerked the wood from his hands and slammed it to the floor. It split along the grain. “I have no desire to lecture you on things you already know. You know what is good and what is evil. One way to know evil is that those who commit it hide from what they have done. You are hiding, here, from what you have done.” She left, walking sweaterless into the December night. Standing in the light from the doorway, Tom Hardin watched her cross the yard, her pumps leaving dark circles in the frozen grass.

  He was at the distillery when Rose Ella went into labor. She did not call him but drove herself to the hospital. When after work he found the house empty, he asked Miss Camilla to drive him over. At the hospital he had her wait, while he bought roses for Rose Ella from the florist in the lobby. As he left the florist’s shop he held them extravagantly high: December roses! Miss Camilla gave him not so much as a nod.

  Raphael was a difficult birth. Tom Hardin and Miss Camilla waited together long into the night. In the stuffy hospital heat the roses wilted. When the next morning the nurse called his name, Tom Hardin took Miss Camilla’s hand, pulled her along; he wanted her to witness this gift.

  Rose Ella lay spent, black circles under her eyes, hollow-cheeked. Raphael lay in a crook of her arm, unmoving. The last two or three babies had come so easy, Tom Hardin had forgotten that birth could be this hard. He lay the roses on the bed. “Dead flowers,” Rose Ella said, turning her face to the wall.

  These nights Tom Hardin sleeps not at all. How can he sleep, with no guts to anchor his body to its bed? If his problem were only the pain he would have no problem. But each day he leaves a little more of his life behind. In the mornings, crossing the flagstone patio (stones he had hoisted and cursed into place) he is sapped of a half-hour’s strength. He sits in the shop, breathing heavy and shallow, until he hears Raphael open the back door to bring coffee. Then he stands and picks up a piece of wood, or an awl, or an oil can, anything to look busy. “It’s not like Rafe would know what goes with wood and what doesn’t,” he grumbles to Miss Camilla, one morning after Raphael has come and gone.

  “As if, please, introduces a dependent clause. It’s not as if Raphael would know the difference.”

  “Besides, you’d think he was on vacation.”

  “Is that so terrible, that he would spend vacation time with his father?”

  “He drags out here at ten o’clock with coffee, like I ever drank coffee in the middle of the day. Then he mopes around all day taking naps and hits the sack before I do. You’d think he was the old man.”

  “Maybe he’s not feeling well,” Miss Camilla says. “Maybe you should ask after his health.”

  “Health, hell. Until this little liver problem came along I’d never been to a doctor in my life except to get sewn up from when I’d cut myself doing something I should have been smart enough not to do in the first place. And even then I had Rose Ella take out the stitches. He’s thirty years old, for Christ’s sake.”

  “Thirty-six,” Miss Camilla says wearily. “I take it you’ve scared him away from asking questions.”

  “He hangs around. He’s persistent, I’ll give him that much.”

  “What he has to say is important. Otherwise he could bring himself to speak.” She takes up the glue. “How many more layers are you planning to have me stick on this thing?”

  “It’s nearly done. The hard part comes next, the turning on the lathe.” He hands over the planks of sweet-scented cedar. “You still drive,” he says. “I see you take your car out.”

  Miss Camilla glues a plank in place and sets and clamps the block. “Just for trips to the store, or to church.”

  “How about going for a drive, some sunny afternoon?” From his perch near the stove he tosses her a rag to wipe the glue from the bottle spout. He can see her hesitating; probably she knows where he will want to go. “A dying man’s last request,” he says. “That’s a joke.”

  “I suppose I owe you something for all this woodworking education,” she says. “What do we have but time?”

  By February things come to the point where Tom Hardin cannot work at his bench. Something new is happening here—he feels the cancer spreading. At night he places his hand on his side, feeling the cancer pulse with a life of its own, its beat a half-beat behind the beat of his own heart. He cannot escape the notion that he is doing this to himself—the cancer is a part of himself, after all, that is killing him, and taking its time in getting around to it.

  As he has lost the will to ward off the voices and visions, they have grown more persistent. As a young man he needed to forget—he was too much immersed in life to spend time in memory. But he is old now, and the landscape of memory is vast and varied. His children are wrong in thinking he is growing forgetful. What they mistake for forgetfulness is its opposite: too much memory rather than too little.

  On sunny days he does nothing but sit and remember, he who has worked every waking minute of his life. Rose Ella learning to set bank poles, until she was a better fisher than any man in town; his son Clark riding shotgun when they delivered Christmas baskets; Bette C. in cheerleader skirts, boys swarming after her like bees; Raphael, pulling from the drive in the old Rambler, on his way farther west than any of them had ever imagined he might go. The bad times recall themselves too—Bette C.’s screaming insistence that he allow her to go away to college; Joe Ray’s accident; the impenetrable silence that always surrounded Raphael. But memory has done its job, beveling the pain’s sharpest edges. Tom Hardin remembers less his hollow grief at Clark’s funeral than the soft nap of the flag folded fresh from his coffin, the snap and crack of the guns’ salute, the bugler’s embarrassment at bungling “Taps.”

  These voices and spirits are growing more real than the planks of wood covering his workbench or Raphael’s living presence. Dwelling in memory, Tom Hardin considers the measure in which, for a strong-willed person like himself or Camilla Perkins, how much of death is a matter of choice, a decision at some point to give up and yield to others the carrying on of things.

  He wills himself awake. He is not yet ready to sink into memory—he has too many tasks left to finish. The block of laminated wood sits before him. The gluing has not been done well, but he is pleased to find that he faults neither himself nor Camilla—finally, this late in life, is he beyond fault and faulting? He hopes only that the block will hold for the lathe, and that when the time comes he will be able to uncover the living form concealed in its multiple woods.

  In the mornings Raphael still brings coffee, but he cuts short his hanging around to imply questions. Instead he crosses the yard to Miss Camilla’s, where he stays for two or three hours. This delays her arrival at the shop. Tom Hardin finds himself getting irritated with Raphael, though he knows he has no reason; it’s not as if Raphael is holding something up. Miss Camilla will work her way across the yard in her own good time. What concerns Tom Hardin more is the thought that she may be revealing to his son a life that she would never show to him. “What do you do over there anyway,” Tom Hardin says to Raphael one snow
y morning, when it is clear that Miss Camilla will not make it across the yard.

  “Nothing much.”

  “So you sit around like lumps on a log.”

  “We talk about books. Miss Camilla taught English, you know. She doesn’t get much chance to talk about that kind of thing.”

  “Do you talk about her heart? How is her heart?”

  Raphael grins. “You know Miss Camilla. She’d no more talk about her heart than”—he pauses a small second, searching for the comparison—“you’d talk about your liver.”

  “You talk about me?”

  Against the window’s glare Tom Hardin sees the outline of his son’s chin, identical to his own: cut with a T square, nicked at its corners. Identical yet not identical—something of Rose Ella’s chinlessness sneaked in here; or maybe it’s that Raphael does not set his chin exactly like Tom Hardin. “You talk about me,” he repeats, no question this time.

  “She talks about you, yes. She’s eager to talk about you. Always has been.”

  “You’re hogging her time.” Tom Hardin speaks sharply, then regrets his words; not their sharpness, but the showing forth.

  Raphael picks up both mugs, still full. “I’m here now, dammit. What more do you want.” He kicks open the door and dumps the coffee in the snow. He crosses the yard to Miss Camilla’s, leaving the shop door open. From his seat Tom Hardin watches the coffee’s brown stain, until the falling snow covers it over.

  The snow has not completely melted when Miss Camilla next crosses the yard. Tom Hardin opens the door, but she does not come in. “Why can’t you acknowledge that he is here?” she asks. “And what he is here for?”

  Tom Hardin turns away to pick up the laminated wood, still clamped. His fingers test its seams. “It’s trying to warp. That could be a problem.”

  “Is it because he used to avoid your shop? He’d be happy to learn, if that’s what you want. He wants to learn.”

  “In three months. Four months.”

  “Do you think he gave up a job and came back only for that?”