Black Chalk

For our guest, his wife says, laughing nervously. Please, take a seat, she says to me. Has it been a long trip? From England?

Oh, I came up from New York City, I say.

Really? she says. She smiles but looks confused, as if she has many questions but is not sure which to ask first.

So I try to explain while the farmer studies me carefully. I was a friend of your son at Pitt College, I say. But I moved here to the States some time ago. I live down in the city. Anyway, unfortunately I lost contact with your son for a long time. But we recently found each other, he’s paying me a visit when he flies over in a few days’ time.

How nice, Chad’s mom says. She looks grateful for the explanation but still confused. When he flies over. In a few days. When he flies over from . . .? she asks, struggling hard to make it sound as if this is a normal enquiry for a mother to make of her son.

Oh, I say, right. Yes, Chad lives in England, I say.

Good, she says, good, then he went back there. Chad’s mom pats at her chest. He clearly did love it so, she says.

The farmer is lowering a huge cast-iron skillet from a hook high above a kitchen counter. He is a large man, maybe once even larger, he looks almost seventy now. In the past I imagine he would have swung the heavy skillet over to the range with one hand but now he looks bitter as the skillet’s weight takes him by surprise and he has to use two. The information that his son lives in England doesn’t seem to affect the farmer, perhaps his ears are no longer so good. He opens the fridge door.

Man, the farmer says, stretching the word out, loud and angry. How is it we buy eggs every week and there are never any damn eggs in here? His bulk makes the minor complaint sound serious.

They’re in a carton, Chad’s mom says, in the drawer in the middle.

The farmer sighs and shakes his head. He snatches up the bacon.

Chad’s mom flattens her hands on the tablecloth. Did my son send you to see us? she asks, trying to sound bright.

I wonder for a moment what I should say. Coming here today I had only a loose hope there might be something to discover. If I lie to Chad’s mom now, if I suggest to her, yes, her son sent me, it might be presumed I know more than I do. But if I tell her no, perhaps the farmer and his wife will no longer trust me. So I say to Chad’s mom, Your son always told me that if I was ever in the area . . .

She smiles at me. Oh, isn’t that nice, Frank? she says, turning.

So you’re just passing through, the farmer says to me, peeling bacon from a packet, slapping the rashers onto the skillet.

That’s right, I say.

Where you headed? the farmer asks, slap.

I feel as if he is trying to trap me. I try to think back to my days upstate with Blair. The Catskills are south of here. Lake Placid is north. But now is hardly the season for skiing. Then I remember something else. Saratoga, I say to the farmer.

Races don’t start for over a month, the farmer says. Can’t think why else anyone would go to that place.

And now I am trapped.

Oh, then you’re an artist? the farmer’s wife says.

I pause uncertainly.

Or a writer? she says, making her eyes wide at me.

Yes, I say, yes, I’m a writer.

And just what in the hell has that got to do with Saratoga? the farmer says.

Oh, silly, Chad’s mom says, the famous retreat. Yaddo, she says, it’s a place for artists of all kinds. And I’ve always wanted to go, can’t you just imagine all that creativity in the air? Well, I bet you could feel something like that. You know, like a tingle in your fingers.

The farmer snorts. Sounds like a place full of faggots, he says.

His wife flinches. Oh, Frank, she says, I’ve told you, you can’t say that word.

LXXIV(ii) To support the Saratoga lie, I talk to the farmer’s wife about my story. I give her only the barest details, nothing about the truth, nothing about her son. She nods along keenly as I make my tale sound like a series of light comic episodes.

The farmer, who has kept his back to us, is scooping slippery eggs onto a plate. Then he lifts the heavy skillet in which the bacon has fried. He tries to flick the rashers onto the plate below with a wooden spoon but he can’t get the spoon beneath the bacon. You can see the frustration building inside him. The skillet begins to droop in his hand like an old flower in a glass.

He does not drop the skillet so much as hurl it down onto the plate. The plate smashes and the skillet hits the edge of the kitchen counter and falls noisily to the ground.

Chad’s mother shrinks and puts her hands to her ears. Oh, Frank, she says.

The farmer turns to me, furious, and starts to yell. If my son says I made anything up then he’s a damned liar, he shouts. You can’t have made a thing up when you see it and it’s nearly as big as a dime. And anything that happened after that was in everyone’s best interest. And not just his. Born selfish and ungrateful.