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Authors: Thomas Mallon
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if prepared for their own funeral.
“Not in favor of Mr. Jackson’s vision, I take it.”
“If that’s vision, I’ll take dark of night,” barked Horace. Peter’s expression showed his delight in provoking the oldman, but Horace took it for something else as well: the camouflage of feeling? How many other young people would have bothered to stop their paddling on a day so fine as this one? He was, of course, a politician, but—
“Well, Colonel, the river has plenty of other pretty stretches that will be left untouched.”
“But not this one.”
“Is it that castle you don’t want diminished by a new setting?” Peter gestured to Curwood’s creation across the river and past a couple of empty rowboats that were always tied up in front of it. Horace just snorted.
“Oh, I get it,” said Peter. “Did something special happen here, Colonel? I’ll bet this was your spot to bring Mrs. Sinclair, back when you were—”
“I beg your pardon!” Horace started to walk away, but a slip of his left foot and Peter’s rescuing arm nailed him to the spot.
“Steady, Colonel. Here we go.” Peter led the two of them to higher ground, halfway up toward the Armory and high school; Horace accepted his offer of a cigarette.
“You’ve lived your whole life here?” asked Peter.
“Except for my months in Cuba,” said Horace, “and in Florida before that. Training.”
Horace now expected a San Juan Hill question, but all Peter asked was: “And you’ve really never had a car? Like Harold Feller said?”
“I never had the need.” He pointed toward a spot a few hundred yards east. “I had my accountant’s office, a two-man operation, right back there on Exchange Street, until I retired in ’41.”
“A good living?”
“It provided much of what Mrs. Sinclair and I wanted. The rest we provided each other.”
“Have you got any children, Colonel?”
“We were never so blessed.” Horace paused, and looked down the bank. “You’re full of questions, Mr. Cox. How about answering them yourself? Shouldn’t a fellow your age be starting a family? Every magazine I read says that you’re part of a frighteningly fertile generation.”
“I haven’t got the girl yet.”
“I just browsed some books with the one you’re hoping to get.”
“Am I that obvious?” Peter asked.
“No, I just expect you to have that much sense. She’s a delightful young woman. She knows things about this town that some people born here have yet to find out.”
“Is that a fact,” said Peter.
“You didn’t ask me about Teddy Roosevelt, but she did, a couple of months ago, when I was in the shop. Specifically, about the time he came through here in 1901 and gave a talk at the Commons over in West Owosso. A good place for him, too. That’s where they used to have the medicine shows.”
Peter did not ask what enduring quarrel Horace might have with the old Rough Rider. He settled for observing, “I suppose I can understand why you don’t want the place to change.”
“Oh, you can?”
“Sure. You know, ‘the land of steady habits,’ like they call Connecticut.”
“Not all habits are steady,” Horace pronounced. “Mr. Cox, do you know what I did nearly every workday for fortyyears—twenty before you were born, and twenty after, while you were at your university in Connecticut? I came to this riverbank and felt a riot of emotion.”
Peter paused for a moment before asking, “What did you do with all of it, Colonel?”
“I kept it buried,” said Horace, who stubbed out his cigarette and made movements to go.
“Sorry I can’t sail you home,” said Peter, pointing to the one-seater scull.
“I
always
walk,” said Horace. “If you want to do me a favor, fall in love with this river. That’s right. With the river. You’re already in love with the girl.”
T HOSE
EYEBROWS . C OULDN ’ T HE PUT V ITALIS ON THEM ?
The sight of John L. Lewis’s two great facial crops, sticking out like bales of hay
“Not in favor of Mr. Jackson’s vision, I take it.”
“If that’s vision, I’ll take dark of night,” barked Horace. Peter’s expression showed his delight in provoking the oldman, but Horace took it for something else as well: the camouflage of feeling? How many other young people would have bothered to stop their paddling on a day so fine as this one? He was, of course, a politician, but—
“Well, Colonel, the river has plenty of other pretty stretches that will be left untouched.”
“But not this one.”
“Is it that castle you don’t want diminished by a new setting?” Peter gestured to Curwood’s creation across the river and past a couple of empty rowboats that were always tied up in front of it. Horace just snorted.
“Oh, I get it,” said Peter. “Did something special happen here, Colonel? I’ll bet this was your spot to bring Mrs. Sinclair, back when you were—”
“I beg your pardon!” Horace started to walk away, but a slip of his left foot and Peter’s rescuing arm nailed him to the spot.
“Steady, Colonel. Here we go.” Peter led the two of them to higher ground, halfway up toward the Armory and high school; Horace accepted his offer of a cigarette.
“You’ve lived your whole life here?” asked Peter.
“Except for my months in Cuba,” said Horace, “and in Florida before that. Training.”
Horace now expected a San Juan Hill question, but all Peter asked was: “And you’ve really never had a car? Like Harold Feller said?”
“I never had the need.” He pointed toward a spot a few hundred yards east. “I had my accountant’s office, a two-man operation, right back there on Exchange Street, until I retired in ’41.”
“A good living?”
“It provided much of what Mrs. Sinclair and I wanted. The rest we provided each other.”
“Have you got any children, Colonel?”
“We were never so blessed.” Horace paused, and looked down the bank. “You’re full of questions, Mr. Cox. How about answering them yourself? Shouldn’t a fellow your age be starting a family? Every magazine I read says that you’re part of a frighteningly fertile generation.”
“I haven’t got the girl yet.”
“I just browsed some books with the one you’re hoping to get.”
“Am I that obvious?” Peter asked.
“No, I just expect you to have that much sense. She’s a delightful young woman. She knows things about this town that some people born here have yet to find out.”
“Is that a fact,” said Peter.
“You didn’t ask me about Teddy Roosevelt, but she did, a couple of months ago, when I was in the shop. Specifically, about the time he came through here in 1901 and gave a talk at the Commons over in West Owosso. A good place for him, too. That’s where they used to have the medicine shows.”
Peter did not ask what enduring quarrel Horace might have with the old Rough Rider. He settled for observing, “I suppose I can understand why you don’t want the place to change.”
“Oh, you can?”
“Sure. You know, ‘the land of steady habits,’ like they call Connecticut.”
“Not all habits are steady,” Horace pronounced. “Mr. Cox, do you know what I did nearly every workday for fortyyears—twenty before you were born, and twenty after, while you were at your university in Connecticut? I came to this riverbank and felt a riot of emotion.”
Peter paused for a moment before asking, “What did you do with all of it, Colonel?”
“I kept it buried,” said Horace, who stubbed out his cigarette and made movements to go.
“Sorry I can’t sail you home,” said Peter, pointing to the one-seater scull.
“I
always
walk,” said Horace. “If you want to do me a favor, fall in love with this river. That’s right. With the river. You’re already in love with the girl.”
T HOSE
EYEBROWS . C OULDN ’ T HE PUT V ITALIS ON THEM ?
The sight of John L. Lewis’s two great facial crops, sticking out like bales of hay
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