I’m finding out and sharing the results as I rekey the only typewritten copy of my 1970’s novel Exile in serial form, posting chapters as soon as I get them onto a computer. The nineteenth chapter follows, but click here to begin with chapter one. This is the second chapter in Part Three.
2
“Hello…Are you still there?”
Amy Beth had finally realized that John wasn’t listening to a word she was saying.
“Yes,” John answered mechanically.
Amy Beth was satisfied as she began droning again. Nobody ever paid very close attention to her, so even an obviously mechanical reply was enough to satisfy her. “…best friend back in Indiana. Her name is Judy – Judy Ann Peyser. We call her Jap. She’s not Japanese or a Jewish American Princess. We don’t have any Japs or Jews in my school. Those are just her initials: J-A-P. Get it? Jap’s a senior at Tumbling Orchards too. She beat me out for the head cheerleader position. Our cheerleaders are…”
John found her voice slightly less monotonous than the train’s rumblings. But the train’s rumblings didn’t demand answers. He listened to what she was saying for a few sentences as he though of the poor fool who’d marry her. Someone would definitely marry her for her tits and clear complexion alone. People who have become conditioned well enough to become cheerleaders and football stars in high school usually don’t think twice about taking a “normal” step like marriage. Amy’s husband might not realize what he’d done until many years later when he began to fade sexually and her doll face became wrinkled.
Amy Beth and Robin were alike in many ways although Robin would never accept that opinion no matter how it was backed with arguments. Amy Beth wanted to be a fashion model and a wife and have an important place in the social life of her community. Robin wanted to be a historian and a husband (his secret emphasis was on the latter) and he worked hard for both. Robin would have come right out and said, “But I’m better than a fashion model!” John really saw very little difference. “Amy’s using her body,” John thought to himself, “to the exclusion of her mind to reach her goals, and Rob’s ignoring his body in favor of his mind. Neither one of them realizes that they’re connected. Both of them are trapped in society’s view of men and women.” John was able to sense his own enslavement to boundaries and limits. When thinking or speaking of himself, he always tried to use the word “limits” in conjunction with the word “natural.” He wondered who he was trying to fool.
The view from the train window caught John’s interest. Grape fields down below him stretched out in long straight rows towards a calm, mirror-surfaced lake and the mountains high above the opposite shore. The other people in the compartment were also silent. They all seemed intimidated, or amazed, by Amy Beth’s loquacity. John stopped scanning the horizon and he let his eyes drift down towards the patched knees of his jeans and his dark brown, scuffed work boots. He had had those things for years. The boot soles were already worn smooth when he went hiking with Artie and Kathy in the Sierras. That was two or three years earlier. He smiled at how well his boots had held up and he promised himself that his next pair would be exactly the same.
The dog in the cabin greeted John with a snap at the shins. John responded by punching him softly in the snout with a snow covered glove. They were even.
“How are you?” John called out to the man sitting next to the fireplace. Even with the fire, the cabin was still extremely dark. John’s pupils were pinpoints from the effect of the bright snow outside. It took his eyes about five or ten minutes to adjust totally.
When his eyes did begin to adjust, he could see that the man in the corner must’ve been in his late forties or early fifties. He had about a week’s growth of grey and black bristles shooting straight out from his chin and cheeks – framing a friendly, yellow-toothed smile.
“Fine, buddy,” he replied warmly to John’s question. “And don’t let ol’ Rex bother you. He’s just a ol’ watch dog. Army took all the goodness out of ‘im and they let him when they figured he’s too bushed to fight for ’em…Damn bastards did the same to me.”
John liked listening to men and women with stories to tell. People he met in the mountains always seemed to have more than their proper share of things to talk about. Rex’s owner told how both he and Rex fought together in the big war (WWII) and the Korean War. John didn’t mention that Rex would have to be over thirty years old if he fought in World War II. He listened to details of how Rex cleared German bunkers with one frightful growl and snap of his teeth. The man’s eyes glistened and his tear ducts swelled when he told how Rex sniffed out a friend killed by the North Koreans. It didn’t matter that the stories weren’t true. They were real, and that was more than enough.
“I’m not boring you, am I son?” Rex’s owner inquired.
“No, not at all,” John answered although he was yawning. “I’m just tired; I got up at 5:00 this morning.”
“Hikin’ alone?”
“No. I have two slowpoke friends out in the snow somewhere.”
“And you’re the fast one?”
“Well, I do okay.”
Now that John’s eyes were adjusted to the light in the room, he could see an old wooden shelf near the ceiling crowded with rusted blue Maxwell House cans with worn adhesive tape labels, “First Aid, Sugar, Salt, Matches.” There was only one windowpane which wasn’t broken and patched with cardboard. John had to squint through the dust, cracks and cobwebs before he could make out the faint outlines of trees on the other side of the glass. The blinding whiteness of the sky and ground didn’t help the visibility at all. There was a staircase, actually more of a ladder, leading up to a trap door in the ceiling.
“What’s up there?” John asked, “The sleeping loft?”
“Yep.”
“Have you been staying here?”
“Yep…me and my army buddy.” He pulled Rex’s massive head up onto his knee and patted it affectionately with his thick calloused hand. “We’re leaving now though. I was just about to put on my parka and put out the fire. We’d like to get down before it gets dark and before this snow gets too deep.”
“Well, you can leave the fire going. My friends and I are gonna stay here.” John already had his jacket and gloves off and hanging on a beam. “Don’t worry about getting lost in the snow though. It will all change to rain after you hike about two miles down.”
“No shit?”
“No shit,” John assured him with a grin.
“Weather in these hills is the damndest thing. It’s been snowing here on and off for three days straight,” Rex’s owner explained as he squeezed a rucksack over his fur-hooded parka and headed for the door. “See you around boy.”
“It was good talking to you…Hey! If you see a couple fucking around along the side of the trail, tell ’em to get their asses in gear. They have all my food in their packs,” John called out behind him.
The old man didn’t answer, but he chuckled silently to himself and playfully brushed the fur on his dog’s head against the grain.
John stayed outside for a little while to pick up more fuel for the fire. The air was too penetratingly cold to make him shiver. His arms and hands were numb and snow covered as he hopped back into the cabin and slammed the door behind him. He dropped the wood down onto the rocks in front of the fire with a clatter and shivered violently. The shiver brought his body back into harmony with the temperature inside the cabin. After rubbing the snow off his hands and warming them by the fire, he reached down into the bottom of his pack and pulled out an ice cold, key of C harmonica. He was tinkering with some simple blues progressions with his thick grey socks propped up before the fire when Artie and Kathy opened the door.
“It’s about time,” John said in greeting.
“Hi.”
“Hi, John,” they answered. They both squinted into the dark room. “That is you, isn’t it?” The only part of John which was immediately visible were the feet propped up in front of the fire.
“What took you so long?”
“These boots are killing me,” Artie answered. “I guess I didn’t break them in well enough.”
“That’s what you get for buying those fifty dollar status symbols. I’ve had these work boots for a year and a half now. Their soles may be a little smooth, but my feet are comfortable.”
John pointed to the books sitting on the floor beside him. Artie couldn’t see them; they blended perfectly with the deep brown hue of the whole room.
“And how about you, honey?” John looked towards Kathy silhouetted against the fresh white snow on the other side of the doorway. “Why are you so quiet?” Her newly adjusted eyes barely managed to discern the wink which accompanied the words.
“I don’t know,” she replied, “Well…except I do have to use a bathroom.”
John let out a partially restrained laugh. “Well, unless there’s a toilet up in that loft, you have your choice of using your pants or the nearest tree.”
John was glad to hear Artie breaking into spontaneous laughter.
Kathy just blushed and shivered, “In the snow?”
“Bears and bunny rabbits do it.”
“I was sort of expecting something like this.” Her blushing had ended. “But don’t you follow me,” she warned playfully as she set her pack down and walked outside.
“When they heard a waterfall on the other side of the cabin wall, Artie and John both found it impossible to keep their laughter inaudible.
“Cut it out!” a voice yelled louder than the flow of water.
They were still laughing when Kathy returned with her face doubly red from the combination of the cold and the embarrassment. “That wasn’t nice.”
“I’m sorry babe,” Artie apologized as he finished laughing.
“Yeah, me too,” John added. “When are we gonna eat?”
“I expected you to have dinner started when we got here,” Artie said.
John’s face took on its most serious expression of the day as he said, “I thought you brought all the food for this trip and I was bringing solid stuff like an axe and utensils.”
Artie raised his voice to assert himself again, “Didn’t I tell you when I called a couple of nights ago that I was going to bring all the food for three days and that you should bring it for the other two? No wonder you hiked so fast! You must have nothing but air in that pack of yours!”
Artie hadn’t told John to bring food. He had meant to, but he couldn’t stop talking about Kathy once he got on the phone. John wasn’t going to put his friend down now. Artie hadn’t been this happy since they were both kids.
“I’m sorry Art. I’ll hike down to the little town we passed – that can’t be more than five miles – tomorrow or the next day at the latest.”
“Well?” Artie was still a little excited about his own raised voice.
“C’mon pal, have I ever let you down?”
“No,” Artie answered with a tension-killing smile.
“So, what are we eating tonight?” John inquired with his hands resting on an air-inflated stomach.
“Freeze-dried beef stroganoff,” Kathy answered.
“Ahhh, the boy scout’s delight. Did Artie ever tell you, honey, that we used to eat that on just about every hike just because it was so cheap and light?”
“No.”
“Well, we did,” he winked.
“So?” she asked innocently – waiting for an end to the story.
“So what? We ate it. There’s no story.”
“Oh.”
John wasn’t flirting with Kathy because he wanted to hurt Artie; that was the last thing he wanted to do. He only did it because women were a passion of his. They were a passion which had deteriorated into more of a habit since his break-up with Sue. He found himself trying to get into the pants of almost every beautiful girl he met. He found Kathy beautiful.
John and Artie pitched in and both cooked dinner while Kathy fooled around with John’s harmonica (she played much better; she knew half a dozen songs by heart). They were all too tired to do anything but sleep after dinner. They did have some short conversations as they sat around smoking and drinking coffee by the fireplace. Their longest conversation was about John’s old room at his parents’ house.
“Artie, doesn’t this sort of remind you of my room when we were in high school?”
“This cabin?” Artie seemed surprised by the question as he glanced quickly from the broken windows to the spiderwebs on the ceiling and then to the dirt floor.
“You had a room like this?” Kathy asked. “No wonder you ran away from home.”
“You guys have me all wrong. I’m not talking about particulars. This cabin just has that same color and feeling that I always tried to cultivate. Very dark and comfortable.”
“What did your room look like?” Kathy asked.
“It was locked when I left home for the last time. I guess Mom finally had to open it up when she sold the house. She must’ve found some grass and a little organic mesc that I left behind and wondered what all those things were on the walls – pictures from magazines mostly – just things that seemed nice, with no regard for order. The only thing that sticks clearly in my mind is this picture from Life of a girl in in a black one-piece bathing suit with the back cut halfway down her ass; she was right above my face when I slept.”
“Tell Kathy what else there was,” Artie said, then turning his face to Kathy. “We used to love partying in John’s room. Just so many things to look at when you were high and listening to the Dead and the Airplane.”
“A lot of day-glo psychedelics – normal stuff. Some haunting faces of bloodied photographers at Chicago. With that powerful emotion of impotent rage. Y’know, like when you want to kill the pig who just cracked your skull but he has the tools to stop you in your tracks. Those photographs were a more powerful response to the pigs than any return of violence or court action…”
Pause.
“I guess it all sort of confused and scared my mother when she finally opened that door.”
No one saw the yawns which interrupted John’s memories as impolite. They were felt mutually. Kathy and Artie climbed up into the sleeping loft and John rolled out his ground cloth and sleeping bag in front of the fire. The fire went out long before John fell asleep. He chuckled to himself as he watched the ceiling above him pulsing – pulsing with life. (“Two nice people,” John thought, filled with warm Christmas with family type feelings.) The down sleeping bag wrapped around his head and body kept John extremely warm. He even had to unzipper the bag a little to expose his entire face to the cool, fresh outside air. He enjoyed the warmth of the bag, but he couldn’t put up with the confinement and the smell of his own sweat and stale farts.
As John finally dozed off he didn’t fall into dream. He simply slipped out of his past and back into his present.
The train to Brig was a local and it stopped a lot more often than John would’ve liked. Every time they pulled into a station, John found his string of memories broken in order to look around the new station at the people on the platform.
Amy Beth had stopped her talking. That helped jolt John and his traveling companions out of their private reveries. They all looked at her as if they expected an explosion. She showed more strength and independence than John had given her credit for by simply picking herself up and getting off the train, just because the town they were passing interested her.
“What town is this?” she had asked.
“Montreux,” John had answered after being stunned by her fifteen second silence.
“It looks nice.”
“Yeah, it is. I stayed here once a few years ago. There’s an interesting château down by the lake. It served as the basis for one of Lord Byron’s poems. There are even some small palm trees down by the lake. Strange place.”
Amy just picked up her orange pack and climbed off. John smiled inwardly to himself when he realized how far off his judgments had been. The spontaneity which allowed her to make quick decisions was a quality which John valued highly.
The train started up again, but John had a little bit of trouble getting lost in its rhythms. The lack of Amy’s chattering was an obvious omission. Her voice was obviously still ringing in the minds of the other passengers too. They all looked shell shocked. John abandoned his eyes on the other side of the window. The mountains were much higher around Montreux than they were around Geneva. The lake and town and hillside grape fields all seemed more or less in harmony because of the late afternoon sun which was bathing them all in orange tints. Even a power station with large chimneys balanced on the slope of one of the mountains seemed to fit into the overall effect, because of its sheer magnitude and isolation.
A few things as we approach the end of the manuscript. I have to say that I became a little unstuck in time (to borrow Billy Pilgrim’s words) as I retyped this chapter. I was listening to live Grateful Dead as I typed, specifically a June 22, 1976 show from the Tower Theater in Philly that I attended, and I was concentrating on the music when I got to the part about John and Artie listening to the Dead and Jefferson Airplane in John’s room in high school. I hadn’t remembered that mention of my favorite bands. I also hadn’t remembered the line “…he didn’t fall into dream. He simply slipped out of his past and back into his present” and the sense of John’s floating freely in both temporal directions, not just backward. It surprises me a little that there haven’t been more musical references in the book considering how central music was to me when I wrote it. Not only was I attending the aforementioned show at the Tower as I was writing this, but when I went to Europe in 1975 I carried two things, a green Kelty backpack and a chipboard guitar case containing my imitation Martin D-28 made by Nagoya. I was not and am not a great musician, but a guitar was and is a necessity for me and playing and singing is not a bad way to meet people in a new place. The only musician mentioned here is Anne and her piano (but as Flaubert and I have already established, “Anne Jenkins, c’est moi!”).
Two: I don’t like the idea that John and the author think of a guy in his late forties or early fifties as “old.”
Three: I’m glad John and the author realized the fact that they were wrong to stereotype Amy Beth Wilkinson.