The Portable Veblen

16 NEVER THE SAME AGAIN

Paso Robles was crisp and bright the morning Veblen and the squirrel ventured over to Sunny Hill to visit Rudgear. Up a quiet street, where the mad could free-range in pajamas. A trailer court and an underfunded animal shelter frowned from the other side of the road. Surrounded by a carpet of brittle oak leaves, the archipelago of lime green buildings for the mentally unbalanced had been built around 1965.

Skill-building groups, general activities, small therapy groups, community meetings, physical and recreational activities, were idealized ways to describe what Rudgear was offered there. Every year his psychiatrist received, from any number of pharmaceutical companies, including Hutmacher, several all-expenses-paid vacations at conferences in luxurious resorts. In between his vacations he’d come by and sign off, with a quick blink, Rudgear’s list of nineteen meds, a third of them redundant and unnecessary.

“Okay,” Veblen informed the squirrel. “I’ll leave the window open, and I might be awhile, but you’ll be all right, won’t you? And then I’ll bring you back to Palo Alto where you belong. For all I know you have a family there.”

The squirrel settled back comfortably into the corner, radiating consent.

She removed the bags of supplies from the trunk and applied herself to her task, entering the building with practiced calm. In no corner of the complex was it possible to escape the aroma of institutional cuisine — creamed corn, tubs of sloppy joe, acidic apple juice, canned fruit cocktail, defrosted nuggets of fried chicken or fish sticks.

“Veblen, how you doing?” asked Bebe Kaufman, who always wore a running suit and a set of keys on a long black cord around her neck.

“Fine, how about you?”

“’Bout the same. Your father fell in the hallway yesterday, didn’t have his shoes on right. He bleeds and bruises; he’s lucky his bones are strong.”

“Any changes in the medications?”

“No, everything’s the same. His diabetes is under control, and no hallucinations in a long while. But when he’s scared, boy, do I feel bad for him. He’s been peaceful lately. He’s a real gentleman.”

Veblen held up her bags. “I brought all the stuff — two new pairs of pajamas, three pairs of drawstring pants, new socks, all the toothpaste and powder. Oh, and that coccyx pillow.”

“Nice girl,” said Bebe, whose approval Veblen mysteriously sought. “I’ll put it down on his inventory.”

She marched down the hall to see her father, past custodians in their whites on chairs in a break room, mops at rest against the door. Past a woman with chattering teeth in a purple velour robe in a wheelchair. Past a small, round man peering from inside his room, wearing no more than a white undershirt and shorts and shin-high brown socks with holes at the toes. Around a corner with a lithograph of a beagle fetching a ball in a baseball diamond, past a woman who looked like an ancient contessa with sharp noble features, who always wore lipstick, to an elevator that descended to a floor of all men. An attendant paced the hall with a wad of keys on his belt.

Father. It had a much more nebulous definition than mother. In this case it was a name, a shadow, aiming darts at her from the darkness.

She drifted in like a stray feather. No use startling him, deep in his chair, watching the History channel.

“Hi, Dad.”

“Hi, kiddo.” He had green eyes like hers, but his skin was pinker, and he was bald and had scabs on his head, some of which were protected by gauze. His polo shirt, white with blue stripes, had been laundered so much it was see-through, yet stained everywhere, even on the sleeves, and his brown sweatpants had turned a sickly yellow color, probably thrown in with bleach. A framed picture of Veblen with her arm around him sat atop his bureau (she’d given it to him), and several versions of Van Gogh’s sunflowers on laminated placemats were taped to the wall by his bed.

She came over to the chair and gave him a kiss. He gave her a kiss back. Then he continued with his show, about Normandy and D-day.

“They just showed a guy talking about the blood pooling under the trees, and now those trees are huge. Blood meal. He was run over by a tank and lost his legs. Of course, those kids’ll never be the same mentally, they won’t be right.”

Veblen nodded. It was one of his manias to end nearly every story: “He was never the same again.” “She was never the same again.”

“So I came down with a squirrel in the car,” she told him.

“Oh, really?” He loved animals.

“Do you want to see him?”

“Okeydoke.”

“Okay. We’ll go look in a minute. I want to tell you something. I have some news. You ready?”

She sat next to his chair, on the edge of the bed, but he looked a bit scared.

“Yeah, what’s that? You win the lottery?”

“No, but it looks like I’m getting married.”

His chest caved in.

“Dad? Did you hear me?”

He peered at her sidelong. “What do you want from me?”

“Nothing. I only wanted to tell you.”

“Marriage is not my forte.”

“Maybe it’ll be mine.”

“I hope so, kiddo,” he said. “I didn’t have much luck.”

She got up and breathed deeply and walked a few times around the room. To change the mood, she retrieved the bag of treats and dangled the peanut-butter-filled pretzels and soft licorice before his eyes.

“Oh, goody,” he said.

He was not supposed to eat foodstuffs from the outside, but Veblen always snuck in the licorice and pretzels because he loved them so much.

“Don’t let the warden see,” he said.

“Want some juice too?”

“Yep.”

She poured the juice into a coffee cup and watched TV with him awhile. More footage of D-day, GIs pouring from landing crafts onto the sand.

“There’s no such thing as a good war,” he said.

She nodded thoughtfully.

“You know what I did in Vietnam?” he rasped.

“What?”

“Killed women and children.”

“Tell me about your friend Ybahn and the Montagnards,” Veblen coaxed.

“They were the sweetest little people, but we ruined them — the whole culture. They were never the same, they lost everything.”

“But those stories about the big feasts they’d make you, I like those.”

“I think so.”

That was all he managed. There was a time when talking about the Montagnards, the tribal hill people of Vietnam who furtively helped the U.S. military during the war, provided relief from his more troubled recollections.

“Paul, the man I’m going to marry, is a doctor, and works with vets.” As soon as she said this, she felt sad. Was this marriage thing going to work or not?

“I can sure use some help,” said her father.

“I’m sure.”

Another stick of soft licorice went in, blackening his lips and tongue.

“Dad, do you remember your parents speaking Norwegian when you were growing up?”

“Nope,” he said.

If she could only ask the right questions, to unlock him!

“Did they ever tell you anything about their childhoods?”

He reached for another licorice stick, chewed awhile. “Nope. We had some kids in the neighborhood, got mixed up with some rough guys, talked them into robbing a store. They were caught, thrown in jail. When they came out, boy, they were never the same again.”

Veblen nodded. She patted her father’s arm, where he had a large shiny scar, and realized she didn’t know its origin. It was a puzzle to imagine him and her mother hanging around together, but according to records, they shared the same address in Sacramento for about six weeks in a newlyweds’ apartment full of useless wedding gifts, like fondue kits and lazy Susans, drinking and brawling into the night, all youthful and fecund and feral faced, cherry lipped and flushed, annihilating their woes in carnal plenitude. They were never the same again.

“So, Dad, you’ve got some nice new pajamas and some new pants and socks. Anything else you need?”

“I could use one of those — those things, those long things.”

“What long things?”

“I don’t know what they’re called. They’re — very long.” He motioned with his hands.

She looked around the room for clues. “What do you use them for?”

“I don’t know, Veblen. I need some air!”

She stood up and paced the room. “Sorry, Dad.” She fiddled about, trying to make improvements for him. She opened the window for fresh air, pulled back the heavy curtain for more light. She straightened a picture she’d given him, of tigers. He loved tigers. She wandered into his bathroom and neatened it, wiping droplets of urine off the toilet rim and some hairs out of the sink. Back in the room, she hung up a few of his sweatshirts and placed his tired old caps on hooks. He looked at her then and jutted his hand. “More, please.”

“Want to go outside for a little while? It’s a beautiful day.”

“Not really.”

“Let’s go outside for five minutes, the sun will feel good.”

“All right.”

He rose abruptly, pretzel crumbs powdering the floor, the dandruff of food. “I’m quite a sight.”

“You look good,” she said, gently taking his arm.

She moved him slowly toward his door. “Straighten up,” she reminded him. He pulled his chest up. “Good.”

Arm in arm they took the hall, heading for the serviceable garden courtyard. Outside they sat on a concrete bench in the shade. Primrose and four-o’clocks and a small burbling fountain did what they could to lend some cheer.

“This is a pretty nice place,” he said. “Did you hear we had some excitement?”

“No, what happened?”

“We had a van parked across the street for weeks, and my buddy down the hall, Bob, called the police, couldn’t get a word out of ’em. And Bob has a friend whose daughter is a secretary over there and he finally calls her, tells her about the van, gives her the license number. She looks it up. California plate, by the way. Turns out it’s registered to something called the ABC Key Company in Washington, D.C.”

Veblen knew his way of thinking. “How strange.”

“You bet it’s strange. He saw a scope coming up through the roof one night.”

“What did you do next?”

“What could we do? The cops were in on it. We were careful what we talked about after that.”

“You know what, Dad? They like you here a lot.”

He was breathing heavily. “Do I have to stay here?”

“No. Do you want me to find out about a new place, nearer to me?”

He thought for a moment. “I don’t think so.”

“Will you come to my wedding?”

Venturing this request, she felt a surge of anxiety.

“I don’t think I’m presentable enough.”

“But, Dad, you’re fine. Paul’s family is casual and relaxed. They even used to be nudists!”

“Holy mackerel,” said her father. “They’ll call me a baby killer and tell me I’m going to hell.”

“Everyone will be impressed with your service.”

He was quiet for a while. “Was that what it was?”

“Yes, of course it was.”

He rocked a little.

“What would I wear?”

“We can shop for a new suit if you want.”

“A new suit.”

He was quiet again.

“I can’t give you away. I have a shaking problem and I also have to wear a pad.”

“That’s okay, Dad. It won’t be a traditional wedding.”

“I don’t do well in crowds. I need air.”

She sighed, but her cheerful side told her that a challenge could lift a person up sometimes.

“Let me think about it,” he said.

She kissed his cheek. “Really! Thanks.”

“Thanks, kid. I’m feeling a little shaky now. Maybe we better go back in.”

“But want to see the squirrel?”

“Maybe next time.”

“I won’t bring him next time, Dad. Just for a second.”

“I don’t think so. I gotta go.”

She couldn’t insist. She’d never owned him, the way some girls owned their fathers, and for that matter he didn’t own her. She helped him up and they shuffled inside through the glass doors, down the long hallway, into his room, where he plopped back into his chair and synced up with the History channel. She sat on the bed and for the next hour they watched a documentary on the Mexican War of 1846–48, one of the lesser known wars on the list maintained by the Department of Veterans Affairs.

“Dad, I’ll call you next week, okay?”

“Thanks,” said her father, crunching a peanut-butter-filled pretzel.

“You’ll keep thinking about my wedding, about coming?”

“That I will, daughter,” he said.

She stood in the doorway for a few minutes, watching him dig around his molars for the mashed-up pretzels that clung to them, and soon realized he’d forgotten she was there.

She moved away, down the hall with the spongy carpet, installed to cushion falls.

• • •

ON HER WAY OUT, she found Bebe.

“So it’s possible I’m getting married in May, and if I do, I’d like my father to come. You think he’d be okay?”

“Possibly getting married? Don’t you know?”

“I mean, am. Yes.” She became clear right then on everything, the whole thing, that it would be at Cloris Hutmacher’s house, which would be good for Paul’s career and make him happy. It didn’t matter where, after all. Why had she been so stingy?

“When was the last time he traveled, do you remember? Hold on, I’ll get out the chart.”

“I don’t think he’s traveled much at all. I took him out for frozen yogurt once.”

At that moment, Ted Waxman, the director of Sunny Hill, appeared, apparently on his way to a tennis match, and he shook the tips of Veblen’s fingers.

“Mr. Waxman, Miss Amundsen-Hovda is getting married and wants her father there, Rudgear. I’m looking at his status for passes.”

Waxman said, “Congratulations. Let me take a look.”

He took the file, rifling through officiously. Then he cleared his throat a few times and read some notes that had been clipped to the front.

“It appears he hasn’t been out of the facility for two years. His behavioral record is faultless, but we would still have to progress him through the pass system before releasing him for an overnighter. I take it the wedding is not in Paso Robles?”

“The Bay Area. Atherton.”

“Did you consider having your wedding here, to ease the situation with your father?”

“Um, no,” said Veblen, in all honesty. Should she have?

“Well, every family has a different style,” Waxman said. “Some don’t include them at all.”

“It’s sad,” said Bebe.

“Yes, it is, but by the time they come to us, they’ve dished out enough abuse for a lifetime, and the families have had enough,” Waxman said.

Bebe said, “It’s obvious he was good to you, probably a wonderful dad growing up. I can tell you’re very close.”

Veblen cleared her throat uncomfortably.

Waxman continued, “So let’s see, we’d start him on a patio pass. If he stays on the patio, then he’ll advance to a progress pass.”

“Is it progress to stay on a patio?” Veblen asked.

“You bet it is. Then if he meets acceptable behavior guidelines he can get a peer pass, and we’ll take it from there.”

“What are acceptable behavior guidelines?” Veblen wondered.

Waxman said, “No murder and mayhem.” He coughed. “Of course I’m being facetious. We have a very good reputation.” He lowered his voice. “It happened before I was here.”

“So we’d better start the process right away,” said Bebe.

“Do you think he’ll be able to have a good time?” Veblen asked, a bit doubtful.

Bebe said, “Girl, it’s your wedding. Your dad should be there whether he has a good time or not.”

“I don’t want it to be an ordeal for him.”

“He’s the ordeal, right? Pay it back!”

They laughed with the guilty pleasure of caretakers, and Waxman said, “Ladies, I have piles of work waiting for me.” And he vanished out the back door with his racket.

“I should come get my father myself, don’t you think? So he feels safe?”

“Drive down here the day before your wedding? I’ll arrange it with our transport service. It’s settled. Don’t worry about a thing,” said Bebe, as she had many times, Veblen reckoned, to people whose loved ones were about to make a noose with their sheets and hoist themselves in the closet, or stick a dinner fork through their nasal passages into their brains.

“Thanks, Bebe.”

• • •

“MAYBE ONCE some giant picked up my father and set him down somewhere else, like I nearly did to you,” Veblen said to the squirrel, as they hit the road. “And he had no idea how to get home or be okay again. And then everyone thought he was crazy.”

She bit into a yellow Delicious she’d brought along.

“Geez,” she said. “You know what? If you think about it symbolically, the military was the giant, and it plucked him up in Waukegan and set him down in Southeast Asia — and he was never the same again.”

No argument from the squirrel.

“Funny how Bebe thinks we’ve always been close. I’m glad Paul didn’t come, I’m not sure he’d get it.”

The squirrel’s tail flickered gently.

This prompted another call to Paul, again met with an immediate recording. Strange that his phone would be off, and that he hadn’t called her last night or today.

Her thoughts wandered. “You know, I wonder if the gentlemanly title of squire could be connected to the word squirrel. Way back, of course. Although I’ve heard it comes from the old Greek skiouros, which means shade ass.”

He jauntily lifted his tail and fanned it out over his backside!

“I know the old English was aquerne, like acorn. And the German word for squirrel is Eichhörnchen, which means something like oak-kitty. Nothing to do with squires or knights at all. In fact, your name is used derisively a lot of the time. To be squirrelly is to be crazy, nutty, weird. Outside the norm. And to squirrel something away is to be a hoarder, a stasher, a miser, a skinflint.

“Why has your name been so abused?

“It’s not fair. Thorstein Veblen’s name was abused,” she said next. “They called him the nutty professor and thought he was some kind of freak. But he had two stepdaughters who adored him. He’d show them natural wonders in the woods, like how balsam sap was good for blisters, and he’d wake them up in the middle of the night to see special stars, and he’d teach them interesting words, and he’d make them pens out of feathers! He was actually really chivalrous when you look into it. One time I went to Chicago with Albertine; she was going to a Jung conference. And I went to the archives at the University of Chicago and read his correspondence. I think his first wife was kind of like my grandmother, really difficult and weird. Plus, this is kind of weird, she had infantilized genitalia, which means she couldn’t have sex or whatever, which isn’t good for a marriage, even though they stayed together for years. Sorry. TMI?” She laughed. Her mother would kill her for saying TMI. But she could say it all she wanted, she was free! TMI! TMI! Actually, come to think of it, TMI sounded stupid. “You see, I need to come to that conclusion empirically, not just avoid saying it because my mother tells me not to, you know what I mean?”

In a while, she said:

“I guess I should tell my mother what’s going on. Is that what you’re thinking?”

The squirrel had no doubt.

“It’s going to be a difficult conversation,” she assessed.

The squirrel knew this too. That he acknowledged it made her feel infinitely stronger.

“All right. I should get it over with.”

So after a few more miles, she called home.

“Hi, Linus!” she said, as the squirrel bore witness. “Can I talk to Mom?”

He spoke in a hush. “She’s outside right now. We put the roof back on the chicken house and we cleaned it up, so she’s having some fun out there with her art supplies.”

“Great,” said Veblen. “Should I call back later?”

“I hear you’ve got all kinds of plans in place for the big day,” Linus said.

“We’re trying. I think it’s coming together.”

“Mind if I get some information?” asked Linus. “Now might be a good time.”

“Go for it.”

“Good. So I understand this is happening at a big fancy house in Atherton?”

“I guess it is. But just for our families and friends. The owner won’t be there.”

“All right, good. That was making your mother nervous. Now, we wanted to know, will there be parking, and will she have to walk a great distance from the car? Her ankles are really bothering her.”

“You guys can have priority parking, right next to the house.”

“Terrific. And — will there be a room she can rest in, if she needs to lie down?”

Veblen rolled her eyes. “Sure, no problem.”

“Okay. And then, will I have access to the kitchen, to make sure I can get her water at any time, or ice, that sort of thing?”

“Yes,” said Veblen, keeping her eyes on the road. “Whatever you need.”

Linus cleared his throat. “All right, Veb. Just a few more here. Food. Have you checked that she can eat what’s on the menu?”

“How about if you send me the latest list of stuff she can’t have and I’ll show it to the caterer.”

“Okay, good plan. I knew you were thinking of her. Do you remember what happened the time we went to my colleague’s wedding in Walnut Creek?”

“Remind me,” said Veblen.

“The jackass caterer had the list months in advance, but all she made for your mother was a bowl of carrots and a hard-boiled egg.”

“I’ll have whole main dishes she can eat,” Veblen asserted.

“Terrific. I’ll go get her now. Take care, Veblen.”

She waited, then heard the distinctive snap of the screen door, and her mother clattering into her place by the phone.

“Hello, dear. Did Linus tell you? I’ve had a lot of arrhythmia the past few days. I had to go to the hospital.”

“Oh my god. You okay now?”

“I think my calcium was low.”

“Yeah, that’s bad.”

“It bleeds out because of my adrenal problems. There’s nothing I can do about it.”

“Sorry, Mom.”

“Well, that’s me,” said her mother. “I’m a little worried about what to wear to this very posh affair.”

“It’s casual. It’s just a house. Don’t worry about it.”

“When you’re me, there’s always something to worry about. Everything goes wrong for me, and you know it.”

She had something else to say, and it was harder. Maybe later. Maybe her mother would scream. She noticed the squirrel staring at her, gripping the bars of the trap.

— Go on, you can do it.

She took a deep breath.

“Mom?”

“Yes?”

— Get it over with, now’s the time.

“I’m driving back — from Paso Robles. I had to take a little trip to bring Rudgear some supplies.”

“Oh, damn that man! That’s the last thing you need.”

“No big deal. Anyway—” She hesitated, but the squirrel stared at her with utmost trust, waiting patiently for her to do the right thing. “Well, time has gone by, and I was thinking it would make sense to have Rudgear come to the wedding.”

She could swear it, the squirrel beamed and fluffed out all around.

And she could hear her mother’s nostrils flaring, her breath rifling the hairs often found therein.

“I suppose that’s reasonable,” said her mother, at last.

“You think so?” Veblen said, passing a truck full of spinach.

“It’s reasonable if you want me to be — miserable.”

The squirrel stood by.

“Mom.” She took a deep breath, bolstered by the sturdy presence of the squirrel. “He’s not a brute anymore. He is a shell of a person you can take pity on, okay?”

“Everybody gets old, even serial murderers. Does that mean we should take pity on them?”

Her mother would say anything to win an argument.

“Frankly, I resent the fact you have anything to do with him. Why did you find it necessary?”

“Because they needed a next-of-kin person to have power of attorney, and they got in touch with me. It’s okay, really.”

“How is it okay?”

“I don’t mind, it doesn’t bother me.”

“So you’re stuck taking care of a man who never cared for you one iota?”

Why did her mother always have to tell her that her other relatives didn’t care about her? She’d often told Veblen her grandmother didn’t love her because she didn’t love Melanie, her own daughter, and if she couldn’t love her own child she couldn’t love anybody. And that her grandfather Woodrow only liked her because she was a young woman and wasn’t fat and ugly. “Mom, if you were in my position, you’d do the same thing, wouldn’t you?”

Her mother let out a strangled sigh, bordering on a groan.

“All right. So, do you think he’s wonderful, and that I kept you from having a loving relationship with your father?”

“Don’t twist things.”

“Is he still in that home for the mentally ill?”

“That’s where he is,” said Veblen, her hands rigid on the wheel.

“I see,” said her mother. “I told you all along. At least I can have that satisfaction.”

“Yes, at least.”

“I knew he was mentally ill after one week with him.”

“How?”

Her mother sighed again. “We were on our honeymoon and Rudgear thought a man at a table in the restaurant was staring at him, and he got up in the middle of dinner and left.”

“He still thinks people are staring at him.”

“Then he wouldn’t speak to me for the rest of the night or the next day. He turned into an icicle. It was terrible.”

“Yeah, it must have been,” said Veblen, recalling one of her adult encounters with her father.

It was a visit not long after she moved into the cottage on Tasso Street, when she was still fixing it up. And only the second time she’d seen him as an adult. He came dressed in a jacket and tie and took her to lunch at an upscale restaurant on University Avenue, acting almost like it was a date, and brought her a gift that day, an appliance purporting to save a VCR from overuse. (She still had one.) In other words, when a video ended, you were supposed to haul out this electric piece of junk and plug it in and rewind your video in it. To make it all the more horrible, Rudgear had purchased an accessory for the gadget, a red-striped vinyl cover.

“Gee,” Veblen had said, “thanks.” Why not have a separate refrigerator that precools your food to save the real refrigerator? Or an electric box that gets your food hot before you waste the oven? Or sheets to put over the main sheets, or towels to wrap around the main towels, what the heck. How about getting another one of these rewinders to save this rewinder? Commerce was based on so many miserable, hoodwinking ideas that the device depressed her, but she tried to hide what she felt.

As Rudgear knelt to plug in the unwanted rewinder, he had to fiddle with the VCR and DVD cords, which had been shoved behind the small crate on which Veblen’s TV was balanced. She noticed he was sweating and told him not to worry, that she’d get one of those power strips and plug it in later.

“I can’t do this,” Rudgear said suddenly. He stood and brushed himself off, his face pallid and damp. “How can you live like this?”

“Like what?”

“Like — some kind of drug addict! I gotta go. I gotta go!”

He moved for the door, struggling with the handle, so agitated he could barely turn the knob. She placed a gentle hand on his back and told him not to worry, she was still fixing it up, that it was going to be nice, that he should sit down and have some coffee with her. But he grabbed the doorknob with both hands, ripping it open, kicking wide the screen door, tripping down the steps. He bolted for his car, threw himself in with a slam. She pelted the window with her palms.

“Dad!” she’d cried. “Stop!”

His body arched as he jammed his hands into his pockets.

“Please don’t go!” she begged.

He pulled things up from his pockets, loose change, Life Savers, receipts, finally producing the keys, which fell to the floor of the car. He hit his head on the steering wheel as he leaned forward to fish for them.

“Please, Dad!”

Why was he leaving?

Why was she calling him Dad?

He really did go. He drove away from the daughter he was trying to mend with. She had a long cry on the front steps until she felt drained and empty.

Now her mother said, “I don’t want you to find out Paul is mentally ill after a week,” diversifying her gripes.

“No, that wouldn’t be fun.”

“Is there any chance of waiting a little longer?”

“I don’t know. We’ll see.” She pressed on the gas, wanting to get home.

“Why? Is something wrong?”

“Nothing. I’m tired. I might know Paul better than you knew Rudge,” Veblen added, keeping her eyes fixed on the road.

“Yes. That’s because I love you and I’ve put my life into raising you, and therefore you are not finding it necessary to run into a man’s arms like I did. I hope.”

She had her own wounds, hadn’t she? She had her own reasons to run, wouldn’t you say? But none could compare to her mother’s. “Fair enough.”

“I’m an utter failure, except for raising a beautiful daughter. That’s my one accomplishment in life.”

“You’re a great artist, Mom, and you had a good career for a while.”

“Please don’t patronize me. I know of what I speak.”

“Okay.”

Silence again.

“Veblen, you may not know it now, but marriage affects everything that happens to you. Your mate becomes the mirror in which you see yourself. If he doesn’t see you as a beautiful pearl, you’ll wither. Does he see you as a beautiful pearl?”

“Maybe I’m not a beautiful pearl.”

“You are! Don’t ever say that to me!”

“Okay, I’m a beautiful pearl.”

“He is not vindictive and insane?” asked her mother.

“I thought we were talking about Rudgear,” said Veblen, lowering her window a little to revive.

Her mother took a deep breath. “All right, then. So all I need to do is accept the fact that on the otherwise happiest day of my life, I have to see Rudgear Amundsen-Hovda and behave as if it’s just another day in the park. The man who emotionally battered me, and contributed nothing to your upbringing except for heartbreak and suffering. Yes. Let’s do it!”

“You knew he was shell-shocked in Vietnam when you married him.”

“I was too attracted to him to think clearly.”

“So you admit he’s had a hard life.”

“So have I. My mother bloodied my nose every day of my youth.”

Veblen cleared her throat. “I know your life was horrible. Your father was always away and your mother was a sociopath and nobody knew it. It was a childhood unbearable by all standards, even compared to fly-covered, starving children in Africa.”

“Are you ridiculing me?”

“No, I really mean it. To be isolated with a madwoman all your childhood must have been — hideous. Suffocating. Awful.”

“Must have been?” cried Melanie.

“Was! Was!”

“All right, then,” said her mother. “Have Rudgear come for your reasons.”

“Thanks, Mom.”

“And who will give you away? I suppose you’ve asked Rudgear?”

“No,” said Veblen, “no, I was planning to ask someone else.”

“Oh. Linus?”

She hadn’t planned to mention this yet, but a rush of feeling for Paul, whom she missed now, and for her mother, propelled her onward, come what may.

“No, you.”

Her mother screeched, “Me? Why me?”

“Because — you’re the one.”

“Sweetie,” Melanie stammered. “That’s very unorthodox.”

“So what? Come on, you know we have a matriarchy going on here. Remember when we read Bachofen together?” Bachofen wrote Mother Right, which attempted to demonstrate that motherhood was at the center of all religions and societies and behavior from the beginning of human history.

“I get very nervous in front of people,” said her mother.

“But you could do it, couldn’t you?”

Her mother’s voice fell to a whisper. “I am fat and ugly.”

“Mom, I want you next to me. You’re the one who’s always been there for me, and I love you.”

“Oh, dear. I’m sorry I’m such a wreck.”

She was watching the traffic ahead of her. “We’ll both be wrecks together,” said Veblen, with small tears in her eyes.

“My pride… I can barely move… I’m as wide as a barn… I’ll fall over right in front of everybody. I won’t be able to let go of you.”

Veblen said, “Practice, Mom. You can do it.”

“I feel very stressed now.”

“I’d better go,” Veblen said. “We’ll talk more later.”

“I love you, sweetie.”

“I love you too.”

Veblen’s determination with her mother usually paid off in cases where Veblen was proving her love. In cases where Veblen tried to create distance, she’d been much less able.

“She’ll have a great time and later she’ll know it was right,” said Veblen to the squirrel. “She’ll be thrilled that I wanted her so badly. She’ll complain but she’ll do it.”

She looked at the squirrel, who, despite his misgivings about the wedding, knew a righteous act when he saw it.

Oh, to be out on the open road. Oh, to tell her what one squirrel’s life added up to!

He might choose the final fight with his wife, atop the old oak in Wobb, from which she cursed his name and pushed him off the weak end of the branch. And all the vitriol thereafter, when she tried to ruin his career. But that was ugly stuff, and deep down he bore a loyalty to the woman he couldn’t forsake, no matter what she did.

He could describe his picaresque education and his work, or his special studies on numerous topics including the ethnopoetics of — her. Might seem a bit like cozying up. Best not.

He could talk about each and every one of his children, for they sparkled in his crown like jewels.

Abigu, Ataturk, Nan-bon, and Cleede were his first. Abigu and Cleede, artists now. Ataturk had a temper but with the proper nuts under control. Cleede was a wonderful mother with many children of her own. And then Devonian, Dwormuth, Dragwood, and Eleide — would she really want to know?

Devonian was a master carpenter. Married, nice family. Dwormuth was an intellectual, working on a dream book. Dragwood had a daughter with knee troubles and spent much time at her side.

Egon, Wauna, Dinse, and Dwee came during a cold winter that nearly killed them. Dinse was at loose ends, and Dwee was a firefighter. Wauna sorted acorns at a plant, but was a supervisor. Egon made carpets and had a beautiful wife and was a wonderful dad.

Sato, Finkie, and Forbush came next. Finkie and Forbush lived in an imaginary world of their own, and stood apart from the rest. Sato was married to a horrible man. Gaffy, Gozo, Gander, and Gree were still learning. Rather childish but affectionate. Gaffy had some singing talent. Hattie, Horti, Heino, and Ife were politically active, and Heino was interested in philosophy. Itti-ko, Ivory, Ion, Jellyboy, Jips, and Ringie sprang from an unusually large litter. They were all small and delicate, but they’d turned into very interesting squirrels. Ivory and Jellyboy had an aptitude for speech. Calarak, Tanga, and Quipper were prone to outbursts and tears, and had very tight muscles. He loved them, of course. Zeonides, Latereen, Driver, still youths. Wollister, Viluk, Razzztak-hive, Vlee, Chupperwhupper, and Lou were single births, and perhaps that’s why they were extra clingy.

Though they tried to gather for big mash-up suppers on Sunday afternoons, it wasn’t always easy. Every family had its burdens. Sato lived with a sadistic blue jay, and Calarak danced at a striptease. That had been a tough one.

“But you love your family, what can you do,” said Veblen out loud, clearly understanding everything.

And that pleased him, she could see.

• • •

MEANWHILE, THE DAY was coming to an end, and the sun had gone down behind the coastal mountains. Traffic wore its lights. Field workers were piling into open trucks that hauled their Porta Potties behind them.

Squirrels were thinking about the night ahead, and how to avoid owls.

One squirrel was inside a car, returning to Tall Tree, California.

She knew where to take him. Before turning onto Tasso Street, she parked alongside the creek bed, and toted the cage out in the dark. Down the bank she skied on dry leaves, and beside the rivulet nestled the cage on the ground. It had been a long day.

“I’m so sorry to drag you all that way in such ignominious fashion. But here you are. And don’t forget where I live! Come by again sometime. If necessary, we’ll do this all over again!”

Paul could say what he wanted. This squirrel had no intention of burning down the house.

A breeze unsettled the trees, and a nightingale laughed. Crunching and gnawing could be heard in nearby shrubs. The night animals were out and about. The smell of rotting leaves drifted up from beneath her shoes, and she brushed a papery moth from her cheek. A rhyme formed in her head:

The Flying squirrel flies, and the Irksome squirrel irks.

The Spinning squirrel spins and the Smirking squirrel smirks.

The Crapulous craps and the Lurking lurks;

But when the Talking squirrel talks, none but a Listening Human works.

Veblen gasped. “A listening human, eh? A rare variation on the Q chromosome? About.0000000000000001 of the population, you say?”

She attempted to picture all those zeros in her head, recognizing this was about one in eight billion.

“That’s the whole population of the world! Of people, of course. Are you saying I might be the only person, on earth, who listens?”

If that wasn’t a nod, she hardly knew what was.

“Well.”

She made no move to go; she felt like sleeping on the bank.

“Here we are, then.”

The squirrel was quiet in the cage. She marveled that he wasn’t rattling about in a petulant frenzy.

“We hit it off, didn’t we?”

And she opened the trap door.

The squirrel appeared in the moonlight, standing before her. A beetle was crawling across her hand before she thought about time again. And the squirrel ran down to the ribbon of flowing water, and drank. She saw it scooping water into its hands, washing its face, squeezing water from its tail. It was a beautiful night, all silver on the branches and leaves of the tall trees around her, and the ground glimmering as well. “I think a person ought to go sit outside every night of their life. How can it be good for us to miss this? We stay all closed up in our houses with lightbulbs. This is so beautiful!” she said to herself. She dug her hands into the mulch around her, and kept watch on the squirrel, who continued to cool himself in the creek, flicking his tail like a magnificent plume. “Yet you wish to sleep in the attic,” she teased the squirrel. “When you could be out here under the beautiful moon.” She thought of hawks and owls then, coming down with their hungry talons, and said, “It’s nice to sleep where owls and hawks aren’t flying past, though. That’s the truth.” For hours you could not trust the world to take care of you, when you closed your eyes. Every creature knew it.

She saw two small figures coming down to the creek, soon nose to nose with her squirrel, three tails now twitching together, some quiet conversation between them. He had friends, family here. She had done the right thing!

“Good night,” she called.

• • •

— DAD, YOU ALL RIGHT? Did they cut open your brain and put electrodes on it and fill your skull with dyes?

— Not this time. I was simply on a road trip with a friend.

• • •

SHE WENT HOME and started to sing. “I’ve just seen a face… /He’s just the squill for me / lalalalalala.’” And laughed at herself. It was madness born of a surplus of feeling, that’s all. As a girl, visiting a farm on a school trip, Veblen fed hardened corncobs to a crowd of gnashing hogs, and felt the terror of the tug of their mouths. She saw a calf being born, watched it licked by its mother into standing, and heard the busy cluck of chickens extruding their eggs. She survived a goose peck to the leg and combed the glorious mane of a mare. Indeed, the day seemed to portend a future so full of riches, on the school bus coming back she found herself bawling her eyes out. “I like that farm so much,” she said, surprising her teacher, who only wanted to comfort her for something simple, like an earache, or a scraped knee.