The Tin Can Tree

15

Joan arrived at the Pikes' house in Mr Carleton's taxi, rattling over the gravel road in pitch dark with the taxi's one headlight making a swerving yellow shaft in front of them. Her suitcases were on the back seat, where they bounced around at every bump in the road, and she sat up front with Mr Carleton but she didn't talk to him. Twice he tried to begin a conversation. He started off the first time with, 'Well, now. Well, now. I didn't know you were even gone, Miss Joan.' And when she didn't answer that, except for a single motion of her head that might have been a nod, he rode on in silence for a while and then tried again. 'Wherever you were,' he said, 'I sure hope the weather was good.' But Joan's face was turned away from him, and she went on looking out the window without even changing expression.

When they turned into the Pikes' yard Joan sat up and opened her straw handbag. She didn't look toward the house. Mr Carleton said, 'Some kind of party?' and then she heard the noises that were floating from Ansel's window. Music, and voices, and someone laughing. The light from that window flooded the yard, fading out the pale yellow of the taxi's headlight. The rest of the house was dark. 'I don't know,' she said, and reached forward to hand him his money. 'Don't worry about my bags; I'll take them in.'

'They look pretty heavy for you.'

'I can take them.'

He climbed out his side of the taxi to drag the bags from the back seat. Somehow the bag that had been her father's had had a strap broken; the strap dangled, looking ridiculous and defeated. When Mr Carleton handed the bag to her she swayed for a minute, surprised by the weight of it, and then she said, 'Okay. I've got it.'

'You sure now.'

'Sure. Thank you, Mr Carleton.'

'Oh, it's nothing,' he said. 'Good night.' He climbed back into the taxi, slamming the door behind him, and backed out into the road. Joan started for the porch.

The suitcases were hard to get up the steps. She swung them onto the porch one at a time, and then she climbed the steps herself and picked them up again. This all felt so familiar; how many times had she lugged these suitcases into this house? She thought of the first time, coming here in a dust storm, met on the steps by Janie Rose who wore nothing but her underpants and carried one half a brown rubber sheet that they hadn't been able to get away from her in those days. Now there was no one at all to meet her. When she opened the front door the house was so empty it seemed to echo. She turned on a lamp, and it threw long, lonely shadows across the parlour walls.

The first thing she did was put her suitcases back in her bedroom. Whether they had noticed she was gone or not, she didn't want them to come back and find those suitcases. Then she closed her bedroom door and went directly to Simon's room. He wasn't there. The room was black and the door was open, and everything had a strange blank look.

Downstairs, she poured herself a glass of milk from the refrigerator and then wandered through the rooms drinking the milk and switching on every light she came across. Soon all in the house were on, but it didn't seem to change things. When the motor in the refrigerator started up she jumped a little, half frightened for a second. Then she set down the glass of milk and walked very slowly and deliberately out of the house, with that feeling of loneliness prickling the back of her neck as she walked.

The way the music was pouring out, she couldn't identify the voices from Ansel's window. All she heard was words and phrases, and occasional laughter. She stopped at the Potters' window and peered in, but not a single light glimmered there, not even from the very back of the house. They couldn't be far, then. If they planned to be gone for any length of time they turned all the lamps on and sat up a cardboard silhouette of a man reading that was guaranteed to fool burglars. And they couldn't be in bed; it was no later than ten o'clock. She turned away from the window and looked out at the yard, hoping they might come walking up, but they didn't. The only thing left to do was to go on to Ansel's.

No one answered when she knocked. It was too noisy for them to hear her. She opened the screen and knocked once more on the inner door, hard, and then she heard Ansel say, 'Wait! Did someone knock?'

'I didn't hear anyone,' said Miss Lucy.

Joan knocked again, and Ansel said, 'See!' She felt the doorknob twist beneath her hands; then Ansel was standing there, swaying slightly and smiling at her, leaning his cheek against the edge of the door. 'Came back, did you,' he said.

'What?'

‘I saw you go.'

'I don't-'

'But I didn't tell,' he said, and then swung the door all the way open and threw back one arm to welcome her. 'Look what we got!' he called to the others. 'Who we got. See?'

Joan stepped inside and looked around her. The room was full; it looked as if someone had tipped the house endwise so that everyone had slid down to James's parlour. Now they sat in one smiling, rumpled cluster – the Potter sisters, the Pikes, Ansel, and James. When Ansel shouted at them they all turned toward Joan and waved, with their faces calm and friendly. The only one who seemed surprised was Simon. He stood up, and said, 'Joan!' but she frowned at him. 'Hush,' she said. The voices rose again, returning to whatever they'd been talking about before. Simon shouted, 'What?'

'I said, "Hush"!' called Joan.

'Oh, I didn't tell. It was like I promised you, I didn't-'

The rest of his words were drowned out, but Joan understood his meaning. Nobody had told. Maybe they thought she'd just been to a movie, or off visiting. Maybe they knew that wherever she'd gone, she'd be back. And now they sat here, cheerful and in a party mood -but what was the party about? Just by looking, she couldn't tell. Miss Lucy and Miss Faye were making a silhouette of James – Miss Lucy holding a lamp up so that James winced in the light of it, and Miss Faye tracing the shadow of his wincing profile on a sheet of paper held against the wall. But that was something they always did; some instinct seemed to push them into making silhouettes at parties, and now everyone in the house had at least one silhouette of everyone else. Nor could she tell anything from Mr Pike, who seemed to be a little tiddly from some wine he was drinking out of a measuring cup. He sat smiling placidly at something beyond Joan's range of vision, tapping one finger against the cup in time to a jazz version of 'Stardust' that the radio was sawing out. And the person who confused her most was Mrs Pike, sitting in a chair in the corner with her hands folded but her eyes alert to everything that was going on. 'Fourteen!' she called out; she seemed to be counting the swallows Simon took from his own glass of wine. But her voice was lost among all the other voices, and Joan had to read her lips. She turned to Ansel, to see if he could explain all this. He had lain back on his couch now, like an emperor at a Roman festival, and when he saw her look his way he smiled and waved.

'Have a seat!' he shouted. He pointed vaguely to several chairs that were already occupied. 'We're celebrating.'

'Oh,' Joan said. 'Celebrating.'

'Simon ran away.'

'What?'

Simon smiled at her and nodded. 'I went to Caraway on a bus,' he said.

'Oh, Simon.'

'I saw those gold earrings.'

'But how did-'

'James and Mama came and got me. They made a special trip,' he said. 'We're drinking Miss Faye's cooking wine.'

Joan felt behind her for a footstool and sat down on it. 'Are you all right?' she asked.

'Sure I am.'

'Oh, I wish I hadn't gone off and -'

'No, really, I'm all right,' said Simon. 'Look, they're letting me have wine. They put ice cubes in it to make it watery but I drink it fast before the ice can melt.'

'That's nice,' Joan said vaguely. She kept looking around at the others. Ansel leaned toward Joan with his own jelly glass of wine and said, 'Drink up,' and thrust it at her, and then lay down again. 'Ansel had to find his own supper tonight,' Simon told her. 'He had one slice of garlic bologna, all dried out. James is going to cook him a steak tomorrow to make up for it.'

Joan took a long swallow of cooking wine and looked over at James. He was swivelling his eyes toward the silhouette while he kept his profile straight ahead, so that he seemed cross-eyed. When he felt Joan looking at him he smiled and called something to her that she couldn't hear, and then Miss Faye said, 'When you talk your nose moves up and down,' and erased the line she had drawn for his nose and left a smudge there. Mr Pike laughed. He clanged when he laughed; it puzzled Joan for a minute, and then she examined him more closely and found in his lap the elephant bell from Mrs Pike's mantlepiece. 'Why has he got that bell?' she asked Simon.

Simon shrugged, and Ansel answered for him. 'He used it while hunting for Simon,' he called. 'Weird thing, ain't it? Such a funny shape it has. Everything Indians do is backwards, seems to me -'

'Fifteen!' Mrs Pike said.

'India Indians, of course,' said Ansel. 'Not American. Hey, James.'

Miss Faye's pencil had just hit the bottom of James's neck. She finished off with that same little bump at the base of it that sculptors put on marble busts, and then James stretched and turned toward Ansel.

'What, 'he said.

'Funny feeling in my feet, James.'

James sighed and rose to go over to the couch. 'Well, thank you, Miss Faye,' he called over his shoulder.

'No trouble at all. Joan, dear, it's your turn.’

'How about Simon?' asked Joan.

'They did me first,' Simon told her. 'I'm the guest of honour.'

'Oh.' She stood up and went over to the Potters, still carrying her glass of wine. 'My hair's not combed,' she told them.

'That's all right, we'll just smooth over that part on the paper. Will you have a seat?'

They sat her down firmly, both of them pressing on her shoulders. The lamp glared at her so brightly that it made a circular world that she sat in alone, facing Miss Lucy's steadily breathing bosom while Miss Faye, strange without gloves, skimmed the pencil around a suddenly too-big shadow of Joan. Outside the circle was the noise, and the beating music and the dark, faceless figures of the others. Their conversation seemed to be blurring together now.

'I had a cousin once, who did group silhouettes,' said Miss Faye. 'I don't know how. It's a talent I never had – he could make everyone be doing something so like themselves, even in a silhouette of twenty people you could name each person present.'

'That was Howard,' Miss Lucy said.

'Howard Potter Laskin. I remember him well. If he was only here tonight, why, we could put him right to work. I wish I knew how he did it.'

'Where is he now?' Miss Lucy asked.

'I don't know.'

Joan looked at her shadow, staring almost sideways the way James had done. 'There is a whole gallery of silhouettes in this house,' she said suddenly.

'Quiet, dear, you've moved.'

'Didn't I have this blouse on the last time? There was that same sticking-up frill around my neck.'

'Yes,' said Miss Faye. She sighed and her pencil moved briefly outside the shadow of the frill. 'Simon had the same shirt, too,' she said.

'How do you remember?'

The collar's worn out. Little threads poking up.'

Joan looked over at Simon; he nodded and held up the corner of his collar. 'This is the shirt I ran away in,' he called.

'Didn't you get dressed up to go?'

'You didn't do the laundry yet.'

'Oh,' said Joan, and she turned back to fit her head into the silhouette. Miss Faye started on the back of her hair, skimming past the shadows of stray wisps the way she had promised.

'The mornings after parties,' she said, 'Miss Lucy and I cut these out and mount them. Don't we, Lucy? We talk over the parties as we cut.'

'I think we should take a picture,' said Simon.

'A what?'

'A picture. A photograph. With a camera.' He took a swallow of wine.

'Sixteen,' said his mother, still counting.

'I know. James could take it when you're done with Joan here. Me in my shirt that I ran away in. Everybody else standing around.'

'Cameras are all very well,' Miss Faye said. 'But who can't press a button? If Howard Potter Laskin was here -'

'Howard did everything well,' said Miss Lucy.

'I could take you and Miss Lucy drawing silhouettes,' James called. He looked up from rubbing Ansel's feet. 'Could Howard Potter Laskin do that?'

'Well, now-'Miss Faye said. She lowered her pencil and frowned into space a minute. 'A silhouette of a silhouette? I don't know. But Howard could -'

'I'll get my camera, then,' said James. He left Ansel's couch and crossed toward the darkroom, stepping carefully through the other people. But the minute he was gone, Miss Faye finished Joan's silhouette with two quick strokes, ending in a point on top of her head that wasn't really there.

'You weren't supposed to finish,' Joan said. 'How will we have you doing a silhouette if there's no more left to do?'

'Oh, now,' said Miss Lucy. 'People don't get photographed making silhouettes. We'll just sit down, I think -maybe on Ansel's couch, if he doesn't object.'

They began gathering up their pencils and paper. All over the room, people were getting ready for that camera. Simon had buttoned the top button of his shirt, so that he looked as if he would choke, and Ansel was sitting ramrod-straight with his numb feet on the coffee table in front of him. By the time James returned the whole room seemed tense and silent. Even the radio had been turned off. James said, 'I don't hardly recognize you all,' and everyone laughed a little and then got quiet again. 'You're going to have to bunch up now,' he said.

They moved closer in, heading toward Ansel who for once allowed someone else to sit on the couch. 'Simon can sit on the floor,' said James. 'That would help. Miss-Faye, can you move your silhouettes in?'

'Oh, I don't think -' said Miss Faye, but James cut her off as if he already knew what she would say.

'Sure you can,' he said. 'Everyone gets photographed making silhouettes these days.' And though Miss Faye smiled, to show she didn't believe him, she brought one of her silhouettes over and set it on the back of the couch against the wall. "That's better,' he said. He was carrying his little box camera, and he held it in front of his stomach now and squinted into the viewfinder. 'Almost,' he said. 'Joan, where are you? All I get is your foot.'

Joan moved over, squeezing in against Simon on the floor. 'Ouch,' said Simon. 'James, are you going to get in the picture?'

'Not while I'm taking it I'm not,' said James.

'You should,' Miss Lucy said. 'You're the one that went and got him.'

'No. I hate being photographed.'

'Then what's the use?' Simon said. He looked around at the others. 'James made that special trip -'

'I'll take it,' said Joan. She stood up. 'You show me how to aim it, James.'

'How to-'

'No, Joan should be in it too,' Simon said.

But Mr Pike came to life suddenly and reached down to touch Simon's shoulder. 'Can't have everything, boy,' he said. 'Come on and get in the picture, James. Joan didn't go nowhere; she don't mind.'

'No, I don't,' Joan told James. 'Give it here.'

'Well, all right.'

He put it in her hands and then showed her the button. 'This is what you press,' he told her. 'It's not all that hard.'

He went over to sit on the arm of the sofa, next to Ansel, and now even James looked self-conscious. When Joan peered at them through the view-finder she saw all of their faces made clear and tiny, with their smiles stretched tight and each person's hand clamped white around a glass of wine. Ansel's feet were bigger than anyone. He still had them propped up, and when Joan raised her head to glare at them he ducked a glance at her and said, They hurt.'

'They're in the way,' Joan told him.

‘They hurt.'

'If you'd get the right size shoes' said James.

Mr Pike bent forward to stare at Ansel's feet; his elephant bell clanged again and Ansel said suddenly, breaking in on what James was saying, 'I had a cousin engaged to a India Indian. I ever mention that?'

'No,' said Joan. 'Your feet, please, Ansel.' She lowered her head and stared into the finder again, but Ansel showed no sign of moving his feet.

'I'd nearly forgotten about it,' he said. 'This particular Indian used to sing a lot. All the time long songs, India Indian songs, without no tune. He'd finish and we'd clap and say, "Well, wasn't that -"when oops, there he'd go, on to the next line. Got so we were afraid to clap. On and on he'd go, on and on.'

'Are you sure we shouldn't just sit in a chair?' asked Miss Lucy.

'Wednesday came and went,' James said. 'When will you remember your shots?'

In the finder of the camera Joan could see them moving, each person making his own set of motions. But the glass of the finder seemed to hold them there, like figures in a snowflurry paper-weight who would still be in their set positions when the snow settled down again. She thought whole years could pass, they could be born and die, they could leave and return, they could marry or live out their separate lives alone, and nothing in this finder would change. They were going to stay this way, she and all the rest of them, not because of anyone else but because it was what they had chosen, what they would keep a strong tight hold of. James bent over Ansel; Mrs Pike touched the top of Simon's head, and Mr Pike sat smiling awkwardly into space. 'It starts near the arches,' said Ansel, 'right about here…'

'Be still,' said Joan.

She kept her head down and stared at the camera, smiling as if it were she herself being photographed. The others smiled back, each person motionless, each clutching separately his glass of wine.