An excerpt from my novel-in-progress, The Ogre’s Name Is Frank.
I put on a pair of cutoffs that I hadn’t seen in maybe a decade, then an incredible straw hat that I’d found hanging in Joseph’s barn. Everything was faded by the sun and full of holes. I was aware that none of it was at all my style, but that was kind of the point. I walked out of the house and into the morning sun feeling good, thinking that I didn’t give a shit what anybody in this town thought.
Sonja and Daley were still out on their first walk, and it was a Sunday so Joseph was sitting on the porch, doing nothing. He was looking out at the yard, perhaps, down the driveway which led out to the road, and he held a tin coffee cup on the arm of his chair. Other days he was up early to care for the animals and was at work by the time I got out of bed. I wondered if he actually felt relaxed sitting there, or if this was just another time for him to worry about the sheep or the neighbors’ chickens.
He was nothing like our parents. I gave a little wave as I went down the steps, but he didn’t look my way, didn’t even seem to notice I was there. I thought, Good for him.
If anyone had asked, I would not have said that I was headed off to spend my Sunday morning at the library, where the Peoples’ Committee of Peehawken (or PCP) met weekly in the basement. I had the vague impression that the Committee would help me feel involved in ‘the community’, but I wouldn’t have been able to say what they did exactly. I was going to find out. I imagined that Joseph and Sonja would want to question me about it, that they would begin to make connections between this and why I had come back to town. I did not know why I had come back to town; it seemed easier to avoid the conversation entirely. I made my way to the Committee that morning if only for something to do with my Sunday.
I didn’t have a car, I didn’t have a license, and everything still felt new enough in Peehawken for me to enjoy the walk. It was a half-hour from Joseph’s property along the County Route, which led down to the main intersection in town and which then crossed the river at the Covered Bridge. These were images of my hometown that I must have seen one hundred thousand times from behind the window of a car, but I had never seen them on foot. Everything was different in slow motion, creeping by the side of the road—the particular details of a house I thought I’d known; the presence of an additional building in the woods, which I had never looked long enough to see.
I had never thought very seriously of libraries before leaving for college, and so the old building had been to me just another facade. It was made of brick and had the year of its construction etched into the foundation, which revealed that it was not in fact very old in comparison to some others in town. I had never thought this much about Peehawken before. I considered going inside to see if that might jog some memory; but it was a Sunday, after all, and the library itself was closed. A circle of older folks stood on the lawn, chatting and waiting to be let inside. They all wore long sleeves against the morning chill, like they’d been out and about since dawn. I must have been thirty years younger than the youngest amongst them.
I lingered there on the sidewalk, studying the bulletin board that faced the street and acting like nothing more than a curious passerby. They probably would have recognized me, at least by name, had I introduced myself; but it would have been my younger self to which they were thinking, and I preferred to play the newcomer. They were all so healthy-looking and fit, the kind of retirees who spend all their time in the garden or at the gym—except for one in a bright orange cap and vest, who was at that moment walking in my direction.
There was only one person in the universe who this could have been but still I stepped further back behind the bulletin board, as if this would be enough. Slowly I processed his velcro-strap shoes, his overly baggy jeans. I looked up and saw the big grin under that ridiculous mustache, which had since become purely white.
“Miz Malicious,” he said.
The past did not come flooding back. He raised its brow at me, waiting to be recognized. “Mill,” I said, with a nod.
I couldn’t help myself, I almost started to cry. He was getting so goddamn old. Millhauser had been the sharp and slightly nutty professor even in my brother’s day, when he’d first had him for U.S. Government in his first year of high school, and continued to be my contact on staff all through my own years in that building. Some part of me had willfully ignored that he would not be immune to the years.
I was conscious of the group of eyes on us as we embraced, but managed to keep it going for quite a while. His clothes smelled strongly of a woodstove and gave way under pressure, the few square inches that used to fill him out.
“You didn’t tell me you would be back,” he said.
“I didn’t tell anyone. It was unexpected. And I only just decided to stay.”
“Hmm. For long, I hope?”
I more or less dodged this question and maneuvered us over to the group. I didn’t want to be introduced but I also didn’t want them to keep looking at me, the way that old people do when they expect something to happen. They were visibly relieved once I was finally in front of them, and they could get a decent look.
“Crew, this is a yet another past-student of mine,” Millhauser said. “A former historian extraordinaire, Miss Maleficent—or was it Mal-adroit? Both are true, so whichever has more of a ring…”
Everyone laughed, too used to his terrible jokes. I missed his terrible jokes, and it was nice to hear people laugh. The group accepted me as a footnote to their discussion and quickly carried on. I had been in the situation many times before in which I played the role of Mill’s daughter or niece; though now I wondered if I wasn’t too old. Several years had passed and it seemed I should have the right to be something else. But I had nothing to say to a bunch of retired townies, and was actually rather glad to have a reason to keep quiet while Mill pretended to follow the conversation.
A very short woman with frizzy, graying hair came out of nowhere and marched up the steps of the library. A wave went through the crowd, and we began to assemble into something of a line, though the conversation did not completely subside. Without missing a beat the frizzy-haired woman proceeded to unlock the door, propped it open, and went inside. For a moment I wasn’t sure that she had anything to do with the Committee. Slowly, however, the crowd began to mobilize, funneling up the steps and through the door.
As we walked I asked Mill about Hadley, his real daughter, who as far as I knew still lived in New York. “I gather that things are good,” he said, which was exactly the kind of answer I expected him to give. This might have meant they hadn’t spoken in months, or that he had just gotten off the phone with her this morning.
“Have you visited, recently?” I asked.
He seemed genuinely surprised by the suggestion. “Me? Look who you’re talking to—you’re lucky if you get me out of this county, let alone out of the state. I haven’t been to a real city in decades.”
I would have liked to say something about this, and I probably would have had I been seventeen and curious to see how he would handle it. I liked to think that it was due to my advanced maturity that I did not—and then, we had entered the meeting-room. While the rest of the library maintained an air of antiquity, here on the bottom floor was nothing more than a renovated basement. No visible windows, and the floor was carpeted. Everyone went to grab foldable chairs from against the wall, and began setting them up to face the folding table at the head of the room.
“And you?” Millhauser asked as we set up our chairs. “How’s the mom?”
“Good. She’s good. She’s in the Carolinas now, with the new beau—not sure if you heard. That was a few years back.”
“Believe it or not, this is about as social as I get. If the gossip doesn’t make it to this meeting, I don’t hear it. And so what about old boy Joseph, and the wife? And then there’s, oh…” Mill rubbed his temple, then hesitantly peeked over his glasses. “There’s a little one, too? Or have I simply dreamed that up with everything else?”
“No, no, yeah. His name’s Daley. Her name’s Sonja—his wife. They’re all fine. He’s very cute. I’ve been living with them. Temporarily, at least.”
“Hm, yes, I figured that,” he nodded, recovering his look of sagacity. We sat in silence as we waited for frizzy-hair—who had taken a seat at the front table—to begin the meeting, while additional Committee members filed gradually into the room. “So what’s the plan with you, with being back?” he asked, finally.
For a minute there I had thought that we’d avoided the subject. I breathed a long breath. He added: “That’s not to say that you don’t need one—I’m only asking—but just in case there is one, I feel like it would be good for me to know. I would then of course be happy to help you on your journey to happiness, or success, or whatever the case may be.”
He folded his hands in his lap and looked diligently forward, to the table where frizzy-hair and two others were now whispering over their papers. Millhauser was my old high school teacher and hiking partner and sometimes-mentor, and I felt like I owed him a bit of honesty. He seemed to have known immediately that everything wasn’t just fine; that I was in retreat, and that sooner or later I would be wanting to talk about why. He knew me well enough. And I was tempted, after all, because these days he was actually quite removed—I wouldn’t have to wake up every day and feel his impressions of me while I was trying to make breakfast. It was possible that he was exactly the right person to tell.
“Oh, you know,” I breathed, brushing the phantom dust from my legs. The room was growing progressively more quiet, as the time for the meeting grew near. I was now speaking in a whisper. “It’s hard to find a new place, get along with new people. I don’t know. I was just getting so tired.”
Millhauser nodded, as if this had been a very sufficient answer. I felt foolish, like I had passed on something that might have helped me.
“This is a place,” Mill said, splaying his palms. “Home is a good place to be. And Peehawken is as good as any.”
“That’s true,” I nodded. “It sure is a place.”