Any Minute I Can Split (24 page)

“Can I talk to you about David?” Becky asked Margaret.

No.

She nodded.

“How long was he actually here?”

Margaret tried to answer but nothing came out.

“Quite a while, actually,” De Witt said, rescuing her. “And he did very well, too. Participated in the group work, and so on. About half, a year, I'd say. I'm not sure he could have done it without Margaret's support.”

“Thank you, Margaret,” Becky said with apparent sincerity. “He needs someone to take care of him, whether he knows it or not.”

He knows it all right.
She wanted to cry. She'd thought about David rather less than she'd expected to in the weeks since his departure but when she did think about him it was like rubbing an open wound. Sometimes the wound was that he'd quickly found someone else and sometimes it was guilt that he was terribly alone, but it hurt either way.

Roger came in and De Witt introduced him to the Kastles. He was civil. Not at all flirtatious with Becky. A sure barometer of his interest in the farm, for he never failed to flirt with any good-looking woman unless his mind was fully engaged in some project. They talked for a while in a roundabout way.

“Mitchell is finding the farm rather more of a burden than he can manage easily, with the new tax structures,” De Witt said to Roger.

“That's his subtle way of saying I'm broke,” Mitchell announced jovially.

Flash to the Aston-Martin in the yard. Once upon a time in Hartsdale she'd known a lot of people who could have a chef and a couple of cars and complain about being broke. They'd never made her terribly angry because she was rich herself but she was sure that without money she would have been infuriated.

“So how much do you want?” Roger asked laconically.

Mitchell laughed. “You're taking my breath away.” To De Witt he said, “I didn't really want to do it this way, De Witt, but it's getting to be too much for me. I've really
seriously
thought about coming up here permanently
but even if I could swing it, this life isn't for Becky.”

“Of course,” De Witt said sympathetically. “I understand perfectly.”

“You do? Jesus, I'm glad of that. I've been worried, one thing I didn't want was to—”

“So how much?” Roger repeated.

Mitchell whistled.

Silence.

“With or without the land?” he finally said.

“Both,” Roger replied.

“I really didn't want to do it this way,” Mitchell said to De Witt. “So cut and dried. I'm not forgetting the work you've put in here, or the rest of it. I don't want to screw you, De Witt  . . . I'd give it to you for much less than I'd put it on the market for.”

“How much is that?” Roger asked.

“Look here,” Mitchell said irritably, “I have nothing against you but this is between De Witt and me.”

De Witt smiled. “It's okay, Mitchell,” he said. “I appreciate what you're doing but I don't have any money.”

“I'm not asking that much.”

“I mean I have none.”

“None?” He seemed unbelieving.

“None.” De Witt was still smiling. “That is to say, about four hundred dollars.”

“What are you living on?” Incredulous.

“You, primarily.”

“But I just pay for the farm.”

“What other expenses do I have?”

“Jesus, I dunno!” Mitchell was flabbergasted. “Food, clothes, entertainment, medical expenses, taxes  . . . EXPENSES!”

“Well,” De Witt said patiently, “as far as food goes, the farm provides most of it. Whatever little else we need we manage to get with the money other people bring in  . . . unemployment checks, craft sales, etc  . . . clothing  . . . we had it when we came, there's hardly
anything else we need.” She'd seen him in two different pairs of pants since she came, a pair of jeans and a pair of corduroys. In the freezing weather long underwear peeked out from the bottoms when he took off his boots. “As far as entertainment goes, I guess you could say we provide our own. Our lives are our entertainment.” He made it sound desirable yet it seemed to Margaret that this was the essence of her complaint about the farm, that their life style was both the subject and object of their lives, that Starr couldn't go out and fuck a fifteen-year-old boy without delivering a speech about the search for new life styles; that they didn't just eat and farm organically but worried over it so much of the time. Like the radicals of the thirties who had to think just the right thoughts for fear of being consigned to the dustbin of history, they were conscious of their haloes growing shinier with each whole-wheat loaf baked, every tidbit of garbage plowed back into the earth, each Kleenex not used. “We don't seem to have much in the way of medical expenses, maybe just because there aren't many doctors close by.” Most sicknesses just went away with time and Vitamin C; had there been a time when everyone lived like that? “And then of course,” De Witt said, “I naturally don't pay taxes.”

“No taxes at all?”

De Witt shook his head.

“Then you really don't have any income.” Now he believed it.

“Right.”

“Jesus,” Mitchell said, “that's pretty funny. I'm not sure I'd ever've trusted you with this whole spread if I knew you didn't have a dime.”

“I think it shows you were really a good person,” Mira said. “That you didn't even think of asking.”

“I took it for granted,” Mitchell said.

They were all embarrassed.

Becky laughed. “Gee, Mitch, how would you be sure you existed if it weren't for taxes?”

To Margaret it seemed an aggressive remark but Mitchell simply nodded. He seemed lost in thought.

“Jesus,” he finally said, “I'd be a rich man if I didn't have to pay taxes.”

“If you weren't a rich man already you wouldn't have to pay so much,” Roger said.

Becky giggled. “He's got you there, Mitch.”

“I never think of myself as being rich,” Mitchell said.

“How other people think of you is a better gauge,” Roger said. “Us rich kids are always raised to think poor but I foxed 'em. At a certain age I realized that the test of whether your parents are rich isn't whether
you
can have what
you
want but whether
they
can have what
they
want.”

Mitchell nodded, Kokeshi-doll-like.

“So let's talk to each other,” Roger said. “Two rich kids.”

Roger, you just had your allowance cut off, Roger.
Was he bluffing or was he choosing to forget?

Mitchell smiled. Something in his eyes focused so that he looked intelligent again.

“Aren't you undermining your position?” Becky asked Roger. Flirtatiously. “Letting us know you have money?”

“Uh uh.” Not responding to her signal. “I'm letting you know I can go elsewhere. Only poor people have to take whatever terms they can get.”

“Okay,” Mitchell boomed out happily. “So make me an offer!”

“Ten thousand,” Roger said, deadpan.

“You're kidding,” Mitchell said.

Roger shrugged. “You told me to make an offer.”

“Hadn't we better clarify what we're talking about?” De Witt asked. “The farm or the whole parcel of land of which the farm is a small part?”

Mitchell responded but to Roger. “The parcel the farm is originally part of is actually about eight acres. If I had to put it up through a broker I'd ask for forty thousand.”

Roger whistled. “That's pretty steep.”

“Not really. It's good usable land, the house is in good shape, the barn's superb, all the out buildings, the coops and so on are in good condition. Now I admit they wouldn't be in that condition if it weren't for De Witt's work, which is why I'd let you have it for a lot less if you were working with him.”

“How much less?”

“Five grand.”

“Plus $2,400 for the broker's fee you wouldn't have to pay  . . .”

Mitchell laughed. “He's too sharp, De Witt, watch out for him.”

“Makes $32,600.”

“Okay,” Mitchell nodded. “You talked me into it. If that's what De Witt wants.”

“What about the rest of the land?” Roger asked.

“That's about three hundred acres,” Mitchell said. “I'm in no hurry to part with that.”

“I'm in no hurry to buy a farm with no land,” Roger said belligerently.

“Wait a minute,” De Witt said. “I feel a certain antagonism creeping in that has no place here.”

“Sure it does,” Roger said promptly. “Buyer-seller antagonism.”

“Then please let me take part in this. As a neutral party. Friendly to both of you.”

Did he really believe he was neutral? And if he did, was it true? Did the fact that only his life was involved make him neutral? She hoped he didn't believe it; she hoped he was conning Mitchell.

“First let me explain something, Mitchell,” De Witt said. “The question of land isn't a matter of principle. Nor are we thinking in terms of investment. You see Roger and I have been talking for a while, even before we were sure you were going to try to sell the place  . . . we've been talking about ways to make it truly self-sustaining. It being an artificial situation to be supported by you. What we finally settled on as a feasible
source of income is raising beef cattle. Organically, of course. There's an incredible market right here in the East. You need plenty of pasture for cattle, though, and  . . .”

He kept talking but Margaret had turned off. Beef cattle! They surely hadn't talked about beef cattle when she was around, at least not seriously enough for her to pick up on it. Beef cattle had a much more ominous sound than the generalities of making a farm self-sustaining. Screen memory: hard-working, hard-driving, leather-faced cowboys working hard on the range all day, then at night riding into town to wench and brawl at the frontier saloon. That would be Roger and De Witt, while her life would be just like in the suburbs! She and Mira—she glanced at Mira, who was smiling placidly. How nice for Mira, she'd have more time to meditate.

“Nobody said anything to me about beef cattle,” she said to nobody in particular. “Doesn't anyone care how I feel about it?”

“When we do it,” Roger said, “you can let us know how you feel. By staying or splitting.”

But Roger! This was my place!
Her eyes filled with tears of betrayal.

Becky giggled nervously. “Is he really the way he sounds?”

But she couldn't answer without crying so she swiftly got up and went upstairs to their room, closed the door, made sure the twins were still sleeping, then really let loose the tears, curling up in the bed, hugging herself, crying bitterly  . . . wishing,
aching
for David to be there. Most definitely David, not Roger. David, whom she could curl herself around without being accused of trying to smother. Who if you gave him something thought it was his due, not your neurosis. Who never fazed you by having grand schemes . . . who never had schemes at all. Who was on the road someplace, looking for something. A little temporary something. What he'd come from didn't exist, a formica counter with
nothing underneath, what was ahead was no good, and what was available was okay only as an alternative to the others. She drifted into a light, sad sleep full of images that disappeared before she could reject them by waking up. She and David painting a line down a long highway. She and David's mother sitting in rocking chairs in an otherwise empty house, not speaking to each other. Snow outside. More snow. Piles of snow. Snow-white towels in a hotel linen room. Two of David's mother, wheeling a laundry cart down a long corridor full of doors. There was a knock on the door. As much in her sleep as out of it, she called, “Come in.”

It was Mitchell.

“I'm sorry,” he said. “I didn't realize you were asleep.”

“It's okay,” she said, sitting up, rubbing her eyes.

“I'm upset,” he said, sitting on the edge of the bed, nothing in his manner suggesting that he was telling the truth. “I'm terribly upset because I really dig you and I don't want you to be mad at me and I have a feeling you'll be angry with me if I let Roger have the farm.”

“You don't seem upset.”

He smiled. “How do I seem?”

“Horny.” Unctuous-horny.

Mitchell roared as though she'd said something brilliant and adorable. So it was true. Downstairs Becky flirted with Roger while Mitchell came upstairs to dip his wick in the counter culture. He tried to kiss her but she pushed him back, full of uncomprehended hostility. There were footsteps and De Witt opened the door. Mitchell laughed guiltily.

“De Witt told me to stay away from you.”

“Suppose you go downstairs and negotiate, Mitchell,” De Witt said. “I have something to discuss with Margaret.”

Mitchell went. Margaret waited sullenly. De Witt sat down where Mitchell had been. Her nose began to itch; she scratched it.

“Margaret, why are you angry?”

“Because you told him to leave me alone,” she lied.

“They think it's exciting to be here,” De Witt said. “I told him you weren't like the younger girls, Carol, Starr, and so on. Sex for them is a very casual thing.”

“How do you know it isn't for me?” she teased, knowing he would be too kind to remind her how he knew.

“I don't think that's what you're angry about.”

She leaned forward and kissed his lips lightly but he gently pushed her away. She laughed ruefully. Now to continue the chain he had to go to someone and get pushed away.

“That's why I'm angry,” she said. “Because you don't want me any more.”

“Nonsense.”

“What's nonsense?”

“It's nonsense that I don't want you and it's nonsense that that's why you're angry. You got angry about the beef cattle.”