Saul and Patsy by Charles Baxter Read Free Book Online Page A

interesting, almost Byzantine, a challenge to any therapist. But having joined the school bowling league, he couldn’t seem to concentrate on Schopenhauer on those days when, at odds and ashamed of himself, he took the battered Signet Classic of
The World as Will and Idea
down from the shelf and glowered at the indecipherable lines he had highlighted with yellow Magic Marker in college. When he did understand, the philosopher seemed no longer profound, but merely a disappointed idealist with an ungainly prose style.
    “Saul?”
    “What?”
    “I’ve been talking to you. Did you hear me?”
    “Guess not. I was lost in thought.” He stumbled against a bush. He couldn’t see much, and he reached out for Patsy’s hand. “I was thinking about girls in drugstores and Schopenhauer and the reasons why we ever came to this place.”
    “Jesus. I wish to Christ that you would listen to me sometimes. If you had been listening to me, you wouldn’t have stumbled into that bush. That’s what I was warning you about.”
    “Thanks. Where are we?”
    “We’re going down into this little gully, and when we get up on the other side, we’ll be right near that farmhouse. What’s the matter?”
    He turned around and saw, across the field, the headlights of his car shining on the upturned dirt; he saw the Chevy’s four tires facing the air; and he thought of his new jovial recklessness and of how he had almost killed himself and his wife. He said nothing because he was beginning to feel soul-sick, a state of spiritual dizziness, and also because he had forgotten to turn off the headlights. He was possessed by disequilibrium. He felt the urge to giggle, and was horrified by himself. He had a sudden marionette feeling.
    “Saul! You’re drifting off again. What is it this time?”
    “Puppets.”
    “Puppets?”
    “Yeah. You know—the way they don’t have a center of gravity. Uh, Kleist . . . What I mean is. The way they look . . .”
    “Watch out for that stump.”
    He saw it in time to avoid it. “Patsy, how do you live in the world? This is a serious question.”
    “Stop it, Saul. You’ve been to a party. You’re tired. Don’t get metaphysical on me. Please. It’s two in the morning. You live in the world by knocking on the door of that farmhouse, that’s what you do. You ring the doorbell.”
    They walked up past a shed whose flaking red door was hanging open, and they crossed the pitted driveway onto a small front yard with an evenly mowed lawn. A tire swing, pendulating slowly, hung down from a tree branch. Saul couldn’t see much of the house in the dark, but as they crossed the driveway, kicking a few stones, they heard the bark of a dog from inside the house, a low bark from a big dog: a farm dog with a name like Trixie.
    “Anti-Semites,” Saul said.
    “Just ring the bell.”
    After a moment, the porch light went on, yellow, probably a bug light, Saul thought; and then under the oddly colored glare a very young woman appeared, pale blond hair and skin, very pretty, but under the effect of the bulb looking a bit jaundiced. With her fists she was rubbing her eyes with sleepiness. She wore a bathrobe decorated with huge blue flowers. Saul and Patsy explained themselves and their predicament— Saul was sure he had seen this young woman before—and she invited them in to use the phone. When they entered, the dog—old, with a gray muzzle—growled from under the living-room table but did not bother to get up. After Patsy and the woman, whose name was Anne, began talking, it developed that they had met before in the bank where Patsy worked as a teller. They leaned toward each other. Their voices quickly rose in the transfiguration of friendliness as they disappeared into the kitchen. They seemed suddenly chipper and cheery to Saul, as if a new party had started. He had the impression that women enjoyed being friendly, whereas for men it was an effort. At least it was an effort for
him.
He heard Patsy dialing a