2. The Response

Once I'd put Koenig in his place, outside the wall, everything else should've gone back to normal.  And almost everything did.  Schoolwork, basketball practice, and all the other trivia that consume time so voraciously went on as before.  But for that third week of February, time had become the inconsumable, and after a while I wanted to tie myself to a chair.  So that I wouldn't break down, so that I wouldn't go to Tuck or Larry and ask.  What is your answer and why do you hold it?

About the only consolation I had was that if they too were screaming from the acid of curiosity, they were having a tougher time than me.  For years I'd asked even less questions than I answered.  This was no time to lose my cool. 

What's uncool about asking questions is that it makes you the second player in some kind of intellectual tic tac toe.  The best you can hope for is a draw.  Most people just give answers that aren't answers, or ones that you already know or should be able to figure out.  Or sometimes they hand you a wealth of information that you wish they'd choke on. 

My mother was like that.  Ask her what time it was and you'd get the history of watchmaking, musings on what might've become of the missing dish towel which had been a calendar for 1955, and the assurance that God was eternal.  If you were patient enough and didn't let your attention wander, you might actually find out what time it was.  You might.  No guarantees.  Now that's a standoff. 

But you can lose, too.  You can ask the guy who refuses to give an answer just because you want one, and then he wins.  Or you can really find out all there is to know about losing.  You can get the answer you never wanted to learn. 

So I played the week the winner's way.  I kept my eyes and ears open and my mouth shut.  You can get a hell of a lot of information like that.  Tuck had nothing to say about Koenig, or applications, and that meant he had nothing to hide.  Either he'd decided it was a Miss Luria type question, one that would be judged on style, not content, or the answer had been so obvious to him that he couldn't imagine anyone sweating it out. 

Larry, on the other hand, had dived into a pool of perspiration.  I'd catch her staring at me or Tuck as if she were bewildered or troubled.  Once I could swear she looked frightened.  A couple of times she came up to me mouth open, ready to say something, and all that came out was a weak "Hi."

And even less than that was going into her mouth.  For the first time in all the years we'd been in the Clayton school system, Larry didn't eat lunch.  Not anything.  Of course she could've lived off her blubber for six months before malnutrition set in, but as I saw it, Larry not eating had to rank with the seven wonders, or maybe burning bushes and stars of Bethlehem.  Whatever her answer to Koenig's question was, it hadn't come easy.

My mother wasn't having things easy, either‑-she hated not knowing and hated waiting to know.  Dad managed to contain her, which meant he wasn't having any more easy a time than she. 

They were, as always, a confused study in contrast and similarity.  Dad was an accountant and looked it.  Gray eyes, hidden behind horn-rimmed glasses, and dirty blond hair he wouldn't comb over his bald spot.  His intellect was almost as high as his hairline.  Almost.  He wrote poetry and liked classical music, but he also watched every western on TV.  If Maverick, Gunsmoke, or Have Gun Will Travel were playing, you didn't disturb my father.  Not if you had a sense of survival. 

Mom was a match for him‑-Mrs. Average Housewife except for her looks.  She was pretty, and since she burned calories faster than a frostbitten furnace, she kept slender.  But the dark brown hair whose original glints had been auburn now got shampooed with henna regularly.  She had reading glasses too, with blue frames that matched her eyes.  She avoided wearing them as much as she could. 

Dad was as taciturn and logical as mom was talkative and rambling.  Not that my mother couldn't stay on a track when she wanted to.  If I gave her any listening time she'd turn bloodhound on me, trying to find out why I thought what I thought and did what I did.  Only the stone wall of Jericho stopped her, one of the reasons she disliked it so much. 

She'd gotten on better with my older sister Carol than with me.  Before Carol had married out and become a mother herself, the two of them used to confer daily on the boys she dated.  They even listened to the same pop tunes together.  They'd sing along with the romantic ballads, especially favoring the kind you could ladle on a sundae.  But mom had given up on pop music five years ago, claiming the only singable tunes now were the ones from Broadway shows.  She hated rock because it had no melody, just as my father hated it because it had no lyrics. 

My parents were a team though, despite their differences in taste and temperament.  They upheld each other's belief in motherhood, apple pie, and pine trees mirrored in a summer lake.  Mention piety, virtue, or the American way and they'd salute.  They also believed that my sister was the prettiest girl ever born in Clayton‑-she was okay, nothing spectacular‑-and I was the smartest boy.  They'd have believed that if I'd been a congenital idiot. 

My I.Q. is 137.  I looked it up when I worked on the Guidance Squad, a duty I'd volunteered for.  Not that I was interested in either guidance or brown nosing.  But to win the Koenig Award my name would have to be submitted, and to be submitted it would have to be known.  Athletics and service squads, I figured, would get it mentioned where it needed to be heard. 

And it had worked.  I had been given Koenig's application.  Now I watched, I waited, I filled up my time doing as many exhausting things as I could think of, and I had a tough time coming out of sleep Saturday morning when the pounding started.  My mother, at my bedroom door yelling, "Joel, Joel!" and hammering like a claustrophobiac locked in a closet.  I was too bushed to get the right tone, the Jericho tone, in my "What?" and I sounded annoyed, but she flung open the door anyway.  My father was beside her wearing a too broad grin, one that his eyes didn't match, and mom seemed to be moving in twenty different directions at once.  Mostly she was shoving a white envelope at me.  "It's from him.  Oh God, Joel, what does he say?  Open it, open it!"

The envelope was postmarked Clayton, February 20.  Its top left corner bore the name Michael Koenig, and I opened it slowly.  As I say, there are some answers you just don't want to learn. 

Only it wasn't an answer. 

"Joel, what does he say?  Oh God, Henry, make him answer us."

"Joel," warned my father. 

"It doesn't say anything."  I handed mom the paper. 

"Dear Joel," it read.  "Thanks for sending me your essay; it was most interesting.  I would very much like to see you and hope you can drop in for a visit on Sunday, March 1, about 3 P.M.  Sincerely, Michael S. Koenig."

"But Joey, then you must've won!  Why else would he want to see you?"

I gave her the message from Jericho.  "He doesn't say I've won.  And if I've lost, I've lost.  That's it.  Face it, mom."

She faced it like she faces everything‑-emotions in high gear.  "I don't know what's the matter with you, Joey.  He didn't say you'd lost, either.  And you sound like you don't even care!"  She just stood there at the verge of tears and my father divided his time saying comforting things to her and glaring at me, doing both very well. 

Shit, I thought, there goes Saturday.  Koenig's blown it to hell.  Only I was the one who had to pick up the pieces, starting with my mother. 

"Hey listen, mom, maybe you're right.  Maybe he decides on the basis of the essay and an interview.  Maybe there's nothing to cry about yet."

She sniffed. 

"And you could help me, mom."  That got her, just as I knew it would.  I'd said the magic words.  Open sesame.  Enter Jericho; free admittance for this afternoon only. 

"Oh, Joey honey, if only I could.  I'd do anything to help you, you know that.  Just tell me."

I thought fast.  "Well, it would help if I knew what kind of person Mr. Koenig is.  You've lived here all your life, mom.  You must know something about him."

"Well, not too much."  She sat on the edge of my bed, and my father tiptoed out, giving me a grateful smile.  But I was going to hear the history of watchmaking alone, nevertheless. 

"Of course I've never met Mr. Koenig, but he's really very nice.  I mean, when I was collecting for the March of Dimes, I went to his house, and Mrs. Horvath, you know, the one who used to live on Elmsbury Road?  Well, she's his housekeeper now, and her husband works for him too, but there's only the two of them, no other help, and Mrs. Horvath told me‑
"

"Mom.  Slow down.  I know Mrs. Horvath.  You say you talked to her when you were collecting.  Now what did she say about Koenig?"

"He's very pleasant, and very generous, and she practically promised me he'd give a big check to us, I mean the March of Dimes, and he did.  So you see, Joey."

I saw.  I saw it was going to take the whole weekend if I let it. 

"Who was Stephanie Koenig, mom?"

"Oh, she was his wife.  Stephanie Keyne she used to be, and she was born right here in Clayton.  I didn't know her too well.  She was a little younger than me, and her father was always sending her away.  I think she met Mr. Koenig in college.  Funny, his settling here after she died.  He's only been here about thirteen years.  Since the war, you know, and Steffy died in '38 or '39.  A few years after her father."

"So Koenig got his start from her?  Insurance money, maybe?"

"Oh, no.  His family made money in the twenties, and I think he made even more during the war.  But Steffy wasn't rich.  She only went to college on an art scholarship.  Her family was no better off than most.  They lived where the Bishops live now, but of course the Bishops only came here after the Le Clairs left town..."

I don't know what she went on about after that.  I grunted whenever she paused for breath and kept my face looking interested, and thought about answers I didn't want and people I didn't want.  Like Frank Le Clair.  Frenchy. 

"...his foot or his leg.  But Mrs. Horvath says you'd hardly notice the limp if you didn't look for it.  And that you'd never dream he was near fifty."

"Who?"

"Why, Mr. Koenig, of course.  Who else are we talking about?"

Who indeed?

"Joey, honey.  You can win, I know you can win.  Just don't‑-well, you know."

"Don't what, mom?" I asked, closing Jericho for the day. 

"Don't lock him out, Joey.  He might just have a trumpet."

My mother.  She can take two hours to say nothing.  And two seconds to say it all.

Somebody must have clued in the weather that a new month had started.  After a week of sharp, relentless cold, March gusted in with blast after blast of warm air.  You knew there'd be frost again, and possibly blizzards, but it was a day to challenge them.  A day for all kinds of challenges, and the perfect day for coming face to face with Koenig.  I had the feeling I couldn't lose. 

Not that my mother and father let me ride off with that feeling.  Dad handed me his car keys and a pile of manure that boiled down to, "Remember, son, the only loser is the man who doesn't try."  My mother, not to be excelled, gave it her all and outcrapped him.  Her masterpiece went, "Just be what you really are, Joel.  I know you'll win that way."  So I drove the four miles to Koenig's house thinking of people who embroider little pillows "God is Love," and wishing my parents would just once gag on a cliche. 

I was so busy picturing myself ripping up little cushions and stuffing them down assorted throats that I didn't take in the driveway scene as fast as I should have.  My attention fixed on the house instead.  It was a rancher, vaguely L-shaped, with various rooms jutting out in unexpected places.  They created an odd yet interesting roof line and a pleasing sense of sprawl.  The effect was heightened by the tidy look of white shutters against gray stone walls.  You knew that somewhere in a back nook a pink rosebush would be waiting for summer. 

An attached double garage opened onto a circular drive lined with shrubs.  Clumps of blue junipers and dark green spreading yews were set off by dwarf azaleas, winter red.  A drive for all seasons, attractive any time of year.  I parked Dad's Chevy behind a red Rambler and only then did the thunk of recognition set in.  The car ahead was Larry's. 

It wasn't quite three yet, and I stared at the Rambler trying to figure what it was doing there.  The Balaban car wasn't around, and if Tuck were going to show up, he'd have been there already.  Like Larry he liked to be early to be sure that no one would be mad at him.  I shook my head.  Punctuality was the winner's game.  It told whoever you were meeting that you were in charge.  Of yourself, of time, and therefore of them.  I checked my watch again.  I'd ring Koenig's bell at exactly 3:00 P.M., and I didn't doubt for a minute he'd read the message right.  Providing, of course, that the message had any value. 

Because if Tuck wasn't there he might just have won already, maybe even have gotten the check in the mail.  I'd avoided him ever since Koenig's letter had come, and Tuck was bright enough to stay away from Jericho.  But if Tuck had won, why would Larry and I have to come here?  So Koenig could tell us the answer?  That would make sense for a teacher, but Koenig's clear move was another terse note: thanks for, and regrets.  Tch, tch.  Or Tuck, Tuck. 

And then the obvious exploded inside my skull and I congratulated the amoebas of the world for having more brains that Joel Rawson.  As I had told my parents from the beginning, Koenig's note said nothing.  How could it?  Nobody had won.  Matters stood quite literally at a draw.  Koenig had tested our writing skills with his question, but he hadn't yet checked our sketching talents.  Therefore Tuck wasn't here because he'd been counted out for the essay, and Larry and I had another test coming up. 

Hell, I thought, there's no way he can make it as rough in drawing as he did in English.  And no matter how tough he makes it, I can beat Larry out.  With both hands behind me and the pencil in my teeth, I can beat her.  I flung open the door and stepped from the car, enjoying the warm gusts and pumping my lungs with March and confidence. 

Once I got outside the car I could see what I hadn't spotted before.  Larry hadn't gone in yet but was squatting near the shrubs that bordered the driveway.  Her fat ass was pressed onto her heels, and she was staring into the greenery as if she could read there the answers to any questions Koenig could put.  At my footsteps she stood up. 

"Look, Joe.  One of his crocus bloomed."

"Tra la."

"It's exactly the same shade of yellow as my coat."

That figured.  Larry and her bright colors, wrong for her figure no matter how right for her skin.  Although you couldn't make a mistake with that skin; there wasn't any color you couldn't wear against it.  It was a pale, creamy ivory that seemed even fairer against her thick hair.  Hair so black it was almost blue.  The dark eyes pointed up the contrast too, but you could never look into them long enough to see what shade of brown they were.  Larry'd look at you, then down at her shoes.  She'd meet your gaze, but only for a moment.  On and off like a dying fluorescent light she went, and it struck me suddenly that that was somehow connected with why she shouldn't wear bright colors. 

"His daffodils are coming up too, Joey.  He planted them himself."

I raised my eyebrows and said nothing. 

"My grandmother told me.  He does all his own gardening."

So Larry had been asking questions too.  I nodded but remained silent. 

The hush got to her.  "We'd better go in," she said.  "We don't want to be late."

I looked at my watch.  A minute after three.  Shit.  Larry and her damn flowers.  Well at least we'd walk in together, which didn't give her any kind of advantage.  I jabbed the bell angrily just the same. 

Mrs. Horvath ushered us into a room on the left of the foyer.  I wanted to note the furnishings, a clue to Koenig's taste that might well come in useful, but it didn't happen.  I had a quick impression of warm earth tones, wall to wall bookcases, a fireplace with a portrait above it, and some sculpture on its mantel.  Then the figure that had been sitting in an armchair rose, taking a pipe from his mouth as he did so, and I didn't see anything but him.  The room vanished and all there was was Koenig. 

It wasn't only his height that dominated the scene, compelling you to regard him.  But his height was the first thing that hit me, and I saw it with a shock.  At 6'4 I was accustomed to looking straight at fellow basketball players and down on everyone else.  I was most unused to looking up while standing, and I couldn't gauge his height.  Anywhere from one to three inches above me was my guess, and not knowing sent a current of malaise through me. 

Even more disturbing was that Koenig didn't need his height to dominate.  His coloring alone could've done it.  It was as though someone had poured liquid gold over him then lightly rinsed it off.  The skin still seemed to gleam with faint little flecks of it, and even more of it had stuck to his hair so that you could never call it dirty blond.  It was bronze, and no other word would describe it.  Its color was almost but not quite picked up in the slacks he wore.  The sleeves of a sand beige shirt were rolled up revealing the veins and muscles of his forearms, and little bronze hairs glinted there also.  Set high in the midst of these warm earth and metal shades were his eyes, eyes that didn't need the deep-etched laugh lines to draw your attention to them. 

Incredibly the irises too had partaken of the golden anointing.  You got the impression they'd meant to be blue, then absorbed the liquid metal and become turquoise.  Brilliant turquoise, the very hue the Adams swimming pool had been painted.  Looking into them you knew that Koenig had never lost a stare fight, and that only a fool would challenge him to one. 

I saw all this in the couple of seconds he stood watching us enter, and then his smile broke and I was struggling, fighting his grin.  Fighting in some way a foe that wasn't there.  It was a warm smile, and the teeth were white and even, although a little too long.  It was a smile that said, without his uttering a word, "I'm glad you're here."  And the smile was genuine all right‑-one look at the curved lips and you felt like you'd handed him a Christmas present and tied all its bows yourself.  Just by going to see him.  The catch was the tidal wave the smile unleashed. 

Because that's what it felt like.  Wave after huge wave of warm water coming at me, dashing over me.  Water so powerful you couldn't long stand up to it, and so warm that all your muscles went limp.  Something seemed to go berserk in my mind, and my thoughts would not coordinate, not stay on one subject.  Aura, that's what an aura is, I remember thinking.  Then: it's like magnetic lines of force‑-you can't see them but you can measure the effect...he doesn't need the height or the coloring...he got all his money by standing in a room smiling, and everyone just handed him all they had....  And finally: you're wrong, mom, he doesn't have a trumpet; he has a tidal wave.

It was that last thought that helped.  Like an icicle it jabbed into my stomach and I clung to the pain and the cold and used them to free myself.  I tore my gaze from Koenig and it fell on Larry.  And that really jolted me to my senses.  Larry‑-neon light Larry!‑-was still looking at him.  Directly. 

Gone was her habitual slouch; the slumping shoulders were straight and back.  She'd drawn herself up to every inch of her 5'4, her head thrown back to take in the bronze god towering above her.  She was smiling too, a smile of sheer gratitude, and I thought crazily: she's finally found someone from whom she can beg and take and still there'll be more.  A line from a song my mother used to sing ran through my head and threatened to keep on running.  "...As the sunflower turns on her god...as the sunflower turns on her god...."

Then a low baritone, a gong reverberating, said, "Hiya," and mercifully Koenig released us from his spell.  With a wave of his hand he indicated the chairs and couch grouped around the fireplace.  There, in silence, we took our seats. 

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