Gryphon_ New and Selected Stories - Charles Baxter [78]
Earl called me a few more times, in irate puzzlement over his life. The last time was at the end of the summer, on Labor Day. Usually Ann and I and the boys go out on Labor Day to a Metropark and take the last long swim of the summer, but this particular day was cloudy, with a forecast for rain. Ann and I had decided to pitch a tent on the back lawn for the boys, and to grill some hot dogs and hamburgers. We were hoping that the weather would hold until evening. What we got was drizzle, off and on, so that you couldn’t determine what kind of day it was. I resolved to go out and cook in the rain anyway. I often took the weather personally. I was standing there, grim-faced and wet, firing up the coals, when Ann called me to the telephone.
It was Earl. He apologized for bringing me to the phone on Labor Day. I said it was okay, that I didn’t mind, although I did mind, in fact. We waited. I thought he was going to tell me something new about his daughter, and I was straining for him not to say it.
“So,” he said, “have you been watching?”
“Watching what? The weather? Yes, I’ve been watching that.”
“No,” he said, “not the sky. The Jerry Lewis Telethon.”
“Oh, the telethon,” I said. “No, I don’t watch it.”
“It’s important, Warren. We need all the money we can get. We’re behind this year. You know how it’s for Jerry’s kids.”
“I know it, Earl.” Years ago, when I was a bachelor, once or twice I sat inside drinking all weekend and watching the telethon and making drunken pledges of money. I didn’t want to remember such entertainment now.
“If we’re going to find a cure for this thing, we need for everybody to contribute. It’s for the kids.”
“Earl,” I said, “they won’t find a cure. It’s a genetic disorder, some scrambling in the genetic code. They might be able to prevent it, but they won’t cure it.”
There was a long silence. “You weren’t born in this country, were you?”
“No,” I said.
“I didn’t think so. You don’t sound like it. I can tell you weren’t born here. At heart you’re still a foreigner. You have a no-can-do attitude. No offense. I’m not criticizing you for it. It’s not your fault. You can’t help it. I see that now.”
“Okay, Earl.”
Then his voice brightened up. “What the hell,” he said. “Come out anyway. You know where Westland is? Oh, right, you’ve been here. You know where the shopping center’s located?”
“Yes,” I said.
“It’s the clown races. We’re raising money. Even if you don’t believe in the cure, you can still come to the clown races. We’re giving away balloons, too. Your kids will enjoy it. Bring ’em along. They’ll love it. It’s quite a show. It’s all on TV.”
“Earl,” I said, “this isn’t my idea of what a person should be doing on a holiday. I’d rather—”
“I don’t want to hear what you’d rather do. Just come out here and bring your money. All right?” He raised his voice after a quick pause. “Are you listening?”
“Yes, Earl,” I said. “I’m listening.”
Somehow I put out the charcoal fire and managed to convince my two boys and my wife that they should take a quick jaunt to Westland. I told them about Earl, the clown races, but what finally persuaded the boys was that I claimed there’d be a remote TV unit out there, and they might turn up with their faces on Channel 2. Besides, the rain was coming down a little harder, a cool rain, one of those end-of-summer drizzles that make your skin feel the onset of autumn. When you feel like that, it helps to be in a crowd.
They had set up a series of highway detours around the shopping center, but we finally discovered how to get into the north parking lot. They’d produced the balloons, tents, and