Elizabeth McKenzie - The Portable Veblen

Huddled together on the last block of Tasso Street, in a California town known as Palo Alto, was a pair of humble bungalows, each one aplot in lilies. And in one lived a woman in the slim green spring of her life, and her name was Veblen Amundsen-Hovda.

It was a rainy day in winter, shortly after the New Year. At the end of the street a squirrel raked leaves on the banks of the San Francisquito Creek, looking for pale, aged oak nuts, from which the tannins had been leeched by rain and dew. In muddy rain boots, a boy and a girl ran in circles, collecting acorns, throwing them, screaming with delight in the rain. Children did this every day, Veblen knew, scream in delight.

The skin of the old year was crackling, coming apart, the sewers sweeping it away beneath the roads. Soon would come a change in the light, the brief, benign winter of northern California tilting to warmth and flowers. All signs that were usually cause for relief, yet Veblen felt troubled, as if rushing toward a disaster. But was it of a personal nature, or worldwide? She wanted to stop time.

The waterway roared, as frothy as a cauldron, a heaving jam of the years broken brambles and debris. She watched the wind jerk the trees, quivering, scattering their litter. The creek roared, you see. Did water fret about madness? Did trees?

With her walked a thirty-four-year-old man named Paul Vreeland, tall and solid of build, branded head to toe in a forge-gray Patagonia jacket, indigo cords from J. Crew, and brown leather Vans that were showing flecks of mud. Under her raincoat, Veblen wore items of indeterminate make, possibly hand-cobbled, with black rubber boots. She was plain and mild in appearance, with hair the color of redwood bark, and eyes speckled like September leaves.

They stopped at a mossy escarpment in a ring of eucalyptus, redwood, and oak, and a squirrel crept forward to spy.

Veb, the man said.

Yes?

Ive been insanely happy lately, he said, looking down.

Really? She loved the idea of spending time with someone that happy, particularly if insanely. Me too.

Tacos Tambien tonight?

Sure!

I knew youd say sure.

I always say sure to Tacos Tambien.

Thats good, he said, squeezing her hands. To be in the habit of saying sure.

She drew closer, sensing his touching nervousness.

You know that thing you do, when you run out of a room after youve turned off the light? he said.

Youve seen me?

Its very cute.

Oh! To be cute when one hasnt tried is nice.

Remember when you showed me the shadow of the hummingbird on the curtain?

Yes.

I loved that.

I know, it was right in the middle, like it was framing itself.

And you know that thing you do, when telemarketers call and you sort of retch like youre being strangled and hang up?

You like that?

I love it. He cleared his throat, looked down at the ground, not so much at the earth but at his footing on it. I am very much in love with you. Will you marry me?

A velveteen shell came up from his pocket, opening with a crack like a walnut. In it gleamed a diamond so large it would be a pill to avoid for those who easily gag.

Oh, Paul. Look, a squirrels watching.

But Paul wouldnt even turn, as if being watched by a squirrel meant nothing to him.

Oh my gosh, she said, examining the alien stone, for which shed never yearned. Its so big. Wont I smash it into things, wont I wreck it?

Diamonds cant be smashed.

I cant wreck it? she asked, incredulously.

You cant wreck anything. You only make things great.

Her body quickened, like a tree in the wind. Later, she would remember a filament that passed through her, of being glad she had provided him happiness, but not really sure how she felt herself.

Yes? the man said.

The squirrel emitted a screech.

Is that a yes? Paul asked.

She managed to say it. Yes. Two human forms became as one, as they advanced to the sidewalk, the route to the cottage on Tasso Street.

Behind them, the squirrel made a few sharp sounds, as if to say he had significant doubts. As if to say, and she couldnt help translating it this way: There is a terrible alchemy coming.

SUCH WAS THE engagement of Veblen Amundsen-Hovda, independent behaviorist, experienced cheerer-upper, and freelance self, who was having a delayed love affair with the world due to an isolated childhood and various interferences since. At thirty she still favored baggy oversized boys clothes, a habit as hard to grow out of as imaginary friends.

That night in her cottage the squirrel paced the attic floor. Rain pelted the rooftop and a low-pressure system whipped the tall trees the town was named for. When his acorn lost its flavor, the squirrel hurled it in a fit of pique, and Paul banged on the wall from below.

You want a piece of me? Only bottled-up jerks bang on walls from below.

The squirrel had his resources. All he had to say was End the attachment and the leaves would fall. It was an important job in autumn to visit all the ones hed planted and stare down their boughs. End the attachment. The trees went bare. The days grew short and cold.

THAT NIGHT IN BED, she fell upon Paul with odd ferocity, as if to transform or disguise the strange mood that had seized her. It worked. Later, holding her close, Paul whispered, You know what Ill remember forever?

What?

You didnt say Ill think about it when I asked you. You just said yes.

She felt the joy of doing something right.

Overhead came a Virginia reel of scrapes and thumps, embarrassing at this juncture, as would be a growling intestine under the sheets.

Do you think its rats? Paul asked.

Im hoping its squirrels.

This town is infested with squirrels, have you noticed?

Id rather say its rich with squirrels.

The rains driving them in, Paul said, kissing her.

Or theyre celebrating for us, prancing with joy.

He butted her gently. My parents are going to be blown away. Theyll say I dont deserve you.

Really? No way.

Whatll your mother say? Paul wanted to know.

Well, that it happened fast, and that shell have to meet you, immediately if not sooner.

Should we call and tell them?

Tomorrow.

She had an internal clock set to her mothers hunger for news, but sometimes it felt good to ignore it.

What about your father? Paul asked.

Hmm. Hell just say well never be the same.

Were old enough not to care what our parents think, but somehow we do, Paul admitted, philosophically.

Thats for sure.

Because they allowed us to exist.

She had once concluded everyone on earth was a servant to the previous generation born from the bodys factory for entertainment and use. A life could be spent like an apology to prove you had been worth it.

Pressed against him, aware of the conspicuous new ring on her hand catching on the sheets, she jolted when he uttered in his day voice: Veb, those noises dont bother you?

Not wanting to be mistaken for a person who resides obliviously in a pesthole, she explained, I have this strange thing. If someone around me is bothered by something, I feel like Im not allowed to be bothered.

Not allowed?

Its like Im under pressure from some higher source to remain calm or neutral, to prevent something terrible from happening.

Thats kinda twisted. Do you spend a lot of time doing that?

She reflected that leveraging herself had become a major pastime. Was it fear of the domino, snowball, or butterfly effect? Or maybe just a vague awareness of behavioral cusps, cascading failures, chain reactions, and quantum chaos?