Richard Paul Russo - Nobodys Fool

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NOBODY'S FOOL

Richard Russo

POOL.

"NOBODY'S FOOL is big, funny and richly human, a garrulous book that

buttonholes you in the first few pages and does not let you go ... ISBN

0-09-957191-8 Fiction 9780099574910 Cover photograph: TM, , 1994

VINTAGE U. K.

NOBODY'S FOOL

Richard Russo was born in New York state in 1949. His two previous

novels, Mohawk and The Risk Pool, were highly praised, and Nobody's

Fool is being made into a major motion picture. Russo teaches at Colby

College in Waterville, Maine, where he lives with his wife and two

daughters.

BY RICHARD RUSSO

The Risk Pool Mohawk Nobody's Fool Thanksgiving in the spa community of

North Bath, upstate New York: the springs have run dry, the visitors

have stopped coming and the elms are withering. Unluckier than most,

but trudging around bar-rooms and building sites with a couple of lives

to spare, is Sully, the hero of Richard Russo's terrific suburban

sprawl of a novel... Out of a single week, Russo lifts a generous slice

of middle America in all its flavours: oddity in the midst of

conformity, hope in the face of decline, philosophy in the diner, sex

in office hours. Nobody's Fool is a great-hearted, unforgettable

comedy in the best tradition of John Irving and Anne Tyler." Glyn

Maxwell, Vogue "This is a novel of charm and wit, akin to the work of

Alice Hoffman, Anne Tyler or Garrison Keillor. Like them, Russo offers

a golden world, troubled and shadowed at the edges but one in which a

spirit of comedy prevails. Like them, his work offers guaranteed

pleasures: old-fashioned story-telling; lovingly presented characters

whose fundamental goodness is never at all in doubt; a locale

thoroughly known and precisely observed and conclusions that are

sentimental and life-affirming. Salinger defined sentimentality as

showing a thing more tenderness than God would give it. Well, on this

showing, God is a mean git and Russo is generosity itself." James

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Friel, Time Out "Nobody's Fool is big, funny and richly human, a

garrulous book that button holes you in the first few pages and does

not let you go until it has had its say. The town of North Bath is a

wonderful creation, the sort of place where Texan investors choose not

to build a theme park because, well, the people there look sort of

funny. It is a place of beautiful old houses occupied by widows who

refuse to die simply for the sake of a property boom; of doomed civic

boosters who will run off with S&L funds at a drop of a hat; of

middle-aged lotharios and their fading cheerleader mistresses. Like

Garrison Keillor, Russo is able to show small-town life warts and

all."

Stephen Amidon, Financial Times "The world Russo creates is endearing

and amusing, and his characters are loveable even when at their most

loathsome.

Nobody's Fool is a Norman Rockwell portrait of small-town America, full

of chirpy local colour and lots of cheery jokes... One comes away

convinced there is more life and less cynicism in the dead town of

North Bath than just about anywhere else on the planet... except, quite

possibly, for the bar in the television series. Cheers... The 50

million or so Americans and untold numbers of Britons who wept over the

last episode of that much-loved sitcom will be delighted by Nobody's

Fool; Russo's novel will warm the sentimental cockles even if it gets

on the cynic's last nerve. Claire Messud, Guardian Richard Russo

NOBODY'S FOOL v VINTAGE Published by Vintage 1994 6810975 Copyright

Richard Russo 1993 The right of Richard Russo to be identified as the

author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the

the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent,

resold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publisher's

prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which

it is published and without a similar condition including this

condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser First published in

Great Britain by Chatto & Windus Ltd, 1993 Vintage Random House, 20

Vauxhall Bridge Road, London SW1V2SA Random House Australia (Pty)

Limited 20 Alfred Street, Milsons Point, Sydney, New South Wales 2061,

Australia Random House New Zealand Limited 18 Poland Road, Glenfield

Auckland 10, New Zealand Random House South Africa (Pty) Limited PO Box

337, Bergvlei, South Africa Random House UK Limited Reg. No. 954009 A

CIP catalogue for this book is available from the British Library ISBN

0 09 957491 8 Printed and bound in Great Britain by Cox & Wyman Ltd,

Reading, Berkshire FOB JEAN LEVARN FIND LAY

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ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

The author gratefully acknowledges generous support from the John Simon

Guggenheim Foundation and Southern Illinois University in Carbondale.

Thanks also to Linda Stuart and Alan Ran- court for advice on technical

matters. Gratitude as well for coffee and understanding to the staffs

of Cristaudos and Denny's in Carbondale and The Open Hearth in

Waterville. And, for priceless faith and encouragement, my dearest

thanks to Nat Sobel, Judith Weber, Craig Holden, David Rosenthal and,

always, my wife, Barbara.

PART One Upper Main Street in the village of North Bath, just above

the town's two-block-long business district, was quietly residential

for three more blocks, then became even more quietly rural along old

Route 27A, a serpentine two-lane blacktop that snaked its way through

the Adirondacks of northern New York, with their tiny,

down-at-the-heels resort towns, all the way to Montreal and

prosperity.

The houses that bordered Upper Main, as the locals referred to

it-although Main, from its "lower" end by the IGA and Tastee Freez

through its upper end at the Sans Souci, was less than a quarter

mile--were mostly dinosaurs, big, aging clapboard Victorians and

sprawling Greek Revivals that would have been worth some money if they

were across the border in Vermont and if they had not been built as, or

convened into, two and occasionally three-family dwellings and rented

out, over several decades, as slowly deteriorating flats. The most

impressive feature of Upper Main was not its houses, however, but the

regiment of ancient elms, whose upper limbs arched over the steeply

pitched roofs of these elderly houses, as well as the street below, to

green cathedral effect, bathing the street in breeze- blown shadows

that masked the peeling paint and rendered the sloping porches and

crooked eaves of the houses quaint in their decay. City people on

their way north, getting off the interstate in search of food and fuel,

often slowed as they drove through the village and peered nostalgically

out their windows at the old houses, wondering idly what they cost and

what O they must be like inside and what it would be like to live in

them and walk to the village in the shade. Surely this would be a

better life. On their way back to the city after the long weekend,

some of the most powerfully affected briefly considered getting off the

interstate again to repeat the experience, perhaps even look into the

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real estate market. But then they remembered how the exit had been

tricky, how North Bath hadn't been all that close to the highway, how

they were getting back to the city later than they planned as it was,

and how difficult it would be to articulate to the kids in the backseat

why they would even want to make such a detour for the privilege of

driving up a tree-lined street for all of three blocks, before turning

around and heading back to the interstate. Such towns were pretty,

green graves, they knew, and so the impulse to take a second look died

unarticulated and the cars flew by the North Bath exit without slowing

down.

Perhaps they were wise, for what attracted them most about the

three-block stretch of Upper Main, the long arch of giant elms, was

largely a deceit, as those who lived beneath them could testify. For a

long time the trees had been the pride of the neighborhood, having

miraculously escaped the blight of Dutch elm disease. Only recently,

without warning, the elms had turned sinister.

The winter of 1979 brought a terrible ice storm, and the following

summer the leaves on almost half of the elms strangled on their

branches, turning sickly yellow and falling during the dog days of

August instead of mid-October.

Experts were summoned, and they arrived in three separate vans, each of

which sported a happy tree logo, and the young men who climbed out of

these vans wore white coats, as if they imagined themselves doctors.

They sauntered in circles around each tree, picked at its bark, tapped

its trunk with hammers as if the trees were suspected of harboring

secret chambers, picked up swatches of decomposing leaves from the

gutters and held them up to the fading afternoon light. One

white-coated man drilled a hole into the elm on Beryl Peoples' front

terrace, stuck his gloved index finger into the tree, then tasted,

making a face. Mrs. Peoples, a retired eighth-grade teacher who had

been watching the man from behind the blinds other front room since the

vans arrived, snorted.

"What did he expect it to taste like?" she said out loud.

"Strawberry shortcake?"

Beryl Peoples, "Miss Beryl" as she was known to nearly everyone in

North Bath, had been living alone long enough to have grown accustomed

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to the sound of her own voice and did not always distinguish between

the voice she heard in her ears when she spoke and the one she heard in

her mind when she thought. It was the same person, to her way of

thinking, and she was no more embarrassed to talk to herself than she

was to think to herself. She was pretty sure she couldn't stifle one

voice without stifling the other, something she had no intention of

doing while she still had so much to say, even if she was the only one

listening. For instance, she would have liked to tell the young man

who tasted his glove and made a face that she considered him to be

entirely typical of this deluded era. If there was a recurring motif

in today's world, a world Miss Beryl, at age eighty, was no longer sure

she was in perfect step with, it was cavalier open-mindedness.

"How do you know what it's like if you don't try it?" was the way so

many young people put it. To Miss Beryl's way of thinking--and she

prided herself on being something of a free- thinker--you often could

tell, at least if you were paying attention, and the man who'd just

tasted the inside of the tree and made a face had no more reason to be

disappointed than her friend Mrs. Gruber, who'd announced in a loud

voice in the main dining room of the Northwoods Motor Inn that she

didn't care very much for either the taste or the texture of the snail

she'd just spit into her napkin. Miss Beryl had been unmoved by her

friend's grimace.

"What was there about the way it looked that made you think it would be

good?" Mrs. Gruber had not responded to this question. Having spit

the snail into the napkin, she'd become deeply involved with the

problem of what to do with the napkin.

"It was gray and slimy and nasty looking," Miss Beryl reminded her

friend. Mrs.

Gruber admitted this was true, but went on to explain that it wasn't so

much the snail itself that had attracted her as the name.

"They got their own name in French," she reminded Miss Beryl,

stealthily exchanging her soiled cloth napkin for a fresh one at an

adjacent table.

"Escayot." There's also a word in English, Miss Beryl had pointed out.

Snail. Probably horse doo had a name in French also, but that didn't

mean God intended for you to eat it.

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Still, she was privately proud other friend for trying the snail, and

she had to acknowledge that Mrs. Gruber was more adventurous than most

people, including two named Clive, one of whom she'd been married to,

the other of whom she'd brought into the world. Where was the middle

ground between a sense of adventure and just plain sense? Now there

was a human question.

The man who tasted the inside of the elm must have been an even bigger

fool than Mrs. Gruber, Miss Beryl decided, for he'd no sooner made the

face than he took off his work glove, put his finger back into the hole

and tasted again, probably to ascertain whether the foul flavor had its

origin in the tree or the glove. To judge from his expression, it must

have been the tree. After a few minutes the white-coated men collected

their tools and reloaded the happy tree vans. Miss Beryl, curious,

went out onto the porch and stared at them maliciously until one of the

men came over and said, "Howdy."

"Doody," Miss Beryl said. The young man looked blank.

"What's the verdict?" she asked. The young man shrugged, bent back at

the waist and looked up into the grid of black branches.

"They're just old, is all," he explained, returning his attention to

Miss Beryl, with whom he was approximately eye level, despite the fact

that he was standing on the bottom step other front porch while she

stood at the top.

"Hell, this one here" --he pointed at Miss Beryl's elm"--if it was a

person, would be about eighty." The young man made this observation

without apparent misgiving, though the tiny woman to whom he imparted

the information, whose back was shaped like an elbow, was clearly the

tree's contemporary in terms of his own analogy.

"We could maybe juice her up a little with some vitamins," he went on,

but" He let the sentence dangle meaningfully, apparently confident that

Miss Beryl possessed sufficient intellect to follow his drift.

"You have a nice day," he said, before returning to his happy tree van

and driving away.

If the "juidng up" had any effect, so far as Miss Beryl could tell, it

was deleterious. That same winter a huge limb off Mrs. Boddicker's

elm, under the weight of accumulated snow and sleet, had snapped like a

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brittle bone and come crashing down, not onto Mrs. Boddicker's roof

but onto the roof of her neighbor, Mrs. Merriweather, swatting the

Mcrriweather brick chimney clean off. When the chimney descended, it

reduced to rubble the stone birdbath of Mrs. Gruber, the same Mrs.

Gruber who had been disappointed by the snail.

Since that first incident, each winter had yielded some calamity, and

lately, when the residents of Upper Main peered up into the canopy of

overarching limbs, they did so with fear instead of their customary

religious affection, as if God Himself had turned on them. Scanning

the maze of black limbs, the residents of Upper Main identified

particularly dangerous-looking branches in their neighbors' trees and

recommended costly pruning.

In truth, the trees were so mature, their upper branches so high, so

distant from the elderly eyes that peered up at them, that it was

anybody's guess as to which tree a given limb belonged, whose fault it

would be if it descended.

The business with the trees was just more bad luck, and, as the

residents of North Bath were fond of saying, if it weren't for bad luck

they wouldn't have any at all. This was not strictly true, for the

community owed its very existence to geological good fortune in the

form of several excellent mineral springs, and in colonial days the

village had been a summer resort, perhaps the first in North America,

and had attracted visitors from as far away as Europe. By the year

1800 an enterprising businessman named Jedediah Halsey had built a huge

resort hotel with nearly three hundred guest rooms and named it the

Sans Souci, though the locals had referred to it as Jedediah's Folly,

since everyone knew you couldn't fill three hundred guest rooms in the

middle of what had so recently been wilderness. But fill them Jedediah

Halsey did, and by the 1820s several other lesser hostelries had sprung

up to deal with the overflow, and the dirt roads of the village were

gridlocked with the fancy carriages of people come to take the waters

of Bath (for that was the village's name then, just Bath, the "North"

having been added a century later to distinguish it from another larger

town of the same name in the western part of the state though the

residents of North Bath had stubbornly refused the prefix). And it was

not just the healing mineral waters that people came to take, either,

for when Jedediah Halsey, a religious man, sold the Sans Souci, the new

owner cornered the market in distilled waters as well, and during long

summer evenings the ballroom and drawing rooms of the Sans Souci were

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full of revelers. Bath had become so prosperous that no one noticed

when several other excellent mineral springs were discovered a few

miles north near a tiny community that would become Schuyler Springs,

Bath's eventual rival for healing waters. The owners of the Sans Souci

and the residents of Bath remained literally without care until 1868,

when the unthinkable began to happen and the various mineral springs,

one by one, without warning or apparent reason, began, like luck, to

dry up, and with them the town's wealth and future. As luck (what else

would you call it? ) would have it, the upstart Schuyler Springs was

the immediate beneficiary of Bath's demise. Even though their origin

was the same fault line as the Bath mineral springs', the Schuyler

springs continued to flow merrily, and so the visitors whose fancy

carriages had for so long pulled into the long circular drive before

the front entrance of the Sans Souci now stayed on the road another few

miles and pulled into the even larger and more elegant hotel in

Schuyler Springs that had been completed (talk about luck! ) the very

year that the springs in Bath ran dry. Well, maybe it wasn't exactly

luck. For years the town of Schuyler Springs had been making inroads,

its downstate investors and local businessmen promoting other

attractions than those offered by the Sans Souci.

In Schuyler Springs there were prizefights held throughout the summer

season, as well as gambling, and, most exciting of all, a track was

under construction for racing Thoroughbred horses. The citizens of

Bath had been aware of these enterprises, of course, and had been

watching, gleefully at first, and waiting for them to fail, for the

schemes of the Schuyler Springs group struck them as even more foolish

than the Sans South with its three hundred rooms had been. There was

certainly no need for two resorts, two grand hotels, within so small a

geographical context.

Which meant that Schuyler Springs was doomed. There were limits to

folly.

True, Jedediah Halsey's Sans Souci hadn't been so much foolish as

"visionary," which, as everyone knew, was what you called a foolish

idea that worked anyway. And, people were quick to point out after the

springs ran dry and the visitors moved on, the Sans South hadn't so

much worked as it had enjoyed temporary success. The vast majority of

its nearly five hundred rooms (for the hotel had expanded on a very

grand scale, not three years before the springs went dry) were now

empty, just as everyone had originally predicted they would be. And so

people began to congratulate themselves on their original wisdom, and

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the residents of the once lucky, now tragically unlucky, community of

Bath sat back and waited for their luck to change again. It did not.

By 1900 Schuyler Springs had swept the field of its competitors. The

Sans Souci fire of 1903 was the symbolic finish, but of course the

battle had long been lost, and most everyone agreed that you couldn't

really count the Sans Souci fire as bad luck, since the blaze had

almost certainly been started by the hotel's owner in order to collect

the insurance. The man had died in the blaze, apparently trying to get

it started again after it became dear that the wind had shifted and

that only the -old original wooden structure, not the newer, grander

addition, was going to burn unless he did something creative. There is

always the problem of defining luck as it applies to humans and human

endeavors. The wind changing when you don't want it to could be

construed as bad luck, but what of a man frantically rolling a drum of

fuel too close to the flames he himself has set? Is he unlucky when a

spark sends him to eternity?

In any case, the town of North Bath, now, in the late autumn of 1984,

was still waiting for its luck to change. There were encouraging

signs. A restored Sans Souci, what was left of it, was scheduled to

reopen in the summer, and a new spring had been successfully drilled on

the hotel'sextensive grounds. And luck, so the conventional wisdom

went, ran in cycles. The morning of the day before Thanksgiving, five

winters after that first elm turned on the residents of Upper Main,

cleaving old Mrs. Mcrriweather's roof and reducing Mrs. Gruber's

birdbath to nibble. Miss Beryl, always an early riser, awoke even

earlier than usual, with a vague sense of unease. As she sat at the

edge other bed trying to trace its source, she had a nosebleed, a real

gusher. It came upon her quickly and was just as quickly finished.

She caught most of the blood with a swatch of tissue from the box she

kept on her bed stand, and as soon as her nose stopped bleeding she

flushed the tissue emphatically down the toilet. Was it the quick

disappearance of the evidence or the nosebleed itself that left her

feeling refreshed? She wasn't sure, but she felt even better after

she'd bathed and dressed, and when she went into her front room to

drink her tea, she was surprised and delighted to discover that it had

snowed during the night. Nobody had predicted snow, but there it was

anyway, the kind of heavy wet snow that sits up tall on railings and

tree branches, the whole street white. In the gray predawn, everything

outside looked otherworldly, and she watched the dark street and sipped

her tea until a car slalomed silently by, leaving its track in the

fresh snow, and the vague sense of unease she'd felt upon waking

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returned, though not as urgently. Who will it be this winter?

she wondered, parting the blinds so she could see up into the trees.

Though Miss Beryl was far too close an observer of reality to credit

the idea of divine justice in this world, there were times when she

could almost see God's design hovering just out of sight. So far,

she'd been lucky. God had permitted tree limbs to fall on her

neighbors, not herself. But she doubted He would continue to ignore

her in this business of felling limbs. This winter He'd probably lower

the boom.

"This'll be my year," she said out loud, addressing her husband, Clive

Sr. " who sat on the television, smiling at her wisely.

Dead now for twenty years, Clive Sr. could boast an even

temperament.

From his vantage point behind glass, nothing much got to him, and if he

worried that this might be his wife's winter, he didn't show it.

" You hear me, star of my firmament " Miss Beryl prodded. When Clive

Sr. had nothing to offer on this score. Miss Beryl frowned at him. "

I might as well talk to Ed," she told her husband. " Go ahead, then,"

Clive Sr.

seemed to say, safe behind his glass.

"What do you think, Ed?" Miss Beryl asked.

"Is this my year?" Driver Ed, Miss Beryl's Zamble mask, stared down at

her from his perch on the wall. Ed had a dour human face modified by

antelope horns and a toothed beak, all of which added up, to Miss

Beryl's way of thinking, to a mortified expression. He looked. Miss

Beryl had insisted when she purchased Ed over twenty years ago, like

Clive Sr. had looked when he discovered he was going to be required to

teach driver education at the high school. Clive Sr.

had been the football coach, and his later years had not gone the way

he'd planned. First, when the football team had begun to lose, he'd

been required to teach civics, and when it continued to lose, he'd been

required to teach driver education. Eventually, football had been

dropped, a victim of declining postwar enrollments, demographic shifts,

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