Date Night (Part 1)

Location: Bemidji Normal School Dorms
Date:    1920s

Jacob Bale’s shortcoming in life, he had decided, was that his prodigious knowledge was not in any meaningful way counterbalanced by ability.  From childhood, he had a marked tendency to pick up a subject – say, cooking – and simply absorb the facts surrounding it.  Then, laden with wisdom, he would venture forward and nothing would materialize.  He knew the secret béarnaise recipe of the most snobbish French chefs (1/2 tsp of Russian “dragon’s herb” mixed with the finer-grain French tarragon), yet he ate the same meal nearly every day of his life: whatever was cheap, easy, and nearby.

And now, he reflected bitterly, this abortive tendency had stained every important facet of his life.  Three years ago, when asked what he wanted to do, he had shrugged and asked if there were any more skill tests he might take to find an answer.  There were not.  On paper, Jacob would be an excellent politician, lumberjack, attorney, horse breeder, FBI agent, or accountant; each of which was more impossible than the next due to his paralyzing inability to speak in public, paralyzing tendency to get demoralizing slivers, paralyzing dislike of actual living animals, etc. etc.  His mother had used the money they’d gotten from the government to make sure that Jacob had a first-hand view of a wide variety of possible careers; but outdoors he tended to find unusual allergies, when moving indoors he demonstrated a remarkable capacity for spraining his ankle and quitting, and when confined to a completely stationary position he became terribly listless within ten minutes.

And so, confounded by opportunity, he had not chosen a career.  There seemed to be nothing left to do but further schooling until he developed some kind of aptitude, so his mother obtained application papers for ivory towers across the country.  Filling out the application papers was difficult, however, so Jacob taught himself how to read palms until only one deadline remained unbroken.  Then he decided that Minnesota was too cold a state to live in, and threw the last application away.  Somehow, everything would have worked out -- except that his mother chose this time to check in on the application process and, long story short, ended up furiously holding Jacob down in a chair until the paperwork was complete.

And so he found himself in Bemidji, a worthlessly cold piece of nowhere, preparing to become a teacher, as that was the curriculum they happened to offer there.  And that had defined the last three years of his life.  That wasn’t what he was unhappily reflecting upon, however, nor the reason why he had turned his gaze briefly inwards to discover this pattern within himself.  After all, he might not like Bemidji, but he might not like somewhere else, either: might as well be here as anywhere.

No, what was upsetting him today was women.  Not any particular women, nor even any unknown women, just the vague general concept of “women.”  He knew all about them, of course; at least, as much as any man can know.  He was up-to-date on how to treat them, knew which rules of chivalry had survived to the 20th century and which ones had not, had heard nearly two dozen different theories from other students about how to demonstrate attentiveness, and was painfully aware of all the other salient details.  And, just to be prepared, he had even ransacked the library for a little-used medical textbook -- which contained facts of its own.

Irritably, he slammed the book shut.  He had, of course, checked it out so as not to be seen reading it in the library, and probably should have returned it a week ago.  But why bother returning it?  For all the good it was doing him, it clearly was worthless and might as well be removed from circulation.  As the resident expert on women, it simply wasn’t right that he couldn’t remember the last time he’d actually spoken to one.  It was infuriating.  All it would take would be for one girl to notice his superiority, and the rest would be by-the-book.  “By-the-book” being a general sort of phrase, meaning routine or planned; not, you know, the medical book in front of him.  Not that it would be, I mean, when men and women are together, it’s the natural thing, but that’s not really the type of, well, not at first anyway, unless she wanted to, of course.  That he would be good at; he’d listened both to the whispered stories and to the obnoxious bragging and felt he knew just what to do.  Stupid book.

In a rare fit of inspiration, he decided it was worth returning the book.  Or, if not “worth” returning the book; at least he might as well do that as anything.  Graduation wasn’t all that far away, and he knew he was going to leave this place as alone as when he’d entered it.  “Accomplishment” was overrated – his father had been a tremendous doer of deeds but, for all that, wound up simply disappearing in the “Great War” anyways – but a lady friend still seemed like an accomplishment worth having.  But it didn’t matter.  Girls didn’t recognize his knowledge, so nothing would come of it.  Just like carpentry.  It was really the fault of all those birds that the birdhouse kept killing them.  He had followed the instructions perfectly.  Maybe if that hammer had been more like the ones he’d learned about… well, what was past was passed.

Wrapped in dark thoughts, and surrounded by an even darker night, Jacob walked right past the library and continued going beyond the limits of campus and into town.  When he realized his mistake, he probably would have begun thinking about how the map of campus had inadequately prepared him for actual navigation, but he never had the chance.  A path had been cleared in the road for Bemidji’s few dozen cars, and horses had long-since packed the snow down into ice.  The rising temperatures of the last few days had left the top of the ice sleek and treacherous.  Before he had grasped what was happening, he had fallen onto his back and lay dazedly staring at the infinite black of the night sky.

“Laws!” he heard someone exclaim, which was shortly followed by footsteps, then by a much more muted “oh.”  His view of the stars was interrupted by the silhouette of a face above him.  “I think this is yours, sir,” he heard, as the young lady handed him his textbook.  “Are you hurt?”

The textbook, of course, had by ill fate opened to a page that some might consider incriminating.  Of course, it was only facts.  And it was too dark to see anything but the vaguest of shapes.  Surely, no one who was not already familiar with the illustrations would be… “I take it you’re to be,” she hesitated, “a doctor, then?”  Damnation.

“Well, yes,” he said, as he blushed and scrambled to his feet, “and that’s an important book.  So.”  He didn’t know where to go with this thought.  “So, that is that.  And there’s no need to mention anything about it…”  Oops.  This was the wrong track.  “about me falling.  To… other doctors… students.  Doctor-students.  I’ll thank you to remain discrete.”

Unexpectedly, she giggled.  “You talk real funny!  I’m Amanda, but Pa calls me Mandy.”

Mentally, he noted her obvious mistake: ‘Mandy’ would not be an appropriate form of address if he wished to show respect.  She should know that.  “I am Mr. Jacob Bale.  I am a student.  You are, Miss…?”
There was a silence from Mandy: puzzlement, perhaps, or hesitation.  Just then, a break in the clouds lit the streets with a shaft of moonlight.  She was prettier than he had imagined, with red cheeks even in the comparatively warm night.  Her hat featured large dog-like ear flaps; he’d never cared for those hats before, but suddenly felt he may have not given them their due.  The effect of the ridiculous flaps was simultaneously one of both bitter winter hardiness and child-like innocence.  It was over for him: he was smitten.

“Miss Swenson,” she finally answered, “Pa and me work the big farm between the Jensons and the Yerbiches.  I was just out here to pick up…”

“Miss Swenson,” he interrupted, “would you like to have dinner with me next week?”  He felt his face stick in place while every other part of his body melted backwards towards an increasingly distant point and his mind closed in on a few closely-linked thoughts.  What had he just done?  He was doing it!  What was he doing?  Did he really just…?

 Miss Swenson, on the other hand, underwent an entirely different kind of change.  Her face lit up before splitting into a big grin that somehow made her eyes larger than they had just been previously.  “Stars!  I’ve never really spoken with a doctor before, uh, student doctor.  I mean, I don’t really talk to anyone.  On the farm I mostly just talk with Pa.  But that’s, I mean, I’d love to!  I don’t have anything to wear, but maybe I can make something real pretty.”  She put her hands to her mouth, suddenly frightened.  She did not wear gloves, and they were clearly the hands of someone born and raised on a farm – but also the hands of a real-live woman and that was more important.  “But… you wouldn’t kid, would you?”

“Not a bit of it, my dear lady.”  That sounded about right.  “I’ll pick you up Friday, at four o’clock sharp.”

“Oh, such the gentleman!”  Backing up slowly, she began dragging the heel of her right foot, leaving a broken rut in the hard-packed snow of the road.  As Jacob watched, confused, she made three sharp kicks, gouging the ground with her heel.  “This here is Movil, and this is Little Turtle, and you’ll find me and Pa at the farm right here!”

“Then, Miss Swenson, I eagerly await the honor.”

She cast her eyes down bashfully.  “Mr. Bale.”  The clouds, now tired of their adopted obliging nature, suddenly covered up the moon and thrust them both into darkness.  Jacob stood a moment in darkness, wondering if he should say anything else.  When his eyes began to adjust, he could no longer make out her shape in the night.  He couldn’t remember what he’d learned about ending conversations of this sort, and he wasn’t about to start talking to someone who might not even be there anymore; the best course was simply to disappear silently, himself, and he stepped lightly back towards campus, away from the silent, possibly-empty street.

Jacob felt ill.  Some was a curiously pleasant nausea – he couldn’t believe what had just happened, and was pleased at how well he’d followed the patterns.  Some of his expertise must have been lost on the girl, she was clearly country stock and fundamentally uncivilized.  Still, no master of the art could have found fault with his adherence to the form.  Which, tragically, led to the other type of queasiness threatening to overwhelm him: “I’ll pick you up?”  What was he thinking?  He was a student, and neither had horses nor knew anyone who would be likely to put their team on loan to an inexperienced driver.  And to show up with someone else holding the reins?  Unless it were clearly a servant, it simply couldn’t be done.

Still, he’d done the best anyone could ask.  It was a relief to finally have a chance to exercise his research.  Stubbornly forbidding himself to think about what he was doing or why, he hurried past the library without returning the book.

The next few days followed a set pattern.  In the morning, he woke from a restless sleep and skipped classes to continue his list of people who might have horses he could access.  After lunch, he would contact the one or two or zero people he’d thought of, and would be sent away empty-handed.  On the worst day, he walked all the way to the Stone farm – relatives of a former roommate – and wasn’t able to get back home until well after nightfall, and all for nothing.  The evening, on the days time remained, was spent reading cookbooks.  He simply hadn’t the money to take her anywhere, but a demonstration of culinary skill was an acceptable gambit in and of itself, so the loss wasn’t too great.  He had nowhere to serve food but his dorm room, but a few trips to the library allowed him to decorate in such a way that it actually appeared he might be bound for the medical field.  It would have to do.

Getting access to the kitchens would be a problem, so he carefully chose foods that were served cold and planned to break in Thursday night after the cooks had gone home.  It was foolproof, and excuses could be made for the lack of transportation.  She clearly was used to making the long trip on foot already; while a shame, walking would not be an insupportable burden.

Thursday night came and Jacob was as ready as he could be.  He had a few recipes memorized and covertly learned the layout of the kitchens from a former employee.  The real gem was going to be the vegetables.  A few pounds of fresh produce were brought in once a month for the higher-ups and for honorary ceremonies.  By this point in the winter, there was already no price that could be put on a taste that didn’t come from a can.  For most people, and certainly for countryfolk, everything was preserved – or freshly slaughtered.  A taste of fresh would elevate his status in ways no other trick could.

Slipping out of his room, he was immediately struck by the difficulty in appearing innocent.  He was planning on breaking into the kitchens, yes, but for now he was simply walking across campus.  No harm in that.  Not a common activity for anyone during winter, true, but neither discouraged nor incriminating.  Still, he couldn’t shake the feeling that unseen eyes were following his every step; it was painfully difficult to keep from glancing over his shoulder every few steps.  The pools of light spilled by the lamps made him feel exposed, on display; but the darkness in-between was filled with invisible watchers which made him hurry to the next lamppost as quickly as he dared.  He felt himself oozing a sinister glow that would proclaim his guilt to anyone whose eye he caught; soon it became as difficult to keep from wiping himself clean as it was to keep from continually looking back over his shoulder.  And he’d done nothing wrong yet.

Just as it threatened to become overwhelming, he found himself already at the icy stone steps that led to the underground entrance of the kitchens.  He couldn’t remember crossing most of the distance between his room and these steps, but at least he had arrived.  It was time to commit the crime he was already paying for, and sinking into the ground was a perverse relief.

The lock, a simple in-door springbolt number, was child’s play to pick.  It was one of the few things learned from books that wasn’t too difficult to apply, not that it suggested any reputable careers for Jacob.  The door was doubly-thick and pulled back with the weight and momentousness of a freezer door.  It was almost surprising that the air was warmer once he’d slipped inside and let it settle behind him, sealing the kitchens off from the outside world.

Jacob licked his lips, briefly overwhelmed by the reality of his situation.  It was frighteningly easy: he had made choices and was having something like an adventure.  Would it always have been that easy?  An unfamiliar urge to reflect hovered on the edge of his mind, but it was hardly the time for self-evaluation.  He licked his lips again, wicking the cold from them.  Speed would be his only virtue tonight.

The kitchens were not totally dark, which was a blessing.  Had they been completely lightless, he had no backup plan.  He had entered in next to the monstrous machine that somehow cleaned dishes, and needed to move in deeper to get to the food.  He knew that the kitchens were laid out something like a honeycomb, with a large series of interconnecting cells, all white tiled and carefully organized.  The map in his mind told him to exit the room via the entryway to the right, but the smell of fresh bread from the left lured him away from the dishes and into a room lined with wire racks and perhaps a hundred delicious-looking loaves.  This wasn’t part of his plan, but it certainly was best not to look a gift horse in the loaf, such as it was.  He grabbed one and slipped it into his bag, finding something curiously satisfying in the heavy, crusty sound it made landing in the bottom.

It was marginally lighter ahead, and that more than anything compelled Jacob to continue moving forward instead of going back to follow his original plan and raid the vegetables.  The next room was filled with serving and mixing bowls, and several bins with spatulas, graters, and other miscellaneous tools.  One thing didn’t fit, however: in the corner by one of the far doors was a wooden barrel.  He told himself it was likely only for seating, but curiosity compelled him to cross the room and pull up the lid.  Perhaps only Aladdin in the deepest caves could explain the feeling that drove him, but Aladdin was never so richly rewarded with treasure.  The barrel was full of apples.  Real apples, delivered fresh from heaven-only-knew what sunny land far, far from this winterlocked town.  He quickly grabbed two, then another two, before a sound made him freeze: something was terribly wrong.

After a breathless moment, he lowered the lid and looked directly into the next room.  He hadn’t noticed it in his haste, but that room was even lighter: there was a lantern burning very low on the immaculately cleaned countertop.  The floor was a jumble of drawers and tangled utensils: various sizes of forks and spoons lay scattered, and the gaping holes in the counter screamed that violence had been done as their drawers were ripped free.  There were no knives on the ground, however: those were lined up on top of the countertop.  Butter knives, steak knives, filleting knives, butcher knives: every kind of knife gathered from throughout the kitchens lay neatly arranged, each a precisely-measured distance from each of its neighbors, carefully spaced with a mathematician’s rigor by the Dean of the school -- who was standing next to the lamp, staring at Jacob Bale with fury in his eyes.