Free The End of the Road by John Barth Page A

with Joe, during which, bleary-eyed from reading, he would question Rennie or me about my progress.
    But the subject at hand is Rennie’s clumsy force. On horseback, where there are traditional and even reasonable rules for one’s posture every minute of the time, it was a pleasure to see her strong, rather heavy body sitting perfectly controlled in the saddle at the walk or posting to the trot, erect and easy, her cheeks ruddy in the wind, her brown eyes flashing, her short-cropped blond hair bright in the sun. At such times she assumed a strong kind of beauty. But she could not handle her body in situations where there were no rules. When she walked she was continually lurching ahead. Standing still, she never knew what to do with her arms, and she was likely to lean all her weight on one leg and thrust the other awkwardly out at the side. During our brief rest periods, when we usually sat on the ground and smoked cigarettes, she was simply without style or grace: she flopped and fidgeted. I think it was her self-consciousness about this inability to handle her body that prompted her to talk more freely and confidentially during our rides than she would have otherwise, for both Morgans were normally unconfiding people, and Rennie was even inclined to be taciturn when Joe was with us. But in these August mornings we talked a great deal—in that sense, if not in some others, Joe’s program was highly successful—and Rennie’s conversation often displayed an analogous clumsy force.
    One of our most frequent rides took us to a little creek in a loblolly-pine woods some nine miles from the farm. There the horses could drink on hot days, and often we wore bathing suits under our riding gear and took a short swim when we got there, dressing afterwards, very properly, back in the woods. This was quite pleasant: the little creek was fairly clean and entirely private, shaded by the pines, which also carpeted the ground with a soft layer of slick brown shats. I remarked to Rennie once that it was a pity Joe couldn’t enjoy the place with us.
    “That’s a silly thing to say,” she said, a little upset.
    “Like all politeness is silly,” I smiled. “I feel politely sorry for him grinding away at the books while we gallop and splash around.”
    “Better not tell him that; he hates pity.”
    “That’s a silly way to be, isn’t it?” I said mildly. “Joe’s funny as hell.”
    “What do you mean, Jake?” We were resting after a swim; I was lying comfortably supine under a tree beside the water, chewing on a green pine needle and squinting over at Susie and Tom Brown, tethered nearby. Rennie had been slouched back like a sack of oats against the same tree, smoking, but now she sat up and stared at me with troubled eyes. “How can you possibly call Joe silly, of all people?”
    “Do you mean how can I of all people call Joe silly, or how can I call Joe of all people silly?”
    “You know what I mean: how can you call Joe silly? Good God!”
    “Oh,” I laughed. “What could be sillier than getting upset at politeness? If I really felt sorry for him it would be my business, not his; if I’m just saying I feel sorry for him to be polite, there’s even less reason to be bothered, since I’m just making so much noise.”
    “But that kind of noise is absurd, isn’t it?”
    “Sure. Where did you and Joe get the notion that things should be scrapped just because they’re absurd? That’s a silly one for you. For that matter, what could be sillier than this whole aim of living coherently?”
    Now I know very well what Joe would have answered to these remarks: let me be the first to admit that they are unintelligible. My purpose was not to make a point, but to observe Rennie. She was aghast.
    “You’re not serious, Jake! Are you serious?”
    “And boy oh boy, what could possibly be sillier than his notion that two people in the same house can live that way!”
    Rennie stood up. Her expression, I should guess, was