Read Online In The Garden Of The North American Martyrs by Tobias Wolff - Free Book Online Page B

I referred to simply as “the boy.”
    The boy’s father came from a distinguished New York family. In his early twenties, he had traveled to Oregon to oversee his family’s vast lumber holdings. His family turned on him when he married a beautiful young woman who happened to be part Indian. The Indian blood was noble, but the boy’s father was disowned anyway.
    The boy’s parents prospered in spite of this and raised a large, gifted family. The boy was the most gifted of all, and his father sent him back East to Hoatch, the traditional family school. What he found there saddened him: among the students a preoccupation with money and social position, and among the masters hypocrisy and pettiness. The boy’s only friends were a beautiful young dancer who worked as a waitress in a café near the school, and an old tramp. The dancer and tramp were referred to as “the girl” and “the tramp.” The boy and girl were forever getting the tramp out of trouble for doing things like painting garbage cans beautiful colors.
    I doubt that Talbot ever read my stories—he never mentioned them if he did—but somehow he got the idea I was a writer. Onenight he came to my room and dropped a notebook on my desk and asked me to read the essay inside. It was on the topic “Why Is Literature Worth Studying?” and it sprawled over four pages, concluding as follows:
    I think Literature is worth studying but only in a way. The people of our Country should know how intelligent the people of past history were. They should appreciate what gifts these people had to write such great works of Literature. This is why I think Literature is worth studying.
    Talbot had received an F on the essay.
    â€œParker says he’s going to put me in summer school if I flunk again this marking period,” Talbot said, lighting a cigarette.
    â€œI didn’t know you flunked last time.” I stared helplessly at the cigarette. “Maybe you shouldn’t smoke. Big John might smell it.”
    â€œI saw Big John going into the library on my way over here.” Talbot went to the mirror and examined his profile from the corner of his eye. “I thought maybe you could help me out.”
    â€œHow?”
    â€œMaybe give me a few ideas. You ought to see the topics he gives us. Like this one.” He took some folded papers from his back pocket. “‘Describe the most interesting person you know.’” He swore and threw the papers down.
    I picked them up. “What’s this? Your outline?”
    â€œMore like a rough draft, I guess you’d call it.”
    I read the essay. The writing was awful, but what really shocked me was the absolute lack of interest with which he described the most interesting person he had ever known. This person turned out to be his English teacher from the year before, whose chief virtue seemed to be that he gave a lot of reading periods and didn’t expect his students to be William Shakespeare and write him a novel every week.
    â€œI don’t think Parker is going to like this very much,” I said.
    â€œWhy? What’s wrong with it?”
    â€œHe might get the idea you’re trying to criticize him.”
    â€œThat’s his problem.”
    I folded up the essay and handed it back to Talbot with his notebook.
    â€œYou really think he’ll give me an F on it?”
    â€œHe might.”
    Talbot crumpled the essay. “Hell.”
    â€œWhen is it due?”
    â€œTomorrow.”
    â€œ Tomorrow ?”
    â€œI’d have come over before this but I’ve been busy.”
    We spent the next hour or so talking about other interesting people he had known. There weren’t many of them, and the only one who really interested me was a maid named Tina who used to masturbate Talbot when she tucked him in at night and was later arrested for trying to burn the Nevins’s house down. Talbot couldn’t remember