The Risk Pool

true for several hundred yards. I stopped there for a second, listening to the chorus of insects brought to life by the setting sun and the stillness of the air. Then I hit the accelerator hard and felt a rush of air as the Cadillac strained forward. I kept my foot right on the floor, burning toward a dark spot on the horizon where the two lanes merged in a constant, ever receding fixed point, all speed, all focus, all illusion.
    On the way back to town I had to pull over. The convertible had done what I asked, but it was thirsty now. It took three quarts of oil before anything registered on the dipstick.

36
    By midsummer Tria Ward and I had become lovers.
    Proximity was partly responsible. I visited the Ward house several nights a week to work on
The History of Mohawk County
, and to my surprise, Mrs. Ward left me alone in the den she’d set up as a shrine to her father. I told her I’d need a large table and a typewriter, and these appeared the next night, the recliner having been moved out to create space. There were limits to her trust, of course, and when I told Mrs. Ward that I’d need to make a copy of the manuscript, she insisted on doing that herself, fussing terribly about the necessity of laying the individual pages flat on the surface of the photocopy machine. She feared cracking the pristine leather binding. She got over it, though, and was very pleased to discover that I no longer needed to consult the original typescript. This she returned to its hallowed place on the mantel, where it stayed for about a week, and where her nervous glance would locate it as soon as she entered the room, as if she expected it to speak to her in her father’s recollected tones. Then one daythe book was gone and Mrs. Ward explained that she’d begun to be concerned for its safety in the event of fire or burglary and had placed it in a safety deposit box in the bank. That burglary was a seriously considered scenario should have alerted me to the dangerous fantasies that Tria’s mother was indulging concerning her father’s tome, but I didn’t and wouldn’t for another six weeks, and by then it would be too late.
    More embarrassing to relate is the fact that I myself began to indulge a fantasy or two concerning
The History of Mohawk County
. Originally, I had intended to follow Tria’s advice by reading the manuscript, telling Tria’s mother that I thought it quite wonderful, but that local histories had seldom generated any interest outside their locales, and that in any case, I knew nothing about how she should go about getting it published. I’d be happy to write a letter on her behalf to a local or university press, but beyond that.…
    This was the plan, and I no doubt should have stuck to it. But when I began to study the manuscript, I could not help but engage in the theoretical problem posed by its condition. The book was as dry and lifeless as only the worst history can be, but its most pressing problems were stylistic. The writing, though mechanically sound, was stiff, awkward, dull, repetitious, obscure. There were other problems too; the book was not truly history, at least in the best sense, because it arrived at no conclusions and lacked unity of vision. It was nothing more than a compilation of disparate facts. Here’s how the Iroquois stitched their moccasins. At the very least, the book needed a long introductory or concluding essay to tie together the myriad threads the author had not seen fit to weave, and to suggest what possible significance such information might have.
    But it seemed to me that
The History of Mohawk County
might be rendered readable, perhaps even marginally interesting. And I thought it might be fun to try. Working in the Ward library, so small and dark and cool, reminded me of my wonderful mornings in the Mohawk Free Library during the two years I’d lived with my father. There I had read helter-skelter, allowing the wide world to open up to me at random. The sense of wonder I felt there had been all but stifled by my subsequent education, and the huge, well-lit stacks, adjacent to sterile, modern university reading rooms had proven a poor substitute for my crooked little alcove in the town library. And too, after listening all day to theassorted bullshitters and outright liars who frequented Mike’s Place, I was ready for an evening of quiet, cerebral pursuit, if only I could convince myself of the worthiness of the project.
    At first, Tria was all for sticking to our