| This is the black band. |
Feeling the gathering momentum, the engineer wrapped his canvas-gloved hand around the throttle and slowly urged it further, then eyed the fireman, whose mouth was set, his eyes fixed in a sidelong glare. “Ten minutes late out of Iota Falls,” the engineer called over the noise of the locomotive. The engineer knew what the fireman's look meant, both admonishment and warning. They were in northern Iowa, open country, with no steep grades, no crossroads, no tight curves, but the visibility ahead was bad because of the blowing snow, drifts covered the tracks in some places, and in this cold, frost heaves could misalign the rails. For a brief moment the engineer imagined the locomotive being lifted off the track by warped rails, flung off into the empty whiteness. Strangely, he did not find the thought entirely unpleasant. He put his hand on the throttle and nudged it forward another notch. Without turning to the fireman, almost as though speaking to himself, he said, “We'll make up the time over the wetlands.” The doe struggled to keep up with the others as they waded through the drifts along the grade. The small herd had meandered from the sparse willow grove early that morning to forage along the edge of the frozen pond, pawing through the snow down to the dried bluestem and Indian grass beneath. Now they were on the move again, forced onto the slopes of the railroad grade by the thin ice that pressed in on either side. The footing on the ice was unsure, and the thin crust gave way under their hooves often and slowed their progress. The grade provided some shelter from the fierce wind, but the going was hard along the slope, and some, including the doe, climbed to the top of the grade and waded through the snow beside the tracks in single file, stopping sometimes, swinging their heads and pivoting their ears about to listen for suspicious sounds, then shuffling on. They feared coyotes, who often tried to run them down. They were searching for a place on the other side of the swamp that offered more sustenance, a place they would recognize upon arrival. The doe was heavy and less agile than the others, and stumbled along behind. Seeking better footing, she stepped over the track, onto the ties, but found the going even harder there. Then, at a place where the snow hid the tracks entirely, a front hoof plunged down into a fissure where the grade must have been washed away in warmer weather, and she folded the other leg under her and found herself suddenly trapped as effectively as if steel had been sprung. The snared leg was wedged into the gap between the gravel and a tie, caught just above the knee joint. She bleated with fear and pain and the other deer stopped and looked back at her. Then they flung their heads around in the other direction and swiveled their ears, picking up another sound. She heard it too, and felt it through the wood of the tie that held her fast, a growing rumble, like the deep growl from the chest of a fanged beast. Twenty years before, when Joel Stevens was still a lad, he had been hanging about the corral down by the rail yard and had heard the low thunder of hooves and had seen the gray dust cloud growing in the west like a storm. He'd climbed up the woooden rails of the corral as the swirling mass got closer and the cattle bawled and the drovers yipped. On the flank of every cow herded into the corral had been burned a zig-zag brand, the Waxwood mark, and when the last animal had been driven into the corral, August Waxwood himself had appeared out of the trail dust, astride a black horse, stout and tall, looking, Joel thought, like one of those engravings in the book his mother had given him one Christmas, Pioneer Heroes and Their Daring Deeds. Waxwood owned uncounted acres of land, everyone knew, and in those days his herds had ranged free all the way from Iota Falls to the lake region. Five thousand acres alone had gone to endow a college in Iota Falls, the school from which Joel had graduated only three years before, Waxwood Institute. And now this same August Waxwood was sitting back to back with Joel in the passenger coach, older but not diminished, exchanging words with a younger man Joel had not recognized when they boarded together at Iota Falls. The other man had seemed almost Waxwood's equal, with a fine full head, strong jaw, and shrewd dark eyes. Joel stared out through the frosted glass as the pallid landscape receded, and listened closely to the two men behind him, hoping to catch some drippings of their good fortune. “Look there.” Joel heard the click of Waxwood's fingernail on the window. “Union Slough,” Waxwood said. “The biggest swamp in Iowa.” Joel rubbed his palm against the glass to clear it. There had been a subtle change in the landscape, Joel noted. The whiteness had taken on a sheen, and above and below were more sharply defined. The long seer spikes of reeds poked through the bottom plane and were filing past like the spears of an army in retreat. Out further clustered humps of muskrat dens recessed more slowly. He realized that he was seeing a great frozen pond. “When I first came here,” Waxwood said,“a man could get almost anywhere he wanted in a canoe, with short portages -- rivers, lakes, and sloughs all tied together. Made it handy for running cattle, too -- no worry about finding watering holes. It's getting all sliced up, now.” “There's still open land to be had in Dakota,” the other man said. “For younger men. My hand is near played out. Today I'd be holding different cards.” “How different?” Waxwood tapped the glass a second time. “Sunken treasure.” The other man laughed,“Muskrat muck, you mean? Goose shit?” There was a pause in the rhythm of the conversation, during which the ragtime racket of the rails reasserted itself. “No offense,” the other man said. “None taken. You either see it or you don't. I took you to be a man of vision.” Joel stared out at the pocked sheet of ice that stretched into a cloudy infinity. They could be on the moon, he thought. If there was any treasure there, he was blind to it. “August Waxwood is no hero,” his mother had said when Joel told what he'd seen at the corral. “Not the hero Dr. Stevens was, at any rate.” Dr. Stevens was Joel's father, who had died when he was too young to remember. And his mother had begun again the recitation: the valorous physician braving the icy Iowa winds in a one-horse buggy to bring healing to his patients, succumbing himself to disease. “He fell asleep often on the way home,” she'd said,“but the horse knew the way. At the funeral people told me of being awakened by the sound of hooves on the cobblestones and looking out to see the buggy rattling past the streetlights. 'Dr. Stevens again,' they'd say to themselves. He loved horses, and after he was buried, the horses came and stood in a ring around his grave, mourning.” Joel thought he could see the horses circling the grave, but whether it was a real memory or a vivid image of his mother's recollection, he couldn't tell. Now there was a white obelisk in the cemetery which his mother still visited weekly. Dr. Stevens had had the foresight to buy property in Iota falls, his own home and the house next door, and, along with the meager life insurance she was left, Joel's mother managed on her own. They lived on the second floor of the house and rented out the ground floor, which had been Dr. Steven's office, and rented the house next door as well. She was appointed Joel's guardian, since the property legally was inherited by the son. For years she kept track of the rental payments in the same journal Dr. Stevens had used to take medical notes, and in which was pasted his obituary from the Iota Falls Messenger. Dr. Stevens had died returning from Chicago, where he had been taking additional courses from the medical school. He'd died, Joel now remembered with a start, on a train. His breathing had been difficult for weeks, and on the journey back, the pneumonia deepened. Somewhere between Chicago and Rock Island, as the obituary said, he passed. When Joel was young, his mother confessed that she still expected her husband to return. He wondered if in all those years since she still waited. He was jolted from his reverie by the blast of the train whistle. As soon as the engineer hear the fireman shout, his hand was on the whistle cord. He peered out his windshield, but the train was arcing around a long curve and the cylinder of the locomotive blocked his view. He lurched to the fireman's side to see. Most of the deer had started scattering, but one seemed to kneel in the middle of the track, staring wide-eyed back at him. Reflexively, he applied the air brake. The shriek of iron scraping iron tortured his eardrums. Even as he was thrown forward by the momentum, he realized that he was too late. The abrupt deceleration jerked Joel's head back. The other passengers, flung out of their drowsy complacency, emitted the unison scream -- half fear, half warcry -- of primates under attack. As the train screeched --iron scraping steel -- to a stop, a hum of thanksgiving went up as passengers discovered their injuries to be short of fatal. Rotating his head to test the suppleness of his neck, Joel saw that August Waxwood had been tossed from his seat and lay sprawled half into the aisle. Joel scrambled around the end of the seat to help, but Waxwood was already pushing himself up. “Damn, that was a jolt,” Waxwood said. “Thank you, I can manage.” He levered himself upright and stood, wobbling slightly, brushing his coatsleeves with practiced hands. “I'm getting a mite advanced in years for breaking broncos. Been thrown by better, though.” He squinted at Joel as though at a fading sunset, offering his hand. “Stevens boy, ain't it?” Joel nodded and shook the older man's hand, which was rough and calloused. “I knew your pa,” Waxwood said. “Damn good man.” “Thank you.” Joel was used to accepting praise as surrogate for the father he never knew, but somehow he was always left feeling soulless, without merit he himself could own. The conductor bustled down the aisle, trying to comfort the offended passengers. “Just something on the track, most likely. Cow or something. We'll be en route before long.” “Not one of my steers, I hope,” Waxwood said. He turned to the other man, now standing beside him. “This here's Rudy Ries. Stevens is an Iota Falls lad, Rudy.” Ries extended his hand. It was soft and smooth in Joel's, almost feminine, and Joel recoiled from the touch. Waxwood folded onto the seat. “Sit with us, Mr. Stevens.” “Well --“ “Siddown, siddown. We'll have a smoke while we wait to get underway again.” Waxwood lifted his coat lapel to reveal a row of cigars lined up like soldiers in his vest. “Hope I didn't fracture any of them. Where you heading?” “New Stockholm.” “Swedetown? Who d'you know there?” “I've got a position. I'll be living there, I guess.” “What kind of work?” “Well, watch repair. I'll be working for a jeweller there.” Ries nodded solemnly, giving Joel the impression that he was suppressing a smile. “Mr. Ries is a banker over in Strattleburg. Ought to've called it Riesburg, I still think. He made the town. Still owns half of it.” Ries shook his head and lowered his eyes in sham modesty. “Developing an investment, is all.” “And God just created the world in seven days,” Waxwood said. “Been developing that investment ever since.” “You should come over and see our town someday, Mr. Stevens. It's not far from New Stockholm. Just down the track, in fact. You may be persuaded to relocate. We have no jeweller in town, as yet.” Ries' eyes were the sort that seemed to penetrate any pretense. A hard man in a bargain, Joel guessed. And there was a foreign edge in the banker's voice, as well. German, perhaps. “Look here,” Waxwood said, poking an unlit cigar into the corner of his mouth and prying with a thick finger into his watch pocket. He pulled out a large gold watch and held it out for Joel to see. “You're an expert. What do you think of that egg, now?” Joel cupped the watch in his hand, taking up slack in the gold chain still fastened to Waxwood's vest, and sprung open the cover with his thumb. “Magnificent. Swiss made. Jeweled movement.” “Got it in Chicago, on a cattle run. Keeps perfect time. I'm not even going to tell you how many steers it's worth.” Waxwood took back the watch and studied the dial. “By God, how long're we to be sitting in this frozen swamp, anyhow?” “She's gone for,“ the fireman said, looking down at the bloody heap beside the tracks. “Wouldn't be no good anyway, with her leg chopped off so.” He let his eyes swivel up to meet the engineer's. The engineer, Jim Sherwood, again felt the accusation in the fireman's look and had no answer for it. He'd tried to stop in time, but he'd been going too fast. What had he been thinking, racing like that? “Whad we do now?” the fireman said. “Nothing to do. Roll her out of the way, get moving again.” “Leave all that venison for the coyotes?” “The mid-day freight is coming up behind us. We can't linger long.” Jim was shivering in the cold wind. “She's half bled out already. Won't take that long to dress her.” “You that hungry for deer meat?” “I got a family to feed.” The engineer was already unfolding a pocket knife. “I do, too.” Jim shook his head. “Shit. Go on, then, if you have to. But don't take forever.” He started back toward the cab. In truth, he was feeling ill. What had he been thinking? The incident would require a report, and he'd likely get another reprimand. The Rock Island wasn't any too happy with him anyway, after two close calls in the past year and the blowback when he'd throttled back too soon coming into Ames and singed the stoker's whiskers. He'd never thought himself careless, but he couldn't rub out the marks against him that easily. He couldn't seem to resist the speed, and they were making locomotives now that could race the wind. Why did they make engines capable of such speed, if it wasn't to be tried? Climbing back into the cab, however, he realized he was asking the wrong questions. He had a wife who was pregnant with his first child, and there would be others to follow, he was sure. He had the job he'd dreamed of having all his life, and if he tended to business, he'd go right on with the line to the end of his days and have a hundred railroad tales to tell his grandkids in his old age. And the real question was why that didn't seem enough. “I was tempted in my youth to try the gold fields of the Black Hills,” Waxwood was saying. “Couldn't seem to get out of Iowa, though. Stuck in the mud, so to speak. Funny how the money seems to stick to a person, once he starts making it. I'm not saying I didn't work for it. I worked plenty hard -- still do -- but not with the money in mind, exactly. It was luck, much as anything, I suppose, doing what pleased me and having it pay off so. It accrued, is all, like interest on a loan. You know all about that, Banker.” Rudolph Ries nodded benignly. “Risk accrues as well, of course.” “No collateral, you mean?” “Your wager is on the man as much as anything. Sometimes the promise does not hold.” “In which case, you take his farm.” Joel could find no purchase on the conversation, but sat listening. What could he contribute to a discussion of finance, after all? Three years working for wages as a watch repairman in Iota Falls, and devil little to show for that. At New Stockholm he'd get a modicum more, anyway, enough to send some home to his mother and perhaps put some away, as well. Enough to -- Do what? A vision of a golden-haired woman in a flowing white dress drifted into his thoughts. She might have been the incarnation of Liberty, he believed, if he had not known her to be his cousin Adele. The backdrop for this vision was the snow-veined peaks of the Rockies. “What I came to see,” Waxwood was saying,“is that here the land is as good as gold. Same glacier that melted to make these sloughs brought the rich black soil. Nothing like it, in my knowledge, for grasslands or farming, either one.” “More farming than range, now,” Rudolph Ries said, studying the coal end of his cigar. He had the placid air of a person who let things come to him. He glanced at Joel and smiled coolly. Joel wondered if such a regal demeanor might be emulated by any with less reason to affect it. “I suppose,” August Waxwood said,“that I am participating actively in my own demise, and the demise of those like me. End of the open range, anyway.” “There will always be cattle,” Ries said,“on smaller spreads, to be sure. Feeders to fatten up for the charnel houses in Chicago.” “I should be morose, I guess, but I can't bring myself to that. I took something as my own, and now I'm passing it along. It's the rhythm of things, I guess, the slow turning. Nothing to mourn, surely, any more than mourn the spring draining away to summer.” The whole scene seemed almost staged for his benefit, Joel thought, the conversation on one plane being a ceremony carried out in the presence of a chosen onlooker, with a certain self-consciousness by the participants of impressing the witness. Whatever deal had just been concluded between them, it was grand enough to be viewed by both men as historic. “We'll be underway again presently, gentlemen,” the conductor said, blinking through frosted spectacles. He had just stepped in from outside the car, and was still huffing with the cold and hugging his warmth to him. “They're cleaning up. Just a deer, I think.” As the conductor moved on, Ries looked out onto the frozen waste. “What you said earlier, about sunken treasure --“ “Are you beginning to see, then? The frontier is where you find it. It will always be there, if you look for it.” For Joel's part, he didn't see. He wondered if his vision was too literal. A frozen pond was just a frozen pond to him. The whole experience had left him feeling unworthy, fearing he could never measure up. The fireman clambered into the cab and nodded to Jim. “Done,” he said. But he seemed grim. “What did you do with it?” “Hung it on the side of the tender. We can unhook it when we get to Fort Jolly. Should be frozen through by then. Is she fired?” “I stoked her,” Jim said. He shoved the throttle forward, and the traction wheels churned in a burst of steam and then seemed to grip the icy rails and pull forward. The fireman looked at his watch. “We lost twenty minutes.” “We'll make it up on the way back,” Jim said. “We'll have the wind to our backs, then, and just ride it.” “Damned shame,” the engineer said. “I know.” “Nasty business. She was carrying a fawn. It was curled inside her.” “Dead?” “What do you think? I left it with the rest of the innards for the coyotes to find.” There was not much more to say, after that. They both stared ahead into the blank world they were driving into. “Damned shame,” the engineer said again after while. And that was all. |
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He turned back toward the little yellow-painted depot, hoping to find there someone to ask directions to the jewelry store, but there was nobody. Even the station agent had apparently ducked back inside, out of the cold wind. Then it occurred to Joel that directions were probably not necessary in a hamlet consisting of a two-block business district. He wheeled reluctantly about, shifted his valise from one leather-gloved hand to the other, set his cap more firmly on his head, bent against the wind, and set off to find his new place of employment. Joel's search along the board sidewalk was further restricted by the fact that only the west side of the main street was much developed. The barrenness of the east side was spoiled by a few ramshackle sheds and a larger building that appeared to be a livery. The wooden frame structures that lined the west side of the street all seemed built as variations on the same modest blueprint: one- or two-story buildings with rectangular false fronts that barely disguised the gabled roofs and even less successfully simulated the stone or brick facades of business establishments in Des Moines or Mason City. After passing a bakery, a restaurant, and a hardware store -- each distinguishable from the others only by the signs displayed on or above their windows -- Joel came at last to yet another building of the same pattern with “Jensen's Jewelry and Notions” scripted in white paint on the frosted glass. He pushed open -- the door and scurried inside, fearing that another second in that icy wind might be fatal to him. “You would be Mr. Stevens, then, I suspect.” The man stood with hands braced against the counter at one side of the store, lit only by the white glare flooding in from the windows. His face bore one of those unconvincing smiles -- more a grimace, actually -- of someone uncomfortable with good cheer. He was fairly tall and thin, with a gobular head set on an exceedingly thin neck like a cabbage impaled upon a stick. “I would've met you at the depot, excepting I'm here all alone and had to mind the store.” Joel looked around. There was a counter over glass cases on the opposite side of the store as well, the jewelry side, it appeared. Shelves on that side were filled with clocks. Their ticking collected in Joel's cold ears like a plague of crickets. On the shelves before which his greeter stood were crocks and bottles filled with liquids of varied hues, including several rows of amber. Between the side counters, in the center of the store, was a rack filled with lacy hearts and colored lithographs, valentine greetings. An iron woodstove stood at the back of the room. There was nobody else in the place. Joel wondered vaguely what, except a chill, his welcomer would have risked by locking up the shop for a few minutes to meet the train. “Martin Jensen.” The thin man offered his hand. Joel set down his valise, peeled off his righthand glove, gripped the proferred fingers, and shook. “Joel Stevens.” Martin Jensen nodded rather stiffly, then pulled his hand away in embarrassed reflex. “Cold.” “Sorry.” Joel clipped his finger under his left arm to warm them. “That wind.” “Nothing to stop it out here. Goes right through a person.” Jensen spoke with grim resignation, as of a sad fact of life against which nothing could avail. His voice was swung with a curious rhythmic lilt, the remnants of Swedish, Joel guessed. “You sell liquor, I see.” “What the law allows,” Jensen said. “The law is peculiar about spirits in this state.” “I know.” “In this county the customer must sign the register. And the register must be consulted before each purchase to be sure the bottles are not too frequent.” Joel nodded. “It is a silly dam' law, is what I t'ink.” This sentence was spouted with a staccato haste that suggested accustomed iteration. “You want a little brandy?” Jensen bent down and reached under the counter. “I keep some by for free samples. Regular customers only.” “Is it legal?” “You're cold t'rough and t'rough. I put it down as medicinal need, by yeesus.” He offered the half-pint flask. As Joel sipped, the warmth seemed to flow back into him. He handed the flask back to Jensen, who ground the palm of his hand against the mouth of the vessel, took a small swig, and screwed the cap back on. Jensen's high collar allowed plenty of play for his scrawny neck. His sandy hair was sparse. He'd be bald in another ten years, Joel thought. “Train was late,” Jensen said. He lifted his eyebrows in inquiry. The eyebrows were the most animated part of his face, Joel decided. “We hit a deer on the causeway over Union Slough. Nothing serious. August Waxwood was on the train.” Jensen bobbed his head. “I'll show you where you'll be working.” He came around the far end of the counter and led Joel to the jewelry side of the establishment. “We stock a good lot of timepieces and rings, bracelets, brooches and bric-a-brac for the ladies.” The gold and silver jewelry was arrayed in the glass cases. “This here's the workbench. I hope you brought your own tools. The honyocker who was here before ran off with them, along with a couple fine watches. I didn't see they were gone until I took inventory last week.” The wall above the bench was studded with quarter-inch pegs, from which hung about a dozen timepieces, each tagged with the name of its owner. “He fled with work undone. You can pitch right in.” Joel wondered if he should be grateful. “In your letter you said you had a place for me to stay?” “Yes, at Mrs. Larsen's boarding house. Attic room, if you don't mind climbing stairs. It is a good place, two meals a day. I stay there myself.” “You're not married, then?” Jensen shook his head, his lugubrious grimace fixed. “There is a woeful want of women here, I fear. Your pre-decessor took one of them with him too, when he left. Ernst Andersen's wife.” Overburdened with more information than he'd expected, Joel could manage only an ineffectual shrug. “Andersen's the blacksmith. He wasn't no good for fixin' plows for two weeks after.” Joel smiled. “I have large shoes to fill, then.” He stopped smiling when he found Jensen shifting his gaze to the floor. “Joke.” Jensen raised his eyes once again to meet Joel's. “Ya?” Just then a mantle clock on the shelf nearby started striking, and in a few seconds a half dozen other clocks chimed in. “Noon,” Martin Jensen said. Joel looked at his own watch. “Five minutes late.” “Local time.” “You don't go by railroad time?” “Some do. It's a matter of choice, is what I t'ink. Sun midpoint is noon, God's time. Time for dinner, anyway.” “You take that with your landlady?” “No, got to mind the store. I pay Mrs. Larsen extra to fix me something in a box. Bread, cheese, fruit when it's in, otherwise a sweet or a sugar cookie. You can get eats down to the cafe.” “You won't join me?” “Got to mind the store.” Joel suppressed the urge to point out that the store was devoid of customers or the likelihood of any soon on such a miserably chilly day. “You want me to come back and start working after I eat?” “Nah. Go eat and then you can go to Mrs. Larsen's and get settled. You can start work tomorrow.” “What time do we open?” “Seven,” Jensen said. “God's time.” Seeing Joel's reflexive frown, he explained, “Farmer's hours. Could be bankers open later, but we got to mind the store. Mrs. Andersen serves breakfast at six. You can find the house just down the street south, two blocks, on a corner. Sign in the window-- 'Rooms To Let.'“ “East side or west?” “West side. It's nothing so much on the east side yet.” “I noticed that. Why so?” “West side catches the morning sun. In summer, we got the awnings, and we're in the shade during the hottest part. Also, in winter we got our backs to the dam' wind.” Jensen's sad smile reasserted itself. “I got to eat now.” The New Stockholm Cafe was sparsely furnished, as though the proprietor feared that business might dry up imminently and wanted not to sink too much into overhead. An unvarnished wooden counter at one side was balanced by three tables on the other. Six of the ten stools at the counter were occupied, so Joel took a chair at a table and studied a menu, which was hand-lettered on yellowed cardboard behind behind the counter. The tattered condition of the menu suggested a certain lack of variety in the fare, and the choice was spartan: soup, dinner, hot-beef sandwich, each listed with respective prices. While he was waiting to be attended, Joel furtively consulted his wallet. He had taken twenty-five dollars out of his bank account in Iota Falls and his mother had given him another ten dollars to help tide him over until he received his first paycheck. He had no idea what the room would cost -- no more than ten dollars a month, he hoped. He would have to allow so much for noon meals, whether or not he chose to eat a boxed lunch. He was attempting to calculate in his head how much would be left over if he restricted himself to soup every day when he heard the rasp of a throat being cleared and looked up to see a darked-haired burly man in a once-white apron standing over him. “What kind of soup?” Joel said. “You expectin' company?” “I beg pardon?” “The tables is for parties.” “Parties?” “Parties of three or more. Unless there is more to come, you eat at the counter.” “All right.” “There's only just me to do the waitin'.” “I understand. I'll move.” “I can't go traipsin' back and forth jes' so's someone can get a table all to hisself.” “That's fine. I'm moving. May I leave my suitcase here?” “Long as I don' have to wait on 'er.” Joel felt sheepish as he squatted on the stool at the far end of the counter. “You want the soup, then?” The burly waiter had reappeared behind the counter. “What kind is it?” “Just soup. Beef stock, noodles.” Joel felt a sharp jab in his calf that could only have come from the man next to him. He snapped his head about to look. His neighbor was about his own age, with wavy blond hair and an incipient mustache. The young man was bent over a plate piled with mashed potatoes and gravy and seemed unaware that he had just delivered a kick. Joel swung back to the waiter. “Beef soup, you say?” He felt another kick, and turned to confront his attacker. “Sorry,” the blond man said placidly. “May I suggest the hot sandwich? It's a bit more, but well worth it.” “You want the soup or not?” the waiter asked. “Hot sandwich, I guess,” Joel said. “Coffee with cream.” The husky waiter retreated through the door to the back. “Something wrong with the beaf soup?” Joel asked the blond man. “It's Friday.” “I'm not Catholic. Besides--“ “That's not it. They make the soup on Monday, keep it simmering on the back of the stove all week, just add to it. It's safe enough through mid-week, but it gets watery by Thursday, and towards the weekend it has been known to act as a rather strong purgative.” “I see. I'm in your debt, then. Mr.--“ “Todd. Anthony Todd.” He wiped his hand on a napkin and extended it to shake. “You came in on the train.” “You saw me? I didn't think there was anybody about to witness my arrival.” “Someone saw you. The whole town knows by now, I'm sure. I heard it from Mrs. Oster when she came in to pick up her monthly supply of pink salve. She said Mrs. Torgesen told her.” “You're a druggist?” “We sell remedies, patented panaceas. I'm not a pharmacist. We have no doctor in town, as yet, so there is no need for someone to fill prescriptions. I clerk at Fenstermacher's Store in the next block. You're Jensen's new clock-fixer, then. You'll find people to be curious about you. The last man Jensen had left a lasting impression.” “So I understand.” The waiter bustled out of the kitchen, plunked an oval platter down before Joel, clanged down the flatware, and stomped off to fetch a mug of coffee. Joel regarded his meal, which somewhat resembled a boat laden with brown sludge. “There is nothing to fear from the gravy, then?” he mumbled. “Made fresh daily, from what I know,” Todd said. Joel loaded a fork and tasted. “A little salty. I may not be able to finish it all.” “Don't worry. There is a loyal following of stray dogs hanging about the back door that thrives on the leavings, which are as generous as the helpings. They all have fine slick coats. -- You'd be staying with Mrs. Larsen? I have a room there, as well.” “Does the whole town stay there?” Anthony Todd hummed his amusement. “Only half. The unmarried faction. I'll show you the way after dinner. You're from Iota Falls, I hear.” “What about me haven't you heard?” “You'll have to get used to that in a town this size. Aside from the weather, all we have to talk about is each other. You have already added a savor to our conversations. Newcomers are especially delicious, owing to an element of mystery. Once you are on the plate, cut up to bite size, and chewed over, the flavor will go out of you and we'll leave you alone.” “Unless I run off with someone's wife.” “Precisely. In which case you would join the pantheon of the eternally delectable.” “I have some catching up to do. Everyone knows everything about me, and I know nothing about them. Are there any tasty salvers left?” “A good many. And fascinating histories, as well. If you plan to take dinner here weekdays, I'll serve up what I know, drowning in gravy.” Mrs. Larsen's rooming house was a turreted and crenelated Victorian fortress, a fine example of the pastry-maker's art whose resemblance to a wedding cake was completed by a frosting of snow and a fringe of icicles at the eaves. Mrs. Larsen herself was an alarmingly large woman, crested with faded yellow tresses piled high and breasted like a Norse huntress. She showed Joel to the attic room, trailed by Todd, accepted two months rent in advance, and left with crisp warning about not being late for meals. Joel was left breathless, and not by the climb alone. “Rather overwhelming, isn't she?” Todd said. “It runs in the family. Her twelve-year-old daughter is already as tall as I am.” Joel was still trying to absorb his surroundings. He peered through the window, which opened on the flat plains of white. The sky had cleared in the west, and the horizon was delineated indistinctly. A thickening and complication of the line suggested a distant grove. “Is that another town?” “You can see the chimney smoke of Strattleburg from that window on a sunny day.” “Is this where what's-his-name lived? My inimitable forerunner?” “It is. The room lends itself to lascivious fantasies, I suspect. I should be careful, if I were you. Read your Bible, say your prayers, adopt a monkish demeanor. -- Well, I have to be back to work. I'll see you at supper.” It took only a few minutes for Joel to unpack his belongings and to arrange them in the dresser drawers. He sat for a short time at the edge of the narrow bed, trying to decide what to do with the rest of the afternoon. Then he got up and seated himself at the small writing desk that perched before the window, took out a sheet of writing paper, an inkwell, and a pen, and began writing. After “Dearest Mother,” however, he was stuck. He faced a choice, he realized, of what to omit. That New Stockholm was really only half a town, that it sat in the midst of a boundless waste, that it ran on antique sun-dial time, that it was inhabited by an odd collection of self-absorbed gossips, and that it suffered from a “woeful want of women” -- all that, he decided, might go unsaid to a mother whose hopes for a prosperous life for her son was paramount. He decided instead to concentrate on the train trip itself. “August Waxwood was on the train with me,” he wrote. “We had a good chat. At one point he tapped the window and said, 'There's Union Slough, the largest in Iowa.' He said he was convinced of the opportunities still remaining in this corner of the country.” What those opportunities were, however, remained vague in Joel's mind. He waited with pen poised, and glanced out the window. The far, fuzzy outline of Strattleburg caught his eye and held it, and his heart plummeted. Just at that moment, opportunity seemed to lie elsewhere. |
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His wife looked like a madonna in the suffused yellow light, he thought, dark and luminous, sad and tranquil, like one of those painted, candlelit statues he'd seen at weddings or funerals in Catholic churches. She was four years younger than he was, just 21, but seemed in some strange way ageless. “There's hot water on the stove,” she said. “You want some tea?” He shook his head. “I'm floating enough from the beer.” He shrugged off his heavy coat and hung it on a peg by the door. “Tired, too. I'll get right to bed, I guess.” “The baby was kicking all day long. Trying to kick out, seems like.” A smile flickered on her face and then disappeared. “Boy or girl, you think?” “I don't know.” “Kicks like a boy, seems to me. Do you hope for a boy?” “I'd be happy with a boy. I'll take what comes.” “If it's a girl, there'll be others.” “I suppose. Makes no difference to me.” “You don't care?” “I don't care which it is, boy or girl.” Her brown eyes now seemed filled with fear. One blink and they'd overflow. “Long as you're all right,” he said. The transient smile fluttered at her lips again, and then she blinked and a tear streaked down her cheek. “Which do you wish it is?” “Whatever you want,” she said. He forced a grin. “Good. Let's get to bed, then.” Of course he couldn't sleep. What was it that he wanted, anyway? It wasn't just a choice between a son or a daughter, it seemed, but a choice somehow between contentment and regret, as though at some indefinite point in the future he might say, “Why didn't I do this or that? Why did I behave so? Why did I choose the way that led me to this?” And yet, what choice did he have, really, in what child he might have or in anything else? Why couldn't he take what came, as a beast of the field might? What curse made him so dread such a simple life? When he'd walked out of Ohio ten years before, he'd known where he was going, at least. Now he felt he was going in circles, like a train that was always departing, never arriving. “Jim, you're tossing around like a dog with fleas.” “Can't sleep.” “I can't neither, with you rolling around that way. You want to talk about it?” “About what?” “Whatever's keeping you awake.” He swung his legs over side of the bed and levered himself up to a sitting position. “You go to sleep. I'll shoot some patience 'til I get drowsy.” He pulled on some trousers, wool socks, and a flannel workshirt and padded out to the kitchen. He relit the lamp and got the greasy, dogeared deck down from a shelf. Then he sat down in a straightbacked chair, shuffled, and dealt the cards out seven across. He played and won. Played again and lost. Again and lost. Played again and won. He played again. Since when didn't it make a difference? Was he turning into Henry Burgess, the old hermit who'd taught him the game back in Ohio? Half the time he thought he was, and half the time he thought there was a demon inside him driving him right off the tracks, into the void. He wondered if anybody else ever felt like that. He wondered if Uncle Jay Campbell had. If he wanted to talk to anybody, it was Jay. The Campbells and the Sherwoods hadn't exactly scattered after they got to Iowa, but they'd split up considerably. Jay and Ruth had got a little farm outside Shamrock, and their youngest son helped them work it, along with Henry Burgess. The other boys had farms of their own in Story County. Tom and Bob Sherwood farmed too, and Bob worked on roads for the county. Meade, the only one of the brothers who hadn't married, did construction work in Ames. Jim had been the first. All the others were doing pretty much what they wanted to do, it seemed like. Same with Jim, only now he wasn't so sure he wanted it. He'd been lucky enough to work up to engineer on the northern run in short order. There were times, too, when it was exactly as he thought it would be, with the locomotive leaping forward at his touch like a perfectly trained mount and people looking up and waving as he passed, as though he were some hero on parade. Except he didn't feel all that heroic. He didn't really deserve to be looked up to or waved at, and, what was worse, he didn't know what he could possibly do to deserve it. He heard the wind keening at the window and turned to look. It was not yet light. Mixed with the whine of the wind was the sound of his wife's snoring. His child slept inside her, he supposed, oblivious. He felt a brief pang of envy for the unborn. Then he laid out the cards again. Hell, Henry Burgess called the game, the catechism of the damned. He'd first seen Esther Heinrich at a dance in Cambridge, Iowa, the spring when she turned 18. At first he thought she was someone he knew, but when she saw him staring at her, she lowered her head, and he could tell she didn't recognize him. He waited until the band played a waltz, then asked her to dance. She was embarrassed, but had learned the formalities that were meant to defeat awkwardness. She would be most pleased, she told him, and took his hand and let herself be led to the floor. He was no great shakes at dancing, he knew, but he could keep the time well enough and keep off her toes. When the song ended, they applauded politely, looking at each other. He asked her name, and she told him, and he told her his. Then the band started a fox trot, and she held out her arms as though she expected him to dance more. “I don't know how,” he said. “All I know is waltz and polka.” “Come on, I'll show you.” But he couldn't get the hang of it, and they ended in a tangle. “I told you I couldn't,” he said. He was angry for making a fool of himself. “Doesn't matter.” She was trying to take it lightly. “It does,” he said. “I like to do things right.” He was clawing his way past the other couples to get off the floor. She threaded her way after him. He delivered her back to where he had found her, nodded his head, and turned away. “Thank you for the dance,” she said. He wheeled back toward her, burning, thinking she was mocking him. She must have caught the rage in his face. She shrunk away. Then he saw his mistake. She had just been going through the form, trying to be polite. “You're welcome,” he managed to blurt, then turned away again, more upset than before. He headed for the door of the dancehall to track down his brothers, who he knew would be sneaking drinks of whiskey somewhere in the shadows. He spotted Bob standing by a lilac bush and stomped over and pried the paper-wrapped half-pint from his hands and took a long snort. “You're welcome,” Bob said. Jim slapped the bottle back into Bob's midriff. “What's that supposed to mean?” “It means you could say please before you steal my liquor.” “Since when do you give a crap about etiquette?” “What do you have gravel in your craw about?” “Saw you dancing.” It was Tom, who had slipped up behind him. “Pretty girl.” “Who the hell asked you?” “What's the matter with him?” Tom said. “Spoiling for a scrap, I think,” Bob said. “Maybe she didn't want to come out under the lilacs with him.” “Shut your mouth.” “Calm down,” Tom said. “Suppose I don't want to.” “Suppose I cool you down.” “You could try.” He started to swing, but Bob caught his arm from behind. He succeeded in striking Tom a glancing blow in the side of the face with his left, but by that time Tom had shot a jab to his eye that rocked him back. Bob smothered his flailing arms and held him up at the same time. “Looking for more?” Tom asked. He held his fists up in front of him. “Hold off, both of you,” Bob said. “He's going to need something for that eye the way it is.” The sting of the blow had just now got through to Jim. He couldn't get his eye open for the pain. “Shit, I think you put it out.” “I didn't put nothing out. You just got blood in it, is all. You had enough?” He nodded. “Say please.” “Son of a bitch. You blinded me.” “Here,” Tom put a folded handkerchief into his hands. “Don't try wiping it. Just blot. It'll clot up before long.” “What'd you get so hot about, anyway?” Bob asked. “Nothing.” “Nothing,” Bob said. “That'll do it every time. Here, take the whole bottle, if you want it so bad.” “I don't want it. Leave me alone.” “You sure you don't want to go back to the wagon, stretch out in back?” “Leave me alone.” “He wants to be left alone,” Tom said. “Fine with me.” Bob let him go, and he plopped down on the grass as the others strode off. The small crowd that had gathered around to catch the excitement dribbled away, disappointed that there hadn't been an all-out fray. Jim just sat there nursing his wound, pulling the bloody handkerchief away from time to time and blinking, trying to see out of the damaged eye. Finally his vision cleared, and there was Esther Heinrich standing looking at him with that strange mixture of fear and fascination. “Are you all right?” “I guess so.” “You ought to wash it off. You want me to get some water?” “Never mind. I think the blood is stopping.” “You look horrible.” “It's just a little cut.” “Why did they do that?” “They're my brothers,” he said. “I guess I had it coming.” From the dancehall he heard the music start up again, a polka. “You want to dance?” he asked her. “You think you should? You look a fright.” “I'm all right.” He staggered to his feet and tossed the blood-soaked handkerchief into the lilac bushes. “May I have the honor?” It was the first time he saw that wavering smile of hers. “I'd be most pleased.” After that the courtship proceeded like a minuet, or as he imagined a minuet to be, all delicate turns and bows, all passion supressed. There were kisses enough, of course, and furtive caresses, but if he got carried off by his longing, she'd stop him and tell him to wait. There would be time enough, she said, after they were married. He supposed there would be, at that. They spent their wedding night 12 months later at the little cottage he'd rented in a grove of boxelder at the edge of Cambridge. He'd told everyone they were driving their beribboned carriage to Ames, taking the train from there to Des Moines for a honeymoon, but then they circled around and returned to the cottage by a back road. The truth was that he hadn't enough money for a honeymoon, after paying the rent and furnishing the house. She said she didn't care, they'd take their honeymoon right there and save the trip to Des Moines for when they had put away some money away. Neither one had counted on being rattled half witless. As soon as the lights were out, he was at her. It was like a pretty game at first, a kind of tag, the way she shunted him away, and then more like a wrestling match. The hunger was powerful in him, and in time he pinned her. “Don't,” she said. “Why not?” “Please.” “I'm your husband now, by God.” “Stop. Listen.” “Don't give me that. I've waited a year.” “Listen. There's something outside.” He paused, turning his head to try to catch the sounds. “I don't hear a thing.” “Sh, there it is again.” This time he heard it too, a dry snap, as though of a twig being broken. Then nothing. “A squirrel or something is all.” He buried his face in her bosom again, trying to nip her breast. “Get off me.” “What're you trying to pull?” “Get off.” She shoved him away, scooted to the edge of the bed, and sat up. He was furious, now. “Damn it all. Is this what I got coming?” “Shut up. There's something. A cackling. Like a crazy person. I can't help it you don't hear.” “You're a damn tease, aren't you? Fine, if you don't want to let me --” He might have struck her right then, but he heard something rustling in the leaves left in the yard from last fall. “That's no squirrel,” she rasped. The she jumped, half turning. “There it is again. On the other side this time.” He was convinced by then. He felt the hair rising along the crest of his back. He shivered. The sweat of his lust seemed to have turned to ice. He pulled on his jeans and buttoned them, then crept toward the kitchen, the floorboards squeaking under his bare feet. He squinted through the lacy curtains at the kitchen window. The night was overcast, but a moon glowed behind the clouds, and in the dim light he saw a dark shape crouching down by the bushes. His squirrel rifle was leaning in the corner by the kitchen door. He crept to it and grabbed it and pointed it toward the door. Then everything happened at once. Something bumped against the house, his wife screamed, and the gun went off. Then the night seemed to blow up in a terrible cacaphony of sound, as though all the demons of hell were sounding tattoos on tin drums and shouting battle cries. Esther screamed again, and he went back to the bedroom. She was standing beside the bed, shaking as though gripped by a monstrous chill, and sobbing. He tried to take her in his arms, but she fought him off. “Take it easy. Take it easy.” He was trying to make his voice soothing, the way he would with a spooked horse. “What is it?” she was gasping over and over. “What is it? What is it?” “Nothing,” he said. “It's my damned brothers. It's a shivaree.” “What?” “They're giving us a shivaree. Listen. That's Tom and Bob out there. The Campbell boys, too. They're trying to sound like banshees, but it's them, all right. I think I may by God kill them.” She sat on the edge of the bed, trying to catch her breath. “They'll keep it up if we don't have some light.” “Do it, then.” She was pressing her hands over her ears and rocking at the side of the bed as though in physical pain. He went back to the kitchen and tried to light the lantern. His hands were shaking so he couldn't get the match to take. He didn't know what made him shake worse, the fear or the anger. When he finally got the lantern going, he carried it to the door. “Shut up out there. I know it's you.” Then the yelling stopped and the laughing began. “You almost got your hair parted with a .22.” “You were shooting a little low, brother,” Tom Sherwood said. “I think you were trying to part my legs instead. It's a funny way of doing it.” “He's got a funny way of doing it, all right,” Bob Sherwood said. “Aren't you going to invite us in, brother, and share a little wedding-night potion?” “You got all the potion you need. I'll knock the damn potion out your ears.” “What kind of manners is that, after we serenaded you so pretty?” “Have them in, Jim.” The low voice was Esther's. She was standing at the door to the bedroom with her hands clipped tight to the neck of her robe, that half-smile shimmering, her eyes dark and damp. They all saw how scared she'd been, and they quieted down. The silence was part guilt, part disappointment that the edge was taken off their joke. Charlie Campbell was looking downright shame-faced. “Where's Meade,” Jim asked. “The parade of asses don't seem complete without him.” “You know Meade,” Bob said. “He said it was a savage custom and he wanted no part in it.” “Lot of nerve, calling us savages,” Tom said. After Esther had spoken, they'd starting filling the kitchen, carrying battered pots and pans. There wasn't enough room for all of them around the table. “Just thought maybe little brother needed some help getting launched into marital bliss.” “Maybe we should go,” Charlie Campbell said. He'd been watching Esther, wincing at what he saw in her face. “Not without a libation,” Tom said. “You got some libation corked up here somewhere, I know.” “How about a nice quaff of lye-water?” Jim snarled. “How about a little goose-grease to slide your keel,” Bob said cheerfully. Jim judged he was already about half pickled. The other men stifled laughs. “How about a quart of sparkling wine to break across your bow? How about bunting to drape around your --“ “Watch your mouth,” Jim snapped. “Serves you right for trying to fool us,” Tom said. “Give them something,” Esther said. “They didn't mean any harm.” Her eyes were drying up, now, and some of the fright had gone out of her look. Jim boxed his way through his brothers and cousins to get to the wash stand, pulled a bottle out from under it's skirts, and tossed it to Tom. “Drink it outside, why don't you?” “You don't want any, just to lubricate your undercarriage?” “Out, before I change my mind about the bottle.” “We don't get to kiss the bride?” “Out.” “Let's go,” Charlie Campbell said. “He's no fun anymore, now he's got saddled and bridled.” “He may be bridled,” Bob said, “but I doubt he's got saddled yet.” “Out.” They could be heard five minutes after they were out of the house, laughing, cursing, singing snatches of bawdy songs, staggering along the road back into town. He doused the lantern and went back into the bedroom She was already bundled up under the quilt. “They're animals,” he said. “I should've thought they'd do something like this.” “It's all right.” “It's not all right. They scared you half to death.” “They were just having fun.” “Fun for them, not for us.” “It doesn't matter.” When he was back under the cover, she reached over and patted him on the shoulder, Her touch sapped the last of his anger, and he felt suddenly empty. “You still want to?” she asked. But he was drained. He knew it wouldn't be any use. “Not now.” He wondered often after if things would've been different if there had been no shivaree. In the end he decided it had made no difference. The consummation arrived eventually. Her involvement was slight, save for submission. Later, when he tried more diligently to arouse her, she was patient with him but removed, as though he was wasting time. After while he no longer bothered. He would wait until the urge built to the spilling point, then seek her out in the darkness. He never doubted her love or her loyalty, but he longed for more than her wifely duty, her contractual obligation. He wanted her abandon. When she told him she that she was late for her time, that she believed she was pregnant, he sensed they were both relieved. He'd as soon go celibate as remain an automaton, a cross for her to bear. For her, he guessed, it was trading one burden for another. He heard the six o'clock freight coming before he was completely awake, the long wail of its whistle like a distant coyote howl. He tried to drag himself into awareness, but his eyes seemed sewn shut. When had he given up solitaire and got to sleep? The cards were still being stacked and turned in his head. The rumble of the approaching train set him trembling. It bore down, and he couldn't move. It shook the air, but he was frozen, helpless. Then it was on him. He sprang up as the freight roared past, his eyes wide, unseeing in the gloom, mortally afraid, as though he had awakened in a coffin being carted to the grave. In the bed beside him, Esther moaned, turned over, slept on. Fully awake now, he felt for his brogans at the side of the bed. As the thunder of the freight trailed off, he noticed that the wind had abated. He got up and started on his morning chores. He'd risen early always, since Ohio. Even when, as now, he'd had little sleep, the diurnal rhythms set him on his way before the first cock crowed. It was the family curse, he gathered from what his brothers and cousins said, one of the curses, anyway, and perhaps not the worst. He'd come to relish the early hours, when most of the rest of the world was asleep. Going about his petty tasks, he felt he might have some hand in the unfolding of his life, after all. He carried the chamber pot out to the latrine, scoured it with fresh snow and brought it back in. He dumped what remained in the water pail into a kettle and put it back on the stove. He went back outside, to the little barn in back, climbed into the loft and pitched some hay into the pen for the horse. Then he filled a bucket from the iron pump and poured it into the half-barrel water trough. He refilled the water pail and brought in a hopper of cobs and an armload of wood from the woodshed, and he was done. Back on the farm, there would have been cows to milk, eggs to gather, more stock to feed, a good two hours of work before breakfast. He wouldn't have minded doing more. While he was doing, he wasn't in his head so much. By that time, the sky in the east was beginning to lighten, though the stars still flickered in the sky as though wincing from the cold. The air at least was still, and his breath made clouds as he huffed up the back stairs with the wood. The water was boiling, and he poured some into the basin and ladled in a bit of the cold water to bring it to the right warmth for shaving. He set the lamp on a shelf by the wash stand, regarded his face in the mirror, and explored it with his fingers, turning his head from side to side to see. In the mirror, his father, Esculapius Sherwood, stared back at him. The same pale blue eyes, the same steady gaze, the same strong hawklike features. It was the face of a man who could be hard, he thought, though he never remembered his father being anything but gentle. Slowly and deliberately, he soaked his face, steamed it with a towel, stropped his razor, and set about shaving, listening to the rustle the stubble made as he scraped. Toweling off, still with his father on his mind, he decided he'd make breakfast. It was twenty years since his father died, but he still remembered sitting at the table back in Ohio as his father fussed over the stove, fixing meals learned while feeding mates in the war. He started coffee, spooned baking powder into a bowl with flour, cracked a couple eggs into it, and mixed in milk until it was like thick cream. They were out of honey, so he browned some sugar in a pan and dribbled in a little water to make treacle. In a fry pan he got some bacon crackling. “What are you doing?” Esther was at the door, blinking sleepily. “Griddle cakes.” “I was going to fix breakfast.” “I beat you to it.” “You should've got me up.” “If you can sleep through the six o'clock freight, I don't know how I'd wake you.” “Kick me. That's what your baby does.” “Sit down and start. I'll keep some warm for myself.” After breakfast, he changed his shirt and got into his overalls. When he came back into the kitchen, Esther was at the sink, starting dishes. He came up behind her and took her shoulders in his hands. “You made a mess,” she said. “Is that what I was doing?” “You could put things back after you get them out. You could mop up a little.” He lifted his hands, as though from a hot stove. “Got to get to work.” He'd been going to kiss her, but she'd got his back up again. “You could sweep, anyway.” “You're welcome,” he said. Then he was at the door and out. The sun was up. It was one of those January days when it seemed a person could see into the next county with no effort. Slogging along the tracks toward the Nevada depot, he was thinking how it would be on the northern run, out in the open country. He could kick the throttle up today and not worry about something waiting unseen down the line. He'd test the old firehorse today, by God. |