Nathan Coulter (3 page)

I watched them, letting myself float in the slow current. I thought if I floated to the mouth of the river I'd always be at the center of a ring of trees and a ring of hills and a ring where the sky touched. I said, “I'm Nathan Coulter.” It seemed strange.

Brother swam up behind me and threw water in my face. We raced back to the shallow water, and waded out onto the bar.

I found a flat rock and stretched out to let the sun dry me. It was warm and I felt clean and tired. Across the river a hawk held his wings to the wind and circled. The sky was empty except for the hawk and the cloud. I cupped my hands around my eyes. And then there were three of us—the hawk and the cloud and me.

When we got back to Grandpa's place we turned old Oscar loose; he wandered off down the hill toward his shade trees at the spring. We went on to the top of the ridge and back toward our place where Grandpa and Daddy and Uncle Burley were digging postholes. The ground was shallow along that part of the fence row; they were digging to the rock and blasting the rest of the way down with dynamite. When we got there Uncle Burley was sitting at the edge of a hole, guiding the rock drill, and Daddy was driving it down with a sledge hammer. Grandpa was working at the post pile, facing the posts with an axe. We sat behind Uncle Burley and watched.

Daddy glanced at us between swings. “Have you all been riding that old horse again?” He had to interrupt himself to say “Ah” when the hammer came down. The sun was beaming hot, and he was sweating through his shirt.

“No,” Brother said.

Daddy looked at Brother and then at me, and swung the hammer down. “If I see you on that horse one more time, I'm going to skin both of you. It looks like you can't hear when I tell you something.”

Then he said, “Get out of the way, now, before you get hurt. You don't have any business up here.”

He dropped the hammer and went to find the water jug. As soon as he was out of earshot Uncle Burley winked at us. “You'd better do what he tells you, boys. It's a bad day.”

“What's he mad at us for?” Brother said. “We weren't bothering him.”

“That's just his way,” Uncle Burley said. “He loves you boys.”

Several sticks of dynamite and a coil of fuse and a box of caps were lying on the ground behind us. When Uncle Burley turned his head and began working the drill back and forth in the hole, Brother picked up a scrap of fuse and took a cap out of the box.

We went out the ridge again and took the road to town. A few patches of red clover were blooming along the sides of the road, and daisies and sweet clover. Big dusty-looking grasshoppers flew up ahead of us, their wings clicking, and dropped back into the weeds, and flew again when we caught up with them. Finally we moved out to the middle of the road to be rid of them.

The road went slanting over the top of our ridge past Big Ellis's pond and his house, then it made a sharp turn and ran straight on to where the town's ridge pointed off on the river bluff. Beriah Easterly's house set on the outside of the turn, and we stopped to see if his boy, Calvin, was at home. We knocked on the door, but nobody came. We guessed Mrs. Easterly and Calvin had gone down to the store with Beriah. Their old bird dog was asleep under the porch swing, but he just raised his head and looked at us and went to sleep again.

“It looks like somebody ought to be at home,” Brother said.

I knocked again. We could hear a clock ticking somewhere inside the house, and that was all. Things had quit working right. Daddy wouldn't let us stay with him, and now Calvin was gone. All of a sudden it got lonesome. We went back to the road and didn't stop again until we got to town.

The town strung out along the road for maybe half a mile—a few houses and other buildings and the bank and the church. Except for the preacher and the banker and the storekeepers, about everybody who lived there worked on the farms. There was one side road but no houses were built on it. We went past the poolroom and on up the street to
where the drugstore and grocery store and harness shop stood in a row along the sidewalk across from the church. The harness shop had been closed a long time. The harnessmaker died and the town didn't need another store, so it had been left empty. The door and windows had been boarded up and covered with political posters and cigarette advertisements, and Calvin Easterly said that bats lived inside. In the daytime the bats hung together like a curtain down the back wall. It was a scary place when we thought about it, especially at night. But it had been shut up for so long that we hardly noticed it was there.

Aside from the harness shop it was a pretty town. Most of the buildings were painted white, and tall locust and maple trees grew in the yards along the road.

Big Ellis and Gander Loyd and the Montgomery twins were squatting in front of the drugstore, leaning back into the shade of the wall. The Montgomerys didn't look at us when we came up, and we didn't speak to them. Grandpa had thrashed their father one time for calling Uncle Burley a drunkard, and none of them had ever got over it. They were always shamefaced and hangdog when even Brother and I were around, as if they expected one of us to walk over and kick them in the shins. Their names were Len and Lemuel, but everybody called them Mushmouth and Chicken Little. We walked past them to where Big Ellis and Gander were.

“How're you boys?” Big Ellis said.

“All right,” I said. “How're you, Big Ellis?”

“Hot. Too hot to work. What're they doing over at your place?”

“Digging postholes.”

“Whoo,” Big Ellis said. “They're feeling the heat.” He squinted his eyes and giggled.

We spoke to Gander and sat down. Gander turned his head and looked at us with his one eye. He was chewing on the end of a matchstick. “Hello,” he said. He wiped the matchstick on the bib of his overalls and began picking his teeth. Gander never had much to say. He'd killed a man and lost an eye in the fight, and it always took me a while to get used to his one-sided face. He stayed quiet, even when he was in town, keeping what he knew to himself.

“Could you boys use a chocolate ice cream cone?” Big Ellis asked us.

“We had dinner a while ago,” Brother said. “Thank you just the same.”

“Aw hell, you can eat a chocolate ice cream cone anytime. Let's have one.”

We got up and went into the drugstore.

“Three chocolate ice cream cones,” Big Ellis said. The girl behind the counter scooped them up for us. Big Ellis gave her three nickels and we went out and sat down again.

“You boys ever get in a fight?” Big Ellis asked me.

“No,” I said.

“If we ever did I'd win,” Brother told him.

Big Ellis looked around at Gander and giggled. But Gander wasn't paying any attention. Big Ellis let it go, and ate his ice cream without talking anymore. He wasn't likely to stir any conversation out of Gander—or the Montgomerys, either, as long as we were there. It wasn't very good company. After we finished the ice cream we stayed a while to show Big Ellis that we appreciated his buying it for us, then we thanked him and left.

Up the street from the harness shop was the hotel. It was a long, two-story frame building with a porch running all the way across the front of it. Salesmen and travelers used to spend the night there, but now the rooms were rented out by the month, to old people mostly. Some of them were sitting in rocking chairs on the front porch when we went by. An old woman nodded her head to us. “Good afternoon, young gentlemen.” She turned to the others and said, “Such fine young men.”

An old man leaned toward her and said, “Whose boys are they?”

“Why, they're Dave Coulter's grandchildren.”

“Well, God damn,” he said. “Are they old Dave's boys?”

“Grandchildren,” she said.

On a rise at the far end of town was the graveyard. In a way it was the prettiest part of the town—with its white headstones and green grass and flowers, shady under the gray-trunked cedars. From there you could see a long stretch of the river valley. Grandma said it was a restful place, and it was. But it was hard to forget all the dead people buried underneath it. In the summer it was easier to forget them than it was in the winter. In the winter you felt they must be cold.

We went through the gate and up the driveway. Toward the top of the rise, jutting up even taller than most of the cedars, was the Coulter family monument. It was made of granite—a square base, then a long shaft like a candle with an angel standing on top of it. Grandpa's mother had bought it from a traveling salesman when she was old and childish. Grandpa said she must have been crazy too. It had taken twenty mules to pull the base of it seven miles from the railroad station. And the old woman had been dead about five years before Grandpa was able to pay for it. On the front of the monument was written:

George and Parthenia were Grandpa's mother and father. On the other side of the monument was Grandpa's name:

Grandpa was the only one of Parthenia's children left at home when she bought the monument, and she'd left the other names off—had forgotten about them, or was mad at them for leaving. But Grandpa wasn't flattered that she'd remembered him. The last thing he wanted was to have his name carved in four-inch letters on a tombstone. The monument had been enough trouble to him without that. He still got mad every time he thought about it. It was as if she'd expected him to write his other date up there and die right away to balance things.

It had finally bothered him so much that he'd sent Daddy to buy a new lot for the family. He said he'd be damned if anybody was going to tell him where to be buried. The new lot was way off on the far side of the graveyard. Nobody was buried there yet, and it was all grown up in weeds.

The angel on top of the monument had his wings spread as if he were about to fly down and write the rest of our names in the blank spaces. Parthenia B. Coulter had left plenty of room for whoever might come along. Uncle Burley said the angel probably would fly on Judgment Day. That kind of talk always disturbed Grandma; she thought it was sacrilegious. And so he'd usually mention it when the subject of graveyards came up. He said he could just see that old angel flying up out of the smoke and cinders and tearing out for Heaven like a chicken out of a hen-house fire.

A little past the graveyard gate was the Crandel Place. When we passed there Mrs. Crandel's grandson, who had come to visit her from Louisville, was sitting in the front yard playing with a pet crow. Old man Crandel had caught the crow for him before it was big enough to fly. The boy was cleaned up and dressed as if it were Sunday.

He walked over to the fence and looked at us. “Hi,” he said.

We told him hello.

“What's your name?” he asked Brother.

“Puddin-tame,” Brother said.

“Would you like to come over and play with me?” the boy asked. “I'll let you ride my bicycle if you will.”

Brother and I climbed over the fence.

“Where's the bicycle?” Brother asked him.

“On the porch.”

We followed him up to the porch. The bicycle was a new one. And he had a new air rifle too.

He brought the bicycle down the steps and rode it around in the yard. It was painted red and the sun shone on the spokes of the wheels. I wished Brother and I had one.

In a little while the boy got off and gave the bicycle to Brother. But Brother couldn't ride it, and it turned over with him. Then I got on it and it turned over with me. Mrs. Crandel came out on the porch and told the boy not to let us tear up his bicycle.