The Bully of Order (17 page)

I was shaking all through my body, but I didn't think they could see it as much as I felt it. I didn't want them looking at me anymore. It wasn't even their house. Without another word I went outside, beat Matius to it.

The rain had stopped, and in between the clouds the stars were out, something secret revealed, gray sky and black trees. Her footsteps were underneath every one of mine. Her shadow was in the trees.

The barn was completely dark except for the faint light of the houselights coming through the open door. The cow was chewing on the fence. I watched its bottom lip wrap under the slat like a giant hairy slug. They think they can just walk right in here. I wasn't crying anymore. I promised myself that I wouldn't, but when Jonas came to get me for dinner the tears came again.

“It's all right. You go ahead.” Jonas put an arm around my shoulder and hugged me and I rested my head against his chest. He was a big milky-smelling thing.

“She was fine before. Nothing was wrong.”

“I know.”

“I could've stopped him. I should've got up soon as I heard him and done something. I'll kill him if I see him again.”

“I'll tell you something you don't want to hear. She wasn't even mad at him, didn't blame him at all.”

I pushed his arm from my shoulder. My face was hot all the way to my teeth.

“I'll find him and kill him.”

Jonas looked steadily into my eyes. “It's time to eat. I guess if you still feel like it, we can talk more about murder after dinner.”

“Don't joke with me.”

“I'm not joking.”

“You are. You're foolin with me, but I'm not a fool.”

“I know you're not. You're a tough case, clear as day.” He smiled just slightly, and I could see my own sadness reflected in his face. This was an unrecognizable place from where I'd been before. I didn't know what else to do but follow my cousin inside.

T
he doctor sat alone
and watched the fire burn down. Earlier, he'd set an armload of wood on the hearth to dry, and now there was only the one piece left. The steam was no longer rising from it, so it was ready. The rain always blew in under the eaves and soaked the woodpile. He'd meant to build a shed this year. He could've hired someone. He'd be left behind now. Nell would be gone. People are loved more for dying than for living. We love the image more than the being itself. How's that make God, he wondered. It's likely that the image is a far cry from the being. We pity the poor but loathe the beggar. Love the frontier but cower in the wilderness. Man's imagination is at once the blade that defends and the stone that crushes. He could've married Nell if he weren't married already, if she weren't. If he weren't exactly the man he was. Marrying the wrong woman was the worst kind of mistake. He imagined losing a limb in some drunken accident and having to tell the story for the rest of his life.

He must've fallen asleep. A sound in the rear of the house woke him. At first he thought Duncan had returned—and where did that boy get to anyway?—but that wasn't the sound at all. The doctor was on his feet and waddling, huffing toward Nell, and when he went through the door she was looking at him with one open eye, the other was yellow-black and welded shut with pus.

He had her by the wrist, his watch out, taking her pulse. “You almost made me turn to prayer, you know. Your pulse before, I barely had you, and now, oh, you're back with us. Thank God.” He was laughing, and his eyes brimmed with tears.

“Milo, listen to me. Don't say anything.”

He nodded obediently, exhausted as a child, tantrum finished.

“I don't want to be here anymore.”

“You shouldn't go home. It's not safe. I won't allow it.” He held her hand with both of his and bowed his head. “I wish you would stay here with me.”

“I didn't say I wanted to go home, Milo. Listen.”

“I'm listening, dear.” He wouldn't look up.

She pulled her hand free and touched his cheek. “I want to leave this place.”

“Fine, I'll go with you. Soon as you're well.”

“No, you aren't listening. I'm going alone.” She sat up and carefully slid her finger down the bridge of her nose and her cheekbones, feeling out the damage.

“You can't travel. Not yet. You need to rest.” He was confused. “You can't leave Duncan here. You can't leave here by yourself.”

“I have to ask you a favor.”

“I'll do whatever you want. You know that. I'll do anything for you.”

“Duncan will stay with the Parkers. Edna will raise him. I trust her. Please, Milo. He can't come with me.”

“We'll both come with you.”

“You can't. I've already decided. Just help me arrange it. Please. It's more than I should ask, I know, but I don't have anyone else.”

He had his lip out, and he was turning his head from side to side like a hunting owl.

“You're a good man, Milo.”

“I'm right about it being too soon to travel. You know I am. Let me come with you. I won't stay if you don't want me to.”

“That can't happen. Nobody can know.” She had his hand now and she raised it to her lips and kissed it, her brutalized face in profile; it broke his heart.

“Are you thirsty? I'll bring you water or coffee. I made coffee earlier.”

“That would be nice. Thank you.”

But he didn't make a move, and she didn't release his hand. “I have to ask, where would you go?”

“To live with my brother Zachary.”

“And if you leave Duncan behind, what will become of him? You'll destroy him.”

“The Parkers are a good family. Edna's my friend. Zeb's as good as a brother to Duncan. He'll be better off with them than with me and Jacob.”

“No, he still needs you.”

“But I can't tell him, can I? Because if he knows, everybody will. He won't be safe if I'm here. I don't want to leave him.”

“I don't understand.”

She patted his wrist and squeezed his fingers as she let him go. “He's nearly grown. Soon he won't need me anymore. You'll all forget about me soon enough.”

“No, he still needs you. I need you.”

“I want to be dead, Milo. I don't want anyone looking for me.”

“You want me to lie.”

“I want a funeral. I want my death to be the truth that people remember. This isn't an easy choice for me, but it has to be this way. If I leave, I'll save my life and Duncan's. If I stay—I can't stay. I can't. I've had enough of this place.”

“I don't know if I can do it, Nell. I mean, I want to help you, but I simply don't know how. There are other people involved. Records are kept, even here.”

“Bring the coffee, and we'll talk through it. There's nothing we can't talk through, is there?”

The doctor acquiesced and went for the coffee. He set the pot back on the stove and waited for it to warm. Standing at the window, palms flat, his belly resting against the counter, he wept, but only for a moment. If she left, for him, it would be that she'd died twice. Not fair. No. He would help her, though. He'd do whatever he could. He'd ask Bellhouse to book her passage. On second thought, he'd ask Tartan. Less talking with that one. Less trouble altogether. He had a vision of Nell hidden belowdecks with a load of lumber, all by herself, neatly composed, gone. Sadness filled him and pity, but this is how it was. This was the promise: I will give no deadly medicine.

T
he whistle tells us to stop. We stand dumb and stiff as turtles until the doors swing open and the tulle settles over us and pulls us toward the darkness. Slackjawed gossip has it that up the peninsula a windstorm killed two hundred elk with falling timber. Two hundred men are waiting, staring at roof beams and sawdust, and another two hundred are outside waiting to come in. This life is a game of chance, but you try anyway. During the War they found the muskets of the dead tamped full with thirteen balls, never fired.

“Sure, I'll have one with you, but then I'll be home.”

“Yer wife is waitin.”

“That she is. The children too. But the pull from the drink is truly tidal.”

“Because you need it, and now I'd say you need a swig more than a child needs a father.”

“Sounds frigid when you say it out loud. Let's walk.”

No rain tonight. Just a bright lovely place with light in all the windows. Music tinkling out over the water to meet the jangle of the ships. A town rises impossibly. The victors stand clean, covetous, and mean. Opposite, the failures, foreheads scarred by the tumplines, fill their dreams with graveyards and graveyards with dreams. There is a toll, and Jesus says he's got the bill, but we'll see about that.

Even the doorman is laughing. Even the one-legged girl is dancing.

“If I had my pay I'd drink myself to death tonight.”

“The union men are here, see em?”

“Bellhouse.”

“Right, means a few for free. Adequate bow and scrape, of course.”

“Honestly, he scares me.”

“Drink enough he won't.”

“Posthumously then.”

The barman has pinkeye and the mirror's been cracked.

“Didn't there used to be a chandelier?”

“Tore down.” Points up to the dangling roots. Points across the room to the piano and the Mucker at the keys.“Freshly tuned instrument,” the barman says, “much improved.”

“Its guts may be steeved, but the tack of the melody no less dour.”

“If you don't like sad songs,” the barman says, “you won't like it here.”

“We'll like it fine. Let's have it.”

Drinks arrive, vessels of shimmering joy, opposite of panic. Coin to the pannier.

“I'm a nothingarian, so to nothingness.”

“Adam, with such counsel nothing swayed. —Milton”

Shot glasses nearly gobbled, licked clean.

“Whiskey is second only to nothingness.”

“Looks like a footrace tonight.”

Bellhouse stands to give a speech, raises a hand. All faces turn to him, waiting for the free drink at the end. The abused piano player continues, lost in the teeth and timbers of the keyboard. Bellhouse hammers a look into the side of his head, yards clear of a glour.

“He should stop that sorry tinkering tune.”

And just like that he did. Silence flooded.

In a whisper: “Got a bit of Pekin egg under his eye, Bellhouse does.”

“Somebody caught him nappin. Bet he's grumpy when he wakes.”

“Quiet, oration crowning.”

Says Bellhouse: “When I'm burning in hell it will be that fucking piano I hear.”

Laughs all around except from the speaker and the musician. Bellhouse caresses with a busted paw the bruise under his eye, then winks at the pianist. Chicken meet stump, ax will be by shortly. Harbor God continues with a threat aimed at specific rail interests, Northern Pacific, moves on to what nearly turns into a teary-eyed thanks to a high class of working man, follows emotional pucker with a promise of violence for all those that stand against said high classers, falls into verse. “‘Before him came a forester of Dean, wet from the woods, with notice of a hart taller than his fellows—' You, gentlemen, are those foresters, and you've seen the stag which is your rights and your deserved rewards. I am your Arthur, and tomorrow we go hunting.”

Applause all around, sawdust huffs out of sleeves and rains from the tops of the jug-eared's trophies. If the chandelier hadn't been uprooted, the faces of the fledged would've mooned their hard mother.

“He quotes the Right Honorable, Alfred Lord.”

“Poets like politicians kill more than they comfort.”

“If there's a human endeavor that at some point doesn't require shoveling, I'll drop dead from surprisement.”

“You speak not truth but close.”

“Another footrace.”

“Does the one-legged girl give a discount? I've three dollars.”

“Let her dance. Save yer money. Drink up Bellhouse's leavings, and we'll get. Yer wife and children are waitin.”

“For nothin.”

“Grist to the mill.”

“Dawn comes earlier every day. I'm stayin.”

“Then so am I.”

There's an engine in the heart of the world, and it's built to kill us.

E
ach footfall was a
point of strict quietude, a flicked toenail, a dropping leaf. Far off, after a bit of concentrating, I could just hear the Chehalis, a bag of bones, highwater rattling. Splashdams clogged the creeks all up and down, veins in a leaf, banking water for the flush, a wonder that we don't all dry up and blow away. The clouds glowed in the notch, but the sun was down. Yellow and gray with a seep of red; I call this sky, mother's flower. It'll blush, then go. I held midstride and waited, and what I thought would happen did: she turned gray.

I was close now. The widowmakers were up ahead, the last marker before town. It went: square boulder with mouthcrack, twin stumps (the sisters), broken signpost with a nail in it, and then the widowmakers. Cold cracked the rock, long gone loggers made the stumps, a falling limb broke the signpost, and someone, a not very smart someone, had chopped down the first widowmaker to start the tangle where it fell wrongly and hung up in its neighbor's crown. Other smaller trees were cut to try and knock down the first, but they all leaned one against the other in a kind of spiral around the forked hemlock. It had been there for as long as I had memory, leaning mostly toward town, hanging now from as much moss as limb. When it went, it would go in all directions, like mud from a spinning wheel, somehow familial.