The Bully of Order (29 page)

Mother was in the bushes, the dog at her side. She waved me over, and we petted the dog. She looked tired. Snow fell directionless and without hurry, melted against the hot skin of my face. I looked back, and she was gone. I followed her tracks and the dog tracks to the mouth of a cave, a place I knew. I stepped into the dark and touched my hand to the dry stone.

Voices in the room played peanut gallery to my dreams.
My old boots will fit him. He's not worth the wearing of them. They're worn out already, no worth to be called for. He doesn't look like the sort to do what he did to Miss Boyerton. His blood is of the sort. I'll testify to that. Poor skinny boy. Pity the child always, but fear the man.

Then Matius made an appearance. The cave ended, or was gone. I was outside again, wet forest, wet ground. Blood dripped from my uncle's right hand, and around his wrist he wore a bracelet of Mother's hair. We were on the deck of a schooner, being guided into the harbor by the Cudahey tug. Matius went barefoot and bare-chested, with a dingy beard hanging to his flat, starving belly. Something of the skinned animal about him, a cow's knee joint. The hills were bare of trees, and the log decks at the shore were stacked up higher than the roof of the mill. There were mountains of logs.

“We've finally worked ourselves out of this place,” Matius said. “We'll soon have the fields of Ohio.”

“There's more trees over the hill,” I said. “We'll find more trees and cut them too.”

“Will we now?” My uncle swung at me without warning, and I dodged the blow but lost my footing and went over the rail. More water. Not anything new, just more. I didn't care. Drown me once, shame on you. Drown me twice—I took a deep breath, and it didn't even catch, not so much as a hiccup. After a few breaths, I no longer sent bubbles rising but instead shot a cold jet of water like a clam, felt it against the backs of my teeth. There was no fear of death. I tromped around in the mud at the bottom of the harbor, and I could see all right. I climbed over a shoal marked by keel and rudder alike and on the other side came upon one of Bellhouse's graveyards. Men were chained around the chest like Gutowski had been chained, sprouting from the floor of the harbor like giant mushrooms. They were mostly sitting upright, with dead open eyes, but some had tipped over, and their eyes were shut. Silt would soon cover them. The crabs were feeding and shredded clothing; a bootlace and after it a laceless boot drifted by on the easy, ocean-bound current. I uncoiled the chain from a bony, naked corpse and freed it; and it floated to the surface like a kite taking off. I hefted the chain and liked the weight, so I wrapped it like a scarf around my shoulders and it felt good, like my coat had felt good before it tried to drown me. I walked on and saw dozens of salmon as big as my leg and told myself to remember where I'd seen them so I could come back later and catch them. I stood there and looked them in the eye, slid my fingers down their bellies and over their tails. Fish look at you like anything does, like people do. Locations seemed important. Later, climbing over a jumble of sunken logs, I came upon fishermen's lines in the water, herring threaded onto rusted hooks. I could see the bottom of their boat overhead. I tugged on their lines and stole their bait and watched the boat rock as they farmed the empty water. I laughed soundlessly. I was unkillable, walking on the harbor bottom, exulted.

Doc Haslett and his new wife were in and out of the room. Behind the sheet there were shadows and there was blood. I could smell it. Nurse and doctor passed like birds from shadow to sun. Someone was moaning, and I told myself to quiet down because it had to be me, but it wasn't, it wasn't me at all.

Suddenly I was awake, blinked at the door, blinked at the wall. The room was quiet. Then there was breathing, shallow, rasping. I was sure of it now: I wasn't alone. There was someone behind the sheet. It didn't matter. The sheet was there; it would keep us apart. Let them be over there, and I'll be over here.

Through the high window I could see that the rain and snow had stopped and it was daylight. I lugged myself out of the cot and stood and looked down at the strange nightshirt I was wearing and my mysteriously damaged feet. My mother might or might not have died in this house. I tucked the blankets under the pillow. The floor was scrubbed clean, and the grain and knots were risen and lumpy. I pulled back the curtain. Zeb Parker was sitting on a cot, barefooted, dressed in rags, looking back at me with dull eyes. He looked dead, and then he blinked.

“What're you doin here?” I asked.

“I've come to kill you.” He lifted his hand, and I saw he had a piece of the broken ax handle resting in his lap.

“No, yer not.”

“Someday I will.” The scar on his jaw was as fat and pink as an earthworm.

“Did it hurt when she did it?” I asked.

“Did what?”

“Cut that hook from yer face.”

“You are like yer father. I'll put you down like a dog.”

“I said I was sorry.”

“Not to me, you didn't. You never said nothin.”

“I don't hate you, Zeb. I was scared, is all.” I turned and pulled the curtain closed behind me, stood there thinking: It isn't real. He isn't real. “Did you hear me, Zeb? I said I was scared.” I waited for him to answer, and when he didn't, I pulled back the curtain and he was gone, hadn't ever been there at all.

I opened my eyes when I heard someone come through the door. Tartan dropped my hat on the bed and then slipped off his coat and hung it on the back of the chair. He sat down and smoothed his mustache with his palm as he stared at me.

“You did this,” I said to him.

“I certainly did. Saved yer life.”

“Likened to kill me. Kozmin saved me.”

“Feelin well enough to argue then. Good.”

“Just saw a ghost, or maybe not. Can someone that isn't dead be a ghost?”

“I don't have opinions on spiritual matters.”

“How do I know if yer real, if I just saw someone who wasn't?”

He blew his nose into his hand and wiped it on my bare arm. “How's that for real?”

I used the blanket to clean myself up. “What d'you want from me?”

“Sorry I pitched you in the river, is all. That's what I came here for.” He stood and put on his coat. “Come by the hall when yer healed. Hank and the boys want to see you.”

“Wait.”

“What is it?”

“Get that fat doctor in here, and let's talk out what happened to my mother.”

“He ain't here.”

“Where is he?”

“How should I know? House calls occur in other people's houses.” He turned and went out the door, shoulders wide enough to fill the frame. Bald spot on the back of his head was a scar, not a normal baldy spot at all. I studied the crust on my wrist. Real enough. I rested my hat on my face and fell asleep pleased with myself, like I'd passed some sort of test.

“The miracle man,” Jonas whispered. “Rise up and greet us.”

Eyes open, yet too bleary to see, words in my mind: Blessed are those whose way is blameless. I slid from under the blankets, blinked my past into my present. “Go find me some clothes, would you?”

Jonas left for a moment and then came back with my things folded in his arms, strange boots hanging from his fist. He waited while I dressed, didn't watch me. He kept his eyes on the sheet. My feet hurt awfully going into the boots.

The doctor's new wife was in the hall.

“Is he here?” I asked her.

She scowled at me, pretty, pretty quick to go ugly. “You'll get back in that bed if you know what's good for you.”

“Answer my question,” I told her.

“No, he's out. Let him rest here,” she said to Jonas, “until the doctor gets back.”

“When's that?” I said.

“Tonight, could be late. He wanted to speak with you.”

“There'll be time for that later. Tell him I'll come find him.” I dragged Jonas by his shirt to the door so we wouldn't have to talk to her anymore. I felt like I'd start screaming if I made a peep about my mother. Tartan and I would come back later and get it straight. A hundred times Haslett could've told me the truth. Selfish is what that is, or loyal. To what and who? She's my mother, isn't anything to him. Down the stairs, and we turned left on Water Street toward Beacon. Work crews were cutting tree roots at the roadside with axes, making a path for more new walkways. With all the buildings burned down, they were making adjustments to the streets, squaring and leveling what before had been mostly vineal and random.

Jonas gave me a sidelong look. “Boyerton fired me because of you.”

“I didn't do it on purpose.”

“I wouldn't like to think that you did.”

The bridge was down and the tender's shack was empty. I stopped for a moment in the middle, straddling the gap in the two pieces of bridge, and eyed upriver, sighting the pilings and the masts of ships, reliably plumb. Jonas nudged my shoulder, and we moved on. We climbed into the low hills, and the rain turned to snow.

When we got to the Wynooche there were tracks on the road and down to the riverbank. People had been out in the storm, and after it too. I wondered if they'd been looking for me. Been to Cape Flattery? I hear it's nice.

We walked in step. I was scared. There was no life or uplift, no planks to walk on. We went in the streets and in the wilderness, in the mud.
Let us go into the fortified cities and perish there.
Poor Jonas, I thought. He's stuck with me now. And aren't we all standing in a cloud of gnats, and each one black and buzzing, a little death. I couldn't tell him what I'd done to his father, and I didn't know what lie I would invent when we got home. I labored under the heat in my head and in my arms, Jonas beside me moving like he was made of pig iron and lead, and the sun dropped away and we were soon in the dark. The lights were on at the Parkers', but we didn't linger.

When we arrived at the house, the door was wide open and snow had blown in like a clamshell onto the floor. Jonas lit the lantern in the kitchen. I could still see the bloodstain on the floor, but I doubted if Jonas would notice.

“Where is he?”

“Don't know.”

He checked behind the door. “You take the shotgun?”

“Yes.”

“Where is it?”

“Lost it somewhere.”

Jonas shook his head. “Couldn't a got far with that foot a his.”

“No, probably not.”

“Would he have gone to the Parkers'?”

“No, he wouldn't be any more welcome there than I would.” I remembered the ghost and Zeb's threat. I should write him a letter, I thought. Apologize for what I did.

Jonas was bent over looking at the jagged shotgun hole in the wall. “What's this?” he said.

“It went off.”

“What'd you do?”

“We can patch it.”

“Sure, but I'm wonderin why, that's all I'm askin.”

“I was messin around and it went off.”

“Where is he?”

I shook my head. “I don't know. I don't know what happened.” I was picking through the discarded food on the plates and the counter and what was left in the pantry, and I found enough to make soup. By the time it boiled, the house was warm and orderly and clean enough. We sat at the table to eat, and it felt official, like we were getting down to business. I expected him to ask about Matius but he didn't.

“How'd you fall in the river?”

“I was more thrown than fell.”

“By who?”

“Doesn't matter.”

“You could've been killed.”

“He didn't mean to kill me, I don't think.”

“Tell me who it was.”

“Some other time.”

“No, you'll tell me now.”

“Tartan, Bellhouse's man.”

“I won't ask why, then.”

“The why don't matter.”

“I thought you liked Teresa Boyerton.”

I wanted to tell him that betrayal felt the same as a fever, that murder and frostbite are only differentiated by the layers of damage, the perception of the wound. My blackened and yellowing toes weren't any different than what I felt was my rubiginous heart.

“It was almost an accident.”

“Almost.”

“I hadn't planned it.”

“All the things you coulda done.”

“I'm not proud.”

“If you were, I'd beat you bloody.”

“I said I'm not.”

“Yer havin lots of accidents of late.”

“Feels that way.”

“Yeah, well, we better get some sleep.”

Jonas stoked the fire and undressed to his union suit and then climbed into bed. I shut down the lantern and climbed in beside him. One of us could've stayed in Matius's bed, but we didn't. The blankets were damp and cold against my aching feet and smelled of mildew. Dark as tar; nothing moved or seemed capable of ever moving again.

“I told you before he wouldn't have you marrying his only daughter.”

“I know.”

“You had ambitions.”

“Yes.”

Jonas was silent for a minute or more. I imagined his mouth moving with thought. “The wanting of a thing doesn't make it different. It's still the thing it was before you wanted it.”

Talking in the dark was like listening to someone else think. “I don't deserve more than this?”

“Who am I to say what you deserve? I'm nobody. I don't even have a job.”

I didn't say anything more. I stayed awake and waited to hear Jonas's breathing change, and when it did I rolled over and slept.

By the time I woke up, Jonas had already left. I climbed stiffly from bed onto my wrecked feet and drank almost the whole pail of water and stoked the fire. I heated the dregs of the soup and ate it from the pan. Looking out the window, I saw that the barn doors were open and the cow was gone. I couldn't remember the last time I'd seen a chicken.