The Harrows of Spring (9 page)

E
IGHTEEN

Later that day Robert worked on hooking up the bar sinks of the Cider Barrel, the new hotel tavern, until a few minutes before the doors opened and the townspeople began swarming in to inaugurate the place. Its predecessor had been open little more than a week between Christmas and New Year's before it burned down, and in that brief time it was already becoming a beloved institution in town. There had been fellowship, a warm, comfortable place to pass time, live music, and a game attempt at pub fare, but mainly it had gotten the people in town out of their houses during the darkest time of the year after many years of having almost nowhere to go at night. So they were very eager to see its replacement and the first wave was not disappointed.

For one thing, the new tavern was considerably larger than the original, both the spacious front bar and the dining room. It featured not only the big central masonry heater that was shared with the hotel next door but a traditional Rumford fireplace on the outside wall of the dining room. Some old sofas and soft chairs were arrayed before it. With the temperature in the low fifties this spring evening, a fire was burning there. Vases of lilacs stood at each side of the broad mantelpiece, drawing attention to a large oil painting by Andrew Pendergast hanging there, a view of the Hudson River from Stark's Knob, an ancient volcanic plug across the river from Bullock's plantation. The vista, captured the previous October with the fall foliage in full blaze, showed the mighty river wending north toward Glens Falls and the Adirondack mountain wilderness beyond. Candles burned in mirrored wall sconces between the tall windows, outside of which purple twilight gathered over Union Grove's old business district.

Brother Jobe bustled all around the place from the front porch to the bar to the kitchen to the basement to the loading dock in the back alley—where a late delivery of Juniper Swamp pale ale came in just after he opened the tavern's doors. (The deliveryman and brewer, one Dutch Dahlgren of Shushan, arrived drunk on his own product; his team of two horses was unhitched and taken to Allison's livery and Dutch was left to sleep it off in the empty box of his utility wagon.) Waddling to and fro in his best frock coat, wearing a green satin cravat to mark the season, Brother Jobe paused to chat with the townspeople, who uniformly expressed their gratitude for the miraculous and heroic resurrection of the establishment. He had advertised free food and libations opening night—the handbills were Daniel Earle's first paid print job—and that was no small part of the attraction for the crowd pouring in. For many, stores of food at home were running low. New Faith waitresses in their long skirts circulated through the rooms with pitchers of cider and ale and platters of tidbits—ham biscuits, sausage bites, cheese grit squares, deep-fried pickles, and the establishment's own trademark tater tots. There had not been a public social gathering since the levee at the Easton Station grange hall to mark the spring equinox in March. Many of the arrivals, young men and women who worked on different farms all week long and saw little of other people off their own workplaces, flirted eagerly with each other.

One of these farmworkers was a dark-haired nineteen-year-old named Karen Grolsch, who worked on Carl Weibel's farm over on Schoolhouse Hill. She was in charge of his considerable side operation in raising ducks, and it was a busy time of the year now with more than two hundred ducklings hatched the past week. Karen lived on Grove Street with her mother, Kaycee, who had been a local ski champion in her own youth and radiated good health at forty-six. In the last years of the old times, Kaycee did physical therapy at an assisted living establishment in Manchester, Vermont, a long commute then. Now she worked in the new Union Grove community laundry, which was warm indoor labor and paid wages in hard money. The rest of Karen's family—father, Emmet, and brothers Hunter and Logan—died in the Mexican flu epidemic. Karen came to the tavern opening with Kaycee. On the way in, Karen had noticed Daniel bundled up in a rocking chair on the porch with a pint of cider in one hand and a crudely wrapped cigar made with local tobacco in the other. She knew who he was. After she'd downed a pint of Temple Merton's Catamount Creek dry amber cider, and filled up on ham biscuits and sausage bites, she left her mother chatting with Bob Bouchard, woodcutter and widower, and ventured back outside. Daniel was still there. He'd draped his wool scarf over his head like a bonnet to ward off the chill. She slid into a rocking chair beside him and pulled up the hood of her thick wool sweater, dyed mauve from a decoction of black hollyhocks.

“They say you're starting up a newspaper,” Karen said. It was only then that Daniel turned his head and made eye contact.

“They're right about that,” Daniel said.

Both rocked awhile.

“When people say ‘they,' don't you want to know who ‘they' are?” Karen said.

“I thought you might know,” Daniel said. “You brought them up.”

“I could find out,” she said. Both attempted to smile, each looked uncomfortable trying.

Daniel turned his gaze back outward and puffed his cigar. He dimly remembered the girl's face from long ago, from the last years before the school shut down. She would have been several grades behind him, still a child, more or less. He noticed that she no longer was one. She had big bright eyes, a wolfish nose, and a full lower lip that gave her an appealing pouty look, as though she was never quite satisfied. She slouched elegantly in the rocker with her legs crossed under a long patchwork skirt.

“I'd like to work for a newspaper,” she said.

“Where are you working now?”

“I'm the duck boss at Weibel's.”

“You like it?”

“It's okay. It's hard sometimes. Winter and all.”

“Well, yes,” he said. “Do you like duck?”

“They're friendly and funny.”

“I mean to eat.”

“Oh, sure. Slow cooked in its own fat. You put it up in jars and it keeps forever. It's how they do it in France. I like to read cookbooks.”

“Do you ever make it like that?”

“We put up quite a bit at the farm for trade. Probably five hundred quarts last season. Mr. Weibel's preserved duck is known far and wide.”

“I'd like to see France,” Daniel said. “I doubt we will, though. No more airplanes.”

“They still have boats.”

“They?” Daniel said.

“That's right,” she said, narrowing her eyes. “They. Them.”

“We'd better find out who they are,” he said.

They took each other in again. This time it wasn't so hard for him to smile. He realized that he couldn't remember the last time he felt like smiling. When she smiled, crinkles formed at the corners of her mouth. He liked that. It made her look sage beyond her years. He liked several things about her.

“Are you . . . on your own?” he asked.

“I live with my mom,” she said. “She's inside. Are you on your own?”

“I'm living over in the newspaper office for now,” he said. “It's a big old place. I finally got it cleaned up. Took a couple of months.”

“It sounds nice.”

“It's an easy trip to work.”

“I walk out to Mr. Weibel's farm every day. I love to get out and walk.”

“So you read cookbooks?” he said.

“And lots of other books. I write stories too.”

“What about?”

“Animals. I have a cast of characters. They stand in for people. Ambrose the porcupine, Tallulah the fox, Boris the 'possum.”

“No ducks?”

“I can't give a name to something that ends up as food.”

“Of course.”

“Maybe sometime you'd consider printing one in your newspaper. I could bring you a sample.”

Just then, one of the New Faith waitresses swung by with a pitcher and refilled their glasses.

“I hadn't thought about running any made-up stories in the paper,” Daniel said. “The idea is to cram as much news and advertising as possible on two sides of an eleven-by-seventeen-inch sheet of paper. It's called a broadside.”

“How often would you print it?”

“Weekly, for the present time. It's called an edition each time it comes out. There's a whole vocabulary for the printing business. I'm learning it.”

They rocked again and sipped their ciders.

“I'd like to see your animal tales,” he said. “They sound like fun.”

“Oh, they're very serious. Full of lessons and morals,” she said. “I could write other things too.”

“Such as what?”

“I could find out news and events of the day. I could go about collecting gossip and rumors.”

“I can only publish what's true.”

“Then I would collect only what's true.”

“Well, you see it's called being a reporter,” Daniel said. He squinted, trying to take her in at such close range. “Maybe you'd make a good reporter.”

“I'm very fond of my ducks, but I don't want to be the duck boss all of my life, and there are plenty of others who could do it just as well. Who else is going to work for your newspaper?”

“Well, nobody yet,” Daniel said. “I can't even start until I get some decent paper to print on. I'm leaving for Albany tomorrow to find some. Teddy Einhorn and I are going to buy a boat there and sail it back. Then the town will have its own boat so we won't have to depend on Mr. Bullock.”

“Yes, I heard that he's stopped trading with the town.”

“Where did you hear that?”

“Mr. Weibel was talking about it with a gentleman from Bennington who sells grain drills. Mr. Bullock is angry at the town, he said. Nobody seems to know why. But I could find out.”

Daniel pictured her sitting down with Bullock, furiously scribbling notes.

“The truth is, I'm a shy person myself,” Daniel said.

“I can tell.”

“I'll have all I can do in the office. You seem . . . comfortable with strangers.”

“I'm interested in people.”

“I don't know what I could pay you,” Daniel said. “How does Mr. Weibel pay his people?”

“Shares and bonuses,” she said. “We get plenty to eat and a little money at planting, harvest, holidays. Things are a little sparse just now, of course, this time of year. It's getting chilly out here. Would you like to go inside. There's more food and a nice fire.”

“Okay,” he said and rose from his chair. “I'm ashamed of myself. I haven't asked your name.”

She told him.

“Karen,” he said. “I like it. It's gentle and dignified.”

“I know you're Daniel,” she said.

“How did you know?”

“It's around. You've been noticed.”

N
INETEEN

Brother Jobe happened to be at the bar, in surcease of motion, enjoying a brief rest and a pint of Bald Mountain farmhouse cider, when Brother Jonah, who had been laboring over on the hotel side, came along with a message.

“We have got some check-ins, sir,” he said.

“Huh? Who all is that?”

“Out-of-towners.”

“Son, hotel customers generally come from somewheres else,” Brother Jobe said. “If they was from here, they'd sleep at home.”

“Oh, uh, of course . . .” Jonah said. Barely twenty-one years old, he did not have much experience with the business. “Well, anyway, there's three of 'em,” he said, “one grown man, one not quite a grown man, and one woman of a sort.”

“Of a sort? What sort would that be?”

“Mannish type.”

“Hmm. They look like socialists to you?”

“I can't say for sure what one looks like,” Jonah said.

“You got rooms ready over there?”

“The sisters are making up beds now. Thing is, they asked to meet with you.”

“Is that so?” Brother Jobe said. He stood a little taller, pulled up his pants, adjusted his cravat, and smoothed the collar of his frock coat. “Tell them to come to the office behind the front desk in ten minutes. Oh, and get a bottle of whiskey and five glasses in there.”

Brother Jobe worked his way through the crowd to find Robert Earle, who had brought his fiddle and, having finished the plumbing job, was about to start playing tunes across the barroom with several other members of the Congregational Church music circle.

“It's them birds from Massachusetts,” Brother Jobe explained. “I think they want to parley. Can you come with me for a bit?”

“Okay,” Robert said. “I shall return,” he told Andrew Pendergast who was warming up on accordion along with Leslie Einhorn on cello and Eric Laudermilk on guitar. Robert, fiddle and bow in hand, followed the bustling Brother Jobe back into the crowd and then through the door connecting to the hotel.

The office was sparsely furnished because the hotel had not quite officially opened for business. It contained an old schoolteacher's desk with an oak swivel chair, a salvaged fainting couch against wall, and two padded armchairs before the desk so that people conducting business would be comfortable. The mounted head of an eight-point buck, somewhat motheaten, was the sole wall decoration. A window, swagged with simple muslin drapery, looked out on the back alley, but night had fallen and the vista was dim. Robert parked his fiddle on the desk and set about lighting candles in four wall fixtures and one on the desk. Brother Jobe opened a ledger book, found a pen among many others in the desk's top drawer, and made as if to appear busy with figures. Just then, there was a knock on the door and he said, musically, “Come on in.”

The three sojourners entered. The first was a man about forty, sturdy and athletic with an open, freckled face that suggested he spent a lot of time outdoors doing rugged things. He wore old time expeditionary casuals of the kind that were sold in catalogs years before, in exceptionally vivid colors: a plaid shirt in motifs of turquoise and rose that did not denote any highland clan but rather had been made in China, a plum-colored polypropylene vest under a teal mountaineering jacket with many zippered pockets, and a pink baseball cap with an NPR logo on the crown. All his clothing was in strikingly fresh condition, as though the UPS driver had only just dropped off the order that week. The second figure was the Amazon who called herself Flame wearing spandex leggings, riding boots, several layers of shirts, two lint-colored sweaters that did not altogether conceal the contours of her body, and a turquoise silk scarf at her throat. She'd removed her woolly hat with the dangling earflaps, but her blond hair was askew and somewhat matted from wearing it. The third figure was the physical opposite of the others: a little less than average height, skinny, frail-looking, dressed in new-times woolens and a high-buttoned vest with round collar flaps peeking out the top that gave him the look of a schoolboy. He carried a kind of canvas bag on one shoulder. His dark hair hung in ringlets. He held a butternut-colored slouch hat with an odd conical crown and a stingy brim and rotated it in his hands as from nervous habit.

The hearty man in sporting togs strode to the desk and extended his hand forthrightly across it to Brother Jobe, with a smile that seemed calculated to appear self-possessed and modest. “Goodfriend,” he said earnestly.

“I hope and expect that will be the case,” Brother Jobe said, shaking hands.

“Call me Buddy,” the man said.

“All right, then,” Brother Jobe said with an amused tilt of his head. “You can be our buddy and we'll be your friend.”

“No, that's my name. Buddy Goodfriend.”

Brother Jobe just stared back a moment, then pointed at him and cackled.

“You're a double threat there, son,” he said.

“I'm no threat at all.”

“Well, we can't pick our parents, can we. And they're the ones that name us.”

“You are so right,” Buddy Goodfriend said, and looked at the others, who nodded in agreement. “You see, my given name was Sylvester.”

“That's a mouthful.”

“Exactly,” Buddy said.

“My given was Lyle, which I was never too fond of and gave up on, actually,” Brother Jobe said. He formally introduced himself and Robert and explained in a little more detail their relative responsibilities in town. “You must be the famous Flame,” he said to the strapping young woman. “I've heard about you.”

She nodded, saying nothing.

“Don't worry, I won't call you ‘ma'am.'”

The remark didn't elicit a smile. If anything, the corners of her mouth turned down slightly.

“This youngster is my nephew,” Buddy said. “Big sister's son. His name is Ainsley Perlew but I call him Sonny Boy. He assists me in this and that and, of course, he's learning. For him, being at my side is what college used to be for some.”

“I see what you mean,” Brother Jobe said. “Nothing beats hands-on training. Go ahead, set down, you-all.”

Buddy and Flame took the stuffed chairs and Sonny Boy settled primly on the settee against the wall, cloaked in a pool of dimness. He put his hat on so his eyes especially lay in shadow. Brother Jobe remained behind the desk and Robert leaned against the window sash. More pleasantries were exchanged about the fineness of the new hotel, the gaiety of the tavern opening, the welcome spring weather. Whiskey was offered. Buddy and Flame partook. Brother Jobe cleared his throat.

“My rangers tell me you-all formed your own country over in Massachusetts.”

“You are correct, sir,” Buddy said, theatrically. “The Berkshire People's Republic. We're doing what we must in the absence of greater authority. The Commonwealth of Massachusetts has ceased to operate, and of course the Federals have lost all influence in our region. Did your boys say what we are up to over here in New York?”

“Some kind of springtime jamboree, I think it was. But frankly I gather you are trying to enlarge your territory. To what purpose, I don't know.”

Buddy smiled as though to allay any distrust.

“We're trying to form regional governance that will mutually advantage all parties in this neighborhood of the late, lamented USA,” he explained.

“Yes, I heard that you parleyed with the Bennington folks.”

“All of southern Vermont will be joining our federation, it appears.”

“And what kind of mutual advantage are we talking about?” Robert asked.

“Security. Enhancements to trade. Fiscal benefits. Rule of law.”

“Well, that last one there is a selling point,” Brother Jobe said. “If I may say so, we are rather desperate to get the courts up and running again.”

“We can help with that.”

“And what are we obliged to do at our end?” Robert asked.

“We'd expect you would contribute to the general fund.”

“You mean, like, taxes?”

“I wouldn't call it that,” Buddy said, wrinkling his nose. “Subscription or endowment is more like it.”

“So how's that work?” Brother Jobe asked. “We collect money from folks here and send it to you over yonder in Massachusetts?”

“We could collect some while we're here?” Buddy said.

“Are you serious?” Robert said, sharing a skeptical glance with Brother Jobe.

“Let me give you an idea of how serious we are,” Buddy said. He withdrew a wad of colored papers from one of the pockets inside his coat and proceeded to deal them out like playing cards in two stacks on the desk.”

“Is that money?” Brother Jobe asked. He leaned forward and peered at the bills as Buddy continued to stack them.

“Go ahead. Look close and hard,” Buddy said.

Both Brother Jobe and Robert took bills off the top and held them up to the nearest candle in its wall fixture. They were scribed with red ink on paper that was not currency grade. The engraving quality was less than middling. A scrolled banner at the top said
Berkshire Peoples Republic
. At the center in an oval cartouche was a landscape depicting Mount Greylock, the highest peak in Massachusetts. The denomination was 50.

“You forgot the apostrophe in
People's
,” Robert said.

Buddy snatched a bill off the desk and looked.

“Darn, we'll have to correct that,” he said; then to Flame: “Didn't anyone proofread this?”

She shrugged.

“And what does the fifty stand for, exactly?” Robert said.

“Yeah, what do you call this paper?” Brother Jobe inquired.

“Dollars, of course,” Buddy said. “The people nicknamed them Berkie bucks, but they're our dollar?”

“What can you buy with them?” Robert asked.

“Why, anything?”

“What's the equivalent in silver?”

“We don't use silver.”

“How can you not?” Brother Jobe said. “Everybody else does now. Everything's priced in it.”

“We discourage traffic in barbaric metal relics,” Buddy said. “We refuse to go back to the Middle Ages.”

“Silver ain't of any age,” Brother Jobe said. “It's timeless.”

“It's very inconvenient,” Buddy said. “So heavy in the pocket.”

“All right then. If you don't trade in silver how are we supposed to pay taxes—excuse me, subscription, did you say?—in these pink coupons? We don't have any. I've never seen 'em around here.”

“That's the thing, exactly!” Buddy said, becoming highly animated, as if suddenly thrilled by a great challenge, say conquering an unclimbed mountain peak. “We're willing to exchange these dollars for your silver!”

“We don't even use the old federal greenbacks anymore,” Robert said. “And this stuff is like Monopoly money compared to that.”

Buddy smiled again, this time ruefully, and shook his head, as if he were dealing with simpletons.

“Is it possible that you folks here don't know how much times have changed?”

“We've got a pretty fair idea,” Robert said.

“We're up to speed,” Brother Jobe agreed.

“The USA is toast,” Buddy said, rather vehemently. “My country tis of thee . . .
phhhht
. . . It's done. Stick a fork in it. Sorry to be the bearer of bad news. We're on our own now. We have to reorganize a viable regional government or you can forget about the Middle Ages—we'll slide straight back into a dark age. And we have to do it now. Are you aware that other regions have reorganized into new political jurisdictions? The Foxfire Republic and New Africa?”

“Yes, we've heard—”

“And the remaining federal piece is just a little rump operation in some backwater on Lake Huron,” Buddy continued.

“Yes, we know about all this—”

“And they're at war with each other,” Buddy went on. “I've heard terrible things. Crucifixions of prisoners. Cannibalism. Imagine that! All kinds of atrocities. They may be coming up here next. Yes here, gentlemen. New England is still a valuable chunk of real estate. And there's talk that they covet it. They love making war, these peckerwoods. It's in their blood—no offense sir.” Buddy nodded to Brother Jobe, who indicated with a wave of his hand that none was taken. “Anyway, we've got to start organizing to defend ourselves. We're asking for your help and, in a way, we're telling you to help yourselves, unite with us for the sake of all. You can't just wait until the last minute, for instance, to raise an army. There are public works to consider. I'm sure you'd agree that the roads are in deplorable condition. We are going to fix the major routes between the regional centers. We have a program for founding local health clinics. Do you folks have a clinic here?”

“Dr. Copeland has an infirmary—”

“And what does that mean? A couple-few beds and one physician? We intend to do better than that. Now, I can see how you folks have pulled yourselves together. You've got good-looking, well-cared-for farms in this county. Your towns are coming back. Why just look at this grand new building we're in. I admire the heck out of it. I'm just asking you to look at the bigger picture here. And by the way, you could cover your subscription without exchanging for the Berkshire dollar.”

“That's big of you,” Brother Jobe said. “You mean just hand over our silver?”

“Well, for now,” Buddy said. “Give us a month to set up offices here and by summertime you'll be in the currency union with us and the Vermonters. By then your status will be settled as to full admission to the BPR following the formal application procedure, of course, and the nod from our legislative council.”

Brother Jobe poured himself three fingers of whiskey in his pony glass. He sipped meditatively, shifting his gaze between all three of the strangers. For an elongated moment nobody said a word.