Sometimes a Great Notion (105 page)

And yet, as I climbed down the ladder into the hallway, where Hank waited gnawing on a hangnail, I felt that I too was encumbered by a shadow as unnatural as it was unwieldy.

“Let’s go, bub,” he said impatiently. “I’ll pull on my boots downstairs.”

“A bit ago you were too sick to bend at the joints.”

“Yeah, well maybe a little of that nice fresh-washed air out yonder is what I been lackin’. Is that okay with you? You ready to make it?”

“Fine with me. I’ve got everything I came for . . .”

“That’s good,” he said and started down the stairs. I followed, thinking,
Unnatural, and unwieldy, and a hundred times heavier than any of the score of personal varieties that I have so often carried. Hank, my shame for you, believe it or not, is as great as that I hold for myself. Maybe greater. And, brother, that’s going some . . .

From the attic window through cobwebs, Viv watches as they walk to the boat and get in. The boat starts, noiseless at this distance, and begins to creep across the river like a little red water beetle. “I don’t know any more, Lee,
what
I want,” she says, like a small child. And becomes aware of her image once more, vaguely reflected in the dirty attic window: what does it mean, all this concern about our images?

It means this is the only way we ever see ourselves; looking out, at others, reflected through cobwebs from an attic window . . .

(I ferried the kid back across; we were pretty casual about it. I said I didn’t blame him for wanting to shake the Oregon mud off his shoes and go back to hit the books. He said he was sorry to take me away from my ball game. We were getting along all right; standing pat seemed the best way to handle things . . .)

“It’ll be nice to get back to some drier country . . . even if it is colder.”

“Sure. A fella gets tired of this friggin’ drizzle all the time.”

As the expanse of water lengthened between myself and the slim blond girl alone in the echoing wooden house, I began searching frantically for some last hope, some last unplayed trump that would win me this hand; I no longer cared about beating my brother, I cared about winning the game. And there is a difference . . .

“By the way, the doctor and Boney Stokes told me to ask how you were feeling . . .”

(I’d had some things to say to him, on this boat trip across, but what the hell, I figured, don’t go picking at scabs . . .)

“I’m probably gonna survive.”

“They’ll be happy to hear that.”

“I’ll bet they will.”

When the bow touched dock I was desperate to the point of bursting; I felt I must do something or die! In another minute I would be gone from her for good, and she from me . . . for
good!
So do
anything!
Kick, scream, throw a tantrum for her to see and so she’ll know that—

“Look who’s pulling up in the jeep. It’s Andy, big as life. Hey, Andy boy, how’s it hangin’?”

I barely noticed as Hank waved to Andy climbing from the jeep. I had seen something far bigger . . .

“What’s up, Andy, man? You look draggled.”

Something far better . . . across the river, at the top of the old house, in the little attic window, like a candle lifted as a signal to me, at last . . .

“Hank,” Andy approaches them, panting, “I just come from the mill. Somebody set it on fire last night.”

“The mill! Is it burned?”

“No, not real bad; rain kept it down pretty much so’s it hadn’t burnt more than the green chain an’ some stuff. I put it the rest of the way out . . .”

“But for chrissakes the
mill?
Why? How do you know somebody lit it?”

“ ’Cause there was this stuck to the glass on the front office.” Andy unfolds a smudged circular sticker and holds it to Hank. “This: a black cat, grinning . . .”

“The old Wobbly sign? Who in god’s green world . . . with a
Wobbly
sign?”

“It seems you have enemies, brother,” I said. He turned to look at me suspiciously, wondering if I’d had anything to do with the mill; it amused me a little, knowing that he was suspicious of my past when sabotage was already cooking in the future. “Still, it also seems you have some very devoted friends. For instance, Boney Stokes was most insistent that I pass on his regards.”

“That old spook,” he said and spat (besides, I figured, to myself, there’s no sense me and the kid getting into it), “someday I’m gonna trip that old bastard and bring him down like a stack of dominoes . . .”

“Oh, you
misjudge
him . . .” I glanced again across at the house. “Mr. Stokes is full of appreciation for you”—she was still framed in that dark square of window—“and determined to
prove
his good faith to you.”

“Stokes? How’s that?” He looked at me, puzzled. (I figured, There’s no sense in saying any more when everything we could say we both already knew . . .)

“Well, he asked me to advise you—”
She’s still watching. Still at the window. He doesn’t know!
“—advise you that, due to another change in his delivery route . . . he will be coming up the river this far and is willing to give you the benefit of his services once more.” “Yeah? Stokes? Is that right, now?” (I figured, There’s no sense doing anything when everything’s already been done . . .) “Yes, that is right; and he furthermore asked me to say that he was
indeed
sorry—wait; what was it?”
Go ahead! It’s the only way. You know that it is!
“. . . sorry for any inconvenience he might have caused you during your, let’s see,
weak
ened condition, Mr. Stokes put it, I think. Is that right? Have you had a weakened condition, Brother Hank?” “You might say so, yeah . . .” (I had figured, I’ll just go on and drop the kid off in town and leave things where they are, just stand pat . . .) “Also, the good
doctor
told me to tell you that he was buying you a turkey—” “A turkey?” “Yes, a turkey,” I went blithely on, acting as though I were completely unmindful of the line of anger tightening about Hank’s lips like a bowstring—
Go on! you have to go on it’s the only way!
—as though I were completely unaware of the disbelief and shock in Andy’s eyes. “Yes, the good doctor said that he was paying for you a nice big gobbler for Thankgiving, compliments of the hospital.” “A turkey? Wait a minute . . .” “A
free
turkey, brother; it almost seems that you should get in a sick and weakened condition more often, doesn’t it?” “Wait a minute; what’s this all about, goddammit?” (I had figured, Yeah, there’s no reason dragging up the ashes, he’s finished with what he set out to do and there’s nothing I can do back, so what the hell . . . let it stand pat.) “And then Mr. Stokes said—let me recall—that ‘Thanksgiving dinner without the traditional gobbler just ain’t Thanksgiving,’ and that he considered the doctor a true Christian in Heart and Deed for helping you in your time of need.” “My time of need, he said that?” “That’s what he said. Boney Stokes. The good doctor said something different.” “What did the good doctor say?” “He said Hank Stamper
deserves
a free turkey for all he’s done for us.” “Doctor Layton said that? Goddam you, Lee, if you’re—” “That’s what he said.” “But I didn’t do anything to deserve—” “Now, now, brother . . . in a moment you’ll be saying you didn’t deserve to have your mill burned.” “Didn’t really burn, I tol’ you, Leland, I got to it—” “Okay, Andy . . .” “—they jus’
tried
to burn it, but the rain—” “Okay, Andy.” (Yeah, that’s what I had figured . . . that it was all done and over. But the kid had a different notion.) “Yes, you have a lot of friends, Hank.” “Yeah.” “A lot of people
interested.
” “Yeah. Wait; let’s see if I get it right; Boney Stokes . . . is coming
here
to push a turkey off on
me?
” “I don’t think Mr. Stokes is looking on this as a business transaction. Or the doctor either. I think it is more a consideration, don’t you, Andy?—a show of gratitude for Hank’s cooperation.” “My
cooperation?
” “Yes, about the contract and all . . .” “What in the hell do they think I want with charity or gratitude . . . or a goddam turkey
either
for that matter?” “Oh, and there are other incidentals, too . . . that the citizens are going to donate. I think a whole basket. Mr. Stokes mentioned yams, cranberry preserves, mincemeat—” “Hold it.” “—pumpkin pie, dressing—” “Hold it now,” I said—

“—for just one goddam minute . . .” Hank stood up in the boat, his hand held slightly before him as if to hold off an attack of air. “Now just you tell me, bub: what are you driving at? just let’s have it straight, once.” (Yeah, I had figured everything had been done . . .) “I mean I didn’t order any goddamn mincemeat or yams. Are you shitting me? Or
what
the hell
are
you driving at!” “You must not understand, Hank; I know you didn’t order. Mr. Stokes isn’t selling this to you . . . he’s
giving
you the groceries. Or donating might be the better word. He said that anything else you might need, just hang out the flag for it. Simply hang up the flag. Can you handle that? In your weakened condition?” “Hold it . . .” (But I was wrong. He was still pushing. There was something left after all.) “Say, Hank—” “Hold it, bub . . .”
Don’t stop now; you can’t stop now.
“How
is
your condition, by the way?” “Hold it, bub, don’t push it too far . . .” (He don’t even act like he knows what I’m signifying; can he be that dense?) “Push what, Hank?” “Just don’t is all.” “How far is too far, Hank?” “Okay, bub—”

He stopped speaking and looked at me. I stood up; the boat, only tied at the stern, rocked and bucked beneath us. Andy looked back and forth from each of us. Hank stepped over the center seat. This was it; here comes the bomb. We stood facing each other with the boat bobbing and the rain bristling between us, and I waited . . .

(He just stands there grinning at me. I feel that old mounting howl swirl in my stomach and arms, tightening my fists . . . and he just
stands there
grinning . . . what’s with him? What’s he got going
now
for the chrissakes?)

And, waiting, I noticed for the first time that Hank was a good two inches shorter than myself. The revelation in no way excited me. How interesting, I kept thinking, as I waited for the bomb to drop; how peculiar. “You were going to tell me, Hank,” I asked again; “that one has to push . . .” He started to clench his jaw. “Maybe instead I oughta just come right out an’—”

“Over there!” Andy shouts and points. From across the river comes a moist, cracking explosion, like wet lightning followed by a rumbling of heavy earth. The three figures start, turning to the crash in time to see a great section of the bank pitch out from the foundation and slide crashing onto the boathouse. For a second the earth floats on the little structure, then the boathouse rolls over, the way an ice cube rolls with sugar piled on it. (I stopped, watching the bank bright and dry and deep as a shell crater, ragged at the edges with shredded two-by-fours and frayed rope and snapped cables. It gapes this way a moment, from the bank below the barn. Then the earth, heavy with water, drops to fill the hole, carrying part of the barn down with it. Dust muddies the rain. Animal hides and gunny sacks swirl away, gathering foam. Broken red planks thrust floating upright for a moment, then flatten out to float away. Some of them veer into the foundation around the house, actually shoring it up against the current as though the barn has sacrificed itself for the house. The cow lumbers bellowing from the ruin, up toward the orchard. Another small slide heaves down about the half-submerged barn, clattering and scraping; then it is still.

None of the three have moved during the half-minute. Now Lee steps out of the boat up onto the dock with Andy, and Hank follows. (I stopped then, with my mouth hung open. It wasn’t the cave-in that really made me spin my wheels. The cave-in just distracted me for a second; it was something else, something I seen at the house that really pulled me up short. And the kid seen it, too, way before I did . . .) On the dock, I saw that Hank had noticed my concerned glance at the attic window . . . (Viv was up there, up there still in the attic! And the kid’s known all along she was watching.
That’s
why he was pushing . . .) “You knew, didn’t you?” Hank turned toward me with a slow, restricted control that made me think of the Tin Woodman of Oz straining against the rust in his joints. “You knew she’d see if I fisted you . . . ain’t that right?”

“That’s right,” I told him, watching him closely and for some reason still waiting; because, though he was onto my reasons and my plan, he still didn’t sound like he’d dismissed earlier intentions. “Now everybody knows,” I said and waited . . .

(Then it all come over me; I mean for the first time
really come over me,
just how nigger slick he’s got it all balanced out. He’s got it near perfect. He’s built it like the hanging nooses we useta build as kids, that can’t get any way but tighter; he’s built it to where I can’t advance any direction but what I’m bound to lose ground. He’s arranged it so’s I’m stuck in a place where it’s damned if I do and damned if I don’t, whipped if I fight and whipped if I don’t . . . That’s how nice he’s got it balanced.)

. . . waited, watching him weigh the situation carefully. Andy rocked from boot to boot in mute confusion, like a big perplexed bear, while I waited and Hank thought it over . . .

(And seeing that, I think to myself, bub, right here is where your genius outfoxes you; because you’ve got it arranged better than you know. “Bub, we’ve tore up too much of each other to stop now.” Because you got it worked out so well that it doesn’t matter to me any more that she’s watching. “We’ve messed in the nest now, bub, messed in it good,” I tell him. Because he’d got the balance heavier on one side than he knew, the noose tighter than he realized. “Because there’s too much salt, bub, rubbed in, to stop now just because she’s—”)

I started to ask Hank what he meant when an abrupt, almost involuntary twist of his neck stopped me. His chin was being tugged to the right, toward the house. He would pause, look at Andy, at me, then the neck would twist again, further right . . . then back at me, at that black-cat sticker Andy held, then right again as though he were being jerked by an invisible rein leading across the river up to that attic window. The rein pulled taut. He faced the house for a moment, looking at that slim glow in the dark window, then the rein snapped in two and his head swung back, facing me . . .