World Made by Hand (7 page)

We rushed out of the store and down to the gate area, Shawn lay crumpled facedown with his right arm twisted unnaturally behind his head and bright arterial blood spilling out of him, actually raising tiny spumes of dust as it ran downhill, like fingers clawing the ground. The dog lay a few feet away with his head facing uphill. One of his eyes was shot out and he was motionless, with blood puddling around the margins of his deep fur.

"Oh, what the hell now, Bunny!" Wayne said as we arrived on the scene. He repeated himself several times with increasing anger until he was shouting at the much larger man, who seemed to draw inward trying to make himself look smaller.

I was so overcome with fright that I started hyperventilating. I kneeled down just uphill of Shawn's head. The truth was I could barely remain upright and had to kneel to keep from passing out. I tried to straighten Shawn's arm out, as if that would help. I soon understood that both Shawn and the dog were dead.

"You shit-for-brains!" Wayne said and smacked Bunny in the head. "What the hell happened here?" A revolver still dangled from Bunny's right hand.

"He fell asleep," Bunny said, "and his dog come up on me."

"Asleep! Who goes to sleep in the middle of the road!" Wayne shouted and smacked Bunny again.

"No, down by that tree," Bunny said.

By now, the other men working back in the dump had ventured down to the front of the general and gathered around us in a semicircle.

"If he was sleeping down there, how in hell did you happen to shoot him up here?" Wayne said.

"I shot the damn dog and then he woke up and he come up on me.

"What'd you shoot the got-damn dog for?"

"He got the rabies. Lookit how he's frothing at the damn mouth!"

"He just needed some water is all," I said.

"What the got-damn hell you know what the dog needed or didn't need, got-dammit," Wayne said and then turned wrathfully back to Bunny. "Gimme that got-damn gun!" He wrenched it right out of Bunny's huge fingers and then brandished it at him. "You're lucky I don't put a bullet in your got-damn brainpan, you stupid sonofabitch. And I'll tell you something else: this is the last time you'll ever draw shack duty."

The other men mumbled among themselves.

"Shut up," Wayne said to them. "That your cart up by the office?" he said to me.

"It was his," I said.

"Go get that cart," Wayne said to one of the other men.

He hopped to and trundled the cart down in short order.

"Load him in there," Wayne said.

Several of the men picked up Shawn's body and put him in the cart faceup, but with his arms dangling. One of them got blood all over his hands and tried to rub it off on Shawn's shirt. You could see part of Shawn's jaw was shot off.

"Fix him right, damn you," Wayne said, and the men got Shawn's arms tucked inside.

"Why are you putting him in that?" I asked.

"Because you're going to take him back."

"What about that team and wagon up there?"

"It's staying put."

Wayne and the rest of the men stared blankly at me. Flies began landing on Shawn's wounds. My clothes were soaking wet. I was trembling as though it were a winter day, while sweat dripped off the end of my nose.

"I guess you plan to pretend this didn't happen here?" I said.

"I'm truly sorry. It's mostly a downgrade to town from here," Wayne said. "You'll get there by and by."

"You expect me to say anything other than what really happened?"

"I don't expect nothing. You say what you will. It'll be word against word."

"It was a accident," Bunny said.

"Did I ax you?" Wayne shouted. "Here," he said, suddenly turning to me with an air of disgusted resignation and held out the big pistol, as if for me to take it. "You do us all a favor and shoot this stupid sonofabitch."

"Look..."

"He was your friend, wasn't he? You got any doubt who done it?"

"For Pete's sake, Wayne . . ." Bunny said.

"I'll just ... leave," I said.

"We'll all swear it was self-defense," Wayne said. "Won't we boys?"

A few of them mumbled something, but they didn't seem all that enthusiastic.

"Go on, take it," Wayne said. "Take the got-damn pistola, amigo.

"Forget it."

"You pass up this chance for justice, it might not come again."

"I'm not an executioner."

"Well, you take this iron anyways." Wayne grabbed my hand and literally pressed the pistol into it.

I tossed it back down in the dirt.

"I don't think you understand," Wayne said. He picked it up and jammed it into the waist of my pants. "This piece ain't staying round here. Let's not argue. Wally, go up to the store and get me a length of stout rope." Wally jogged briskly away. "We're going to fix this cart so you can tow on it."

"People back in town are going to want to know what happened here," I said.

"I know they are. You go with it, Fiddler. Tell your story, whatever you think you understand about this unfortunate accident. Give them the weapon if you feel like it. Whatever you need to do. We'll do what we need to do." He came closer and pushed me a few yards away so the others were out of earshot. "Lookit, we both know who done this. It was a reckless act of stupidity, and I will tell you so straight up this one time only. But it's done and nothing I can do will bring this young man back to life. This will all come out in the wash, I promise you. But don't expect too much from the law. The truth is, we're our own law in these times, like it or not. Apart from all that, I'm personally sorry this has happened, and I wish you luck in dealing with it. Who was he anyway? I know I seen him."

"He was a hand on Mr. Schmidt's farm. Shawn Watling."

"Watling? I once bought a double lot from that Wading agency."

"That was his parents. They're dead."

"Well God bless us the living, anyway."

Wally returned with a length of rope and was rigging it to the harness so I could pull it more easily. Then there was nothing to do but leave with Shawn's body. It was a substantial load. As I pulled the cart away from the general, all I could think about was whether they would eat the dog.

The day had turned deathly hot with no breeze. On the first steep downgrade, I had to turn the cart around to keep it from running away on me, only to confront Shawn's face with the flies darting at the terrible wound. When we got to a flatter stretch, I stopped the cart and put my shirt over his head so I wouldn't have to look at him. The rest of the way I endlessly replayed what might have occurred between Shawn and Bunny Willman, trying to imagine the part that I hadn't seen. It occurred to me that I had put Shawn in a bad mood earlier, which perhaps had made him say or do something reckless ...

I brooded over what I would do with the gun. There were still plenty of guns around, but manufactured ammunition was nearly impossible to get, and Wayne was the sole supplier anywhere near our town. Three rounds remained in the cylinder. I looked. I decided to hide it along the road, somewhere I could find it in the future if I had to. I wasn't going to bring it into town with me because, for all I knew, people might draw the wrong conclusion. There could be some kind of legal proceeding, I thought, an inquest, a grand jury, some effort to pretend that we were still civilized because a human life still mattered. There hadn't been an incident like this in our town-the killing of one person by another under any circumstances -as long as I could remember. Even back in his heyday running the dope trade, Wayne hadn't killed anybody, though his boys had roughed people up and lighted some fires. Perhaps Wayne could influence the outcome of a proceeding, maybe even shift the blame to me. Stephen Bullock, the wealthiest farmer in our area, and a friend of mine, was the magistrate, but nobody knew what to expect of him because he'd declined the honor of serving.

I parked the cart, with Shawn in it, among the daylilies along the road at the Black Creek Bridge where we'd met up earlier that day, and climbed down under the bridge and tucked the gun up along one of the old steel girders underneath where the swallows made their nests. It was dim under there even with the sun blazing like an ingot in the sky. I doubted anybody would find it.

The Schmidt farm lay more than a mile up the junction there, uphill the whole way, and I didn't want to leave Shawn in the cart, drawing flies in the lilies while I went up for help, so I decided to get him the rest of the way to town myself. I couldn't imagine just bringing the body directly to his house and presenting it to his wife and child. Freer's funeral home was long shuttered because both Freer brothers were carried off by encephalitis and nobody took up their business, so I couldn't bring Shawn there. Besides, there was no refrigeration in their morgue with the electricity off. In recent years, most of our funerals took place in the church. There hadn't been a police department for years and Heath Rucker, the constable, didn't have an office and was a useless drunk on top of that. I decided to take Shawn's body directly to Dr. Copeland's house, since he might be called upon to act as a medical examiner in any legal proceeding.

As I passed by the old high school, nobody was left out in the garden in the midday heat, nor was the roofing crew still at work. I assumed they were inside at lunch, or prayer, or just preserving their energy for the cooler hours of the day. The streets of town were deserted too, though I heard the sound of hammer blows from Doug Sweetland's wheel shop and saw Linda Allison hanging wash in her yard. The smell of something sweet emanated from Russo's bakery. It nauseated me in the heat. Finally, I hauled the cart up behind what had once been the driveway to Dr. Copeland's office, formerly a carriage house and garage. I left Shawn beside the yew hedge there and went in to find the doctor.

He had no patients in his waiting room. I called out and his voice said come into the back. He had a lab behind his examining room. He was in there pouring off a jug of grain alcohol into an odd lot of smaller bottles and jars. He had become an adept herbalist through the years. He had to make his own antiseptic, like everything else. The room was heavy with fumes.

"Heat getting you, Robert?" he said without looking at me.

"There's been a terrible accident, Jerry."

He looked up, peering over the rim of his eyeglasses while he managed to finish filling an old soda pop bottle without spilling a drop.

"What sort of accident?"

"Shawn Watling got shot up at the general supply."

"That doesn't sound like an accident."

"I've got him in a cart outside."

Jerry, lean and lithe at thirty-nine, slipped past me and I followed. He knelt beside the cart. He had the shirt off Shawn's face and was studying him, feeling for a pulse on his neck, though anyone could see that he was beyond saving. Pretty soon, Jerry began cursing, saying "goddammit, goddammit" over and over in a harsh whisper. Sweat dripped off the end of his nose onto Shawn's chest. "You didn't say he was dead."

"I'm sorry."

"Goddammit ... How did this happen?"

I told him everything I had seen up at the general, but I seemed to be blabbering. The simple truth was, I didn't know.

"Goddammit!"

Out of nowhere, the doctor's older son, Jasper, ten, appeared. I heard him gasp as he saw Shawn's body.

"Go to the rectory and get Reverend Holder," Jerry said. "And don't talk to another soul on your way over or back about what you saw here, understand?"

Jasper nodded but remained fixed in his footsteps like a statue.

"Go on!" Jerry said and the boy finally obeyed him. "Robert, help me move the body into the springhouse."

The springhouse was spacious inside and carefully built. I know because I had helped build it a few years earlier. This was how people kept perishable things cool in the days before mechanical refrigeration, and this was how we did it now-if you happened to be lucky enough to have a spring on your property. The fieldstone structure was bermed into the hill behind Jerry's house. The Copelands had about a half acre of fruit trees above it. At the time we built it, there had been many deaths in town, and I understood that he had designed it to receive human bodies awaiting burial as well as for everyday things.

It must have been thirty degrees cooler inside. Meager light seeped through a small triple-pane transom window above the door. I remember fitting it into the fieldstones there, scribing the wooden sashes. Now, the light filtered through an additional layer of cobwebs. A long wooden slab table stood inside with trugs and wooden bowels of the year's first peas and radishes, along with shelves of preserved fruit, straw-filled bins where they kept onions and squashes, and hams hanging from the ceiling with their protective coats of mold. Even under the circumstances, you couldn't fail to notice that the Copeland's food supply was impressive. As the town's only doctor, he received a bounty in barter for his services.

"Let's get him onto the table," Jerry said. Shawn weighed well over two hundred pounds. The two of us struggled to lift him out of the dog cart. Jerry bent to examine the ugly wound that had left half the jaw hanging by a few tendons. The shot had also severed the carotid artery, he said. Then, still cursing under his breath, he pulled a bottle out from behind a five-gallon stoneware crock, took a pull on it, and passed it to me. It was a very fine pear brandy, and very powerful. We didn't have to make any lame excuses about why we needed it. Between the brandy and the cool air, the situation began to clarify. Loren found us in the springhouse easily enough. Jerry told his boy to stay outside.

"Oh hell," Loren said when his eyes adjusted and he saw Shawn laid out on the table. He let out a sound like a gulp or a sob. Jerry passed him the bottle too. Loren had baptized Shawn's child.

"God help that son of a bitch if he ever comes to me for help," Jerry said, and I assumed he meant Wayne.

I repeated to Loren what happened at the general supply, and he said we three should all go together to Shawn's house and tell his wife, and Loren said he would see that everybody in town was notified so we could have a funeral tomorrow. I realized that I would be up all night making the coffin.