by David Rhodes
John looked at her silhouetted against the leaping colors, then at the colors themselves, and began to daydream. The daydream tapered back to the fire and he found himself looking at Sarah again. He went back to daydreaming but returned again to the seat of the denim pants; and when she gave a little jump back from the heat, her face glowing red, the air full of her smell, he felt his desire rise. Unsuspecting, she came back to the tree, stretched and sat down. He put his arm around her, and she moved closer, still unknowing. He sat with his desire for a few minutes to see if it would stand the test of time, then unbuttoned her pants. “Oh, John!” she said. “Not here.”
“Why not?”
Sarah’s senses (already inflamed by fear and embarrassment) nearly exploded, like a barrel of fish dumped into a river, when she felt her pants being drawn off and her bare skin exposed to the open air. She began to loosen John’s buckle and pull his shirt down his arms. In his search for something to put under her buttocks, to protect her from the hard ground and to get her a little way up in the air, he found the blanket. “Oh, John,” she cried. “Love me. Love me,” closed her eyes on tentacled Hercules, and let her passion carry her to the other side of the doors of death, primeval darkness, and back again. Afterward, sweat rolling from where their bodies had touched, they dressed and made coffee, boiling water in a tin pail. They sweetened it and poured in cream from the little canister. Contented, and at the table, they sipped it.
I knew we’d want the cream, thought Sarah.
In 1941 there was a war. John was troubled, though he did not talk about it. The next year, in February, he told Sarah that he was going to enlist. It was supposed that he wouldn’t be accepted because of his age; but he was gone within weeks. He was a faithful letter writer, though the neighbors were disappointed because the letters contained no war news. That year he came home for Christmas and stayed twenty days, then was home again a year later for a shorter visit.
The idea of Sarah Montgomery being alone was at first thought to be an imminent danger. It was even suggested to Della that she should insist her daughter-in-law move in with her and Wilson in the country. Della was excited at the idea, and asked her right away. Sarah declined, and would accept no sympathy, denying as she did that there was even the slightest gloom in her life, and maintaining that she was perfectly safe—or as perfectly safe as anyone else. Remington Hodge’s father said: “I used to think at night sometimes, walking out to the barn maybe, or listening to the radio—of the image of that woman alone in her own house, sitting and reading, sewing, cooking for herself. I’d think about that and wonder, picturing myself there, see, standing knocking at the door, her opening it and . . . then I would force my thoughts away from it.” On September 18, 1943, Sarah gave birth to a boy, July Montgomery.
The adult congregation of the Sharon Center Baptist Church was spread out on the front lawn and steps. Wilson stood with some men on the landing before the opened door and their voices rang with short, tenorous bursts of laughter. They were dressed in suits and sports jackets, white shirts and ties, and their manner of talking seemed to be influenced gently by wearing them, as though they were children in front of a great dollhouse, pretending to be grownup. Many of their faces were nut brown from working exposed to the summer sun. Sarah was virtually surrounded by the other women on the grass, protecting her, it appeared, from the unwanted looks of the men. They talked about gardens. The lawn sloped away from them toward a pair of soft maples and an overhead wind rattled and turned the silver underside of their leaves so that the foliage of the two shimmered in the late morning light. Their trunks, despite great breadth, looked as though they had at one time partially melted and the flat pieces of bark undulated over them in waves. Underneath these giants, in the cool shade, sat the children on thick little wooden chairs, the seats of which were no more than a foot off the ground and on the backs were decals of red bears, giraffes and smiling rabbits. They all sat in a cluster facing a slightly larger but by no means full-size chair, on which Della Montgomery perched like a gold-finch with a Bible opened in her lap. Their eyes were glued to her as though she and not what she was teaching them was a marvel of unexpected creation, and perhaps in their inchoate minds they half suspected that in an exuberant expression she would fly away in a flash of color, huge blue-and-white wings sprout from her polka-dotted dress and disappear behind a cloud.
July Montgomery sat in the very front, wearing his new pair of cowboy boots and a shirt with snaps instead of buttons. He was three and his dark eyes burned in intense concentration, growing slowly into a frown of bitter hatred, his small hands knotted together in fists. Della, interrupting her story, asked a question:
“And do you know what happened then?”
July answered as though there were no one else there, only he and his grandmother, as though the question were only for him. “They hung a sign up,” he said darkly.
“And what did it say?”
“It said, ‘Here’s the king of Jews.’ ”
“Then what happened?”
“He died—because no water and they pushed a spear in Him.” July could hardly talk now, and began to stutter when he tried to go on.
Della continued. “That’s right, the soldiers killed Jesus with a spear and they took Him down from the cross and put Him in a tomb like a cave, and in front of the cave they rolled a great big rock that took all the soldiers to push, and they left Jesus there. Then three days passed.”
Tears were forming in July’s eyes, but his frown had eased. His fists uncurled. She continued:
“Three days passed while His friends felt so sad that He was gone, but Jesus had made them a promise. Do you remember the promise?”
“Yes!” shouted July, jumping from his chair. “He rolled the rock away!”
The eyes of the adults turned toward him from the church.
“No, July, that wasn’t the promise. What was the promise?” she asked gently.
“He rolled the rock away!” hollered July again, his face now filled with uncontainable joy and good feeling. Della tried once more to settle him down and get him to remember the promise, but the image was so rooted in his mind that he was unable to let go of it and once more shouted that the stone had been rolled away, the angels of the Lord had pushed it aside and Jesus wasn’t dead after all. The fact that He had promised anything didn’t interest July, and he was so emotionally wrought up that he wouldn’t stay in his chair and went running around pushing the other children and generally starting a fracas. Sarah came over and admonished him, but because it was so near time for Sunday School to be over, Della dismissed them and they exploded in all directions. The circle of women fanned out to keep them in view.
December 1946
Wilson’s only dog, Cindy, was as broken and old as himself. They walked outside together in carefully measured steps, never going much farther than the barn and outer sheds, leaving paths in the snow. Wilson would think to himself, I can remember when she was young. She could run like the wind. What a dog she was! There’re no dogs any more like she was. He thought of her as an old warrior who had fought many of his battles for him. It was Della’s secret, terrible wish, hidden by seven seals of silence, that Cindy would not pass from the living world until after her husband had quit it. She did not want to watch that kind of pain kill him. She didn’t want to see his worn-out heart hurt him again.
One day Wilson began to notice that he was feeling stronger. His arthritis began to slip away. He felt good enough to do some snow-clearing from the steps and sidewalk. He got the shovel and went outside. Della came out immediately and took it away from him and locked it up in the kitchen closet, despite his protests. OK, he thought after lunch, I will go for a walk this afternoon. He dressed warmly and walked farther than the sheds, out among the trees, close down to the bottom of the hill. Cindy, he noticed, seemed to be getting younger. She was running in the snow. I could walk on further, he thought. But I’ll go back, because Della would worry.
He we
nt back and said nothing. That night he had to tell Cindy several times to stop chewing up the furniture, but quietly so his wife wouldn’t find out and blow up. Later Della took the flashlight away from him just as he was about to go out and hunt coon in the valley.
The next day he had the same walk. Cindy was running like a two-year-old and barking. He felt as if he could run himself. There was no pain in his chest. He felt strong. The crisp air was invigorating. Then Cindy let out a growl and the hairs covering her nervous spine stood on end. Wilson looked out into the timber and saw a wolf coming toward them. Cindy stepped forward to attack, but the wolf stopped running and began wagging its tail. No, thought Wilson. “Josh? Is that you, Josh?” The tail went furiously, whining and barking, but he stayed back. “Cindy,” Wilson said, putting his hand on the old dog’s back, “take it easy. It’s Josh. It’s only Josh. Come on, Josh.” The wolfish dog came and Cindy smelled him and was soon friendly. He jumped up on Wilson, then ran off with Cindy, both playing like puppies. Wilson was so happy he could hardly contain himself, but, not wanting Della to worry, he went back up the hill.
Between the barn and the house he began to think: Now there’s going to be a problem with Della. She won’t easily accept another dog after I promised no more than one. But she humors me. Always has. I can remember when I brought home those mules. Boy, was that something! Two black mules with . . . His mind wandered, and he forgot about Josh, and went inside with both of them, kicked his boots off on the porch and let them into the house. They ran into the living room, growling and snapping at each other, knocking into furniture. Oh no, he thought, I should’ve left him outside. But it was too late and he waited in the kitchen for Della to begin yelling. After he had listened what seemed to him a long time to the ruckus and the curtains being pulled down from the windows, Della came out. “Take off those wet pants,” she said, and went upstairs. He crossed the kitchen and looked into the living room, expecting it to look as if a drunken army had spent the night. But it was all right. Quickly he got hold of Josh and took him out onto the back porch. He could hear the sewing machine running upstairs. She must be getting very slow, he thought. He had everything under control before she came down.
“I thought I told you to get out of those pants,” she said. “Put on your coveralls.”
That evening Wilson listened to a talk show on the radio and ground coffee. He managed to smuggle Josh into the basement where it was warmer and set water and food down for him. Just before going to bed he let Cindy down for company. Sleep came quickly and he yielded up to it.
In the middle of the night, Wilson heard them both barking and howling and carrying on to no end. The ticking clock said it was 2:30. Della remained asleep next to the window. He got out of bed and went downstairs. Burglars, he thought. There must be burglars. He took the flashlight from off the top of the refrigerator and let both dogs upstairs. Immediately they squared off against the back door. Wilson went over and listened. “Keep quiet,” he said to Cindy and Josh. “I can’t hear anything with you carrying on so.” They were quiet and he could hear scraping noises against the wood. Very strange, he thought, and opened the door. On the porch was a large yellow-and-black dog. “Hey, you,” he said, “you get away from here now, you—” Then he saw the torn ear and scarred left side. The dog was lying down, trying to crawl into the warmth of the kitchen. “Duke,” he said. “Duke! My God, get in here, you look like you’ve been buried in a snow-bank. Get back there, Cindy, Josh; let Duke get in here.” Josh was jumping on him and knocked him back against the table. Upstairs he heard Della’s relentless footsteps coming down the hallway, heading for the stairs. “Quick now,” he whispered. “All of you in the basement. Get going now. Get! There’s food and water down there. Get.”
He had them down and the door shut in time. The upstairs door opened and Della came into the kitchen. “What are you doing?” she asked.
“I thought I heard something. I got up to check.”
“Did you find anything?”
“No,” he said. “No, just the usual.”
“Well, come back to bed. Your feet will freeze.”
They went up together.
In the morning Wilson could remember hardly anything about the day before. Something unusual . . . yes, something unusual. Now, what was it? Halfway through his poached egg he remembered it and could hardly wait until Della took the car into town to pick up Sarah and go to the grocery store.
Then he let them up and took them out to run rabbits. They went off into the trees and down the hill. Wilson followed them. When he came up he had Jumbo with him too, running and jumping in the prime of her age. What fine dogs, he thought, looking at them. What fine dogs. Look at Cindy run! He felt very strong and even ran several steps uphill.
Two nights later, lying awake in his bed, watching the stars out the window, he had all of his fourteen dogs safely locked in the basement. New-fallen snow covered everything. He felt too good, he decided, to go right off to sleep, so he just lay and watched the stars, saying little prayers for the well-being of his wife, his children, some neighbors, and daydreaming.
“Wilson.”
It’s my imagination, he thought. Everyone knows I’m asleep now. Then he heard it again, more clearly.
I should know that voice, he thought, got up, put on his pants and shoes and went downstairs. In the kitchen it was deathly silent, only the faraway tick of the clock above. He went over to the cellar door and opened it. More silence welled up and around him—but no sounds of any kind from below. He went back to the table and sat down, then got up and recrossed to the door. “Hey,” he said softly. “You all still down there?”
Nothing. He had a feeling that strange things were astir.
“Cindy, Spark, Jumbo, hey,” he began a little louder, though hardly above a whisper. “Get up here, you dogs.” Without his hearing a sound, as though they had materialized out of the darkness, all at once they were at the foot of the steps, ascending and clamoring. “Good,” he whispered, “but don’t be so noisy.” The kitchen filled with them. They’re being pretty quiet, he thought, considering how they could be. He let them outside.
If there’s something out there, some burglars, he thought, they’ll wish they weren’t. At the kitchen door he watched them leave the porch and hit the snow without a sound and flash off into the dark of the barn and yard trees, as quickly and quietly as a cloud’s shadow. No barking. Strange, thought Wilson, but then no one ever knows exactly why dogs do anything. Then he heard his name again: “Wilson.”
“Who said that?” he said and switched on the outside light, holding the door ajar. He saw his dogs running silently at the edge of the light, moving slowly toward him, running in a large circle, dipping to and fro out of the darkness. Then two gray figures stepped into the light. Both of them wore hats and their faces were dark and without definition. They carried what looked like long, thin reeds bending at the tops, with winking spots of silver. They came up to the door and stopped. There was no light in the house. “Wilson,” one said.
“Step up closer,” he answered. “I can’t see you clearly. I know that voice. Step closer, I can’t see you.” He went through the door onto the porch. They came up the steps and just inside.
“Step closer,” said Wilson. “There, now I can see you. Dave . . . Sam . . . What are you doing here?”
“We thought you might want to go fishing,” said Sam.
“We came to see,” said Dave.
“The river’s frozen over,” said Wilson.
“We’ve got a hole chopped in the ice. Sam made it, clear down to the water.”
“Why are you whispering?” said Wilson. “It’s too cold out there.”
“It’s not so cold,” said Sam.
“ You’re right, it’s not too cold,” said Wilson almost to himself, looking down at his pajama tops and bare ankles, not feeling the slightest discomfort.
“They’ll be biting tonight,” said Sam. “The big ones.” The dogs were sitting
silently outside. Frequently one would jump up and dance around in anticipation of going for a walk, but noiseless in the snow.
“I can’t go, really,” said Wilson. “I don’t have my poles any more. Della locked them up.”
“We brought one for you,” said Dave, and held it out to him, the light from outside glistening off the silver eyes.
He looked at it. “It’s sure a nice one,” he said. “Feels like you could really bring them in with this one . . . I don’t know, though. I better not. Della would worry.”
“No she won’t,” said Sam. “She’ll be asleep.”
“No . . . I better tell her. I’ll be right back.”
“No, Wilson. Come on, let’s go. She’d never let you.” They stepped off the porch.
“Wait,” said Wilson.
“No, come on,” said Dave, his voice almost inaudible.
“OK, I’m coming,” called Wilson, and followed them outside. The three walked down below the barn into the trees, Wilson’s dogs running around them. “You know, I think you’re right, Sam,” he said, shaking his rod and looking at it. “I think they’ll be biting—I’ve just got that feeling.”