The Lost Country

by William Gay

  He felt eyes upon him and looked up. The man two stools down the bar was watching him. He was a heavyset man in overalls whose tiny piglike eyes studied Edgewater in drunken fixation. He seemed to be trying to remember where he’d seen Edgewater or perhaps someone like him. He made some gesture near indecipherable to the barkeep and the barkeep brought up from the cooler a dripping brown bottle and opened it and set it before the man then refilled his shotglass with something akin to ceremony. There was a drunken, belligerent look to him. Seedy, dissolute, as if he had tried respectability and had not cared for it.

  What are you lookin at? the man asked Edgewater.

  Nothing, Edgewater said. He looked away, into the mirror behind the aligned green bottles. His reflection dark and thin and twisted in the wonky glass.

  He took up three of the dollar bills and slid them across the bar. Let me have some change for the telephone, he said.

  Was you in the war? the man downbar asked him.

  Edgewater thought of the concussion of the shotgun, the drifting shreds of willow leaves. Not in one of the official ones, he said.

  Change rattled on the bar.

  What the hell’s that supposed to mean?

  Edgewater raked the change and cupping it in a palm went past a silent jukebox to the rear wall where a telephone hung. He stood watching it for a time as if puzzled by its function or manner of operation, the fisted change heavy in his hand, and he could feel sweat in his armpits tracking coldly down his ribcage. He turned and went through a door marked MEN and urinated in a discolored trough and washed his hands and face at the sink and toweled dry on a length of fabric he unreeled from its metal container. His cheek had been scratched by the gravel and he felt a raw scrape under his jawbone. Above the sink there was no mirror, just four brackets where a mirror had been. On the spackled plaster some wag with a black marker had written: YOU LOOK JUST FINE.

  He went out and used the phone, heard it ring in what by now seemed some other world entire. Yet the room where the phone rang and rang was real in his mind and he wondered idly was anything missing, anything added, had they painted the living room walls.

  Finally a young woman answered the phone. Edgewater’s sister.

  I’d about given up on you, Edgewater said.

  Billy? Is that you? Where in the world are you at?

  How is he?

  He’s how I said he was the last time you called. He’s dying. Why ain’t you here?

  I’m on the way, he said. I’ll be there. I ran into a little bad luck.

  She knew him, she didn’t even want details. You’d better get here, she said. He has to see you. Has to. He wants to make it right. He’s tryin to hang on until you get here.

  He said that? He said he’s trying to hang on until I get there?

  You know some things without them bein said, she told him. Or ought to. Would you want to go before your Maker carryin all that?

  I’m not looking forward to it carrying it or emptyhanded either, Edgewater said.

  Well. You and your smart mouth.

  I’ve got to go, Edgewater said.

  There’s something wrong with you, she said. If you weren’t so—

  He quietly broke the connection and cradled the phone. Then he took it up again and held it to his ear and it seemed a wonder that there was only the dialtone. No news good or bad, just a monotonous onenote electrical drone, sourceless yet all around him, the eternal hum of the world slowly diminishing. He recradled the phone.

  The man at the bar had swiveled his stool to watch Edgewater and Edgewater had seen the look on his face on other faces and he thought: Fuck this. He picked up his beer and what remained of his change and moved to the corner of the bar.

  You’re out of uniform, the man called after him. Where’s your neckerchief?

  I’m discharged, Edgewater said. I’m not in the service.

  What?

  I’m out. I’m a civilian.

  The man had a red face, mauve with burst capillaries, cratered with enlarged pores. Don’t you know it’s against the law to wear that uniform? The man struggled off the stool and drained the shotglass and turned up his chaser and drank, Adam’s apple pumping spasmodically. He set the bottle back and lumbered heavily toward Edgewater like a gracelorn dancing bear. Edgewater wished for a pool cue, magic winged shoes. A motorcycle.

  You disrespectin that uniform whether you in or out. Them’s Navy workclothes, don’t think I don’t recognize them. What I wore all durin the war. You got on them clothes and you’re not even covered.

  I never thought much about it. Edgewater fumbled through his change, got up and went to the cigarette machine, deposited a quarter and made his selection. When he got back to his stool the man had scooted four spaces down and had moved all his paraphernalia of swizzle sticks and napkins and cigarettes and change and was awaiting Edgewater’s arrival.

  You’re a disgrace to the uniform, he informed Edgewater.

  I probably am, Edgewater agreed, drank his beer. He sat as if undecided whether to move or remain.

  I retired out of the Navy. Chief boatswain’s mate. Twenty years. I saw a lot of little chickenshit fuckups like you.

  I don’t doubt it a bit, Edgewater said. I saw a few of them myself.

  The fat man searched his face for guile, then stared into the depths of his drink. What’d they kick you out for? he asked craftily.

  I got discharged, Edgewater said carefully, straining for clarity. In Long Beach, California. I’m out. I served four years and I’m on my way home.

  Bullshit. What was you?

  Radarman.

  I might have known it was some pussy rank, the ex-boatswain’s mate said disgustedly.

  Behind the bar was a sign that said, AROUND HERE WE’RE JUST ONE BIG HAPPY FAMILY. IT’S GOT TO STOP. The barkeep had sensed dissention, approached them, began industriously to polish the bar in front of them. His face was smooth, expressionless, professional.

  What do you think about that, Charlie? Man says he’s out of the Navy and wearin them puked-on whites.

  Edgewater ordered another beer. The bartender set the bottle before him, deftly picked up the change. His eyes avoided Edgewater’s. It’s nothin to me what he wears, he said.

  The fat man began to mumble to himself. World War Two, he was saying. Then more, wet with spit, indecipherable. It sounded like he had fought and died for his country. Edgewater felt a wire pull taut, hum with ominous tension, vibrate, the pitch rise. He laughed softly to himself.

  What?

  Nothing.

  What was you laughing about?

  Nothing to you.

  Was you laughing at me, shitface?

  No, Edgewater said. To his amazement the man had taken on an uncanny resemblance to Claire’s ex-father-in-law. There was the same beefy face, slack middle, mean little animal eyes. Some doppelganger, occult double bent on revenge. Queer out-of-body projection seeking him out by arcane divination here in the Shady Grove.

  I was laughing at something I just thought of. It had nothing to do with you.

  What?

  Why hellfire. Nothing. Everything. What does it matter?

  You silly son of a bitch.

  Edgewater picked up his mug and cigarettes. He pocketed the Luckies and moved farther up the bar. Let me have another draft, he said.

  Maybe you ought to drink up and move on, the barkeep told Edgewater.

  Move on where?

  Move on wherever you want. It’s a wide world out there.

  I’m waiting on somebody.

  The barkeeper’s cloth made little circles, there were black hairs on the barkeep’s fingers, the bar gleamed with his industry. Maybe you ought to wait somewheres else.

  The hell with that. Let him wait somewheres else. He started this mess, not me. All I’m doing is drinking a beer.

  Don’t fuck with Ed, the barkeep said. He’s bad news.

  He damn sure is, Edgewater said. But I’m hoping it’s for somebody else. He arose, slid the
bottle back across the bar, began to gather his change. This is the damnest place I’ve ever been in.

  The fat man had gotten up too, some grotesque host seeing his guest to the door.

  How about you fuckers? Ed asked. He was leaning forward into Edgewater’s face. Edgewater could smell him, see the cratered pores of his skin, veins like tiny exploded faultlines in his nose, feel his angry pyorrheac breath.

  While I was over there across the waters fightin and dyin you fuckers was over here drinkin all our whiskey and screwin our wives. What about that?

  Hellfire, Edgewater said. I wasn’t even old enough for that war. How about leavin me the hell alone?

  Fought and died for you fuckers. Got medals to prove it. You was probably one of them, one of them conscious objectors, Ed said.

  Edgewater drained the mug and set it gently atop the bar. He slid his cigarettes into the top of his socks and turned to go. I don’t want any trouble.

  Trouble wants you, the big man said. Nobody sets on their dead ass and sniggers at me.

  Before Edgewater’d taken the first step a heavy hand fixed on his shirt collar and jerked hard and he felt the buttons pop away and the shirt rip down the back. It all happened very quickly. He whirled and grasped the mug and slammed Ed in the side of the head with it. It didn’t even break and while he was looking at it in a sort of wonder the barkeep disdaining normal means of approach vaulted the bar with a weighted length of sawnoff pool cue and slapped Edgewater hard above the left ear. Edgewater’s knees went to water and he pooled on the floor. The world went light then dark. Somebody kicked him in the side and a wave of nausea rocked him. His vision darkened gray to black and after a while when he came to he could hear sirens. The old man is finally dead and here comes the ambulance, he thought. He looked about. Ed was at the bar downing a shot and the barkeep was at his station and the troglodytes seemed not to have glanced up. Whoop whoop whoop the siren went. A wave of vomit lapped at his feet. Edgewater spat blood and pillowed his head on his arm and closed his eyes.

  He slept. He awoke once in an empty cell and in some halflight like twilight or dusk and there was an old man with ferret eyes watching him from the cot across. He dreamed he felt probing hands at his pockets but he rested easy, there was nothing of moment there anyway.

  He woke once in the night and the old man was crying, Help me, Jesus, the house is afire. Help me get her out.

  Hush, Edgewater told him. There’s no fire.

  The house is afire and Lucindy’s in there, the old man persisted.

  She’s out, she’s all right, Edgewater said.

  The old man whimpered to himself for a time while Edgewater watched what he could see of the still night beyond the high grilled window.

  Then Edgewater dreamed he was a pallbearer. There were six of them, Edgewater at the left rear of the bronze casket. It was a huge coffin, leaden, a weight not to be borne, he felt he could not go on. They crossed a wooden bridge through whose slats Edgewater could see the lapping of yellow water far below them and ahead of them a hill rising up, domed and stark and symmetrical, cedars at its crest bowed black and mournful. The horizon was spiked with crosses and spires and graven angels. There were mourners winding ahead ascending the hill, he could hear their cries. The way was so long night fell on them and torches were lit, a winding procession of wavering light. Stop and rest a minute, he dreamed he said. Let’s set it down a while before we go on. They ignored him and trudged on, ragged and out of step. He stole a look at one smarting hand, found blisters already broken on the palm, droplets of blood beginning to form. He swapped hands, peered at his right, it was bleeding as well.

  He awoke and above the window rode a high remote moon, pale light that fell oblique and frangible upon his palms, the shadows of the bars running horizontal and vertical and infinite, latticing the sleeping old man where he lay. Before he was awake and at himself Edgewater had already examined his hands, but they were healed, it had all been long ago.

  It was ten the next morning before she got him out, they came out of the City Hall in Leighton and down the steps into the sunlight. People going in and out of the courthouse glanced at him with interest, with no envy. She had on her sunglasses, seeking anonymity perhaps, a respectable woman bailing miscreants out of the drunk tank, followed by this curious hatless sailor lost so far inland. She was not happy. The Crown Victoria waited at a parking meter and he got in and closed the door. It was a while before Claire followed. She stood by the car peering in at him, studying him as if he was something malignant, bad news on a glass slide. Finally she got in. Her jaws were tightened and muscles worked there and she clutched the purse as if it were some weapon she might fall upon him with.

  But the sun was warm and Edgewater closed his eyes and turned his bruised face to it and just absorbed that and the heat from the hot plastic behind his head.

  He could hear her fumbling out the keys. The engine cranked and they were in motion. She squalled the tires savagely, spun smoking into the street, not looking at him. They rode for a time in silence. He lowered his hand, watched her clean profile against the shifting pattern of traffic, pedestrians moiling like ants. He studied her intently, as if he had never seen her before, some unwary stranger who had lowered her guard and permitted him trespass to her very soul. He saw for the first time the faint cobwebbing of lines fanning out from the corners of her eyes, the grainy skin magnified by the merciless sun. He looked past her eyes into her and found there imperfections as well. Cold vapors swirling off the River Styx. We grow old, we grow old.

  She did not speak all the way to his motel. The Starlight Motorcourt, the sign corrected. Edgewater had no motor but he’d had four dollars a night, they let him stay anyway.

  He went in and showered and shaved and brushed his teeth. He put on a clean T-shirt and a pair of khakis and peered out the window. She was still parked outside, waiting. You’ve got to have your say, he said. He took the blade out of the razor and put the razor and toothbrush and a sliver of soap into his pocket. He put on a longsleeve shirt and looked about the room to see what of him remained: a dropped paperback by the bed, a couple of magazines. The room seemed to be fading, losing its reality, a poorly executed backdrop for whatever had transpired here. He looked out the window then sat in a chair by the sill and watched her blonde head beyond the neat green lawn.

  When he came up to the car she had her eyes closed, the glasses made them dark and enigmatic. Drive around awhile, he told her. Out of town somewhere. I’ve got to have some air.

  They were not out of town before she commenced on him, as if it had taken her some time to gather her forces. She had many things to tell him. He listened absentmindedly, watched out the glass.

  What do you have to say for yourself? she finally asked.

  He opened his eyes. Not much, he said.

  You son of a bitch. How do you plan on paying this money back? That was a big chunk of my motorcycle money.

  He didn’t say anything.

  You beat anything I ever saw.

  Edgewater dug out the crumpled pack of Lucky Strikes the jailer had returned to him. He pulled one out and straightened it and lit it from the dash lighter. He turned and watched the sliding landscape. Houses thinning out, Memphis falling away at last, a weight lifted from his shoulders. He didn’t know where they were going but the countryside was slipping past, field and stone and fence, cows like tiny painted cows in a proletariat mural. A dreadful flat sameness to this western world. It went rolling away to where the blue horizon and bluer sky were demarcated by windrowed reefs of salmoncolored clouds.

  She had never been so humiliated, she told him. She would never have treated him in such a fashion. She would not have done a rotten dog that way. She’d had no sleep, her job was in jeopardy, he was ruining her life.

  They rode in silence for a time, getting into the country now.

  You wouldn’t even have called me. I had to go looking for you in that terrible bar and hear about you picking a fight w
ith some war veteran. What’s the matter with you? I should have just let you rot there.

  He seemed not to have heard. Beyond the windowglass a man clutching the handles of a turning plow went down a black field so distant he seemed in some illusory manner to be pushing plow and mules before him. Edgewater wondered what his life was like. What his wife said to him when he came in from the fields, what they talked about across the supper table. He would have two children, a boy and a girl. Later he would tell them a story as their eyelids grew heavy and sleep eddied about them like encroaching waters. A flock of blackbirds tilted and cartwheeled and spun like random debris the wind drove before it.

  I never sent for you, he finally said.

  I know as well as anything you did it deliberately. Set this whole thing up. You couldn’t just walk away like anybody else. You have to get yourself locked up and ruin the nice dinner plans I had made and waste all that money.

  Is there much more of this? he asked.

  I’ve just about had it with you. And on top of everything else you’re the coldest human being I’ve ever seen. And I’ve seen some cold ones.

  Well, I guess I could have left you a note. But people kept coming at me with blackjacks.

  You invite it. You drive them to it. What’s the matter with you? All that money thrown away. Besides having to go up there and sign your bond for assault and battery with them making fun of me behind my back. They wouldn’t have let you out at all if I hadn’t been on the police force.

  He had no words to say.

  What do you have to say about all my motorcycle money gone?

  I guess there goes the vinecovered cottage.

  Goddamn you, she shouted. Do you think I’ll put up with this shit forever? Do you think I’m going to let this mess start all over again with you the way it was with Clifford? Hell no I’m not. Let’s me and you get some things straight right now.