The Hauntings of Hood Canal

by Jack Cady

The story worked its way north. By the time it arrived at Rough and Randy the story said China Bay was over run by cows. The cows were brought in for demonstration purposes by the ice cream lobby. A new law by the legislature mandated a milk bar in every beer joint, and because of this riots covered the southern part of the state. The poor cows were caught in the middle, and a great barbecue was even then being held on the front steps of the state senate. The leader of the demonstration would run for governor, and Lee’s China Bay Taverna was also overrun with mystery women.

  ═

  . . . But that was later. As the milk truck driver disappeared, and as talk returned to normal along the bar, the fisherman reluctantly turned his attention to Annie and Sugar Bear. It seemed Sugar Bear resisted. It also seemed that Sugar Bear was bound to lose, because no man born was gonna pass up a confession of love and lust by a Greek goddess; or maybe, the fisherman wondered, did the ancient Greeks have angels? Because no man born . . .

  Because, because. Because Annie, still wearing that greeny-bluey dress, now sat on a barstool beside Sugar Bear. She whispered earnestly, reached to touch Sugar Bear’s wrist with her fingertips, and that caused every other man in the bar to die a little. Gloom began. Daylight through large windows grew dull gray. Even pictures on the walls seemed saddened. Talk once more faltered, although pool games still clicked. The bartender, as wry as any bartender who ever drew suds, changed music on the tape deck to something with lots of french horns.

  “There is a very good chance the young lady is mistaken,” the bartender said, and wiped an imaginary spot of crud from the bar. The bartender spoke mostly to the fisherman. “Because a Fury, should such a thing exist, would be a dangerous and dismal creature. A lone Fury would feel lost and doubtless haunted, because Furies traditionally run in packs.” The bartender dwelt so deep in reflection that bar light actually dimmed.

  “Of course,” the bartender said, “we speak of creatures from more than two thousand years in the past. Further, we speak with knowledge that evolution is inevitable.” The bartender became so absorbed that guys along the bar actually began to pay attention. “It would make sense, then,” the bartender explained, “that back in the days of spectacular copulations, mating of various gods with Greeks and Romans and Persians, with Abyssinians and Ethiops, would produce mighty curious spawn. Perhaps an underwater Fury is not impossible.”

  It was the first time the fisherman had ever heard of a Fury. Later, it would develop that Annie had once mentioned the subject to Bertha, but even that knowledge would never persuade the fisherman he had not been in the presence of magical stuff. Of course, it’s true bartenders generally know everything that’s happening.

  “There’s not a soul here who understands what you’re talking about,” an oldster said to the bartender. “Except, of course, yours truly.” This was the retired diplomat, the one with the hanky. The oldster fiddled with a cribbage peg. He looked interested. Also, somewhat alarmed. “Creatures of revenge,” he explained to the bar. “They were remorseless.”

  The bartender drew another beer for the fisherman. “Perhaps ‘retribution’ is a better word. At any rate, Furies punished crimes, even when the criminal acted for the common good.” The bartender looked toward the Canal, absorbed in thought. “I have my doubts . . . though doubtless there is some meaning . . .” and then the bartender waxed philosophic, but no one followed the train of thought except, possibly, the guy who was once a diplomat.

  The oldster regarded the bartender with awe. “I take it you believe a Fury, or some such, infests the neighborhood. If true, I’m moving to Iowa.”

  “That guy just stopped dripping,” the Packard guy said. “I win the pool.”

  ═

  And even later that evening, as the fisherman sat practically sober beside the Packard guy who was in no shape to drive, events swirled in the fisherman’s mind like flotsam in a whirlpool. Because, by eventide of that dreadful day, Sugar Bear had been led away by Annie, or rescued by Annie; no one could say for sure. A story worked its way down the Canal. The story said Petey had been kicked out of Beer and Bait after losing a fortune to the tow truck kid. Plus, a rumor said Bertha and a state cop had a case of the hots for each other. It was also said that a great number of cars had gone in the drink, but the fisherman, who knew Canal stories, figured the number would amount to no more than one or two. Plus, there was the sell-out story about the DWI.

  And if all this were not bad enough, it seemed whatever patrolled the Canal was not a normal monster. The fisherman recalled talk about Furies that carried on for quite a while before the bartender went off shift at six PM, and Lee took over in his Chinese sort of way.

  The fisherman, in the first stage of slight fuzziness, the way a guy gets after a beer or so, could easily understand that—what with Furies and Chinamen—he stood at a brink . . . some sort of brink or other . . . like maybe the decline and fall of western civilization . . . something like that . . . something big time, anyway.

  And the bartender had sort of suggested that. When the bartender turned philosophic, part of the rap had been about the rise and decline of nations.

  And Lee, who represented the mysterious east, ran the bar with aplomb as he manipulated legislators, teased their lady friends, and ran a number on rich guys who had driven south to buy legislation; the rich guys glad of heart because there were enough lady friends to go around.

  And Lee heckled pool games, while sturdily backed up by three goldfish who, it appeared, suddenly developed eyefolds. The fisherman saw that the Fury in the Canal really did mean the destruction of the western world. It was clear the Orient was about to take over, and more luck to it.

  Then the fisherman talked more with the Packard guy about rebuilding hydraulic lifts. Then he watched drunken legislators and rich guys from up north with high-priced lady friends. Then he thought of Annie and grieved. Then he worried about Sugar Bear without exactly knowing why.

  Then Lee, for no good reason the fisherman could see, cut him off. Lee did it in that skillful way the Chinese have so nobody feels bad about getting separated from a beer.

  And then the fisherman remembered that, when a guy goes fishing, the best part comes when you get so far out that land sinks below the horizon. At that moment you feel this great sense of relief, because a man at sea no longer has land responsibilities . . . there not being a damn thing he can do to change anything ashore. When he thought about that, the fisherman understood it was time to go back to sea.

  Except for a Mouse, No One is Happy

  A satisfied mouse, plumpish, generally well intended, and curious, lives in the shack to which Sugar Bear and Annie repaired. It is not a vacationer’s paradise, but a hunter’s shack; a crude shelter of unfinished boards and shake roof. A glassless window allows ingress and egress of bugs, bats in season; but the place is not classy enough to lodge a barn owl. For a mouse who has enough sense to appreciate advantages the place is home-sweet-home­-with-a-view.

  The view is of a copse of madrona, vine maple, and alder. Leaves float through autumn air, or, in the case of the madronas, all year. Small flowers in their season, and edible mushrooms sprout from a thick layer of loam accumulated through centuries. The ground gives beneath one’s feet as the buildup of broken leaves, twigs, and moisture combine and cover the forest floor like a plush rug. Among, around, and in this forest-rug are bugs, seeds, and edible shoots. A mouse, patrolling the perimeter of the shack, cruises his domain with all the confidence of a well-heeled lady in a specialty grocery store.

  And, because the mouse had no experience with humans and had shelter from most predators, it sat fearless on the single crossbeam of the ten-by-ten shack and watched as two creatures, one furry and enormous, the other greeny-blue, opened the door.

  They entered, saw bunkbeds, a chair, a small woodstove, firewood, a bucket, a kerosene lamp, and stubs of a half-dozen candles, unchewed, having been scorned by a mouse who was filthy rich.

  “You’re gonna have to move,” the
greeny-blue creature said to a huge spider who webbed the space between upper and lower bunks. “I know it’s a pain but we’ve got a problem.”

  The spider shrugged, climbed the bed frame, swung by filament to the wall, and began spinning in the upper corner of the room. “And you,” the greeny-blue creature said to the mouse, “will need to mind your manners. It looks like we’ll be here for a while.”

  The mouse, who heretofore had never learned a word of English, or, for that matter, Greek, understood and accepted the situation. He gave a chirp of welcome. In mouse terms, the greeny-blue creature looked interesting.

  “Get that stove going,” Annie said to Sugar Bear, “and then get into that sleeping bag. I’ve got a little work outside.” Annie’s voice, which in days past had been either vague or demure, sounded positive as fire trucks. She felt Sugar Bear’s forehead, tsked, felt inside his shirt. “You’re sweating pretty good.” She picked up the bucket. “Cold sweat. Where’s the spring?”

  In the week that followed, a week of rain on mossy shakes of the roof, the mouse watched as the window was repaired with plastic film. The mouse sniffed as the shack filled with odors. Burbles of herbal potion steamed on the stovetop, mattresses of piled cedar tips lay beneath colorful sleeping bags while the great big creature wheezed, grumbled, moaned, sniffed, apologized, and wondered what the hell went on back home. When, after a couple of days, the creature grew comatose, peace and quiet entered the shack, and when the creature began choking it kept the mouse awake. Steam filled the shack. The greeny-blue creature applied hot cloths, rubbed smelly concoctions onto chest, throat, and held breathable but stinky stuff beneath the nose. Sometimes the creature cried, but she did not stop working. When the crisis passed, sunlight of Indian summer shone through the plastic window. The shack became uncomfortably warm.

  “You’re gonna be all right,” Annie told a very weak Sugar Bear, “but don’t do that again.”

  “I didn’t plan it,” Sugar Bear whispered. “Are we gonna stay here, or what?”

  “You’re gonna stay,” Annie told him. “I’m hitching a ride north to see what’s going on. I’ll be back day after.” She hugged him, kissed him on the ear. “Don’t wander off.”

  With Annie gone, the mouse felt uneasy because of the language barrier. No mouse ever born could fail to understand Annie, but no mouse ever born could fully understand Sugar Bear; at least not without a bit of magic. The mouse did not head for his hidey-hole, but no longer assumed he could hop from the beam, scamper along a chair back, and nibble at spilled crumbs of bread and crackers. The mouse awaited developments.

  Sugar Bear sat, yawned, stood, stretched, lay on the bed, scratched, stood up, said, “Dammit”, opened the door and looked into the sunstruck copse. A light breeze sent leaves in a slanting, yellowly shower. He started to take a chair outside, then sat on the doorsill instead.

  “I got a little problem,” he confided to the mouse. “She thinks this sicky-business is over, but maybe it ain’t. A certain amount of crap circles the universe. Sometimes it drops on a guy’s head.”

  The mouse, clearly sympathetic, but no more philosophic than your average mouse, remained silent. Perhaps on some level of mouse wisdom it knew there are times when a guy just needs a good listener.

  “Because maybe my worst problem ain’t cops. I felt okay until that last night at the dunk site . . . felt like something tried to crawl all over me. Felt like I was being watched.”

  Sugar Bear spent the rest of the day, and all of the next, painfully gathering and chopping firewood. He no longer moved like a big man with confidence in his strength, but like a man with a body too large for his spirit. Illness hindered him. Worry hindered him. Although dragging firewood takes time, it does not take much concentration. He had plenty of time to imagine horrible things that might happen at Beer and Bait. He feared Annie might walk into the middle of a mess, and he would not be there to protect her.

  As it turned out, by the time Annie stepped into the middle of a real mess she was the last person who needed protecting. The mess had built over the past week. By the time the mess played out, Annie felt like she’d taken a course in history. She guessed the whole thing started with Petey.

  ═

  During that week Petey drifted from Rough and Randy, to China Bay, with only occasional stop-offs at Beer and Bait. His route seemed erratic. The Plymouth parked in odd places, outside of courthouses, mostly.

  And history, as far as Petey was concerned, turned to bunk. His slumping figure hunched over the steering wheel of the Plymouth, or leaned against pool tables where guys rushed to take advantage. Guys figured Petey swam through depths of despair; which was sad but good, because that meant Petey was losing his hustle. Without hustle Petey became a man not feared, but nearly scorned. Guys played him for bucks, hustled him, and Petey generally managed to break even, or a few bucks ahead, although his heart was not in his game. He no longer showed up at Beer and Bait during mornings. During evenings he remained distant with Bertha, and sad, and his baseball cap read Bob’s Used Truck Parts.

  And almost always, during mornings, the Plymouth parked not far from dunk sites where police divers remained busy, and where cops directed traffic and hassled taxpayers. The cop who looked like a movie actor pretended indifference to Petey, but coplike, made mental notes. Petey was present on the day the cops pulled out the dead guy’s car, and it seemed that Petey also made notes.

  The car dangled from the crane like a guppy on a boat hook. When the crane eased it onto the tow truck kid’s trailer it sat like small change. It was one of those imported things, painted orangey-pink, a monument to miniaturization; that if you sat in it you couldn’t cuss a cat without getting a mouthful of fur.

  The front end sported a loose bumper. The fenders were unscratched. The trunk lid popped up where the back end had been squeezed, but, when compared to other drowned cars this one hadn’t been squeezed much. This car looked like a piece of spit-out gum.

  “And Petey just stood there,” the tow truck kid confided to Bertha when he stopped for a going-home beer. “. . . like he’s worried the cop will blame him for something.” The kid now enjoyed the status of a regular at Beer and Bait. A regular can leave his change on the bar when he goes to the john. The bartender keeps an eye on it.

  “He’s a good guy, too,” the tow truck kid said about Petey, “even if his game is overrated.” The tow-truck kid rode high and wide as he made a name for himself. His red truck and dread trailer parked before Beer and Bait, or China Bay. The kid gained muscle in arms and shoulders, and shone with manly pride; but only enough to be slightly obnoxious. Men who were brave, and men who hoped they were brave, made room for him at the bar.

  Because, out there in that parking lot, one more doomed piece of machinery sat chained to the trailer; helpless as a crab in a crab pot. Guys looked at the wreck, felt emptiness in their minds at the sight of violated metal.

  Because, while anyone can regard a wreck with dismal satisfaction if that wreck is not his own, these wrecks went to scary places in mind and soul where even bad people do not want to visit. Men privately told themselves the tow truck kid was courageous, or, more likely, so damn dumb he didn’t know what he fooled with. Still, you had to treat a guy like that with some respect.

  And if credit for courage was not enough, the kid also rode the wave of a Canal story that turned him into a pool hero. Since hustling Petey for a hundred bucks, the kid’s game improved. He began wearing shirts with loose sleeves, a bolo tie, and lightly, very lightly, tinted sunglasses. Winning builds confidence, and confidence lets a guy relax. Relaxed guys win at pool.

  “Petey’s game is better than you think,” Bertha told the kid on a morning when the bar was otherwise empty. In the parking lot a twisted station wagon sat chained to the kid’s trailer.

  “Maybe once-upon-a-time.” The kid looked across the green felt of the pool tables like a farm-guy gazing at his fields. His voice sounded kindly.

  “I guess you gotta
learn on your own.” Bertha’s words were more positive than her voice, which carried echoes of dismay. Petey had chickened out before a cop. He ran road and lost at pool.

  “How’s that cop to work with?”

  The kid studied the problem. “Somebody’s gonna get busted.” The kid turned on his bar stool, looked toward the Canal, and his voice got louder. “He’s a loner. He’s not even buddy-buddy with other cops.” The kid tried to lower his voice and still sound positive. “I think somebody has the guy in their sights, like dangerous. The cops are scared. Who would’ve ever thought?” The kid gulped the last of his beer. “I gotta admit. I’m almost scared. I got to git.”

  “Petey’s game is better than you think,” Bertha repeated as the kid left. “If you back into a buzz saw don’t say you ain’t been told.”

  When the kid left, Bertha faced an empty joint, and suddenly, an empty life. She could not admit that Petey was half the reason she loved her bar.

  As days passed dismay tried to replace love, because Beer and Bait still had to be opened even though the world turned dreary. Mornings saw no pool games. The whole notion of pool brought worries about the butterflies from up north, and the beetle-lady. And, since Jubal Jim rode with Petey, there was not even a tail wag of greeting when Bertha arrived through chill mist to an empty bar. Added to that, Annie and Sugar Bear were way-the-­hell-and-gone off somewhere at China Bay. What with no Petey, and no girl-talk with Annie, and poolish worry, life became gray as the weather.

  Bertha, being Norwegian, turned her considerable energy toward improvements. The bar mirrors sparkled, reflecting dull faces of morning customers mumbling hangover talk. The dance floor gleamed with wax, and anything that could handle polish, did. When folks looked through windows onto the Canal they felt wind would blow through the room because, while the windows were there, they were so clean you couldn’t see them. If the joint suddenly turned into a burden, Bertha admitted nothing.

  And the cop, what of him?