Cuyahoga

by Pete Beatty

  Before the dawn of the second day of Mr Clark’s bridge, misbehavior commenced. A sign appeared at the Ohio side.

  TOLL FIVE CENTS.

  PEANUTS ONE PENNY.

  No one minded the sale of peanuts – the ruinous toll was the issue. This were five times what Alf had charged for the same number of rivers – and it was noted with sour grumbling that the bridge minder were not collecting a toll from farm wagons.

  * * *

  Stiles coffins had a reputation for quality that crossed the river. Mr Job did not mind the toll at all, because getting coffins across by old Alf were slow going. At our first deliveries of June, he were eager as a piglet for the bridge. Even as we approached the tolltaker’s cabinet, he waved his nickel like he were eager to be shut of it.

  It is twenty cents  said the voice inside the cabinet.

  Mr Job pointed at the sign reading TOLL FIVE CENTS.

  The voice – we never seen the tolltaker’s face – said Five for you  Five for him  Five for the ox  Five for the wagon

  Mr Job tasted his teeth some. It is poor comedy you are asking such a price for  This were wild impudence from Mr Job Stiles.

  The voice considered this scolding a moment. I will ask you five cents for each coffin next

  Mr Job went in his pockets for the wanting coins. At least give us a bag of peanuts

  Asa snorted at hearing peanuts – they were not sugar but they would do.

  It is a penny more for peanuts

  Let us fly as haints again, like we did at the first hour of the year. The air is much warmer at summer, and there is no call for coat or cloak, even at the depth of night. Yet these men on the Irish town hill wear hoods over their heads. In the dark of a sliver moon their two lanterns look like unsteady eyes. These men are staggering badly. They have been keeping the company of the jug.

  Ah – speak of jugs – there is Dog himself atop a mule. It is Ozias’s mule Absalom – you know him by his gleaming denture. And there is Mr Ozias himself. And Mr Barzilla Fraley – a fixture of the grocery same as any stove. No surprise to see him drunk. Birt the fallen preacher. YL Honey with his new denture to rival Absalom’s. Mr Philo wearing his good visiting leg, atop his fat horse Oliver. Ancient Dog and Phi carry lanterns on their mounts – how did Dog come to ride Absalom? The men on their own feet are struggling some on the lane’s poor surface – they are not drunk but carrying what look like… barrels.

  It is the first hours of the July 4 holiday now. Surely whiskey explains this promenade. There is to be a great celebration – fireworks and boat rides and dancing and cider – rastles and romance – every manner of good fun. Dog has only got them hauling whiskey down to prepare for the celebration. Perhaps they are not drunk but early to work.

  You have never known Barse Fraley to be early at anything besides drinking.

  * * *

  Barse did not see the intelligence of hauling four firkins of gunmeal by hand. Powder is a moody substance and liable to ignite when offended. Just what were the sense in stumbling down the pighole Irish lane when a concerned party owned a half dozen wagons that might roll down the good Columbus road in style?

  Barse always were generous with other folks’ merchandise.

  Oze!

  Shhhhh

  Fetch us a wagon

  If you known one thing about Ozias it were that he loved his wagons and mules more than his own hide.

  Philo known Oze plenty, but it did not stop him from taking up with Barse.

  One of you idiots is going to spill your barrel and explode us apart  I will have two legs again but neither the ones I started with  Oze  go fetch a god damned wagon

  Oze did not argue back, though he surely liked to.

  Oze  I know you hear me donkey-lover

  Oze still kept quiet, only setting down his barrel and breathing.

  O—

  You listen here Philo S___lips Fish—

  Philo bristled to hear his name spoken so loud.

  —I will not have any of my wagons exploded for a demonstration  I do not understand why we are bringing four barrels of powder if tomorrow night is only to be a demonstration  My wagons  My wagons is meant for better things than exploding—

  Philo went to the eternal debate with relish. You are missing the trick  The wagon is only to get the powder to the bridge and not paint this path with your brains if you had any OZIAS BASKET

  YL Honey whispered around his new teeth that If you keep shouting names we will surely—

  Despite YL’s good sense the lyceum kept on for some minutes, drunk preacher Birt putting in vile talk too filthy to write, Oze and Phi lashing each other like it were daytime, YL trying to make peace, Barse wishing he had said nothing at all.

  Dog had kept silent on Absalom’s back, but the chatter were too much to abide. You cretins ought to let your mouths rest same as your brains  We cannot take a wagon because a wagon wants a good road  and if we take Clark’s good road we will be marked  And if we are marked I will personally feed all your marital parts to my cats

  Dog swung off Absalom calm as a spider. He looked too brittle for the work, but he grabbed up Ozias’s barrel and resumed the march down to the bridge.

  A holiday were not a holiday without a dawn toast from Miss Dolores. She had a poor temper and were not much to look at, but on the nation’s birthday our ancient cannon had a whole regiment of beaus feeding her as much breakfast as she liked.

  krTTHWANNFFNG a half minute

  krTTHWANNFFNG a half minute

  krTTHWANNFFNG —

  I will not write out the whole toast, but she mentioned each of the twenty-six states, hollering in the general direction of Washington city. Her remarks was a success as far as grabbing me out of sleep. I opened up the attic window and seen by the dawn that Big’s bed were untouched. He had not been himself – man or spirit or squirrel – since his hopes of work from Mr Clark had been dashed so quick. He had spent spring and the start of summer in a low condition, seeking feats and not often finding them.

  My brother owned prime lots in my mind and I worried on him. But the Fourth were not a day for fear. It were a time for cider and frolics and boat rides and joyful things. Starchier folks come together for toasts and benedictions and Hail! Co-lum-bia’s fav-o-rite son Hail! Im-mor-tal Wash-ing-ton. I did not mind if they hogged all that for themselves – I would take their slice of the rowdier doing.

  * * *

  At the front of the parade were our six aged patriots – living veterans of the great revolution. The oldest of the old were Ahaz Farly, near to ninety, clutching a musket like he were still on the watch for King George. After Ahaz came the twins Rufus and Richard Feely. Rufus were blind and Richard were deafer than bricks, but together the twins had their senses. After the Feelys went Gunt Stephens, rolled in a chair by his son, and after Gunt went Gid Gaylord, as thin as a broomstick and not nearly as personable. At the back of the regiment was Mr August Dog Dogstadter, whom you have met already. Dog had only been a servant boy during the revolution, but he wore his red-and-blue soldier suit prouder and meaner than any of the others – matched with the rusty sword from his grocery wall.

  * * *

  The celebration could not start until the parade reached the square, and the parade could only move as quick as the patriots. At first folks only cheered louder and waved their kerchiefs. But after a quarter hour the cheering dimmed. After Gid sat down on a stump to rest, Mayor Frawley made a suggestion that the ancient ones climb aboard a wagon to spare their feet.

  The patriots did not care for this idea, and brittle old-fashioned cussing were heard. But Frawley signaled the gray-and-gold suited militia to load up the aged brigade. The privates chased the brass band off their wagon for the purpose. The Feelys was captured quick enough, and Gunt were simply lifted by his rolling chair. Gid Gaylord were hooked under the arms and dragged up. Only two fought on – ancient Ahaz swinging his musket like a club, and spry Dog
waving his rusted sword and promising lockjaw to any who breathes on me.

  * * *

  The skirmish at the parade showed you what good cheer looked like on Dog Dogstadter. Nothing suited him like a celebration, and the Fourth were his very favorite. He had a surpassing love of country.

  So cheerful was Dog that he submitted to a demonstration of Dr Strickland’s famous new kreosote, which had done such wonders for YL Honey. Before a curious crowd the dentist painted up Dog’s busted-crockery teeth with the stuff. A minute gone by and Dog did not holler – only stamped – gestured for a jug – worked his cheeks as bellows – spat blood-and-whiskey – smiled.

  They were still the ugliest teeth in Ohio but they had gone from brown-green to linen white. As the crowd applauded the kreosote, Dog gave a curtsy and then went to strangle the dentist. Barse Fraley were there to grab up Dog and lead him off. As they gone, Dr S offered a last bit of advice  Only remember not to smoke any cigars or pipes today Mr Dogstadter  The kreosote is liable to ignite

  * * *

  After pork and beans and plum cakes and sugar-slings, we were all greased for a rousing dance to finish the Fourth. Mr Ozias offered up the yard of his barn, and all his mules watched from their stalls, our lanterns bouncing off their great brown marble eyes.

  Even though Ozias and his neighbor Philo cussed each other up and down the day, they missed no chance to play music together. When they took up their fiddles – you might mistake their scraping for lovers’ talk. When they sat to play, everyone in Ohio hoofed in delight.

  Skirts swirling and feet flying is a catching mood. Even Mr Job and Mrs Tab had a trot. With a squint you could just see them as young folks. Myself I had put on a gingham and rubbed my hair with a candle. I felt bold enough to snap at Dot Umbstetter and chase her for a kiss – and then Mary Honey, YL’s sister – and then Lucinda Butts. Between each I returned to a jug which glunked in agreement that we were having a fine time.

  Phi and Oze set down their instruments only to briefly argue over the next tune. I found Miss Cloe finishing a shuffle with Elijah Frewly, the worst rastler in Ohio, who wore black eyes regular as whiskers. Cloe gave raccoon-eye Eli a bow and he went off. I gave him a nod as he gone, and made a curtsy of my own to Cloe. She laughed to see me in my manners. The sun was in bed already but Cloe had kept its light in her smile. Or the light were only the whiskey sling. I did not particularly mind which as Philo and Oze struck up “The Devil’s Dream” on their fiddles.

  Cloe and I hooked up our arms and twirled around happy as fools. She wore a handsome calico, black and blue and white, and stood as tall as me. Phi and Oze were just burning the place down and every instrument of my own were working too. My ears and my eyes and my skin and my nose. I felt a burden cast off and I felt sister Cloe… I felt something unstuck. A mote from my eye. A beam from my eye. I wondered if this were how Big seen Cloe.

  An idea bit me. I felt sure that the entire world bid me to say something.

  To say.

  To say I did not know what.

  I looked over Cloe’s shoulder like the answer were in the air and I swear that one of the mules looked at me and said Go ahead

  I did not know myself but that would not discourage me. As the fiddles stopped to catch breath, I ginned up my mouth and—

  Big’s voice come out.

  * * *

  My brother roared into the barn. I do not know where he had spent his July 4, but the absence had braced him up some. There were oceans of refreshment behind his smile, and his hair were shining worse than brass.

  He grabbed up Cloe and me both and spun us around and around the barnyard, his laugh louder than one hundred fiddles.

  * * *

  With the dance over, folks climbed onto wagons, their merry hearts jingling like coinpurses. Big handed Cloe up to me but did not climb on himself. Instead he only stood with his hands on the boards like he were peering in a window. The whites of his eyes pinked at the late hour. Next to him Asa’s tail swung like a scold clock.

  Cloe

  You could just tell from his look that he were about to trample good manners.

  I busied myself with buttons on my trousers.

  Tell us on the way Big  Cloe begged.

  Cloe  let us be married

  Big it is too small an hour for this s___  Cloe were not past public cussing at small hours.

  I haven’t got any fortune  but you are all I want for

  I am not a want

  * * *

  Asa sided with Cloe in the quarrel, and started home without any huphup. Big watched us go, his hands still on the absent sides of the wagon.

  On the night of the 4th, we have been informed, an attempt was made to explode the Columbus road bridge. Four kegs of powder were touched off under the Ohio side. No one was injured, but considerable damage were done to the timbers of the bridge. There is but one sentiment regarding such gesture. Whatever the opinions of the authorities and citizens of Ohio city regarding the bridge question, we are satisfied they would not countenance such acts, but would happily aid in ferreting out and punishing the malefactors.

  —CLEVELAND DAILY ADVERTISER

  July 5 come in with a krTTHWANNFFNG same as July 4, but this did not sound like Dolores. This were a younger and ruder voice. Through a head full of frogs I asked Big have you heard that? but his ears and the rest of him had not come home after the latest spurning.

  I heard stirring soon enough – Mr Job were in the lane speaking to neighbor Mr Dennes. I run down to join them and saw a steeple of smoke climbing out of the river valley in the direction of the Columbus road.

  * * *

  By the time we arrived at the bridge, most of a hundred Ohio citizens were gathered to stare at the mess, with a matching crowd on the Cleveland side. The western half of the bridge had been treated awfully – half the covering blasted to splinters, some planks and posts dislodged, many more scorched. The stone legs survived, but no wagons would pass for a while. On either side of the damage, mayors Frawley and Willey patted their hands to the bridge like they was doctoring a sick animal.

  After a period of consideration they marched toward each other to jaw. Just before the magistrates met, our Frawley stepped onto a busted plank and fell halfway through. Willey did his best not to laugh, but the crowd on both sides let loose. As Willey pled for decorum, Frawley went ahead and talked while stuck in the bridge.

  Willey, what do you felons mean by this?

  Do you suggest this is the work of Cleveland?

  I do not suggest but know it

  Frawley, what good would we do by exploding our own bridge?

  Mayor Frawley was a curiously formed man with a long bulbous trunk and short limbs, akin to a badger or ground hog. To a person on the riverbank, gazing up at the bridge’s underbelly, he must have looked like a strange cow’s udder.

  Despite this indignity, Frawley had no trouble talking.

  If this is done by Ohio citizens, it is only the fruit of your side’s chiseling

  Do you mean to say you approve of this monstrous deed?

  Willey, I will thank you to get your words out of my mouth  Tremendous wriggling.

  Frawley, let me help you out of the hole  Reaching down.  Quit kicking

  After much fuss, Willey freed Frawley from the bridge’s embrace. It were the last good manners between Cleveland and Ohio for a long stretch.

  * * *

  With half the world gathered to gawk, the morning were prime for agitating speeches. The east siders talked of a militia detachment to guard the bridge, and white-toothed Dog screeched that this militia meant to murder us in our beds Check your straw for gunmeal before you bed down Mr Philo only said between breakfast sips of whiskey that this madness cinched it for two bridges. Mr Ozias said he were surprised to agree with Phi – almost like they was acting a pantomime.

  * * *

  You wonder who profits when two neighbors go after each other’s eyeballs in such a manner
.

  My consideration – the sour blood between cities were only busted romance. I once saw young John Stiles pull at the pigtails of Katie Basket, and Katie shove him into a pighole. The bridge were Cleveland yanking at Ohio city to speed a marriage. But Ohio would never consent to wed until Cleveland sat in a pighole.

  * * *

  Christ says that if a man smites you on one cheek, you ought to show him the other, so that he might smite you better a second time. If that same fellow come after your coat, you ought to hand it over, along with your cloak and your britches and your drawers too. Resist not evil et c.

  Regarding smiting of faces and stealing of coats I seen what Christ meant mostly. If you are always returning such conduct the whole world will always have a sore face and a naked ass. I did sometimes wonder how matters would go if we all obliged. What becomes of the smiter? Who is this fellow clobbering and stealing shirts? What goads him to the work? Maybe he is a drunk fool – maybe he is sorehearted – maybe he only wants someone to talk at and knows no better way than to pull pigtails. Maybe he is only naked and wants a coat.

  We do not credence the insinuation of the DAILY ADVERTISER that the explosion was the work of this side of the river, for the purpose of throwing odium on the other side. This attempt could not be meant as a joke, unless death and destruction of property are so defined.

  —OHIO CITY ARGUS

  On the other side, the money made from tolls and peanuts mended the battered bridge soon enough. On this side TWO BRIDGES OR NONE became the motto, which only posed another question – was TWO or NONE better?