by Pete Beatty
I did not know what I held.
December in Ohio is not a handsome month. But on Saturday the twenty-third the sun and sky done their best to dress for promenade. The clouds arranged into a gingham, and the starved winter light had a smile to it. Cold air danced down from the north like even it wished to see the race, and the water frilled and twinkled in the breeze.
Old Dolores were dragged out and her nose tickled again. Her krTTHWANNFFNG sounded hoarse – wearied by so much celebration. People draped themselves in blankets and whiskey against the chill and collected at the river’s edges. Tom could not help but make a festivity, and invited Frawley and the committee of competition aboard the Radish for merriment. He even had a militia band tooting bravely, shivering in their soldier suits. He brung on whiskey and cider and dandelion wine to grease the day. Between folks and musicians and refreshment, there were two tons of merriment aboard the Radish. At the center of this congress of turkeys were Tom himself, arrayed in a suit of screaming green – like he had stolen up every leaf of summer in his fabric. He slapped shoulders and laughed too hard and made bets on himself, acting nothing like a man at risk of banishment.
Ashore, Big stood apart from turkeys and all other creatures. His toes was lined up neat with the edge of the water, and his eyes watched nothing in particular. Whatever fury had driven him to the bet seemed gone, as were his fairweather friends. There were ailing Mr Job wrapped in blankets – Mrs Tab at his side like she were holding him up – the seven Stileses – Philo – Oze – Dennes – no Cloe – no Asa. I stood a ways removed, not wishing to agitate Mr Job.
* * *
I considered if losing would cure my brother – set him free – set me free.
Everyone else mostly considered wagering. The public preferred Tom heavy, but there were always sports who would make odds.
The anxious merriment stumbled along until the noon hour, when cider-blushed Frawley waddled to the bows of the Radish and drew air into his bellows.
Ladies and gentlemen Affairs of honor is illegal in this state He struggled to extract an ancient pistol from his trouserfront. So I do not offer any official words—with an unsteady hand he waved the gun high—other than God bless this country and make it prosperous
Fpprochk the pistol said by way of amen.
Straightaway Big stripped down to just his kerchief, setting his folded britches on a stone. He walked into the water until the river reached his chin, and took up long loping slaps.
Plisshf plisshf plisshf
Leisurely, Tom undid the ropes holding the Radish in place and ambled forward to his boiler. Passenger Frawley went to pull in the gangway – but not before I scampered aboard. I had not planned to. Only the idea of a closer view grabbed me.
Tom Tod had taken it on himself to run the great stove that made the Radish go. Out of arrogance or sporting humor, he had not bothered to learn how to drive a boat in advance. It would not matter much. A steamboat gone at a blistering eight miles each hour, and even a fast swimmer could make barely two miles in that time. Tom would win without sweating.
The passengers took up parlor singing to pass the time—
Oh I don’t want none of your weevily wheat
And I don’t want none of your barley
But I want some flour and half an hour
To bake a cake for Charley
I went to the bow and watched my brother.
He were steady plisshfing across water toward the first bend. A flotilla of ducks parted for him to pass through. Aboard the Radish, the singing kept up even as Tom clanked and cussed the engine. The crowds along the banks stretched out, as some folks ambled along to stay near Big and others stuck at the slip. Among them I could hear preachers and peddlers and cheerful Dr Strickland halooing about their various merchandise – Christ and fruit and kreosote.
* * *
Just as Big disappeared around the first bend, Tom hollered a triumph—
I HAVE GOT THE F___ER
The boat’s great Ben Franklin stove coughed and cursed back – her pistons shrieked with delight – the Radish lurched. Drunken stumbles at first, but soon enough her paddlefeet rolled along at a slow stroll. The parlor singers were up to the part about Charley is a dandy, the very lad who stole the striped candy—but broke into whoops of delight at the feeblest MOTION.
The crowds on each side gone with us – trotting a ways and then stopping when they had got ahead – sitting on stones and fence posts to wait for us.
* * *
The Radish made no faster than a waltz for a quarter hour, and Big kept his lead. Fleet-footed Jonah Stiles dispatched himself to run back and forth between Big and boat to holler the progress of the derby.
Big is past the broken bridge
Tom laughed an itching way.
Off ran Jonah down the river path. If the boat were gaining speed I could only tell from the folks on the banks walking a bit faster.
Mayor Frawley and his friends took up the singing again.
Grab her by the lily-white hand
And lead her like a pigeon
Make her dance the weevily—
Tom said to stop singing or I will put you in the boiler fattest first
A few minutes more brought Jonah back – red cheeks panting.
Big is around Irish town bend
Big were close to three-quarters finished. Somehow he were on the cusp of winning – in truth Tom’s lead-assed boat was on the cusp of losing more than Big were winning – but winning is winning, no matter how you fall to it.
At Jonah’s latest report, Tom stood up from nursemaiding the boiler and gone to the refreshments. I expected he would have a drink to starch himself. But instead he went hunting among the barrels and bottles until he found a cask – which he grabbed up entirely. I seen as he took his drink back to the boiler that it had RELY ON STRICKLAND painted on the side.
Tom set the cask down and went into his pockets for his pearl-handled knife. With grand gestures he unfolded the tiny blade – raised it high – stabbed in the bung. He closed the knife gravely – lifted the cask to the boiler’s door like it were taking communion – fed the boat a drink – strolled serenely to the bows – tugged at his green coat front.
Giving the boat a sip for courage eh Tom? said the puzzled mayor.
It is not whiskey It is the dentist’s kreosote
Frawley nodded sagely – as if it were common wisdom to feed steamboats so.
But I saw Tom’s trick – nothing burned hotter than kreosote. A boiler fire spiced with the substance would make a thunderstorm of steam.
* * *
Right away an awful hissing rose from the boiler – and not a minute later, the Radish shook with dispatch. The spectators on both sides gone from ambling to a brisk walk to a gallop to keep up. As we tore past Centre-street and the ruins of Big’s bridge, only spryer legs could keep up. By the approach to Irish town bend it were only children and four-legged dogs. Our outrageous progress were not enough to please Tom. With each passing minute he splashed more and more kreosote into the boiler’s burning gut.
The hissing went up to a roar – the iron skin of the boiler were blushing red with appetite. The Radish were hardly in the water at all but atop it. Tom grabbed up Frawley to help him work the ship’s wheel as we roared around the bend. As we swung out wide, I could see Big and his small splashes a hundred yards ahead. Not another hundred yards past him were Mr Clark’s bridge and the victory barrel bobbing beneath.
Tom looked at Big and back to his boiler – it would be close – close would not do – you cannot put “close” into a pocket for keeping. So he strolled back to the boiler – stooped – threw the entire cask of kreosote into the rabid flames. If the flames had teeth, they would have shone brighter than the sun.
I supposed there were tidiness in this outcome. Ohio city would be no more in a week’s time, and Big Son – her resident spirit and architect – would head elsewhere. I confess I had been waiting
for another of Big’s miracles – for him to ride on the back of five hundred fish – or to run atop the water like a restless Christ. But instead he would make a brave effort but lose out to a dandy and his dentist medicine. Perhaps Big could keep swimming south, to the canal, to the Ohio, to the Mississippi, to New Orleans and the ocean beyond. His spirit had been born in a race and now it would extinguish in a race. Those were my considerations as Tom’s Radish left Big in her wake. I do not know if he saw me aboard as he plisshfed.
* * *
Tom gave an eagle cry and grabbed a pole to lance the victory barrel – but froze when he heard a sound like a bullet chewing the air.
Spkeeeew and another spkeeeew
The boiler were undoing her buttons. Spkeeeew
Kreosote fire cannot be banked like wood fire.
Spkeeeewspkeeeewspkeeeew
I ran back from the bows – past Tom – past Frawley and the turkeys – past the boiler – as far from the fire as I could get – back toward Big. Before I reached the stern rail, something brighter than the sky swallowed me up.
Our trouble often travels by barrel – whiskey – apples – gunmeal – Tom’s kreosote. When the last barrel burst, it loosed a whole summer of heat and blew the Radish to toothpicks. I learned how it was to be a bird without wings or feathers. The combustion sent me hurtling overboard, away from the bridge, back to Big and far past. As I gone overhead we swapped a glance for just a quick moment – swimming-Big and flying-Meed – the strangest hidy. I birded all the way back to the Irish town bend, where I caught in the winter bones of a tree. My landing scratched some, but it did give a fine view on the disaster.
You would never know the Radish had ever existed, but the fire from her boiler still burned. The explosion had sent a fine rain of liquid kreosote into the air. As the mist settled, the bits and bobs of flaming wreckage caught it to burning, and structures on both sides of the river followed the dance. The conflagration went faster than either racer, although Big did not stop swimming – only pounded the water faster and faster plisshfplisshfplisshfplisshfplisshf until he embraced the victory barrel.
From my distant tree I could not spy what face Big made when he finally seen the catastrophe. Underneath the bridge he had shelter from the fiery rain, even as the kreosote settled on the water, and the Cuyahoga itself burned around him.
* * *
Big did not pant for air or pout at the lack of celebration – he were happy to see his old foe flame back for a homecoming rastle. Straightaway he climbed up a great stone leg of Mr Clark’s bridge and roared for BUCKETS. The burning air warmed him right up, and he went for heroics like I had never seen. Once pails was circulating, he made himself into a rainstorm. He raced up and down the banks of the river stomping and smothering and dousing. He grabbed up folks out of burnings-up and set them a safe distance away. The redeemed, hairs singed and eyes wide, watched his naked person run and run and run – spreading like his own fire.
Even from my tree I could see his smile.
* * *
The kreosote fires ate up a half dozen houses on the Cleveland side. On the Ohio side two entire streets were incinerated, plus a brick block of shops and factories. Included in the loss was the ARGUS printers and a thousand shinplasters and the plates of Big’s own almanac.
The fire touched more than buildings – suitclothes and skin and civic spirit burned. The sky itself stayed draped in drab, and the river clouded over with ash. Somehow the bridge survived, only scorched, even though the Radish had bust so close by. Perhaps Dog’s bombings had inoculated the bridge from exploding.
Not one bit of Tom Tod were turned up. Not any of the contents of his cavern pockets. Not any uncommonly white teeth.
Mayor Frawley landed a quarter mile beyond the explosion and did not survive his injuries. This only suited – Ohio city would not want any mayoring after the New Year.
* * *
Even though his body never showed, Tom Tod had himself a slapping good funeral. In truth a mess is the best burying stone. You cannot name a person who died and left every last speck cleaned up – you would not remember them from boredom. Keep your desolate places and Pyramids of Cheops. Exploding makes a better memory.
I do not know that my brother wanted any gratitude for fighting the kreosote fires. Wanted or no, there was no thanks offered. All those scorched eyes saw him like a wound that wanted washing.
Big Son ought to be in chains
Big Son ought to hang
I expect it was proposed that his liver ought to be pecked by eagles for misuse of fire. Eagles was deficient but the pecking could be done just as good by chickens.
* * *
It does not seem fair to blame Big entirely for the fire. He had not driven Tom Tod to use the kreosote. But he had been a party to the race, and without the race there would have been no fire. Since Tom were vanished to ashes, all the fault passed to Big like an inheritance.
It is resolved that you should depart from and never return to the cities of Cleveland or Ohio after the 1st of January 1838
The book of John does not tell how Lazarus of Bethany done before he took sick, or how he got on after his brief death. Whether the brother of Mary and Martha were the same type of man after resurrecting. Whether he sinned more or less or about the same amount. John only says that after Lazarus got over dying, they all had a banquet, and sister Mary poured perfume on Jesus.
I consider that Lazarus were already and forever dead in the breathing sense, and Jesus brung him back only to eternal life – to remembrance. Mr August Dogstadter were already dead when I pulled him from the river. When he came back alive in me, he were set on his usual behavior.
On Sunday the thirty-first of December 1837, I broke the Lord’s sabbath and undertook to violate four other commandments and the laws of the state of Ohio besides. I rigged up ten trick barrels – split in two by hidden partition. I put whiskey into one side and Dog’s gunmeal into the other. I done this ten times over, and then loaded the barrels in a wagon hired from Mr Ozias Basket.
I drove the wagon from my grocery at Pearl-street down the Columbus road hill, to the western landing of Mr Clark’s bridge. I told the voice in the toll cabinet that I were delivering refreshments for the next day’s grand ceremony of union. I said I would cross back directly and should not have to pay the toll. The voice in the cabinet disagreed. I did not bother to argue.
* * *
On account of it being Sunday the grocery were closed. A shame considering it were a prime occasion for refreshment – the last day of the year and the last day of Ohio city.
As 1837 went out, pots and pans were banged some – prayers spoke for a prosperous year. Once the streets gone silent and cold I stepped out – left dead Dog behind – and made a homecoming visit. I had a notion to put in my brother’s mind.
The year 1838 had no moon or clouds yet, only stars blinking dumb as animals. No candles in the homeplace, no Asa in his stall. The only noise in the attic were Big’s snores.
I knelt down and pinched his nose.
His breath moved to his mouth instead.
I kept his nose shuttered and put a hand over his trap.
With his breath dammed up, his eyes burst open.
I took away my hands.
Hidy Big
Little brother I dreamt I were drowning you should not be here
I will not be long There is to be another bombing of the bridge Dog lives and he is fixed on blood There is powder hidden in the whiskey that I delivered for the festivities and Dog means to explode it for wedding bells
Big looked unsure that his dream had ceased.
You are in poor favor You are banished but if you bring word to the authorities Warn folks You will be redeemed Only you must get there before the ceremony
Big nodded slow as ice melting.
The last time I had walked down to the Cuyahoga at dawn, I wore nothing but pig s___ and a troubled
mind. I had coat and shoes this time, but the vexation were worse. I did not know what I meant to do when I reached the water. I could let Big claim this feat and its reward. I could climb into the river and drown. I could say the whiskey were spoiled and pour out the barrels. I could confess. I could say nothing and walk until I forgot myself entirely.
* * *
No one ever seen the tolltaker come or go. No one knew for certain if he were one man or a trick-talking bird or a woman or a ghost. Only that the voice would have five cents for each person, animal and conveyance.
I approached with my hands spread out empty.
Five cents
I do not wish to cross
F___ off then
I am here to stop bloodshed
Five cents drunk or sober
There is another bomb
The voice said nothing.
My brother means to explode this bridge today He has planted the powder already He will come here soon You will want a crowd to stop him
Acknowledgments
Ben Adams, Katie Adams, Joel Brouwer (you were right about punctuation), Alexandra Cook, Peter Ginna, Sally Howe, Michael Martone (huzzah), Jeffrey Melton, Doug Merlino, Monarch, Eric Nusbaum, Clifford and Lisa Lee Peterson at Taleamor Park, Aja Pollock, David Roth (not the one from Van Halen or magic), Sarah Scarr, Sophie Strohmeier, Alexa Tullett, Adam Villacin, Kellie Wells, and everyone at Scribner
Abundant and eternal thanks to:
Jim Rutman
Kathy Belden
My family—Beattys, Turners, and McConnells
Susan Beatty
My dad
My mom