by Ken Kesey
"Sure," Hank said.
"Sure. We'll just wait."
And waited. While the sky before them, over the river, thickened with rain, and the forest behind shushed the wind to listen to the tinny music reeling out below. While freshets gushed icy mud into gullies, gullies into creeks, along banks wattled by erosion.
While the waves, back up the coast at the Devil's Jailhouse, thudded higher and higher toward escape up the cancered rock wall, and the clouds combed overhead, in from the sea over the surf, and broke against the high slopes to rake back the way they had come.
While Viv rose from a hot tub of water and hummed herself dry before an electric heater in a room that smelled of rose oil.
And while the distance between the old house and my rain-soaked and relentless shoes clicked steadily away, my resolution mounted: Eight miles through this rain, eight miserable miles . . . why, if I can make that, I can make anything . . .
Hank tried to set the screwjacks to move the log, but they only twisted into the mud.
"What we need is a horse," Hank said, cursing the jacks.
"An' then how?" Joe asked, amused by Hank's frustration at the log. "Hook on and drag it over me up the hill? No, what you need is a whale in the river yonder to pull it off that way. You bet. Know where we can rent a good stout whale broke to harness?"
"How you doin'? You feel it lightenin' any yet?"
"Maybe some. I can't tell. Because I'm cold as a witch's tit, if you got to know. How much has it come up?"
"Only another couple inches," Hank lied and lit another cigarette. He offered Joe a drag, but Joe, after eying the smoke, allowed as how he'd best keep his promises to the Lord, things being the way they were. Hank smoked in silence.
The kingfishers waited ceremoniously on the branches over the river.
... watch the doughnut, not the hole.
When the water reached Joe Ben's neck Hank dived under the surface and braced his shoulder against the bark and tried to budge the log. But it would have taken a two-hundred-horse Diesel to move that weight and he knew it. He also knew that the way the log lay, slanting up the bank, it was going to take considerable water to float it off. And when it did move it was likely to roll up bank, more onto Joe.
Occasionally a kingfisher would dive, then return to the branch without chancing the water.
Joe had turned down the radio and they talked some now. About the old man lying up the hill under Hank's parka, about the job and how they'd call J. J. Bismarck, the head man at Wakonda Pacific, first thing they got to a phone and score some non-union help for the run tomorrow.
"Maybe get old Jerome Bismarck hisself out there in corks doin' the river-run twist--wouldn't that be a sight to behold? J. J. Bismarck floppin' around in the water, all four hundred pounds of him? Lord, Lord . . ."
Hank laughed at the thought. "Okay, buster, but let me call to your attention the first time you tried to pond-monkey. Remember? Right in the middle of January, and there was ice all around the logs?"
"No. No, I don't recall nothing about that. Not a thing."
"No? Why, I guess I should refresh your memory. You'd put on about a dozen sweat shirts and a set of rain pants and a big mackinaw--"
"Nope. That wasn't me. I never owned no mackinaw. Some other boy . . ."
"And first jack outa the box you fell in and went down like a rock. Just one little whoop. And it took half the mill crew to haul you out, you weighed so much. I like to died laughing."
"Somebody else. I'm always light and agile. And, anyhow, what about you the time you was wearin' that scarf that Barbara knitted for you and it got caught in the chain saw--for a while there we didn't know whether you was goin' out by hanging or decapitation! How 'bout that?"
"You remember that time the wrestling team drove to Bend for a dual match--talkin' about clothes--and big old Bruce Shaw brought along a tuxedo because the coach told him to dress?"
"Lord, Lord--Bruce Shaw . . ."
"Bruce the moose--he just kept growing."
"Ain't that the truth! Oh yeah. He was in our congregation for a while, did I tell you that? Falling down and talking in tongues. Dangerous to get too close; he was bigger'n he was in high school."
"Lordy that was pretty big. He was two-eighty or -ninety then. . . ."
"After he quit comin' to services I lost track of him. What come of him, hear tell?"
"He got in a bad car wreck seven or so years ago . . . Hey, I ever tell you? I run into him, not long after that very wreck, I guess, over in Eugene at Melody Ranch. I saw him at the dance and said hiya Bruce, friendly enough, but he was salty as hell about something, just scowled at me like he'd break me in half. And--listen to this, I never told you this--I got a real skinful that night, one of the fullest ever. That summer, home from the service. Really bombed. I shoulda passed out, but I made the mistake of thinking I was up to maneuvering around, you see. So I left the dance and went out and started walking, see, and this tree accosted me, man, kept me pinned down for hours. Because I'm really loaded and . . . it's dark and late . . . and I'm walking along and I come up to this tree--with sap running down on it, just standing there. It's old Shaw, big as life and twice as ugly. Shaw, I'm certain of it; old Bruce the moose . . . and man, he looks bad! He's got his shirt off and his arms all spread out and he's got scabs all down the front of him. I stand there and say, 'Hey there, Shaw, how's it hangin'?' Nothing. 'What's happening lately, Shaw boy?' He still don't say nothing, but man he looks bad. I ask him how things are up at the dam where he was working and how is his girl, and his mom, and I don't know what all, and he just stands there--big and bad-looking. So finally--after I've been shivering in front o' him, thinking he's after me for some business I can't even recall--I go to sliding around him. I sorta put myself in my pocket and slide away around him and on down the street, and I don't know old Shaw's a tree till I see he's still standing there in the morning."
"Oh yeah? You never told me that."
"Swear to God."
"Jesus. Pinned down by a tree."
While they were laughing the squeak of the radio suddenly stopped. "Oh dadgum; I forgot to take my radio from around my neck. Dadgum . . . it's ruint. Now don't you laugh, dang you. I thought a lot of that little outfit." Then broke into giggles himself.
But without his radio Joe's laughter gave to chattering. Hank's laughter only increased. "Whoee. After you braggin' about not breaking it when a log rolled over you; now you dunk it . . . oh lord, oh me. . . ." Joe tried to join him. Their laughter stretched out across the water. The kingfishers watched from between solemnly hunched shoulders. As they were laughing a sudden gust of wind blew a small wave into Joe Ben's mouth. Joe choked and spat and laughed some more . . . then turned to ask Hank, in a voice too full of kidding, "Now you ain't about to let this here old river just up and drown me, are you?"
"This river? Why, by gosh; is Joe Ben Stamper worryin' this old river? Sounds screwy. Because man, I thought all you had to do was call your Big Buddy and He'd just aim His finger an' the water'd just hallelujah snap back away from you."
"Yeah, but I've explained this: I hate to bother Him if some of us can handle it. Hate to call anybody out in this stuff, especially Him."
"Okay; I can see that; He's probably got a lot on His mind."
"You bet. It's a busy season, Christmas coming. Then all them trouble spots. Laos, Vietnam . . ."
"And lots of goiters to tend to in Oklahoma. Oh, I can see how you'd hesitate . . ."
"That's right. That's right. Oklahoma needs Him special this year. I believe Oral Roberts has got Him signed on down there right now, shooting a TV series. But the thing is"--Joe raised his chin to avoid another small wave--"this dang water keeps getting' up my nose. I'll tell you what, Hankus: maybe you better hustle up to the pick-up after a length of hose . . . it might just be a while before this log begins to float."
You'd never thought it possible, but Joby was commencing to sound worried. "What is this noise?" I ask him. "Is this the
boy who says, 'Accept your lot and hold your mouth right!' . . . scared of a little wet? Besides, Joby, it's a good three-fourths mile up hill to that pick-up; you want to be alone all that time?"
"No," he says very fast, and quotes: " 'It ain't so good that man should be alone.' Genesis. Just before He whopped up Eve. But, still and all, maybe you oughta run get that hose. . . ."
I splashed into the water beside Joe and stood with my hand resting on his shoulder.
"No," I told him. "It's a fifteen-minute run up to that pick-up and a fifteen-minute run back and at the rate the--well, one thing; I'm just too wore out to go runnin' around here and there, this way and that, at your every little whim-wham. An' you can't run your neck out like you are much longer neither. You remember that leatherback terrapin we caught in the slough bottom once? An' put in a tub with too much water--two, three inches--and nothing for him to climb up on? He didn't drown, you remember? He stood on the bottom of the tub and stretched his neck for so long and out so far to breathe that he stretched himself to death. . . . And, where I ain't worried that you'll drown, there is some chance you might stretch yourself to death." Joe tried to laugh, then shut his mouth before another wave got him. "Anyhow, that log should come up from there right away. An', if worst comes to worst, I can always give you mouth-to-mouth till it rises."
"Well, sure; sure, that's the truth," he said. "I hadn't thought of that." He brought his lips together for a bit as the water lapped up to his face. "Oh yeah; you can always give me mouth-to-mouth."
"Just so long as you don't get worried under there . . ."
"Worried? I ain't worried. Just cold. I know you'll do somethin'."
"Sure."
"Just like we used to trade off with one aqualung under water."
"Sure. It's no different."
"Just like it."
I stood there in the water beside the log, shivering.
"All a man is ever got to do is hold his mouth right an' keep his faith. An' wait . . ." He clamped his mouth.
"Sure," I finished for him while the wave passed. "Just wait. And think about good times ahead."
"Right! And--boy oh boy--Thanksgiving in a few days," Joe remembered, smacking his lips. "That's something, that's good times. 'N' this business will be all over. We'll have to really do something full-size for Thanksgiving."
"Damn right."
Just stood there and shivered, feeling like maybe the time for doing something full-size had long gone. . . .
The kingfishers waited. . . . The rain buzzed pensively against the river, adding drop after drop . . . while Hank spent the last darkening hours of that day clinging to the bark of the log, the sharp brown fingers of the current dragging at his legs--shivering at first, then cold beyond cold and no longer shivering--carrying lungs full of air to a face invisible beneath the water. . . . All Joe has to do, he told himself, is keep from panicking, keep up his spirits.
Joe seemed in the best of spirits. Even after his little scarred face had been submerged Hank could still hear sputtering giggles, and when he ducked his face under still feel that goofy, half-wit grin against Joe's lips. The situation seemed so bizarre to them both that for a time they felt silly and foolish and made the job of transferring the air more difficult and dangerous with their laughing, both realizing it, but unable to stop.
For a time they were unable to think of anything except sonofagun I bet we look like fools; I bet if old Henry up there came to an' saw this we'd never be shut of him kidding us, not in the next hundred years. And, for a time, even after all the situation's ludicrous humor was exhausted for Hank, he still could feel the amusement beneath the water. This kept his hopes alive; as long's the little fart is laughing under there we'll make out. I can carry him air all night if it comes to it. As long as he's got faith enough to see it's funny. As long as I still feel him grinning. That's what'll save his ass, him still getting a boot out of being in a bad fix; him still holding his mouth right. . . .
But beneath the water, in the close, cold dark, the fix was as bad as it was above. And as humorless. More so, actually. Still . . . there was something funny happening. Not funny the way Joe liked, but funny like it was somebody else's joke. And the laughter was no more his laughter than the grin was his grin. They came from someplace else. They had started coming over him right after the water completely covered his face. Black and cold. Shock and horror, then . . . this funny thing swimming up out of the dark. Like something'd been there all along and just waiting for it to get dark enough. Now, in tight silence beneath the water, Joe feels it trying to fit into the skin of him, trying to eat away the thing he is inside, and fit into his skin. A black, laughing cancer trying to take over the shell of him. He doesn't like it. He fights to stop it by trying to think of brighter sides. Like Thanksgiving just a couple days off. One of the best of all times, any time, and this time due to be one of the best of the best of all times. Because this WP deal will be finished; we'll be able to take a breather. With smells all morning. Sage and onion dressing in the turkey. Punkin pie with allspice. Watch the doughnut. Then sit around the stove in the living room, fart and belch, fart and belch like it used to be. Watching the ballgames on TV and drinking beer and smoking cigars. No, no beer or cigars. I forgot. Not the hole. No coffee neither. Don't laugh. Because a man, Brother Walker says, builds his mansion in the sky out of the lumber of Good Living as you walk the streets that he saws here on earth. Lays up his treasures in Heaven by not partaking in--don't laugh now you will have no cares--by not indulging in--don't you laugh because you start laughing pretty quick I choke then I never catch up . . . Besides. There's nothing funny. Not under here. Look: I'm a little worried--and not the squares--and I'm cold; and I hurt. That's not funny. I want to go home. I want to go to my new home and put on the clean suntans Jan's ironing for me and have the twins sit on my belly and Squeaky show us what she drew today in drawing. And all them things. I want . . . cranberries and mincemeat. Oh yeah! And sweet potatoes with marshmallows--don't laugh--with marshmallows baked on top and turkey . . . Don't laugh I want it again! Don't you laugh it ain't funny never to taste sweet potatoes baked with marshmallows on top again! But don't you want watch the doughnut that cigar too? Yes! but dang it a man's got to build his mansion out of! Sure but you tell me--don't get me laughing!--wouldn't you rather have that cup of hot coffee now that you didn't--don't, dang you!--didn't have this morning? No! Not the hole. And don't laugh I know you now get outa here--or that Judy girl who was always--get outa here, Devil!--putting the ray on you in math class? Satan! Satan! I know you and don't laugh--you know me--you black Devil--you know better than that now Devil! The Good Lord in His goodness He leadeth me through the valley of the shadow! Come on now, sonny, don't make me laugh; you know better than that bullshit. It ain't funny! Or bullshit. I'll hack it out if I just don't go to doubting. Oh yeah, sure you will . . . I will! Whosoever believe that he don't laugh! Sure you will just like you hacked me out with a brush knife it ain't funny no but it still gives a fellow amusement don't laugh you you cheated me no you cheated me no no they yeah yeah that's what I mean it was Him and them yeah that's what's so don't do it! baloney what's the Oh oh oh no difference? See? See? If we all got cheated? But the cigars! Oh yeah, I missed the smokes but And o my god I liked coffee oh yeah me too but that's what's so goddam funny so blessed funny so oh oh . . . oh . . .
A bubbling of hysterical mirth erupted in Hank's face just as he was bending to deliver another breath to Joe. It startled him so he lost his lungful of air. He stared, frowning, at the now placid spot where the strange laughter had exploded. Then gulped another lungful of air and plunged his face into the water, feeling with his lips until he found Joby's mouth . . . open in the dark there, open and round with laughing. And huge; like an underwater cave, it's so huge, like a drain hole at the world's deepest bottom, rimmed with cold flesh . . . so huge it could empty seas.
And the current swirling down in a black spiral, filling it to laugh again.
He d
id not attempt to force his cargo of air into that lifeless hole. He withdrew his face slowly and stared again at the surface of water that lay featureless and unruffled over Joe. No different from any of the rest of the surface, all the way across the river, all the way out to sea. (But Joe Ben is dead, don't you realize? ) The clicking was going again--waiting--louder and harder. And a fuzziness, too, and nausea. (The little sonofabitch is dead. And yet, the little goblin is dead don't you see? in spite of the sudden rolling pitch of nausea, above that ballooning sense of loss that you always feel right after somebody close dies but he's dead, Joe Ben is dead, don't you understand, I experienced a sort of feeling of relief. I was tired, and it was almost over, and I was relieved to know I would be able to rest before much longer. Waiting. Tired for a long time. Just a little bit more, just get the old man up to the pick-up and in town to some help, and maybe then it will be over. Finally finished. After going on now for Christ how long? after going on now for at least . . . since I saw the old man coming down the hill from the pick-up this morning, looking all worried. No. Before that. Since earlier this morning, or last night waking up and seeing my reflection. No. Before that, too. Since Joby first got me out for football and made me his hero. Since he first jumped into the ocean that time to make me outswim him. Since the old man nailed that plaque on my wall. Since Boney Stokes bugged old Henry about his old man. Since, since, since . . .) until--standing there, waiting, still looking at that spot of water--his burning lungs broke the backrushing stream of thoughts, "But you're dead, Joby, you bastard oh damn you you're dead"--and he blew out the stale air in a loud, gasping sob . . .
As it grew darker along the highway more and more kindred souls motoring in my direction up river pulled over to ask if they mightn't give me a lift. I refused politely and continued stoically on with a delicious air of martyrdom about me. The walk had become more and more religious to me; a pilgrimage with built-in penance, taking me to my mosque, my shrine of salvation, and at the same time punishing me with rain and cold for the sin I planned to commit when I got there. And, believe it or not, the closer I got to the house the slower fell the rain and the warmer felt the air. Quite a change, I thought, from streets filled with sleet and demonic doctors . . .