A Reckoning

by Linda Spalding

  Patton had chided him: You’re never any use, boy. Let’s get Mama a buck.

  Off season, said Martin. We can’t.

  But Patton carried the forbidden gun across his shoulder, caring nothing for rules. Patton had a great spirit, an enviable spirit, and Martin looked up to him even as he led his little brother through the fields and into the woods until they came right up close to Rafe Fox’s dreary farm that sat in the middle of the Dickinson property with only a narrow right-of-way to the outside world. It was the family victory. Benjamin had surrounded Rafe Fox by purchasing all the land that abutted his. Which made it all the more interesting to Patton, who lectured Martin as they walked along Rafe’s fence line. One shot has to do it. That’s all the time we have. Aim for the head.

  I thought we wanted a buck. You can’t shoot a cow.

  Just you watch me.

  Patton, I already got a beatin.

  That was for yesterday’s sin. You are what now? Thirteen? Almost? Years and years older than yesterday. And you have a father with no love for sport, which leaves me the job of tutoring scared-of-his-shadow you, little Marty boy.

  I’m not scared. Martin so wanted to be his brother, to somehow fit into his skin. He said: But let’s stay on our own side, okay?

  You are such a jackass.

  Keeping to the trees, the boys walked until they found a place rough enough to give them foothold. Then it was up and over the fence. Nineteen-year-old Patton was known for his stride; he was known for his laugh and for his Virginia courtesy. He was never awkward, never fell down unless he had too much brandy. He was one to lift his hat, bow from the waist, and speak to ladies most politely, and now Martin was at the mercy of this older brother on the unholy land of Rafe Fox. Old Rafe, old Rafe, beyond compare, gelded a boy and made him a mare. It was a rhyme never said except at school by boys who smoked and cussed. Still, the phrase was there in Martin’s mind as he followed Patton on the wrong side of the fence. Gelded a boy. Gelded a boy. Over and over it went in his mind. His thoughts were jumping, his throat closed tight. Rafe Fox was the devil incarnate, according to their pa and Uncle Benjamin, but Patton was forever hunting, trapping, meeting the local daughters with a flask of brandy and forgetting to respect any boundary. Devil or not, Patton had a bottle in his pocket and Martin could hear it rattle and clank against loose coins. He kept a worried eye on the pocket because if Patton drank and then fell asleep in this field, he would have to know what to say back home come suppertime. She’s all yours, little brother, Patton coaxed, pointing to a brown milch cow nibbling on a tuft of grass.

  We are off our land, Martin noted with his small voice, but he was diverted by a strange-looking toad that he stopped to touch with his thumb and the cow moved along amiably. He tried not to think about Rafe Fox, who might come after them with his gelding knife. Patton had found a screen of prickly laurel and was hissing at Martin to come over to it fast. Get on over here! Hell, boy! Duck down and shut your mouth. And when Martin pointed at the bottle sticking out of Patton’s pocket, he heard a growl that seemed to come out of his brother, a deep, angry throat sound, and he ducked his head as he had been told to do but then he raised it in time to see his brother lift the gun. No! Please! Martin whispered. No. Because they were in a trench behind the laurel screen on Rafe’s private land and it was a wild, angry noise above them that made Martin’s skin prickle and the hairs on his neck lift up. It was a growl that he had only heard once before in his whole life, and now it came from a large black bear high up in a tree some few yards off and the bear was climbing, paw over paw, stroke by stroke through branches shedding their needles and growing new ones on that bright spring day. She was climbing to get to her cub and Martin’s protest went entirely unheard under the sharp, resounding crack of the gun, that clarifying sound that shattered the bright green world as Martin watched the big bear fall backward, rolling slowly in the empty air, her mouth tearing open, her legs paddling and her eyes focused on the tree where her cub was clinging to the trunk, not much bigger than a puppy, all arms and legs, and Martin grabbed the gun by the burning barrel and shoved it hard at his brother’s chest. Then he ran at the tree and leapt up to reach the cub’s furry legs, the claws so sharp they tore at his hands, which were already torn by the laurel bush. Was there another shot? Was Patton shooting at him? Martin zigged through snapping trees with the small burden tight in his arms as out of the bush from nowhere, a man stepped solid and hard in front of him and grabbed his arm. Just hold on, the man said. Let’s see if it’s hurt. Hold still. It was the stranger with the feathered hat, the wanderer in search of birds. He seemed larger now than he was the day before and he gripped Martin’s shoulders. She has claws, he said. Be careful. She’ll need milk. I’ll come back to the house with you. Speak to your father.

  Martin’s breathing was shallow, old and new tears streamed down his face and he rubbed at the tears with his bleeding hands. He looked up at the man and was obedient, holding tight to the bear cub, feeling the fear in her panting. Got to climb the fence, he said.

  No, there’s a gate. And it opens. You might have tried knocking. It’s considered polite. The birdman tousled Martin’s hair. Wipe your face. You’ll scare your poor mother to death.

  Martin wondered about Patton. Was he hiding? Maybe he didn’t even care.

  Their walking was tangled by things underfoot, but Martin could almost keep up with the stranger, who opened the gate and closed it behind them, and whose stride was direct while the weight of the bear in Martin’s sore arms seemed to increase with every step.

  At the house they went first to the kitchen, where Clotilde reached out to feel the bear’s furry head. That’s a comfort, she said. I’ll warm up some milk. Clotilde had been in the kitchen forever. She had a bottle used for orphan lambs and she might have settled the cub on her lap but Martin said: She’s afeared just now, and he sat on the kitchen stool and put the rubber nipple into the groping toothy mouth while Ross stood watching and Clotilde went about her work.

  When they left the kitchen, which was separate from the house in the Virginia way, Martin led Ross through a garden planted with stakes and lattices for peas and beans. My father’s garden, said Martin. There were already squash vines, onion sprouts, and peas. But all around this feeding garden was an acre or more of flowers planted for color and shape. My mother’s garden, Martin explained, and Ross saw peonies and early roses, a trellis of wisteria, and he recognized the symptoms of a woman’s wish for beauty over necessity. He was taken by the Japanese magnolias, which were white and pink and a dull color in between. He thought such a garden would make anyone kind.

  Through the door and into the dining room, the preacher sat alone at an oblong table drinking black coffee from a saucer that had belonged to Ruth Boyd. When John looked up it was to see a stranger in the doorway with an arm around young Martin, who had not come to breakfast and who seemed to be holding something tucked inside his shirt. Martin’s face was blotted with streaks of blood. He was breathing hard.

  Father, this is Mister –

  Doctor Ross. I’m Doctor Ross. The birdwatching abolitionist put out his hand.

  John half rose, still focused on his boy, but he glanced at the lump of bear.

  Your son rescued it when the mother was shot by some rascal in the woods. Ross smiled to show his goodwill and took off his feathered hat and held it in the crook of his arm and smiled again, shifting uneasily.

  John stood then, son of small orphan Ruth Boyd, stretching for height. He had been taking his second coffee of the morning and considering economies. His hair, which was fair enough, was clipped from the forehead halfway back to the crown but the rest fell lank to his shoulders in the way of the Methodist ministers. The hairstyle was a kind of uniform and he saw that Ross was noticing, which meant he was unreligious and John found that he felt unwelcoming. Who was this man fastened to his son? He stared at the field glasses Ross wore as if they might contain portents, and Ross lifted the strap over his shoulder and he
ld the big glasses out. Made by an Italian, he said respectfully. It’s a new way of carrying distant images to the eye. He took off his bag then and kicked it to the wall, still clutching his hat with an elbow. I am here in your county to study birds. Well. And it’s a pleasant task, pleasant enough, although, he added, while Herr Goethe said the senses do not deceive, I sometimes think we see what we want to see.

  John nodded vaguely. The glasses were heavy and as he put them up to his face, Ross said: A bird is a league away and each feather is detailed. It could be inches. But there is more to it than that. Adjust the focus and it is possible to feel close to a subject who has no suspicion of your interest. Spin this here, this brass ring, Ross said. Try closing one eye and work it that way. We want the bird to be one thing or the other. We want to classify. I’m in pursuit of the loggerhead shrike, which should be migrating north about now.

  Minister of the Lord and wary of science, John looked through the field glasses and wondered that time could be so wasted. He reminded himself that he had once brought home a cotton gin from Baltimore and that object was the result of someone’s pursuit of knowledge and it had made the Dickinsons wealthy. But was this not the demand of the land? Did it not demand to be useful, John wondered as he held the glasses to his face, seeing nothing. Of what possible use was the study of migrating birds? John did not like jokes, especially when they were at his expense. His own economic research had been interrupted and now he had a stranger to contend with in his dining room. He handed the glasses back and told Martin to take the cub back to the woods where it belonged. He told Ross he might look for loggerhead shrike on the Dickinson land if he did so with all due care. All but one field belongs to my brother, he explained, but I manage all of it. John enjoyed that claim of authority over the soil he and his brother and father and sons and nephews had tended. He turned then to see his wife coming swiftly toward them with a bowl of cut flowers for the table. They were daisies and roses, an unlikely mixture, but Lavina put them down and went quickly across the room to examine the bear.

  John looked up at his wife. This is another black mark on Patton, Mother. I did not give permission to use my gun. He made a curl of his mouth to show his displeasure and to show that he would take things in hand. He would threaten to send his eldest son away, to prove his point. Lavina relied on his authority. One more mistake and you are on your own, he would say in her hearing. Out west, where you can work off your sins, is where you’ll go. It usually worked to calm Patton down for a week or so. John spoke calmly now, introducing the birdwatcher as the one who had come upon the murderous scene, and said: I’ve told Martin to take it back to the woods.

  But it isn’t weaned!

  John opened both hands in a gesture of forbearance: Listen to the sentiment of women, Doctor.

  Ross tilted his head, male to male, showing that he understood. Although perhaps your boy has a rare opportunity here, he said gently, angling his gaze at the preacher while he took the cub out of Martin’s arms and laughed when she pushed up to suck at his ear. Wouldn’t that be something for the history books, raising a bear? To train? And a good way to keep a boy occupied in the summer months.

  John stood by his chair. He wondered what the birdwatcher would find in the fields that he himself might not notice. If the senses do not deceive, were his less competent? He thought of the land that stretched out around them. He stood wavering. He considered and made a decision that would change everything in their lives. The bear could recover in the barn.

  Build a closed stall, coached Lavina. Warm and dark. Lots of milk.

  John grimaced, but he invited the birdwatcher back. For supper, if you don’t mind, Mother. He then regarded their guest, who would see birds, yes, but who would also see oats and flax already seeded, and cotton, which is delicate and tiresome and unknown in the north. He would see timothy grass and clover cut by scythe and gathered by rake. Such sights had no need of an Italian device. Such sights were God-given to the eye and gratitude must be enjoined. Blessings abounding, now that he thought of it, blessings upon us endlessly. In the orchard there were blooming pear trees, plums and apples. Birds, too, taking off for someplace else. He would ask Lavina to put her good plates on the table since she had so little chance to enjoy them. There would be the light of more than sufficient tallow candles and he would lean back in his chair and speak of the natural world that surrounded them since he was born of this piece of earth and its sap ran in his veins.

  5

  Jonesville, three miles away, was a small collection of merchants and a few others who served the needs of the families scattered around the county. It boasted one general store, one bank, a blacksmith and wheelwright, a courthouse soon to be built, and a school where John could preach when he wasn’t at the campground or out riding his circuit. There was a rival chapel for Presbyterians at the other end of a street wide enough for two wagons to pass without touching. Because this street was part of the Wilderness Road or turnpike, there was a regular throb of big wheels and groaning beasts with people of want wanting more, restless, going west. Three miles out of town in that direction, Benjamin Dickinson held three thousand acres, some of it inherited, some traded, some won. Martin said: You want to see birds, they’ll be over in the field there pecking cottonseeds.

  Ross said: They don’t like cottonseed.

  Yessir, they do.

  Ross touched the ground. Warm. Moist. They don’t like cottonseed, he said again. How many slaves do you have?

  We don’t say that.

  Ross had the glasses up to his face. How many?

  They’re not ours anyway.

  They belong to your uncle…

  I thought it was birds you like.

  That’s right. And what do you think might be the effect on birds of planting all these acres in cottonseed?

  Martin was holding the little bear and she was clinging to him, belly to belly, sniffing and sucking at his ears.

  Ross said: Can I trust you, Martin?

  Yessir. I always tell the truth.

  Truth is a temptation, Martin. It can be dangerous. But listen. I’m curious about the slaves around here. On the various farms. How many would there be, do you think?

  Martin had no idea. Thirty? Fifty?

  Where would they be at this hour?

  In a field. Different fields.

  What about tomorrow? Morning? Can you bring me to them?

  We’d have to…You mean…I don’t think Uncle Benj –

  Would like it. Let’s go make your bear a nice safe place to sleep. Have you named her yet?

  Leaving the sown field, they were careful to stay between the rows, hopping from one foot to another over the long narrow mounds, Martin pointing to some striated rock when they got to the edge and Ross saying: That was once at the bottom of the sea, son. I’ll wager there are fish skeletons in it. Take a look.

  There’s an owl comes to that tree over there, Martin replied, to show that he knew his whereabouts and could not be fooled about fish in rocks.

  And what does your owl like to eat? Cottonseed?

  Martin hugged the bear cub. I could name her Cuff.

  Why?

  She cuffs me. Then bites my ear.

  Omnivore. Do you know that word? A jay will eat the babies in another bird’s nest.

  That’s a cannibal. And rocks got made by the Lord, Mister Ross.

  Ross pointed down: Just look here. This old ground was formed by operations that repeat themselves over and over. The law of nature is constant change. Flux. Nothing is ready-made.

  Martin suddenly shouted a perfect imitation of his father’s preacherly voice: And the disappearance of languages! And the return of the Jews to the holy land!

  What’s that? Ross was taken aback.

  Confused by the talk of constant change, Martin asked: Don’t you know about Jesus coming back?

  They took their time in the woods, doing a count of birds, Ross making marks in a notebook. They did not find a shrike on the wing or
on a branch and Ross wondered out loud if he might be too late, if they were even now nesting in the marshy lake country of Upper Canada. He used his field glasses. He crouched and peered. Jesus is coming back. Here?

  We have to earn the sight though.

  Isn’t it all predetermined? Who gets saved?

  No sir, that’s Calvinist! Martin looked up at the birdman slyly. And not very scientific.

  6

  Martin was late to the supper table. Having spent the afternoon in the barn nailing down pieces of wood to cover a mule stall so his bear would be safely confined in a warm, dark cave and then going back to the house and upstairs, where he went straight to the cot that sat in a corner of the hall for overnight guests and looked through the birdman’s leather bag. He could hear Patton whispering threats from their shared room on the other side of the wall: I’ll get you back for telling on me. My baby brother! What a pal.

  Martin whispered: I didn’t tell! But he thought of Cuff’s mother, who would be chopped up for meat, her fur to be spread on the floor of the parlor as if it had never known life, never had a little baby to protect. Patton was not allowed supper and Martin didn’t care. Serves him right. Maybe he would bring something up to their room at bedtime, but it wouldn’t be anything nice. Patton had to learn his lesson. That’s what their father said and now their mother was upset by the threat of sending Patton out west. It was easy to look through the birdman’s leather bag. But why so many compasses? Why so many knives? Maps of Virginia, Kentucky and Ohio. There was also the notebook containing pitiful sketches. Thrush – largest of the sparrow kind, with bill somewhat bending at the point. Also the stare or starling, though with flat bill. Also the blackbird in same genus

  note: more snares laid for thrushes than for other birds – esp song thrush and redwing