by Isla Morley
In memory of my dad, David
SEPTEMBER 1972
Thirty-five years ago, Havens would have opened his eyes and thought of the day ahead as lacking. The surprise of old age is how comfortable a person can be with an empty day, how companionable it can be. If anything, Havens wants the day to empty itself even more, allow for memories to pay a visit, and should he decide to spend his time doing nothing more than sitting in his recliner and missing her, what’s to stop him?
Havens is neither by nature nor by habit an early riser, and it is only out of a sense of duty to an imperious old pigeon that he gets up rather than turn over and doze a little longer. When he stretches his arms overhead and arches his back, his joints creek in protest. He looks in the mirror at a face that seems both familiar and startlingly foreign. Old age is a menace; there is no abating it. Every day it claims more territory. Forgoing shaving, he splashes water on his face and puts on exactly what he wore yesterday—a pair of saggy jeans, his red flannel shirt, a coffee-stained gray pullover, and sneakers mended at the toe with packaging tape—and humming tunelessly, wanders through the quiet house. He glances out the living room window at the pasture, pillowy with fog. The day, too, seems to be getting a late start. Havens would prefer to drink a cup of coffee before facing the pigeon, but the chirps coming from the enclosed back porch are insistent, so he leaves the coffee to boil on the stove and goes out to take his instruction.
“What are you in such a flap about?” He notices the bird has worked loose the bandaging on his wing and the joint is exposed again at the break. “You’ve picked yourself raw, silly.” He removes the top of Lord Byron’s cage and slides the window open so the pigeon can enjoy the brisk air. Fluffed up, the bird hops onto the window sill, gives in to instinct, and plummets. Eight months convalescing, and still the bird refuses to accept his decrepitude. Havens respects this in any being, feathered or otherwise. He rushes outside to retrieve the bird, before applying ointment, bandaging the wound, and getting his hands pecked at in return.
“Quit it, would you. Violence is never the answer.”
The bird knows Havens is a pushover. He tips over the seed tray as if to say, Slop.
Havens checks on the other patients, a noisy mockingbird almost feathered enough to fly and a rambunctious blue jay that cuckooed itself by flying into the kitchen window yesterday. Before heading to the barn, he puts down a dish of food for the black cat he has refused to name lest it get any ideas, and out of spite, the cat refuses to find himself more suitable accommodations and continues to deposit lizard parts on the back step.
The mule, Molly, is indifferent to him, interested only in the fresh hay he puts out for her. She eats enough for a herd. “You’ve let yourself go, you know,” he says.
Of all the animals in his care, Gimp is the only one ever pleased to see him, and the three-legged goat is as agreeable a creature as ever there was. Havens pets him and opens the stall door so he can burn off his energy in the turnout and watches as the billy takes a stab at bucking and topples over instead.
It’s while Havens is filling the water bucket that he hears the rumble of a car coming down his driveway. He’s not expecting anyone, and those who know him know better than to show up unannounced. Unless something is wrong. You’d think the mechanism to stand guard would have become a little rusty over time, but no, he’s braced.
He steps out of the barn and squints down the dirt driveway. Is it a rental? Nobody from these parts has a clean, new car, certainly no Ford Fairlane. Tourist, maybe.
Before the vehicle comes to a stop, Havens stands in such a way as to make his position clear, and still, a lanky man in his late twenties, maybe thirty, unfolds himself from the driver’s seat.
“The craft center is another four miles down the road. There’ll be a sign on the right.” Havens flaps his hand to shoo him off in case he gets the idea that a reply is in order. Scrawny fella. Perhaps one of those religious types. Maybe he’s deaf, Havens worries, because the guy continues to approach him.
“Good morning, sir. Is this Plot 45? There wasn’t a sign.” He has a soft way of speaking that Havens instantly decides is the result of over-mothering. Even though his hair is too long, his shirt is tucked in, and he’s wearing proper shoes, not those leather sandals everyone traipses around in these days. He’s not entirely objectionable-looking, but still, he has made Havens unsure of himself. To cover this, Havens raises his voice.
“Best be on your way now.”
The interloper has more pluck than his appearance lets on. He takes another step forward, and says, “Are you Mr. Clayton Havens?”
Either the guy is peddling something, or he’s one of those pencilnecks from the Clearcreek Mining Company with another pathetic offer to buy his land. “Whatever you are selling, I don’t want it, so you hustle your hindquarters back down my driveway and find someone else to pester.”
There is no change in the stranger’s demeanor. If anything, he appears pleased with himself. Damned if he doesn’t stand his ground and open his rattrap again. “I’m not selling anything, Mr. Havens. I’m here to ask you a few questions about some people you may have known a long time ago, a family by the name of Buford, I believe?”
There is only one life-form lower than a prospector, and that’s a reporter. Havens has lost his knack. “Don’t you Mr. Havens me. Now, I told you once already to leave.”
“I was hoping you would be able to tell me where I could reach them. I was told you—”
Without waiting for him to finish, Havens spins around and treks to the barn. It’s been ages since some outfit up north has sent a hack out here trying to sniff out a story on her. Always they speak like this, persistent-like, “when” instead of “if,” acting like they’re here to do you some big favor. Years ago, one of them pretended to want to know about Havens’s work as a documentarian for the FSA and his later shift in focus to nature photography, appealing to his ego—“A blunt style uncommon for that period,” he’d said of Havens’s photographic style, as if Havens had invented it—but whatever angle they pitch him, they all want to get at her.
“Is there someone else I might talk to?” the kid yells. “I could come back later if this isn’t a convenient time…”
Havens goes into the tack room and snatches the Winchester from the gun rack, then marches out of the barn toward the intruder. “I have nothing to say to you, not now, not later, not ever.” He pets the muzzle.
Now the kid gets the idea. He backs up all the way to his vehicle, bleating about having been given the wrong information. “I’m very sorry for troubling you.”
Havens keeps the rifle aimed at the rear window of the rental until it has made its way down the driveway and back to the street. Take a left, he wills. Don’t you go driving into Chance.
Only a city boy would put on his blinker and look both ways on a road that never sees traffic. “Goddammit.” The stranger hangs a right.
Havens hurries to his pickup and cusses when he sees the keys aren’t in the ignition. It takes him a good fifteen minutes rummaging around in the house before he tracks them down and gets back to the old clunker, which sputters and objects to his impatience by backfiring. So much for flooring it into town.
Not much of anything remains of Chance anymore. There’s the post office and Checkers, the sorry excuse for a food joint that sells dry hotdogs and something that resembles ice cream. It’s a sad fact that Havens eats there a couple times a week. For teeth-pulling, religion, or proper policing, a person has to go twelve miles to Smoke Hole. Fortunately, Havens has need of none of these. What used to be the beauty shop is now something of a cross between a pawn shop and a tattoo parlor, and word has it that some of the finest narcotics in all Kentucky are cooked in the back room, but Havens d
oesn’t trust anything he hears. Still circulating are stories about his being afflicted by seasonal madness, not that he’s ever been inclined to correct them.
Every business enterprise in town is closed today and there’s no sign of the Fairlane, and Havens is feeling downright lucky until his truck swings onto Second Street and he sees Flavil’s red pickup parked in front of his general store, a blinking red OPEN sign in its window.
Rakestraw’s is not the hardware and feed store it used to be, though its prices are still inflated, and it remains the congregating spot for those who elect to get their local news straight from the loose lips of its nosy proprietor, which is why Havens comes in here only when he absolutely has to.
Flavil Rakestraw is stocking his shelves. He’s a bulky guy with a helmet of hair meant to cover hearing aids, which don’t work, and Havens has to walk all the way up to him and tap him on the shoulder. At an almost unbearable decibel, Flavil says, “So, that fella flushed you out.”
He goes on about how polite the guy was for a Northerner, how he expressed an appreciation for the history of the area, that he bought a carton of chocolate milk, and Havens has to all but shout to make Flavil stop pretending nothing is wrong.
“Goddamn, Flavil, we both know he didn’t come on a grocery run.”
Flavil resumes pricing the cans of Crisco. “Like I said, he was real neighborly, and some people would do well to take a lesson in being neighborly instead of just yelling at a man for no reason.”
In a measured tone, Havens tries again. “Are you going to tell me why you sent him my way?”
“I treated him just like I did the others before, just like you said to.” Flavil moves behind the counter and makes a zipping motion with his hand across his lips. “I had no intention of bringing your name into it, as God is my witness.” Then he levels with Havens. “It’s just that all the others have come wanting a picture, but this fella came with a picture. One you took back then.” Havens doesn’t have to ask. “Yup, she was in it,” Rakestraw confirms.
Trying to calm himself, Havens considers the shelves of flour, sugar, and baking soda next to him. “Please,” he says in a controlled manner, “would you not refer to her as ‘she.’ ”
“Jubilee, I mean.”
“And how did he come by one of my photographs?”
Rakestraw raises both his eyebrows and his shoulders. “He didn’t say. But as soon as he showed me that picture, I knew he wasn’t from some newspaper or magazine, because he didn’t know who he was looking at or what he was looking at, not even their names. To him, there was nothing at all peculiar about her—Jubilee, I mean.”
Havens schools himself not to take up the issue of what is and isn’t peculiar. “What did you tell him?”
“Nothing, I swear. The Bufords of Spooklight Holler is all I said, and then he asked me where I could find them and that’s when I told him you were the one to ask about that on account of it being your photograph. I laid it on thick how you don’t take kindly to company.” Flavil seems to be expecting thanks, and getting none, goes on. “I figured you wouldn’t want him knocking on anyone else’s door, and if you’d answer your telephone once in a while, you might find someone trying to give you a heads-up.”
“I don’t answer my telephone because I don’t want to talk to anybody!” Havens fires back. “Least of all a reporter!” Havens makes for the door.
“He’s not a reporter,” Flavil protests, then changes course and yells, “There’s no shame in talking about it.”
Back in his truck, Havens swerves onto Main Street and drives through both four-ways without stopping. He makes a right at the end of town and winds through several of the residential streets, all of them empty. There’s no sign of the white Ford Fairlane across the train tracks or along the bend where the trailer homes are parked. Whatever the guy wanted, he’s cleared off.
Havens takes the circuitous way back home just to be sure, and eases up on the gas pedal as he makes each bend, rolling down his window to take in the musky smell from last night’s rain. On either side of him are the hills, rising like limbs bent at the knees, the forest in repose. He can all but hear the land sighing. A quarter mile later the road straightens out again, the woods retreat, and the cemetery claims its turf. Being Decoration Day, every car in Chance is parked along the road, and though it’s a little before eleven, the grounds are already bustling with activity—people of every age are clearing weeds, scrubbing tombstones, and dressing up each grave with flowers and festoons of every color. By the time the sun starts to dip behind the hills and the picnic blankets are laid out, each resting place will have been adorned, even those lost to time and memory, even those sons of bitches he was glad were six feet under.
Havens stops to let Bonny from the salon and her husband cross the street, each teeter-tottering beneath a stack of wreaths, and is about to return the woman’s greeting when he spots the Fairlane in the parking lot. He swerves onto the gravel drive, pulling up behind the Fairlane and blocking it in. The new damn eyeglasses don’t make a bit of difference from this distance—everyone’s just blobs. Favoring his bad knee, he rushes through the entrance and scans for the stranger as he hurries along the stone footpath, bumping against poor blind Warren and knocking him off his pins, which sets off his dog and causes a round of Mrs. Dixon’s finger-wagging. Zigzagging through the rows of graves is no easy feat either, and Havens has to avoid tripping over trowels, rakes, and flower garlands until finally he zeroes in on the old section of the cemetery, where the punk is talking to an elderly couple. “Hey you!” he yells in their direction.
The stranger stuffs the photograph in his jacket pocket and looks as if he’s figuring his odds of outrunning a swarm of hornets, and instead makes the mistake of thinking he can bargain his way out. Havens drives him backward over one grave after another. “Get the hell out of here!”
The kid stumbles, then shakes free of Havens’s grip. “What is wrong with you, old man?”
“What’s wrong with you? Look around, do you see where you are? Don’t you have any respect?” Havens knows he’s making a scene and that he ought to pay attention to the figure entering his peripheral vision. “Nobody wants you to dig up the past! People want to be left alone!” He indicates the mounds of earth. “Do you think these people want their peace disturbed?”
The kid stops pleading his case when an ancient woman pushed in a wheelchair by an orderly extends a gnarled finger toward Havens as though it were a witching rod and screeches, “Murderer!”
Everyone in the cemetery freezes except Havens, who starts crab-walking, putting another row of tombstones between him and her.
“Murderer,” she wails again, all but billowing smoke, and motions for the orderly to give pursuit as Havens rushes for the exit.
MAY 1937
HAVENS
From the open train window, Havens looks out at a land of hills so remote it’s hard to believe its location can be found on modern maps. Were it a living creature, it would be camouflaged, something resembling a dragon, only parts of which peek out from a shroud of its own steamy breath—an arched neck, a mile or two of exposed spine, a knobby tail dipping into the Shenandoah Valley. Beyond the sound of the train’s chugging, the occasional chuff of steam, and the squeal of wheels rounding another bend, the land has a ferocious quiet to it, as if all sounds have been swallowed and only the gristle of silence spat out.
Springing up in cities across the Eastern seaboard is a sudden interest in this region, what everyone is now calling Appalachia. Much of it has to do with President Roosevelt’s determination to raise the flag of regionalism on it, along with other miserable places like Oklahoma, the Texas Panhandle, and just about anywhere along the migration route to California, but the president also talked recently of connecting the producer and consumer not in the city but in outposts like the one Havens and his companion, Massey, are bound for. Under the auspices of portraying the great and diverse spirit of Americans everywhere, Havens and Massey,
along with dozens of other journalists and photographers, have been dispatched by the president’s do-good arm, otherwise known as the Farm Security Administration, to various outer reaches of the country. What the president needs, they have been instructed, are pictures and accounts of subjects who are on times hard enough to use a little government assistance but not hard enough as to be beyond all help. Put another way, their task is to help the president sell his New Deal to the public. Havens is not the only photographer that the FSA has kept from the breadlines, but gratitude hasn’t been enough to quash his misgivings about this mission or to make him feel less like a propagandist than a photographer. Per his boss, Pomeroy, Havens is to capture the rugged, steadfast nature of hill people, whether they possess it or not, and to portray their hardship only in a way that will make the public sympathetic to their plight and ready to cast their votes accordingly.
Massey fishes out a book from his satchel and offers it to Havens. “Towards Democracy, Edward Carpenter.”
Though Havens has had his fill of the political writings Massey regularly serves him, including Massey’s own socialist jeremiads he pens for the American Federationist, he doesn’t turn it down.
“Relax,” says Massey. “It’s not commie doctrine, it’s poetry. The guy gives Wordsworth a run for his money, especially when it comes to Eros.”
Havens opens the book at random and reads a few lines.
Carpenter, Massey tells him, was a philosopher and naturalist who bucked the Victorian mores of the day, quit his professor post, and moved to a farm, where he wrote his best work in a wooden pen stuck out in the middle of a pasture. “Euphoria in the midst of cow patties, right up your alley,” Massey says.
Havens nods amicably until Massey brings up Havens’s love life. “Things looked a bit strained between you and Betty at the station. Does she always fuss with you like that?”