“Where you goin’, scat-for-brains? Changed your plans? Ahhh, just when I was thinkin’ we could have a little fatherson time together. Like the good ole days.”
Burl stopped and turned to look at his father.
He was already halfway up the hill, climbing towards the path.
“No!” said Burl, heading back after him.
Cal laughed. “Well, well. This must be some kinda special place.” He clambered easily up the incline on all fours. “What’re the bets there’s a trail here as clear as a friggin’ highway?”
Huffing from the climb, Burl reached the top to find the old man already at the head of the trail, puffing on a cigarette.
“You wanna hear how I done this?” he said. “You wanna hear how smart your undereducated old spit and blood is?”
He took a long drag. Burl rearranged the weight on his back. He knew that what he had to do now was not get Cal mad. Not getting Cal mad meant treating him as if he was God.
“I can’t believe I didn’t see you,” said Burl.
It was the right thing to say. Gave the man a chance to make himself a little bit taller, and make the boy just that much smaller.
“I show up at the station in P’Ville,” he said. “I say, ‘Pardon me, my good man, but I gotta buy a ticket for me and my boy. I’m meeting him here, but I got the funny feelin’ he mighta already made the purchase in advance.’ Sure enough. Return ticket to Metagama. ‘Smart boy,’ says L and buys myself a ticket.
“Tanya drops me off good and early this morning down at P’Ville and I make myself scarce. Build myself a little blind and sit waiting for the ducks to light.”
Cal raised his rifle as if it were a shotgun. “Boom!” He picked off an imaginary bird and watched it fall.
“So who drives up in a Jap fancy mobile—a car I seen before. And who gets all smoochy with some long-hair?”
Burl just shrugged. To his surprise, he found he was listening to Cal in a new way. He heard how the man had to put everything down. Not only Burl, but everyone. Natalie and David—anyone who crossed his path.
His father tossed his cigarette in the snow, dropped his snowshoes and climbed into them.
“Lead the way,” he said. “I wanna keep ya where I can see ya.”
He went on with his tale of how he’d got on at the very front passenger entrance of the train while Burl was climbing on at the tail end, still yacking with long-hair.
Burl found himself wondering what his father expected lay up ahead. He began to brace himself for Cal’s disappointment when he saw there was nothing there for him. He found himself bracing for what might be a rough twenty-four hours.
The path was good, good enough that it had become a highway for deer and their pursuers. The leafless aspens trembled, branches clicking. Blue jays screamed.
“You find yourself a gold mine, boy?” Cal asked.
Burl shook his head. “It’s just a camp. Nothing special. You’re wasting your time.”
The old man caught him up and grabbed him by the collar of his jacket. “We’ll see who’s wasting whose time.”
Burl flinched but held his tongue.
“Hey,” said Cal. “How can you say it ain’t special when we’re together again?”
Finally they came to the spot where the path led gently down into the clearing by the lake.
“Hee-haw,” said Cal, evidently pleased. “A pyramid. We made it all the way to the friggin’ Nile.”
Burl was lost to hearing, lost in the sight before him. He had feared the cabin would not be there. That it would have dissolved like sugar. That his time there had never happened at all.
“This here’s one helluva site,” said Cal. “Um, um.”
Cal stepped out of his snowshoes and walked across the deck, while Burl dug the key out of its cubbyhole under the threshold. He didn’t try to keep it a secret from Cal. He imagined Cal could smell a key as quick as he could smell live game. Cal took in the expanse of frozen lake with an experienced eye.
“There’s good bass fishing in there,” said Burl. He wasn’t quite sure why—maybe just to tell the old man something he didn’t know. Cal nodded without turning. The wind kicked his thick hair around.
The door was still in place. There were no bear marks. Burl unlocked it and stepped into the fusty darkness. He listened for the scurrying of creatures, but was greeted with no sound at all beyond the creaking of a house settling into the wind.
He felt his father behind him, felt his breath on the back of his neck. Then Cal saw the piano.
“What the jeezly hell!”
He slipped a hunting knife from a sheath on his belt and cut the fishing line that held the blankets in place. With an effort, Burl kept his mouth shut. He took off his pack and stepped back outside. His plan was to take one of the shutters down to let some moonlight or starlight into the closed-up building, but leave the others up for extra insulation. As he pounded at the frozen fasteners, he heard his father hit a note on the piano. Ding. The sound filled Burl with fear. Then his father swore loudly, came to the door.
“There’s no friggin’ woodstove!” His astonishment almost made Burl laugh. “Who the hell would build a camp with no friggin’ woodstove?”
Burl wasn’t about to try to explain. “It isn’t finished yet,” he said.
“Ha!” said Cal, his hands on his hips. By now he’d checked out the electric stove.
“It’s run by a generator,” said Burl. “But it’s acting up.”
Cal kicked the cabinet. “There’s no heat at all. What kind of a camp is this? Don’t tell me—the kind of camp a goddamned long-hair and his nosy teacher-lady wife would build.”
He wandered around in the gloom of the failing light, kicking at things. He was obviously disappointed. Burl lit the kerosene lamp with one eye on his father as he neared the spot where the bulging briefcase leaned against the leg of the card table. He watched Cal’s toe nudge it, then shove it a little until it fell over on the floor, as if it were a small animal he’d shot but wasn’t sure was dead. He bent down to examine the kill.
“It’s just a bunch of papers,” said Burl.
His father, squatting now, turned slowly at the hips and stared at his son. A smile started to crack on his face. He tapped the cold leather. “This the little gold mine, is it?”
Burl could have kicked himself, but he knew enough to turn away and busy himself with something else. He set up his tiny propane stove on the counter, stealing glances over his shoulder at his father rifling through the briefcase. After a good hard probing, as if there might be something of real value under the stack of paper, he gave up and left the briefcase where it was. Burl breathed a sigh of relief. Too soon.
“Hee-haw. What’s this?”
Burl turned. His father had laid aside the briefcase. He was feeling the edge of the writing table with his hand. On one knee he bent down and looked under it. Burl watched with fascination. Cal pulled and a drawer opened. A very thin drawer Burl had not known was there, had not noticed in a month of being alone in the cabin. From out of the drawer Cal drew some stationery, envelopes. He dug deep into the corners still hoping for valuables. His hand came upon nothing more than an expensive-looking fountain pen, which he pocketed. He looked disinterestedly at the stationery and threw it on top of the table as he stood up again, bumping the secret drawer closed with his hip. He glared as he passed Burl on his way to the door. He stood on the edge of the deck and had a piss.
Burl dug out a can of Irish stew from his backpack and opened it.
Cal sauntered back in doing up his fly, closing the door behind him. He picked up the can and poked the top off, took a sniff.
“You call this food?” he said.
“I wasn’t expecting company,” said Burl. He put the can on the burner while Cal stalked around the cabin like a caged animal. He fingered the piano again, the same note he’d played before. Ding, ding, ding.
Burl would not have thought it possible that anyone could touch that inst
rument and make it sound so unmusical. The note stopped abruptly. Cal closed the lid.
“So this is it where it ended up, eh?”
He looked at Burl. He must have finally recalled that day down by the Skat, last spring. It was strange for Burl to realize he had shared that moment with anyone else. He could see his father’s face growing dark, as if the one memory had led to another. Burl wondered if it would occur to Cal that he still owed Burl a beating. Instead, he grabbed up his jacket.
“I’m goin’ out,” he said. He grabbed his rifle as he left. He came back a moment later and took the .22 as well. Burl wondered why he’d done that. Did he think Burl might shoot him? As his stew began to bubble in the can, Burl wondered for a moment whether he could do a thing like that.
But as soon as his father’s footsteps carried him off the deck, his mind returned to the secret drawer. He raced to the table. The stationery was creamy coloured and thick. It was embossed with the Maestro’s initials. He had started writing a letter. The date was late in August.
Dearest Regina;
Yes, your real name, despicable as you may find it. It’s a good name. Strong and regal. And nicely formal, which seems appropriate since it’s been so long since we last saw each other. Too long.
I’ve run off into the woods, Regina. I’ve found a sanctuary. No, I’m not becoming a nun, just writing. At last. I’m writing something quite grand. Don’t worry, your lovely eyes shall be the first to see the fruits of my labours. It is near done.
But a remarkable thing has happened just this afternoon. A boy has stumbled out of the woods. I call him a wild child, but, in truth, he’s an imaginative thing despite a harsh life full of beatings, unless my eyes deceive me. He is sleeping as I write this, lying on the floor under my piano. I feel very fatherly towards this urchin. And I feel, at the same time, completely
The letter went no further. Burl searched through the remaining pages. There was nothing. What had happened? A bear had scratched on the door. That’s what.
Burl folded up the letter and put it in his pocket.
He sat cross-legged on the rug near the one unblinded window, eating his stew. The sun was giving up early, heading home. Through the scudding clouds he caught a glimpse now and then of a half-hearted moon.
Without his father in the room it was almost possible to recall the peace of mind he had known there. But he didn’t dawdle. As soon as he had finished his meal, he went about the business he was there for. Burl was packing the Revelation into the bottom of his backpack when he heard the gunshot. He ran over to the window. Nothing. He opened the door. His father was returning from way down the beach.
Cal didn’t come into the cabin. Instead he cleared a place on the beach. He had found the ring of stones where Burl had made bonfires in the summer. Now Cal built his own fire. He came in finally, whistling to himself, and poked around until he found some salt and pepper.
“Enjoy your baby food?” he said as he closed the door behind him.
Burl watched him from the door, even though it meant letting cold air into the cabin. The hunter rigged up a spit supported by crossed sticks. There looked to be a bird on it, though Burl had not seen him pluck and clean it. There was no denying the man was remarkable.
Cal showed no indication of coming indoors. Just as Burl was about to shut the door, he watched his father dig into an inner pocket of his coat and come out with his flask. He took a long pull at its neck.
30
The First Trumpet
AROUND EIGHT, BURL MADE A NEST FOR HIMSELF on the mattress. He sat the kerosene lamp on the floor safely out of reach of the bedclothes. He wasn’t sure if his father was coming in or not. He could hear him sometimes, snatches of whistling at his fire by the lake.
He wasn’t sure what to expect. Cal seemed happier outside than inside, which was fine with Burl. He had no sleeping bag, as far as Burl could tell. He had only been carrying a small pack. But then his father was a man of many resources, and out in the woods he was in his element. If Cal did come into the cabin, he would expect the bed, in which case Burl would sleep on the floor, under the piano. It was only one night.
He got up again to pee. When he had finished he went to the door and opened it just a crack. The wind was high, buffeting the cabin. It met him at the door hard in the face.
Cal’s fire was now only glowing embers. He had stopped whistling. He was leaning against a boulder down low out of the wind’s path, gazing into the low flames. He twitched and moved something from behind him, a stick, which he threw into the pit. He settled in again. If he had seen or heard the door open he did not look Burl’s way.
Burl closed the door and raced back to his blankets and sleeping bag, stopping only to turn up the kerosene lamp. He kept the can of kerosene and a flashlight nearby so that he could fill the lamp in the night if he woke up cold.
He had buried his pack with the Revelation in it under his mattress. He had stuffed the briefcase with scrap paper, hoping that his father would not bother to check it again or too closely.
He was beginning to nod off when he heard footsteps on the deck and then the door opened. Cal strode into the cabin, closing the door behind him.
“You awake, boy?”
“What is it?”
Cal crossed the cabin in long weaving strides and bent down by the lamp to warm his hands over the glass chimney. He turned up the wick until the brightness hurt Burl’s eyes.
“I just had me one damn clever idea,” he said.
Burl felt cold air snake into the bed with him. It was coming off Cal, long snaky tendrils of draft. Cal sat himself down at the foot of the mattress. He chuckled drunkenly. He looked at Burl.
“You gonna be glad to see the last of me, ain’t you.”
It did not seem like bait meant to trap Burl, but the boy kept his face absolutely neutral, just in case. Cal, however, didn’t seem to be looking for an answer. He rubbed his hands together. His face was glowing, heated by lamplight and by whatever he’d been drinking. His hair stood up in ragged spikes.
“I’m prepared to cut you a deal, boy. I’m gonna give you your freedom from me and all it’ll cost is that—”
He pointed at the piano.
Burl sat upright. “What would you do with it?” he asked.
Cal rolled onto his knees and crawled over to the piano. He flipped up the cover. Still kneeling, looking back over his shoulder at Burl, his hands came down mightily on the keyboard, producing a horrible noise. Burl winced.
“Didn’t know I could play, eh, Burl?” he yelled. “You any idea what this piece of furniture is worth in cold hard cash?”
“No,” he said, though Bea had given him a fair idea.
“I’d guess quite a few thousand. Quite a goodly few.”
This was crazy talk. Best to ignore it.
“Eh, Burl? Whadya think?”
Burl shrugged. He wanted to stay out of this, but Cal wasn’t going to let him. He crawled back to the bedside on all fours and slammed his hand down on the floor. “I ast ya a question!”
Burl drew his knees up to his chest. “How could you get it out of here?” he said, as if his only concern was a practical one.
“The same way it came in,” said Cal. He waved his arm around over his head in a drunken imitation of a helicopter.
“The helicopter cost a fortune,” said Burl, unable to stop himself. “Anyway, how are you going to explain to them what you’re doing taking it out?”
Cal’s eyes narrowed. He poked his face towards the boy until Burl’s head was up against the sloping wall. Burl turned away from the stink of the man’s breath.
“You seem to know one helluva lot about it,” he said.
Burl clammed up.
Cal began tugging off his boots. He stared at the piano. “I could drag it out of here,” he said.
Burl lay down, rolled away, pulled the covers up under his chin.
“I could get a couple of pals with snowmobiles. Flip that sucker on its back like a de
ad moose and drag ‘er out.” He started laughing. He laughed hard, slapping the mattress, leaning over to slap at the covers, where Burl lay curled up in a tight ball.
“Three of us oughta be able to do it. Flip that sucker over and just haul her outa here. No problemo. Hey, whadya think of that?”
Burl fought off his growing sense of alarm. There was no reason to take Cal seriously. It was just drunken talk. The idea was ridiculous.
Cal let out a great big roar of laughter, which ended in a coughing fit.
“Can you just imagine the boys down at the Budd when we show up with that piece of furniture—hey, fellahs, can you give me a hand. All aboard!”
Cal yucked it up a few more minutes, then he grew quiet. Burl listened closely. Quiet could be deadly. He dared to turn his head just enough to see what his father was up to now. Cal was between him and the lamp, and his shadow fell across Burl. Out of the shadow, Cal’s eyes burned with their own bloodshot light.
“You don’t seem to like my little brainwave?”
Burl cleared his throat. It was dry with fear.
“I thought you were serious,” he said.
Suddenly, Cal was on him, his arms pressing down on either side of his head, his face pressing up close. “And what makes you think I ain’t serious!” he said. He sat up again, sat on the edge of the bed, pulled off his other boot.
“You think I don’t know who they are?” he growled. “That Agnew bitch, that nosy teacher and her long-hair husband. Maybe these folks need a lesson, eh?”
“No.”
“No? Did you say no?”
“I mean, it isn’t their piano,” said Burl. “This isn’t their cabin.”
Cal didn’t say anything right away. He leaned back on his elbows on the mattress, looking around. He turned to Burl and gave him a dirty grin.
“So who else you been hittin’ on, eh?”
Burl turned away again.
“Who else you tell your sob story to? Roll those big peepers. ‘Please, I’m a poor lost boy.’ You know what you are, Burl Crow? You’re a slut, just like your mother.”
The Maestro Page 16