Joe Burke's Last Stand

by John Moncure Wetterau

  As they drove through town, Patrick said, “I met him this morning in the News Shop. Quite a character.”

  “Yeah, we go way back,” Joe said. “Used to take me pickerel fishing, Billy did—one of my heroes. He just got out of the slammer.”

  “What did he do?”

  “One of the state cops, Dusty Rhodes, drove his cruiser into Billy's driveway to check him out for something or other, about three in the morning. The way Billy tells it, he woke up with a headache listening to a siren. He looked out his upstairs bedroom window. `That damn flashing light hurt my eyes,' Billy said. So he shot it out with a 30-30. Dusty arrested him for assault with a deadly weapon, and the judge asked him what he had to say for himself. `Your Honor,' Billy said, `Assault? Do you think if I'd wanted to hit Dusty, I'd have missed him?' The judge gave him six months.”

  “He seems like a good guy,” Patrick said.

  “He is. That's the Merrill's road, there.”

  Patrick thanked Joe and walked fifty yards through trees to a rambling house with clapboard siding stained brown. There was a second smaller house, or studio, some distance behind and to the right. A green Cadillac, at least ten years old, gleamed in front of the house. Patrick knocked on the screen door. A woman with a heart shaped face, wheat colored hair, and clear blue-green eyes answered his knock.

  “Yes?”

  “Good morning. Are you Heidi Merrill?” She nodded. “My name is Patrick O'Shaunessy.” She straightened. “My father said that you were an old friend. He asked me to say hello for him and see how you're doing.”

  “Well! What a surprise. You must tell Brian that we are doing just fine. Come in.” She led Patrick to a spacious kitchen where she poured coffee into hand-painted mugs. “So, Patrick, how long will you be in Woodstock?”

  “Good question. I think until winter, at least—maybe longer. I like it here, so far.”

  “How long have you been here?”

  “About a month.”

  “It is a nice town.” A red '52 Chevy with a white convertible top drove past the kitchen. “Oh, there's Martin, my son. He lives in the studio behind the house.” She looked at him closely. “You do remind me of Brian, but you must take after your mother. You're shorter, broader across the shoulders . . . “

  “Yes, I guess I do.”

  “Same smile, though. How is Brian? You have a sister, don't you?”

  “Yep, Molly, a year older than I am. She's married, living in Atlanta. Dad's fine. He's just about to retire from the Army. He and Mom are arguing about whether to live in Florida or Costa Rica. Heidi went over to the door where there was an intercom much like the Van Slyke's.

  “Martin? Martin, can you come over? Patrick O'Shaunessy is here. His father is an old friend.”

  A voice crackled through the speaker, “O.K., just a minute.”

  Patrick looked around. “Nice house,” he said.

  “We've been here many years.” There was a defensive note in her voice that surprised him. As he was telling her about his job, a tall man in his late twenties pushed open the kitchen door. He walked directly over, holding out his hand.

  “Patrick O'Shaunessy?”

  “Yes,” Patrick said, standing and shaking hands.

  “Martin Merrill.”

  “Patrick is working in town; he's not sure how long he will stay.”

  “What do think of the place?”

  “The town, you mean?” Martin nodded. “I like Woodstock, but—everyone's a painter or a musician. Not that that's bad.”

  “And you are?”

  “Martin, really!” Martin ignored his mother and stared at Patrick.

  Questions didn't bother Patrick. He thought. “I don't know—scientist maybe, someday.”

  “Good deal. I don't know what I am either.” Martin clapped his hands together and poured himself a cup of coffee. “But I'm working on it. Lot of good music around town, good musicians showing up. I've got a little recording studio in back.”

  “Do you play?”

  “Very well,” Heidi said.

  “Not much,” Martin said. “Fiddle. Banjo.” Patrick imagined him playing the fiddle. He had large hands.

  “My dad plays the fiddle.” Martin was like a softer version of his dad, tall and thin. Heidi was watching him closely. He began to feel too warm. He rose to his feet. “Well, I'd better be going. It's been nice to meet you.”

  “Wait a minute,” Martin said. “It's raining; I'll give you a ride.”

  “You just got here.”

  “No problem, I was just picking something up. I'll be back later this afternoon,” he said to his mother.

  “Goodbye, Patrick. I hope things work out for you. Do tell your father that everything's fine. And come and have dinner with us sometime, won't you?”

  “That would be nice,” Patrick said.

  Martin dropped him at Gert's and wished him luck. “Oh, yeah,” Patrick said as he was half out of the car. “Do you know where Mead's Meadow is?”

  “Sure. It's near the top on the other side, after you pass the Mountain House. Right up Rock City Road, up and over. You go down a hill, and the road bends left. You'll see a little logging road on the right—goes down through the woods a little ways, across a wet spot, and up onto the meadow.”

  “Thanks.” Patrick waved and watched him drive away. Neat car. He said hello to Gert and ate his sandwich on the porch, thinking hard. He started to write a letter to his parents, but he crumpled it after the first paragraph. He went inside. Gert was busy in the back of the house. He hesitated and then picked up the telephone and called home, collect. By good luck, his father answered. “Dad, this is Pat.”

  “Pat! Where are you?”

  “I'm in Woodstock—great town. I just looked up Heidi and Martin Merrill.”

  “How are they?” His father's voice sounded far away.

  “Fine. They've got a big place. She's nice, makes good coffee. Martin plays the fiddle.” Patrick paused. “His hands, Dad, they are just like yours—like mine. He reminds me of you.” Patrick ran out of words. There was a brief silence.

  “It's a long story, Pat. I'll tell you about it the next time we get together. Martin is your half-brother.”

  Patrick let out his breath. “I was wondering. I didn't say anything.”

  His father was silent for a moment. “Maybe that's best, Pat. We wouldn't want to upset anybody; only a couple of people know. Come see us at Christmas in Costa Rica or Florida—wherever we end up; we'll talk about it. Basically, Heidi was afraid she'd never have a baby.”

  “Dad, look, I've got to go. Thanks for telling me. I won't say anything. I'll let you know about Christmas. Say hi to Mom.” Patrick hung up softly. He stood for several seconds and then went back out on the porch where he sat down again and watched the rain. I'll be damned, he thought. His father must have been about his age when he was in Woodstock. Patrick saw him in a new way. Heidi must have been incredible; she was still good looking. It was cool to have a brother, but it was strange not to be able to say anything. Martin didn't seem like a bad guy for someone who had it easy.

  “Patrick, the window at the end of the upstairs hall is stuck. Could you close it for me?”

  “Glad to.” Keep it quiet, he thought, climbing the stairs. Maybe talk about it at Christmas. See what happens.

  6

  Willow followed Amber and Art across a small stream. “Much farther?” she asked. Art pointed through the trees to a small rise.

  “Right up there.” They emerged onto a shelf-like meadow that dropped abruptly into a narrow valley. Willow could see nothing but mountain after mountain in the distance—no roads, no houses. An upright piano stood by itself in the meadow, the last point of local focus before her eyes leaped into the space beyond and below.

  “Wow!”

  Amber and Art chose a place not far from a fire where a dozen people were sitting and standing, laughing, drinking beer. Willow removed her pack. She spread a blanket and weighed it down with the pack whi
ch held a bottle of water, two bottles of wine, a paperback copy of Lawrence Durrell's Justine, and a loaf of her best honey walnut bread. Art went immediately to the keg.

  “Too much,” Amber said, looking at the view.

  “I wonder if Patrick will show,” Willow said.

  “Did you tell him where it was?”

  “I didn't give him directions, but guys on his crew would know.”

  “He'll come,” Amber said. “And if he doesn't, that's his problem. How did they get the piano up here?” she asked Art who was back, holding three paper cups of beer.

  “Carried it,” he said. “Four guys—one on each corner. They bring it in every year. It's Angus's. He has a band, plays Dixieland and early jazz.”

  “Oooh,” Willow said, “stride piano.” She had grown up listening to Scott Joplin, Jelly Roll Morton, and Fats Waller, her father's nod to modernity. Straight from Bach, he used to say. She sipped her beer. Martin Merrill arrived.

  “Hey there, Art. Hi, Willow.”

  “Hey, Martin. This is Amber. Where's your fiddle?”

  “Hi, Amber. Fiddle's in the car. Maybe we'll get to a little Cripple Creek later.” Willow flushed.

  “I think I've retired,” she said.

  “Not allowed.” Martin was having trouble keeping his eyes off Amber who had shifted to ground midway between a barnwarmer's dream and a folksinger's groupie. Here we go again, Willow thought.

  “How's that Chevy running?” Art asked.

  “Good. I just put new tires on her.”

  “That's a commitment. Love that car. Have you seen it, Amber—a red '52 convertible?”

  “Not yet,” she said.

  God. Willow brought out the honey walnut loaf. “Anybody hungry?”

  “Sure,” Martin said. She broke off an end, the best part, and handed it to him.

  “Good,” he said, chewing.

  “Willow can cook!” Art said. People were arriving steadily. It was five o'clock; the heat of the day was easing. A strong looking man in his thirties with a short beard and dark curly hair began to play the piano, his back straight.

  “Yo, Angus!” someone called. Martin went for a refill and returned a few minutes later as Willow was looking around the meadow. She couldn't stop herself; every few minutes she checked again.

  “Looking for someone?” Martin asked.

  “Yeah, a guy I met—Patrick O'Shaunessy.”

  “Patrick O'Shaunessy?”

  “Yes.”

  “I'll be damned. I met him the other day.” Patrick, she thought. Martin reminded her of Patrick; that's who it was. More people arrived. A soprano sax joined the piano. A man with gray hair set up a drum kit. Joe Burke stood near the piano with a blonde—leggy, like me, Willow thought, but better looking. They came over and sat down. Joe introduced her, his wife, Sally. He reached into a paper bag and handed everyone a sparkler.

  “It's the 4th,” he said. They lit the sparklers and sat, more or less in a circle, waving them and drinking beer.

  “My country 'tis of thee,” Amber said.

  “Old Glory,” Martin added.

  “Patriots!” A familiar voice. Patrick had come up behind her.

  “Hey, Patrick.” Martin stood, waved at Patrick, and wandered toward the kegs. Patrick sat down next to Willow. Joe handed him a sparkler. Willow leaned back on her elbows. The strains of St. James Infirmary and a heavy beat from the drummer mingled with the smell of burning sparklers and the sweeter smell of marijuana.

  “It's good to be a citizen,” Patrick said. Willow inspected him for signs of irony. None. They talked briefly about the war which they were all against. It seemed far away, a bad dream. “Maybe we should get active,” Patrick suggested, “demonstrate or something.” Joe leaned forward.

  “You want to watch it,” he said.

  “What do you mean?”

  “I had kind of a shock last week,” Joe said. “You know Ox?” He looked at the others.

  “Sure,” Art said.

  “He was in school with us; he's a state trooper,” Joe explained. “We've had narcs around for a few years now, busting people for the evil weed.”

  “Shit heads,” Art said. “Like we really have a drug problem.”

  “We spot the narcs,” Joe said. “Anyway, I was having a beer with Ox in Buckman's, and he told me to watch my ass. He told me there was a list of radicals at headquarters. Subversives. `They're watching you; that's all I can say.' “ Joe shook his head. “I mean, I'm a veteran, for Christ's sake.”

  “You're a dropout,” Art said.

  Joe started to smile. “Look who's talking.”

  “So, who's watching?” Martin asked.

  “Somebody is,” Joe said. “Ox wouldn't have told me if he wasn't worried. FBI? CIA?”

  “Martin's a commie pinko,” Art said. “Is he on the list?”

  “Should be,” Joe said.

  “What about Morgan? And Gino?”

  “Subversives for sure. Down the Pentagon!” Joe raised his cup.

  “Down the Pentagon!” echoed across the valley.

  “O.K., Patrick,” Amber said. “You can turn off the tape recorder.” Patrick took a paper bag from his pack and held up a block of cheddar. He shook it by his ear.

  “Wasn't on,” he said.

  “Might as well eat it, then,” Sally said.

  They ate and drank and wandered around the meadow. A washtub bass joined the music. Willow didn't exactly follow Patrick, but she managed to be in his general vicinity. She returned to her blanket and read until the light started to go. There was a book discussion. Patrick talked about a math book that he was reading, and Joe got started on significant digits, of all things. “You understand the principle,” he said.

  “Natch,” Art said, “but here is Morgan, in case anyone needs a refresher.” Willow tried to remember high school physics while she watched Morgan sit down deliberately. He had powerful shoulders and a sensitive expression. “Morgan, what are significant digits?”

  “Ah,” Morgan said, “the concept is that in scientific computation, the result cannot be more accurate than the least accurate quantity or measurement involved.” There was light applause. Morgan drank deeply.

  “Just so,” said Joe. “And didn't I have a hell of a time understanding that? I thought you could make an answer as accurate as you wanted. You want seven decimal places? No problem.” Patrick was sitting forward, listening intensely. “I finally got the idea, and I never forgot it,” Joe went on. “Well, there I was in weather school in the Air Force, and their dew point calculation gave an answer that was more precise than one of the measurements. `These decimal points are meaningless,' I said to the sergeant. Yeah, right. Next thing you know, I'm in front of the base commander.

  “`Burke,' he says, `you may have a point. But it's a goddamn small one. Are you an airman or a goddamn philosopher, Burke?'

  “`Airman, SIR,' I said.”

  “Airman Burke,” Art toasted.

  Willow was impressed. She thought about Stanford—the academic cliques, the gorgeous football players, the socialites. They were good at what they did; they were judged by how they performed in their groups; they lived by accepted rules. These people, in Mead's meadow, were just as sharp, just as physical (in a different way, maybe a better way), and just as easy and confident. They were all of the aboves. They were free. They were alive, or more alive, in a different way. A shiver ran up her back.

  She opened a bottle of wine. The band was tighter, into When the Saints Come Marching In. As the light faded, the uninhabited range of mountains before them became darker and more mysterious, unexpectedly comforting. The mountains were timeless, or in a different flow of time.

  “This is what they saw,” Patrick said, “the first people.” He pointed across the valley.

  “Do you want some wine?” She held up the bottle.

  “Change of pace,” he said. “Sure.”

  “Cabernet Sauvigon,” she said with new authority. “Your basic meadow r
ed.”

  The firelight cast shadows; the group seemed smaller and more vulnerable. “The first people . . . “ Patrick repeated. They were the first people, now, she realized. She bit down on her lip. Her heart broke open like a swollen peach.

  “There's a little bread left,” she said. God, she was crying again.

  “You cry a lot,” he said.

  “Oh, fuck you, Patrick.” She poured herself more wine.

  “I don't mind it,” he said seriously.

  “Look, do you want to go?” she asked.

  “Sure.” Amber was over by the band; she was staying all night or going over to Art's. Willow told her that she was leaving, and she and Patrick picked their way slowly through the woods. “I've got to get a little flashlight,” Patrick said as they splashed across the stream.

  When they came out onto the road, a patrol car was parked in the middle. Two cops were ticketing a long line of cars and trucks that were pulled off to the side. “What's the matter?” Willow asked.

  “Blocking the road. Obstructing traffic.”

  “They are not. What traffic? This is the top of the mountain, for God's sake.”

  “You want to give us a hard time?” He was threatening. Patrick pulled her away.

  “Let's go, Willow.”

  “Have you been drinking, lady? I wouldn't want to see you driving.”

  “We're walking.” Willow glared at the cops and let Patrick guide her down the road. The band was working on a Dixie version of America the Beautiful; the sax floated high over the tree tops into the night. She looked back. One of the cops was answering a radio call; the other was still ticketing. They were trying to ruin everything. “Why, Patrick?”

  “Groups,” he said, after a moment. “Tribalism. They're afraid of change. When they get their backs up, Willow, you've got to work around them. If you challenge them, they get worse. It's weird, but the more powerful people are, the more frightened they are, usually. You'd think it would be the other way around.”

  “We've got to fight back,” Willow said.

  “We do—by existing.” The starlight was sufficient for them to walk down the middle of the road. They were quiet and then they talked and then they were quiet again. One person, who had been at the party, stopped and offered a ride, but they decided to keep walking. Patrick told her about his parents and his sister, Molly. Nice people. She wondered where he got the hard edge she sensed beneath the surface. The Irish? Were his parents closet rebels? Maybe. Probably it was from hard knocks. For what? From who? For being honest. That was it. From people who cut corners with the truth to get ahead or get along. They were the same that way.