“You love your stories and traditions? You brag about your virtue? You enjoy your dance?”
The crowd turned to each other, gave pleased smiles, bobbed heads nodding yes. It seemed to the crowd the first hopeful sign of a new ad campaign.
“You dance,” Kune said, “and this man tried to show you how you dance.” Kune’s voice rose, a rumble of thunder. “You have been dancing with the corpses of your Gods!”
The crowd looked puzzled. Kune had never acted this way before. He had never looked this way before. His blond hair spread across his back, but some of it was colored with Joel-Andrew’s blood. Kune knelt, but he still seemed taller than anyone else.
“You are censured,” Kune hissed. “I give you the Judgment of the Lord. Live forever, because that means you will forever have to live with yourselves.”
The mob recoiled, its collective gaze downcast. The mob moved in shamed silence. Censured. And then, as one person, the mob looked toward Maggie, who stood before the wreck of Janie’s Tavern. Maggie no longer flickered, and Maggie was merciful. She could, if she wished, destroy the town as surely as if it were Sodom. “I knew it was going to happen,” Maggie said, “because I know everything. I knew it was going to be ugly. I tried to believe it would not be this ugly.” She watched Samuel’s tired figure as he knelt beside Joel-Andrew, as he took Joel-Andrew’s hand. Samuel’s broadcloth suit was dusty, flecked with lather from his aging horse.
“Indians can contain the curse,” Maggie said, in the general direction of the mob. “It will not spread beyond the town. But I have something special saved for you.” Maggie lifted her arms toward the horizon, and she spoke in language none could understand. Winds arose. The Strait churned. Rain began. Almost instantly the street overran with water, the water washing blood from Joel-Andrew, the rain and wind nearly obscuring Samuel’s prayer. No one heard much. All we heard was Samuel’s choked weeping and his fervent plea. “O Lord,” Samuel prayed, “may Joel-Andrew, Thy humble servant, now depart in peace.”
Chapter 34
It rained for forty days and forty nights, which in these parts is normal weather in January and February. What was exceptional was the quantity. Rain washed down the mouth of the Strait, as if the Strait itself were a conduit for every storm on earth. Lightning became so common that people forgot to light coal oil lamps; and an eternity of rain crashed over Victorian roofs as water accumulated and covered the town. The wrecked tower of the pharmaceutical company stood in relief against a lightning-stricken sky. As the water level rose, whales and walrus and sea otters and seals played hopscotch around the tall facades of downtown buildings. Our people stood on the bluff, or at the top of the 307-step staircase. They watched the waters rise and keep rising. When the last flagpole on the last roof of downtown disappeared beneath the waves, our people fled to their houses and moved valuables to upstairs rooms.
Shy octopi made nests in The Fisherman’s Café, and black cod rested and waved fins along the bar of Janie’s Tavern. Beside the bluff whales cruised, and there was no kindness in the eyes of the whales. While ravens chortled in iambs, the whales sneered and slapped mighty flukes, as twice a day—and predictable as storm—tens of thousands of ducks flew over and whitewashed the town. Rain mixed and churned the whitewash, and the whitewash permeated bricks. To this day City Hall remains stained.
During the third week of rain, the waters of the Strait boiled over the bluff and spread through uptown. Whales and water carried away ornate wrought iron on which ghosts were once impaled. Sea lions washed through basements where ghosts once huddled, their teeth chattering with cold. Water flushed away reproduction Victorian gimcracks, while imitation stained glass melted plastically. Water seemed intent on flushing all that was sentimental and false. When the water would finally recede, the town would stand stark, and—if not honest—at least with overt phoniness washed away. However, the water did not recede for a long time, and people spoke of moving. Their problem was that they had no place to go except Seattle.
A few things happened which were remarkable. Chief among them was the tour ship that cruised past uptown houses at the height of the flood. People watched from attics and roofs as the enormous and gorgeous dragon hunkered in the bow like a mighty bowsprit. The dragon blew fire into the rain, and rain turned to a caldron of steam. The Chinese were going home, and this was the Chinese way of hooting goodbye. At the helm of the tour ship The Sailor stood, while the morose cop stood on the plates deep in the engine room—but perhaps this is getting ahead of our story.
Rain exempted the Indians and their war canoes. Indians dryly and mirthlessly paddled through the streets, or they bounded on horses around the perimeter of town, as they contained the curse. The Indians were sarcastic as the whales, and there was no kindness in the Indians. The Parsonage moved to high ground as Kune, transformed, directed rescue operations. Kune spoke to no one except Obed, and Obed gave orders. The very young, the aging, and the ill were protected.
The Starling House became the focus of the elements. Lightning crashed against its towers, and the darkest of all dark clouds hovered to rain on its turrets. Day after day and night after night, lightning struck, set fires, and the fires were washed away by the rain. The Starling House did not melt easily from the scene. It was broken apart, blown into microscopic cinders; as beneath the thunder of rain—and, while porpoises leaped and chuckled above the wreckage—people swore they could hear the cinders uttering small screams.
We understood, almost immediately, that a great depth of purpose was abroad, when, beneath the coiling waters of the Strait, August Starling’s commercial building was carried away. The collapse released the ugly merchandise residing on its showroom floor. For three awful days and hideous nights, elaborate coffins floated through our streets. We were glad when they were singled out and exploded by lightning.
The town stood flooded and abandoned by the outside world. The elephant and horses, the federal cops and the television people, had long ago followed the road out of town, over which had traveled the tourists and the Sicilian gunmen and the crews of tour ship and blimp. The town never heard from them again, although in the following year we discovered that the news anchor cinched an Emmy for work done in Point Vestal. Goody and the new messiah and the real estate lady gave the glad news on their new morning TV talk show. The lady who sold stocks and bonds—and who had been hit in the cleavage by a heavenly flower—became a well-known proponent of astral religion. She is reputed to have made a bundle.
It was during the days of unending storm that Samuel and the ministerial association, together with the IWW, the WWI vet and the Suffragettes, embarked on the painful and slow task of healing the broken lives and property and spirits of Point Vestal. They ministered to the frightened and the guilty, even to a few who were repentant. The Irish cop might have helped, but he was too busy attending to the needs of Agatha, who had to make both practical and emotional adjustments. Both he and Agatha succeeded. This was made clear after several months of courtship. Theirs is a happy marriage.
As rains continued, the ministerial association put forth healing hands, and the cats volunteered to stay out of it. This was partly because of sarcasm, partly because the cats busied themselves hiding out in dry attics. The closest the cats could come to charity was to declare a moratorium on mice until the waters receded. After all, the poor mice did not cause the problem, but were forced to retreat to attics like everyone else.
If there was lack of charity (or perhaps a deeper understanding of justice), it was owned by Maggie and Gerald and The Parsonage. They stayed away from the scene. Obed and The Parsonage were in mourning, while Kune nailed his evidence against August Starling, together with the evidence Collette had collected, to the door of The Parsonage. The evidence flapped in the wind and rain, but it did not melt.
Gerald spent his time keeping order and rebuilding the flooded engine of the ’39 LaSalle. Maggie stayed busy orchestrating storms. At the end of forty days and forty nights, Maggie all
owed the rains to cease. It was not until after the flood receded that true horror descended.
At first no one noticed anything. Everyone was too busy looking over damage to the town. Gay Victorian houses now stood stark and toneless. In the days when they were haunted, the Victorian houses echoed purpose and pride in heritage. Now they seemed lifeless as tract slums built by governments. The churches weathered pretty well, although none escaped damage. The churches raised steeples to the gray and misty sky, but the steeples now seemed a supplication and not a proclamation. The jail beneath City Hall filled with debris so caked in duck lime, it became cemented. The first act of city council was to float bonds for a new jail. Collette’s antique store survived in fair shape, since most of the merchandise could be cleaned. The boat basin had to be rebuilt, although the saltwater swamp did just fine; but it is a lonely place now, where no Christian Scientist voice—or any other voice—echoes. Janie’s Tavern had to be rebuilt, as did The Fisherman’s Café. Bev’s bookstore was a loss, of which more in only a moment, because we come to the final pages of this task.
We sit in the warmth of The Fisherman’s Café, and it is April. Spring winds crash against the café. The tide smacks and slurps against bulkheads. Gray mist and rain flies before gray spring wind, as Mikey Daniels’s milk truck staggers past. The truck looks like a sideways-standing domino deciding which way to tip. In the far distance, out there in the mist, the abandoned pharmaceutical company rises like a specter. Broken top stories are still marked with the heat of fire. This morning the doughnuts gleam goldy with warm brown sprinkles, like the spots of a giraffe. We all agree the doughnuts are very pretty, but no one is eating one.
“We have only two remaining tasks,” Samuel proposes. “We have the theological explanation, and we must tell about Kune and Obed and Maggie and The Sailor and the morose cop. We must tell about Gerald.” Samuel looks far less fatigued this morning, and his broadcloth suit is nicely brushed. “It is possible,” he says, “that explanations about The Sailor and the morose cop and Gerald will say something about theology.”
“And pigs don’t whistle,” Collette murmurs, “’cause pigs have got root-snoots.”
“That may well be,” Frank says to Collette, “but I don’t know what it means.” To Samuel he says, “We have three things left to accomplish. We must include information for tourists.” Frank strokes his beard, looks at the pretty doughnuts; his eyes glazing while his mustache twitches.
“We have four tasks,” Bev insists in a firm voice. “We are not going to dodge the issue. We have worked too hard and come too far. We will confront the horror that arrived as the waters receded.”
We figure we could never have made it this far without the strong offices of Bev. Bev is very pretty this morning, almost girlish. Maybe seeing an end to this book causes her hair to be thicker, her eyes brighter. “Tell it,” she says, “and get it over with.”
So be it. After the waters receded, everyone stayed busy rebuilding the town. It was only after busy months turned into a full year that we began to fear the Lord’s judgment. In a whole year, no one died, not even the very, very, very old people. No one even seemed to age. Some folks were glad, some shrugged it off, and a few began to worry. After the second year, more began to worry. Optimists claimed it was only a matter of time. Pessimists claimed that time was what they feared. After three years, even optimists got queasy. As years tumbled along, new people occasionally moved here from Seattle; and sometimes one of them passed away from illness or accident. Some of their spirits even manifested, but as ghosts they are uninteresting. They mostly enjoy standing in lines. One finds them at the grocery, or the movie, or the laundromat. When they cannot find a line, they make one. We see them forming ranks to view a sunrise.
The sum of it is that no citizen of Point Vestal who suffered the Lord’s judgment has died. The sum of it seems to be that we are to live in Point Vestal, undying, for always. Always we will say the same good mornings to each other. Always we will know that city council will raise the sewage rates. Always and always the biggest news will be who wins the pool tournaments. Always we will experience the judgmental smiles of the Martha Washington Brigade and Mothers Against Transgression and Sensuality. The Loyal Order of Beagles will woof, and the Grand Army of the Republic will camp at Janie’s Tavern and refight old wars. Fishermen will mutter about the weather. Loggers will hold drinking contests. We will see gray mist rise from the Strait, and the greatest point of interest will be which colored sprinkles decorate the doughnuts at The Fisherman’s Café.
“A change may be coming,” Jerome snuffles optimistically and consults his notes. “Kune and Joel-Andrew have been walking more of late. Joel-Andrew has been prophesying more of late. I’m pretty certain that means change.”
Samuel looks at Bev. Their eyes meet, and in their eyes lie deep and awful understanding the rest of us find puzzling.
“When I cleaned out the bookstore, I experienced a revelation,” Bev says. “Largely, I think, because, of all the sections in the bookstore, only the section on theology was an absolute and clotted mess. The rest of the inventory fell apart pretty easily.” Bev explains her revelation. Then she explains that we would be wrong to make quick assumptions about Kune and Joel-Andrew.
“It may not be as easy as we think,” Samuel says sadly. “Outline the actions of Kune and Obed and Maggie and The Parsonage. Think of The Sailor and the morose cop and Gerald.”
“That is easy,” Jerome says, and checks his notes. “The Parsonage stands unrepaired. When anyone attempts to put on a new roof, or glaze the windows, The Parsonage moves. It stands nearly roofless beneath the rain.” Jerome’s honest accounting makes us sad. The Parsonage understands both humility and pride. We do not. The Parsonage’s plain walls stand streaked with rust from exposed nails. The all-seeing tower is battered, but not so battered that Maggie cannot live there.
“And Kune is also a silent witness,” Jerome snuffles. “Kune walks our streets. Our people see him and know that they are censured. Kune witnesses our actions. If we knew what those actions should be, we would do them; but we do not know.” Jerome smiles, his smile a little distant. “It has cut the crime rate one hundred percent.” He waves his hand in a vague way. “An ill wind,” he mutters.
“Kune and Obed live in the basement of The Parsonage,” Frank says. “Nothing civilized about it. Downright frowsy. About what you’d expect, I suppose.”
Frank misses something. On clear nights when the moon is full, Obed sits on the bare rafters of The Parsonage and sings. Sometimes the songs are beautiful and filled with hope. Obed has not given over to misery. Obed simply seems waiting for another journey with Joel-Andrew. We might say the same for Kune.
“The theological question,” Collette begins.
“The tourist question,” Frank interrupts.
Collette turns to Frank, and she has had it with Frank. We did not believe Collette capable of such depth of scorn. “To bloody blazes with your flaming tourists,” she tells Frank. “And to blazes with you as well.” Frank quivers and remains silent.
“The theological question, from a historical point of view, is this,” Collette says. “Why did the Lord not send angels for the best of the ghosts? Maggie and Gerald and The Sailor and the morose cop? They were the only ones not taken into heaven.”
“For a while now,” Jerome admits, “I’ve been wondering if maybe Maggie actually is the Lord.”
Samuel’s reply is gentle, and although what he says is radical—at least radical for a Methodist—he is not embarrassed. “We may never know. But, we can know this. Truth may sometimes be spoken by the most lying tongues.” Samuel turns to Collette. “I’ve thought and thought about this. August Starling told the truth when he said the Lord is only as strong as His servants. The Lord needed The Sailor and the morose cop to take the Chinese home. The Lord needed Gerald to keep the town from falling upon itself. The Lord needed Maggie, and not simply to orchestrate storms. Without Maggie and The Parsonage, J
oel-Andrew’s spirit might grow weak.”
“Because,” Bev explains about the ghosts, “all the Lord had was the ghosts. All He had was them. The Lord did not have us.”
Collette looks ashamed. Jerome seems confused. Frank is huffy and defensive.
“So I do not think any good changes are coming to Point Vestal,” Samuel says. “We have always reassured ourselves by saying, ‘At least Joel-Andrew has not abandoned the town.’ Now I think otherwise.” He looks toward Bev. “My dear,” he says, “we promised ourselves a bit of vacation after this book was finished.” He reaches to touch Bev’s hand. Frank blushes. “Because,” Samuel says, “Joel-Andrew walks the beaches. He plays his violin for the gulls. I think Joel-Andrew has not had much to do with the town for a very long time. It seems that Joel-Andrew awaits the return of The Sailor and the morose cop.”
“And when that comes to pass,” Bev says, “then all of them will leave. Joel-Andrew and Obed and Gerald and Maggie and Kune and The Sailor and the morose cop and The Parsonage. When that happens, we will truly be on our own.’’
Gray waves crash against bulkheads behind The Fisherman’s Café. Those waves have crashed on these beaches since the last ice age. Clouds sail in a weather pattern old as the ocean.
Forever and ever we will sit here as generations of gulls hatch, grow, nest, and die. Whales will cruise the Strait long after the clever ships have passed forever down the channel. The forests will grow, will be clear-cut, will grow again. We will read the newspaper with its weekly account of tricycle wrecks, new litters of kittens, the antics of the city council. Someday, perhaps, we will pray for more than mercy; because surely the day will come when we understand Bev’s revelation not only with our minds but with our hearts. Maybe then, there will come another Joel-Andrew, although such men do not arrive in every century.
The Off Season Page 27