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The Cast Stone

Page 21

by Harold Johnson


  Red’s truck ploughed through the drift that was forming across the driveway, cut two parallel tracks up to the house. Elsie and Benji watched as he walked, head bent away from the wind to the door.

  “Want to go hunting?” he asked as soon as he was inside.

  “Today?” Benji wasn’t sure.

  “Best time. Good wind.”

  Benji looked back toward the window, at the swirls on the other side of the glass.

  Elsie figured this out, saw what was happening. If Red wanted to go hunting today, there was a reason, probably a good reason.

  “You should go,” she urged. “Get us some moose meat.”

  “Why today?” Benji wanted to know.

  “He can’t smell us coming. Best hunting weather. We can walk right up to him if we do it right. Come on, I’ll show you.” Red was excited, in a rush, his words as fast as his thoughts.

  “You guys all need names.” Rosie scraped leftovers from a plate onto the ground. Six half-grown dogs scrambled, nosing each other aside to get at the bones and scraps. “Here Duchess, saved a piece for you.” She tossed a bit of meat aside for the mother, then stood and watched the action. If Ben was here, you guys would be in harness by now, earning your keep.” She thought about what she had just said. The words had come before the thought. If Ben were really here, then he would need harness and a sleigh. She could make harness. That was easy. She needed snaps, rings, nylon strapping, something for padding so the harness did not cut into shoulders. Six dogs, she counted, imagined freight harness, not bad, only a dozen snaps and rings, it was do-able. The sleigh, that was a different matter. Her dad used to make his own, bent birch runners, a frame tied together with rawhide or sinew. It needed to be sturdy and flexible. Someone has to remember how to make a sleigh. She couldn’t think of anyone alive anymore who would know how. She remembered all of the steps. Her dad had built his inside the house; boiling water to bend the hand-hewn boards, a drawknife leaving piles of shavings on the floor. It wasn’t that she had watched him build sleighs; it was that he had done it in front of her so many times that she absorbed it.

  She thought it all through again. She could make harness. That was easy, a little sewing. Could she make a sleigh? The hard part would be getting the right tree. Now was a good time to cut it, winter when the sap was all drained away, the boards would be half dry to start with. Red. Yeah, Red, he could get her the wood, probably cut it into boards too. Rawhide and sinew — someone needed to kill a moose. Rosie was beginning to feel chilled. She went back into the house, now with a purpose, not to watch television.

  She gave her house a thorough cleaning, not that it needed it. She needed the movement. Lester’s duffle bag behind the couch was half open, the leg of a pair of jeans hung out. She stuffed it in and zipped the bag. Everything he owned was in there. Not much. She lifted it, checked its weight, was about to put it back where it had been since early summer and realized, “Lester isn’t coming home.”

  She stood a moment, holding the bag, half bent over. She straightened. No, he wasn’t coming home. She put the bag in a closet, made room for it on the shelf, then reconsidered the sudden thought. It came to her as soon as she had touched his bag, his things. Lester was not coming back. No, that wasn’t it. She had thought, Lester is not coming home. This had been his home, Lester’s home. Now it wasn’t anymore. But he wasn’t going to die homeless. She took the bag down from the closet shelf and gently put it back behind the couch.

  “Hurry it up, you old fuck. Against the wall.”

  Ben did not hurry any more than he had before. This was routine. Against the wall, hands spread on the cinder block. That’s all he has, Ben thought. All he has is that I am older than him.

  Even the shove between the shoulder blades was routine now. The hands patting, feeling through the coveralls, striking; chest, belly, thighs, ankles, looking for a shank, contraband, drugs. An excuse to hit, even with an open hand, is still an excuse to hit, to demean, punish, force a hand into the crotch, grab, exercise power.

  Ben turned his head, looked over his right shoulder. She stood aside, watching the male guard, the one without hair and a belly that pushed against the black shirt, with the hands that hit when he searched. Her face tried to hide what she felt; a brown face, frozen, flat, cold. It was trying to say, “I am doing my job.” But it wasn’t. It mumbled something else, something quiet. How did she feel? Ben wondered. Collaborator. Her hands were on her belt, the right one near the holster with the pepper spray. “I am doing my job.” Her feet were spread, ready, her back straight, her neck straight, her eyes straight, the crease that ran down the front of her legs, straight, stiff, starched. Everything said “I am doing my job” except the eyes. The black, intelligent eyes said something else, they said “I am doing my job, but I don’t like it. I don’t like to see old people pushed around. I especially don’t like to see old natives, Elders treated without respect.”

  There was no real strength in the hands that hit. These were the hands of a man who never had to work, never used an axe or a shovel; maybe at one time they lifted weights in a gym, but today the memory of the steel bar was distant. Ben noted the feel of the hands the same as he noted the belly. It was not a belly that bulged. The male guard did not know that it was noticeable. He thought it was hidden under the black shirt, covered. Mostly it was, but the shirt touched the roundness just above the wide belt. Ben imagined a puppy with worms, its weakness exposed by a round hard belly.

  She walked at Ben’s left, he walked on the right with his hand constantly on Ben’s shoulder, steering, commanding. A buzzer sounded a long second before the steel door slid noisily to the right, clanged when it was fully open. The hand shoved, pushed Ben through the door that he was ready to walk through on his own. The strength of the push did not come from the arm. It came from the man’s waist. Ben noted, stored the memory. The guard with the belly used his weight to compensate for his lack of muscle, a dangerous practice; weight needs balance, unbalanced weight can be toppled. She had balance. Ben watched her feet, watched her walk beside him, watched how she stepped, set her feet down toe first, then rest on the heel. She also had strength, more than muscle. She had the strength to stand still and watch a bully push an old man around; even though it went against everything she had ever learned.

  She opened the door to John Penner’s office. Ben walked through. The male guard did not push, did not put his hand between Ben’s shoulder blades. Ben noted that the bully in him was too much of a coward to act in front of a superior. The door shut behind him with a thump. Wood makes a different sound than steel. The office was slightly different. Ben looked around. The desk, bare, was in the same spot, as was the chair he would sit in. The difference was on the wall. A single framed diploma now hung on the panelling. University of California, Berkeley, Bachelor’s degree in psychology. Penner saw Ben read it.

  “Yes, Ben. I went into the den of Satan and took that away as a trophy. I matched wits with the liberals and in the end they were forced to concede that God might exist.”

  “Berkeley is a noteworthy school.”

  “Berkeley is the home of Satan. He walks those halls and his minions bow and grovel. It is the ultimate denial of the holy.”

  “So why did you go there?”

  “Like I said. I went into his den and walked out with a trophy.”

  “Psychology.”

  “A degree in the art of denial. Know your enemies, Ben, always know your enemies more than you know your friends. Don’t put any trust in that piece of paper, my friend. I assure you I am not who it says I am. The only reason it is up there is because someone in this organization has succumbed to the liberals’ propaganda that we are not qualified, and now we have been reminded in a memo to nail our credentials to the wall.”

  John Penner has a superior, Ben thought, as he took the familiar chair.

  “Something you asked the other day got me thinking.” John leaned his elbows on the desk and stared into Ben’s face, looking, al
ways watching for the opening, waiting for Ben’s face to betray him. It didn’t. Ben waited.

  “You asked me how many trees are in the Bible.”

  “So, How many are there?”

  “Quite a few. Of course the ones that jump immediately to mind are the Tree of Knowledge and the Tree of Life in Genesis, that, and of course we refer to Jesus being hung from a tree, but I was amazed at the number of references to fruit trees, fig trees, the tree that is pleasant to the sight, people sitting under trees, cedar trees, the tree that Moses threw into the water of Marah so that the people could drink.” John leaned harder into the back of his chair, felt the metal dig into his shoulder blades, enjoyed the discomfort. This was not going to be comfortable. He flipped over a single sheet of paper, turned it scribble side up on the desk and read: “Psalms 96:12. Let the field be joyful, and all that is therein: then shall all the trees of the wood rejoice. Isaiah 14:8. Yea, the fir trees rejoice at thee, and the cedars of Lebanon, saying, Since thou art laid down, no feller is come up against us.”

  Ben noted that John did not use his memory.

  John continued. “Isaiah 55:12. And all the trees of the field shall clap their hands. Chronicles 16:33. Then shall the trees of the wood sing out at the presence of the Lord.”

  He turned the sheet of paper over and continued, “The burning bush of course was a tree. So, I see what it was you were getting at Ben.”

  “And what was that?”

  “Don’t be a smart ass. I get it. You asked me how many trees are in the Bible to get me to think about God and nature. Nature, that’s your thing.” John leaned forward, elbows on the desk. “Like I said, I get it; references about trees rejoicing, trees singing. Yeah, trees are in the Bible in a big way, and yeah, trees are an important part of the story, a part of the story that scholars tend to miss. You showed me that there are things about the Book of God that you know more than I do.” John sat up straight. “You win that round, I concede. You have a unique understanding. You know something that I didn’t.”

  Ben didn’t like where this was going. John was working himself up for something. This thing about trees was not about bettering him, it was to give him something to think about, to consider in his interpretation of his ultimate authority. John had accused him of worshiping trees;

  Ben had just wanted John to know that John’s God also had an affinity for the forest nations.

  The door opened and the two guards re-entered the office, the guard with the belly came in first, she followed.

  “Handcuff this bastard.” John stood, kicked back the metal chair, it scraped against the floor.

  She held him by the right shoulder, he held the left, it was his weight that pushed Ben face down on the desk, his left cheek pressed into the fibreboard finish. He could see her, felt one of her hands on his elbow, the other on his shoulder. She gripped his shirt, a solid grip, different than the hand on his other shoulder. That hand was flat against his back and pressed down, hard.

  The opening of the drawer vibrated through the desk. Ben felt it in his cheek and the slam of its closing. John held a screw in front of Ben’s face, about an inch long between thumb and forefinger. “See this, asshole, wonderful technology, self-tapping. That means that I don’t have to drill a hole first. This little beauty will bore itself into solid metal. Screw with me and I’ll screw with you.”

  Ben fought down the fear. Breathed, drew in a chest full against the pressure on his back. The screw pulled hair with the first twists, tore them out by the roots. It ripped through the skin without effort and began to bite into the bone of Ben’s skull. Pain has colour. This was brilliant white with orange and yellow flashes, bright to the point of blinding. Pain has heat. The fire began above Ben’s right ear and spread around his head, flamed through to the desk and danced down his spine. Pain has sound. Ben heard the bloodrush, heard the roar, heard the scream of it in his ears. It wasn’t his scream. He was too busy breathing. Bringing in air to put out the fire.

  John Penner wasn’t thinking about God as he torqued the screwdriver. This had nothing to do with grace, the right way to pray, the wrong way to pray, which direction to send the prayer. This was about John. Simple. This had nothing to do with Sodom and Gomorrah, though John could tell you every sin ever alleged to have occurred there. This had nothing to do with Canada, or God Bless the United States of America. This wasn’t political, secular. This was simply Don’t fuck with John Penner. This came from the idea that Ben was screwing with John’s head, and now John was screwing with his.

  He didn’t taste the bile in his mouth, or feel the throb of his own headache. That would come later, when Ben was carried back to the cell block and John sat alone at the desk, gasping, gagging. Then he would absorb the bitter acid at the back of his mouth, across his tongue, coat his teeth; teeth clenched until his jaw ached and pain throbbed in his temple. When he unclenched his jaw and the tension in his arms, so strong that he shook, drained away with the sweat from his chest and his throat, then John would realize what it was that he had done, even though he had planned it, every detail of it, from putting the screwdriver and screws in the desk, to arranging for the guards to return exactly two minutes after they shut the door; now the full realization hit him, hit him hard that Ben did not scream, or beg. When the guards stood him up, it wasn’t fear in his eyes, it was pity. Ben stood against the pain, breathed hard against it, and felt sorry for little John Penner.

  Ben walked between the two guards, held his head up and breathed, drew in air, deep, held it, pressurized his lungs, released the air for room to draw in another deep breath. The pain tried to pull his head down. He held it up to keep his air passage open for the cooling air against the fire in his skull.

  He felt a tug at his right shoulder. She was pulling at him, turning him toward the hallway in her direction.

  “No, this way.” The guard with the belly pulled at Ben’s left shoulder.

  “The infirmary is this way.” Strength in her voice.

  “We weren’t told to take him there.”

  “We weren’t told not to.”

  The guard with the belly was confused, off balance, even though he stood flat footed. She turned Ben. He breathed and followed. The guard with the belly caught up, took Ben by the left shoulder again, but now he wasn’t leading, he was following.

  John Penner opened the computer, looked into the camera that read his retina, identified him, and gave him access. His shaking subsided as he entered information onto the form.

  The subject complies with all requirements. His attitude toward authority is within the normal range. Release recommended.

  He read the form over again. It felt right. It felt like redemption. He pressed his right forefinger to the little scanner at the bottom corner of the keyboard and his signature appeared in the form’s authorized box.

  Rosie woke with a steady pain in her head. Menopause was a long time ago, she thought, as she walked softer than usual around the house, getting dressed, getting breakfast. Those headaches throbbed. This pain was unwavering, burning inside her skull. Maybe she should go back to sleep. Try again in a few hours. But the sky in the east was brightening. In less than an hour it would be daylight. Rosie waited with a cup of tea and a biscuit that ran over with strawberry jam, pampering against the pain.

  It was going to be cold out there. She looked out the window at the pines still black against the birth of morning. Cold, and the snow was getting deep. Maybe she should have picked medicine last summer while it was nice, brought it into the house and stored it in a jar, handy. Maybe start a medicine chest of her own, pick a little of each that she knew for certain, put them away and keep them. Put labels on the jars, this one for headaches, this one for sore throats. Then she would have to keep her house clean. Clean of people who had angry thoughts, and people who used alcohol or drugs. She would have to keep herself clean. She couldn’t indulge in fantasy or foreboding. She couldn’t rant against the stupidity that entered her house through the tele
vision news. Medicine needed to be kept in a clean place. If it wasn’t, if it became contaminated, it picked up the anger, frustration, stupidity and could put that into the person who took it.

  No, this was the better way. Rosie walked through the snow, Duchess at her heels. The fungus she was looking for grew down by the lake, in the willows. It was easier to find now that the leaves were gone, easier to see. She didn’t find the one she remembered from last summer. She found another one, a smaller one, enough for what she needed. As she thanked it before picking it, she thought, this is the right way to keep medicine. This is where it belongs. In the big medicine chest, and the labels were in her memory. She remembered Ben’s mother, old Eleanor, telling her of a time before. “Everywhere we looked, there was our food, there was our medicine.” Everything was where it was supposed to be. Everything was as it should be. Some days are hard. Those days you just have to get through. Some days are better. Some days are really good, and Ben would be coming home soon.

  That falling dream again, falling through darkness as thick as black water, smothered scream, heart racing, pounding louder than the scream that didn’t make it past her teeth. An afternoon nap should not end this way. It was supposed to be an indulgence, a refresher, a break from the stress of work. She checked the time on the clock radio, twelve minutes, that’s all; she had only been down for twelve minutes, not enough, not nearly enough. She thought about putting her head back down on the too small cushion but it wasn’t on the couch anymore. It was on the floor. She thought about picking it up, knew it was useless, knew she would just lie there, too afraid to fall asleep again.

  Monica hated the smell of this; gasoline fumes burned her eyes, there was nothing about this that smelled right. The tiny hollow glass wand connected to a rubber hose hissed as she stirred oxygen blended with hydrogen into the goo, and slime of Styrofoam dissolved into gasoline, putting the bubbles back in. This was the dangerous part. Flow anything past anything and there was a risk that static electricity would build up. Enough static and it would want to go somewhere, jump from one surface to another, spark, a single tiny flash to ignite the fumes and oxygen and Monica would not have to worry about getting the mixture fully fluffed. She would never worry about anything ever again.

 

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