World Made by Hand: A Novel

by James Howard Kunstler

  "I don't care," she said raising her voice so it broke. "I'm going to see him. You take me to him."

  The five of us walked the three blocks back to Jerry's house. He carried the little girl hitched on his hip. She cried on his shoulder all the way there. He stayed outside with her while Loren and I went into the springhouse with Britney. I could hear Jerry's wife, Jeanette, out there now. "Jasper told me," she said to her husband. "Oh Jesus Lord almighty."

  "Is my daddy in there?" I heard Sarah say.

  Inside, in the dimness, Britney stood mutely over Shawn's body for a long time.

  "All right, I believe he is dead," she eventually said with stoical resignation and let out a long soblike sigh. "Oh Shawn. What are we going to do now? What are we going to do?" Then, she suddenly flew into a rage and cried, "What'd you have to go and get shot for!" and actually swatted his inert shoulder. Finally, she collapsed in a heap on the damp dirt floor, clutching the leg of the table as though she were a child herself holding onto a father's leg. She stayed there weeping for the longest time.

  "Robert will build the coffin," Loren said finally.

  "I want an open coffin at the funeral," Britney growled back between her sobs.

  "You don't have to decide that now."

  "I want everybody to see what they did to my husband."

  "We'll keep him here until tomorrow morning," Loren said, apparently eager not to quarrel. "Ten o'clock we'll start at the church."

  "I'll fetch his good clothes before that," she said.

  By evening, a stream of callers had come by the Watling house, and many lingered to lend a sense of solidarity. Loren had informed a few key individuals, and the news of Shawn's death spread quickly through town and out into the countryside. Jeanette Copeland and Jane Ann Holder volunteered to stay the night with Britney and her daughter. Neighbors brought dishes over to give both sustenance to the callers and some focus to the gathering. Ellen Weibel brought a ham and Jane Ann several bottles of her wine, and Eric Laudermilk brought jugs of new ale, and my neighbor Lucy Myles brought her sausage, and several women brought "pudding," a savory staple of our tables made from leftover bread scraps, which we no longer throw away, mixed with anything else you have around, say bacon, squash, kale, chestnuts-like Thanksgiving stuffing. There was samp, which used to be called "polenta" in the upscale restaurants of yesteryear, cornmeal grits doctored up with cheese, mushrooms, or what have you. Maggie Furnival brought a buckwheat pilaf, Nancy Deaver a barley pilaf. There was, of course, corn bread, our staple. Donna Russo brought two coffee cakes made, she said, with the last of their wheat flour. And insofar as it was June, we had plenty of fresh greens, spinach cooked with bacon and green onions, radishes, rocket and lettuce salad, peas with mint. Elsie DeLong brought new beets. Katie Zucker brought honey cakes made of ground butternut meal. Annie Larmon brought fresh cream from their farm and whipped it up for the cakes. Felix Holyrood, who ran the leading cider mill in Washington County, brought a keg of his powerful "scrumpy," which was stronger than beer. For all that, the evening was hardly festive, but a very somber, measured gathering, with fussing over the dishes a way to signify that life would continue, as well as to give people something to do with their hands.

  It was a warm, sticky evening. Mosquitoes rose out of the long shadows in ravening clouds, and people who sought fresh air outdoors were eventually driven back inside to escape them, while big furry moths banged away at the screens. The neighbors had considerately brought extra candles, and the first floor seemed almost as bright as if the power were still on, but the candles also added to the heat inside.

  What had originally been the keeping room when the house was a tavern after the Revolutionary War-and then became first a law office, then a nursery, then a parlor, then Shawn's grandfather's optometry shop in the 1950s, and finally a television room in the late twentieth century-had been converted into a broom-making shop by Britney. Here in the large south-facing room with good light she made brooms out of rush and willow and birch, and baskets out of split ash, and wooden spoons out of whatever hardwood scraps were left over. The household had been reorganized in a way that Shawn's parents would have never understood. What had been the Watlings' real estate office from the 1970s until 2003 was now a suite of pantries, food storage, and canning rooms off a kitchen centered on an enormous wood-fired cookstove for processing the output of the garden. No one years ago would have anticipated how much production moved back into the home when the machine age ended. The family's personal quarters were upstairs, including a sitting room. It was a large old house and they kept it in good condition.

  Surprisingly little curiosity was expressed about the incident that had left Shawn dead, once I had related what I knew two or three times and it got around to all present. It was eerie, a portentous signifier of our true social condition beyond the conventions of a funeral. Nobody wanted to disturb Wayne Karp and his bunch any more than they would poke a nest of rattlesnakes with a stick. We all knew the apparatus of justice had dissolved. Heath Rucker, our good-for-nothing constable, didn't come around that evening. For all anyone knew he was drunk or off fishing. Our mayor, Dale Murray, turned up among the later arrivals. He sought me out and cornered me and made a little show of saying, "We're going to get to the bottom of this."

  "How," I said. "By what kind of procedure."

  "We'll convene a grand jury," he said, "and you'll testify."

  "I didn't see a damn thing. And anyway have you noticed the county courts are suspended?"

  "I don't think Mr. Bullock will remain unmoved in the face of a cold-blooded murder."

  "We'll see about that," I said. Dale Murray had once prosecuted a lawsuit against my father-in-law and ended up getting stung in a countersuit. Though he had turned up late at this impromptu wake, he was not altogether steady on his feet. "By the way," I said, "I'd like to get to the bottom of how you happened to sell the high school to this Christian bunch that just landed."

  "They made an offer. I accepted."

  "On whose authority?"

  "You look here. Nobody else in this burg takes an interest in civic affairs, yourself included. The building's been empty for years and the roof is falling in. These people, whoever the hell they are, they're going to keep the place from falling apart completely."

  Before I could ask him where the money was, Laura Holyrood, wife of Felix, who apparently had also been drinking some, came between us with a plate all loaded with a supper for Dale, and in her amorously restless way started flirting Dale up, making sure he noticed her substantial bosom. So that was as far as we got on the school matter. I excused myself and went and found Loren and some of our music circle. We had to discuss what hymns and pieces we might play at the funeral.

  Through the windows, the sun sank below a distant hilltop. There was a commotion across the room. Brother Jobe appeared in the open door with a delegation of his followers.

  There were five of them besides Brother Jobe, all men, wearing the somber black suits of their sect and carrying hats in their hands. They were all clean-shaven, not like most of us Union Grove men. It struck me as an odd reversal of the way things used to be long ago: the secular clean-shaven and the pious bearded. Only Brother Jobe wore a necktie, a black ribbon cravat, as though it were an emblem of rank. He was sweating impressively. The others were all younger, in their twenties and thirties, uniformly large and powerful men, a different breed almost, like draft horses are to quarter horse stock. You could see how Brother Jobe would feel confident in their company, and you wondered whether he had selected them for their heft and strength.

  The whole clutch of them paused at the door while the low buzz of conversation throughout the room dropped away. I think Brother Jobe was aware that he had given himself a theatrical entrance, and he was prepared for it with a little speech.

  "Evening to you all," he said, and introduced himself and the others by their given names, Brother Joseph, Brother Elam, Brother Eli, and so on. "I suppose you know by now th
at we are setting up over at your old high school. We are called the New Faith Brotherhood Church of Jesus and we have come out of Virginia by way of Pennsylvania because of what has happened in our nation's capital. We are happy and grateful to have found this situation and look forward to uniting, so to say, with your community. We come here tonight in recognition of the sadness that has touched upon you today, to pay our respects and begin introducing ourselves, because we do not want you to fear us or think us to be alien beings. We are upright Americans, like yourselves, banded together in faith, praise Jesus, to meet the unfortunate circumstances of these our times. We expect to find new friends here and work fruitfully alongside you, and I hope you will feel the same amongst us. Well, that's all I got to say. Except," he added with a fresh attack, "I wish to reassure you of our friendly intentions by saying we have brought a barrel of good Pennsylvania whiskey on the cart outside and we invite you to partake of it. Now that is all I got to say."

  Several of our men headed outdoors at once with their cups and glasses. I wondered as how the New Faithers were not against drink per se. Brother Jobe spotted Loren and myself in a corner along with Andrew Pendergast, Bruce Wheedon, and Dan Mullinex who built the grain mill on Bright Creek. Brother Jobe came over like a politician working a room.

  "I hear this poor devil was shot dead in cold blood," he said, "and the one that did it is still at large."

  Nobody replied to him for an awkward moment. We took refuge in our supper plates.

  "That isn't right," he went on. "Can't have folks shooting folks."

  "The machinery of justice isn't working too well around here these days," Loren finally said.

  "That is exactly what I gather," Brother Jobe said, "and that's why I suggest someone get the ball rolling on it. I understand you do have an elected magistrate."

  "Yes, we do. His name is Stephen Bullock."

  "Is he here in this house? I'd like to talk to him."

  "No."

  "Why not?"

  "I don't know why he's not here," Loren said, "except he lives several miles out of town and perhaps he hasn't heard the news."

  "Why wouldn't this matter come before him?"

  "He didn't run for the office, and he said if he got elected he wouldn't serve."

  "That's some civic spirit for you," Brother Jobe said. "What does this Bullock fellow do as a livelihood?"

  "He's a gentleman," Dan Mullinex said.

  "Ain't we all?" Brother Jobe said.

  "He owns lands down by the Hudson River," Loren said. "A large establishment. Two thousand acres at least."

  "You might even call it a plantation," Bruce Wheedon said, cracking a slight sardonic smile as he speared a piece of ham on his plate.

  "Oh?" Brother Jobe said. "Like Ole Massa? We know that type.

  Our group fell silent again. Whatever one thought about Brother Jobe, we clearly all felt embarrassed about the slovenly state of our local affairs.

  "I'd like to go see him," Brother Jobe said. "Would one of you fellows take me to his spread and introduce us?"

  Loren and I exchanged a glance.

  "You know him best, Robert," Dan said.

  "Don't he come to your church?" Brother Jobe said to Loren.

  o.

  "Which outfit does he attend?"

  "None, as far as I know."

  "Hmph. A man who don't have religion, won't serve his community when called. What kind of fellow is that?"

  We all swapped more glances around on that one, because we knew Stephen Bullock. He went his own way and always had. He ran a bountiful farm. He had altogether perhaps fifty people living and working for him there, and it was rumored that many of them had entered into a relationship with him of extreme dependency, people who, out of one misfortune or another, or perhaps just a desire to be led or to live a structured existence, sold their allegiance to him for security and a full stomach. He took care of them. It was an old old story, but one that hadn't been seen in America for a long time.

  "His farm has come to be a sort of world of its own," Dan said.

  "All right. Whatever it is, I'd like to go visit with him. Can we do that sometime after this poor fellow's funeral?" Brother Jobe asked me directly.

  "All right," I said.

  "I'll send for you, and we'll take the wagon," he said. "People getting shot for no reason. That don't stand with us. Come on out now, boys, and let me buy you a ding-danged dram of life's righteous comfort, praise Jesus."

  I was up until four o'clock in the morning making Shawn's coffina sorrowful task as I struggled with the idea that I might have provoked him to anger in the hour leading to his death. It was a plain hexagonal pine box, doweled at the joints, with his initials carved on the lid in a small beaded border. The long day's heat persisted well into the night and the little sleep I found at last was febrile with inchoate dreaming.

  Several of us reconvened at Doctor Copeland's place at nine o'clock in the morning. It was already warm. Jane Ann brought Shawn's good clothes over. We dressed the corpse and placed it in the coffin and brought Shawn's remains up to the church on a plain truck wagon from Allison's livery, which the women had draped in some black bunting. Loren and several others fetched Britney and the little girl up from the Watling house to the church and the funeral got underway. Britney still appeared angry on top of being distraught. Jane Ann seemed to struggle with her briefly in the front pew. It was because Shawn's coffin was closed, after all, I surmised. Loren and the other elders had decided that his wound was too terrible and would scare the children. They'd asked me to nail it shut and I did.

  We townspeople had settled into the pews when all seventythree adult members of the New Faith Church entered behind Brother Jobe. They filled in the remaining seats, and took places standing in the sides and rear when all the seats were occupied. I couldn't remember when the church had ever been so full. It was strangely thrilling. Curiously, all the New Faith men stood on one side, and the women on the other. Of course, neither Wayne Karp nor any members of his bunch appeared. We in the choir took our places and began the funeral service with the hymn, "Awake, My Soul, and with the Sun," also called the Doxology.

  At the conclusion of the verses, Andrew Pendergast continued playing the hymn softly in the background on piano while Loren came into the pulpit in vestments that he rarely wore except at funerals, and gazed out over the congregation as if to the more distant scene beyond the doors, which were open to keep the air circulating.

  "The death of a young man in the early summer of life, seemingly senseless, sudden, and violent, can test our faith. We've been tried over and over in recent years by violence and loss, by the crumbling of society's touchstones, by illness, darkness, hardship, and even the wrath of the earth's weather, out of our gleeful avarice. We elders remember our former lives and we have a lot to answer for. We regret what our lost riches have cost us, even while we miss them. Shawn's brief life bridged these two worlds. By the time he came of age, the days of miracles were over. He assumed a role in our little society, and he went manfully into a life of hard work making the ground yield our bread and caring for his family. He was a generous member of our music circle and will be sorely missed there. There is no telling where another destiny might have led Shawn if this tragedy had not intervened. We'll never know now, because his life was snatched away in a moment of reckless confusion."

  A wave of low murmur flowed through the congregants. More than one person coughed.

  "We don't know where this land and its people are tending. But we hope for an end to our losses, and we pray to be worthy of this beauty-filled, God-made world that we are still grateful to live in, for all our startling difficulties. Would that the Almighty might stop plucking our young away and reap us instead, the long-lived, who disgraced his world and led it down into weeds and ashes. But his design is not revealed to us and his will only known through our acts. Dear God, death reminds us of our true nature. While in your world we are in you. We are your servants. We thank y
ou for your lessons and your mercy. We ask for your blessings upon the spirit of our friend and kinsman, Shawn Watling, as he enters into the light of your grace."

  Loren paused a long moment, then said, "We will continue at the cemetery. All are invited to follow along."

  Much bustling and bumping in the pews concealed the sound of Shawn's child crying for her father as everybody moved for the doors. We pallbearers carried the coffin back out to the wagon. The people of Union Grove made a long procession behind the wagon to what had been the edge of town until the 1950s. By a strange irony, several of the houses built afterward, which had encroached on the cemetery for years and dishonored it with their graceless vinyl split-level facades, had been among the first disassembled by Wayne Karp and his crew for salvage, so the cemetery had regained some its original character as the place where the town met the rural landscape. And of course no cars were disturbing the peace of the late morning. Loren had gotten a crew together earlier in the morning to dig out the grave and set the straps for lowering the coffin. When we'd gotten the coffin off the wagon, Tom Allison drove the rig off and left the horses tied to the iron fence in the shade.

  We in the choir took up our places behind Loren at the head of the grave. The New Faith people ended up in a crowd on one side and the Union Grove people on the other. Loren began the burial with a Psalm, number 100: