An hour later, well past lunch time, Martin’s neighbors were done with him. Their work was complete. He was good as new. The good citizens of Wheaton, South Dakota would be able to walk the streets safely.
“Good,” Martin told them, “now we can fix the well.”
Bill had to eat first. He ate on a schedule like every decent man and ate now while Martin watched him and Tillie vacuumed Martin like a lumpy sofa. Bill also informed Martin that the REA truck passed by while he was still outside. Tillie touched Martin’s shoulder when he started to stand. She glanced toward his plate, and he obediently gulped the sandwich.
Climbing into the passenger side of Bill’s pick-up, Martin tied the rope that held the passenger door shut in a gesture as routine and familiar as putting his elbow out the window. The rope crossed his knees, running from the gearshift to the door handle. He waited.
Because the window refused to crank shut, he or Joe could rest their elbow out the open window in winter as well as summer. The boys rode in that ‘56 Chevy pick-up with their arm on the window ledge as though they wanted it that way. They were tough. Memories of Joe’s suntanned face creased in wide laughter flittered through Martin’s mind. These were soft memories and not the paralyzing kind.
“Where is Joe?” Martin asked himself.
“Joe is dead,” he answered, but he didn’t really believe it.
“Stop talking to yourself,” Bill said as he pulled himself behind the steering wheel. “You sound like a fruit loop.”
At Martin’s farm, three men stood at the open side door of the REA van. They greeted Bill with obvious relief. “Where do we start? This place is a mess.” The older man spoke quietly to Bill as though Martin could not hear them.
Martin pulled a folded sheet of paper from his shirt pocket, being careful not to disturb Christy’s letter in the process. He gestured for the men to gather around and told them exactly and with detail down to the type of wire, the volts for the outlets, and the type of outlet, where to install, and how to run the wire. While Martin pointed and gestured and instructed the REA crew, he saw that Bill was pleased. It mattered that Bill was pleased. Martin felt good.
The initial mistrust and hesitancy on the part of the REA men faded from their eyes. Martin saw respect. His objective abilities were the last to leave and the first to come back. His vision was fine; his confusion was clearing like smoke from a dead fire. What he knew, he knew.
Bill nodded to Martin. “We got that hair cut just in time,” Bill said, smiling. “Not to mention the coat. Mighty glad you took off the coat.”
“Do you think you cured me with a hair cut?” Martin said. He saw Bill’s stunned look. He moved away a few steps.
“No,” Bill said, “but you look better, that matters.”
“I can do this. Please, God, help me to do this.” He turned toward the house.
With Bill at his heels and the crew chief following Bill, Martin crossed the kitchen en route to the basement fuse box. Mid-stride, Martin froze. He stopped, absolutely still and stared toward the counter, mouth open.
“What?” Bill asked, his eyes following Martin’s gaze.
Martin saw an open jar of peanut butter and a loaf of bread. One slice lay on the counter with the knife full of peanut butter on top. He had not started to make a sandwich and then left it, had he? Was there something new wrong with him? His chest tightened, and his mouth went dry.
“Forgot to finish your sandwich? It’s okay,” Bill said to Martin with a definite command to his voice. With his body, Bill blocked Martin’s view of the crew chief while he pinched Martin on the flesh above his elbow and on the inside of his arm, the old parent in church pinch. “It is okay, Martin. Let’s get this done.”
Martin rushed to the counter. In quick motions, he put the lid on the peanut butter and put the jar in the cupboard. He closed the bread wrapper with the blue plastic tie and put it in the fridge. He threw out the bread slice from the counter and washed the knife from the bottled water, putting it away. Then he wiped the counter several times with hard motions. He was breathing hard.
Bill started toward the basement stairs, the electrician in tow. “Wait,” Martin yelled. “I’m coming.” In long, fast strides Martin passed Bill and led the trio down the dark steps into the old, rock basement.
First he would do this. Then he would examine what had happened. He inhaled and forced himself to focus on the task at hand. He was able to, and for that he felt gratitude to God.
Later, as the crew worked, Martin walked outside. He walked across the overgrown lawn and back, leaving behind a swath of broken grass. With head bent to his chest, he missed his beard. He ran through every single moment of the day, including that open jar of peanut butter. His diagnosis was latent trauma reaction.
Perhaps he was blacking out. He took out his notebook and wrote down every single action of his day. He was not missing time, nor did rats run off with blue work shirts or make peanut butter sandwiches. After several minutes, he put the notebook back into his shirt pocket. He joined the crew chief, Thomas, and Bill who stood together in front of the house, chatting.
Tom was saying, “Strange things come in threes, you know,” as Martin joined them. Tom told of another strange event in the small farm town of Wheaton. Martin assumed one of the strange events concerned his own return.
Bill leaned against the box of his pick-up, his casual stance in sharp contrast to the worry clouding his features. Tom faced Bill, but he stepped to one side to form a triangle that included Martin. Martin stepped forward into the group and tried to hide his sudden, intense interest behind a dull expression.
“She’s been missing for five days, and Sheriff Hauk doesn’t have a clue.” Tom hooked his thumbs in his pants pockets.
Bill told Martin about Cassandra Peters. “Sandra’s the star of the girl’s basketball team. She is big time popular at school. Her parents woke up Saturday morning, and Sandra was gone. There seems to be no explanation.” Bill looked at Martin and added, “She reminds me of you at that same age with the basketball.”
Martin said, “What is the third strange thing?”
“Don’t know yet,” Tom said. “Something will happen. It always does.”
It was near dusk, and the electrical workers began to gather around the REA trucks, their work completed. Martin checked everything. He ran his fingers over outlets and switches and wires until satisfied. Then he returned to stand by Bill and Tom. “It is all good,” he said.
The work crew left, and Bill opened his pick-up and looked to be planning on heading home himself. Martin grabbed Bill’s elbow. “The well,” he said, alarmed.
“Tomorrow will work,” Bill answered. “I’m tired. I have work of my own to do, and it’s getting late.”
“No.” Martin looked directly at Bill and then turned sharply and headed toward the well. He marched across the farm yard and toward the barn without looking back. He knew Bill was behind him. He knew the grumpy scowl on Bill’s face and didn’t need to see it.
When the two men reached the well, Bill said, “If damn stubbornness fixes things, you’ll be right as rain in about three minutes.”
The motor hummed, but the pump-jack wouldn’t move. Martin tried a quick turn on the belt with his hand. The rubber that stretched tight between the two wheels nearly caught his fingers between the belt and the wheel as it tried to turn. Within seconds it smelled like burning rubber. The pump-jack was stuck solid. Martin ran to turn the switch off.
Bill sprayed rust remover on all the moving parts and greased the bearings. The two of them each took a side of the rusty red steel pump-jack, shaped like hollow rectangles, and tried forcing it. They pushed up with all their brute strength, and on the third try the rectangles jerked loose, throwing Bill back three steps and cutting an inch into Martin’s palm.
Martin ran to turn the power on. The motor ran, and the belt turned, and the pump-jack cranked very slowly up and down. Then it took off, whoosh, pumping like a resuscitated heart.
Bill shouted, “All right!” He raised his arms and danced in a slow circle. Martin walked slowly to the nozzle end of the pipe and waited for the water to shoot out. Within minutes water was pouring from the nozzle, and Martin put some in his cupped hands to clean his cut and wash his face.
Looking at him, Bill chuckled. “You have rust on your cheeks like smeared paint. You better let that water run for awhile.”
The two men silently watched the water run onto ground already damp from last night’s storm. It was dark and the newly-wired yard lights flicked on, one by the garage and one by the barn. Mosquitoes buzzed around their sweaty heads. Finally Martin was satisfied that the water ran clean and he connected the pipe from the well to the underground storage tank that fed the house.
The men walked toward the house. On each side of the path and in every spot where the gravel had thinned the weeds stood waist high. Trodden patches stood darker than the dusk where the REA guys drove their vehicle and walked around the buildings.
On the other side of the house, the once immaculate yard stretched to the road in a sea of grass with bulbs of seed rocking gently in the mild breeze. Bill shook his head. “A lot of work.”
Martin nodded.
Martin’s father, the only man in the county who had money, built the huge house in 1936. It was inherited money from a grandfather in Germany, money the grandfather wanted out of Germany. The house was huge even in an area where all of the houses boasted spacious, square rooms. It was almost two houses connected by a foyer, staircase, and landings. The two sides were identical in design but for different purposes. On the farm side of the staircase was the kitchen and laundry room, the informal dining room, and the downstairs bedroom. On the road side of the house was a formal dining room and living room big enough to hold a small dance or a good-sized funeral.
Upstairs, three rooms lined each side of the curricular landing. A back staircase went from the landing to the kitchen. The same builders who ignored closets downstairs compensated for that error upstairs. Each room had a closet the size of a small bedroom. The front bedrooms had their own closets; the back bedrooms shared their closets.
The formal rooms downstairs featured window seats. At one time the windows featured colored mosaic glass, but a man didn’t raise three athletic children without sacrificing something. The colored mosaics were gone from all but the living room window.
The front porch faced east and ran the length of the house with two doors to enter the house. The door they used entered the kitchen. The door to the foyer was only used on rare, formal occasions.
On the south side, which faced the road, was a smaller porch. This porch actually housed what was considered the front door, which opened into the formal dining room. This door was used on New Year’s Eve, baptisms, first communions, confirmation, and graduations. Those were the good times. His mother’s wake was one of the bad times.
Other than his sister, Bill was the only person who crossed that threshold every time the door was opened. Bill was like a brother to Martin’s father. Martin thought about his brother’s wake as he slowed his pace to allow Bill to walk easily beside him.
A casket in the living room, blue silk along the lid. The face in the casket was Joe.
Martin stopped, his arms straight at his sides and his hands waving side as though pushing water. His heart pounded. He shut his eyes hard and tight, breathing in and out. It passed.
When he opened his eyes, Bill was not looking at him. Bill looked toward his truck. He was pretending not to see.
“Thank you,” Martin said. He wanted Bill to know they could move forward.
“No problem,” Bill answered. “I just hope Tillie kept the food warm. I might faint from hunger.”
The crickets started their continuous whine, and a cool breeze felt cold on Martin’s damp neck. A sense of tragedy hung about like a fog. Bill moved adroitly to hand Martin his great coat. Then he drove away.
Bill was gone, and Martin entered the kitchen. The light switch turned on one old bulb, but it was enough. Martin began running water down the dirt-black sink. He threw water with his hands across the floor trying to hit a brave rat with the spray. The sound of the splattering water across the floor brought the memory. Not a real, actual memory: a cloudy awareness that a memory should be there. “It rained that day,” Martin said.
“Not tonight, not yet,” he mumbled and shut off the water. He turned his back to the sink and slid down to sit on the floor, his legs sprawled in front of him. His strength drained, he felt like a rag doll. Still, he had to eat something and sleep.
Finally, he rose and made coffee and found the bread and sliced ham Maureen put into the frig. He walked through the house, cutting a path through the cobwebs and leaving tracks in the dust on the hardwood floors. The dust was so thick it folded above his shoes in a thick, condensed layer.
Martin made mental notes of what had to be done first in the restoration process. He turned on lights, most of which did not work or sparked and went out. Did Maureen remember light bulbs?
He would start with cleaning the mess. Crook would not like a mess and then new windows, roof and shingles. At first he thought the noise he heard was a cricket. He wasn’t sure and stopped dead still, barely breathing, to listen. Then he heard a light padding sound coming through the ceiling. He tracked the noise and it led across the room. Someone was walking across the upstairs bedroom to the bathroom. The bathroom was not functional, but the steps entered the bathroom anyway and stopped.
Martin reached for a beard that was no longer there, hand landing on bare chin. As far as he knew, rats still didn’t get up and walk on two feet. As Martin did not want to scare anyone, he stood on the middle landing of the staircase and called softly, “Who is there?”
No answer.
“The toilet doesn’t work yet,” he called up to the upstairs octagon shaped hall. The bathroom was a converted closet with a doorway cut into the hallway. The original door still opened into what always was Joe’s room. Joe had to trade his private closet for a private entrance to the bathroom. So, their father bought Joe a giant wardrobe. Not a single piece of clothing hung in that wardrobe because it was full from top to bottom with athletic equipment. Joe’s clothes hung in Martin’s closet. Martin smiled.
“I won’t hurt you,” he called into the dark silence. He switched on the light and amazingly the bulb worked and shadows flittered on the hallway ceiling. “This is my house, and I won’t hurt you.” He spoke from the top step and lifted his voice, but spoke calmly like calling a stray calf. It was hot as Hades upstairs even with the windows broken and a breeze beginning to flow.
“I’m coming up,” he called though he was already up. It was a warning to the intruder. He stepped closer to the closed bathroom door and noticed a light coming and going from under the door, a flashlight. Rats scurried in confusion around the upstairs hall. They were unnerved by the light, dim as it was. There were so many rats that Martin was stunned by it. He could not imagine a worse infestation.
“Don’t be afraid,” Martin called again from near the door, “but the toilet doesn’t work. I’m going to fix it right now.” He took a step, waited, took a step.
“The light might work in there,” he said, now at the door. “Try it,” he said, keeping his voice soothing. “Go ahead, try it.”
A line of light appeared full across the bottom of the door. Martin stepped back, amazed. “That was the bulb we always had to change,” he told the unknown person behind the door. “And now it works!”
Nothing from behind the door, so Martin said, “I’m relieved you are not deaf.” He meant it sincerely. “Are you a man or a woman? Are you Sandra Peters?” This seemed logical to him. The rats had quieted, hiding.
Martin had no fear of the down-and-out unless it was an addict. The ones he knew where all in one stage or another of recovery, forced or unforced. It was the stories they told and the calm way they told them that chilled him. They all hid from their guilt, deni
ed it, afraid to face it. He thought no addict would wander into rural South Dakota. Nothing here to beg, borrow, or steal. But someone who wanted to hide could do that for a long time.
Something else occurred to him. His voice raised an octave. “How was the peanut butter sandwich?”
“I didn’t get to eat it,” a raspy female voice answered, not a meek voice, actually quite voice. However, the door remained shut.
“I’m going to check the room you’ve been sleeping in,” he told the occupant behind the door. Martin crossed the hall. He reached into the doorway and tried the light switch. Nothing. Just then the bathroom door opened to his back and light filtered over his shoulder and through his legs to reveal the steel frame bed with its bare, striped mattress.
An odd sensation began to squeeze his mid-section, and he had to examine it. Am I afraid? he wondered. No, I think it is the stink and the upstairs’ heat. The squeezing passed, so he turned to see who was occupying his house and wearing his shirt.
The shirt pulled tight around her stomach. She was not obviously pregnant, but Martin knew. Her hair was shoulder length and tangled all over her head. She was a big girl, tall and well-proportioned in her shoulders and hips. She looked strong like an athlete in gray track warm-up pants.
Martin took a step toward her, but she held up her hands to stop him. The odor was tangible and stung his nose and burnt in his throat.
“Did you hear me last night? I came up here for my coat.” Martin tried to be gentle. He didn’t want to spook the girl.
She nodded.
He remembered the hot summer nights when they slept on the porch roof outside the windows. Now, the heat boiled the stench, and it was overpowering. How had he walked through here last night and not smelled or heard a thing? “I was tired, too tired to smell,” he decided aloud. When the nausea brought specks of light dancing in his eyes, he ran for the bedroom window.
The window was completely gone and the screen hung from one top corner. Gulping in the night air and feeling the breeze on his cheeks revived him. He heard the night sounds in the trees and looked up to a clear sky and quarter moon. It would be much better to sleep outside.
Martin, Crook, & Bill Page 3