by LeMay, Jim
“That gave her a idee. If that big developer from the city could clean up like that, why not her? She put a down payment on a piece a land adjoinin’ Trevelyan overlookin’ the Grange River. Then she come t’ see me ’bout doin’ her surveyin’. I agreed t’ do the work a course – I did all her an’ Adam’s surveyin’ – but I told ’m it was a dumb idee.
“Why was it dumb? Well, you ain’t seen Trevelyan yet, but when you do you’ll see what I mean when I say, who in the hell would wanta live there? People from the city, I mean. They ain’t nothin’ for folks like that t’ do there. They ain’t no golf courses, no resort stuff t’ do, not much fishin’ unless you’re a local like me, no good shoppin’. Nothin’. They ain’t never been over a thousand folks livin’ in Trevelyan, even countin’ dogs an’ cats. Considerable less right before the Last Days. An’ t’ tell the truth, I kinda liked not havin’ outsiders ’round. I’d lived here all my life. I knew ever’body. Bein’ a surveyor, I knew ever’ square inch a land. An’ me an’ Hanna was doin’ good. I had the biggest surveyin’ company in the county, an’ we had us a nice little farm here near the cove.
“Sure folks move back t’ these little towns sometimes as part a this ’back t’ our roots’ movement. But most real city people, I mean people born an’ bred in cities for generation ‘pon generation, move t’ places like that lake by Columbia. The only kind a people that move t’ places like Trevelyan are folks with ties. Like my grampa. He was born an’ bred down on the Grange River close t’ here. He moved t’ Chicago when he was a young man, but he moved back here after Pap was born an’ never figgered on leavin’.
“In gen’erl, realtors, even good ’ns, make lousy land developers, even worse’n surveyors. But leastways surveyors has better sense than t’ try it. Realtors don’t. They git greedy seein’ their developer clients makin’ it big an’ they say, ‘Why not me?’ Makin’ money in one field makes folks think they can make it ever’place. They think, ‘We made money sellin’ the land, but they made so much more developin’ it. We’re as smart as them. We can’t lose!” So they do the deal, lose their ass. Never seen it fail.
“So anyhow, I warned ’m, told ’m folks that ‘d live on a lake near a nice big town like Columbia wouldn’t care nothin’ ’bout a little hick town b’side a muddy Missouri river. No matter what I said, though, Adam jus’ looked at me like he was gonna swaller me an’ Ellie jus’ ignored me, so we done the project: Coleridge Gardens. I did the surveyin’ an’ my partner Cal did the engineerin’ design an’ we got bids for construction. Afore long the first phase, forty-two lots, got built, ’long with streets, water lines, sewer, drainage facilities, power – the whole works. Then a community center an’ five model homes got built, they sent the advertisin’ out an’ we had our grand openin’ an’... nothin’.
“I mean, nothin’. ’Course the locals showed up for the free lemonade an’ cookies an’ t’ tour the models. They’d never seen such fancy houses. They was even furnished with security systems an’ full of ’lectronics an’ stuff jus’ like city folks has. But the ads didn’t bring nobody else. Finally they sold a couple of houses, one t’ Stan Shapiro an’ one t’ Doc Lawrence. Then they built one for theirselves an’ one on spec that nobody bought. That’s all that happened for a year. Nine houses, six empty, an’ a community center nobody used.
“Then came 2072, the year a the Last Days. Nobody went out there t’ check on the three families in Coleridge Gardens. We was all too busy dyin’ an’ takin’ care a our own. I didn’t go up t’ Trevelyan at all for awhile. Not with our little ’ns dyin’...” Billy looked down, sniffed once, and continued, “...an’ us buryin’ ’m. Hanna an’ I got sick too; then we got well. She wouldn’t let me lay down an’ die like I wanted to. ‘Git off’n y’r ass, Billy,’ she said, only she didn’t say it like that a course. She don’t talk like I do. maybe our little ’ns is gone,’ she said, ‘but they’s a bunch a others out there with no one t’ care for ’m. We’re gonna round ’m up and make ’m ourn.’ An’ that’s what we done. I tell y’ boys, that woman’s got more balls ’n any man alive.
“As it turned out, when I finally got ’round t’ checkin’, ever’body in Coleridge Gardens had died – the Shapiros, the Lawrences, Adam Coleridge – ’ceptin’ for two: Ellie an’ her little daughter. She had marched in t’ Trevelyan one day late in the summer an’, in her usual manner, jus’ took charge. The few who had made it needed her, as a matter a fac’. They was numb, didn’t know what t’ do. She made sure the ones that was sick got took care of, organized burial details, and got other folks t’ round up food, clothes, whatever they needed. Took their minds off their grief like Hanna done mine.
“When I got there in the fall, lookin’ for orphans, the folks in Trevelyan was gittin’ ready t’ move out t’ Coleridge Gardens. Ellie told ’m they was new houses there, an’ water. They was the river an’ a little spring jus’ south a the subdivision. She was scairt a them gittin’ cholera, she said. Before there quit bein’ news, she’d heard that cholera was bad all over ’cause a contaminated water. I had t’ give it t’ her; she was good at takin’ care a her folks. They was less ’n a hunnert of ’m, purty woebegone lookin’ folks – I’ve seen mangy ol’ hounds in better shape – but she seemed t’ have things in control an’ I had business a my own so I went on my way.
“Typical a Ellie. I found out later, she was thinkin’ ’bout some way to turn all this t’ her profit all the time. I didn’t git back there in over six months what with one thing an’ t’other, but when I did I found a purty healthy bunch a folks. Ellie an’ her daughter an’ some young guy was livin’ in what had been the community center. They was a preacher livin’ in her old house name a Gates an’ a doctor livin’ in Doc Lawrence’s place. She had sent her people ‘round the country lookin’ for folks she thought her new little empire needed. ‘Parently she figgered the most important was a preacher an’ a doctor. Several other families was packed inta the other houses an’ some cobbled t’gether shacks.
“They was tryin’ t’ live off’n food they scrounged, but it was mostly gone or spoiled, an’ they had some scrappy little gardens started. Didn’t know where they found the seeds, but the gardens shore wasn’t ’nough t’ keep ’m alive through the next winter. They definitely needed some help. It was late in the year for plantin’ but I went back to the cove, got a bunch a seeds an’ seedlings an’ gave lessons t’ all of ’m on how t’ plant an’ tend gardens. Then I had t’ leave, had chores a my own t’ tend to. Later that year I gave ’m some a our chicks t’ start their own flock. I kept helpin’ ’m over the years when I had time. Taught ’m t’ fish an’ set snares an’ hunt an’ tan hides an’ god knows what all. They come along, made it just fine. Now they got a wealthy market, over two hunnert people. An’ they bless dear Ellie for all this, figger they’d never a made it ‘thout her. Nary a thought ’bout ol’ Billy Kane’s help.
“By the way, she still owns Coleridge Gardens. None a the folks alivin’ there owns nothin’. They all pays rent t’ her for the priv’ledge a livin’ there, out a their produce or whatever. But she’s their savior so don’t say nothin’ agin her in that town.
“I said they all pays rent, but that ain’t quite true. They’s one that don’t; that’s the preacher, Gates. He’s one a the first folks she brought t’ town. Surprised me at first; shore never heard a Ellie darkenin’ a church door. But then I got t’ thinkin’. Most people is religious nowadays. What better way t’ keep ’m in line than t’ control their religion? Find a preacher that’ll do whatever you say for a roof an’ grub. Have him herd all your sheep – ain’t that what they call ’m in the Good Book, shepherds? – in t’ one flock an’ tell ’m what t’ do. He tells ’m God says t’ do this an’ they do it, the Bible says t’ do that an’ they do it. Y’ gotta hand it t’ Ellie.”
“I know you’re not a religious man, Billy,” said Lou, “but that’s pretty cynical, even for you. How do you know Ellie’s not into religion? Like you said, mos
t people are nowadays.”
The myriad wrinkles of Billy’s face gnarled into an ambiguous expression. When he spoke, it was in an uncharacteristically cold tone. “’Cause I know her too well. We fucked behind the alter of a little country church more ’n oncet when we was in high school. An’ sense you mention it, let me tell you just why I ain’t religious. I use t’ be, y’ know. I was a dedicated Bible-thumper with the best of ’m.”
Billy’s voice lowered. “Then I watched my little babies die, all five of ’m, one after t’ other. I couldn’ do nothin’ for ’m. They was dead and I had t’ live on. If it hadn’t been for my Hanna, I’d a ended it right there. But she wouldn’t let me, boys. She made me git off’n my ass and look for other little ’ns and find a way t’ feed ’m. When I said somethin’ t’ her like, ‘How could God ’low this t’ happen?’ she’d just say, ‘There ain’t no way a knowin’ so there ain’t no sense a thinkin’ ’bout it. But there’s other little kids out there that needs our help an’ that’s what we gonna do.’ I give up on God an’ his religion. Hanna had got in t’ this Gaia business. Not me though. I dunno. Seems too much like religion t’ me, even though she claims it ain’t.”
“Why’d y’ have five kids,” Stony asked, “when most folks nowadays only have one or two or none?”
“’Cause Hanna wanted ’m so I wanted her t’ have ’m. She’s the most perfect mother alive.
“Anyhow, the last straw t’ whatever faith I had was when I met that preacher, Gates. I was up t’ Coleridge Gardens takin’ them the baby chicks when Ellie interduced me t’ him. She left me alone with him for awhile an’ he started preachin’ t’ me. I cut him short an’ ast the only question that mattered t’ me: why the hell ‘d God let my babies die? He started in on some long-winded bullshit that I’d heard before an’ use t’ think made sense. Now I know it for the bullshit it is. His message was, after you cut out the shit: God works in mysterious ways and who are we to question it.
“I grabbed the motherfucker by the collar, just like this – ” (he formed one hand into a massive fist; his face clenched) “ – an’ I tol’ him, my Pap had a sayin’: ‘Poor folks has poor ways.’ My ways is poor so I don’t know the ways a gods, only those a men. An’ I know no decent man would a killt my children an’ all those other poor innocent folks. So go tell your god that when I see him on judgment day, I’m gonna kick him right square in the balls. An’ if you git this close t’ me agin, I’ll do the same t’ you.”
Billy leaned back, relaxed his fist, and finished his beer. His face again clenched, but into a more characteristic grin that almost concealed his intensely blue eyes within its wrinkles. “An’ y’ know what? That asshole don’t come nowhere near me when I go to Coleridge Gardens. Smart man. Values his balls.”
Billy looked back toward the tables and said, “Hey, supper’s ready. An’ I done talked y’r ears off. Let’s go, boys.” And they all went to dinner.
The quantity and variety of food far outdid that of any of the previous meals. As always in the Kane household, of course, despite the huge amount and variety, no waste was allowed. Kids were admonished to take only what they could eat and come back for more if they wanted. Everyone had faced times of want, especially those old enough to survive the Last Days. Part of the reason for the larger than usual variety, Willard explained to John as they ate, was to empty the larder to make way for the fresh meat. As soon as Pap returned from market, the Kanes butchered cattle and hogs. They didn’t raise hogs themselves but traded for them with the people that lived in Braunschweig, across the river.
After people had, for the most part, finished eating, Billy stood and gave a tally of all the grain they had harvested, how much he was taking to market, and the amount to be stored against winter. He gave the numbers and conditions of all the livestock; of the cow-calf units they’d had that year; of the cows being milked; of steers to be butchered; of horses, donkeys, and young mules; even the quantity of fowl: chickens, ducks, and geese. Then the raft was transformed into a dance floor by clearing away the tables and benches. The fiddler Ed Baines, one of the young married men of the community, took his place in one corner of the raft, and couples formed. The music began.
There had been very little music in John’s life. The fiddle playing was at first unnerving, then fascinating, as its rhythm directed the mesmerizing whirling of the couples on the open raft. He noticed especially the lithe forms of the young women moving in the dance. Watching them aroused an interest he hadn’t experienced before (but then he had never seen young women, or anyone else for that matter, dance before).
Everyone in the family danced. Little kids danced together whether they knew what they were doing or not, sometimes three or four kids in a ring, sometimes one hopping around separately, showing off. Billy and Hanna occasionally took a whirl around the raft, wonderfully adept as a couple. Rossi’s solemn girl tried teaching him dance steps in a corner of the room. Buck danced every dance with Verbena. John remembered that they had sat together at meals and spent most evenings together. Well before the dance was over, he saw them disappear from the open raft into the shadows of another. Billy had mentioned that he needed an additional raft to support a new house for a couple of his “young’ns” that were getting married in the fall. Could that be Buck and Verbena? Willard danced with a different girl almost every dance. He finally also disappeared with the one he had danced with most often.
At first John found this whole new experience of music and dancing fascinating, especially since the music grew even wilder as the level of the bottle of “corn” at Ed Baines’ side descended. But gradually a feeling of alienation came over him. These people were all connected to one another somehow. The Kanes were all one large family with additional levels of relationships within, and the gang was also a kind of family. Only he belonged to no group. When he finally left the raft to return to the bunkhouse he noticed that no one even paid attention.
He had packed his scratch bag that afternoon, and the bundles of his other belongings had remained just as Maude had packed them for him. Only his bedroll lay spread out on the cot; when he rolled it up in the morning he would be ready to go.
He sat on the edge of the cot, withdrew a small parcel wrapped in waterproof oilcloth from his scratch bag, and carefully opened it, exposing two squares of cardboard tied together with string. He untied the string and took the cardboard squares apart. Between them was a photograph of a young man and woman. The woman was very pretty with a broad smile and long wavy brown hair falling in cascades to rest in pools on her shoulders. The man had a square handsome face and a rather severe expression with a tight thin-lipped smile. His hair was cut rather close and was of a lighter brown than hers. She had told John that he would some day look a lot like this man who he had never seen except in this picture, that his fair hair would eventually darken to a similar light brown as it was indeed beginning to do.
John only looked at this picture of Helen and Brandon Moore, his parents, on special occasions; it made his throat too tight to see it more often. The last time he had looked at it was one night when he realized, with panic, that his memory of his mother’s features was fading. This was another such special occasion, though for a different reason. He needed the reassurance that he too had once belonged with someone else, someone he had loved who had loved him in return.
He put the picture away with great care and went to sleep with a tight feeling in his throat.
Chapter Fourteen
Then it was morning and they were eating a hasty cold breakfast washed down with hot sassafras tea in the kitchen. It was so early that only the men leaving for Coleridge Gardens were present and Ms. Kane and Verbena to help them with breakfast. John had slept deeply and well, felt refreshed, and could hardly wait to start the journey. The men were deathly quiet though, and John knew instinctively not to talk to them unless it was absolutely necessary.
Later, as John helped to load the mules by the light of tallow lamps in the cool early dark, Ms.
Kane approached, drew him aside, and handed him a delicious-smelling bundle. She whispered, her cheeks dimpling in a wonderful smile, “Take this, John, in case you git hungry on the way.”
John considered Ms. Kane a practitioner of miracles. To him, the ability to implement even one of the complex meals of the household seemed impossible. And Ms. Kane did it three times a day. Plus, with Verbena’s help, she operated a school. And kept the clothes for all these people washed and mended and their living spaces clean and he had no idea what else. A twelve-year-old boy couldn’t know what it took to run such a vast household, but it seemed an overwhelming prospect.
Yet she had somehow found the time to prepare a treat for him, just him, to take along on the journey. He was overwhelmed. Impetuously, he grabbed her around the neck and gave her a great hug. As he pulled away, a little embarrassed because he had not been raised around demonstrative people, she kissed him gently on the cheek.
“I – I’m really gonna miss you Ms. Kane,” he said.
“Why, we’ll miss you, too, John,” she said, “but only till you come back. Prob’ly real soon. Surely you’re comin’ back to our Christmas party.” Another smile, more dimples.
“I – I hope so.”
“’Course y’ will. See y’ then, Sweety. Don’t let these ol’ cranky men work y’ too hard.”
And she moved off to speak to someone else, hand out another bundle. He saw that it was Robert. She moved from one to the others of the young men, those of the gang as well as those of her household. He realized then that she made everyone feel as special as she did him. He loved her more than ever. And already began to miss her and the warm, cluttered, friendly great room over which she presided.