by Lydia Peelle
He let the scraps of paper fall to his feet. His distant eyes narrowed, and his lips drew back in a cold hard smile.
If I’ve learned one thing in this life, son, it’s that you’ve got to write your own story before the bastards write it for you.
At the depot the moon was coming up enormous. Charles told Catherine how people had shouted and cheered when he and Billy brought the mules through town that afternoon.
She looked out at them.
Imagine it, she said. Every one of these animals. From Tennessee all the way to France. Quite a trip, for a mule. She sighed. You know, it’s strange. Now that I’m leaving here I see something. All my life, even when my mother was still alive, I’ve wanted to get out of Richfield. To leave it for another place. When I met you I thought you might take me there. But now that I am leaving, I see that. I carry it with me, everything I’ve thought I could leave behind.
She paused, and pressed her hand to her chest.
Why, even if I had gone over to France, I would still carry it in here. I see that now. Tonight, when Cherry told me she knew I’d always come around to getting married, I thought about how I could tell her the truth, the truth about what happened with you and me. But what good would it do? For the hundred times I’ve wished I could go back to that day and change it, to go back and not open the door of that springhouse—
She faltered, and pressed her fingertips to her eyes.
Well I’m the one with a secret now, aren’t I? Only I can’t run away. I can’t step out of my skin and run. I’m stuck with this. Maybe this is the same as what it’s been all along. All along I could never walk away from Richfield and my father, same as now I can’t walk away from my own self.
Leaving the garden at Everbright that evening, Charles had once again tripped over a furrow in the grass, same as the day she had led him out to the springhouse. Tonight he had seen it for what it was, a path worn from the slave quarters to the back door of the big house, dug out by generations of feet going back and forth in shackled misery all those years. He thought of it now and understood that Catherine would always carry the burden of her story the same way the land and the place would forever bear the scar of this terrible path, the shameful history.
The two mules in front of them were scratching each other’s backs with their teeth. Catherine smiled at them from behind welling tears.
Look at them, she said. Look at those mules. They’re something else, aren’t they? I do hope they do fine over there. I hope each and every one of them does fine. I can’t imagine where they’re going. In Edmund’s last letter he said, ‘Where I am, Catherine, a man doesn’t harbor grudges. I forgive everybody. Even the damn Germans shooting at me over there. I forgive everybody except this damn war.’
Charles took a step closer to her.
You can’t blame yourself, Catherine. What happened with us. It was a mistake but it ain’t nobody’s fault. You’ve got to forgive yourself. Like your brother says. Like you forgive Cherry.
Oh, Cherry. Catherine swallowed hard. I do forgive Cherry. What did Cherry do, really? Ever since April everything’s been madness. Cherry’s never had much of a head on her shoulders, anyway.
Her eyes, far away, suddenly narrowed, and she made a fist and laid it on top of the fence rail.
But I’ll tell you something. That John Rich. I still can’t look him in the eye. Running off to Washington to hide out while poor Ed lies alone and hurt in some hospital in France. Well John Rich is a coward. Maybe Ed can forgive everybody but I don’t suffer cowards. Not with my brother—not with my poor brother—
She looked at Charles, nostrils flaring. What’s he going to tell his children, John Rich? Or his grandchildren? What will he say when they ask him what he did for the Great War?
Charles put his hand next to hers on the fence. Her face was lit with the same fierce intensity that had been in her father’s eyes when he shredded that piece of paper and glared into the magnolias. Write your story before the bastards write it for you.
Well maybe John Rich will change his mind, he said carefully.
Yes, she said. Maybe he will. She took hold of the fence and drew in a deep breath. And maybe someday I’ll forgive everyone.
She looked at him then. Her eyes softened.
I’ve got to tell you something, Charles. That terrible night in March. Outside the party. You told me you weren’t good enough for me. The thing is, Charles, I was standing there thinking the same thing. That I wasn’t good enough for you. I’ve felt so low, these years. Keeping such an ugly secret for my father.
Ah, don’t talk about that, he said. March was a real long time ago. Don’t you worry about that, Cat.
You’re right, she said. That was a long time ago. A lifetime ago. The war had sped everything up. Sometimes I feel like I can’t even catch my breath.
We ought to get going, he said, wondering, with a shiver of doubt, if the trenches they were digging over in Europe would be there forever too. Deeper even than scars, but like wounds that would never heal. I got to get you home.
Let’s stay a minute, Catherine said, turning back to the fence. It’s so peaceful here. Look at these mules. They’re going to win the war.
Panic
He took her back up to Everbright in the Ford. When he said goodnight to her on the porch she looked so tired and delicate that he did not dare kiss her, as if it might do her some physical damage. His mind was spinning too fast to go back to the shack and try to sleep, so he returned to the depot to make sure the mules were settled for the night. Someone had fed them and they were all ripping great mouthfuls of hay out of the mangers. After he checked their water troughs he lingered a moment to watch them. He kept looking back at the roader’s mules. Something was odd but he could not put his finger on it. Then he realized. They weren’t eating.
He followed the fence line around to them. They were right along the rail. He leaned across to the nearest one.
What? he said. Ain’t that hay to your liking?
He cupped his hand over the animal’s nose and gave it a friendly push. The mule bobbed his head.
Well? What is it?
The mule nudged him. Charles caught his nose with one hand gripped like a claw. He looked the mule in the eye. Then the other eye. Then the mouth. Then he noticed, dripping from his left nostril, a fine stream of snot.
He swiped it with his thumb. Slowly, a new stream rolled down to take its place.
He let go of the mule and looked down at his hand. Rubbed his thumb and forefinger together. Clammy. Bird-limy. He stepped back and took another look at the animal, rubbing the back of his neck.
Probably nothing. A summer cold.
He bent at the waist, swung himself through the fence slats. He took hold of the mule’s neck and grabbed his nose again and yanked it towards him to get a look into the nostrils. Not the healthy pink you wanted to see, but a dull iron gray.
The mule got impatient, began to fight him a little. Panic rising in his gut, Charles let him go, practically shoving him away, and went to the animal next to him, another of the roader’s. He took the mule’s face in his hands and turned it so that he could see into the nostrils. The left one was marked with the same trail of snot.
With a cold dread in his veins he went to the next mule. The same. And when he got to the fourth he was too disgusted to even touch him. He could see it, anyway. The trail of snot in the left nostril. The listlessness in the eyes.
They all had it, there was no doubt now. All four of them. That terrible word. That wanton word.
Glanders.
A Fix
Charles shook Billy awake.
Jesus, Joseph, and Mary, why’d you do that. I was having the most wonderful dream.
Do you know a cover for glanders?
Snow again, kid, I didn’t catch your drift.
Glanders, Billy, shit. How do you cover it up?
Billy sat up and rubbed his face. His three-day beard was sparse and white. The scar on his forehead s
hone.
Never done it myself. It’s a damn dirty trick.
Well come on. What do you need?
Billy kept rubbing his face. Let me think, he said. You need a wad of cotton batting. A vial of alum powder. A sheet of newspaper. And a pint of whiskey.
What do you do?
Billy dropped his hands and looked at Charles. Why you asking?
Come on. What do you do?
You roll the newspaper into a straw. You take a knife’s edge of alum, blow it up into the nostrils. Then you plug it up good and high with a piece of cotton. Covers it up for a few days. Maybe a week. Long enough to put as many tracks as you can between you and that animal.
Charles looked to the door, then back at Billy.
What do you do with the whiskey?
Shit. You drink it. You don’t want to mess around with glanders.
Charles went outside. He smoked a cigarette, fast, pulling it deep into his lungs. The gray moon was hoving into the sky. He went back in. Billy was up and dressed.
How many of em got it, Charlie boy? he said.
All the ones I got off that roader.
Billy turned his face to the wall. Ah, hell, he said. Gin.
Charles chewed his knuckle and leaned against the doorjamb. His heart raced.
All this time we’re in here talking. They’re up there spreading it. Breathing the same air. What am I doing? I ought to go get them—we can pull them out of there—
Billy shook his head. It’s too late for that. Here’s what you can do. You can go up there and take em all down to Nickerson’s right now. Every single one of those mules in that pen. Call Bonnyman and tell him the deal’s off. He scratched his face, studied the floor. It might not all be lost. Maybe this Huntington fellow will hire you anyway.
Charles braced his arms against the door frame and hung his head.
Shit. What kind of a fool am I gonna look like? I called him this afternoon and told him it was the greatest bunch of mules I ever seen.
Well, Billy said. Fine. You could cover it up. Take em down there. Cross your fingers and say a prayer. By the time it’s discovered, they’ll be in France.
After giving it to God knows how many more.
Caveat emptor, Billy said. Buyer beware. He shrugged. If Uncle Sam don’t know that then he’s a damn fool.
I could kill that old roader. I could kill him with my two hands.
Charles paced to the cold stove and crossed his arms and stared at it.
Billy. What should I do?
I don’t know, Charlie boy.
Charles spun around to glare at him.
You’d cover it up and ship em down, wouldn’t you? And it wouldn’t bother you. You know why? Because you ain’t an American. Well I am. Shit.
Billy didn’t say anything to this. He was standing next to the girl in the Pears’ soap ad. After a while he reached up and tapped her on the nose. You also got to think of that girl up there, he said. You do have to think of her.
What do you know about it, Billy? You’ve never been beholden to anything in your whole damn life. Charles grabbed his forelock and pulled. I got to think of the fellows over in the trenches counting on those mules, Billy! I got to think of my country. Shit. Those poor mules. They’re all gonna die.
You know what, Charlie boy? Where we’re sending them, it ain’t no walk in the park either.
In the distance a train whistle blew. Charles looked up and listened to it and wished like hell he was on that train. Going anywhere but here. No one could help him. Not even Billy.
I could just go, he said. Jesus. I could just run. It’s all we’ve ever done before.
Sure we could. Easy as pie. Billy lifted his palms. And that girl. I’m sure she’ll be just fine taking care of herself. The way your ma did. Scrape by.
At this Charles walked out, right past him.
He ran up the road, to the lonesome empty Pike. Ran all the way back to town. The streets were deserted. The courthouse clock struck ten as he rounded the corner of East Main.
He walked and walked, smoking one cigarette after another. He took a turn somewhere and ended up in a strange neighborhood. It had once been respectable, but now it was crooked, overgrown yards with listing houses. The trees looked stricken. Trash in the street.
Someone was coming. Charles froze, frightened. But it was Twitch. Twitch, stumbling, drunk.
Twitch. Jesus. Am I glad to see you. Jesus. I need a friend.
I hear you’re getting hitched, Twitch said. He slapped him on the back. Wise man! Catherine Hatcher. You’ll be set up for life, won’t you. Of all the slacker brides, you sure found the prize! Tell me. His breath was rank. You’ve been keeping a good secret. How the hell did you wheel and deal that one?
I ain’t no slacker, Charles said, and pushed him away.
Twitch grinned. His small eyes were crazy. There was a fleck of dried blood coming off a scab on his nose. I got a secret too, he said.
That you’re drunker than a skunk?
Twitch crooked his finger. We did it.
Charles looked at him. He didn’t understand. Did what?
Finally got that old Kraut out of here. Flushed him out like a damn rat.
Kuntz?
Twitch nodded.
You did it? You burned down Kuntz’s barn?
Well. Not me by myself. Them other fellows had the plan. Same as with the paint and setting fire to that old cross. I just helped. They had me stand watch and I showed em where the kerosene’s kept. Kuntz always kept plenty of kerosene around.
You sonofabitch.
You’re the sonofabitch! Twitch said. People like you who don’t care don’t pay attention don’t think don’t act. People like you is dangerous.
Charles’s blow took Twitch by surprise. He fell back, stumbling against the curb. Twitch hit back, but Charles ducked, got him again. It felt good to beat Twitch up. Just to pummel a face. Twitch got a hold of himself, threw a punch that got Charles in the eye socket. Charles grabbed him and took him to the ground. They wrestled, arm wrapped around leg, teeth on flesh, fingernails in eyes. With a slash of his arm Charles freed himself, jumped up, ran a few steps.
Coward! Twitch called after him. You call yourself an American? This is war, McLaughlin! War!
Charles ran until he found Court Square. Pasted on the side of the courthouse he saw the poster of the girl saying, Gee I wish I was a man. I’d join the Navy. He reeled away from it. Sat down hard on the courthouse steps. Touched his fingers to his nose. Blood.
He could call Bonnyman and tell him. He would surely not get the job. He would probably not keep the job he had. He did not know what he would tell Catherine, or Leland Hatcher, or—Christ—the newspaperman who was meeting him in the morning.
Or he could cover it up. Send them on. Take Catherine down to Columbia. Away from this place and her father and the weight on her shoulders. Be a good man for her, as he had tried to do from the start. The mules would die, but not before infecting who knew how many others. But as Billy said, it was no walk in the park where they were headed.
He coughed and spit. Wiped more blood from his face with the back of his hand.
Those beautiful Pendergrass mules. Rattler. All of them. All ruined. All doomed.
Closing his eyes and dropping his head into his hands, he saw Catherine in the pale yellow dress at the fence rail, smiling her new smile and saying she ought to get used to it, the sight of mules.
And he thought about Billy tapping the nose of the girl in the Pears’ soap ad. You got to think of that girl up there. Or is she gonna scrape by the way your ma did? It was all lined up. Their life. Their beginning. He could not leave her the way his mother had been left. No matter what the cost. He could not deal her such a hand.
There was a drugstore on Front Street still open, keeping odd hours in order to supply the Red Cross canteen. He bought the things he needed and went straight to the depot. In the pen the dozing animals hardly stirred when he entered the gate. Even in the dark, he
knew each one. He found the four he sought and took hold of the nearest by the nose. He took out the roll of newspaper and measured out the alum and blew it in and crammed in the batting and then did it to the next mule, then the next, then the next.
The mules did not put up a fight. It did not take long at all.
Nashville
He woke at dawn in the shack, with Billy standing over him.
What are we doing, Charlie boy?
He lay there, looking at the magazine pages on the ceiling. Goodyear. Firestone. Wrigley’s Spearmint Gum.
Hey, Charlie. We loading em up?
Charles sat up, put his boots on the floor.
What the hell happened to your face?
Charles reached up and touched the swollen flesh under his eye.
Twitch. He’s the one did it to Kuntz’s barn.
He examined his eye in the mirror. Billy went to look in the kit to see if there was something to cover the shiner. It was a bad one.
You got to come with me down there, Billy.
Billy closed the kit, giving up, and slowly shook his head.
You got to come with me. Please. Please, Billy. Please.
Charlie boy.
Please.
They caught the interurban up to town. The morning was crisp and cool, the sky eggshell blue.
The newspaperman was waiting by the pen. A small man with a small mouth that moved in quick contortions.
I’m thinking we can do a feature, he said. One mule’s journey, from farm to glory.
Billy did the talking. The man took fast notes in a little notebook. Dozens of sparrows hopped around in the pen, braving the mules’ feet to pick up bits of hay. Charles watched them. He thought about the lion fed the glandered horse’s meat, dead in a day. God. Could an innocent little bird get it too?