Just North of Nowhere

by Lawrence Santoro

  “Hmmmm,” Herb said again.

  “It’s alive,” Bunch said at Herb's shoulder. He blew a breath of beer and smoke into the sag of Herb’s face. “The river, there; alive. Wriggles like a worm. See there…” He pointed upstream where the flow curved from the woods and houses. “They put in a dam up there, hundred years ago, maybe.”

  Herb nodded.

  Bunch stuck his smoke into the corner of his mouth. “They snapped her, pulled her, dredged and filled her. They dammed her up and spilled her over. Figured her for straight and civil!”

  Herb tasted the tobacco-suffused scent of Bunch. It was good, his weedy exhalation. He couldn't understand those who could not, would not abide a smoke. He didn't, himself, of course. No, but he surely loved to breathe it when others did so for him.

  Bunch squeezed one eye shut against the rising smoke and peeled the soaked paper from his lip. “Dam didn't work worth shit,” he said, “Rolling River wouldn't be tamed by dammin'.

  The water was dark now. The river – ninety-three feet wide here, Herb estimated to within an inch or so, wider some places, narrower at others – licked quietly at the long edge of the town.

  “I see,” Herb said.

  Bunch leaned over the rail. “They stuck dynamos on her to suck the electric out of the water. Tried to tame it that way.” Bunch wrinkled his face under Herb’s nose. “Didn't work, neither.” Bunch leaned on the rail. “Now they let her go. The Rolling’s still wrapping itself around the town, eating it up.” Bunch sucked the last from his smoke and flicked the brown butt sizzling into the stream. “Which ain't going to happen though. Nope. I live on this river. Up Slaughterhouse, out County H, down by Papoose Crick, there,” he pointed. “Under the bridge. I watch the town. Take care of her. River and me’s got agreements going way back. Nothing going to happen here unless we agree. River takes care. I do too. I shovel winters, cut summers, do patch work, here and there. I keep out Chippewa spooks down by the Crick – most of them, anyway. I do other things. Keep stuff going. I watch things come and go. Did since I was a kid.

  Herb felt like smiling and he did.

  Bunch drew back, cocked his head. “You got a smile, there, makes a guy feel like sucking a double-aught barrel.”

  “I’m afraid so,” Herb said, “it’s just my look, though, not my way.”

  “I figure you're here for a visit, right; stay a little, then gone, just another terrorist? Am I right?”

  “Mm,” Herb said, “more or less a tourist. More or less,” he added.

  Herb breathed the scent of the man, again. Yes: fragrant with life. His jowls quivered with it.

  “Touring,” Herb said. “But I was going to do something,” he added. “To be honest...? Do you want me to be honest?” Herb asked.

  “Nope,” Bunch said.

  Yes, Herb liked this place. The opulent aroma of Bunch mingled with fish flop from the river. It roistered with the animal medley – piss, shit, fear, and blood—from the stock pens. The gorse, mosses, fungus, and trees in leaf across the river added a loamy richness to the cool air. Herb smelled worms, too, and other things, so many other things. It was a symphony of riches here. He liked this town and he wanted it to like him.

  “I'll stay for a bit,” he said to Bunch. “This is an interesting place. I like the people. I like your river.” He patted the porch railing. “I like what grows here.”

  Bunch straightened. He flexed as though he were working up to grabbing Herb by the ears and tossing him over the rail so the river could flush him along.

  Herb’s arms hung at his sides, followed the curve of his body. From his wide hips, his legs tapered to tiny feet. His ears sagged in pendulums and his cheeks drooped in wattles below his chin. His upper lip slipped another quarter inch over the lower and his eyes went wet and soft.

  “I’m warning you,” Bunch said in a fume, “I look after this place!” His fist made a humming pass inches from Herb's 200-watt nose.

  “And a good job it is, too.” Herb nodded and did not dodge or flinch the whistling haymakers Bunch slipped through the air around Herb’s head. Bunch meant it. Herb liked that. “A place this nice needs a protector. It’s precious. I like it and I'll enjoy it for a while. Then I'll be gone.”

  Without actually stopping his feints and footwork, Bunch relaxed. “Yeah?” he said.

  “Yes.” Herb said. “While I'm here, well, I like to share with friends. There are things I'll share.”

  “Yeah?” Bunch said again and stopped swinging, kept up his footwork.

  “Won't know I'm here. Except I may leave a thing or two. Then I'll be gone. I hope you'll remember me with fondness when.”

  “Yeah?” Bunch said panting.

  Bunch’s heart thumps pounded in Herb’s ears

  “Yes.” Herb said. He took another breath and returned to the bar.

  The music had ended. Ivan stared into the rippling juke light. Old Ken’s nose still pointed to the ceiling. At the end of the bar, Karl stared at the beerfall sign.

  “Have another one, fella?” Ivan said to Herb. “On the house!”

  “Not now,” Herb said, “but thank you, thank you.” Then, almost as a second thought: “You liked the song?”

  Ivan blinked. “Huh? Oh yeah. Sure. Thanks. That’s some sweet music!”

  “I thought you would.” And Herb was out the door and in his car.

  Bunch was right behind. “Hey. Droopy!” he called.

  Herb rolled down his window.

  “Where you from?”

  “Chicago,” he said.

  “Yeah!” Bunch said shaking his head. “Yeah! Chicago! You said.” Bunch grabbed the car door as the engine came to life. “You're from Mars, ain't you?” he said and gave Herb a wink and a nod. “Huh?”

  Herb drooped. “No.” Herb looked behind then backed the car carefully into the street. “No,” he said again and eased down the way looking for a place for the night.

  Chapter 4

  BEST NOT GO WHERE STRANGE THINGS WANDER

  The damn bike! Yes, there was Vinnie, the old house, the radio, Crista-whatever her name was-bell, the Italian woman, all that had Bunch on edge, but the damn bike got him started. Here's the way it went: summers, every year, Bunch went back to the bridge down by Papoose Creek. Come winter, he’d crawl out, walk to town and find someplace to hole up. Maybe, maybe not!

  Simple.

  Not that he'd have been a stranger. Everyone knew Bunch. Every day, summer, winter, whatever, he'd bee-bop down Slaughterhouse to Commonwealth; look for work, do work, keep eyes on the terrorists (throw them a little scare maybe), maybe drink a beer on the house at the Wheel or take a meal at the Eats in ‘change for whatever.

  Folks treated him. In return for which, Bunch did jobs as needed. Living under his bridge, he didn't much mind being alone or sleeping the winter cold; the friggin' racket from the Indian wars out past Papoose Creek was irritating—and that got worse, winters—but the last six months, there had been that old house! Damn thing showed up across the creek—just showed—one morning after a big ass thunderstorm. Houses didn't do that. Bunch knew houses and houses didn't just show up!

  Not much gave Bunch the willies. That old shack did, a one-room place on low stilts squatting at the edge of the forest. The water rippled just a little there, where Papoose Creek joined the Rolling River. The bank on the far side from Bunch's place was a flat sandy flood plain rising to a little clearing. The clearing was scattered with dark stumps. In the right light, the stumps stuck up like black, rotted teeth, so much green moss on them, it looked like a hundred years had gone since the trees had been cut for that damn shack. Hell, the stumps could have been left from the cutting and building—they sure looked it!

  They weren't! They hadn't been there. Not before the house showed up. Overnight there it was: house, stumps, moss and all.

  Bunch was not curious. He was that smart, at least, smart enough to avoid curiosity. What was there, was there. He was here, his side of the river and creek.

/>   Bunch almost never crossed the creek. Not at that place. No reason to.

  Since the house showed up... Well, best not to go where strange things wander. Wasn't fear, just polite good sense.

  He watched.

  Some days, a window might catch a flash of sun and peer across the water at him. Some days not. Same sun, maybe the window was looking somewhere else. Some days, where that window had been, a drooping shutter lazed half-shut, or sometimes just a wooden side where the window was, day before.

  All summer the place hunkered down by the edge of the trees. Creepers and climbing vines wrapped it, branches from the forest bowed down to shade it. Every day, maybe, a wood cat, a squirrel or little brown bird, would land on the porch, or creep up the steps, cock its head, raise its beak, hop along the warped boards to peer in, taste the air from out the house's cracked-open door. After a bit, the critter might hop, flitter or slither inside.

  Bunch might watch until he got tired of it or until something came along for him to do and he'd go do it, but he never noticed anything coming out.

  If anyone had asked, Bunch would have said, “That place is full of strange.” No one asked. What the hell, it wasn't their dealy. And, Bunch? Well, Bunch knew enough not to trust a place as wanders. He figured, if anyone wanted something done about the thing, they'd ask! Some days Bunch didn't even bother looking across the creek.

  Then, the damn bike showed up.

  One morning, there it was: in the mud by the bridge, his side, near where he slept.

  First he thought, the damn bike might have to do with the house. Both just showed, both by the river. So at first the bike gave him similar willies.

  After a few days of keeping eyes on it, Bunch figured the bike probably had fallen off the bridge.

  He pictured the guy who probably owned it: There the guy was, taking a leak off the rail; there his bike goes, rolling down the bank. And there's the guy, a terrorist, probably; probably too clean to come down to the river to fetch back his own damn bike. And there the out-of-towner goes, figuring, “Oh well, I'll just buy me another one back in whatever city I come from.”

  Yeah, that's it, Bunch figured.

  The bike was barely broken. It straightened out nice. Bunch was good, mending.

  The bike was one of the most useful damn things had come along in a pretty long while. Last couple weeks that season, Bunch rode up and down town every day. For a time, he looked over his shoulder every couple of pedal shoves, half expecting to see the owner, running, pointing fingers, flexing store-bought muscles, dragging Vinnie the cop, shouting “There it is! There's my property!”

  Bunch could damn-near hear!

  Never happened.

  And the damn thing was pure use. Bunch used it to tote tools in a back sack when he started the new roof over by the Sons of Norway Lodge. He hauled screws, tape and mud-mix, in the same sack, dry-walling out at Valley View Bed and Breakfast. A couple times that season, Bunch swapped lawn-mowing chores for the use of little Whendol Rifkin's Radio Flyer wagon. Whendol didn't use the Flyer since he'd gotten big and bold and gone to play ball over at the Consolidated School and Bunch probably could have had the kid's wagon, permanent, for the asking, but what the hell would Bunch do with a kid's wagon permanent? Besides, mowing grass was pleasurable, smelled good, and was worth doing just for its own damnself.

  With Whendol's Flyer wagon tied behind his bike, Bunch dragged stuff everywhere: Paint, groceries; the widow Yeltz's cat—hauled to Doc Dog's place over to Harmony, twice that summer alone!

  And the bike was a pleasure. When he got over the worry about someone coming for the damn thing, he used it to chase terrorists off the streets or from the railroad rightyway had turned into a damn State hikey-bikey trail the last dozen years.

  Bunch also kept the out-of-towners from coming down his side of the river and from bothering that old house across the way. He sure as hell did at least that much, kept folks from things they didn't know better about! If anyone had asked, Bunch especially liked rolling down on city people at sunset. He'd give big-eyed hoots, scare the crap out of whole families for a second or two, then be gone, rattling around the bend, vanished like a spook.

  He enjoyed it, and nobody minded too much.

  “Bunch? Ah, heck, you can't mind him!” Karl Dorbler over at the Wurst Haus told the tourists as he weighed out their wienies on the scale. “Oh no, there! Bunch, he's local color, you know, ha, ha!”

  For the information, Karl thumbed a couple extra ounces on the scale. “Local color! Yep.”

  The damn bike gave him use all summer.

  Bunch figured the thing might be a pain in the ass when the deep snows came. Wouldn’t be in the way. Not exactly. He just figured he’d feel funny looking at it every morning, it being left out to cold and weather. Figuring further, he figured to winter the thing in the Italian Woman's shed.

  Then one morning, before he had a chance to ask her, the Italian Woman came to him.

  He was at his stool at the Eats, and she came up, stuck her hip out and propped her hand on it. “You,” she asked, “You will help me remove my small outbuilding, yes?”

  “Huh,” Bunch said.

  “The small one in the upper part of my yard? You will.” Didn't so much ask as tell him, but it sounded almost like asking.

  “Now that's a good shed!” Bunch said.

  “I don’t want it,” she said.

  “It's got that pretty good picture of carnival folk on it.” Bunch said, thinking of the wide-eyed dark woman clothed in slithering snaky monsters! He liked that poster picture.

  “It disturbs my thinking,” she said.

  “And that place is a pretty good place for putting things. You know? Winters.”

  “It creates eddies in the lines of power,” she said. “And I want it down.”

  Well, even if she was an Italian lady and strange, she was okay. She worked side-by-side with him, taking down the shed, got as sweaty and dirty as he did. They squeaked rusty nails out of the wood together, pulled boards down, tore apart the old carnie pictures. Together they banged off the rusty De Kalb Corn sign and pretty soon the damned shed was gone. Shame.

  Krista—whatever her name was, even helped drag all that crap up the hill to burn it. She stood mumbling as it went into smoke. Then she made him good grub for a week of eating for his work! Funny stuff, but it ate good.

  No, she was all right, the Italian lady Crista-whatever. Started off pure terrorist, her sneaking into town at the ass-end of a good lightning storm. Car stalls on the bridge, middle of the night, then – couple days later – there she is: living in the old chippy’s place on Slaughterhouse Way like real people.

  There was the radio, too.

  Less than a week after the bike showed up and long before he and Crista-whatever tore down the shack, Vinnie Erikson had come by asking Bunch if he could tune-up the town prowler. Which he did and for which Vinnie swapped him that pretty good bigass radio some terrorist had left behind and all it needed was some damn batteries and a little fiddling!

  Vinnie gave him the car work just to piss off Einar up at the Former Amoco – Vinnie was like that and Bunch knew it – but what the hell? Bunch had done a good job and got a good radio for it, Einar got a good ass-pain he could growl about for months at the Eats, mornings, at the Wagon Wheel, nights, and Vinnie had a smooth-running prowler and the satisfaction of messing with Einar.

  Everyone won.

  Bunch naturally tied the radio to his bikebars and up and down town he went. Smart move, he figured later. His musical radio reminded folks they wanted stuff done; worked like those ads selling soda pop and cars between TV innings over at the Wagon Wheel. People heard music coming up the street, some thought, “Bunch is here!” Some might say, “Oh, there's that Bunch. Wonder if I can get him to root out my cellar, there?” Bunch had to congratulate himself over that one.

  Then, uh-oh, one night, the damn bike vanished. Right from where he left her: there in front of the Wagon Wheel. First, Bun
ch thought maybe the owner had snuck back from wherever and re-claimed it.

  “If so, that's okay,” Bunch said to the Rolling River, walking home at three in the damn morning. “Free rides and public relations, damn it, that's what I had, most of a summer!” Bastard could have left the radio, he figured, but what the hell, it was gone and that was it!

  The year was twisting the town under night skies. Each day, morning shadows eased more toward where Papoose Creek joined the Rolling. Trees went puny without leaves. One night, the grass lay down with the dew and stayed down in next morning’s sun. Worms and grubs didn't much come up for the birds anymore, so the birds left. Those that stayed, their songs changed: songs everywhere changed, bird, bug, and wind though the bridge-boards and wires, the river's voice along by where he slept, it was all changing.

  And that house across the creek stood out more and more, now the leaves were gone and the wood creepers gone brown and scrawny. Not in the woods nor quite out, the place looked like a kitten too stupid to all-the-way hide itself, hunting. Pathetic, Bunch reckoned. Day or night, it stood out dark. Except when it showed a little light inside, nights.

  Bunch wished the place would just be gone like it had come: one night there, next day not. Like his bike—instead of his bike!

  Then Vinnie Erikson comes down to the bridge, sunrise, yelling, “Bunch. Bunch...you there, Bunch?” Vinnie's Sam Browne cop belt creaking and all the cop stuff hanging off him clacking as he shifted his fatass down the bank and through Fall mud – even the dead Injuns down by Engine Warm probably heard him!

  “Aw, cripes,” Bunch muttered, his eyes still shut.

  “Shitstorm!” Vinnie said, louder.