“I hear you had quite an adventure in Albany,” Brother Jobe said.
“We accomplished what we set out to.”
“Yes, it come out pretty well,” Brother Jobe said and cleared his throat. “I know that some people got hurt down there. From what Joseph told me, they asked for it. This is exactly the kind of lawless monkeyshines we saw everywhere coming up from Virginia. Gangsterism. Hostages and ransoms and whatnot. But I’m sorry you had to discharge a firearm at somebody.”
“He was aiming to kill me.”
“Quite a feeling, ain’t it? Getting shot at.”
“I would have been happy to pass on it.”
“Yeah, well, this is the kind of country we live in now, old son. Your own people who speak English and wear the same kind of clothes as you do aiming to blow your brains out for sheer greed and sinfulness. That’s why we have to build something lawful here, if we can. You see what I mean now?”
“I see where we’ve been pretty lucky here for the most part in recent years.”
“You’re goldurn straight,” he said and spit into the trench. Then his face lit up all smiling. “Speaking of which, your dam’s straight now too. Ain’t that something? We’ll be done with her before the end of the day if our Mr. Bullock manages to get one more length of new pipe up here.”
“That’s very good news indeed.”
“You wouldn’t believe what we dragged out of the intake,” he said and jerked his chin up the face of the dam. “A dead coyote. Turtle shell the size of a dadblamed wheelbarrow, among other trash. Don’t you all know that you got to pay attention to a system like this?”
“Things just slipped. Especially under Dale.”
“You all been drinking dead coyote juice for months. You’re lucky it didn’t start no outbreak. You better appoint a water commissioner or some such of a responsible party first thing, and get some volunteers to come up here reg’lar and clean the trash out—”
Just then, we saw a wagon lumbering up the hill, creaking loudly under its load. It was a flatbed behind a team of ghostlike gray Percherons.
“Looks like we’re in business now,” Brother Jobe said.
The final length of cast concrete pipe lay tied down and padded up in the flatbed. We went down there. It was driven by Bullock’s man Jack Hellinger. Jack leaped down from the driver’s bench and came straight over to me while others held onto the harnesses and worked the crane around to unload the new pipe.
“Mr. Bullock sends his greetings and regards,” Jack said, “and says that he wants to put on a grand levee tonight in honor of you and these brotherhood fellows who went and got back Tom and the boys in Albany. And if it isn’t asking too much, he says, would you mind getting up your bunch to furnish the music? What do you say, Robert?”
“Why, tell him I’m honored as to the first part, and I’ll be glad to arrange the second.”
“That will please Mr. Bullock, I’m sure. Festivities to begin in the early evening. He says he’ll send every wagon, carriage, and cart over to town to help fetch those that need it.”
“We’ve got wagons too,” Brother Jobe said. “Don’t forget.”
“We’re going to roast a whole steer and more than a few hogs,” Jack said. “The women are baking up a storm. And the liquor will flow.”
“Hot diggity,” Brother Jobe said. “You need any pointers in the barbeque department, we’ll be glad to lend a hand.”
FORTY-THREE
The last length of cast concrete water conduit was laid down around two that afternoon. It was obvious we’d eventually have to replace more of the main trunk below, but for now the system was restored. We got the trench filled in and the worksite all squared away by late afternoon. Our boys put the word out around town about the levee at Bullock’s as they filtered home. Tom Allison sent his boy off on horseback to alert the farmers outside of town, and many of the successful ones like Deaver, Weibel, and Zucker, who employed townspeople, let their hands off work early. Brother Jobe sent a wagon around with two “sisters,” Helen and Emily, offering to take anyone’s little children to an evening of babysitting over at the old high school with the New Faith youngsters. Even the weather seemed to cooperate as a cooling northerly breeze cleared out the persistent haze and dropped the humidity.
I went around myself to alert the music circle members about the engagement at Bullock’s request that night—Eric Laudermilk, our guitar player, Dan Mullinex, flute and clarinet, Leslie Einhorn, cello, Charles Pettie, our bass player, Bruce Wheedon, second violin, and Andy Pendergast, who was delighted to hear we were called to play. I distributed the rest of those new wound steel strings I’d picked up in Albany. As far as I recalled, Bullock had a piano on the premises somewhere, but Andy wanted to bring his harmonium out just in case. On my way home, going down Van Buren Street, I ran into Loren pulling a handcart heaped with manure from Allison’s stable, I suppose for composting in the rectory garden. Loren’s face was bright red with exertion, and half moons of sweat darkened the underarms of his frayed blue shirt from pulling the load uphill. We both paused by the cemetery fence in the shade of a horse chestnut.
“Remember Gatorade?” Loren said.
“You know me. I don’t think of the old days as much as you.”
“Well that stuff could really pick a guy up. I miss it. I really do.”
“Try some honey and sumac punch. That’ll work.”
“For what it’s worth, I never gave a shit about the chemicals or the fake coloring they put in it.”
“Give me an ice cold beer,” I said. “Straight out of a refrigerator. With dewdrops running down the side of the bottle.”
“Dream on,” Loren said.
Screen doors slapped and voices carried all over town as households prepared for levee, singing as they pulled clothes off the line, neighbors visiting among neighbors to borrow finery, harnessing their horses—the few who had one. Children caught the spirit and squealed as they were packed off for babysitting.
“We got the water back on again,” I said.
“Hooray for that,” Loren said. “I had to jump in the river last night or Jane Ann wouldn’t let me in the bedroom.” Loren looked momentarily uncomfortable, as though a passing cloud had brought on a chill. He wiped his brow with the back of his hand. “You’re quite the hero. First the fire, then you shove Dale off the plank, then the Big Breakout, and now the water system finally gets fixed.”
“Do you think I’m out for brownie points?”
“Gosh no.”
“We can’t not have running water,” I said. “That would be the last straw for civilized life around here.”
“It’s been a harsh week without it. I can tell you that.”
“Anyway, it was the New Faith and Bullock that solved the water problem, not me.”
“Remember that laundry idea of mine?” Loren said.
“Yeah?”
“This Brother Jobe seems interested in getting it going. We had a sit-down about it, him and me.”
“Did you?”
“He likes the idea.”
“They must have a lot of wash every week.”
“They’ve got manpower too. I believe he’s serious.”
“Kudos to you then.”
“Not out for any kudos. But I could still use your help.”
“Okay. Sure. I’ll help,” I said.
“Can you get someone to make sure the titles are clear on the Wayland-Union Mill property?”
“I’ll ask Sam Hutto.”
“And then maybe you and I can walk through the place and talk about what it would take constructionwise, where things might go.”
“Sure, I’ll do that.”
“Brother Jobe’s got a decent metalsmith over there.”
“I saw that they put a new copper fitting on the water line outflow.”
“I expect they could fabricate some big pot kettles.”
“I expect that’s so.”
“Things are happening again in this town
, aren’t they?”
“Apparently.”
“It’s a good thing, isn’t it?” Loren said.
“I think so.”
“It’s like we’ve been living in . . . in Jell-O. Trapped. Immobilized. Watching everything around us slowly fall apart through this thick, gummy, transparent prison of Jell-O, and unable to do anything about it.”
“To me, it was like time had stopped.”
“So, what do you make of him?” Loren said.
“Jobe? He’s not so bad beneath all the bluster, if you can get beneath it,” I said. “Well, I really don’t know what they’re up to over there. I mean, underneath the trappings of brotherhood and fellowship, who knows what they do amongst themselves.”
“Like what? Orgies?” Loren said.
“That wasn’t what I was thinking.”
“Human sacrifice?”
“I don’t know. After all, it’s what we used to call a cult.”
“Then we better not drink the Kool-Aid. Have you been drinking the Kool-Aid, Robert?”
“No.”
“Because right now there’s our people, you know, us, the town, and our church, and there’s this New Faith bunch that has all of a sudden become a rather large presence in our world here. I’m hoping we can coexist, Robert, because they obviously have something to offer as long as we don’t drink that old Kool-Aid.”
“I’m not going over to them, if that’s what you mean,” I said. “Don’t worry.”
“Because it could be a kind of narrow line we’re walking.”
“We’ll walk it.”
“Not to mention we’ve got Mr. Bullock setting up like a Scottish laird with his own peasants and everything, and Wayne Karp and his maniacs up North Road on top of everything else. And sometimes lately I worry about us getting squished in the middle of it all.”
“I know. I think about it too.”
“I’ve heard there was gunplay down in Albany.”
“I think I killed a man there, Loren.”
He flinched slightly.
“Wow. Tell me about it.”
So I did. All of it. The Raynor farm. Brother Minor probably killing that donkey drover. What Joseph told me that night in Slavin’s hotel about their difficulties in Pennsylvania. Dan Curry. The guy with the red beard firing at me.
“I don’t know if I feel bad about taking somebody’s life or just afraid that I’ll be held responsible for it,” I said.
“By whom? God?”
“I keep on thinking about the legal system coming after me. And then I realize that there isn’t any. There’s nothing left. No real police, courts. No state government. Nothing. But I’m pretty sure I killed the man.”
“Your conscience is weighing on you,” Loren said.
“Yes. And now I’ve got Shawn Watling’s widow in my house.”
“I’ve heard. That kind of complicates things, doesn’t it?”
“I’m sure people will get the wrong idea,” I said. “They already have.”
“How’d she come to settle under your roof?”
“Well, her house burned down, you know.”
“I know. There are empty houses in town.”
“Do you think I should throw her out?”
“Not at all. Are you banging her?”
It was my turn to flinch.
“No,” I said.
“Because that could make you feel bad, given that her husband’s only been in the ground a few weeks, and you happened to be present when he got killed.”
“Do you think I did it, Loren?”
“No. But I understand why things are weighing on your mind.”
“It’s pretty straightforward,” I said.
“I’m sure it is.”
“These really aren’t normal times.”
“Quite so.”
“Plus, there’s the child.”
“God bless the child.”
“Are you being facetious, Loren?”
“I shouldn’t be even if I am. Forgive me.”
“All right. Are you going out to Bullock’s tonight?”
“I wouldn’t miss it for the world,” Loren said. “I might even tie one on out there.”
FORTY-FOUR
The levee at Stephen Bullock’s farm was the greatest social event around Washington County in decades, even going back into the old days, when television and all the other bygone diversions held people hostage in their homes after the sun went down, and you could hardly pry people out of their living rooms—as we used to call the place where the TVs lived. In the new times, Bullock’s levee beat the Harvest Ball at Hebron, the Spring Frolic in Battenville, the Labor Day Picnic at Holyrood’s orchard, and even the Christmas levee we put on every year at the First Congregational. Bullock’s levee brought us out of ourselves, out of a dark wilderness of the spirit where we had sojourned for so long in anxiety and isolation.
As the afternoon merged into evening, everybody who could muster a wheeled vehicle and a horse or team began marshalling them in the vicinity of our church for the trip over. Bullock sent several wagons to town as promised, while the New Faith had its own too. Altogether they made a train of horse-drawn vehicles that stretched a quarter-mile long heading west into the sun, which still hung ten degrees above the treetops. Britney decided to stay behind, a relief to me, since it would have made an awkward public statement for us to appear as a couple at a festive event like this, apart from how things actually were between us. I didn’t try to talk her out of it.
I rode over in Terry Einhorn’s wagon with Leslie and her cello, Eric Laudermilk, and the Russos. Eric and I broke out our instruments en route, playing “Sail Away Ladies” and “Grey Eagle,” and some other lively numbers as we rode past the vacant car showrooms and strip mall ruins at the edge of town. Leslie kept her cello under wraps since the rig had no springs to speak of. Eric was himself a cidermaker of some distinction, and we traded slugs from the bottle he brought along, so we were already in a mellow frame of mind when Terry followed the rest of the wagons into one of Bullock’s new-mown hay fields where we hitched them to picket lines for the evening.
Bullock had strung colored Christmas bulbs all around the big circular drive between the barns, the workshops, and his house. It reminded me of the patio of a popular bar in Key West where I had gotten drunk a long time ago. Many of the Union Grove people were not aware that Bullock had his own hydroelectric setup, and as they were informed, their reactions ran from amazement to veiled jealousy. Sam Hutto just goggled at the lights like a kid at a carnival. I heard Debra Gooding say to Maggie Furnival, “I don’t see why he can’t send some of that juice over our way—I’d pay the sonofabitch!”
A beverage bar was set up on a long table under the arbor off the kitchen, with pitchers of Bullock’s own cider, sparkling and jack, and beer, and jugs of whiskey, and a vast punchbowl with some sweet, potent brew flavored with lemon verbena and raspberries. Across the way from the bar stood more long tables groaning with puddings, new potato salad, sugar snaps, radishes, pickles, sauerkraut, creamed new onions, corn bread, cakes (real cakes made with wheat flour), pies (ditto the flour), berry crumbles, cookies and confections, butternut fondants, even a tray of fudge made from chocolate—an ingredient that few of us had seen for some years. Among all these things the Bullocks had placed enormous bouquets of purple loosestrife, now coming into bloom wherever the ground was damp, and black-eyed Susans. Removed from the center of things, where the smoke would not be bothersome, they had set up a barbeque operation. Over one fire, a pig roasted on an iron spit turned by a teenage boy who nipped at a cup of something as he worked the crank. Over another fire, a Bullock servant wrangled rows of beefsteaks on a steel mesh grill. Next to him, yet another Bullock man turned sausages with tongs. Meanwhile, the procession of wagons kept rolling into the adjacent hay field, and a steady stream of townspeople and New Faith people entered the courtyard until the outdoor room grew crowded. The aroma of grilling meat seemed to affect the people like a
powerful drug, as much as their first stimulating drinks of the evening. For the first time since they came to town, the New Faith people of both sexes mixed openly and easily with the regular Union Grovers and Bullock’s folks. The din of conversation was as intoxicating as the beverages.
Here and there around the big circular drive, barrels stood on end, each presenting a deployed basket of—what?—triangular corn tortilla chips of the kind that used to be manufactured by the great snack corporations of yore and were the ubiquitous national party food until that part of our history ended. Evidently Bullock’s cooks had made them from scratch for the occasion, along with a pickled hot pepper condiment—salsa!—to scoop up. The sweet herbaceous aroma of marijuana also began wafting around the courtyard. I saw Bullock himself take a hit on a pipe passed by Todd Zucker. A few of the New Faith men indulged too.
I had a toke or two myself, on top of the cider coming over and a tumbler of Bullock’s own since I got there, and I was reaching a plateau of expansive amiability, shall we say, when Andy Pendergast took me by the elbow into the carriage barn.
“Isn’t this great?” he said, excited as a little kid.
“It’s something, all right.”
The vehicles were removed from the barn for the evening and the place was all cleaned and beautifully lighted with those strings of little white minibulbs that fancy restaurants used to always put in their potted fig trees. Along the far side of the enormous room, going lengthwise, a plank stage was set up. The lumber was fresh cut. You could smell it. Somehow Bullock had come up with a sound system—four microphones on boom stands and two speakers at the sides coming out of a one-hundred-watt amp with a mixer. We tested the damn things and they actually worked. There was no piano, however, so Andy and I went to get his harmonium out of the wagon he’d come in.
World Made by Hand Page 20