Read Demon Box Page 21


  His face was as white as his hair, and his eyes were wild, going from me to the pond and back to me. The tears didn't begin in earnest until he saw my hand.

  "Dad! You're hurt!"

  I watched him cry and he watched me bleed and we couldn't do a thing for each other. The water shined, the Sons of the Pioneers chased Ghost Riders in the Sky overhead, and in the distance, beyond M'kehla and Dobbs and Buddy sprinting toward us from the corral, I saw the flag, dipping foolishly lower and lower, though the noon sun had not budged an inch.

  As Betsy cleaned and wrapped the wound I forced myself back to a presentable calm. I had my place and my plans to see to, not to mention my reputation. I can put up a front as well as the next fool; I just didn't know how long I could keep it up.

  I tried to assuage Quiston's fears by reassuring him that it was just a rusty old barrel, at the same time trying to amuse Buddy and Dobbs and the rest of the gang by adding, "and it's a good thing it wasn't a rusty young barrel." Quiston said he had known all along it wasn't any real monster. Percy said so had he. The guys laughed at my joke. But there was no real amusement in the loud laughter. They were all humoring me, I discerned; even my kid.

  So I didn't participate much in the remaining events of that day. I put on my darkest shades and wired on a grin and stayed out of the way. I was stricken by a fear so deep and all-pervading that finally I was not even afraid. I was resigned, and this resignation was at last the only solid thing left to hold on to. Harder than fear, than faith, harder than God was this rock of resignation. It gleamed before me like a great gem, and everything that happened the rest of that shattered holiday was lensed through its cut-diamond facets. Since it was our national birthday this lens was focused chiefly on our nation, obliging me to view its decay and diseases like a pathologist bent to his microscope.

  Flaws previously shrouded now lay naked as knife wounds. I saw the marks of weakness, and woe everywhere I turned, within and without. I saw it in the spoiled, macho grins of the men and in the calculating green eyes of the women. I saw it in the halfgrown greed at the barbecue, with kids fighting for the choicest pieces only to leave them half eaten in the sawdust. It was in the worn-out banter at the beer keg and the insincere singing of old favorites around the guitar.

  I saw it in the irritable bumper-to-bumper push of traffic fighting its way to the fireworks display at the football stadium - each honk and lurch of modern machinery sounding as doomed as barbaric Rome - but I saw it most in an event that happened as we were driving back from the fireworks late that evening.

  The display was a drag for everyone. Too many people, not enough parking space, plus the entrance to the stadium had been manned by a get-out-of-Vietnam garrison complete with pacifist posters and a belligerent bullhorn. A college football stadium on the Fourth of July in 1970 is not the smartest place to carry anti-American signs and shout Maoist slogans, and this noisy group had naturally attracted an adversary force of right-wing counterparts. These hecklers were as rednecked and thickheaded as the protesters were longhaired and featherbrained. An argument over the bullhorn turned into a tussle, the tussle into a fight, and the cops swooped down. Our group from the farm turned in our tracks and headed back to Dobbs's bus to watch from there.

  The women and kids sat out on the cut-open back porch of the bus so they could see the sky; the men stayed inside, sampling M'kehla's tackle box and continuing the day's discussion. M'kehla kept his eyes off me. All I could do was sit there with my hand throbbing, my brain like a blown fuse.

  The cop cars kept coming and going during the show, stifling drunks and hauling off demonstrators. Davy said the whole business was a black eye for America. M'kehla maintained that this little fuss was the merest straw in the wind, a precursor of worse woes on the way for the U.S. of A. Dobbs disagreed with both of them, grandly claiming that this demonstration demonstrated just how free and open our society really was, that woven into the fabric of our collective consciousness was a corrective process proving that the American dream was still working. M'kehla laughed - Working? Working where? -- and demanded evidence of one area, just one area, where this wonderful dream was working.

  "Why right here before your very eyes, Bro," Dobbs answered amiably. "In the area of Equality."

  "Are you shitting me?" M'kehla whooped. "E-quality?"

  "Just look." Dobbs spread his long arms. "We're all at the front of the bus, aren't we?"

  Everybody laughed, even M'kehla. However pointless, it had scotched the dispute just in time. The band in the distance was finishing up "Yankee Doodle" and the sky was surging and heaving with the firework finale. Pleased with his diplomacy and timing, Dobbs swung back around in his driver seat and started the bus and headed for the exit to get a jump on the crowd. M'kehla leaned back in his seat, shaking his head, willing to shine it on for friendship's sake.

  But on the way out of the lot, as if that dark diamond was set on having the last severe laugh, Dobbs sideswiped a guy's new white Malibu. Nothing bad. Dobbs stepped out to examine the car and apologize to the driver, and we all followed. The damage was slight and the guy amiable, but his wife was somehow panicked by the sudden sight of all of these strange men piling out. She shrank from us as though we were a pack of Hell's Baddest Bikers.

  Dobbs wasn't carrying a license or any kind of liability so M'kehla offered his, along with a hundred-dollar bill. The guy looked at the tiny nick on his fender's chrome strip, then at M'kehla's big shoulders and bare chest, and said, Ah, forget it. No big deal. These things happen. Prudential will take care of it. Even shook hands with M'kehla instead of taking the money.

  The last glorious volley of rockets spidered across the sky above; a multitudinous sigh lifted from the stadium. We were all bidding each other good night and hurrying back to our vehicles when the woman suddenly said "Oh" and stiffened. Before anyone could reach her she fell to the pavement, convulsing.

  "Dear God no!" the husband cried, rushing to her. "She's having a seizure!"

  She was bowed backwards almost double in the man's arms, shuddering like a sapling bent beneath a gale. The man was shaking her hysterically.

  "She hasn't done it in years. It's all these explosions and these damn police lights! Help! Help!"

  The wife had thrashed her way out of his arms and her head was sideways on the asphalt, growling and gnashing as if to bite the earth itself. M'kehla knelt to help.

  "We got to stop her chewin' her tongue, man," he said. I recalled that Heliotrope was also an epileptic; he had tended to convulsions before. He scooped up the woman's jerking head and forced the knuckle of his middle finger between her teeth. "Got to gag a little, then -"

  But he couldn't get in deep enough. She gnashed hard on the knuckle. M'kehla jerked it back with an involuntary hiss: "Bitch!"

  The guy went immediately nuts, worse than his wife. With a bellow he shoved the woman from his lap and sprang instantly to his feet to confront M'kehla.

  "You watch your dirty mouth, nigger!"

  It rang across the parking lot, louder than any starshell or horn. Everybody around the bus was absolutely stunned. Hurrying strangers stopped and turned for fifty yards in every direction, transfixed beneath the reverberation. The woman on the pavement ceased her convulsions and moaned with relief, as though she had passed some demon from her.

  The demon had lodged in her husband. He raged on, prodding M'kehla in the breastbone with a stiffened hand.

  "The fuckin hell is with you anyway, asshole? Huh? Sticking your fuckin finger in my wife's mouth! Who do you think you are?"

  M'kehla didn't answer. He turned to the crowd of us with a What-else-can-I-tell-you? shrug. His eyes hooked to mine. I had to look away. I saw Quiston and Percy watching over the rear rail of the bus porch. Quiston was looking scared again, uncertain. Percy's eyes were shining like M'kehla's, with the same dark, igneous amusement.

  It was after midnight before we chugged up the farm driveway. The men were sullen, the kids were crying, the women were di
sgusted with the whole silly affair. It was nearly one before all the guests had gathered up their scenes and headed home. Betsy and the kids went to bed. M'kehla and I sat in his bus and listened to his Bessie Smith tapes until almost dawn. Percy snored on the zebra skin. The crickets and the spheres creaked and hissed like dry bearings.

  When the first light began to sift through the ash leaves, M'kehla stood up and stretched. We hadn't talked for some time. There had been nothing to say. He turned off his amplifier and said he guessed it was time to once again embark.

  I mentioned that he hadn't had a wink in forty-eight hours. Shouldn't he sleep? I knew he could not. I was wondering if either of us would ever again enjoy that blessed respite knitting up the raveled sleeve of care.

  " 'Fraid not, Home. Me and Percy better get out before it closes up on us. Want to come?"

  Avoiding his eyes I told him I wasn't ready to pull stakes quite yet, but keep in touch. I walked up the slope and opened the gate for him and he drove through. He got out and we embraced and he got back in. I stood in the road and watched his rig ease out our drive. Once I thought I saw Percy's face appear in the rear window, and I waved.

  I didn't see any waving back.

  The farm lay still in the aftermath, damp with dew. It looked debauched. Paper plates and cups were scattered everywhere. The barbecue pit had been tipped over and the charcoal had burned a big black spot on the lawn. Betsy's pole beans were demolished; someone or something had stampeded through the strings in the heat of the celebration.

  The sorriest sight was the flag. The pole had leaned lower and lower until the gold braid of the hem was trailing in the wood chips and manure. Walking to it I noticed Cousin Davy passed out in the back of his station wagon. I tried to rouse him to help me go bring it down and fold it away, but he only rooted deeper into his sleeping bag. I gave up and climbed over the fence and shuffled through the wood chips to do it myself, and this is the last scene in my story: I was on my knees and my elbows at the base of the pole, cursing the knot at the bottom pulley - "God bless this goddamned knot!" - because my fingers were too thick to manage the thin cord, musing about M'kehla's invitation, about Percy, when all at once the sky erupted in a dazzling display of brand-new stars.

  That curse had been a prayer, I realized. These stars herald heaven's answer! The knot was blessed even as it was damned! Trumpets celebrated. Bells rang and harps twanged. I sank to the sawdust, certain that my number had been up yonder called.

  In this attitude of obeisance I felt the lightning of the Lord lash me again. Ow! I recanted my recanting. Crawl off to Canada? Never! Never never and service forevermore bright with foam only forgive me all right? I heard an answering roll of thunder and turned just in time to see Him launch His final chastising charge, His brow terrible, His famous beard flying like amber waves of grain, His eye blazing like cannonfire across the Potomac.

  Davy finally managed to drive him from me with a broken bean stake. He took me under the arm and helped me over to the watering trough. It was empty. We had forgotten to turn it back on. The cows were all gathered, thirsty. Davy found the valve and turned it on. I watched the crimson sparkle in the rush of water on the tub's rusty bottom.

  The cows were edged near, impatient. Behind them the calves, cautious, each with one side freshly clipped. The peacocks hollered. The pigeons banked over in a curious flock and lit in the chips.

  My cousin sat down on the battered brim of the trough. He handed me his wet handkerchief and I held it to the oozing lump where I had been driven into the flagpole. Salt was stinging the scrapes on my cheek and chin. Davy turned away and watched the milling array of beasts and birds.

  "Homing cows," he reflected aloud. "Not a half-bad idea for a half-baked buckeroo."

  CALEB DREAMS

  Wild wolves and panthers and bears roamed the Wisconsin woods in those days. Sometimes Laura was afraid. But Pa Ingalls preferred to live miles from his nearest neighbors. He built a snug little house on the prairie for Ma and his daughters Mary and Baby Carrie and Laura. And his son Caleb.

  Pa kept a fire going all winter to keep out the cold. He taught Laura and Cal how to get things done in the wild frontier.

  Laura Ingalls... Laura Ingalls Wilder.

  Pa hunted and trapped and farmed. Ma knew how to make her own cheese and sugar. At night the wind moaned lonesomely but Pa just stoked the fireplace and played his fiddle and sang to his children, Laura and Mary and Baby Carrie. And young Caleb. Young Cal was much wilder than any of his sisters. He was wilder than the wolves and the panthers. Caleb Ingalls Wilder was wilder than all get out.

  Yet, once you really get to know Caleb you will see that he is not really a firebug. You will understand how disappointed he is when, instead of being cast as Clean Air in the Mt. Nebo school play, he is chosen to be Litter. You'll understand how ashamed he is when he finds he is too scared to ride the Ferris Wheel at the Lane County Fair and why he almost cries when almost no one votes for him as home room president.

  Cal begins to feel he is not much good at anything and he begins to daydream during Social Studies. But what good is Social Studies? Social Studies doesn't get things done. Social Studies doesn't keep out the cold.

  You are sure to understand that's why he dropped the book of matches in the wastepaper basket.

  CHILLY SHERREE

  When the chill is on the ankles

  And the ice is in the pipes,

  Then it's time to get out blankles

  And put away the gripes.

  So let's bake a lot of goodies

  And fill the house with scent,

  Till the temperature comes up again

  And all the chill has went.

  BE KIND TO YOUR WEBFOOTED FRIENDS

  - for a mother may be ducking somebody.

  Upstairs June Sunday Summer Solstice as my sweet Swallow of the Wire sails up to watch me type and the mud wasp in the wall whirs busily.

  Had a fine day fishing. Colonel Weinstein showed up on the train last night with a surprise son from his first wife just Caleb's age; this morning early the four of us drive up the Willamette, then up little Salmon Creek, where I was able to sniff my way back to one of Daddy's favorite fishing holes - stop atop a rise, hike down through the brush and stickers to a spot where the Salmon banks off a sheer mossy cliff. Cool bluegreen pool the swirling potential of an expensive billiard table deepest felt. Any shot is possible.

  Caleb and Weinstein's boy pull out a dozen cutthroats apiece while the Colonel and I share a bottle of cabernet and talk about Hemingway. I tell him about the Sex & Television fast I've vowed to maintain for six months.

  "By Winter Solstice I expect to have my top and bottom chakras both scoured clean."

  "What about the middle?"

  "That's too submerged for me. Look! Your Sam has hooked into another one. He's doing real well for his first time."

  "Your Caleb's teaching him well. Speaking of submerged, you know what it takes to circumcise a whale?"

  "Nope."

  "It takes four skin divers."

  Almost thirty trout. We got back in time to ice them good so the Colonel and his son could take them back south on the train this afternoon. Returned from the train station to find Dorothy James, known as Micro Dotty for the painted VW bus she drives. She has driven up with some white snow and her red-haired overbudded fourteen-year-old ooh mercy daughter in gym shorts and man's short-sleeved dress shirt, collar turned up. The girl leans against their VW bus while her mom comes up to my office, chewing gum.

  Dotty shares a couple doobies with me upstairs, and then I tell her Come on, I'll show you around. On the way down to the pond the daughter joins us. She has changed out of the shirt into a blue tubetop. She oozes along on my other side as I tell her mother about the farm. From the corner of my eye I can see the girl squeezing out of her tubetop like freckled toothpaste.

  I introduce them both to Quiston down at the pond. He's casting after the bass, still griped that he missed out on t
he trip to Salmon Creek. The sight of all that red hair and squeezed skin wipes that gripe out of his mind immediately. He asks if she'd like to try a cast, that there's a Big One by the reeds if she's into it. Instead of answering Redbud oozes away to console the half dozen horny mallard hens, making it clear with a toss of hair that she wasn't into boys her own age or fish of any size.

  "She's rather advanced," Micro Dotty whispers by way of explanation. "In fact she's been on the pill nearly a year."

  Quis goes back after the bass, Dotty goes off to bother Betsy in the garden, I come back upstairs. The swallow watches from the wire. Quiston and Caleb head off across the field with Stewart to meet Olafs kid, Butch. The sun edges toward the end of its longest workday of the year.

  The girl returns to the Microbus and gets a sleeping bag and a paperback by Anais Nin. Under my window she smiles up at me. "Okay with you if I nest down by your pond? I like to sleep under the stars and I might like a little sunset swim in the open. Know what I mean?"

  "I do indeed," I tell her. Nest anywhere you choose; swim open as you please mercy yes. "Okay with me."

  The swallow swoops. The wasp takes a break from his mud daubing to buzz out for a better look. Betsy and Dot go inside to cook sugar peas. The sun makes it to Mt. Nebo. I decide I better make the rounds, feed the ducks, check on the pond; don't want any sunset calamities.

  She is sitting on the bank with her dripping arms wrapped around her knees, watching the ducks and being by them watched. She smiles. I hunker and toss the food into the water's edge. The ducks come gabbling after it. "Wheat?" she asks.

  "Brown rice," I say. "We got two gunny sacks of it, left by some macrobiotics that lived with us. It was all they would eat."

  "Ugh. Did they like it?"

  "I don't think so. There used to be a dozen. Ducks, I mean, not macrobiotics. Something got the six drakes. A fox, we think."

  "That's too bad."

  "Nature," I say. "Red in tooth and claw."

  "Still, it is sad. The poor lonely sweethearts..."

  "Yeah."

  The sky got gold and we watched the ducks for a long time without saying anything else. I felt good, virtuous, almost righteous, as that first day ended and I enjoyed the dawning realization that my dual fast was actually working: I hadn't gone near the TV and I didn't want to screw any of those ducks.