The Cove

by Ron Rash

  Laurel smiled at her own silliness. It was like years ago when she’d open the wish book and place her finger on this or that, making believe it was something she could actually have. He’ll be gone come Saturday, Laurel told herself, and you’ll never see him again.

  The pan was almost full when she saw Slidell coming out of the woods. Laurel brushed bean strings off her apron and walked out in the yard to meet him.

  “Finally found you a hired man, I see,” Slidell said as he looped the reins around a dogwood tree.

  The hammering had stopped and Hank and Walter were walking toward the cabin.

  “For a little while at least.”

  “Who is he?”

  “Walter Smith is his name,” Laurel said.

  “From around here?”

  “No,” Laurel said, “New York.”

  Hank and Walter came into the yard.

  “This is Slidell,” Hank said to Walter. “He’s the fellow who lives up at the notch.”

  “Good to meet you,” Slidell said, and held out his hand.

  The two men shook hands.

  “His name’s Walter,” Hank said. “But he can say it out loud no more than that scarecrow yonder can.”

  “Not being able to talk could be a hard thing,” Slidell said, “but I misdoubt there’s a man alive who’d not have wished for it sometime in his life, whether saying I do or I’ll have one more.”

  Slidell gestured toward the fence.

  “He looks to swing a hammer true enough.”

  “He does that,” Hank agreed. “Only problem is I just got him through Friday. Walter’s of a mind to catch a train to New York. He may be wanting a ride into town with you Saturday.”

  “That’s fine,” Slidell said to Walter. “Just be up at the trail notch by full light.”

  Slidell nodded at the windlass.

  “Too bad he’s leaving so soon. You might could get that well done before the snow flies.”

  “What you figure before I sound some water?” Hank asked.

  “For you and him together it’d be a full week’s work,” Slidell said, “lest you get lucky and hit no rock.”

  “It would be good to get that done,” Laurel said.

  Hank’s face darkened.

  “We best stick to getting the fence up. From what I’ve seen luck don’t wander this cove much, excepting the kind nobody wants.”

  Maybe that’s changing, Laurel almost said, but decided saying so might jinx it.

  “New York City,” Slidell said to Walter. “I’d not have reckoned a big need for wire stringing there, other than they got so many folks they need to keep them from herding off into the ocean.”

  “He’s a musician,” Hank said, “and he can play a flute like nobody’s business.”

  “Can he now?” Slidell said. “I’d like to hear that. Bring him to the house tomorrow evening and we’ll see if that flute can whistle out some mountain tunes. Ansel and Boyce are fetching me my tonic, and Boyce always brings his dulcimer.”

  “That tonic ups the ante for coming,” Hank said.

  “You’re not averse to a drink of homemade corn whiskey, are you?” Slidell asked Walter.

  “You’ll not want to leave these hills without sampling what Ansel and Boyce potion up,” Hank said. “It goes down smooth as mama’s milk. You’ll hardly know you’re drunk until your legs numb out on you.”

  “I’ve had no better, taxed and sealed included, and I’ve tested plenty of both,” Slidell said. “So I can expect you all?”

  “Let us see if we’ve got enough briskness to. We’ve not slacked our reins all afternoon and tomorrow we’ll make a full day of it. If we don’t get up there though, ask Ansel and Boyce how Paul’s faring.”

  Walter nodded toward the posts next to the shed.

  “Yeah, we’ll need more of them,” Hank said. “You go on ahead. I’ll be up there in a minute.”

  “His hands are blistered,” Laurel said. “Let me put some salve and a wrap on them first.”

  Laurel motioned for Walter to come inside. She sat him at the table and took the salve and a hank of cloth from the shelf. She took his hand in hers and tended to the blisters. Hank and Slidell were still out in the yard. Their voices were softer but she could hear them through the open door.

  “Anyway,” Slidell said. “That fellow you’ve been trying to impress was up at the notch earlier.”

  “I thought I saw him there,” Hank replied. “By himself?”

  “Yeah. I told him he could ride down with me for a better look but he wouldn’t.” Slidell shook his head. “You’d think a man like Weatherbee wouldn’t abide such silly notions.”

  “More do than don’t,” Hank replied. “He say anything else?”

  “He said you’d fixed up this farm better than he’d have thought you could, so I’d say you’ve passed your audition.”

  For a few moments neither man spoke. Laurel finished knotting the cloth on the back of Walter’s hand.

  “You told her the truth of all this fixing up yet?” Slidell asked.

  “The time ain’t been right,” Hank said.

  The men, still talking, walked over to the horse, but Laurel could no longer hear them. Laurel let go of Walter’s hand, and they walked onto the porch.

  “I’ll see you Thursday if not before,” Slidell said as he rode out of the yard. “You come too, Laurel.”

  “That man’s been through some hard times in his life,” Hank told Walter once Slidell disappeared into the woods. “For you northern folk it was natural to wear the blue in the Confederate War. Slidell’s daddy was a Lincolnite too, but it wasn’t so common a thing in these mountains. One day three fellows come up from Marshall, outliers but wearing butternut so they could alibi their meanness. Slidell’s older brother and daddy was in the field. Those men rode right into that field and shot them dead, even with Slidell’s brother but fourteen years old. Slidell was in the barn helping his momma, so him and her hid in the loft. After those bastards stole what they could from the house, they come to the barn. They led the cow and draft horse out. The man trailing had a match. Slidell says he didn’t see that match struck but heard the rasping of it. That outlier was about to drop the match when one of the others said don’t because he’d be coming back with a wagon for the hay. Slidell and his momma had to do the burying themselves. There was a shotgun hid under a mattress and Slidell got it out. Twelve years old but he’d have gone after them except for his momma begging him not to leave her to fend alone. If she hadn’t, that hand of cards would have been played out full. He did go looking for them after the war, but they’d run off like cur dogs to Texas. Slidell says he’ll never forget the sound of that match being struck and that barn so stoked with dry hay it’d have gone up like a rag doused with kerosene. I don’t notion I’d ever forget hearing that match strike neither.”

  Hank nodded at the locust posts.

  “Bring up a load with you and we’ll get back to it.”

  Walter nodded and the men left the yard. Laurel finished with the beans and then went into the field to hoe the corn. She worked barefoot, her feet and ankles soon darkened by the loosened soil. She’d tied her hair back, and as she paused at a row end she straightened and looked up at the pasture.

  Hank set the wire in the crowbar’s claw and pulled against the brace while Walter pounded the staples and used the tamping rod to unroll the wire. When the tone of the metal staple entering the fourth post deepened, Hank moved to the next end post, set his left knee against the wood, and pulled downward with the crowbar until the wire was taut. When they braced the fence, Hank didn’t check that Walter blunted the nails so as not to split the lentle. Trusting him already to do things right.

  Trusting everyone but her, Laurel couldn’t help thinking. From what Hank had said to Slidell, he hadn’t told Carolyn, at least not an out-
and-out proposal, that he was ready to marry. Yet most everyone else, including Carolyn’s daddy, seemed to know. At least that was one thing she and Carolyn shared. Laurel looked up at the notch. Last week she’d seen Carolyn’s father up there herself. An audition, Slidell had called it. Be glad he passed it, Laurel told herself. It just means they’ll get married sooner, and you and Carolyn can start getting used to each other and become friends. Her being down here, it’ll finally show folks there can be some happiness in this cove.

  Chapter Eight

  When Laurel’s mother died, her father had covered the mirror and let the Franklin clock run down so he could still the hands on the ten and the two, mark the death time. Two months passed before he rewound the metal key. But the hands had been locked in one place so long they seemed unable to free themselves, and so remained on the ten and two. Last winter, the days had been so long Laurel would look at the clock and almost believe it was still running, that time had slowed so much a minute could feel like a day. But now that she wanted time to slow down, it passed faster than any time in her life. Already it was Thursday evening. One more day and one more night and he’d be gone.

  “Glad we got that upper pasture almost done,” Hank said, “for it looks likely to rain tomorrow.”

  They were on the porch, Hank perched on the railing while Walter and Laurel sat beside each other in the ladderback chairs. Walter’s eyes were closed. He’d worked hard all week, enough to have Hank say that with Walter’s help for a couple more months the farm would be in tip-top shape. But Laurel knew she’d miss Walter more than Hank would, even though she still knew little about him. He’d raised two fingers when she asked if he had any sisters and no fingers when she asked about brothers, five when she asked how many years he’d worked as a musician. She’d found out a few other things but not near as much as she wanted to. If only one person could ask questions, after a while it sounded like you were being nosy. Some things he couldn’t answer anyway. When Laurel asked how he’d gotten to the cove he’d simply shrugged. When she asked where he’d found the green feather, he nodded toward the ridge where she’d found him. On this side? she asked, but he shook his head.

  But just sitting beside him at the table and on the porch had been nice. She was used to not talking, she could stand that well enough. It was not having someone to share the silence, the way it had been last winter, that was the terrible thing. Laurel wondered if Walter understood that about her, that she was as used to silence as he was. She wondered how he had managed in New York. Did he point at what he wanted to buy, unlatch his door to anyone who knocked? And not being able to read and write. What if he needed to buy something that he couldn’t point to, or needed directions to a place?

  “Are you too frazzled to go up to Slidell’s and sip whiskey, Walter?” Hank asked.

  Walter opened his eyes and nodded.

  “Yeah, I’m beat too,” Hank said, “though I’d deeply enjoy some of the Clayton boys’ lumbago draught.”

  “It would be good to know how Paul’s doing,” Laurel said, and turned to Walter. “That’s Ansel and Boyce’s nephew. He got hurt bad in the war.”

  They sat in silence a few minutes, the light diminishing, appearing not so much to drain from the sky as to seep into the cove’s dark floor. Up in the trees, jarflies started droning. A breeze came up and Laurel smelled a dampness in it.

  “New York,” Hank said. “Is that where you lived all your life?”

  Walter nodded.

  “But you couldn’t have lived there your whole life, not and know how to raise a fence like you do.”

  “You mean New York State?” Laurel asked.

  When Walter didn’t reply, Laurel went inside and fetched Frye’s Grammar School Geography. She moved her chair closer so that the pages spilled onto both their laps, their forearms touching as she balanced the book between them. She felt the gold hairs on Walter’s arm, the warmth of his skin. She found a map of New York State.

  “Show me.”

  Walter pointed north of the city where the black dots and the names beneath them were sparse.

  “Near Ithaca?” Laurel asked.

  Walter nodded.

  “So you left there to go to New York City,” Hank asked, “to play music, I mean?”

  “It’s no wonder, good as you are,” Laurel said when Walter nodded. “I still can’t figure out how you ended up here though. It had to be some adventure.”

  “I’d like to hear that story too,” Hank agreed. “I bet it’d fill a book big as the one Laurel’s holding.”

  The jarflies continued their racket in the trees. An owl near the barn hooted, was answered from somewhere in the deeper woods. Then other voices, human voices. Slidell emerged from the woods on Ginny, behind him two other men on horseback. At first Laurel couldn’t tell who they were, then saw the high foreheads and broad shoulders, red hair tinged with gray. Slidell had his guitar case strapped to his saddle. What the two brothers brought with them was more curious. Balanced on Boyce’s lap was an oblong wooden box shaped like a child’s casket. Ansel wore a feed sack around his neck, a thin rope sewn through its top for a drawstring. A pair of bulging black eyes poked out of the sack. As the men got closer, Laurel saw the eyes belonged to a small bat-eared dog. The three men tethered their horses and dismounted. Ansel took the sack off his neck and laid it gently on the ground. As the dog wiggled free of the cloth, Laurel saw Ansel dip a hand in his pocket and withdraw something pinched between forefinger and thumb. He made a quick crossing motion over his heart and rubbed his hand on his shirt. Salt, Laurel knew, and knew the wherefore of his doing it. Like they’re afraid I might forget what folks think of me, Laurel thought.

  “You can’t leave without I have you meet Ansel and Boyce,” Hank said when Walter rose to go inside.

  “That’s right,” Slidell said, “especially since I told these boys Hank’s got a crackerjack fife player down here, all the way from New York at that.”

  Slidell freed the battered guitar case from his side saddle. Boyce tucked the box under an arm and used his free hand to remove a corked jug from the saddle bag. Ansel unwrapped a meaty hog bone and laid it before the dog.

  “Figured if you wouldn’t come to us, we’d come to you,” Slidell said. “Share some good whiskey, maybe some tolerable music.”

  “I can be persuaded to the whiskey part,” Hank said, “but you’ll have to ask Walter if he’ll lip that flute for you.”

  Walter looked unsure but finally nodded.

  “You know Slidell,” Hank said to Walter. “That one with the Santy Claus beard is Ansel and the other’s Boyce. Come on up on the porch, gentlemen. Walter ain’t no revenue man and even if he was he couldn’t tell on you.”

  “I confidenced them of that,” Slidell said, smiling. “They’ve been of a wary nature since their scare last week.”

  The men ascended the steps. Laurel offered to bring out more chairs but only Slidell accepted. Ansel sat on the railing beside Hank. Boyce squatted in the corner, the oblong box set before him. He uncorked the jug and passed it to Hank, who drank and offered the whiskey to Walter.

  “You’ll never taste any that beads up better and it’s smooth as freestone water,” Hank said.

  Walter took a tentative sip and passed the jug to Slidell.

  “That fyce of yours looks to be living the high life,” Hank said to Ansel. “Prime hog meat and rides in the saddle.”

  “That dog earned it,” Slidell said. “You want to tell it, Ansel, or you want me to?”

  “Go ahead,” Ansel said. “I done talked it out one time today.”

  “These boys was running their copper above Ansel’s place. Just finished bottling a full run when they heard hounds coming up the creek, the revenue man and the high sheriff right behind. There wasn’t near enough time to hide everything, so Ansel leaves Boyce to haul the still and jars into a thicket whilst he takes
that fyce yonder and gets a ways down the creek, staying in the water all the while. Ansel takes off his shirt and ties it around that fyce’s neck and says “get home” and that dog takes off like Caesar’s ghost, dragging the shirt through mud holes and briars all the while. He kept it on though.”

  Slidell stopped and turned to Ansel.

  “That’s right, ain’t it, it being on him the whole way?”

  “I took that shirt off him my ownself,” Ansel answered. “He did seem to find every briar to run it through and that shirt’s the worse for the trip, but I’d rather be wearing an old shirt with tears than a new one with black-and-white stripes.”

  “They followed the fyce?” Hank asked.

  “Damn right,” Slidell said. “Led them dogs and them following right back to Ansel’s cabin. The high sheriff and the revenue man was so flummoxed they didn’t bother going back up the creek. Just called it a day and went home.”

  “That must have been a sight in the world to see,” Hank said. “I’d have paid admission to watch that show.”

  “Anyway, what you’re drinking now, you can thank that fyce for it,” Slidell said, “so I’d treat him with some respect.”

  “Next time I’m in town I’ll buy him a prime ham bone myself for that good deed,” Hank said.

  The men passed the jug, Hank raising it to toast the dog. When the whiskey was offered to Walter again he declined. Hank didn’t offer it to Laurel. He wouldn’t, she knew, but not because she wasn’t a man. Afraid if he did, Boyce and Ansel wouldn’t drink from it. Yet they’d drink after Hank, not even rubbing a sleeve over the jug’s mouth before they did.