The Cove

by Ron Rash

  He saw the Pinkerton before the Pinkerton saw him. The guard stood inside the open car, one hand on the metal door and the other wielding the billy club. As Walter began running, he heard a menacing shout but dared not look back. He passed the college entrance and ran up the road away from town, cresting the hill before slowing to a fast walk. An automobile soon came up behind him. Too winded to run anymore, he kept his head down, waited to hear if it stopped and men poured out to strike the first blow. But the automobile did not pause. The road curved and woods appeared on the right side. He entered them twice to hide before the turnoff appeared and he followed it. After a while he came to Slidell’s house and then followed the trail down the cliff side and back into the cove.

  III

  Chapter Twelve

  As they approached Doak Ellenburg’s barn, milking traces jostled the wagon’s iron-rimmed wheels, swayed the buckboard Hank and Laurel shared with Slidell. Doak Ellenburg and his wife Hester had farmed this land before opening their livery stable in Mars Hill. Wesley, their only child, had been the first soldier killed from Madison County. No body had been shipped home from France, no last unmailed letter or watch or wallet.

  “Looks to be a good portion of folks here tonight,” Slidell said after he pulled the brake and tied the checkreins.

  “I wish we’d talked Walter into coming,” Hank said. “You could of brought your guitar and these folks would hear something special.”

  “He’s shy around people because he can’t talk,” Laurel said.

  “He’s been here two months,” Hank said. “It ain’t going to get any easier if he don’t try.”

  “Give him time,” Slidell said. “Shy ain’t near the worst thing a man can be, whether he can or can’t talk.”

  Slidell and Hank lifted the bulging tow sacks and walked past other wagons and buggies, two Model Ts. Near the entrance, what looked like an enormous poppet doll sprawled in the weedy dirt. The shirt and pants were thatched with straw, a rotting pumpkin set atop the shirt collar. Drawn on the pumpkin were daggered teeth beneath a mustache and a monocle. A pitchfork jabbed through the chest, as if the effigy might try to slither away. KAISER BILL, a placard proclaimed.

  Inside, red, white, and blue streamers dangled from the rafters, the sideboards arrayed with Liberty Bond posters of American soldiers leaving home, hulking Germans with spiked helmets, Lady Liberty with flag in hand. But the poster that held Laurel’s eye was the one with a huge blood-red handprint, below it the words

  The Hun—His Mark

  BLOT IT OUT

  with

  Liberty Bonds

  Hank’s hand, Laurel thought, bloody and bodiless, still somewhere in France. She wondered if it was the poster Hank noticed first, and saw his own hand hovering ghostlike before him.

  Laurel gathered their coats and draped them on a stall door. When she came back, Doak sorted what Hank and Slidell had given him into boxes marked SCRAP IRON and RUBBER. Grief can age a body quicker than time, Laurel’s mother had once told her, and she saw the truth of it and not only in Doak Ellenburg’s face. His shoulders curved inward, his back was hunched. Slidell had said the arrival of the dust-colored Western Union telegram had so grieved Doak’s wife that she hardly ever left the house, even for the jubilees.

  “You young folks go mingle,” Slidell said. “I saw Ansel’s and Boyce’s horses so I’m figuring there to be some sipping going on behind this barn.”

  “I might have a sampling myself later,” Hank replied. “If we get too walleyed, Laurel can stack us in the back and drive us home.”

  “Looks like the Weatherbees aren’t here yet,” Laurel said after Slidell left.

  “You ever known it to be different?” Hank grumbled. “That old man’s contrary to any kind of fandango, even when it’s for a good cause. Soon as he gets here he’s ready to turn around. But there ain’t no changing him. I’ve learned that.”

  Laurel looked for Marcie Bettingfield but saw instead Jubel Parton talking to his friends. Jubel saw Laurel as well and quickly dropped his gaze. He spoke to one of his friends a moment and then walked out of the barn. Laurel knew he wouldn’t be back. Afraid Hank would thrash him again and maybe afraid of her too. The night Jubel had won his bet, she’d washed the blood from her thighs and gone in the barn to tell Slidell she was sick and needed to go home. As Laurel had searched for Slidell, she’d seen Jubel looking her way. She’d waved a hand across her face, then pointed an index finger at Jubel and made a circling motion. Nothing but a made-up pretend curse, but Jubel’s face had paled. Laurel had taken some pleasure in that, if for no other reason than wiping the smirk off his face. He’d better be glad I’m not a witch, she’d thought that night, because I’d put a suffering on him like he’s never known. But Hank had made Jubel pay.

  “I still say Walter should of come,” Hank said. “He won’t get over his skittishness unless he’s around folks.”

  “I want to teach him how to read and write,” Laurel said. “That might confidence him more.”

  Ezra Davenport came up to Hank, his gnarly face grim as he nodded toward the barn’s rear.

  “You seen what them Hun bastards done to my grandboy?”

  “I didn’t know he was back,” Hank said.

  “Got home yesterday,” Ezra said. “Them sons of bitches gassed him.”

  Laurel followed Hank to where several men were gathered around Michael Davenport, who’d been conscripted the same week as Hank. Black patches covered his eyes, the silky cloth held in place by a string knotted behind his head. Burn scars welted his face and neck and phlegm clotted each breath. A white cane leaned against a barn slat.

  Hank took Michael’s hand in his and leaned close, spoke so softly no one except Michael heard. But only the words were soft. Hank had never said if he’d killed men in France, but Laurel saw enough hatred in his face now to believe he could have. Michael’s brothers flanked their younger sibling, their faces as grim as their grandfather’s. As Hank exchanged handshakes with the brothers, Michael’s head turned slowly left to right, as if looking over the crowd. Maybe reacting to the sounds, Laurel thought, but it was as if his body hadn’t yet realized his sight had been doused forever. Michael started coughing and the brothers clutched him by the arms as Ezra retrieved the white cane.

  “We got to get him home,” Ezra said. “That gas has festered his lungs and he can’t near swallow nor breathe.”

  Clusters parted so the brothers could pass three astride. Michael shuffled his feet, head still turning left and right as his siblings guided him toward the barn mouth.

  “What did you say to Michael?” Laurel asked.

  “That if they’d let me back in the army I’d kill a dozen of those Huns for what they done to him. Boyce is right. There’s things people ought not do to each other, even in a war. When I was over there I heard awful stories, babies stabbed with bayonets, a Hun general who’d filled a tub with eyeballs. I never saw such and figured it just tall tales. Even what happened to me, I figured it was just one sorry son of a bitch. But now . . .”

  Hank shook his head.

  “I’m going to have a big swallow of that white liquor before the Weatherbees get here. Maybe that’ll help smooth my dander.”

  Hank went outside as Ansel and Boyce Clayton came up on the makeshift stage. A guitarist and Lee Ellen, Boyce’s wife, were with them, Lee Ellen’s voice blending with her husband’s.

  The news has flashed around

  Our boys are homeward bound

  Skies of gray have given way to brightness

  Hearts that once were sad are feeling gay

  And we’ll be there to meet them just to say

  Oh welcome welcome you are welcome home.

  As the song ended, a child running ahead of her mother bumped into Laurel. She was about to help her up when the mother snatched the child’s arm so Laurel couldn’t touch her. Th
e mother glared and dragged her daughter away. The Claytons finished two more songs before Marcie entered the barn, her baby cradled in one arm. She waved and hugged the baby closer as she and Laurel made their way to each other. Even at a distance, Laurel saw how having a baby had changed Marcie, her bosom and hips bigger but a gauntness in her face. Laurel remembered how pretty she’d been in the cotton batiste wedding dress. Her sisters had adorned Marcie’s brown hair with virgin’s bower and when she’d walked down the church aisle her tresses were bright and pretty as winter stars. Laurel had been there to see it, because Marcie had told Robbie there’d be no wedding unless Laurel was invited. It had taken a lot of sand to do that but Marcie had always had plenty of sand.

  They met in front of the stage and leaned into a half hug.

  “Where’s Robbie?”

  “Outside talking with some of his buddies, probably sipping moonshine too. I’ll oblige him that though. He’s been hanging tobacco since the pink of day.”

  The baby whined and Marcie patted him, set his head on her shoulder.

  “I just give you a good feeding, boy. This one ain’t to be satisfied, Laurel. Some days I’m of a mind to wear a cowbell for all the suckling he does, and Robbie already wanting another, but he ain’t the one got a chap tugging on his teat all day.”

  “You’re still tonicing with that Queen Anne’s lace?” Laurel asked.

  “I am and it’s working,” Marcie said, and smiled, “because we’ve given it a bushel full of testings.”

  The song ended and Chauncey Feith came onto the stage as the Claytons stepped off. He wore his wool uniform though the barn was warm. A gun was holstered around his waist, as if Germans might rush through the barn mouth at any moment. Laurel watched as six boys settled behind Chauncey, arms by their sides. They were fresh scrubbed, their hair clean and combed, and Chauncey had dressed them up in khaki pants and blue denim shirts, thin black belts and black socks. But the well-worn brogans, several pairs passed down from larger feet, showed they were farm kids. They tried to act grown up but grins kept widening their pressed lips. Laurel saw Hank by the barn mouth, his eyes on the stage too.

  Chauncey Feith raised his arms and the barn grew quiet. One of the boys handed him some sheets of paper and Chauncey began to read.

  “It is gratifying to see all of you here, and I commend your unceasing support of war bonds and the scrap metal and rubber drive. As the song says, I also hope that our brave men are indeed homeward bound. There are continued good tidings from Europe and some say this war could end soon, but we have heard that before. Whatever news of victory we hear or read, we cannot rest until the kaiser hangs from a rope in that fancy palace of his. We must remain ever vigilant, because the Hun will become even more desperate and devious, not just overseas but here in Madison County, where we of late have all but been overrun with likely imperial agents. Thus I offer the following.”

  Chauncey raised his eyes and shuffled the papers.

  “To President Lange and the board of trustees. We the following demand the immediate removal of Doctor Horatio Mayer from his position as Professor of Languages at Mars Hill College. Furthermore, we demand that he not be allowed on the campus in any capacity, especially to have contact with students. We know for a fact that Professor Mayer has conversed with men we have cause to believe are enemy spies, a matter that has already been reported to you. Information passed to him could cost American lives. Professor Mayer must be immediately dismissed from the college. Let us not hear any more cries about free speech, that colleges should embrace any and all sorts of free thinking. Professor Mayer does not have the right to speak freely when his allegiances are not our own or, we surely hope, the college he represents. His continued employment will cause everlasting dishonor to Mars Hill College. Furthermore, Miss Dorothea Yount should be, at the very least, severely reprimanded for her allowance of potentially subversive books in the campus library. We would note that a number of your own faculty have already agreed to sign this petition. Their having done so is an act of true courage. Let Professor Mayer’s dismissal be the first step in restoring Mars Hill College’s honor and good name.”

  Chauncey raised his eyes.

  “The boys have already placed copies of this petition on Doak’s table. If you believe in freedom, sign the petition. Thank you for coming tonight and for all your contributions for our brave soldiers.”

  Chauncey gave a crisp salute, the boys following him single file as the Claytons stepped back on the stage and began “The False Knight,” a song Laurel had always liked. If Walter had come, he could play it for her later, though the main reason she’d wish him here was simply missing him. How could she not when for two months they’d been in the cove together every day, every night on the porch alone for at least a few minutes, holding hands and exchanging brief kisses.

  “The Weatherbees are here,” Marcie said, nodding toward the barn mouth where Carolyn’s parents talked to an older couple.

  Hank stood beside Carolyn, who was all spruced up in a blue cotton dress and white Buster Brown collar. Her face had been roughened by acne but there was a prettiness in her blue eyes and copper-colored hair. Smart as a whip too, Hank claimed. Easy enough to see why he was smitten by her. The Claytons played a slower song and Hank took Carolyn’s hand, placed his forearm and stubbed wrist against her back and pulled her close. She settled her head against Hank’s chest and they joined the other couples on the makeshift dance floor. Laurel was about to tell Marcie about Walter but Marcie spoke first.

  “Not marrying Carolyn until he fixes up the farm for you is an honorable thing,” Marcie said. “Good of Carolyn too, especially since her daddy’s giving them that land on Balsam. There’s many a woman who’d want her betrothed working on her house, not his sister’s.”

  I don’t know your meaning, Laurel almost said, but then she did know, and the wonder was that she hadn’t realized before. The Claytons continued to play but like the talk of adults and the cries of babies and shouts of children the music seemed distant, as though the world was pulling away from her. Marcie sighed as the baby nuzzled her breast.

  “I best go suckle him, because it’ll be a sight easier now than on a bumpy wagon. Maybe he’ll sleep a bit too. That way I can swaddle him in a corner and give me and Robbie a chance to dance a song or two. It’s been ever so long since we’ve done that.”

  Laurel nodded and Marcie left. When had Hank planned to tell her? When the furniture arrived at the train station and was hauled north to Balsam instead of into the cove? Fixing up the farm for her, Marcie had said, but Hank had also done it to prove to Carolyn and her daddy that, even with one hand, Hank could do the work needed to support a wife and family. He had used part of his army savings but also the last of the money their parents left behind. She thought of the new fence with its taut strands and metal thorns and how Slidell had mentioned the expense of barbed wire instead of split rails. Hank had said barbed wire lasted so much longer. With a small gasp, Laurel realized something else—that Hank was making it clear he’d not ask Laurel to live with him and Carolyn. She would be left behind, and he had decided that months ago.

  A mute man might take a wife no one else wanted, a man who didn’t know what others believed about Laurel. I’m helping you as much as I can, sister, Hank would figure each night he left her and Walter alone on the porch or bragged on Laurel’s cooking or sewing, hoping to get shed of what he was too ashamed to tell her. There had been girls before the war who’d not spark with Hank because, though no purple stain marked him, they believed the cove’s bad luck did. Then he’d lost the hand and there were women who’d not want him because of that. But he’d found one who would share a life with him, as long as that life was outside the cove. He’d had a choice, maybe the only one Hank figured to ever get, and he’d chosen. Choose Walter, or choose being alone. She’d drunk the tonic with Queen Anne’s lace for a month now, and marked her bleeds on the calenda
r from Mr. Shuler’s store. There was a choice in the doing of that too, and a hoping. But would Walter choose her?

  The Weatherbees had left. Hank and Slidell can drink on the wagon easy as behind a barn, Laurel told herself, so she got all the coats and went outside, found the men with their backs against the graying side boards, legs spraddled before them. An empty quart mason jar lay close by.

  “I think I just saw a second moon, Laurel,” Slidell said.

  “I think I see more than one myself,” Hank agreed.

  “We need to go,” Laurel said.

  Hank fished the watch from his pocket, angled it to catch what light slanted between the barn planks.

  “It ain’t even ten yet, sister.”

  Laurel nodded at the mason jar.

  “You’ve drained that so there’s no cause to stay longer.”

  Slidell lifted the mason jar, apprised it indeed empty.

  “I guess it is time,” Slidell said.

  Hank helped him to his feet. The older man leaned his shoulder against the barn, one hand flat against the boards.

  “This barn shifts like a weathervane,” he said.

  “You keep him upright,” Laurel told Hank. “I’ll bring the wagon.”

  It wasn’t the first time she’d driven home from a jubilee, so Ginny was comfortable when Laurel took the checkreins in hand and brought the wagon to where the men waited. Laurel spread wool horse blankets across the bed boards and she and Hank lifted Slidell into the wagon. Hank pushed until Slidell’s knees bent enough to hitch the gate.

  “You sober enough to stay on the buckboard, or do you need to crawl in there with him?” Laurel asked.

  “I can stay on,” Hank said.

  Laurel lit the lantern and pulled up her coat collar. Not the coldest night they’d had this fall but cold enough. She jerked the reins and the wagon rolled away from the music and voices. Soon the only sounds were the creak of jostled wood and Slidell’s moans when the wagon bumped over a milking trace. A waxing moon dusted everything beneath in a silvery light. Always so pretty, Laurel thought, not just the moon but the wide pasture of stars that made the sky so much larger than in the cove.