Treat Us Like Dogs and We Will Become Wolves

by Carolyn Chute

  Dee Dee Lancaster St. Onge.

  Lou-EE, my hub, and I were sitting together kinda arm in arm in that deep cherry color dusk. Everyone was grouped around, mellow you know, just enjoying the cooling air and deep mood. We had Cannonball on a leash cuz she attacked a Malamute the minute we got here. Now I peeked over Lou-EE’s shoulder and there was Samantha over there a ways, standing with her arms folded, listening to one of the Christian ladies singing in a very beautiful way. Sammy’s pale hair was so wicked. It just looked so central to the scene.

  Yes ol’ Sam was looking forward to the big True Maine Militia surprise. I could tell. Me? I was uneasy. Gordon was not my father and he wasn’t head of my household. I didn’t live at the Settlement. But maybe I feared him a little bit. I feared messing with his security, his little world. Dad likes to talk about being “point man.” He calls it “walking point.” That’s war talk for when you are the lead guy walking in dangerous territory. Well, that night as I sat there, pulling my sweater around me (and my pregnant belly), the thoughts of the next day seemed like . . . well, like one giant minefield.

  Claire St. Onge remembers breakfast time on the fourth day.

  It was very cool. You could see your breath. There were muffins, coffee, and juice which the Lincoln people unloaded from Pastor Rick’s little white station wagon. Pastor Rick was bald and shiny under his Red Sox cap, which he took off and held in his hands whenever he talked with a woman. His hair around the sides was a little long and quite fair and as soft-looking as a baby duckling’s. I remember there were a few moments where he was standing with Paul Lessard, you know, our Paul from the Settlement, the two of them looking uphill at the fifty-foot tower. Pastor Rick with a steaming coffee in one hand, Red Sox cap on his head. Paul was wearing a black corduroy jacket, hands on his hips, kinda blending with the shadows of the new day.

  The pastor spoke in his cheery high voice, “I heard most people assemble these on the ground first, then, with the turbine in place, they use a crane to raise it.”

  Paul Lessard was quiet a moment. Then, playing off some insulting old Frenchman joke, “Err, yes, I herr’tat, too. But we do it Frenchman way, you know? Jacques and Pierre do tiss’all ass’n backwarse, t’em.”

  The preacher laughed kind of weakly, not knowing how hard one is supposed to laugh at a Frenchman joke when a Frenchman tells it.

  Both of them stared quietly up at the tower in that dim morning sky. Then Paul turned and stared at the flatbed truck with the wind plant chained on back, and he said with silk-soft momentousness, “Four hun’ret pounds.” He looked at me again and I winked and then we all looked slowly and momentously and grimly back up at the top of the tower.

  And boy did that preacher giggle. And then he added happily, “I’m sure you folks have it all figured out.”

  And then Paul glanced around at Eddie Martin, you know, our Eddie from the Settlement, who was strolling toward us with his own steaming coffee. Paul asked Eddie, “Where’s Bree?”

  Eddie smiled sickly (he was never an early bird), which made his bony, carefully shaved face sort of ripple around the sides of his mouth. And he covered one eye. “Oh, around. She was helping them up at that house there. Some extra tables. Bree said they’re putting a lot more tables out in case of crowds.”

  “Crowds?”

  Eddie shrugged.

  Preacher noticed me about then. I admit, I had been quiet, just enjoying the morning, trying to wake up. He tugs off his cap and nods at me.

  I winked at him.

  Paul says, “Little girl named Bree, her going to put t’win’plant up on’tat tower, her.”

  The preacher giggled almost explosively. Nodded fast, “Sure. Sure.”

  Bree recalls.

  As the sun picked its way over the trees and the building up at the top of the long humpy drive, I was readying myself for the job, which on the first day we arrived, Aurel had asked me to do, saying, “T’logger girl expert wit’ a truck and ’quipment. When we’rrre ready to go, will she do t’honors, her?” So this was it. Day Four. I slammed the door of the truck, checked both mirrors.

  Uh-oh, there they were down below on the tar road. A few cars. People with binoculars trained on the tower, on those of us drinking coffee and chewing on muffins. And on that array of little child-fashioned windmills, all painted up in dribbling carnival colors. Oh, how exotic we were! And two windmills somewhat taller, made by the older kids, which would, by the end of the day, be ready to each light a one-hundred-watt bulb, providing there would be some breeze. At the moment the whole Lincoln landscape was raw silence. My hands were loose on the wheel.

  After a few minutes, there were many more carloads of “unexpected” people. Then more. My heart popped popcornishly.

  I could hear one of the Lincoln women chirp, “Oh! More visitors! Let’s welcome them!”

  Lorraine Martin.

  I could see Gordon watching the little groups of figures move up the shadowy hill and then a couple more cars, easing up onto the shoulders. He was eating a muffin, chewing, then pausing, his jaws frozen a moment, then chewing, then again a pause as he focused hard on the invaders.

  Bonnie Loo.

  Boy, they were coming, cars and cars. And more cars. A lot of cars. They were coming from both directions, so they were not in a procession, but they sure did yessiree seem to be brought there by a signal in common, like the green flag in a stock car race, or some sort of widely advertised sale. Or you know who. I never did buy that rap about her innocence. She was always finding some new flashy way to make the Settlement into a three-ring circus.

  Leona St. Onge recalls.

  Gordon was looking over at the cheery fat frosty-breathed faces of the five Lincoln men and women standing nearest him. Then he looked over at Pastor Rick, who believed that “man is basically good,” that goodness will triumph, and I know that Gordon wanted to believe that, too. He wanted to believe that what was happening to his family now was in God’s hands, not his own. And not the hands of children. Indeedy.

  Today, as I look back on that cold, skirling, shadowy morning, I think he was reaching a point where he was, at least for the moment, resigned. You could see it in his face. Chin up, ol’ boy.

  Pastor Rick.

  The thing is, that when you give yourself over to the Lord, you will feel wonderfully weak. Yes, I remember Gordon St. Onge. We worked with him off and on, on solar and wind projects. And some fellowship. He was a man who wrestled with demons. But there was many a time you could see great peace in his eyes, perhaps greater than most who claim they are in a right way with the Lord.

  Penny.

  The first clump of strangers reached the top of the hill, cameras in hand.

  Linda, one of the Lincoln women, spoke in a manner of much pleasure, “I’ll get more coffee!” and she headed up toward the nearest house, which had solar panels on the roof and geraniums in the window and was gotten to by a series of steep rock steps. Her brown tightly permed hair and frosty breath took on the deep gold of the rising sun. Now several of us Settlement women followed, ready to help.

  Steph.

  More cars, bunching farther and farther back on both shoulders of the road.

  I watched Gordon joining a group of men and teens, and Beezer, a woman from the Settlement, who were all hustling now to start the final work on the windmill.

  The women at the tables said “Hello!” to the many strangers, and our hosts’ dogs, old Malamutes, were sniffing the new arrivals over. Cannonball, the Scottie dog, was condemned to a leash due to her combat zone attitude.

  A man and woman approached Bonnie Loo, whose youngest, Zack, was wrapped around one of her legs, looking sleepy, while Bonnie Loo herself was wrapped up in a big green sweater, her pregnancy not showing when she was dressed that way, but with her continuing morning sickness, her face had a nasty lime green cast to it, and the man and woman asked her if they had come to the right place, “is this it?” Bonnie Loo was not the best person to ask in any condition. A lon
nnnnnnnnng pause, her golden-green fox-color eyes dizzling up and down their personages.

  Then they told her that they heard on the radio “what is happening here.”

  I asked, “What is it that the radio said is happening?”

  “Doing your thing, spreading it,” the man replied warmly.

  Bonnie Loo’s eyes widened. With her contacts, her eyes shone. “Spreading what?”

  The woman laughed. “The True Maine Militia.”

  A woman with a camera steps up. “What’s that you’re putting up? A radio tower?”

  Another offered this evidence, “We heard about your event on WERU. We came up from Bangor.”

  “I heard it on public radio,” admitted a young professional-looking-and-sounding woman behind her.

  “You’ll probably have a great turnout. It’s supposed to be a pretty day,” another stranger offered. “Less humid.”

  Now another, “What time does the meeting start?”

  More and more and more cars.

  A mob gathering.

  And the big cold morning sun hiked up another notch.

  Bonnie Loo.

  We were in the middle of nowhere and all of a sudden there’s enough people to cram the city of Boston, Massachusetts.

  Claire.

  I remember our elfin Josee’s eyes tightening behind her always-polished pretty glasses. “Radio people heard t’iss about a meeting wit us, t’em. Funny t’ing, we didn’t. I did not know off a meeting!”

  Steph took one of the unexpected guests by the hands. “Want some coffee?”

  From the group of ready-to-work men in the open field, where some strangers had wandered, Aurel was hollering, “From here on t’ennertainment and chi’chat iss off limits here in t’iss dangerous place! Everybody stay back! Excep’t’crew putting up t’turbine! OUT OFF T’WAY PLEASE T’ANK YOU!!!!” He had whipped off his Vietnam War bush hat and was gesturing with it for a serious clearing out.

  More cars down there on the road.

  Penny.

  A group of people in their twenties thereabouts were just arriving. Collegy kids. I remember this very well. They asked Leona breathlessly, “Where is he?”

  She said, “You mean Gordon, right?”

  They said, “Yeah.”

  “Well, keep your eyes peeled. He’s here. Get your cameras ready. He’s very photogenic.” And she snickered.

  I rolled my eyes.

  And Bonnie Loo lifted Zack up onto her hip. He felt all over her chest, hunting for a pocket, and when he found the pocket he was looking for, he carefully placed inside it the dead grasshopper he’d been holding. And he told it, “Rest.” Bonnie Loo wasn’t paying any attention to this, but was squinting crankily at the tar road down at the foot of the field, where a Caravan SUV thing, big enough to hold a dozen more strangers, was easing to a stop.

  The work of dreams.

  Aurel begins to climb the tower. Hatless, just that head of dark hair, little gentlemanly beard, small scrawny quick little person in khaki work shirt and Settlement-made jeans, small feet in small boots. Unencumbered. Unstoppable. Unequivocal hero of the moment.

  Down in the vast “audience,” a lot of held breaths and silence, while into this silence stray a few oooooo’s and aaahhhh’s, one big gasp and a whisper.

  Aurel is screaming orders to his helpers and yes, accidentally drops a screwdriver, which narrowly misses a head below. No hard hats here. A whole box of Settlement-made fart pillows made it to Lincoln but hard hats were forgotten.

  Aurel hammers away quite some time, erecting a wooden tripod on top of the tower. Under the tripod’s peak hangs a pulley.

  The crowd slowly but surely thickens. And through it moves, with deliberateness, all the officers of the True Maine Militia (except Bree), recruiting.

  Each new recruit writes down his or her name, address, phone. And checks off whether or not they are interested in “The Million Man Woman Kid Dog March” and other actions, perhaps some meetings at the Settlement. And each new recruit gets a True Maine Militia membership card pressed into his or her hand, a little blue card with the person’s name scribbled in over the tiny American flag and then signed in impressive calligraphy by the “secretary of offense,” BRIANNA ST. ONGE, and the recruiting commander, whose handwriting is just regular and girlish-looking, SAMANTHA DALE BUTLER. Then there are flyers, as well as copies of The Recipe. Both versions.

  Samantha really moves. Obviously, this is her element. And she is hard to miss. Hair like corn silk stirring around the shoulders of her camo BDU shirt. Her pants are tight and black. Black military boots. And a dynamic-looking black-band black-faced wristwatch. A rascally smile. No one can say “no.”

  Meanwhile, back up on the tower, Aurel is calling down to those below, “Get Bree!” and there are many adolescent shouts of “BREEEEE!” and “BRI-AHHHH-NAHH!”

  And in the truck cab where she has been waiting, Bree shifts into gear. Now she deftly backs the flatbed flush to the foot of the tower, wild grasses under the tires hissing.

  This is the truck with the dribbling sticky sunshine and the dribbling sticky words SUNSHINE ARMY on the door.

  “Turbine crew!” Aurel bellers.

  Egyptians Joel Barrington and Butch Martin and two young cheerful Lincoln men slide the inconveniently shaped four-hundred-pound wind plant to the tailgate area of the flatbed truck, now easing it into the hands of four teens and twenty-year-olds, who ease it to the ground. Jaime Crosman and a short smiley Lincoln girl quickly knot a thick cable around the thing as Bree pulls the creaking rumbling truck ahead a few feet.

  Meanwhile, the other end of the cable rope dangles down, where it is threaded through the pulley more than fifty feet above, up there on the tripod. The free end is now fastened underneath the truck to the frame. Four approximately hundred- to hundred-and-fifty-pound beings leap aboard the flatbed for extra weight.

  Bree seems casual, waiting at the wheel, smoking a cigarette, watching her mirrors.

  Down on the road, more strangers, a quarter-mile of parked vehicles on one side of the roadway, a shorter line on the other, a bit of a traffic jam down the middle.

  “Ready driver?!!!” the Settlement’s Ray Pinette hoots.

  Bree waves an arm.

  “Well, then go!” calls a young Lincoln guy.

  Bree kicks in the clutch, shifts to first. A man attached to the turbine by a strap climbs the tower in tandem with the turbine as it rises slowww and easy and Bree eases the old truck along velvety-smooth, the cable ever so taut.

  Aurel waits at the top to receive the turbine, his dark gleamy eyes taking in every move of his helpers, the truck, the pulley, the cable, the guy wire, the wind plant.

  When the wind plant arrives, he works quickly, bolting it in place, the sun in his face at times, too much sun.

  And now, wrench in hand, Aurel waves to all in triumph and screams bloodcurdingly, “She’s up!”

  The mob applauds.

  Now a single delirious kazoo.

  And somewhere, a St. Onge baby bawls.

  Again, from a future time, Geraldine St. Onge remembers well.

  Aurel comes down the tower charged up. His eyes are like mirrors. A chatterbox in everyone’s face. Josee brings him a huge glass of water and he takes it with both hands. Even though the water there at the Christian folk’s property tastes like telephone booth quarters, he drinks it right down and his beard looks like a wet dog’s. And Josee puts her hands on both sides of his face and she says slowly and deeply, “You big and nice.”

  After the work.

  Bree has found a clump of good-sized maples and for a while, she and Samantha Butler are alone, sitting under them in two webbed lawn chairs, hungrily eating their sandwiches and whispering. The lawn chairs feel good and when Samantha gets up to “go scoff up some root beer,” Bree remains, flapping her stained and empty paper plate like a fan.

  Whitney comes up behind her, pushes a knee into the back of her chair playfully.

  “I know
it’s you,” Bree says.

  But now in the sun, with “Witty” and “Sammy,” one on either side of her lawn chair, Bree can hear Gordon standing not very far away, sloshing and chomping. She sees it’s a ham-cheese-pickle-looking sandwich. She places her paper plate underneath her chair on the grass and smiles at him. She feels lazy and good. Some of her carroty hair is pinned back with barrettes. The day is too bright and triumphant to feel fraught by a man who tries to govern her.

  Suddenly, her lazy happy expression changes. She sees eight men.

  They wear jeans or work pants but their camo BDU shirts are identical . . . well, some are tiger stripe, some woodland camo, but each has an embroidered patch high on the left sleeve, olive green with black BORDER MOUNTAIN MILITIA lettering around the form of a mountain lion.

  The people who had been staring at Gordon all morning, or at Ellen St. Onge’s black eye, these people, as Bree does, now stare instead at the eight uniformed men.

  One of the eight wears the patch of captain, which is more elaborate, with an additional crescent underneath that reads: OXFORD COUNTY.

  Wise-ass Samantha’s voice from quite nearby calls out, “Gordon, see . . . it’s your Rexy!”

  Gordon doesn’t reply.

  Young Mickey Gammon (who is homeless, they say), age fifteen, is among them, dressed in the camo shirt and patch. Shirt fits him well. Looks spiffy. And he wears an expression of what seems like exaggerated dignity. Several men wear camo or plain green army caps of various styles, but Mickey just wears his usual tiny tail of streaky blond hair. Rex, bare-headed, steel-framed sunglasses and a flash of noon sun off his elaborate black-faced watch, walks over and stands next to Gordon, just stands there looking around, and Gordon has one eyebrow raised, the other eye squinted, his ultimate deranged look. He digs furiously at his bearded chin and finally says, “Could you tell me why you just happen to be in little Lincoln, Maine, when I just happen to be in little Lincoln, Maine?”

  Rex says tonelessly, “We had business.”

  “That’s not possible, I believe in coincidences to a point.” He is staring with his eyes like pale green arrows into Rex’s.