The Hauntings of Hood Canal

by Jack Cady

  Bertha looked up to see the slim figure of a woman standing in the doorway. The woman stood framed in gray light from the chilly day. Bertha, were she less practical, would say the woman materialized out of mist. The light being what it was, Bertha could only see a slim figure with long hair, a figure wearing a dress far too stylish for early afternoon. To Bertha, wise in the ways of other women’s seductions even if her own did not work, the woman looked like a lady on the hunt. Either that or a hooker.

  “We’re open,” Bertha said. “You just passing through?”

  Annie stepped into bar light and away from grayness of the day. When Bertha recognized her Bertha played at being miffed. “Don’t ever cut the clowning. It’s too amusin’. Where’s your jeans and sweatshirt?” Bertha looked Annie up and down, saw hair washed and glistening and nearly silky. She saw a greeny-silky dress hitting an inch below the knee, and a face nicely washed and pretty without benefit of makeup.

  “You’re a good-looking kid.” Bertha did not try to hide her astonishment. “You ought to do something with it. Make a name for yourself.”

  “I gotta talk to you,” Annie’s voice sounded like a confused girl, not like an attractive young woman. “I’d love to talk about lots of stuff but I’m afraid somebody will come in and interrupt. I got man problems . . .”

  “Who hasn’t?” Bertha grinned. “Hell, men have got man problems, what with chainsaws and pickups and marriage.” Bertha swiped at the bar with a bar rag and looked Annie over very, very carefully. “You preggers?”

  “No.”

  “You ain’t wet, either. How can you walk in here out of the rain and not be wet?”

  “It happens sometimes,” Annie told her in a vague way. “Something to do with weather satellites I expect . . . How do you get a man to like you?”

  If Bertha figured this would be the blind leading the blind she did not let on. “Depends on the man. If he’s like most of the bums who come in here you just show a little cleavage.”

  “Sugar Bear,” Annie said, her voice shy. “He needs help . . . or something . . . I don’t know.”

  “Sugar Bear,’ Bertha mused. “You won’t get anywhere helping him, not if he knows it. Times when a man like that needs help are the same times he resents it.”

  “You help without him knowing it?” Confusion deepened Annie’s voice. “I’ve tried spells.”

  “. . . and you’re not trying to help him, anyway,” Bertha told her. “Get honest. You’re trying to get him interested.”

  “That’s helping. I’m sure it would help.”

  “Tell it to a frog.” Bertha grinned and Jubal Jim thumped his tail. Then Jubal Jim eased onto a warm spot where breezes blow from the heater. His hound ears spread perfectly flat along the floor. He snuffied once, then dozed.

  “Besides,” Bertha said, “sooner or later Sugar Bear will get busted. Too many people are talking. The talk will keep up until one of our jock cops decides to play like he’s on television.”

  “They wouldn’t . . . they would. They really would.” Annie looked toward the Canal. In the distance water swelled, moved like the burp from a giant carp. “He can’t get busted.”

  “Anybody can,” Bertha told her. “He’ll convict himself because he’s green when it comes to lying.” She also looked at the Canal. “It’s humping again. It must mean something.”

  “It’s a Fury,” Annie said absent-mindedly, “maybe the only Water Fury in the whole world. It’s not even a very good one.”

  “Child,” Bertha said, “it’s time for you to settle down.”

  “That’s the plan,” Annie said. “As soon as I get him interested.”

  “There’s lots of men,” Bertha told her. “You haven’t lived long enough to know all the kinds of men there are.”

  “Maybe if I fixed my hair different, or got a cut . . .”

  “Clean up your act,” Bertha told her. “You look real pretty. Try that first, and hope the stories stop before cops get interested.”

  Inspiration shone in Annie’s eyes. “If they have something else to talk about they’ll forget to talk about Sugar Bear.” She reached to touch Bertha’s hand. “You’re so smart. I never would have thought of that.”

  “Somebody did,” Bertha admitted, “but I can’t remember doin’ it.”

  Determination can be a scary thing. When Annie left, her narrow shoulders were squared. She would make the world a better place by getting it to talk about something besides Sugar Bear. Also, she felt prepared to wear dresses and ribbons.

  Mystery Women and Butterflies

  Thinking back on last summer it’s easy to see how confusion spread up and down the road. While it takes no time at all for news to spread, it does take time for gossip to change ordinary news into facts that count as satisfying information. It’s only natural to review happenings in order to stay sane:

  Sugar Bear did his hammer toss in early summer, along about mid-June. Annie decided to set her cap for him a week later while Petey left to hustle the good folk of Seattle. Cars started to dunk in late June, but state cops did not really show up with their crane until very near the end of July. It must have been mid-August, then, that the forest dried out; by which time, of course, Petey was back. Stories, mostly caused by Annie, were running from the top of the Canal to its bottom with all three beer joints involved. Part of the information rode with the kid who drove the wrecker.

  Annie tried to push bar talk away from Sugar Bear the third week of June. She first tried whipping up a plague of locusts, but something went sour with the enchantment and only a few showed up; and seagulls got them. Then she tried a rumor saying the Navy aimed to move its base to the west side of the Canal, which was senseless, stupid, and governmental, thus likely. Most people yawned, but it seemed, at the time, the rumor caused speculation in building lots.

  Later on, everyone became wiser, but that was later. All during the summer, “for sale” signs for real estate came down almost before they went up. In a three-mile stretch surrounding Beer and Bait, somebody bought every stitch of land.

  Sugar Bear brooded all through June. People talked. Up north at Rough and Randy a betting pool started with guys making choices about who, at Beer and Bait, would be the next guy busted. Annie fought back and had a stroke of luck, because Annie is not old enough to be truly humorous. She bought women’s things at a distant thrift shop, sneaked to the post office before midnight, and ran the stuff up the flagpole. As luck would have it the outfit would fit a lady sumo wrestler, and there came wind. Daylight saw a display of giant pink balloons. Talk temporarily turned to the postmaster who cussed and protested, but seemed privately proud. Annie, too young to understand cheap shots, regarded her work and thought it good.

  Then Annie conjured up a spell of silence that misfired. For a couple of days people walked around with their ears ringing. Then Annie scored big. She wore her nicest dress, hitched a ride to Rough and Randy where she demurely sipped iced tea. She sat at a table, legs crossed, but with one patent leather slipper dangling from her toes and claimed she waited to meet a guy. Annie is not too young to know how to handle the bad, bad boys at Rough and Randy. The guy she claimed to be meeting is a local cop, famous in these parts for breaking heads. Annie flirted and made certain she would be known as a mystery woman, then pretended she had been stood up and took her leave. She disappeared, maybe into the woods, but at any rate disappeared, and made it back home before midnight.

  Next day, talk of the mystery woman swept up and down the road. General opinion said she must be someone from the development up north. At the same time, opinion said, she could not be from that housing project because she claimed to wait for a local cop. The mystery woman had the kind of class usually wasted on rich bozos, not on bozo cops.

  ═

  Sugar Bear drew further into himself. It is all very well to know that bad men must be stopped. To kill a man, though, is not something Sugar Bear’s morals can alibi. Sugar Bear did not then understand that in some less-th
an-sublime situations all choices are wrong.

  He became testy with his work and testy with Chantrell. On some afternoons Sugar Bear closed shop, retreated into a nap, then woke toward evening. He walked through the night, or at least until just before clocks struck twelve. People driving home from Beer and Bait would see him shambling beside the road, or standing beside the Canal as he looked across its dark waters. When they offered him a lift he refused in low and kindly voice. On the following day, having snapped at Chantrell the day before, he would be gentle and sad; slipping Chantrell a couple of bucks which eased both their feelings.

  When Annie began wearing dresses and being an absolute knockout, it seemed to soothe Sugar Bear. The reaction was not what Annie hoped for, but better than nothing.

  “I don’t know what to think,” she admitted to Bertha on one chill and drizzly summer afternoon. “I don’t even know much about the guy who got dead. It happened so quick it’s like it didn’t happen.”

  “The guy was city, and city ways don’t work here. At least not those ways.” Behind Bertha’s shoulder, and mounted high up, a television, usually off—but turned on sometimes in afternoons or during ballgames—broadcast soap . . . somebody’s psychiatrist was boffing the teenage daughter of his patient’s deranged third-cousin twice removed . . . something like that.

  “I get lonesome for him,” Annie said. “We’ve never so much as hugged, but I get lonesome. It was never this way before, even back in high school.” She reached to pet Jubal Jim who was about to settle in for a snooze. He licked her hand.

  “It’s called a nesting instinct.” Bertha’s voice betrayed the same confusion Annie felt. “I don’t know if you ever get over it.”

  “Spiffing up seems to work a little, but it’s working mighty slow.”

  “It don’t pay to rush,” Bertha told her. “Sugar Bear’s a long way from being in the clear. Just hope he put that car in deep, deep water.”

  The muted sound of tires crunching on parking lot gravel seemed to Annie like an invasion of privacy. “I’m really sad,” she whispered quickly. “I’m scared. When I get sad I do things that are really, really stupid.”

  “Who don’t?” Bertha told her. “Take a strain. Customers.”

  “. . . which of course,” a woman said as she opened the door for two other women, “is why she got in such a tiz. Gregory is an attentive man, but no hair dresser.” The women were clearly from the housing project up north, and clearly in the wrong pew. Bertha waited. A customer is a customer until the time comes when a bouncer is called for.

  All three women were manicured, slim, in their fifties-going­-on-thirty-five. Annie, accustomed to magic that only worked when it felt like it, didn’t give them a second thought. The women headed for a table in back.

  “Ladies’ day,” Bertha called to them. “You kids can set at the bar. Saves steps.”

  There came a hurried consultation, like the buzzing of a disturbed hive. The word “hopeless” clawed the air. Then thirst overcame indignation and the three turned, tried to stroll to the bar, although it is impossible to stroll at Beer and Bait. Walk or stagger, yes.

  “It’s certainly not the country club,” one said. This one was the scrawniest of the lot, a tough little number wearing a purple dress. She spoke to the others as if Bertha and Annie were not there.

  “Yes it is.” Bertha’s voice sounded pushy, cheerful, and brisk. “Limited seating.”

  “Pleased to meet you,” Annie said.

  “They’re from New York.” The scrawny one’s voice held admiration. She turned to the other women. “New York humor is special.”

  To this day no one can explain that afternoon. Some sort of magic kept logging trucks from stopping, and boats away from the fuel pumps. The only male present, as far as any lady could tell, was Jubal Jim who napped mightily.

  But, if a man had been sitting at a table in shadows, forgotten, and looking toward the bar, and if he was a man of depth, he would have imagined an assembly of butterflies on bar stools. Colors glowed orange and purple and green and tan; dresses and skirts as aery as wings, and Annie gorgeous in blue pastel. The ladies from the housing project gradually let down well-coifed hair, once they got their noses into their second round. There’s something extra relaxing about Beer and Bait on drizzly afternoons.

  “This actually is lovely. A Grandma Moses sort of place.” This, from the green butterfly who was tallest, and seemed kindly. She spoke to the orange butterfly whose wings seemed wide above the bar top because she leaned on elbows; enjoying a place where no consultant on good manners would ever visit.

  “I only wash the windows twice a year,” Bertha lied. “There’s stuff happens on that water you really don’t want to see.” Bertha decided to experiment. “Potato chips,” she told them, “are on the house. Stay off the pool tables unless you know what you’re doing.”

  Annie suppressed a giggle. The purple butterfly blinked. “It’s a man’s game,” she said. “One of the curses of our existence.” She turned to the other butterflies, picking up a conversation that must have gone on before they entered the joint. “And then, my dear, in the very midst of playing house, you can just imagine who phoned her from the airport . . .”

  “Explain about men,” Annie said, because, although Annie stayed with lemonade, Annie felt confused and out of sorts.

  “Men are sorta unusual,” Bertha told her. “They come and go and do stuff they claim is important, and most of it amounts to diddly. Men are absolute suckers for feeling important. Men stumble around, do something major dumb, then claim they had the whole thing planned from the beginning.”

  “Men play at being noble.” The purple butterfly took a healthy belt of her drink, then sniffed suspiciously, then giggled. “I’ve never drank with a dog before. Unusual.” She seemed about ready to wake Jubal Jim and offer him a sip.

  “The last guy that tried to get that dog bombed is still on crutches,” Bertha said.

  “Noble,” the purple butterfly repeated. “Men play at being noble. You can take that to the bank.”

  “If I’d known what trouble the second one was going to be,” the orange butterfly said, “I wouldn’t have been in such a hurry to divorce the first one.”

  “You can hustle a man at pool when you can’t hustle a woman,” Bertha said, “’cause a woman don’t feel like her reputation’s on the line. A woman gets her reputation from interesting stuff.”

  “Do you hustle, dear?” The purple butterfly emptied her glass, looked toward the doorway and probably thought of the chilly afternoon. She shivered. Pushed her glass forward for another. “I mean pool. Of course I mean pool.”

  Bertha ought to be a good hustler, because good hustlers are unflappable. She grinned. “I do tournaments sometimes because I’m good. But hustle, nope, though some ladies enjoy the risk.”

  “Count on men being disorganized.” The green butterfly already sipped deep into her second drink.

  “You got that right,” Bertha said. “Men will drive around hell-and-half-of-Georgia looking for a spare part. They could do the same thing faster and cheaper with a phone.”

  “Is this important? Tell me something I can use.” Annie figured herself in the midst of experts, and figured the experts talked over her head.

  “Kiddo, you wanta know about men . . .” The purple one, the scrawny one, seemed to change from butterfly to beetle. “There’s two kinds. One kind owns underwear, the other doesn’t. The kind that owns underwear acts more civilized, but don’t let that fool you.”

  “There’s actually three kinds,” the orange one said. “Some of them play golf. The trick is to find one with underwear that don’t play golf.”

  “Or pool,” the beetle-lady said, and glared at the pool tables, displeased, sorting through barely mentionable memories. “Planned community,” she said about the housing project. “I’d like to find the sonovabitch that planned the recreation.”

  “We have a problem,” the orange one told Annie. “Our men a
re so competitive. For the last year they’ve been mad about the game.”

  “They didn’t even go sport fishing last fall,” the green one said. “They stayed sober on New Year.”

  “What the hell,” the beetle-lady said, “they stayed sober on Easter Sunday.”

  “Our world is not exactly crumbling,” the green one confided to Annie, “but try living with one when he is constantly cold sober.” The butterfly giggled, which is unusual in a butterfly. “Impossible to make social plans. In addition, his sex drive becomes invigorated.” The butterfly did not blush, but Bertha did.

  “It sounds ideal,” Annie murmured. “. . . of course, I only guess from what I’ve heard.”

  Bertha tried to appear unruffled. “Send ’em down this way,” she muttered. “Tell ’em humility don’t hurt once you get numb.”

  A light of interest crossed the purple one’s face. “Are people here very good? Our gentlemen have worked for better than a year developing skills.” Her voice sounded only a little phony.

  “Around here,” Annie said, “boys learn pool about the time they learn to drive, and they learn to drive at age nine.”

  The beetle looked intrigued, and also looked ready to do business. “We can solve our problem,” she said to the butterflies, “or at least we can try.” To Bertha, she said, “Play would have to happen on our tables. Our men are not accustomed to losing. A loss may cause them to quit the game.”

  “Our guys don’t play for love,” Bertha told her. “I’ve seen titles pass to pickup trucks, and the guy who lost the truck didn’t even get a ride home.”

  “Give me your card,” the beetle said.

  “My cards ain’t returned from the printer. Phone number’s in the book.”

  “Some spiders eat their mates,” Annie explained, but only Jubal Jim paid attention. Jubal Jim stood, yawned, stretched, and trotted to the doorway. When Bertha let him out he walked to the only car on the lot, a Lincoln Continental, raised his leg and anointed a tire. He was soon joined by the butterflies. Jubal Jim sniffed the air for the familiar scent of booze, and the unfamiliar scent of truly expensive perfume. Then he trotted back to the door and scratched.