by Jack Cady
Of crimes of passion Jubal Jim has no knowledge. He obeys the laws of dogs when in the forest, and manages to sleep past the laws of men during daylight. In the forest he learns from doing things. It sounds like fun, for example, to tangle with an adolescent cougar, but the experience is such that you generally ignore the next one.
Of history, Jubal Jim is proud heir. His bloodline traces back to the time of the Phoenicians, or at least part of it does. His sire lived a vigorous life of twelve years, his dam lived thirteen. Jubal Jim, at age seven, already moves toward that passing show where, if there is a heaven, and if that heaven comes up to advance notices, all humans who are worthy will be allowed to rejoin their dogs.
Jubal Jim runs through a windy, moonstruck night in a place where humans have lived for twenty thousand years. He runs past an extinct Indian village covered by an ancient mudslide, from which, occasionally, appears a stone or ivory tool that Chantrell George scrounges and sells. Jubal Jim runs past sites of ancient massacres, slavetrading, bone breaking, and lodge fires where echoes of dance and chant are long since washed into the soil by millenniums of rain. And who is to say, in those prehistoric days, whether bone breaking did not amount to cultural amity?
As Jubal Jim follows his nose past scents of drying needles beneath firs, of mice, and shrews, and chipmunks (small bait, these, for the attentions of a hound), past the smell of a two-week-old bear trail, past the smell of a campfire extinguished two years previous, he passes down an avenue of smells as a human might walk an avenue of advertising signs and art.
A hound’s nose is one of the exquisite instruments of creation. Relatives of Jubal Jim, the bloodhounds, can follow a week-old scent across a highway on which cars have been running. A hound’s eyes can handle darkness better than a human’s, but a hound’s nose is as keen as the eyes of an owl.
And, as with humans in a city, a hound often runs on sensory overload. As humans come to a blessed state where ears no longer register sounds of sirens, so Jubal Jim’s nose ignores unimportant smells. For deer poop he cares not at all, but will note the scat of weasel, martin, or wolverine. He will pick up the scent of humans, of the lingering smell of chainsaws, and the fresh smell of wood chips flung by saws. His nose discards the comforting salt smell of the Canal as it flows on the strong night wind, although his nose picks up the smells of carrion along the shore where lies an occasional gull or seal whose luck went bad. If Jubal Jim were human he would say he had lived a long life, had seen it all, and what is more, smelled it all. Yet now, trotting beneath moonlight, he stops, attentive, ready for fight or flight. There is a new thing under the moon.
Stirring on the Canal, a hump moves languidly, then disappears in the milk-white froth of breaking water. Wind fades beneath a fading moon as clouds cloak the scene, and from the Canal comes an ancient smell, like the musty scent of two-thousand-year-old tombs, of camphorwood and olives.
The smell passes on the back of a dying wind, and the milk froth begins to fade. Something Jubal Jim has never seen before—or has anyone else—begins slight movement. Jubal Jim watches a figure rise near the shore, a figure seemingly born of surf. The thing stands with the unsteadiness of a drunken man, and it vaguely resembles human form. The thing is pale as rapid flying clouds that obscure the moon. Jubal Jim hesitates, tests the dying wind, the smells, and stands ready to bolt.
Stench flows ashore in a wave that would sicken gulls. Stench flows like rotten meat turned liquid, like dread odors from musty graves.
The thing staggers, makes movement toward the beach, then slowly sinks; gradually fading into depths like an empty beer can filling with water. Stench blows away into forest. The thing seems weak, not yet strong enough to walk the earth.
Jubal Jim sniffs the wind, noses out an approaching storm, and begins an easy trot toward home. Drivers in occasional cars see a white and black-saddled dog cruising the side of the road. None of the drivers recognize Jubal Jim, because all of the drivers are strangers. Perhaps there is a squalling of brakes as another car disappears beneath water, perhaps not; because when Jubal Jim turns his easy run into a full dash, water overfloods and slickens the road as a mighty rain hurls against forest and Canal.
Amid Rain, Chantrell Puzzles
Dawn woke beneath the pounding force of rain. Water beat on dry leaves, poured into the forest, and drained bare slopes. Rain pretended it was Biblical, a Noah-type flood, or punishment for sins committed in places like Indiana and Kansas. Rain danced an east coast number on roofs accustomed to west coast mist and drizzle. Little balls of dried moss, black as sorrow, turned green and washed into gutters. Water filled ditches, flooded the road, and formed major puddles in parking lots, schoolyards, ball fields, golf courses; as human rejoicing filled the land.
No more charming scene exists than that which happens in the Pacific Northwest when rain follows drought. While people in other places keep their children inside, we take the kids outdoors so everyone can sop it up. People are known to pack picnics, or wash their cars and dogs. A light rain is good, a medium rain is excellent, and a heavy rain—a real gully washer, flavors our world with colorful umbrellas.
Moods change. Aggravations caused by constant sun magically disappear. We shed purgatories of small responsibilities, of small sins, of unrequited lusts. All of these falter before joy smeared with optimism like fudge on a two-year-old.
And for those who love the forest, or for those who live by it, rain is a special dispensation. It is the enemy of fire. To the uninitiated, a forest fire is a grand show that takes out a few hundred or a few thousand acres. To the initiated, a forest fire spells destruction fearsome as bombs.
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Chantrell George, who is next to worthless in the eyes of nearly everyone except his guardian angel, spent morning in the forest. Rain penetrated the thick cover of trees. Chantrell’s hair hung wet and stringy about his shoulders. His feet soaked in dilapidated shoes, until he took the shoes and tied them to sling over his shoulder. He moved quickly, at least quickly for a man of visions. Chantrell knows that if you don’t keep moving you catch a chill.
Mushrooms would not bloom until after dark, but mushrooms were not Chantrell’s only reason for cruising beneath sweeping branches of cedar. In the forest, sometimes, his mind clears in the same way the Canal lies tranquil on a windless day. In the forest, sometimes, Chantrell George can nearly recall what it felt like to be straight; for, unlike some unfortunate others, Chantrell was not born a junkie.
A man of visions sees infinity in small things: the smile of a gopher, the scorn of a water faucet, the shifting patterns of light on the forest floor, or in artificial bait which also smiles; but with hooks. A man of visions sees things as they really are, and not the way they look to folks who are only high on booze or religion or business.
On some days Chantrell searched the forest looking for the flying hammer that killed the dead guy. Chantrell sought the hammer because he needed a witness. He clearly remembered how the hammer hopped around Sugar Bear’s shop, then fled through a window. That the hammer had been a cartoon hammer, and one seen in a vision, did not spoil its reality. Chantrell would point out that life more often resembles cartoons, than cartoons resemble life.
He pressed his search because he wanted the hammer to testify. Early stories, after the dead guy became dead, passed up and down the Canal. Men worth admiring, because of their positive voices and positive opinions, had given Chantrell George credit for killing the dead guy. They did it because Chantrell seemed the most likely suspect. To people who think of themselves as normal, weird people appear capable of anything.
It had been a golden time, the first time in many years anyone paid attention to Chantrell. The glow of it mixed in his mind with a cold little spot of uncertainty. At first he was not sure he actually deserved credit. Since Sugar Bear did not want to talk, and since there was only one other person Chantrell trusted, he turned to that person: his bike.
As he wheeled the bike along the road, conversations
turned to arguments, then turned back, and arguments were often resolved. So were doubts.
“Did I do something wrong?” he asked the bike. “I maybe did something bad.”
“I kinda doubt it,” the bicycle told him. “The way guys talk, I reckon you’re a hero.”
“The hammer actually did it,” Chantrell explained. “You weren’t there. You were parked outside.”
“Don’t tell anybody,” the bicycle advised. “That hammer don’t want any credit.”
As the story shifted back and forth, from China Bay, to Beer and Bait, to Rough and Randy, it gradually became known that Sugar Bear was the man behind the tragedy. People stopped talking about Chantrell. Chantrell knew the story was wrong, and he felt hurt. He experienced moments when he resented Sugar Bear.
“That’s the way it goes,” the bicycle explained. “A guy gets blamed for everything when bad stuff happens. Then he does something big, and crooks rush in to claim the credit.”
“It’s the way it goes,’’ Chantrell agreed. “A guy don’t hardly know what to do.”
“Get high,” the bicycle kindly advised. “That’s always worked before.”
Chantrell’s summer progressed with visits to the hiding places of mushrooms, with a little pick-up work at Beer and Bait, and with helping Sugar Bear by selling off his scrap metal. On two occasions Chantrell, who, out of a keen sense of self preservation never poaches items locally, chanced on tourist cars containing orphan goods; radios, cameras, golf clubs. Adoptions took place. He peddled the adoptees to guys at Rough and Randy. Summer spread its wealth around him, and life was splendid.
Then August arrived. Tourists became testy and unreliable. Traffic backed up. The forest dried. The world turned dreary as nighttime music at Beer and Bait. Without many funds, it became harder and harder to score a decent high. Then a cop showed up at Beer and Bait, and life was hell.
“It all changes because of rain,” he told his bicycle, as he hid it among trees. “This day is gonna work.”
“Luck always turns,” the bicycle assured him. “You got to ride out a bad streak, and you really got to ride a good one.” The bicycle did not explain what it meant.
Chantrell hesitated before walking in the forest. As rain penetrated the thick cover of leaves and needles, he could see glimpses of the road. Traffic was not backing up, not yet. Something went on, though. Chantrell peered through brush.
It looked like more bad driving. The back end of a car showed itself, with the trunk lid sprung and the hood buried beneath water. Chantrell could not remember where he had seen the car, but knew he had.
A couple of cop cars parked alongside the road, plus an unmarked car, plus three cops. One of the cops looked familiar, and Chantrell shivered. It was the cop who drank lemonade at Beer and Bait. The three cops wore rain slickers and hats. They looked discouraged, like guys who came to work, found that overnight somebody trashed their job; like guys who have to do a cleanup before they can even get back to work. Rain pounded. Nobody was going to hook that car out until the rain shunted off a little. Nobody could even move the crane.
Chantrell moaned. Across the fecund field of his inner vision danced a chorus line of policemen holding giant mushrooms before them like balloons of bubble dancers. The police danced on the dark waters of the Canal, and as their feet hit, little splashes flicked forward wetting the tip of Chantrell’s nose. The nose grew and became two noses, one smiling, and one with teeth. . .
“Not here,” the bicycle advised. “Strictly speaking, you ain’t high and there ain’t no evidence. Get a grip.”
“You got it,’’ Chantrell moaned. “Uh-huh. It figures. Yep. On the other hand . . .” He forced himself to pay attention, vaguely aware of rain pounding on the forest. He watched the cops.
The tallest cop looked kind of stoned, or his mind was somewhere else. He got in the unmarked car. He just sat there, maybe listening to cop radio, or maybe just cussing and wishing he could bust somebody.
As Chantrell faded into the forest, the cop started the car, turned it around, and headed back in the direction of Beer and Bait.
Petey Plays Cupid
Those happy folk who have never owned a bar may feel surprised to learn that reliable and honest bartenders are harder to find than a cat’s bellybutton. Reliable bartenders are one of the world’s diminishing resources, a valuable commodity, and Bertha would hire one in an instant if she could afford it. As it is, Bertha opens early, stays late, and exhibits the Norwegian’s ability to work herself to death. Bertha needs a man to help, and no one on the Canal would deny that, especially Bertha.
Most mornings at Beer and Bait remain quiet. The joint opens at eleven. This early in the day the parking lot usually holds a couple of cars or pickups, guys taking a break for coffee, or sport fisherman after frozen herring. On most mornings Bertha has plenty of time to sweep floors, brush down pool tables, and restock coolers. On some mornings, though, routine shatters; a water heater busts, or half of the house cues need new tips, or a cop drags in out of the rain.
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When Petey pulled onto the waterlogged parking lot at Beer and Bait, a cold chill grabbed the back of his neck, while hot fury entered his heart. The cop was back. The cop that checked out Bertha, and who Petey knew was going to run a scam on Bertha, was, right now, inside making all kind of important noises. Petey could feel it happening.
He sat in his old Plymouth and looked over the parking lot. An unmarked cop car sat beside a red wrecker, all lights and hook, but towing a flat bed trailer. The kid who hauled wrecks was also inside. If the kid showed up it meant a car had dunked. By now, maybe two or three had dunked.
A deep sigh came from the back seat. Jubal Jim lay snugged up, his nose propped on an armrest. His wet fur placed a comforting but doggy smell in the steamy car. As rain pounded on puddles in the parking lot, and danced on the hood of the Plymouth, Petey felt grateful for the tow truck kid. The kid had a sense of humor. He would help keep the cop humble.
Sitting beside the cop car and the wrecker, two local cars showed a guy who owned a grocery, and a guy who sold insurance were inside tanking up on coffee. Petey cussed, and tried to decide whether to go in, or turn around and go home. He told himself he needed a cop like he needed his head drilled for more nostrils.
Then he told himself he’d better go in. Bertha was smart, but Bertha did not have much experience with cops. In Petey’s world experience counted. A slick cop could run the best hustle in the world if that cop wanted to talk you out of something. A slick cop would tell you somebody else’s life story, pretending the story was his own. He’d seem like such a good guy that innocent people confessed to stuff so they could also sound like good guys.
Still, Petey sat. Rain turned the Canal into a surface every bit as pebbled as sharkskin, and gray light lay over the water so close it was hard to tell where air ended and water began. He told himself that, if he went in there with hatred in his heart and fury in his gut, something real, real wrong would happen. He sat listening to rain, to Jubal Jim’s light snoring, and the sound of a truck engine somewhere behind him. Petey reached for the calmness of the hustler, the patience a guy needs to drop a half dozen games while waiting for the right opening.
A knock sounded on the window of the passenger side, the door opened, and Sugar Bear edged into the car. Sugar Bear’s hair hung matted and straight. He wore ratty old rain gear, and he dripped.
“Feel free,” Petey said. “The seat covers are plastic.”
“Makes a guy feel better.” Sugar Bear’s voice sounded hoarse as the flu. He looked at the unmarked car. “I mean the rain, not mister cop.” Then he sort of giggled as Jubal Jim sat up, looked around, and licked Sugar Bear behind the ear.
“If I was you,” Petey told him, “I’d bail out of here and take a vacation. If you need a beer get one at China Bay. Even with all that hair you got a guilty look.”
“This dog ain’t made for serious conversation.” Sugar Bear reached back over his shoulde
r to rub Jubal Jim’s ears. “I’m feeling scary. That guy’s car washed ashore.”
“For hellssake . . .” Petey drummed his fingers against the steering wheel. “Lay off,” he said to Jubal Jim, but said it quiet. Jubal Jim stretched, yawned, lay down and once more began to snooze. Rain pounded puddles. “When did this happen?”
“Last night. Late.”
“And you did what?” Petey sounded like he spoke to someone hopelessly retarded. “That’s a different kind of cop in there.”
“Nothing to do,” Sugar Bear told him, and said it sad. “The body ain’t in the trunk. Trunk’s sprung open. Car is mangled like those others.”
“At least,” Petey said in disgust, “it’s raining.”
“That’s supposed to mean something?”
“You’ve seen what things look like after a couple of months in the water. That guy is mush, if crabs and fish have even left mush. Maybe cops can connect him to the car, but not to you.”
“I dunno,” Sugar Bear said. “I can’t quite get wrapped around the idea of getting away with it. If I turn myself in and explain what happened . . .”
“You ain’t never been in jail,” Petey told him. “Did you ever go to jail you’d sing different.”
“Have you ever?”
“Assault,” Petey told him. “I bopped a guy with a pool cue. About to do it again.” He grinned. “Get out of here. Take Annie on a trip. Barring that, go to Olympia and get your ashes hauled. They got nice hookers when the legislature sits.” Petey figured he gave good advice, and gave it easily. For some things, like giving advice, experience can be a hindrance.
“I’m trying to get straight on this,” Sugar Bear said. “What I did is wrong.”
“If you say so.”
