by Jim Fusilli
A loud coughing caused all three of them to turn around. Now the bagpipes were playing another tune Duncan instantly recognized: “Heroes of Vittoria.” Crazy how the mournful tones, squeaks, and howls raised up so many buried memories.
Duncan walked over to the bed. “Dad?”
His father coughed again, opened his eyes, and with a voice stronger than he had expected, called out, “Duncan? That you?”
Duncan’s eyes filled up as he stroked the hot forehead. “Yes, it’s me.”
He coughed again. “Oh, so it’s you . . . you made it . . .”
“Yes, I did,” Duncan said, stroking his forehead again.
“William!” he called out, looking past Duncan. “Turn up that damn music . . . I can’t hear it well enough.”
“Sure, Dad,” he said, walking out of the room.
“And remember . . . don’t you dare play that fucking tune!”
“I won’t, Dad.”
William left and Duncan said, “How are you feeling, Da?”
He took a rattling breath and turned his head. “Ah, so it’s the young’un, home from the hunt, home from the hills.”
“Whatever you say, Dad.”
His father said, “Water, boy.”
Duncan picked up the water bottle on the nightstand up and let the flexible straw slide into his father’s mouth. Dad’s cheeks collapsed as he sucked some water in, and then he drew his head back, let out a contented sigh.
“That was good. That was very good. But don’t think . . . don’t think that’ll change anything. Alvin!”
The lawyer stood up. “Right here, Uncle Colin. Right here.”
“You got those papers ready?”
“I do.”
“Good. Sit yer ass down until I need you again.”
“Whatever you say, Uncle Colin.”
“Of course you will . . . ’cause you overcharge me every hour, you damn shyster.” His father crooked a finger to him and Duncan leaned over, close enough to smell the dying man’s sour breath. He whispered, “I’m still of sound mind and body . . . and before I go . . . I’m gonna make changes to my will . . . to reward my most truest friends, to punish my most bitter enemies. . . . but Duncan?”
“Yes, Dad?”
“Nothing changes. Nothing changes for you . . . because what counts goes to William . . . he’s a man’s man, a true Campbell . . . one that didn’t run away, one that didn’t cheat me, one that didn’t take up with a darkie . . .”
Colin Campbell coughed and coughed and settled his head back on the pillow, closed his eyes.
OUTSIDE THE BEDROOM HE WALKED away blankly, saw a shape coming up the stairs.
Rosalie.
She smiled and that shook him out of his funk, and she said, “Your aunts . . . cousins . . . they’re a handful.”
“I’m sure.”
Rosalie got up to the top of the stairs, gave him a kiss, just as the volume to the bagpipe music got louder. Good old William, always following Dad’s orders, always doing what the old man wanted.
He tasted whiskey on her lips and said, “For real?”
She giggled. “I couldn’t help it. They forced it on me.”
He kissed her again. “Forced . . . right . . .”
Rosalie looked to the left and right, and said, “Your room?”
He pointed to the correct door, and she took his hand, said, “Come on, show me.”
“Why?”
She pulled him down the hallway, a teasing smile on her face. “Didn’t you ever dream of bringing a sexy girl to your room?”
“Sure,” he said. “Do you have anybody in mind?”
The whiskey looked like it had put her in a good mood, for she just laughed and stuck her tongue out at him as she opened the door.
Inside it was small. So damn small.
Two single beds, on either side of the room, bureau, closed closet, and a window overlooking the tiny backyard. Odds and ends piled up in one corner, and Rosalie came in and said, “Mother of . . . you stayed here with your brother?”
“I did.”
“Lots of fun?”
“Never,” he said.
“He’s . . . violent.”
“True, but he’s more than that.”
“How?”
“William . . . he had to do more than just win his battles. He had to humiliate. Make the point. Leave the other person not only defeated, but humbled. That could leave a lot of . . . resentment out there. That can be a problem in a small town like Dundee. And the other towns in the area.”
He felt out of place and restricted in the room, and turned to leave when Rosalie said, “Hold on. What’s this?”
In the corner by another bureau, with a collection of lacrosse sticks, baseball bats, and hockey sticks, Rosalie picked up a music case. She took it over to one of the carefully made beds and opened it up. He couldn’t believe that it was still there. Rosalie tugged out a collection of long wooden rods and a leather bag wrapped with a tartan cover.
“Bagpipes?” she asked.
“That’s right.”
“Yours?”
“Yeah.”
She held them up and said, “It’s confusing . . . what are all these pieces?”
Duncan took the bagpipes, held them, feeling the familiar weight and touch. “Bagpipes,” he said. He slipped the bag under his right arm, let the three drones—one bass and two tenor—slide on top of his right shoulder. He let the mouthpiece slide into his mouth, inflated the bag and held the chanter with the nine holes: eight in front, one upper one at the rear.
“Here you go,” he said, pointing out the different parts of the bagpipe. “You inflate the bag through the mouthpiece and squeeze it with your right arm, and then re-inflate it, always making sure air is passing through. The air goes here”—he slapped the three drones—”and emits a steady tone. The air also comes through the chanter, and you play these nine holes with your fingers to make the tune.”
“Looks damn complicated.”
“It is.”
“How long does it take to learn how to play?”
He let the bag deflate and put it back into the bag. “About a year to get the basics. More years than that to get really good at it.”
“Hey,” she said, “don’t put them away. I want to hear you play them.”
Duncan shook his head. “Sorry. It’s been too long. I’ve forgotten how to play them . . . and anyway, it’s been too long.”
Rosalie stared at him with those deep brown eyes and said, “What’s the story with the bagpipes, really? It’s playing throughout the house, it obviously means something to your father and brother. What’s the deal?”
He said, “History, mostly. Stories of valor, stories of revenge. Lots of battle songs. They’re also called warpipes and for some years, after the British took control of Scotland, they were banned as weapons of war.”
Rosalie reached over, squeezed his hand. “It’s like the Narcocorridos in Mexico, don’t you think?”
He squeezed her hand back. “I’m sorry, I don’t understand.”
“’Course you do, babe. You just don’t listen to me.” She smiled and said, “The Narcocorridos are bands or rap groups in some parts of Mexico that honor the cartels. They sing about their crimes, their achievements, their getaways from the law. Same kinds of tunes.”
Duncan lifted her hand to his lips. “Perhaps. Though I have a hard time comparing the Sinaloa Cartel to the 42nd Highlanders.”
She gently rubbed her fingers against his lips. “Different times, different places, but same culture . . . music that’s used to honor bloody events.”
The music coming from the speakers suddenly stopped. Duncan could hear voices from downstairs.
It was time.
He gently grasped Rosalie’s elbow, started propelling her out of his old bedroom. “Go downstairs. In fact, go for a walk . . . go away from here.”
Confused, she asked, “Why?”
“Because it’s going to get real nasty, r
eal quick.”
“Then I stay with you.”
No time to argue with his beautiful, hot-blooded wife. “All right. Then stay downstairs, with the women. Make sure you’re in the middle with them, okay?”
Outside of his old bedroom, he pointed Rosalie downstairs, just as William was pounding upstairs, face flushed, looking up.
Oh yes, it was time.
Duncan headed into his father’s bedroom.
INSIDE THE ROOM WERE HIS dying dad and Alvin. The male health aide, wearing light-blue cloth trousers and smock, checking Dad’s pulse. Duncan recognized the young man as Hamish MacRae, another distant cousin.
William barreled his way in and Dad lifted his head from the pillow. “William! Boy! I told you that I wanted to hear that music, damn it!”
His older brother pushed Hamish aside, took his father’s hand in both of his. “It’s all right, Da. It’s all right. I set it all up for you . . . just you wait.”
“What? What?”
William said, “Duncan! Make yourself useful, open up that window so Dad can hear.”
Duncan did as he was told, went to the side of the room, unlocked the top and pushed open the window. A scent of salt air swept into the room, driving out the smell of a dying man. Duncan took a deep breath, hoping the familiar smell would calm him down.
His father said, “Why is it so quiet? Where’s my music, damn it?”
William checked his watch. “Hold on . . . hold on . . . I told you, I took care of it. Honest. Be patient, Dad, be patient.”
Duncan stood in a corner of the bedroom, and his father started to snap back at his older son, when the sound came in from the outside.
Bagpipes.
Someone was in the small rear yard, playing the bagpipes for real.
“See?” William asked with triumph. “See what I did for you, Dad?”
Duncan didn’t recognize the tune but he peered out, saw a classmate of his from years back, expertly playing the war pipes. Josh O’Keefe, and despite his Irish background, he was known as one of the best pipers in Dundee, and for good reason. He played with such depth and richness it sounded like there was a whole band out there, and not one man. The tune he was playing filled up the backyard and the room, and Josh was dressed in a simple green kilt and white shirt, his hair and beard as white as ocean foam.
Then the tune died away, and he swept into another one, and Duncan grimaced at hearing the slow music.
The effect on Dad was terrible. He shouted and managed to sit up, spittle on his lips, and he yelled, “William! William! What the hell is this? Some fucking joke? What are you doing?”
William leaped to the near window, struggled with the lock, pushed it open, fumbled with the screen, stuck his head out and bellowed, “O’Keefe! Cut that out! You asshole! Cut that out.”
But O’Keefe kept on playing and playing, and William’s screams were practically drowned out by the loud and piercing sounds. Duncan stood still, as did Alvin and Hamish, the medical aide, and the music went on and on, without stopping, and William finally went away from the window, pounded through the bedroom door, clomped downstairs and Duncan went to the window, caught O’Keefe’s eye.
The piper turned around and moved briskly out of the yard, up the street, and the music stopped and the piper was done.
But Duncan’s father wasn’t finished.
“Alvin!” his weak voice yelled out. “Bring . . . bring that damn paperwork over right now . . . and I mean it! Right now!”
And the lawyer, his face as pale as the ceiling plaster, moved over to Colin, and Duncan watched in silence as his dying father scratched out portions of his will, and went to work with a vengeance.
LATER DUNCAN SAT IN THE empty parlor with his wife Rosalie. An hour earlier two workers from the Gleason Funeral Home came to take away Colin’s body, and along with the not-so-blessed remains went William, the bikers, and lastly, Alvin and Hamish, having completed their duties. Alvin had written a new codicil to the will, and Hamish—along with Duncan—had witnessed the same.
He and Rosalie were sipping Scotch with ice cubes and a bit of water, and Rosalie said, “That tune . . . that tune is what set your father off?”
“Yep.”
“‘Amazing Grace’?”
“The same.”
“But . . . why?”
“Do you know its history?”
She sipped from the glass. “Duncan, please, no . . . I don’t.”
“Quick story,” he said. “Written in the 1700s by a clergyman who used to be a slave trader. The song is about redemption, about all of man’s sins being cleansed by God if you were to confess. My father . . . he was a hard man, Rosalie. He was never going to confess anything, and he hated that tune. Hated it with all of his heart and soul.”
“But that piper played it.”
“That he did.”
“But . . . the women I was in the kitchen with, they said William had paid the piper to play underneath your dad’s bedroom window. How in God’s name did he end up playing ‘Amazing Grace’?”
William shrugged. “Things happen.”
They both sat with their drinks in silence, and Rosalie said, “How did you arrange it? Did it cost anything?”
“Didn’t cost a penny,” Duncan said. “And to arrange it . . . William made many enemies over the years, enemies he had forgotten about. But they never forgot. And many welcomed a chance to get back at him.”
She leaned into him. “All right, so you’re the head of the family . . . head of the clan. What next?”
Duncan said, “You still like the view? And the scent of the ocean?”
“I love it.”
“Up to moving here and giving it a try?”
“Your brother?”
Duncan said, “It’s official. I’m head of the family. The rest of the family will respect it. If William doesn’t . . . it won’t be pretty.”
Rosalie sipped again and said, “Okay, I’m up for it. On one condition.”
“Name it.”
“No bagpipe music,” she said. “There’s too much . . . hate, battles, revenge. Think you can live with that?”
He clinked his glass against hers. “Always.”
UNBALANCED
BY CRAIG JOHNSON
THE ONLY PART OF HER clothing that was showing were the black combat boots cuffed with a pair of mismatched green socks. She was waiting on the bench outside the Conoco station in Garryowen, Montana. When I first saw her; it was close to eleven at night and if you’d tapped the frozen Mail Pouch thermometer above her head it would’ve told you that it was twelve degrees below zero.
I was making the airport run to pick up my daughter, Cady, who had missed her connection from Philadelphia in Denver and was now scheduled to come in just before midnight. The Greatest Legal Mind of Our Time was extraordinarily upset but had calmed down when I’d told her we’d stay in Billings that night and do some Christmas shopping the next day before heading back home. I hadn’t told her we were staying at the Dude Rancher Lodge, one of my favorites because of the kitschy, old brick courtyard and fifties coffee shop. Cady hated it.
In my rush to head north, I hadn’t gassed up in Wyoming and was just hoping that the Conoco had after-hour credit-card pumps. They did, and it was as I was putting gas into my truck with the motor running that I noticed her stand up, a blanket trailing out from her shoulders through the blowing snow to where I stood.
She paused at the other side of the bed and then raised her head to look at the stars on the doors of my truck and me, the eyes tick-tocking either from imbalance or self-medication. She studied my hat, neatly pressed shirt and the shiny brass nametag and other trappings of authority just visible under my sheepskin coat.
I BUTTONED MY JACKET THE rest of the way up and looked at her, expecting Crow, maybe Northern Cheyenne, but from the limited view the condensation of her breath and the cowl-like hood provided, I could see that her skin was pale and her hair dark but not black; a wide face and full lips
that snared and released between the nervous teeth. “Hey.” She cleared her throat and shifted something in her hands, still keeping the majority of her body wrapped. “I thought you were supposed to shut the engine off before you do that.” She glanced at the writing on the side of my truck and the shotgun locked to the front hump, something I was sure she’d already noticed. “Where’s Absaroka County?”
I clicked the small keeper on the pump handle and pulled my glove back on, resting my hand on the top of the bed as the tank filled. “Wyoming; Bighorn Mountains.”
“Oh.” She nodded but didn’t say anything more.
About five nine, she was tall and her eyes moved rapidly taking in the vehicle and then me; she had the look of someone whose only interaction with the police was of being rousted; feigned indifference with just a touch of defiance—and maybe just a little crazy. “Cold, huh?”
I adjusted my hat to keep the blowing snow out of my eyes. “Yep.”
She was quiet again, and I was beginning to wonder how long it was going to take, and how much nerve it must’ve taken to approach my truck; I must’ve been the only vehicle that had stopped in hours. I waited. The two-way radio blared something. The handle clicked off, and I pulled the nozzle, returning it to the plastic cradle. I hit the button to request a receipt, because I didn’t trust gas pumps any more than I trusted those robot amputees over in Deadwood.
Without volition, I found words in my mouth the way I always did in the presence of women. “I’ve got a heater in this truck.”
She snorted a quick laugh. “I figured.”
I stood there for a moment more and then started around the front so as to not pass her on the way to the driver’s side—now she was going to have to ask.
As I pulled the door handle, she started to reach out a hand but then let it drop. I paused for a second more and then slid in and shut the door behind me, clicking on my seatbelt and pulling the three-quarter ton down into gear.
She backed away and then turned and retreated to the bench as I wheeled around the pumps. I stopped at the road, sat there for a moment, and then shook my head at myself, turned around and circled in front of her. She looked up again as I rolled the window down on the passenger side door. “You want a ride?”
