by Pete Beatty
* * *
October encourages a bird to abscond from Ohio in favor of warmer air. By that month’s end, most every winged thing obliges, excepting for chickens and finches and the idiot geese that emigrate from Canada in great caravans. One gang of them chose the Stiles homeplace for their winter quarters. Every morning these surly invaders strutted around the yard, waiting to seize the breakfast corn from the chickens. Cloe would hiss at them and chase them off, and the dance would resume the next day.
There were one especially bold gander among the visitors. At first he only skronked at Cloe like he were demanding satisfaction. Then he took to chasing her. He did not go after the corn or bother the chickens any – he were fixed on Cloe and could only be discouraged with a broom. With each successive day the gander grew bolder – stomping on his blueback legs right at her. Cloe would laugh at him, and even his skronk had something comic to it. The entire homeplace came to appreciate his awful manners. We even invited Mrs Tab to watch his bravado. She did not smile but I swear I seen one corner of her mouth twitch.
One day the goose did not charge Cloe at all, but simply walked in a wide circle around her into the kitchen. Cloe, myself, the chickens, and even the other geese watched him disappear into the doorway.
A moment after Mrs Tab made her own skronk.
Cloe the bird
Yes mother
What does he want?
I could not say
Fetch me the hatchet
* * *
At the very moment Mrs Tab thunked the roasted gander down on the table – minus the impertinent brain – the grinning face of Mr Tom Tod appeared at the back door.
Ah a picture of surpassing domestic bliss His hat lifted two feet over his greased hair. My greetings to you all
Mr Tod, were all Mr Job said by reply. He and Mrs Tab disapproved of Tom for a number of reasons by now.
Tom were wearing his heaviest manners. You could near to smell his scheming.
Forgive me mother I see you are about to dine I did not think of the hour I will return tomorrow It is only a matter of town business to discuss with Mr Stiles What an ambrosial scent is your cooking My own dinner will seem poorer for having had the pleasure of sniffing Evening to you
Mr Job twisted his mouth a bit. He did not like to be rude – Tom had counted on that.
Would you join us Mr Tod?
* * *
The gander gave one final impertinence – his flesh ate like wet rope. This did not keep Tom from eating up two platesful to flatter Mrs Tab. Even as he fought to swallow the bites, he spread oily compliments around the room and fixed his eyes at Cloe. Big were still off on a spree, which were just as well. Had he seen how Tom stared, a broil were likely.
After a polite agony, Mr Job moved to see Tom off.
Mr Tod we will sit by the fire and you will tell me your business
The men gone off to jaw, and Mrs Tab and the children chased up chores, and Cloe grabbed me.
Meed give us a smoke
* * *
Walking through the barnyard, I saw Tom’s Andy Jackson tied up between Asa and Agnes. I could tell Asa were bit with jealousy.
Behind the barn Cloe and I blew up a great cloud of smoke, colored blue by the stuffed-full moon. I hoped the moon’s dinner were better than ours.
I cannot abide Mr Tod Cloe announced from her side of the cloud.
His manners are awfully rich I allowed.
His eyes are always stuck to me He makes me want to wash From the very first I seen him at the canal I liked to be shut of him
Puffs of smoke.
Cloe You never said where you run off to last time and how you came to return on the packet
Deliberative puffing.
I never went anywhere
A quiet came over to my end of the cloud. How do you tell a person their memory is busted?
You were gone from here for all of August and a spell more
I were not
I seen you come off the packet with Tom I were naked and you gave me your shawl How could I misremember that?
I were not on the packet I were only at the landing and Tom Tod only grabbed on to my skirts like I stepped into a mudhole I were here the whole time
I did not understand what Cloe meant. She had been gone – I knew it from reading her letter by mistake – from Big’s woes and her empty bed.
I got my mouth opened up to talk but my tongue did not find hold of an idea. Cloe let me dangle for a moment before explaining how she were only hiding I stole one of Mrs Tab’s great bonnets as a disguise And gone to Cleveland And took up as a helpmeet there
My mouth were stuck open again. Cloe known what I meant to ask, which were Why?
I only wanted to be myself
But you were someone else
Only my Cloe and not your Cloe
* * *
Just as the sound your Cloe touched my ears, shoes clomped across the yard, headed for us. Cloe rushed to drop her pipe and arranged her skirts over it. For all her courage, she feared to be caught smoking.
Mr Job come around the corner – first his hunched head, then the rest of his matchstick self. Thought I might find you two here
Yes father We are strolling to aid digestion while Medium has his pipe
Come inside once you are digested
Even with the moon at Mr Job’s back I could see a half smile as he turned to go.
And Cloe?
Yes father?
Your skirts are on fire
Oh f___
Mr Job paused. It were the same cuss little Jonah preferred.
* * *
Back inside there were several dispatches from Mr Job’s talk with Tom Tod. One – the two mayors had settled on the first of January as the wedding day for Cleveland and Ohio. Two – Tom Tod would put on a great husking bee and frolic on the first of December to celebrate the impending union. Third – Tom Tod had asked Mr Job if he might have Cloe’s hand in marriage.
Cloe – still smelling of burnt skirts – had a sharp laugh at the last bulletin. Rather give him a foot to his marital bits
Manners Cloe scolded Mrs Tab with half her heart.
I counseled Mr Tod he courted you at his own risk said Mr Job. You can put your hands and feet where you like but Putting Mr Tod aside it is time I said it you ought to marry someone
You ought to marry Big Mrs Tab poked into the talk.
I ought to make my own choice Cloe poked right back.
A familiar lyceum took up – mother and father reminding Cloe that she would have to take a husband one day – that she could not stay at home forever – that Big had a good heart and a broad back – that she might save Big from himself.
Cloe reminded them that she loved Big as a brother only.
For my part I said nothing. Only felt a sickness wash about my guts. I were not sure if it were the notion of Cloe marrying Big – or Cloe marrying anyone – or the unruly gooseflesh from dinner.
* * *
After an hour of Mr Job’s reading from the book of Isaiah, my insides still felt sour and I took myself to bed – where I found Big returned from his days-long spree. He were sat at the attic window, whittling by moonlight, smelling of drink, wearing half a beard.
Hulloa brother
Hidy
I do not know if it were my stomach or the full moon or just my natural sin but at that very moment I tasted a bitterness in my blood. In that moment I hated my brother for the first time. The hate did not hold – it only had puppy’s teeth. But I had felt it and could not forget it.
What were the scripture tonight? Big asked as he scraped at wood.
The puppy teeth again. Mr Tom Tod has proposed to Cloe
Big’s whittling stopped.
I did not tell him that Cloe had snorted at the idea of wedding Tom. I did not te
ll Big that Mr Job and Mrs Tab wanted Cloe to marry him. I only crawled under my blankets and left him to fret.
Before dawn put a rosy finger on Ohio I were bit again – not the puppy’s teeth but a shoe into my ribs and a foul-smelling whisper of
S___head wake up
I peeled an eye and saw only shadow. But I knew who were inside the dark. Dog hung over me like bad luck – his breath were better than cold water for waking a body.
Dog you should not be here The homeplace will wake soon and Mr Job will find you
Old Dog is slicker than owl s___ Job Stiles will never know I were here
You are supposed to be drowned you must go
I got restless being drowned and I heard that the cities are to wed in January
Drowned folks have keen ears You must leave
We will bust up the wedding You will help me
No
Should I ask Job Stiles to volunteer you instead? Tell him that you proved so useful at the other bombings?
My brain were hollowed out. Only the sound of Big’s snoring. Brrrghhg
Do you hear me Mr Medium Son? Or should I ask Job Stiles?
Ask me what?
In the faint light I saw Mr Job stood at the top of the ladder – one arm full of papers.
* * *
Love and tenderness come along slow like a good stew. But you can make a meal of unhappiness quick as you bite from an apple.
Mr Job were confused by the voices in the dark – at what sounded like a conversation.
Who are you talking to Meed?
I did not know exactly who I was talking to.
I helped Dog blow up the bridge I am snakes in the manger
A bite of apple for everyone.
* * *
Dog vanished to smoke before Mr Job could reply – which were some time coming. The shroud of silence come on terribly. I imagined I could even see the shroud over him, fluttering some in the attic draft.
From inside that burying sheet something flown down toward me.
BIG SON’S ALMANAC 1838. – new ink still damp.
I thought you would like to see it Mr Job said.
Let me explain
You will read it elsewhere
Mr Job let me—
You will read it elsewhere and sleep elsewhere and work elsewhere
Father—
Get out of my barn
Before Hiram Spurgeon run off, he worked as a farrier, minding the feet of horses. He spent all day tacking on traveling shoes but never went anywhere. Perhaps the tacalatacalatacala of all those journeys haunted his brains.
Perhaps there is no haunting to it at all, and Hiram only wanted a son. By keeping horses in shoes Hiram kept a wife and a tidy home and a growing flock. Seven daughters, each pretty as a May daisy. Three boys, all taken back by the Lord before a year.
On the day his eleventh child were born – another girl – Hiram Spurgeon suffered some type of rupture. No one can say if he ever learned the sex of the last child. Only that when his eldest daughter come to fetch him home, the fires in his shop were still warm – his tools laid out – his shirt and britches folded up on his anvil. Hiram himself were entirely gone, having only taken his own shoes with him.
You would have to find naked Hiram Spurgeon to ask him the true meaning. But generally I hold his tale to signify how family is at once too much and not enough. In honor of Hiram, we made a Webster’s word of his name. To SPURGEON were to quit your kin.
You can be an orphan from more than parents. You can be an orphan from friends – from coffin-making – from Mrs Tab’s corncakes – from the company of Asa – from the rustle of Cloe’s skirts as she gone about hard work – from seven little Stileses – from an untidy brother.
In truth I never felt an orphan from my blood mother and father. I were too young to know what I lost. I remembered them only as clouds. There were no such cloud hiding the Stileses. My exile hurt much worse than puppy’s teeth. It felt more like putting my face on a grinding wheel.
* * *
I made Dog’s empty grocery my Babylon. There was whiskey enough to sell for months, so I opened the doors and took custom in Dog’s stead. His demise had not spoiled the thirst of the grocery idlers, and I were glad to have Barse and YL and the other whiskeyheads and the cats for company. I even had a touch of pride at seeing how many read the almanac I had made.
Dog were never seen when custom were present. But at night he come out and murmured at me with a stove’s heat. He always and only talked of his final exploding – the grand ghastly gesture – at times I wondered if he had been a nightmare devil all along and I had never marked it. In truth I felt half a haint myself.
* * *
Hainting to the side, I proved out as a whiskey grocer. The idlers and loafers brought in a steady income. The cats accustomed to me as their boss. Before November were out I felt landlord enough to change the sign over the porch to M SON GROCER. I hoped that Big or Cloe would call, so I might show them how I done – and so I might hear of the homeplace. I knew from talk that Big were gone to shambles, and I knew from manners that a woman would never set foot in a place like Dog’s unless they was hunting a wayward husband. So I did not expect brother or sister to darken the grocery door. I settled for keeping up with them by rumors.
* * *
I heard Philo and Ozias before I seen them – three leather shoes and one wooden leg on the porch.
I do not say I care for Tom Tod Ozias screeched as they come in the door. Only that I back him
Backing is the same as caring
You have got all five of your toes in your ears, Fish I mean I would bet Tom over Big That does not mean I like him only he is more likely
You would bet that narrow dandy versus the man who rastled an entire lake?
A woman’s heart is not a lake Fish.
I should put you in a lake Basket.
Mr Phi’s manners suggested he were overdue for refreshment.
Hidy Meed A jug
* * *
People cannot help themselves but bust in two. God himself grew bored of Adam and made an Eve for entertainment. People will rupture over anything at all just to have a contest – which horse is fastest – Vanburen versus Harrison. The great hot-air debate that November were Big versus Tom for the prize stakes of Cloe’s hand. It did not matter that most folks hardly knew Cloe past a hidy and a hat lifted. It did not matter that she despised the very idea of marrying. Facts will not stop folks from wagering and busting-up. An opinion prevailed that Cloe would relent – submit to marriage – from weariness if nothing else.
* * *
Neighbor Dennes came into the grocery and reported that Mr Tod is practically an eighth Stiles Job cannot keep him away I swear I seen the dandy leap from bushes to court Cloe
Ozias took Tom’s persistence for prowess. You see the dandy has iron underneath He cannot be stayed And where is Big Son? Pissheaded in a ditch
Black-eyed Eli Frewly were accorded a measure of special insight regarding Big on account of having been pummeled by him more than any other man. Eli held that Big keeps an awful envy under that halo of hair There have been other suitors And he has discouraged them
I recalled then how Eli had once brung Cloe a basket of vegetables and awoke on the roof of a church the next day, with an empty basket and a sore skull. Big had been careful that Cloe never heard.
Alvo Farley observed Tom Tod has got the mayor’s ears in his pockets
Philo asked What has a mayor’s ears got to do with lovers, you lump? Cloe despises Tom She will wed Big She is only stubborn
Alvo were winding up to cuss Phi when Birt the soiled preacher put in with talk too vile to write down. His sentiments hung like burnt hair before Mr Dennes spoke again.
I half expect Mr Tod waits in the privy house for Cloe Every time he comes he has got gifts for th
e entire house Bonnets Knives Dolls Licorices He even brung a bit of maple candy for old Asa
My heart ached at that last one. Tom were too fresh – miles past.
Cheerful Dr Strickland told that Tom has had the kreosote at least three times since September I do not mind the custom but I do not know if such vanity is entirely healthy
Mention of the infernal kreosote reminded me of Dog. I swore I heard him stir in his hiding place below.
The idlers turned to a general consideration of how Tom come by his circumstances – how he kept his pockets so full.
Round merchant Panderson said with pleasure WE CANNOT KEEP THE YOUNG MAN AWAY YOU ARE ALL INVITED TO SEE THE MERCHANDISE THAT MR TOM TOD PREFERS He lifted the jug and without delay crickety Handerson took up TENERIFFE WINES PATENT MEDICINE FEBRIFUGES BUTTER CRANBERRIES BROOMS OF FIRST QUALITY PAPER HANGINGS—
Handerson cricketed this way for some time. I wandered into my imagination – saw the homeplace sieged by Tom – Mrs Tab boiling mad, stabbing at her sewing – Mr Job reading his Bible harder and harder as if it would chase out the trouble – Cloe refusing to acknowledge Tom at all – the children greedy for gifts – Asa at the kitchen door for more maple candy.
I asked whether Tom Tod were courting Cloe or courting the esteem of others, if Cloe was only a looking glass for courting his own self. His vanity went past pride and come close to a worship. There were not a believer in Ohio city’s five churches with a stronger faith in God than Tom Tod’s faith in Tom Tod. But at least he had faith.
Handerson were still murmuring his inventory when Mr Dennes said I do fear she might kill the suitor sooner than answer him From his way of talking I suspected Dennes would not hurry to find the sheriff in such event.
