Cuyahoga

by Pete Beatty

  You might ask her yourself  said Phi with his eyes pointed to the door. She is hitching up Asa at the porch

  * * *

  My mind forgot the ruptures and rumors the moment I heard—

  Meed  half hollered.  Would you care to step outside of your  location?

  I near to fell from my stool in haste. Cloe and Asa and all seven little Stileses!

  Cloe:

  The children:

  Meed:

  Asa:

  Brother!

  Meeeeeeeed – seven times over

  Cloe – Job Jr – John – Jonah – Joe – Josiah – Jom – Joy

  A snort

  A pat of the arm and a kind look

  Jom slid from Asa’s back into mud, to his delight

  Head pats and chin chucks

  A shimmy

  Cloe!

  It is good to see you  You are missed

  It is a balm to see you all and the old oaf  I went for vigorous scratches behind Asa’s ear.

  My  how you stink of tobacco and  men

  Begpardon  I do not know if she ever marked any odors of mine before and I felt a pride at catching her attention so.

  I am sore at you besides your stink Meed

  I had wondered what Mr Job had told her.

  Father will not say why you left  Only that you sinned awful  And lied on it  And were not fit to share a barn with livestock lest they take sick with your poor character

  He does not lie  I am sorry over it

  I did lie. At that moment, I did not feel sorry over my banishment. Besides, there were creatures in that barn with far worse character than mine – chickens do not have any character at all, for instance. But I had sinned. I would go that far with Mr Job.

  Cloe only patted one hand to her guts and the other atop it – like some business had been swallowed and would not be talked of again. She leaned forward to say Now let us have a smoke

  You would come inside?

  I would not  You know better than to ask

  We will smoke here in front of the children?

  We will not

  To the alleyway then?

  Yes

  What about the children?

  Asa can mind them

  * * *

  The alley beside the grocery were no Shangri-la but I did not mind. As I smoked up a cloud I realized I did not know what to say to Cloe. I thunk of the blockheads inside. They would be in knots to know what odds Cloe herself made on Big versus Tom.

  I hear Tom Tod has made a pest of himself

  Cloe puffed.  I should like to murder that man  I do think it is the only way to make him stop talking

  Have you declined him?

  I have declined his proposal a hundred ways but he does not listen

  Cloe chewed the insides of her cheeks, and I let talk of Tom blow away.

  * * *

  Asa did a fine job of minding the Stileses’ flock. He may not have realized he were minding them, but he had done it all the same. The little ones were climbing all over and under him, chasing each other, flinging mud. Uncle Asa only shook his head in disapproval of horseflies.

  Or perhaps he were in disapproval of the company. I saw that Tom’s Andy Jackson were hitched up down the rail. I knew a rotten love-apple were soon to fly through the air.

  Cloe were restoring the littler ones to Asa’s back when the love-apple landed at her feet.

  Miss Inches  let me help you

  It were Tom Tod, of course, dressed up in a suit the color of plums.

  Mr Tod  I should not like your help  You could feel the lye in her voice.

  I would be a heel not to offer it

  You are already a heel

  Tom raised his chin in mock affront. Cloe did not look at him – only gone back to sorting out the children with a fury. I found I were grabbing hold of a porch post.

  Miss Inches  To see you with the children  you are the very picture of motherhood  It is a sin to deprive the nation of—

  Mr Tod I do not require your company any

  Let me win your heart

  It is not a thing to be won

  Let me steal it

  It is not a thing to be stolen

  Let me—

  My heart is pledged elsewhere  To Big Son  Iwishyougoodday

  I swear Tom Tod’s pox scars scrambled around some on his face. The tidy notches of crystal fell to disorder. My own heart did some circus riding as Tom bowed and went back inside.

  Cloe grabbed me by my shirt. You will not tell your brother what I have said

  As Asa led the cart full of Stileses away, I thunk on what Cloe meant. You cannot keep a marriage a secret – certainly not from the person you mean to marry.

  * * *

  Cloe’s words had plucked Tom’s pride, at least for a moment. Back in the grocery he sheeped some as folks settled up bets on the courting. But a moment later he went right into gasconading like it were ointment.

  Boys I have been spurned by maids in Newyork Pennsylvania and Ohio and sure as the Lord made women fools I might be spurned in every state to Arkansas  He were back to himself. But this bachelor will always stand a jug for every fool here— A chorus of drowsy cheers. Let us drink to the marriage of towns!

  Not a moment after I closed the grocery up for the night, Dog swung open his cellar door, wrapped in a mile of blankets against the cold. The cats ran to greet their ancient friend with mayows. He did not speak a word but soaked up the stove-singed air. Only when he were good and warm did he spill out the cusses he had barned up.

  F_____g Tom Tod talking on union in my f_____g grocery

  Every November night Dog rose and gave such whippoorwill songs.

  In the beginning of TWO BRIDGES OR NONE, I figured Dog only wanted there to be no bridges at all. But his late outlook suggested NONE gone a great deal farther than bridges. Perhaps there should be no Cleveland at all. I wondered how long before he banished counties and states – banished Columbia – banished the whole world – only kept his stoves and felines.

  I did not know whether he would banish Meed as well. But our evenings were serene enough. I nailed up the shutters for privacy, and we made family sitting hours each night, lonelier than the homeplace but livelier too. We would drag coffins over to a stove and read from a greasy book of Shakespeare – comment on the human condition – sip refreshment. We passed most of November this way.

  * * *

  As a grocer, you learn the different ways folks hold their whiskey.

  Some folks swell up until they are tight for space and take to fussing. Some go silent. Some feel a particular hunger for food or company. Some folks only tiny their eyes and go stupid.

  Philo fashioned a bridle from whiskey. That were how he kept life from bucking him.

  Barse leapt into a drunk with gusto – it were always so far  so good with him.

  Mr Job, I remembered, frayed at the ends like a cut rope after too much drink. He did not cuss or tell scabby stories, but he would smile at talk that his sober self reviled.

  Whiskey would stretch my brother like a long shadow at dusk or dawn. All his gestures and sentiments grown to twenty feet tall from their usual ten.

  When I took drink, my brains burned like a wick.

  Dog never showed his whiskey too obvious, but his hide did soften a ways. For a wild murderer he were more companionable than you might credit, not at all deaf to other hearts. In our evening sittings he liked to poke at my melted brains and give interpretations thereof. He were as keen as a preacher at understanding folks.

  So I poured my worries out for him.

  That I were banished from the homeplace and my heart were sore over it.

  You would not have helped me sin if you were happy

  That Big were pinched between man and spirit and I did not know where he would find happiness.

  You do not know if you can be happy yoked to him


  He even saw in me sentiments I never said out loud.

  You are three times in love  And three times spurned

  I have courted no one

  You love your brother too much for wanting to be him  You love Cloe too much for wanting to have her  And you love yourself most of all  Because your brains is the one place you cannot swarthout from

  This had the reek of truth, though I did not like to say so.

  You do not believe that  You do not believe anything Dog

  I believe in plenty  I believe in myself and I believe in Ohio city

  But now you want to explode Ohio city

  A place has got no meaning apart from what folks do in it  And I would have my doings remembered like a bruise  Like how you made that almanac as a coffin for your brother

  He is not dead

  He is dead enough  We are come to a day of dollars and steam factories and not spirit piss

  And what day do you belong to Dog?

  They might get me dead but they will never get me buried

  I were about to lawyer with Dog that he were already buried – when a thumping came at the door.

  I were careful with the shutters and Dog always kept his voice quiet. I did not worry that this midnight caller would know I spoke to a dead man. I hollered that we are closed to custom but the thumping persisted and took a voice—

  Medium

  It were Mr Job. I could swear I heard refreshment in his voice, the sound of which put sentiments on me. I would see Mr Job. I would stuff Dog back into his tomb and—I turned to see that Dog had already vanished.

  * * *

  Hidy Mr Job

  I realized he were not refreshed at all but ill – his nose red and running – his body wrapped up in several coats and scarves besides.

  Hulloa Meed  I felt glad at the switch from Medium back to Meed.

  You are not well

  Only a fever

  You will come inside and warm up

  * * *

  Mr Job set down a knotted kerchief on the table next to one of the boss cats. The burly orange tom squinted at the bundle, suspicious.

  I made to fetch a jug but Mr Job made a gesture for me to sit.

  Meed  I cannot find your brother  I have not seen him since three weeks  Has he been about?

  I shook my head with a child’s obedience.

  I suspect he will turn up here sooner than the homeplace  He is heart sore over Cloe and knows I have a scolding for him

  I went over to nodding.

  You will give this to him if he turns up  He picked up the kerchief and dropped it down with a klunfk.  I know how curious you get  so I will spare you peeking  It is three hundred dollars silver

  I swear that tomcat’s eyes went wide. I know mine did.

  How did—

  The almanac

  I stared at the money harder, like it might grow a mouth and affirm Mr Job’s story.

  There is a comedy to it  Folks have never liked to pay your brother for his feats  And you know how scarce hard money is  But folks on both sides of the river  Folks passing west  Folks from the farms  took after those almanacs like sugar  The man from the ARGUS could hardly work his press fast enough

  With that Mr Job stood up. Mother Tab will be wanting me back home and resting

  You are leaving this here?  He had explained it already but—

  I should not trust you after your dishonesty  but I choose to anyway

  He left a last thought with the silver.

  Meed  when I knocked  you answered we Who is your partner?

  * * *

  Dog rose from the cellar wearing a mile of crooked grins. Most folks leave their money a jug at a time

  I suppose it is not Mr Job’s money to keep

  What will we do with it?

  It is not yours any Dog

  Is it yours then?

  * * *

  The rest of that family hour was quiet. Dog gone about tidying before climbing into his moldy bedclothes – he reposed hardly two feet from a stove. I would have feared another person’s burning up, but I do not know that flames could hurt Dog.

  My stove that night were cold silver, and I sat awful close too.

  * * *

  I am not an expert at drinking. I do not do it regular enough. I am a poor hand and I cannot find any peace in it. Drowned Dog cannot die by fire and burning worries cannot die by drowning. I dunked them in whiskey all the same.

  * * *

  Three hundred dollars is only thirty pieces with some centuries of banker’s interest. Am I clumsy to mention Judas Iscariot? This bit of money is not more from the devil than any other dollar. I do not expect any Gethsemane tonight. I only want to use Judas and his story for thinking on.

  Judas goes in to the high priests of the temple and says What will you swap for Christ? and they offer thirty pieces. Poor Judas does not haggle any – he does not hold out for more – even though he has got them by the toes. They do not seem to know how to get Christ any other way. No other disciples are keen to bargain. Poor business by Judas, done by heart instead of brain.

  Mark says that Judas hanged himself in shame, and his silver bought a public cemetery. But Acts tells that Judas bought up a prime lot and gone to farming, only his guts exploded and made him into manure. It is a confusion.

  I do not expect that Judas escaped damnation. Only I think that the scripture has barbered the story for fitting into pockets. I wonder on Judas and his hopes. What did he want to do with his silver? What did Judas live on? Did he have sons and daughters? Did a Mrs Judas comb out her hair and sing songs of an evening? Why did Judas go for sin except to teach us lessons? Who is he without us?

  * * *

  The money is at least half mine. There is no almanac without Big’s feats, but neither is there any Big without my almanac.

  Ohio is half mine.

  The future is half mine.

  Cloe is half mine.

  If I am owed so many halves, I ought to take all the money and not consider myself piggish.

  If you read your own wanting enough times, it will smear like news paper. You will not know what it ever meant.

  On the insides I am as tall as my brother. My hair brighter, seen a mile off.

  Desire is unlettered. Ask Asa why he cared for sugar.

  You consider me worse than Dog and his exploding.

  A person is only a bank paper. Only an idea and not hard money, subject to speculation and bust.

  I do not mean to talk sour.

  Home is all burned up. I will depart. I will make manners and go west. I would be very glad to see the angel on my way out. Shake his hand. I never thought on how an angel’s hand is. Roughed from whatever work an angel done. Warm as guts from that flaming sword.

  I will promise to write the angel. He could read the letters at family hour except he has no company.

  I would walk west, naked as Adam. Naked except for the money. I will take the money.

  Dawn has brought cannons and bombings and shoes into my ribs just in the short time of our acquaintance. I would prefer all of that at once to the whiskey sick of December first. Waking stood on my chest with both shoes and went after my brains with a sledge. I squeezed my eyes hard to banish the world. But you cannot shut your ears.

  Mayow, said the grocery cats.

  Little brother, said Big.

  Hidy, said a voice I hardly knew as my own.

  Big were soiled considerably. His last encounter with soap was some miles back – his hair a greasy crown. But circumstances were congenial, and he and Dog sat over a breakfast of coffee and cold pork. They did not speak to each other, but only eyed up the ten-dollar silvers stacked up like cakes.

  Meed we are rich

  Who were his we?

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  First banns is not yet a wedding, and a wedding is no July 4 or Washington’s Birthday or Perry’s Victory. So you should not have Dolores fired twenty-six times for the twenty-six sisters of the republic.

  This was my sore brains talking.

  Oh, go ahead and fire the cannon. These banns marked more than an everyday wedding. For two cities and seven thousand people brought together, go ahead and have Dolores and the church bells, and Tom Tod’s husking bee. I did wonder if Dolores were saying YES or NO to the nuptial. A person might hear what they like in a krTTHWANNFFNG. Different hymns to the same music et c.

  This were not a proper two-sided banns. Only the bride’s family would gather at the husking bee. Bridegroom Cleveland would hear no dissent. It is all only theatre besides. Tom’s were not even a true husking bee – he had not grown one ear of this corn and did not need our help. He had bought up ears the month before and kept it by. This were a pantomime of real husking. But folks should not deny any cause for merriment, especially at the doorstep of winter.

  So tie red and white and blue ribbons onto every hat and bonnet and bridle. Scrub faces clean. Lay by chores. Come down to Ozias’s barnyard, made up into a palace. Brush out the mules and wash their teeth. Light a hundred lanterns. Bring out fiddles. Put wax to your hair and climb into your finest shirt.

  * * *

  Mayor Frawley made sure to read the banns right away before folks was too refreshed and rowdy. He hauled his badger self atop a wagon and went to hollering.

  CITY OF OHIO IT IS MY PRIDE AND PLEASURE TO ASK YOUR PERMISSION FOR THE MARRIAGE OF  YOURSELF  TO YOUR SISTER  THE CITY OF CLEVELAND

  Frawley did not mark that marrying your sister were considered poor manners.