by John Yount
Thief of Dreams
A Novel
John Yount
This one for Deborah,
in celebration of her spirit
and the long, lyrical parabola
of line she casts.
PROLOGUE
It was 1948 and everyone watching the truck pull the house trailer across the front walk, breaking flagstones and crushing plantings, was unhappy. Worse, the trailer had to go around in front of the farmhouse where there was only twelve feet or so of reasonably level ground before the lawn sloped steeply down to the highway, and not all that ground was usable because there was a thick growth of flowering quince planted just in front of the porch.
But it wasn’t just the damage the trailer was doing or the peril it was in that made the family, gathered around to watch, so worried and sad. Madeline Tally had left her husband and come home to stay with her parents, and to them as well as to James, her son, marriages were supposed to keep going like the roll of seasons or the sun coming up in the morning. Even though Madeline’s husband was a rough construction man, known to take a drink, and Madeline’s mother and father were quiet, steady, churchgoing, country people; still vows were vows, and anyway, they’d grown fond of him. But Harley and Bertha Marshall had taken their daughter and grandson in because they wouldn’t have known how to do otherwise.
As for James, he was thirteen and understood almost everything that was in the air, even if some of what he knew, he kept in that sad, sure, nonverbal chamber of the heart where everyone keeps a great deal of what they know. He was worried about his own culpability in all this trouble, and he had other worries too, not necessarily separate, about whether he had, or would ever be able to acquire, enough sense, strength, and bravery to get along in the world. So, burdened and subdued, he stood a little apart from the others, watching the trailer inching along and listening to the shrubs beginning to crack and break against its side. He could see the grim face of the driver in the rearview mirror of his truck with his jaw set like iron against the damage he was doing and against the beginning tilt of the trailer. And he could see his grandmother and two first cousins in the side yard, watching the truck and trailer creep toward them, his grandmother wringing her hands in her apron and his cousins not bothering to hide their general disapproval.
“Mercy,” Grandmother Marshall said when the trailer began to lean dangerously toward the highway.
His cousins, Clara and Virginia, were fifteen and seventeen, and James wasn’t completely sure just what their bad attitude was made of. A little jealousy, maybe, that his mother and he amounted to two more orphans his grandparents were taking in, as Clara and Virginia had been taken in when their parents died the year James was born. Maybe it was the damage the trailer was doing. Deep tire tracks across the lawn, crushed plantings along the walk, broken flagstones, and now the shrubs in front of the porch scraping and breaking against the side of the trailer. James figured the ugly, purple house trailer had to be a part of it, not only for the damage it was doing but because the cousins might think it would make them look like a trashy family to have it in their cow pasture. James could understand that.
When the trailer let out a deep groan and began to tip even more heavily toward the road, James decided to move over beside his mother and his aunt Lily, who were standing together on the ruined walk. He’d been down the bank from it as it inched along, and he realized suddenly that, if it did turn over, he’d have to be lucky and pretty quick to get out of its way. Poor Aunt Lily, James thought, had the most right to be unhappy, but James couldn’t see anything in her face except worry over whether or not the trailer was going to make it to the cow pasture. She had never been married and never left home, and when she wasn’t teaching or sewing clothes for Clara and Virginia, she was working among her flowers and plants. The yard was her pride and her hobby.
As the trailer crept past the far corner of the porch, the wheels on the uphill side of it began to leave the ground, and the hitch, or some other part of the trailer, began a terrible popping and grinding.
“Mercy,” his grandmother gasped and twisted her hands into the apron she wore over her housedress.
“Goodness gracious, there it goes!” Aunt Lily said, great alarm and perfect resignation in her voice at the same time. She grabbed James’s shoulders and squeezed, but the truck lurched forward, and the trailer was yanked past the corner of the porch and into the relatively flat side yard.
James’s grandfather, who was the postmaster of the little one-room country post office on the other side of the driveway, had come out to watch the whole operation too, but he hadn’t said a word, and when the trailer got past the corner of the porch, he turned toward the post office again. He was a tall, gaunt man with a widow’s hump, which somehow didn’t seem a sign of frailty or weakness, but the emblem of a private and stubborn strength. He didn’t say much to anyone, and James was never sure what his grandfather might be thinking.
The trailer went through the side yard without doing any damage except for leaving tire tracks and knocking down part of a row of hollyhocks at the far edge. James’s grandfather had already taken out a fence post and cut the barbed wire so the trailer could be pulled into the cow pasture. Staked out at the southern edge, the jersey watched the truck and trailer come lumbering into her lush, green province, and when the truck growled to a stop, she stretched out her neck and bawled.
“Don’t you just know how she feels?” Virginia told Clara in a voice that wasn’t as soft as it could have been.
“I want the two of you to help me in the kitchen,” Grandmother Marshall said. “You go on. I’ve got things for you to do.”
With great dignity the girls turned and marched up on the front porch and into the house while James looked at his mother to see what Virginia’s remark had done to her. But if she had heard it, she showed no sign. She and her sister were standing with their arms loosely about each other’s waists, gazing after the trailer, identical expressions of sad resignation on their faces.
It did look pretty shabby in the cow pasture. The man had parked it maybe twenty-five feet from the yard where the pasture appeared to be nearly level, but the trailer still leaned noticeably toward the scrub growth of birch and redbud separating the pasture from the steep bank down to the highway.
“Well, Harley said if he could get a team and wagon around in front of the porch, that trailer would go too, but I surely didn’t think it t’would,” Grandmother Marshall said. “Mercy,” she added, and shaking her head over it, she turned and, in her listing walk, followed the girls inside.
Mopping his face and neck with his handkerchief, the driver came into the yard while Aunt Lily studied the trailer with round sad eyes. “Oh Maidy,” she said, “you can’t live in that thing. It’s tilted thirty degrees!”
“I can straighten it up all right,” the driver said, giving the trailer a brief glance over his shoulder, “but lady,” he said to James’s mother, “if you ever take a notion to go somewhere else, don’t call me. Some other fool’s gonna have to pull it outta here.”
“I’m sorry,” Madeline Tally said. “I just didn’t realize. … Can I do anything to help?”
“Yes,” the driver said, “you could get me a tall glass of ice water.” He mopped his face and gazed at the broken shrubbery in front of the porch and the great depth of the tire track where the lawn sloped down to the highway. “There was no weight on that uphill wheel at all,” he said. “I’ve got to be a damned idiot.”
“I’m sorry,” Madeline Tally said, “there just wasn’t anywhere else to put it.”
But he was already looking at James. “Boy, you want to jump in and help?”
“Sure,” James said.
“Then start gettin them jacks and bloc
ks and a few of them short planks out of the bed of the truck. I’d like to get back to Knoxville before three in the morning.”
While James unloaded the truck, the driver squatted alongside the trailer and peered beneath it. “You get cowshit on you and you can take a bath and change your clothes,” he said. “You ain’t got to drive all the way to Knoxville smelling like a manure spreader.” He came over to the truck and scrutinized the boy as though he were trying to guess his weight or birthday. He was a smallish but rawboned man whose mouth was stained with chewing tobacco. James wouldn’t have thought the driver would have had such worries since an odor of ancient sweat and tobacco already hung over him as rich as frying bacon and as rank as a skunk. “You reckon you could crawl under there and do exactly like I say?” he asked.
“Sure,” James said.
But the driver was very particular and hard to please, and by the time James had jacks set under the four corners of the trailer, he was wet with sweat from crawling and wiggling about on his stomach or on his back, and the grass had begun to make his skin itch wildly. Still, most of the cowpiles were dry as sawdust and light as cardboard, and when the driver got James out from under and clear so he could begin to jack the trailer up, James only had the wild, green stench of fresh cowshit on one knee, although his hands were black from the greasy jacks and he was otherwise thoroughly filthy.
The man went from corner to corner, raising the trailer with his long jack handle, all the while setting his big carpenter’s level along the rear bumper, here and there on the floor inside, and across the tongue where the gas bottles for the stove, refrigerator, and furnace were bolted. Finally the boy crawled beneath the trailer again to set blocks under the cross members, but this time the driver seemed nearly impossible to please and had James rearrange the blocks again and again, only to have him take them down altogether and dig away at the earth with a handleless garden hoe he pawed out of the bed of his truck and threw under the trailer for James to use. At the left rear corner of the trailer, no matter what James did he couldn’t satisfy the man, who finally inched and wiggled underneath and did it himself. But at last, a little at a time, he lowered each jack, explaining how important it was to keep the weight distributed evenly as it came down on the blocks. When the jacks were free and he’d gone over the trailer again with his level, he winked at the boy and said, “Now that’s the way to do her, son. Once, by God, up—and once, by God, down. None of this farting around all day, treating the thing like a yo-yo.”
When the boy had dragged the jacks and timbers out and the man had thrown them back into the jumbled bed of his truck, he gave James his empty water glass, smudged with black fingerprints. “I’d be obliged if you’d tell your momma I’m done and ask her kindly if I could have just one more glass of ice water.” He took out his red bandanna, mopped his face and neck with it, blew his nose into it, and shoved it back in his hip pocket. He considered the sun in the bright blue August sky and winked at James again. “I’ll be back in Knoxville this side of midnight. Get on to the house now and fetch your momma,” he said. “You may live here, but I don’t.”
When the driver had drunk his ice water and Madeline had counted out sixty-five dollars into his wide, dirty palm, he told James to get in the truck with him. Guessing that there was some other mysterious chore to finish, James did, but once they had scraped past the ruined shrubbery, crossed the broken flagstones of the walk, and bumped back down into the driveway, the driver stopped and withdrew the big leather wallet chained to a belt loop of his trousers. “This ain’t no refund,” he said; “you earned it fair and square,” and he tucked two one-dollar bills into the breast pocket of the boy’s T-shirt.
James looked down at it. He would have been happy to work all day for such a sum.
“Well get the hell out of my truck, boy,” the driver said. “I didn’t take you to raise.”
Deeply embarrassed, James twisted the handle, bumped the door open with his shoulder, and got out. He was still trying to think of something to say, when, without a backward glance, the driver turned into the highway and gunned the truck off toward Tennessee.
James watched the truck out of sight while all sorts of complicated things went on inside him, some of them crossing the threshold of thought, some not. A few miles away was the town where he’d been born and had lived the first eight years of his life, and for five years, while his family had moved from city to city and state to state, he’d grieved the loss of it and of these high, cool, North Carolina mountains, thinking there was nothing so wrong that it couldn’t be put right if only he could get back again. But he was a dreamer and had not yet learned that dreamers seldom considered the fine print of their desires. The truck driver was heading back toward Knoxville, where James had last seen his father, although his father had since gone to Pittsburgh, a place he’d never been and therefore could not fix in his imagination. Pittsburgh, New York, Boston, or Bogotá—one place name was about as good as another to James; his father had vanished, and he himself was here. But he’d never liked cities or the frequent moves to take up temporary residence in one trailer park or another. And if he and his mother were still living in a trailer like gypsies, the trailer was at least parked in his grandfather’s cow pasture. The house where his mother had been born was right there, looking just the way it had throughout his memory and probably his mother’s memory too. And even if he had not quite got back to the town where he was born, he was close enough so that the air had the same sweet smell, the sunlight came down, somehow, as it should, and the earth felt nearly the same underfoot. And if he could not weigh what had been withdrawn from him, something important had been restored. In some odd way he even felt grateful for Virginia and Clara, who seemed to think of him as a threat, as an enemy even—they were family, after all, and not strangers.
The sun was dipping behind a mountain, and the light it shed, oblique and diffused, began to settle toward evening; and everything the boy could see looked old, settled, and permanent—the few farmhouses, the fields and pastures, and the ancient mountains themselves. His grandfather’s house, the little white post office, and behind it, the barn, might have grown from the earth. And although the trailer didn’t belong, it was after all only a small blemish.
All at once his itching neck and arms and the sticky grease on his hands became oppressive, and he came out of his thoughts enough to start up the driveway. There was an overflow pipe from the cistern just above the house, and his grandfather kept a cake of Lava soap there to wash up from barn chores. But he hadn’t taken more than a few steps when he noticed that his mother, aunt, and grandmother had gone out to look at the trailer, his aunt and grandmother, no doubt, never having seen the inside of a house trailer in all their lives. They went inside; yet, in perfect miniature, Grandmother Marshall’s voice reached him: “The Lord have mercy, child, it’s no bigger than a henhouse.” And then, perhaps in apology: “But it’s right clever, isn’t it? It’s as clever as it can be.” He heard his aunt’s voice too, but he had gotten further up the driveway, the house had come between, and he couldn’t distinguish her remarks.
At the cistern he scrubbed his hands again and again with the soap, rinsing them each time in the icy water from the overflow pipe before he plucked the two dollars from his T-shirt pocket and tucked them in the pocket of his jeans. When he got the cowshit washed off the right leg of his jeans, he took off his T-shirt and scrubbed his face, neck, arms, and chest. He was covered in goosebumps when he was done, and one leg and the waist of his jeans were wet, but he felt much better. He could see his grandfather, having closed the post office, working in the vegetable garden above the house, and he thought of going up there and asking if he needed any help, but as always the uncompromising, stooped silence of the man seemed best left undisturbed.
A few nights before, when he and his mother had got down off the milk-run Trailways bus, his grandmother and aunt had hugged them and made over them; and later, even Clara and Virginia had acknowledged them
by being sulky over the sleeping arrangements—Clara and Virginia would have to sleep together in Virginia’s small bedroom over the living room while he and his mother took the back bedroom on the second floor, which doubled as Clara’s room and Aunt Lily’s sewing room. But Grandfather Marshall had treated James and his mother as if they had always been there, which was to say he gave them no more notice than he gave the rest of his family. He clumped in from doing the milking and the chores, took his supper at the head of the table in the kitchen, and then retired to his chair by the fireplace, where, after a while, his mouth—a round, nearly toothless hole between his fierce beak of a nose and his broad, stubbled chin—fell open in sleep.
Grandfather Marshall seldom acknowledged children or spoke to them except in deep, booming commands: “You young’ns get quiet in there!” Worst of all he had terrible nightmares and would call out in that same booming bass in his sleep, sometimes in the middle of the night as James was making the long journey to the bathroom in the downstairs rear of the house. When James was far younger and on visits, more than once his grandfather’s voice would suddenly fill the dark rooms, and James would bolt from the bathroom, down the hall, through the parlor, up the stairs, and back to his bedroom, waking everyone in his panic except his grandfather, who had to be shaken out of those nightmares or he would go on groaning and calling out forever.
Grandfather Marshall had never punished him or, to his knowledge, Clara or Virginia, but James knew the girls feared him too. James’s mother had told him about the terrible hidings Grandfather Marshall had given his own children even when, for all practical purposes, they were grown. Once she’d told him about a puppy her brother, James’s uncle Henry, had been given when Henry was only a boy, a puppy that yelped in the dooryard at night until Grandfather Marshall had risen one night, snatched the puppy up by its hind legs, and clubbed it dead with a stick of stovewood. James’s mother had offered such stories when, for one reason or another, James had thought his own father had been cruel. She had offered them with a little deprecating snort to put James and his notion of cruelty in perspective.
