Maynard’s House

by Herman Raucher

  “Man should know if he’s afoot or ahorseback.”

  “And what is that cutesy-folksy saying supposed to mean?”

  “Means maybe ya don’t belong out here.” Benson’s hands were blood-drenched, the bear suddenly looking like a sorrowful thing, deserving of a better fate.

  “I’ll tell you something. I don’t belong anywhere. People been tellin’ me that my whole life. My mother told me. My father told me. My school told me. The entire U.S. Army and all of Vietnam told me. So I don’t need you to tell me.”

  “I’m the only one around.”

  “You want to tell me something? Tell me something original, like I’m a prince among men, or a credit to my race. But don’t tell me I don’t belong. It’s this place don’t belong. Maine don’t belong. Why don’t you secede it from the Union? We’ll let ya.”

  Benson, unimpressed, let it all sail by. “Bearskin’s mine. But I’ll leave ya most of the meat, if ya like.”

  “No, I don’t like. Take it with you. You killed it, you eat it. Make yourself a hero sandwich.” Distracted by his own wit, Austin hammered his finger. “Goddammit!” And he hurled the hammer over a hill. “I don’t need this!”

  “Hurt ya fingah?”

  “No. What makes you say that?”

  “Ya yelled.”

  “I yelled because I love it. I do it all the time. Every chance I get I hit my finger with a hammer.”

  “Ya got nine more chances.”

  “Jesus…”

  “If it bleeds it’ll clot real fast. Cold’ll do that.”

  “It’s not bleeding. I hate to disappoint you, but it’s not bleeding. It’s mashed flat, but it’s not bleeding.”

  “Best ya burn the carcass if ya not goin’ to eat it. Unless ya care to freeze it.”

  “I don’t care to freeze the carcass. I’m freezing my own carcass—I don’t have to freeze a bear’s.”

  “Then ya best burn it. Leave it out here it’ll attract all sorts of things. Timber wolves been seen here on occasion.”

  “If I see a wolf, I’ll build my house of brick. And he can huff and puff…” Austin smiled at his upcoming bon mot. “Jesus Christ, I’ll have built myself a brick shit house.” He shouted it to the countryside. “A brick shit house!” The words echoed three times over the hills and Austin added to them. “There’s something to laugh at, you Minnawickies!”

  “Havin trouble with Minnawickies?”

  “Me? Naaaaah.”

  “I think ya havin’ trouble with Minnawickies.”

  “Wrong. I don’t believe in Minnawickies.”

  “Then why ya callin’ to ’em?”

  “To hand you a laugh.”

  “I ain’t laughin’.”

  “Do you ever laugh?”

  “Nope.”

  “Then what’s your point?”

  “Don’t have any. What’s yours?”

  Austin said it quietly, defeatedly. “Nobody seems to know.”

  After awhile, the backhouse in one piece again if leaning slightly toward England, Austin headed home, sarcastic in his farewell to Benson. “A-yuh. Ump. Grump. I don’t know how you people understand one another. Everythin’s a goddamn abbreviation, or a gurgle, or a burp.”

  Benson didn’t look up. “Want me to burn the bear?”

  “I wouldn’t care if you waltzed with it.”

  “Little late for that.”

  “It’s not even noon.”

  “Closer to one.”

  “Benson?”

  “A-yuh?”

  “Goodbye.” Austin returned to his house, mumbling and grumbling.

  Benson skinned the bear, rolled and bound the hide and slung it over his shoulder, stuck some choice slices of meat into his leather bag and stayed on long enough to burn the rest of it. Then he stepped into the woods, looking like a bear himself.

  Watching from his porch, Austin had to admit to a certain admiration for the man, surviving out there on his own, unflustered by danger, just taking each day as it came, each meal, each breath. The only thing that Austin could do that Benson could do was grow a beard. He started immediately. It wasn’t nearly enough, but it was a beginning.

  12

  The next few days trundled by unremarkably. He read a great deal, Thoreau and Whittier (Maynard, not John Greenleaf). Some snow fell, halfheartedly. The deer came by again. At least it looked like the same one, and Austin gave it another packet of crackers—from a distance. Geese continued to honk overhead, convincing Austin that they were either stupid or lost, because weren’t they supposed to have migrated south by now?

  He saw a bobcat when he was cutting more ice from the lake, and the damned thing scared him to jumping. But he also scared the bobcat, so it was a tie, each of them walking away from the other with one eye looking back. Partridge came out in the morning and took off as soon as the smoke shimmered more heavily from his stovepipe’s chimney. And curious woodchucks looked him over at his shed, fascinated by his wood-chopping technique. The whole forest was radiantly alive wherever he looked, earth and sky, valley and hill, all of it abounding with activity that he was more and more able to define and enjoy.

  And on a sudden warm day, the land caressed by a breeze curling out of the south, his roof began to drip and steam in an unwinterly sunshine. Trees made cracking noises. Hidden rivers bobbed out for a look-see. Green grass popped up. And the ice in his gutters melted and ran. All of it was over in a day, ending with another wind, a colder one, blowing out of Canada as it was supposed to do, freezing fresh mud and refreezing old snow—winter reasserting itself, summer’s one day being nothing but a lucky punch that the old man had quickly recovered from. All of it was thoroughly described in item 15 of Maynard’s book as “early thaw.”

  It was time for a trek to the postbox, to see what he could see. Perhaps there’d be something there from Jack Meeker, or a family of field mice happy in their new quonset hut. As to any letters, he wasn’t expecting any. First, because no one knew where he was. And second, because he never got any mail, not even in Cincinnati, the only thing he ever received there being his draft notice—and that hardly qualified as friendly correspondence.

  There was indeed another package from Jack Meeker, the attached note reading:

  Margarine you asked for, and laundry detergent. Plus some other things you might be needing. Also, couple magazines donated by Alan Walter, dentist in Millinocket. Been in his waiting room for awhile but not so’s you’d notice. No books on Minnawickies, but worst they’ll do is burn down your backhouse. Try not to rile them. They don’t bribe and they don’t scare. Best to you.

  JACK MEEKER

  Austin examined his treasure trove and left his own note for Jack Meeker.

  Thank you for the supplies and the 1953 Life Magazines. I could use some powdered milk and coffee. Please keep a record of what I owe you.

  Thank you,

  AUSTIN FLETCHER

  P.S. I don’t need any help from Minnawickies in destroying my backhouse, as I have been doing it myself.

  He placed his note in the postbox and started back for his house. Walking, sloshing, mushing—he was much better on snowshoes than he ever thought he’d be. Actually, he was much more at home in his new environment than he had ever dreamed he’d be. Even his beard made him look indigenous. And, not to be dismissed lightly, no new scares had occurred. No chairs, bears or Minnawickies to rattle his imagination or camp in his unconscious.

  All of that quickly changed when he saw, in the snow, not five feet from his house:

  *ARA/FROOM*

  It didn’t unsettle him, for the truth was, he had missed his little confrontations with his Minnawickies and was delighted to discover that they had not grown bored with him.

  He called out to the echoing mountains, “Hello, Minnawickies! Where’ve you been? Why don’t you come up and see me sometime?” There was no answer, of course, but Austin was certain that they were out there and that they’d heard him.

  Later, at his woodshed, w
hile chopping at a length of stubborn oak, he was struck squarely in the back with a snowball. He smiled, for he had been half expecting it and rather looking forward to it. But he didn’t react to it. He didn’t miss a stroke. He was too crafty for that.

  Another snowball came. And another. Both of them splatting softly against the back of his neck, much of them trickling icily past his collar and into his shirt. And still he did not turn, for he was getting a fix on just where the salvoes were being launched from and had to play possum a little while longer, damn the torpedoes.

  He absorbed three more hits before dropping his ax and tearing off swiftly in the direction of the enemy’s emplacements, running a quick and straight course down the trench a dozen strides, then vaulting up and over the side, where he caught the pair of them so frozen in surprise that they had no chance to execute their usual laughing withdrawal.

  They yowled and scratched and clawed, one of them breaking away. But Austin had the other, a furry thing no more than four feet tall and with an outsized head. It squealed and squirmed as Austin pinned it to the snow and sat on it, straddling its chest, holding down its arms. Its face was red, with a green nose, large yellow eyes and a wide blue mouth.

  The second Minnawickie regrouped and attacked, flying from out of nowhere to land roughly on Austin, squarely between the shoulders. Larger than its companion, it knocked Austin flat into another sandwich—a Minnawickie sandwich, one above him, one below.

  They were slippery and they were sly, but did not pack all that much weight that they could prevail over Austin. They were combative and determined, but Austin was more of both, so that, after much blurring of color and flying of snow, and screeching and eeling and punching and pulling, Austin had them both, a knee on each of their chests, a strong hand on each of their outside shoulders.

  He looked down into their furry faces and they weren’t faces at all. They were woolen ski masks with deliberately exaggerated features and comically pointed tops. And they were not Indians. They were kids. Two small kids, and it didn’t take Austin all that long to figure it out. “Looks like I’ve got me a couple of desperate Minnawickies.”

  Sitting astride them, he pulled the tight ski mask from the face of the smaller one, causing its eyes to go Oriental and its hair to stand on end as if in fear. It was a boy—perhaps eleven years old. Upon being unmasked, it immediately proceeded to spit a mouthful of snow into Austin’s face. Austin retaliated by rubbing snow all over the youngster’s face. “Tit for tat, Charlie.”

  Austin then turned his attention to the larger Minnawickie, pulling off its mask, and it was a girl—some sixteen years of age and starkly pretty, with pale-rose skin and rich black hair, and velvet-lashed eyes the color of shined pewter. She too had her cheeks puffed with snow and was ready to fire, but Austin discouraged her. “I wouldn’t.”

  Thinking better of it, she swallowed the snow, her face falling back into its natural set, the finely etched chin and the well-defined lips looking briefly to be more the features of a woman than a child.

  Austin was struck foolish by her beauty and felt momentarily lascivious at being on top of her, for hers was a woman’s body as well as a child’s, and he was a man as well as a victor. None of it was made easier for him by the unblinking grey eyes looking up at him, seeming to tell him tales of another time and place, yet telling him nothing.

  “Now, then,” he said, “which of you is Ara and which of you is Froom?”

  “I’m Ara,” said the girl, a distinct touch of Maine to her clear voice, her eyes never leaving Austin’s.

  Austin turned to the boy. “And you’re—”

  The boy spat new snow into Austin’s face, evidently having kept enough of it in reserve for just such a sneak attack.

  “He’s Froom,” said Ara.

  Austin rubbed snow into Froom’s face all over again, more than enough to make the point that he was not to be trifled with. “Okay? Now—I’ll let you both up, okay? But only if you promise not to run away. Okay? Do I have your word?”

  Ara and Froom both nodded yes, and Austin let them up, Froom immediately scrambling to his feet and taking off to a safe distance, from where he razzed Austin and resumed throwing snowballs.

  Ara felt compelled to explain to Austin. “A Minnawickie never keeps his word.”

  “You kept yours.”

  “I’m a lousy Minnawickie.” She didn’t smile, though she had the tools for it, a fine mouth, and teeth to shame the snow. Nor would she often smile or confess to being funny, or allow as to how humor had any place in her arsenal. She would, instead, hide behind her eyes, as if knowing that they were power enough to dominate any conversation.

  Austin held her arm dopily. “Well, you’re my prisoner.”

  “Don’t care.”

  “And tell Nutsy to cut it out with the snowballs or I’ll have to torture you.”

  She called to Froom. “Nutsy, cut it out with the snowballs or he’ll have to torture me!”

  Froom stopped launching snowballs but continued to jump about and generally reveal his displeasure via indistinguishable epithets.

  Austin tried to smile at Ara, but it came out goony and he knew it and felt stupid. “Come back to my house and I’ll make us some cocoa. If you’re afraid—” he let go of her arm— “you can go.”

  “I’m not afraid.”

  “My name is Austin.”

  “I know.”

  “You do?”

  “A-yuh. Read all ya mail.”

  “I don’t get any mail.”

  “Ya get packages.”

  He smiled and took her hand again, and, gloved as it was, a sweet electricity passed from her hand to his. “Tell Nutsy he can have some cocoa, too.”

  “Nutsy! Ya can have some cocoa, too!”

  By way of answering, Froom hopped, cursed, razzed and spit.

  “Says he don’t want any.” She smiled, a sneaky one, working only the left side of her face, closing her left eye to a wink, creating left-sided dimples and left-sided friendship—the right side of her face remaining stern and unmalleable. Again the quick contradiction. Half woman, half child, half funning, half judging.

  “Is that Minnawickie he’s talking?”

  “Nope. That’s profanity.”

  They walked back to his house. He held her hand and she let him. And he tingled at the strange excitement of her. She was his first friend in his new environment, his first visitor come-a-calling. And his house, warm and embracing, seemed pleased to receive her.

  She removed her bulky jacket and shook her black hair, and she was pretty in that fledgling teenage way. In her blue sweater she was lean, her breasts barely assertive. And in her Levis she was endearing, her legs stretching north to that immaculate face and south to a pair of boots that, though clunky, seemed winged.

  She smoothed her long hair, both hands working left and then right to part it perfectly in the middle. And it flowed past her shoulders, picking up along the way all the light that the humble house could muster.

  He was an oaf when he fed the fire, tripping twice on a floor that he should have known better. And in pretending that it hadn’t happened he caused it to happen again. Lout, clod and bumpkin—he had become all three at once.

  “Ya boots too big,” she said, sitting Indian style on the floor in a corner, her legs crossed, her hands playing her hair as if it were a lyre. “Or else ya just clumsy.”

  He smiled at her, but she didn’t smile back. She just sat there, casually pretty, haughtily unaware of her effect on him, and he was passingly reminded of all those Ohio high-school girls who used to taunt him similarly with their cruel disinterest. What a fool he was, he thought. For here was a girl and a pretty one, all to himself, and he could do nothing more than trip and fumble and smile like a buffoon. Had he been alone too long? Where was his poise? Whatever would become of him? Questions better unasked—the answers so heartlessly obvious.

  He prepared the cocoa, setting the kettle to boil on his stove. And he lowered hi
s voice when speaking, hoping to somehow reestablish his worldliness. “Get comfortable. Take your boots off.”

  “Ain’t stayin’ that long.”

  And all the air went out of his balloon. Through the window he could see Froom, on a mound, jumping about and carrying on, stomping angrily, shaking his fist at the house.

  “He’s Froomin,” she said.

  “Pardon?”

  “That’s what he’s doin’. Froomin’.”

  “Is there such a word?”

  “A-yuh. Since he started.”

  “Is he your brother?”

  “That’s what I’m told.”

  He poured a mug of cocoa for each of them. “Here you go.”

  “Obliged.”

  “Careful. It’s hot.”

  “It’s not.”

  He was losing ground terribly fast, the earth sliding out from under him. But he was still trying. “You live around here?”

  “A-yuh.”

  “Reason I ask—I haven’t seen any houses.”

  “Live up near the dam. My father’s with the Great Northern.”

  “Oh. I guess just about everybody is.”

  “Not everybody.”

  “Who’s not?”

  “Those that ain’t.”

  “Hmmmm. Isn’t the dam pretty far from here?”

  “Dam far,” she said, almost smiling. “That’s a joke.”

  “I know.”

  “We do it by sled.”

  “Dogsled?”

  “Regular sled, dummy.”

  “Oh.”

  “Me and Froom, we haul it up a hill, then coast down. Cuts the time.” She sipped at her cocoa, her eyes looking over the rim of the mug into his, knocking him silly.

  “Do you…a…go to school?”

  “Who wants to know?”

  “I guess I do.”

  “I go.”

  “High school?”

  “A-yuh.”