Maynard’s House

by Herman Raucher

“What year are you in?”

  “Junior.”

  “What’s your favorite subject?”

  “Don’t know.”

  “And how long’ve you been a Minnawickie?”

  “Couple years. Wintahs, mostly. Summahs there’s more to do.”

  “And ‘Ara’—that’s not your real name, is it?”

  “Nope.”

  “Will you tell me your real name?”

  “Who wants to know?”

  “I do.”

  “Can’t tell ya my real name.”

  “Why?”

  “Can only tell ya my Minnawickie name. Promised Froom.”

  “I told you my name.”

  “Didn’t ask ya to.”

  “What’s the big deal of not tellin’ me your name?”

  “What’s the big deal of ya havin’ to know?”

  “A-yuh. Ump. Grump. Even the kids talk that way.”

  “A-yuh. Ump. Grump.”

  He was running out of chitchat and finishing well out of the money in his banter with the gray-eyed girl. “Isn’t there anything you’d like to ask me?”

  “Nope. Ump. Grump.”

  “Did you know Maynard?”

  “A-yuh. A little.”

  “What does that mean—’a little’?”

  “Means not a lot.” She was standing and slipping into her jacket. “Have to go. Have to be back before dark. My father’s a bad man to rile.”

  “Will you come by again?”

  She thought about it for a moment, looking at him sidewise, just the flicker of a smile feathering across her face. “Might.”

  “Well, if you do, you can come right up to the house. You don’t have to seek out and destroy.”

  “Minnawickies prefer sneakin’ up. Otherwise makes no sense in bein’ a Minnawickie.”

  He accepted her logic. “Whatever turns you on.”

  “What?”

  “Whatever pleases you.”

  She was at the door. “I’ll be goin’ now.”

  “Well, I hope you’ll come by again.”

  “Said I would.”

  “No. You said you might.”

  “Meant I would.” About to go, she turned to him, the words coming most importantly. “Have to tell ya.”

  “What?”

  “Cocoa’s too sweet.”

  “I’ll work on it.”

  “Best ya do. Teeth’ll fall out.”

  “A-yuh.”

  “Whatever turns ya on.”

  And she left, airily, Austin beginning to sense the strange nonform of her. Blunt, offbeat, funny and guileless, she was childlike yet staggeringly seductive, driving through his defenses so quickly and effortlessly that he had to wonder whatever became of the grizzled combat veteran he had been when last he looked.

  Rejoining her brother, she turned and waved, whereas Froom thumbed his nose and kicked snow. Austin watched from his porch as the pair of them hauled their sled to the top of the nearest hill. They climbed on and disappeared down the far slope, mufflers flying like the flags of a sinking ship.

  “Outa sight,” he muttered to himself. “A-yuh. Ump. Grump.”

  13

  Some days passed and she had yet to return, though he never once doubted that she would. In the void between, he was sinking his roots more emphatically into his new habitat. Things that had at first startled him no longer did, for they came with a predictability that he was fast becoming accustomed to. The squirrels in his attic, the partridge in the snow, the deer on his porch, all of them doing things almost by the clock. During the day he cut and stacked wood, caulked holes, oiled hinges and learned to read the snow prints that his animals left nightly—checking them against the prints Maynard had so painstakingly drawn in his book, happily learning that his land hosted red fox, raccoons, bobcats and porcupines, as well as such exotic creatures as the Canadian white-footed mouse, the Labrador jumping mouse, the almost extinct coyote and, he had to face it, the black bear, which, more than all the others, had to be respected and/or avoided.

  Following Maynard’s written instructions, he burned his trash early, well before the peace-shattering morning wind would arrive to breathe up mischief. And, even though it was winter, Maynard’s notes advised him that it was not a bad idea to feed the compost heap with pea pods, potato parings, corn husks and even cigarette butts.

  At bedtime, again following the book, he fed his stove dry pine for kindling, adding to it some chunkwood—oak or elm, choked with unsplittable knots. By morning his room would be summer warm, glowing coals snoozing at the stove’s bottom, the whole affair so incendiary that just putting an armful of any wood on top of them would give him a fire that was quick, prudent and toasty.

  He learned to identify his trees: maples laced with squirrel scratchings, birches scarred with the deeper cuts of raccoons. Itinerant woodpeckers had worked on all of them, cherry and hickory in particular. And reconnoitering beavers had nibbled away at fallen beech limbs, marking them for future use as a dam or a cabin or a toothpick.

  In his postbox he found, on two consecutive days, some most welcome packages from Jack Meeker, the accompanying notes being both amusing and reassuring.

  As to his nights, he apportioned the time they afforded him to short trips through Maynard’s notes and magnificent hikes through Thoreau’s pages, the latter writing that “for more than five years I have maintained myself thus, solely by the labor of my hands, and I found, that by working about six weeks in a year, I could meet all the expenses of living. The whole of my winters, as well as most of my summers, I had free and clear for study.”

  Austin was beginning to understand Maynard’s fascination with Thoreau. There was an eternality to that man’s writings, a oneness with nature that stunned time and laid low mortality. Austin could slide very easily into such a life style, for it seemed to bestow upon man, any man, a singular satisfaction in being any man.

  On a particularly bright day, the sun so blinding that he could not go out into the reflecting snow without his dark glasses, he decided to try his luck at fishing. He cleared a spot on the pond, cut a hole in the ice, and pulled up a log to sit on. Then he dropped his line and waited with the serene patience of an old fisherman.

  It was two hours later, with nary a minnow nudging his line and the cold creeping into every one of his knuckles and joints, that he decided that he didn’t like fish all that much. He stood up slowly, fearing that any too-sudden move might snap his frozen spine like a twig—and he saw it, a burst of color on the top of a hill, a sled with two vivid passengers, snowplowing deliberately down the steep decline so as not to build up too much steam and go flying out of control.

  The sled shushed to a stop some thirty yards from him, Ara stepping off lightly, Froom rolling off exaggeratedly, as though shot or skewered. But where Froom recovered enough from his invisible wounds to stay with the sled as a guard, Ara came directly to where Austin was standing trying to coax his spine back to life by pressing his fists into his kidneys while bending his body backward into a banana.

  Again, the girl was so pretty that he feared he would be unable to speak. The fact that she wasn’t smiling didn’t help matters. It intimidated him, making him feel stupid and uncertain. There was no way in which he could voice a greeting, and so he just waved, a frozen paw in an uncrackable glove. And even in that he was clumsy, the motion causing him to slip slightly on the ice, though he didn’t think she saw.

  She brushed past him and he could feel the heat of her right through his clothing. She peered down into the fishing hole, her thick lashes looking as though they could reach into the water as deeply as his line, if they wished, and catch all the fish they wanted, if they chose.

  “Trouble is, when ya cut a hole like that, draws muskrats.”

  “Oh?”

  “They see what ya doin’ and take all the fish the light attracts.”

  “But I’ve seen Eskimos fish like this.”

  “You an Eskimo?”

  “Close to it.�
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  “What ya have to do is let the muskrats take their share.”

  “Swell. I’ve been here over two hours.”

  “Muskrats been here all wintah.”

  “Jesus. Is everybody in Maine a philosopher?”

  “Only hunters and fishermen. And everyone’s either a hunter or a fisherman.”

  “Is that a joke?”

  “Nope.”

  “Come on. I’ve been working on my cocoa. It’s not as sweet anymore.”

  “Have to get back.”

  “But you just got here.”

  “Nope. Been here all my life.” She turned, walked back to Froom, and the pair of them were soon out of sight on the back slope of a hill.

  Austin felt immediately denied. He had waited for her, for a year it seemed—and she was gone, over the hill with her brother. It was very unfulfilling. But, over the three days that followed, with pride and logic as his companions, he saw his disappointment turn into mere annoyance. Who the hell was she anyway but a snippy little girl who, if you took her out of Maine, wouldn’t know Kentucky from Dubuque or Stan Laurel from Oliver Twist?

  All of that self-hypnosis melted into farina when, on his fourth day without the sight of her, her sled finally flowed over the hill and into his heart. Froom stayed with the sled, against his nasty will, but Ara allowed as to how she did indeed have time for a mug of cocoa—and she went with Austin, to his house, where he conjured up a pitcher of the stuff and waited for her opinion.

  For the longest time she said nothing, just sat there crosslegged, rolling the cocoa around in her mouth as if she were in Paris and all of France hung on her evaluation of that year’s wine.

  “Well?” he ventured. “How is it?”

  “Not sure.”

  “Come on, it’s been over five minutes.”

  “Don’t want to come to a conclusion too soon. Wouldn’t be fair.”

  “It loses its flavor as it cools.”

  “Who says?”

  “You get one more sip. That’s all. That’s as far as I go.” She took the one sip, contemplated it in a most superior manner, and said, “Passable.”

  “Still not right?”

  “Not hot.”

  “Oh, for—” He took the mug from her. “Well, what’d you expect? I’ll put it back on.”

  “Best ya do.”

  He smiled without her seeing. He was being bested, but he rather liked it. The girl was formidable. She had style. It was fun. He poured her cocoa back into the kettle because there wasn’t enough left to pour her a fresh mug. And he turned to her, mucho adult. “So—you’re in high school.”

  “Barely.”

  “Not long to go?”

  “Grades keep up as they do, not long at all.”

  “Having trouble in school?”

  “No trouble in school. Trouble gettin’ there.”

  “Is it that far?”

  “Nope. I plain don’t like it.”

  “You mean you don’t go because you don’t like it?”

  “I mean, I go a little because I don’t like it much.”

  “Ara—you’re funny.”

  “Think so?”

  “Funny or weird, yes.”

  “I don’t think it’s funny or weird to not like school.”

  “Rather do something else?”

  “Rather do anythin’ else. Cocoa’s boilin’.”

  “Jesus Christ!” The cocoa was boiling and bubbling and spilling over. He had to use a glove to remove the kettle from the stove.

  Ara was superior. “Now it’ll be too hot. Make it too hot, kills the flavah.”

  He set the kettle on the floor, where it calmed noticeably, though brown streams ran down its sides and caked upon fusing with the cold floorboards. He was not thrilled and became short with her. “Does anybody make cocoa the way you like it?”

  “Nope.”

  “Marvelous.” He was cleaning up, on his hands and knees like a charwoman.

  “But that’s because I really don’t like cocoa.”

  “Jesus Christ.”

  “Hardly ever drink it.”

  “Thanks a lot.”

  “Don’t drink it at all.”

  “I’m hip.”

  “Cocoa was your idea, not mine. I’d just as soon have tea.”

  “Well, I don’t have any tea, so there you go.”

  “Minnawickies prefer tea. Didn’t ya know that?”

  “No. I’m new around here.” He had cleaned up as best he could, though he suspected there’d be a burn mark in the floor where he’d set the kettle down.

  “Minnawickies prefer tea. Penobscots like coffee. Passamaquoddies prefer cocoa. Wabanaki like milk. Abanaki’ll drink anythin’.”

  “I’ll try to remember.”

  “Best ya do.”

  It suddenly occurred to him to ask. “You’re not a real Indian, are you?”

  “I’m a Minnawickie.”

  “Isn’t a Minnawickie an Indian?”

  “A Minnawickie’s a Minnawickie.”

  “Ara—”

  “Ya asked and I answered. Best I could.”

  “Let me put it this way: Can you stay a Minnawickie all your life?”

  “Don’t know. Haven’t really tried.”

  “Can I assume you’re not interested in this cocoa?”

  “Any left?”

  “A little.”

  “I’m not interested.”

  “I wish you’d of told me. Could’ve saved me a lot of trouble.”

  “Ya never asked.”

  “You know something? You could drive somebody crazy.”

  “I been told.”

  “Well, you’re being told again.”

  “Nothin’ new.”

  “It’s new to me.”

  “Minnawickies know the future.”

  “Pardon?”

  “Minnawickies can foretell.”

  “You mean predict the future.”

  “That’s what I just said, dummy.”

  “Can you?”

  “Older Minnawickies. I can only sense it.”

  “Do you want me to believe that?”

  “Don’t care.”

  “Then why’d you mention it?”

  “Thought it might interest ya.” She shrugged, what the hell. If he didn’t care, she didn’t care.

  The whole conversation had taken a strange turn, and even though she seemed ready to drop it he felt compelled to pursue it, especially since she was the one who had digressed in the first place. “It does interest me.”

  “Well…” She was sulking.

  “Did you know this was once a witch’s house?”

  “I been told.”

  “Did you know that’s a witch’s tree out there—and a Devil’s Dancing Rock?”

  “It’s what they say.”

  “Who?”

  “People. Folks.”

  “Do you think there’s a witch in this house?”

  “No way of knowin’ from just appearances. Guess ya have to wait and see.”

  “Wait and see what?”

  “Don’t know. Imagine ya will know when it happens.”

  “When what happens?”

  “It.”

  “Ara, what do you mean by ‘it’?”

  She looked away. “Don’t really know if anythin’s goin’ to happen. Have to ask an older Minnawickie. Fire’s gettin’ low.”

  He stoked the fire and tossed in a few additional logs. The flames danced anew and he kept worrying it with the poker. It gave him time to decide whether or not he wanted to probe more deeply into what she might know. Something told him to drop it right there, for even though his face was not a foot from the stove there was no heat playing on it. Rather, it was as if a cold breeze was coming out at him. He closed the stove door to deflect the icy draft, and he turned back to Ara, who wasn’t where she had been a moment before. She was at the door, holding her jacket.

  He went to her and took her jacket from her hand, gently but emphatically
, letting her know that the dialogue had not quite ended, that the audience she had granted him was not quite over. “When Maynard was killed, this house became mine.”

  The gray eyes came up at his. “A-yuh.”

  “He said he left his dogs with a couple of kids. Is that you and Froom?”

  “A-yuh. But they run off.”

  “Sometimes I think I hear them.”

  “They run off a long time ago.”

  “I still think I hear them.”

  “They couldn’t live in the wild. Ya hearin’ wolves. Maybe fox.”

  “I think they’re dogs.”

  “Could be. But not likely.”

  “What were their names?”

  “Hither and Thither. And that’s where they went.” Again the quick smile, just one side of her face—the other side stoical, almost mocking. “Can I go now?”

  He wasn’t ready to let her go. Nor was he all that sure she wanted to go. She had volunteered information and then backed off—why? She was a girl with a mug of cocoa one minute, and a woman with some loosely guarded secret the next. She was tweaking his nose with half-data, scattering breadcrumbs for him to follow, only to double back and pick them up—why? “The man who told me this was a witch’s house was Jack Meeker. Do you know him?”

  “A-yuh. Stationmaster at Belden.”

  “He didn’t just sense it, he knew it. Does that make him a Minnawickie?”

  “Don’t much matter. Mr. Meeker’s dead.”

  He went along with it. “Yeah, well, I thought he was lookin’ a little peaked.”

  “He’s dead.”

  “Must’ve been real sudden. I saw him less than two weeks ago. And he leaves packages in my postbox—which you peek at. Must’ve happened—like that.”

  “Day before yesterday. Whole Belden depot burnt down.”

  He looked at her, standing in half-shadow like the half-creature she was, her eyes two straight lines carrying their gray light into and beyond his own. And he felt disrupted. “Listen, I have to tell you. I’m not a big fan of the Maine sense of humor. You all seem to get a big charge out of puttin’ on strangers. Between you and your brother, and that hilarious Benson the bear-burner, I got an act goin’ up here that’s funnier than the Marx Brothers. Only I’m the only audience—and I ain’t laughin’.”

  “Mr. Benson’s dead, too.”

  “And that’s the funniest thing you’ve said so far.”