“I had the caul at birth when I had Davey,” he could remember his mother saying a thousand times in those long, lazy growing-up years. “It covered his head. Davey was my good-luck baby.” Now the goddamn thing was smothering him like some horrible wet shroud.
Davey sat in his car on the snowbound road to the river and thought about how green money can grow in a man’s mind, especially when he’s stuck in the white of winter.
HISTORICAL PRESERVATION: THE GREAT PYRAMID AS A TAVERN
O whiskey,
Soul o’ play and pranks,
Accept a bardie’s gratefu’ thanks.
—Robert Burns, another boozer of Scottish ties
Maurice was propped up at the bar, watching his Crossroads sign, his Where Good Friends, Like the Rivers, Meet slogan, being dashed about in a frightening wind. But that was still not quite so frightening as the wind Maurice had been hearing lately about Prissy Monihan and her temperance squad. They had managed to procure enough signatures to entitle them to an emergency town meeting. The wet-versus-dry issue would be aired again, and this time Prissy meant to win.
Maurice ran a winter-white hand through his thinning hair and thought about his rebuttal. Billy and Ronny Plunkett had stopped early for what Billy called “the cocktail hour.” A couple of old-timers sat at the end of the bar, gumming whiskeys and remembering the winters of yore, their aging voices rising like tired wind above the occasional music of the jukebox.
“The band canceled this weekend,” Sally told Billy as she mopped up the perspired beer from beneath his mug. “We would’ve had a full house. You know how folks get out for a band, even if it’s local.”
“Which band?” Billy asked.
“Caribbean Magic,” said Sally. “From St. Leonard.”
“Why’d they cancel?” asked Billy. They were one of his favorite bands, next to The Tennessee Tornadoes from Watertown.
“Paulie Hart is playing bass for them now,” said Sally, “and nobody’s seen him since he won that thousand dollars in the lottery. I guess he’s too high up the tree for us now.”
Billy cracked peanuts thoughtfully, his eyebrows knitted with some problem, as he tossed the husks over his shoulder and onto the floor. Ronny was reading a Chilton’s fix-it-yourself 1986 Volvo manual, something no real Mattagash man would do. A real Mattagash man wouldn’t buy a Volvo anyway. But Ronny had spent twenty years in the navy, and he’d picked up outside notions in places like the Persian Gulf, and the Philippines, and down in the Panama Canal. Ronny claimed he could kick Noriega’s ass in a country minute, that he had the testicles to do so, accoutrements George Bush was lacking. In fact, Ronny had such a quantity of ball power that he wasn’t afraid to drive a shiny blue Volvo back to Mattagash when his navy stint was up or to read a repair manual about German parts.
“Your vulva break down again?” Billy asked him, his eyes still on the peanuts.
“Fuck you,” said Ronny, his eyes still on the manual.
At a corner table, some women snowmobilers from St. Leonard sat with ski suits unzippered to the waist and sipped the foam off beers while they waited for the stunning cold that had infiltrated their bones to vanish. Amundsen, Scott, and Peary would have crumbled at the notion of braving a windchill factor of forty below if they’d been obliged to brave it at sixty miles an hour. Some folks were born to dogsleds.
Sally was putting a large frozen pizza with the works into the new microwave for the snowmobilers. Maurice had decided to begin selling microwave sandwiches, pizzas, and bags of chips after he saw how well the late-night buffet sponsored and thrown by Pike Gifford had gone.
“We gonna do it?” Billy asked Maurice, who looked up, startled, as if he’d forgotten that he was in a bar with other people. It was a quiet, dreamy Friday afternoon that could make a man forget where he was.
“We gonna do what?” Maurice asked.
Sally dumped ashtrays loudly into the big aluminum trash can hidden beneath the bar. One of the snowmobilers finished punching in two songs for a quarter—everyone knew the selections by heart—just as the first began. Billy regarded her rear pensively, a little on the heavy side, her arm muscles loose even inside her sweatshirt. The song was one he hated, the thing about “eighties ladies” by K. T. Oslin. Billy hated it because it was a song about broads with balls, and they weren’t exactly on his Christmas list. He wondered if he had a prayer that the female snowmobiler had chosen “All My Ex’s Live in Texas.” Probably not. It wasn’t what you would call a women’s lib song.
“Are we gonna fight for The Crossroads if they get the dry vote to pass?” Billy asked. He rattled the little wicker basket in front of him against his beer mug, a hint to Sally that he wanted more peanuts. She put another full basket on the bar, and this time Ronny reached out a hand and felt around for some, his eyes still on the Chilton repair manual. He was having a hell of a time with his Volvo. Maybe he shouldn’t have bought foreign. Everyone had warned him he’d never find parts in Aroostook County.
“This old house was built at the turn of the century,” Maurice reminded Billy. “If you’re talking about moving it, forget it. It’s hanging together by threads.”
“Take a look at this,” said Billy, and pulled a folded magazine article out of his pocket. Maurice stared as Billy unrolled it. “The Solved Secrets of the Great Monuments,” its heading read, and Maurice saw that it was accompanied by several illustrations.
“Wow,” said Maurice.
“Look here,” said Billy. He pointed to a picture of a large bluestone lying flat out on wooden rollers and being pulled by a bevy of little stick men. “Here’s how they moved them big stones over in England.” Maurice stared in sincere interest.
“But them big stones weigh tons,” Ronny interrupted, his eyes still on the Chilton manual. “I know, Bill. I’ve seen them in person. This old house’ll crack in two if you move it.”
“And here,” said Billy, ignoring his brother’s pessimism, “is how one man thinks they moved all them pyramid stones, over two and a half million of them limestone suckers. His name is Edward Kunkel, and he thinks they moved them by pumps, hydraulics, and canals full of water. He even thinks that the biggest of them pyramids is actually one big hydraulic ram pump.”
“No kidding,” said Maurice, his elbows now on the bar next to Billy, his eyes on the outline of the Great Pyramid before him. Ronny put down his manual. He had visited the pyramids during a stint in the Suez Canal. The mysteries of the pyramids were more interesting than Volvos.
“So?” asked Ronny.
“So we got to use our brains,” said Billy. “That’s all.”
“But I seen the pyramids,” Ronny insisted. “It took more than brains, believe me. It took some brawn somewhere.”
“You know, Ron,” said Billy. “Even when we was kids, I saw the doughnut and you saw the hole. But that ain’t my point. What I’m trying to say is that man’s been doing the impossible ever since the beginning of time.”
“A big hydraulic pump, huh?” said Maurice, and Billy nodded.
“Why?” asked Ronny, a nonchalance in his words. He’d seen the goddamn pyramids.
“Because it provided water for the whole area,” said Billy, “and think of how cheap it must’ve been.”
“A hydraulic ram pump,” Maurice mused. “I’ll be damned.”
“And there’s the Mattagash River running right past our noses,” said Sally, waiting for the microwave to announce cooked pizza. “We could make it into a kind of parade.”
“If The Crossroads goes down the Mattagash River, you’d have a real float, all right,” said Ronny.
“You know who you are, Ronny?” Billy asked. “You’re the type who was beating on the door of the ark when the water got up to their chin.”
“I have seen the pyramids,” Ronny muttered. “I’ve seen fuckin’ Stonehenge.”
“A big hydraul
ic pump,” Maurice said again. “I’ll be damned.” He examined an artist’s concept of how the Great Pyramid was built, using water locks to float the stones up to the next level of construction.
“This old house’ll break in a hundred pieces,” said Ronny.
“We could roll it on log rollers,” Maurice suggested. “Like that.” He pointed to a sarsen stone being pulled on a massive sledge.
“But, Maurice, I been trying to tell you,” said Ronny. “Them stones ain’t exactly the kind you find along the Mattagash River bank.” He tapped a large gray lintel, which lay in the photo like a beached whale. “Them suckers weigh.”
“That ain’t it, Ron boy,” said Billy, and threw his hands up in exasperation. “The point of all this is that we got history behind us. Men have always figured out ways to outwit the odds against them. All them secret chambers in the Great Pyramid, what do you suppose they was for?”
“A kind of bank?” Sally said excitedly. “To keep jewels and stuff?” She had forgotten the pizza and turned her attention instead to pyramids. “Like them little jewelry boxes at the bank where rich folks keep their shit.”
“Yeah,” Maurice whispered. “A kind of bank.” Already he had let go of the handle of his big hydraulic pump.
“Maybe,” said Billy. “Sure. Why not?”
“A kind of sawmill,” suggested an old-timer who had come to lean over Billy’s shoulder. “With all kinds of sluices for the logs to slide down.”
“Or maybe they were rooms where travelers slept,” Ronny said, staring now at the Queen’s Chamber and the King’s Chamber, both master suites one would never find at the Caribou Days Inn.
“That’s it!” shouted Billy, excitement widening his eyes, the poetry of the moment taking him up in its arms. No matter how far Ronny had traveled, no matter how much he’d seen, Billy knew he could always reel his big brother back home, back to Mattagash, could always lure his attention right into the palm of his hand. “That’s the idea!” Billy said happily. “It’s whatever you want it to be!”
“A big bar,” said Maurice sadly, “where men could go and drink in peace, to get away from women like Prissy Monihan.” A large sigh escaped him, a henpecked sigh rising up from centuries of beleaguered men.
“Dammit, why not!” Billy exclaimed, and punched his fist down on the bar.
“So,” said Maurice. “That’s it then? We move the building next spring?”
“No,” said Billy. Anticlimax was rampant. “That was my first plan, and you might say it was faulty. Ron’s right. This old building ain’t stone. It’s on the last of its wooden legs.”
“What then?” said Maurice. His mind was coming around again, full circle, to the huge hydraulic pump.
“What else do we know about this old house?” asked Billy.
“It’ll break up,” said Ronny.
“It’s held together by threads,” said Maurice.
“And what else?” asked Billy, making them work.
“Well, let’s see,” said Maurice. He helped himself to some peanuts, sensing one of Billy’s magnificent puzzles in all of this. “My grandfather Foster Fennelson built it.”
“No he didn’t,” Sally said. “A man named Luther Monihan, related to all the Monihans around here, he built it.”
“What else do we know about this house?” Billy persisted.
“Well.” Maurice finished off a peanut. “I do know that my father, Casey, was Foster and Mathilda’s youngest son, and they give the old homestead to him.”
“And after Daddy got killed when that skidder rolled on him,” said Sally, “the house went to Maurice.” Brother and sister made eye contact.
“Well, I am the oldest son,” Maurice added. Billy smiled. He remembered the gossip about Casey Fennelson and the skidder. Talk around town had been divided, with the women declaring that Casey was just another casualty of the Fennelson curse, another inheritor of the bad-luck gene. Men, on the other hand, were positive Casey had been more a victim of the stupid gene. He’d been known to drive that skidder through the woods as though it were some kind of orange speedboat. However, Billy had more important issues on his mind.
“But what else?” he asked, impatient with his players.
“It was moved down here from Mattagash Brook around 1950,” said Maurice, “and it’s been sitting here ever since.”
“It was moved here in 1960,” said Sally. “All except the summer kitchen and the barn.” She looked sharply at Maurice. “I’m the oldest daughter. I should know.”
“It ain’t my fault the old man wanted me to have the house,” Maurice said pitifully.
“Yes it is,” said Sally. “You asked him for it.”
“No I didn’t,” Maurice lied.
“There’s trees growing out of the windows of the summer kitchen,” said Sally. She ignored Maurice’s tearful expression. “And the roof of the old barn caved in on itself. I saw it once, on a canoe trip. The house used to be white back then. It’s really kind of sad.”
“But what else?” Billy whispered dramatically. He pushed the basket of peanuts closer to Ronny and then went at his teeth with a fingernail. Peanut bits were hell to pick out of crevices, harder sometimes to move than lintels.
“It’s supposed to be haunted,” Sally continued. “Folks have said so for years. Maurice is so afraid of ghosts that he won’t go upstairs alone.”
“That ain’t true,” Maurice lied again. “There just ain’t no reason to go up there, other than the front room where we store stuff. The rest is just old empty rooms and creaky floors.”
“Boo!” Ronny shouted, and grabbed Maurice by the nape of the neck.
“Goddamn you, Ron!” Maurice choked, his face berry red, his heart fluttering. He’d been jumpy since kindergarten, and so most folks in Mattagash had long tired of ambushing his nerves. But Ronny Plunkett had been gone for most of the last twenty years, and it seemed to Maurice that Ronny had a bushel of boos to get out of his system.
“The town was supposed to buy it from Daddy to make a new town office,” Sally went on in the same level voice. She was used to seeing Maurice jump. “But everybody fought so much he just left it sit here.”
“Goddamn you, Ronny Plunkett!” Maurice sputtered.
“Grammie Mathilda’s still alive,” said Sally. “She’s at Pine Valley.”
“She must be almost a hundred,” Maurice said, his voice shrill. But he was hoping to regain his place in the conversation.
“She’s a hundred and seven,” said Sally. “To be exact.” She and Maurice made more sibling eye contact.
“Hell, she’s that old?” asked Ronny. “How old’s this house?”
“It was built in 1906,” said Maurice.
“In 1896,” corrected Sally.
“Oops,” Maurice said apologetically. “Don’t you ever do that again,” he whispered to Ronny.
“Foster and Mathilda bought it in 1897,” said Sally. “I looked this all up for the Mattagash Historical Society.”
“Some of it is put together with wooden pegs, instead of nails,” said Maurice. “That’s how they built things back then.”
“Well, Christ Almighty,” said Ronny. “This is one hell of an old building then.”
Billy jumped to his feet and thrust both arms up toward heaven.
“Bull’s-eye!” he screamed. “This is a goddamned historical site!”
“A historical site, huh?” Maurice said.
“It’s the oldest house in Mattagash, all right,” said Sally. “Maybe even in Aroostook County.”
“Ladies and gentlemen,” Billy said. “What you missed while you were tramping through the fuckin’ forests to find the goddamn trees is the whole point of this little talk.” He took another clipping from his pocket, this one from the Bangor Daily News, and spread it dramatically on the bar. PRESERVATION TO BEGIN ON STATE’
S OLDEST BUILDINGS, the headline declared. Then, while the others read, he began looking for a quarter or two in his pocket. It was high time he heard “All My Ex’s Live in Texas” again. He felt good. He had reunited the Druids, had given them hope for a ceremonial clearing in the forest.
“So what should we do now?” one of the Druids, Maurice, asked. “What’s gonna happen to my bar?”
“That’s just it, Maurice sweetheart,” said Billy. “This ain’t a bar anymore.” He pushed Q12. George Strait had just won “Entertainer of the Year” the month before down in Nashville, down in good ole Music City.
“‘All my ex’s live in Texas,’” George Strait sang. “‘That’s why I hang my hat in Tennessee.’”
“Amen, George,” said Billy. “I hear you.” He looked up to see Pike Gifford sauntering in, a big Gifford grin spread clear across his face.
“Just in time for my favorite song, huh?” Pike said as he flung his green felt hat on the deer antlers. Billy returned the smile.
“Well, don’t just leave us hanging,” said Sally. “What is it you’re talking about?”
“This ain’t a bar anymore, that’s what,” Billy said. He pushed B7, “’Til I’m Too Old to Die Young,” his second favorite song.
“It ain’t?” asked Maurice, imagining himself the proprietor of a huge hydraulic pump.
“It ain’t?” asked Ronny.
“Negatory,” said Billy. He looked at his companions. Sometimes it seemed no matter how he taught them, they were destined to remain philistines.
“What then?” asked Sally.
“It’s a museum,” Billy Plunkett announced, “that serves refreshments.”
ANOTHER KIND OF SNOW JOB: THE FIRST SUPPER
And as they sat and did eat, Jesus said, Verily I say unto you, One of you which eateth with me shall betray me.
—Mark 14:18
Amy Joy had spent a few toss-and-turn nights over the situation with her mother. Sicily had her rights, after all. Maybe the best thing would be to find someone willing to move in and care for Sicily, so that Amy Joy could move out and into a little apartment in Bangor or near her horrible relatives down in Portland. Then she could find one of those “experience helpful but not necessary” jobs she’d been dreaming of for years. Checking out books at a library would be a nice occupation, Amy Joy supposed, an opportunity to run a finger across the covers and titles of nature guides she never realized existed.
The Weight of Winter Page 23
