Straightening up from the potato pile, Chimney looked toward the thinning woods on the far side of the cotton patch. Even after almost three months, he could still hear those women laughing at him. He’d been too ashamed to tell his brothers what had happened, though he was sure Cane knew there had never been any fucking or anything else going on between him and Penelope. Only he and Cob were dumb enough to believe something like that could ever happen. And what the Major said was true. Tomorrow, they would be back over there in the swamp killing themselves for damn near nothing. The keys to the fuckin’ kingdom, all right. Hell, they still owed the mutton-chopped tyrant for the hog they were eating on. He ignored Cob’s question, and instead glanced over at Cane. “What about it, brother? You had enough yet?”
Wiping some sweat from his brow, Cane looked toward the cabin. They’d had this discussion a hundred times or more since they’d first come across the Bloody Bill book, and it was always the same, Cob afraid of changing anything and Chimney burning to change it all. Of course, Chimney was right, nothing was ever going to get any better as long as they stayed with Pearl. And though Cane knew the book was fictitious, sometimes it still seemed closer to the truth than anything he had read in his mother’s Bible. According to Charles Foster Winthrop III, the world was an unjust, despicable place lorded over by a select pack of the rich and ruthless, and the only way for a poor man to get ahead was to ignore the laws that they enforced on everybody but themselves. And from what Cane had seen in his twenty-three years of barely surviving, how could he disagree? Of course, he couldn’t go along with rape or murder, but, he had to admit, the idea of robbing a bank did possess a certain appeal. Just a few minutes of daring could possibly change their lives forever. Still, out of some old-fashioned loyalty or deep-seated superstition he was unable to shake, Cane was loath to desert their dotty old father. To do so might curse him and his brothers for the rest of their lives. No, it would be better just to wait it out. He watched Pearl stumble on the two steps leading up to the door of the shack. “Ain’t no reason to get in a hurry now,” he told Chimney. “You best stick with me and Cob. Our day’s comin’ soon enough.”
“You mean for the heavenly table?” Cob asked.
“Well, not exactly,” Cane said in a patient voice, “but don’t worry. You’ll get there one of these days.”
Chimney let out an exasperated groan. “Jesus Christ, you’re startin’ to sound like Pap.” Standing up, he wiped his hands on the front of his pants. “All right then,” he said, “I’ll give it a little longer.” He started off toward the water bucket sitting in the shade of the tulip tree, then stopped in his tracks. Cane and Cob watched him tilt his head and stare for a moment at the blanched and cloudless sky, his wet rag of a shirt clinging to his bony back. The only sound to be heard was Pearl’s faint whistling inside the cabin. Chimney spat in the dust and shook his head. “The heavenly table,” he said loudly over his shoulder as he began walking again. “Pork chops thick as a bull’s cock, beefsteaks the size of wagon wheels, buttered biscuits as hot and fluffy as the tits on…”
Cane smiled to himself and reached down. He picked up another potato and looked it over, then placed it on top of the good pile.
8
THE DAY AFTER returning from Parker’s store, Ellsworth hitched up the wagon around noon and started down the road toward Meade. He had made up his mind during the night. It had occurred to him, as he lay in bed digesting his supper and wondering how many miles away Germany might be, that he also had no idea what the war was even about. He rolled over in bed and stared out the window into the darkness on the other side of the rippled pane. He had once shucked corn with an old man named Garnet Quick who had lost an ear in the War Between the States, the one they fought over freeing the slaves, and Ellsworth had harbored a sneaking suspicion ever since he’d talked to the man that a war could get started over the least little thing. And if the fight wasn’t worth fighting, he had reasoned, as he lay there listening to Eula call out to Pickles in her sleep, then how could he sit by without raising a finger and allow his only son to take a chance on getting maimed or even killed?
By that evening, Ellsworth was standing on a hill overlooking the army camp splayed out north of the town on the other side of the Scioto River. It was much larger than he’d expected, as big as most cities, he reckoned, and for the first time all day, he began to have doubts that he could get Eddie back even if he did find him. Ellsworth had been to Meade a few times in his life, and though he had been confident when he left home, he had forgotten about the lonely, insecure feeling that always came over him when he was among a crowd of complete strangers. Now, staring across at the huge camp, still under construction but already filled with hundreds of soldiers and trucks and horses—even a flying machine, only the second one the farmer had ever seen in his life, circling like a buzzard above it all—he grew nervous. There were forces at work down there along the river that would intimidate almost anybody. And not just there, either. Why, just a couple of hours ago, he had seen a woman dressed in men’s trousers driving a Ford Coupe out along the Huntington Pike all by herself. As he watched the airplane make one more pass over the camp and then land on a flat strip of ground outlined in whitewash, Ellsworth rubbed his chin and recalled standing around the stove in Parker’s store one night last winter and someone, maybe Tick Osborne, saying that these were what people called “modern times.” Most of those gathered there were in agreement that the world now seemed head over heels in love with what the tycoons and politicians kept referring to as “progress,” but before they could begin arguing the pros and cons of exactly what that was going to mean in the long run, Jimmy Beulah spoke up and said, “ ‘End times’ is more like it.” Then he spat on the stove, and Kermit Saunders passed him a bottle and said, “Amen,” and the only sound you could hear in the store after that was the crackle of Jimmy’s spit on the black metal lid.
Suddenly, Ellsworth wished he had followed Eula’s advice and given the boy a couple of more days to come back on his own before he went looking for him. When the sun began to sink in the west, he gathered up an armful of corn husks from the bed of the wagon and dumped them on the ground for the mule, then ate a hunk of fried bread and two turnips for his own supper. He washed it down with water from a gourd jug, and wished he had remembered to bring along a jar of wine to keep him company. Unhitching his suspenders, he took off his shirt and loosened his pants, then lay down with a corn knife at his side. As the darkness settled in, a few stars began to appear above him and an owl hooted its lonely call from a nearby tree. He would make his way, he thought, to the army camp first thing in the morning. He hoped to Christ, if Eddie was there, that he hadn’t sworn any oaths or made his mark on any papers yet. Though Ellsworth didn’t have any proof other than his word, he would argue that the boy had just turned sixteen. That alone should be enough, he figured, though he could also add that Eddie was needed at home to help with the farm. But what if they still wouldn’t turn loose of him? He stared at the kite-shaped outline of Boötes as he tallied up the boy’s defects. All right then, if nothing else worked, he’d swallow his pride and tell them his son was as lazy a drunkard and thief as any in the country, and that an army that would take someone like that must already be on the verge of losing the battle. True, there were plenty of men around who could outdrink the boy ten to one, and, as far as he knew, the only thing Eddie had stolen in his life was that damn magazine from the schoolteacher, but the people running the camp wouldn’t know that. Ellsworth ran these arguments over and over in his head until the lids of his eyes grew heavy as stones, and he finally began to snore along with the mule, both of them dreaming, on that warm and moonless night, of nothing in particular.
He awakened early the next morning and splashed some water on his face, rubbed a bluebell leaf over the few teeth he had left. Unwrapping a piece of linen that contained two hard-boiled eggs, he peeled the shells off with his thumbnail. He ate them slowly while longing for a cup of coffee
and gazing over at the army base. Then he watered the mule and started down the hill toward Meade along a dirt lane shaded by box elder and sweet gum. Half an hour later, he came out into the sunlight and the main road. Off in the distance, he saw a black man stripped to the waist and pulling weeds out of a row of beans. Ellsworth wondered how much one like that would cost him if he couldn’t get his son back. A big one, he figured, would charge plenty, but perhaps he could find something smaller—hell, even a sick one could probably outdo Eddie—who would still put in a good day’s work for a fair price.
He had just started up again when he saw what appeared to be a caravan headed toward him, taking up most of the road. In the lead was a motorcar driven by a swarthy, toothsome man dressed in a paisley vest and a frilly white shirt. A jewel big as an eyeball glinted from a ring on one of his hands. Following him was a canvas-covered dray refitted with rubber tires and pulled by four horses. A frightful-looking woman with massive thighs puffed on a cigarillo while holding the reins loosely. Beside her on the cushioned wagon seat was another girl, with a bruised face that reminded Ellsworth of a windfall apple left too long on the ground. She had her skirts hiked up and her skinny legs gaped apart, airing her privates. A few feet behind them was a second man, riding a red roan. He was dressed in dusty black clothes and had two pistols strapped to his thick waist. Glancing back after they passed, Ellsworth saw another woman through an opening in the back of the wagon. She was seated on a wooden chair running a brush through her long yellow hair. Not a one of them had acknowledged the farmer, and he traveled on to Meade listening to the creaking of the leather harness and the steady dull plop of the mule’s hooves against the hard-packed road, pondering what in the world such people might be about.
9
THE JEWETTS WERE working frantically to finish clearing off the swamp before the offer of the chicken bonus expired. Just that morning, Tardweller had stopped by to remind them they had only two days left. They actually had three, but he was a little pissed off by the progress they had made. He figured if any of them argued about it, he’d just tell them the deal was off. A few hens weren’t anything to him, but he’d bet a couple of his hunting buddies fifty dollars each that they’d never get done in time. Still, no matter how it turned out, he’d definitely gotten his money’s worth out of these idiots. Regular men would have charged him ten times as much and taken twice as long for the work they were doing. Sitting in his canopied buggy, he glanced at Pearl out of the corner of his eye, then casually mentioned that he was on his way to Farleigh to get more ice for his wife and daughter. “Be glad when it cools off some,” he said. “I can’t hardly keep up with ’em, they go through it so fast.”
The Major waited on the old man to say something, but Pearl just slowly nodded. Though even breathing the thick, humid air required extra effort, he hardly broke a sweat anymore. It was as if he were drying up and turning into worm dust himself. He stood beside the buggy and waited to be dismissed while Tardweller watched Cob and Chimney drag some brush to the edge of the clearing. For several minutes, the only sounds to be heard were the steady chunk, chunk, chunk of Cane’s ax against a soft pine, and the airy swish of the paper fan the Major was waving at his fat face. “By God,” he finally said to Pearl, “even if ye don’t win them hens, you sure give it a good try.” Then he drove off laughing.
That afternoon, Pearl’s stomach started acting up and he threw down his ax and hurried behind a bush, his hands fumbling with the knot he had tied in his rope belt. Ever since they’d started eating on that sick hog, he’d been prone to the squirts. He was squatted down with his pants around his knees when he suddenly emitted a high-pitched cry and toppled forward on his face. His sons, scattered across the clearing, all turned and looked at one another. Cob began to run in Pearl’s direction. “Keep an eye out,” Cane yelled. “He probably been bit.” The rotting carcasses of at least twenty rattlers and cottonmouths they had killed over the last several weeks hung from the lower branches of a huge oak standing alone in the middle of the hacked acres. Tardweller had ordered them not to touch the tree because it held, as he put it, “sentimental value,” and the brothers had whiled away hours speculating on what he might mean, Cane and Chimney finally agreeing that under that blue shade was probably where the man had gotten his first piece of ass. Such a spot, they figured, would be memorable to anyone, even that arrogant skinflint. Cob stopped and grabbed the rusty saber, then took off again. By that time, the others were only a few feet behind him.
After looking about for a snake, they turned Pearl over and searched for a bite mark, but found no sign of one. Although his eyes were open, they were fixed blankly on something that only he could see. A thin web of spittle hung from his chin whiskers to his Adam’s apple. Cob scratched his head and said, “I think he’s takin’ a nap.” He and Cane were on their knees on either side of the old man.
“No, he’s sick,” Chimney said. “I saw him puke up his biscuit this morning.” He stepped back a couple of feet, started trying to squeeze a splinter out of the palm of his hand.
Cane leaned over and put his ear against Pearl’s chest. He listened for a minute, then raised up. “Jesus,” he said. He grabbed hold of the old man’s bony shoulders and shook him.
“What ye doin’?” Chimney asked.
“Pap?” Cane said. “Hey, Pap.” He shook him again, but not so hard this time.
“Well?”
“I think his ol’ heart’s give out.”
“No way,” Chimney said. “Hell, I couldn’t keep up with him five minutes ago.”
“He sleeps pretty hard sometimes,” Cob said, gently smoothing his hand over Pearl’s forehead. “Poor ol’ Pap, he’s just tired, is all.”
“No,” Cane said, “that’s not it.” He turned and looked at Chimney. “I hate to say it, but I think he’s gone.”
Cob’s brow wrinkled and his hand moved down to pick a burr off Pearl’s shirt. For a moment, his brothers wondered if he understood, but then he said, as casually as if he were talking about the weather, “Well, that makes sense, I reckon. Remember what he said this morning?”
“No,” Cane said, “I don’t recall.”
“He said he could see someone a-settin’ a plate out for him. I just thought he was goin’ on about them ghosts again, but I bet he was talkin’ about the heavenly table, wasn’t he?”
“Shit, that don’t mean nothin’,” Chimney said. “That’s all he ever talked about.”
“Yeah, but still…”
Nothing else was said for several minutes, and Cane pushed Pearl’s muddy brown eyes closed with his thumbs, his living hands framing the wasted face for a moment like a picture hanging on a wall. Then he raised up and looked about the clearing. To his disgust, he found himself thinking that there was no way they would ever finish in time to get the chicken bonus now. The least he could have done was speak up this morning when Tardweller lied through his goddamn teeth about how many days they had left. That would have been something anyway, taking up for the old feller one last time. He fought down a sick feeling rising in his throat and said quietly to Cob, “Help me get his pants back up.”
As he stood watching, Chimney spat on his hands, then ran them through his hair. He wondered what Penelope was doing, hating her more than ever just then. From what he had seen those weeks he had worked in the barn, all she ever did was ride around in her college beau’s automobile and drink lemonade on the front porch. Well, whatever it was, she sure as hell wasn’t standing soaked with sweat in a field staring down at a dark, bloody lump behind her father’s feet, green bottle flies already buzzing around it. An anxious feeling swept over him just then, a wild desire to take off running and never look back, and he turned about in a circle several times before he could get settled down. Goddamn, he thought, just takin’ a shit. What a lousy way to go. Snake bit would have been a hundred times better.
Cob finished tying the belt and looked up at the sky. Somewhere out there beyond that blue expanse was the new co
untry his father would soon be entering, one blessed with goodness and cool breezes and an everlasting repast. He smiled. There was nothing to be sad about. As he had heard Pearl say many times since his meeting with the hermit, a certain amount of suffering was called for to gain entry into paradise, and now that trial was over with for him. “Just think,” Cob said. “The heavenly table. He’s got it made now, don’t he?”
“He sure does,” said Chimney. “Shame we couldn’t have hitched a ride with him. Hell, they probably already fittin’ him for his feed bag.”
“This ain’t the time to be jokin’ around,” Cane told him.
“Maybe not,” Chimney said, “but I think Cob’s right. That poor old sonofabitch lying there just got the only thing he’s wanted for years. Christ, we should be happy for him.”
Although Cane couldn’t dispute the logic in his brother’s argument, such an attitude was still, to his way of thinking, a little too swift and coldhearted for the occasion. It was only right that a tear or two be shed, or, at the very least, some kind words spoken, before you started poking fun at someone’s passing. He stood up and walked over to the water bucket to retrieve his shirt. As he did so, he heard Cob say, “Well, I know I am. Heck, he’ll be eatin’ steaks big around as wagon wheels, and tender as…as…Oh, shoot, how tender was them steaks again, Chimney?”
The Heavenly Table Page 5
