Joe Burke's Last Stand
Every Story Is A Love Story
John Moncure Wetterau
© 2000 by John Moncure Wetterau
Library of Congress Number: 00-193498
ISBN #: Hardcover 0-7388-1663-9
ISBN #: Softcover 0-9729587-2-X
This work is licensed under the Creative Commons Attribution-NoDerivs-NonCommercial License. Essentially, anyone is free to copy, distribute, or perform this copyrighted work for non-commercial uses only, so long as the work is preserved verbatim and is attributed to the author. To view a copy of this license, visit
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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, or to any events or locales is entirely coincidental.
Published by:
Fox Print Books
137 Emery Street
Portland, Maine 04102
207.775.6860
[email protected]
Thanks to Larry Dake, Christopher Evers, Bruce Gordon, Majo Keleshian, Jane Lowenstein, Sylvester Pollet, and Nancy Wallace for valuable suggestions and invaluable support. Gino’s poem, “Aesthetic,” is by Sylvester Pollet and is used with his permission.
Cover print: copy after Ogata Korin, 1658-1716.
This book is for Rosy
Joe Burke's Last Stand
1
“My rig’s a little old, but that don't mean she's slow—Batman—that don't mean she's slow.” Joe Burke was singing, driving south. His rig was a blue Ford pickup with a battered cap on the back. Batman, all six inches of him, was propped upright on the dash.
Joe followed signs to the Weston Priory, climbing through woods and out onto an open plateau. A cluster of wooden buildings stood near a pond. A monk was raking leaves from a path that curved around the pond like a trotter's track. Joe got out, stretched, and entered a gift shop by the parking lot. A middle aged woman seated next to the cash register closed her book.
“Where is everybody? Rehearsing?” She smiled slightly and remained silent. “Lovely day,” Joe said.
“Yes, isn't it.”
He bought a cassette made by the monks. “A bit stagy, Batman,” he said climbing into the truck and closing the door. “We must continue to seek truth and contend with the forces of evil.” Batman stared resolutely ahead.
Joe cut over to the interstate. When he reached the highway, he played the cassette: resonant voices and a single guitar, encouraging. “Sappy,” Ingrid had declared impatiently. Joe smiled. She was free of his taste in music now—had been for a year and a half.
At Brattleboro, he turned off the highway, rented a motel room, and walked into town. He found a brew pub where he sat at a corner table with a pint of ruby brown ale—cool and fresh, the malt veiled with lacy astringent hops. He had another and watched the bartender talk on the telephone, her elbows and breasts on the bar, a vertical worry line dropping between her eyes. She was about his daughter Kate's age. The room began to fill, the nasal sound of New York mixing with flat New England tones. The Connecticut River valley narrows in Brattleboro, a gateway to upper New England for New Yorkers. He was going through in the other direction, trying to figure out what to do next. What do you do at 52 when the kids are grown? The same things all over again?
He took out a notebook and remembered the drive—the blue sky, the red and gold ridges, small fields tilting greenly in their arms. On such a day, one could almost be forgiven, he wrote.
A blonde woman with a wry smile, an experienced charmer, sat down at the next table. He considered having another ale, making friends with her and starting a new life in Brattleboro or over the mountain in Bennington, but he knew that he was fooling himself. It was too familiar; he might as well have stayed in Maine.
“Gotta go,” he said to her sadly. She raised her eyebrows, acknowledging the human condition, and he walked back to the motel. At the edge of town, trees were dark behind a body of water that was platinum and still. Fish broke the surface with soft slaps in the centers of expanding circles. Ansel Adams might have caught the many shades of silver just before the lights went out.
The next afternoon Joe was across the Hudson, driving through the mountains on roads that were more crowded than he remembered. There were many new houses and the trees were larger. He stopped on the hill by his grandparents' old house in Woodstock. Captain Ben had retired during the depression to that rocky hillside and made a homely paradise of gardens and fruit trees. A slow silent job. Emily was beside him, canning, cooking, and mothering. They said you couldn't grow pears around there. We ate a lot of pears, Joe thought. And plums, apples, rhubarb, strawberries, asparagus . . . The house smelled of geraniums from the solar greenhouse that his grandfather built onto the dining room long before anyone ever heard of a solar greenhouse.
Captain Ben was a son of an old Virginia family who in better days had owned Monticello. Lee's Lieutenants lined a living room shelf. Noblesse oblige came with mother's milk. You are born privileged; you have an obligation. He had a company garden when he was serving in the Philippines—men who got out of line did time weeding and afterwards ate fresh vegetables. Once a year he would go to town and whip the touring chess master who was playing 20 people at once. “Pawn to King's four,” he taught Joe, “control the center.” Joe opened with pawn to Queen's knight four, bringing a smile. “Learn the hard way, huh?”
He died when Joe was in seventh grade, and Joe spent his high school years with his grandmother, well cared for, but living more or less alone. She remarried about the time Joe graduated. The new husband moved Lee's Lieutenants to the attic and Joe moved out. The house that Joe remembered had disappeared inside a gaudy renovation, but the mountains hadn't changed. What is it about land, Joe wondered. It gets inside you, deep as your loves, maybe deeper.
He ate dinner in town. He saw Aaron Shultis across the street, but Aaron didn't recognize him after twenty-five years. Joe drove back into the hills and parked by a narrow lane across from the one room schoolhouse where he had gone to fifth grade. He fell asleep in a cradle of memories: fucking Sally in this very spot . . . apple fights, BB gun fights, the sound of the schoolhouse bell calling them out of the woods after a long recess.
A steady rain was bringing down the leaves when Joe woke up. He drove over to Morgan's house and pounded on the door. When Morgan opened, Joe could smell breakfast cooking.
“Joe, well, well. What brings you out in the rain?”
“Hey, Morgan, bacon! They say you're cooking bacon.”
“They're right. Come on in.”
“Remember that time you were hitching to Florida and you met those guys heading for Georgia because they'd heard that a Salvation Army cook was serving meat?”
“Some trip that was.” Morgan was grayer but still powerful. “So, what are you doing?”
“Starting over. I've been saving since Ingrid and I split up. I put a bed in the back of the truck, got rid of a bunch of stuff, and here I am.”
“When did you leave? You want some eggs?”
“Three days ago. That's affirmative on the eggs,” Joe said. “I've had it with computer programming. Jamming all that stuff in your head messes you up. You wake up at two in the morning and start working.”
“Good money,” Morgan said.
“For good reason.”
“Did you sell everything?”
“Just about. Kept my tools, a couple of boxes of books, some clothes. Kept the c
at, Jeremy, but he jumped ship on Deer Isle at my father's. Oh yeah, my notebooks, a footlocker full—I was wondering if you'd stash them for me. I'd hate to lose them; they go all the way back.”
“Sure. Maybe you'll write a book one of these days.”
“I don't know; all I ever do is look at things and try to describe them. Should have been a painter like my father. No talent, though. Anyway, after I took off, I went up to see him and Ann on Deer Isle. He gave me a painting for Kate.”
“How is he?”
“Going with his boots on. Just before I left, he gave me a drink from his stash of Laphroiag in the barn. We had a country music toast. `Younger women, faster horses, older whiskey, and more money,' he said. I asked him if `children, old dogs, and watermelon wine' wouldn't cut it.”
“Tom T. Hall songs,” Morgan said.
“Right. My father just laughed. I think he was trying to tell me something but didn't know how.”
“Hard to communicate at this point, I suppose,” Morgan said. “What's next?”
“Drive out and see Kate. Me and Batman—he's riding on the dash.” Joe gave Morgan the cassette from the Weston Priory. “Try this some stormy night.”
“O.K.,” Morgan said. “The damnedest thing . . . I bought a tape of Chesapeake Bay sea chanteys a while back. One of the voices was familiar. I looked on the picture of the group and there was Jason! I hadn't even noticed.”
“Best banjo player I ever heard,” Joe said. “He disappeared into the world of big biz. What a waste. I thought he'd given up on music.”
“Why don't you take it? I'll pick up another.”
“ Good deal, a trade. So, how's Daisy doing? I was thinking of dropping in and saying hello.”
“She's in France. She's fine.” Morgan took a piece of bacon. “She and Wes have stuck together. Of course it helps if you can nip off to Provence whenever you feel like it. Their daughter, Yvonne, just got married. Jake is in New Zealand, I think. Nice kids.”
“New Zealand? That's where Max is, Ingrid's son.” Joe hesitated. “I remember when Daisy was choosing. She said, `I feel happy and excited when I'm with you, and I feel warm and safe when I'm with Wes.”' Joe shook his head. “Knowing what I do now, about women that is, I'd say she made the mainstream choice. She'd have had rice and beans with me.”
“Red beans and rice aren't bad,” Morgan said.
“True. We could have gone the distance, though. Strange how you know these things . . . Not that I haven't had good relationships since. I mean, Sally and I had Kate, and then I had the chance to be part of Maxie's life. I wouldn't trade that for anything, but . . . So, how's your love life?”
Morgan's eyebrows raised. “Prospects are bright,” he said.
“Prospects, plural?”
“Singular,” he said.
“Yok, excellent. And the book, how's that coming along?”
“Slowly. My publisher's annoyed, but he's used to delays.”
“And The Houses of the Hudson Valley aren't going anywhere.”
“I wish that were true,” Morgan said. “They're going downhill. On the other hand, if they weren't, I wouldn't have any work.”
“Rot,” Joe said, “your enemy.”
“Neglect,” Morgan said.
They finished breakfast and hauled Joe's footlocker to the barn. “I'm going to have a book shop when I retire,” Morgan said.
“The fortress and the cork,” Joe said, putting down one end of the footlocker in a room filled with books. “Two good strategies: strong walls or travel light, bob up and down in the heavy weather.”
“You always did travel light,” Morgan said, “but you probably don't bob as well as you did.” Joe hopped on both feet to demonstrate his buoyancy.
“Thanks for the reminder.” Departures required gallantry. “Good eggs. Listen, if you get a chance . . . give Daisy my love. Tell her nothing's changed.” Morgan nodded and they walked out to the truck. “Take care of yourself,” Joe said. “Hang in there.”
“Good luck,” Morgan said.
Joe drove down the mountain in the rain. When he reached Route 212, he turned towards Phoenicia. His old high school district covered a thousand square miles; half an hour later as he crossed its western boundary, he felt a twinge of nostalgia and relief. It was like graduating again; his mind was free to drift forward.
At tech school in the Air Force, he used to spend Friday and Saturday nights in the BX with a guy named Shannon. The BX was always jammed with G.I.'s drinking cheap beer and eating French fries. One man tried to keep up with the empties and the dirty dishes. He was bald, slow moving, friendly, and particular. His cart was organized to hold as much as possible on each trip. It seemed like the original dead end job, but he did it well, never flustered, taking pride in his cart and the tables that were clean for moments. He told Joe once that he was saving money to buy tools so that he could help in his friend's garage.
As Joe drove, the rain and fog lifted, revealing lonely bays and wooded hillsides. Route 30 curved endlessly along the banks of the Pepacton Reservoir. Joe had the highest entrance score they'd ever recorded in that Air Force tech school. Sergeant Quimby told him, reading it, unbelieving. Joe was an athlete, a most likely to succeed guy; yet there he was every weekend in the BX with Shannon, fascinated by the aging bus boy loading his cart. And Shannon? He was from Ten Mile Creek, south of Pittsburgh; what had happened to him? Joe decided to cut through Cat Hollow and over to Roscoe on Route 17. He followed 17 west, taking his time, enjoying the October colors. He had lunch in Hancock and stayed overnight in a motel outside Painted Post.
The next afternoon he was in Ten Mile Creek, coal country. A black hill in the distance, the highest point around, turned out to be a slag pile. Containers suspended from cable were hauled up the pile, tipped over, and returned upside down. The top of a silo, last sign of a buried barn, waited a few feet above a spreading shoulder of slag. The air was gritty and had a sulfurous tang.
He stopped outside an American Legion hall and walked into a dimly lit bar. In one corner a fat man sat upright before a video poker machine. Only his right hand moved as he inserted quarters, one after another. Joe sat at the bar, three stools down from a short guy who was staring over the top of a half empty glass of beer. The bartender moved a step in his direction and waited.
“I'll have a beer,” Joe said, putting a five dollar bill in front of him. The bartender was about forty. He had a blonde crew cut and a face like a poker chip, Robert Redford run into a door. He set the beer down, made change, and resumed his position. It was oddly as though he hadn't moved at all.
“I was in the service—with a guy named Shannon. Long time ago. Said he was from around here.” Silence. Friendly place.
“Which service?” Shorty didn't turn his head.
“Air Force.”
“That'd be Bobby,” Shorty said.
“Yeah,” Joe said, “Bobby.”
“Jacky, he went in the Navy.”
“Bobby was a good guy. He around?” Shorty glanced at the bartender. They had a committee meeting.
“California,” the bartender said.
“California,” Shorty confirmed. “Stayed in and retired. He's out there cashing checks with eagles on 'em.”
“Shit,” Joe said. “Would'a liked to seen him.”
“Two more, Floyd.” The gambler said, putting a twenty on the bar.
The bartender laid two quarter rolls soundlessly next to the bill and asked, “You come around just to look up Bobby Shannon?”
“I, ah, well, got sick of working. Had some money saved. Thought I'd take a break, look around.” Shorty shook his head. “I mean, what do you do after . . . “ Joe meant, after you'd done pretty well, at least compared to these guys.
The bartender said:
“Beware of gnawing the ideogram of nothingness:
Your teeth will crack. Swallow it whole, and you've a treasure
Beyond the hope of Buddha and the Mind. The east breeze
&nbs
p; Fondles the horses ears: how sweet the smell of plum.”
“What!?”
“Mitsuhiro, 17th century,” the bartender said. For an instant his eyes came at Joe like horses jumping the gate.
“Who are you?” Joe asked.
“Pretty Boy Floyd,” said Shorty. “Best athlete ever come out of this town.” There was a blaze of sound from the poker machine followed by a crash of quarters. Shorty turned his head. “I'll take some of that, Earl.”
“Can't win if you don't play,” Earl said.
“Used to pitch for the Pirates,” Shorty said. The bartender's expression didn't change. Joe noticed that he stood balanced on both feet.
“Why aren't you teaching in a university somewhere?” Joe asked him.
“You know Bob Dylan's line about the difference between hospitals and universities?”
“No.”
“More people die in universities. Also . . . ” He did a quick soft-shoe shuffle. “I drink, so be it.” A trace of amusement crossed his face. Mitsuhiro, Dylan, and Mr. Bojangles; one, two, three. A silent ump pumped his right fist. Joe was gone.
“Let me buy a round,” Joe said. About four beers later he got into the truck, blinking. “Jesus, Batman, Ten Mile Creek, hell of a place!” He made it to a motel and called it a day.
The next morning he had a big breakfast. The grip of the Northeast was loosening. Driving all day was beginning to seem natural. “Roll `em, Batman,” he said, “Bach first. Then, we'll move on to Gabby Pahinui, get into Willy Nelson, and The Grateful Dead. We've got a delivery for Kate.” The truck was running great. Traffic was light. Ohio went by, and Indiana, like a dream.
2
Madison, Minneapolis, Fargo, the long run over to Missoula, Spokane, Seattle, finally. Joe parked by Ivar's and stretched, tired but satisfied. He was meeting Kate for lunch where they could look across Puget Sound.
Joe Burke's Last Stand Page 1
