A Far Piece to Canaan

by Sam Halpern

  Bob did, and you could see the main line moving fast back and forth under the water. There was a swirl a couple of minutes later and the biggest catfish I ever saw rolled.

  “Hit’s a monster cat,” Fred screamed, and almost jumped over the side.

  “Sit down, Fred. You’ll turn us over!” Alfred shouted.

  Meantime, Bob picked up a sculling oar and yelled, “Bring her around, Alfred, so I can get a lick at him if he comes up again.”

  Alfred pulled like mad with Fred and me trying to stay out of his way. The cat rolled again and WHACK! Bob almost cut it in half. It weighed forty-two pound.

  In the next few weeks, we ate so much fish I thought I’d turn into one. Wudn’t a family in ten mile that didn’t get one mess from us and sometimes two or three.

  It was a warm fall and everything went fine until near Thanksgiving when it started raining. It kept raining and we knew the river was going to rise and tear up our line. Bob said, wet or dry, we were going to run the line the next day, which was a Saturday.

  It was 8:30 when I woke up. We generally got started earlier, so I jumped into my clothes and run to wake Bob. He wudn’t there! His bed had been slept in but he was gone. Dad’s car was gone too. Bob left me! They run the line without me!

  I was screaming mad and took off for the river at a run, down past the Mulligans’ to where the Dry Branch Creek was roaring across the road making me cross at Cummings Hill narrows by crawling over it on a tree limb, on past where the Langleys and LD caught the bus, running and crying until I was wore out and had to walk in a cold rain down the lane toward Ben Begley’s.

  By the time I got to the bottoms, I was wet through my hide. I fell going through the melon patch and got mud all over me. Then here come the dogs. I was so mad I wudn’t thinking about them. They scared me and I took off running like a fool toward the river and downstream. I must’ve really been moving because when I looked up it was nigh a quarter mile back to the sycamore. The dogs were barking their heads off, their big yellow bodies almost being yanked onto their backs by the chains as they leaped up in the air toward me.

  The river was something to see, roaring and rolling with big trees coming down it and the water about as brown as the mud in the melon patch. I walked along the edge toward the sycamore. The sound was so loud I could hardly hear the dogs anymore. I could see the skiff now, bobbing up and down and swinging about. All of a sudden, the ground gave out from under my feet and just before I went over the bank into the river I managed to grab hold of a sapling. I was trying to pull myself back up on the bank when I felt the sapling start to give. I looked down and there wudn’t nothing under me but water and it was cutting deeper into the bank. Just as the sapling pulled out of the ground a big hand grabbed my wrist and yanked me in the air, then two giant arms wrapped around me and we moved back from the river. I started bawling like a baby and wrapped my arms around whoever it was and hung on.

  “It’s okay, you’re safe. You’re safe, son. Calm down. You’re okay. Ain’t nothin’ to be scared of,” a man’s voice said soft and nice.

  Just then rain started coming down in sheets. My face was against the man’s neck. I kind of leaned back, and there, through the driving rain, was a wild-haired, red-bearded giant with shoulders wide as an ax handle I knew had to be Ben Begley. I was scared to death but his arms felt warm and good, so I didn’t yell. He turned me around then and started toward the cabin carrying me belly down, his big, hairy arm around my waist and hip pressed against my side. When we got past the dogs and into the cabin he put me down, then took off his boots and closed the door. He didn’t throw the bolt though.

  “Don’t worry about nothin’,” he said. “Ain’t nobody gonna hurt you. You decide you wanta get gone though, ask me first ’cause Cain and Abel’ll tear you apart. Understand?”

  I did. I was cold and stood there shivering, my teeth chattering so loud you could hear them in the next county. Begley pulled a quilt off the end of his bed and put it on a chair along with a clean towel, then started stoking the fire in the fireplace. “Get out of them wet things,” he said with his back to me. “Dry off and wrap that spread around you.”

  I was more than happy to do that, but being all mud-splattered, I didn’t want to get the quilt dirty. “I’m gonna get your covers muddy.”

  “There’s a basin and water in th’ corner,” he said without turning around.

  I cleaned up, then rolled the blanket around me. In a few minutes, the fire was roaring, and I began getting warm. I was hungry, and when he saw me look toward his pantry he got out some biscuits and bacon and a jar of honey, set them on the table, then hung the coffeepot on the fire. His stuff was good, boy, even though I knew the bacon was traif. While I ate, Begley sat in his easy chair, lit a pipe, and studied me. Neither of us said anything for a long while.

  The cabin was a lot different inside than out. It was pretty and clean as a pin. All the furniture was handmade. There was a red cloth on the table, and a bright yellow cushion on the table chair. Next to the fireplace was an easy chair all cushioned up and covered with mink and rabbit, and a big rug in front of the fireplace made out of the same stuff. The bed was covered that way too. Things carved out of wood was everywhere. Ducks, geese, quail, foxes, bobcats, and groundhogs. And they were all doing something, like this one old groundhog was reared up on his hind legs showing his teeth, and a fox was coming at him snarling. Some carvings were on shelves and little stands, while others were placed real neat on the floor.

  “You Bob’s brother?” he asked finally.

  The sound of his voice caused me to jump even though it was soft.

  “Yes, sir,” I answered.

  “I’m Ben Begley,” he said, and we nodded to each other. “Your brother and them other folks didn’t run th’ line this morning. They come, but th’ river already got it.”

  We sat for another thirty, forty minutes not saying nothing, just listening to the rain beat on the roof and flood down the one little window. Then he got up and went over to a trunk and got out some clothes. There was a shirt, Levi’s, and even underwear.

  “Put these on,” he said after warming them.

  They fit almost perfect. I wondered how he come by the clothes but I didn’t ask since it wudn’t any of my business. He kept looking at me, and it made me feel funny. I wudn’t scared, which was odd, because everybody around was a little scared of Ben Begley even though he had never hurt anyone. But here I was, in his house, wearing his clothes, eating his food, and sitting by his fire with his dogs outside that could rip me apart and I wudn’t scared.

  “You spend a lot of time on th’ river?” he asked.

  “Some,” I answered.

  “Ever go to th’ Little Bend bottoms?”

  “Once.”

  He sat for a time, sucking on his pipe, which had gone out. Then he fired it up again. Big puffs of smoke rolled away from his red beard. “Don’t go there n’more.”

  “Why?” I asked, and started getting scared.

  “Just don’t,” he answered.

  Somehow, I said, “Wh . . . why?” and a lump come up in my throat.

  Begley smoked for a time, then said, “There’s evil in th’ Little Bend bottoms.”

  “You mean a devil?”

  He took another puff on his pipe and nodded. “Kinda. Lives in hits own little hell, I reckon,” and smoke rolled away from his mouth and curled up around his head.

  So there really was a devil in the Little Bend bottoms. LD’d been right. How did Begley know, though? I kept trying to figure out some way to ask so he wouldn’t think I was doubting his word but the more I thought, the harder it got until I just went ahead and asked.

  “How do you know there’s a devil in th’ Little Bend bottoms?”

  “I just know, son,” he said. “And you stay outta there, okay?”

  Along about noon, the rain let up.

  “Well, I reckon you can make hit home now,” he said. “Roll up your pant legs and go ’round b
y th’ oak grove and you’ll stay pretty dry. There’s a bag over there for your wet stuff.”

  When I was ready, he started toward the door, but I didn’t. I was thinking about the dogs.

  “They won’t hurt you while we’re together,” he said, figuring what I was thinking.

  We walked past where the dogs’ chains come and stopped and he smiled for the first time. When he did, his whole face changed. He was an awful big man, and even with what everybody said about him, being strange and all I mean, his face seemed kind. He was plenty old enough to be my dad, and his curly red hair had some gray in it, especially around his ears and at his forehead, which was deep-grooved and sunburned. His eyes were blue with little wrinkles at the edges, and his nose looked like a crag. His white teeth almost sparkled when he smiled. The rest of his face, except for his upper lip, was covered with a red sailor beard.

  “I’d appreciate if you didn’t tell about meetin’ me or about th’ cabin or th’ clothes. And don’t worry about bringing them back.”

  We stood for a few seconds. Then he said, “What’s your name?”

  That’s when it hit me I hadn’t told him. “Samuel Zelinsky.”

  “Take care, Samuel,” he said, as I started to walk off.

  “You too, and thanks,” I called. “And don’t worry. I won’t tell.”

  By the time I got home I was soaked, and boy did Mom raise hell. Bob and Dad had been out looking for me, and it was tough explaining where I had been and where the clothes come from because I couldn’t tell them Ben Begley’s. Just as well I couldn’t because then I’d’ve been in real trouble. Finally, I lied about the clothes and said I got soaked on the way to the river and some people down there lent me the clothes but I didn’t know their names. Nobody believed a word of it and for the next while I hardly got to go anywhere.

  11

  It was very hot and I was beginning to get tired. More time had slipped by than I had budgeted for the first day. I decided to go back to the hotel, have a swim in the pool, eat dinner, then read until bedtime. I walked back to the lane and just as I got to the gate, a car turned into what had been the entrance to the MacWerters’ driveway. I hailed the driver, who stopped. I came to his open window. “Excuse me, sir, do you live on this farm now?”

  The man was about forty-five, well-dressed, and looked me up and down. “Are you Mr. Higgins?”

  “No, my name is Zelinsky. I’m just visiting. Why did you think I was Mr. Higgins?”

  The man tilted his head toward my old gate. “That farm belongs to a Mr. Joshua Higgins. I’ve lived here two years and I’ve never met him. I’m told he’s old, difficult, and bought the farm just to spite his wife. Apparently he’s owned it for a long time. It’s a huge place. He has someone who raises his tobacco and a little alfalfa. Other than that, no one farms the land.”

  “Are you a farmer?”

  The man laughed. “I’m an executive with IBM. I work in Lexington. Someone else works my land. I just enjoy it.”

  “Do you know the name MacWerter?”

  “I came here from Albany, New York. I wouldn’t know anyone you’re looking for.”

  That was disappointing, but not unexpected. I got in the car and drove to my hotel.

  Three hours later I had finished my swim, eaten dinner, purchased a bottle of my favorite Kentucky bourbon, filled my bucket with crushed ice, and relaxed with a book and bourbon on the rocks. About ten o’clock I wearied of reading and decided to retire early. But when the lights went out, my brain refused to take the hint. I was so lonesome. “Nora, I used to believe in ghosts. I wish you would show up. I’ll speak hillbilly to you if you will. That’s a promise, Nora.”

  Her spoken name brought memories. We met in my second year of graduate school at NYU. I was living on a stipend that kept me poverty-stricken. Then, a windfall! My parents, who had always struggled financially, were now doing well and had sent me a one-hundred-dollar birthday gift. To celebrate, I went to a bar in Greenwich Village. After the bartender poured my drink, I discovered I had forgotten to add the money to my wallet. I was a dollar short and trying to placate a screaming barkeep. Suddenly an arm materialized from behind me, slammed a dollar on the bar, and a woman’s voice said to the bartender, “There’s your dollar, jerk. Now shut the hell up!”

  That was my introduction to Nora Epstein. For the rest of the evening we wandered Greenwich Village and talked. Nora was twenty-two, a senior at NYU, about five-foot-five with a pretty face, black hair, large dark eyes, and a breathtaking figure. She was also fun, the only joy I had encountered in New York. I hated the city. I considered it dirty, vulgar, loud, violent, overpriced, and inhospitable. Yet Nora was a New Yorker, and she was joy.

  We had been seeing each other for about a month when she offered to make us dinner. My kitchen was a disaster. The refrigerator leaked and only one burner operated on the grungy gas stove. My cooking utensils were an iron skillet, two pots with loose handles, and a pasta strainer. In the “silverware drawer” were two knives, two forks, and one spoon. But I had four plates, four bowls, three regular glasses, and, for some reason, a champagne glass.

  Into this stark culinary landscape came Nora, bearing groceries. Steaks, potatoes, dinner rolls, the makings for a salad, and the crowning touch—a bottle of red wine. I can still remember her initial reaction when she saw the kitchen.

  “Oy vey!”

  We feasted, laughing and talking across from one another, our meal teetering at times on the peeling vinyl top of my unstable card table. When we were together, cold, hard, New York City warmed and softened.

  After dinner we drank the rest of the wine as we danced to music from the radio. Somewhere during “Stars Fell on Alabama,” we kissed. Then we kissed some more. And then we slowly danced into the bedroom where we gently disrobed each other, slipped between the sheets, and made tender, passionate love. A half hour after we finished, we made love again. This time even more passionate, and with a bit more abandon. Then we talked and stroked each other. My God, her body was beautiful. Eventually we fell asleep in each other’s arms.

  A siren outside the hotel brought me back to the present. I got up, poured myself another shot of bourbon, then went back to bed. Soon I returned to my reverie. I thought about waking up that Sunday morning after a perfect night. I was in love and desperate to whisper it to Nora, but I was terrified. We had known each other such a short time and I wasn’t sure how deep her feelings went for me.

  I worried that if I got serious too soon, I might lose her. How could she know how she felt in one month? But then, what did I know about Nora? We had talked at length about literature, politics, philosophy, Judaism, and a little about me. We hardly ever talked about Nora. When I told her I was born in Kentucky, she retorted that no Jew was ever born in Kentucky! I was either the second coming of Christ or lying. I stared at her sweet face. God, I loved her! While I was getting back into bed, she woke up. She smiled and stretched like a beautiful cat. “Good morning, sweet prince.”

  “G . . . good morning,” I stammered. “Want some breakfast . . . or are you too tired?”

  Nora laughed as I realized the double entendre. I could feel my face turn scarlet.

  She giggled. “I am tired, but it’s the sweetest tired I’ve ever been. Come here.”

  I was happy to enter her arms, and even happier to hear at our climactic moment, “I love you, Samuel . . . I love you, Samuel,” partly smothered by kissing lips and gasps for breath and my own voice, which shouted, “I love you too . . . I love you, Nora!”

  I was engaged! Sort of.

  A few days later, I met Mr. and Mrs. Epstein. Both were teachers in the New York City public school system, both children of immigrants from Eastern Europe, both political liberals, and neither had ever been to Indiana, the state where we bought our farm after leaving Kentucky. Dinner brought many questions about how a Jewish boy wound up on farms in Kentucky and Indiana, all of which I answered clumsily. I left their home that night feeling they would hav
e been more comfortable if their daughter were seeing a New Yorker, but the fact that I was in graduate school and Jewish gave me a leg up, even if I was a barbarian.

  In mid-June of the year Nora and I met, I bought an ancient Chevy and drove my fiancée from Brooklyn, the city of homes and churches, to Crawfordsville, Indiana. It was during that trip that I was to learn that living with Nora would never be dull.

  We were traveling through the heartland when she saw a bumper sticker that read:

  IMPEACH EARL WARREN

  She screamed. I almost wrecked the Chevy. She could not believe Republicans actually existed and that she was now “surrounded.”

  Nora knew nothing about a farm and her reactions to agrarian life were fun to watch. One night, she came upon Dad decapitating the main course for our dinner. Her later description of the event, including the chickens flopping around with blood flying from their headless necks, would have made Kafka faint. She did not eat the chicken.

  She learned where veal comes from and I, a lover of veal scaloppini, could never again order it in her presence.

  When one of our cows went into heat she asked my always practical father if he would put the cow and bull in the barn so they could have privacy. My parents talked about that every time we visited.

  In the end, however, my entire family loved the bubbly, happy, ever curious, and always enthusiastic Nora. She was everything my parents wanted for their son, more than I ever dreamed would fall in love with me, and she sent a buzz through my high school classmates that the Kentucky hick had a gorgeous New York girlfriend. Jennifer Walding, one of our school’s cheerleaders and the sexual fantasy of every Harlan Jeffords High male, actually crossed the street to speak to me! And to meet Nora, of course, who I suddenly realized was more beautiful than the now widening belle of HJH.

  A year later Nora and I were married in a reform shul two blocks from the Epsteins’ Brooklyn home and “only one subway change” from where my own mother had been raised. The barefoot boy from the Kentucky hills, naked except for his Levi’s, now met the man he had become, tuxedoed and yarmulke-clad, standing in front of a Brooklyn rabbi.