He was the disease. He realized that the Power and the Glory, the miracles streaming from his standard were the great symbols of victory over life, not victory over death; and he, the disease, was a plague on his own house.
Kune withdrew treatment, allowed her to die. He howled with grief. He paid for a funeral.
Kune wandered through the house inexorable and insidious as any disease. He infected the waiting rooms, the toaster in the kitchen, the supply cabinets. He infected the toilet seat, the inner crannies of woodwork. He began to understand disease, to sympathize. He thought of wonderful ways to attack lymph nodes. He muttered to himself, to Shirley, to blond-but-unborn children. When he could bear his own presence no longer he lit a match. Flames rose around him; sterilizing and Inquisitorial. He stood in the fire and prayed for redemption in the cleansing flames. He passed out from smoke inhalation.
A courageous fireman dragged him away as the house broadcast fire against the neon-lighted firmament above Seattle.
Chapter 15
. . . In the dusty basement of The Parsonage: Bev sobbing her grief for Kune. Joel-Andrew in silent supplication for all of us, for those who are human, for those who are cats. Starling weeping Victorian tears for beauty, because Starling has never heard of anything so romantic in all his life or death.
And, high above them, the all-seeing tower gazes upon the town, the Strait, the surrounding forest, the sky; and the all-seeing tower looks into silent centers of minds, hearts, good intentions. Because not even Gerald, a small-town cop who knows most everything, can see as does the all-seeing tower.
Beneath the Strait a sudden churning, a ripple, a ground swell spreads against the outrunning tide. A covey of salmon, perhaps, a gaggle of halibut? The ground swell whispers, hisses, is contentious. Chinese voices gargle, choke, and sink beneath waves as they await Chinese New Year, in the Year of the Tiger.
In Point Vestal ghosts huddle in storefronts, cellars, attics. Ghosts strut like proprietors through morning streets where an occasional homeward-bound drunkard, clapped in an aura of booze, obtains random insights into the meanings of life, art, communication; insights that will be gone on the morrow as an aching head contemplates diarrhea, trembling hands, a bloody stool.
And there are marching ghosts and singing ghosts. Ghosts discuss chowder recipes, stove polish, butter churns, and ghosts in pink lace attend birthday parties. There are political ghosts, soldierly ghosts, ghostly schoolteachers, and ghosts impaled on picket fences. There are bankerish ghosts, and ghosts of Rosicrucians.
The all-seeing tower pauses momentarily to view third growth forests where ghostly Indians trade beads and slaves and wives. The all-seeing tower watches Gerald’s 1939 LaSalle thread along dark streets.
The LaSalle runs like a busy needle stitching the patchwork that is Point Vestal. The LaSalle has been, was, is a street traveler, a time traveler, and Gerald notes the usual news that will not get into Jerome’s newspaper. Cars are parked in wrong places, betraying who is shacked with whom, and faint glows of late-late-late televisions are watched by sleepless businessmen. Gerald sees the shadowy form of Samuel, as Samuel arrives home at an indignant canter.
The LaSalle passes Washington Street, where echoes of 1912 whisper about the fate of the S.S. Titanic; passes Lincoln Street, where echoes of 1914 grieve for the S.S. Lusitania; while a cobbler changes his name from Schmidt to Smith. The LaSalle idles along Grant, as Gerald hooks second gear to check a three-shack apartment of ill repute built in 1922. There are echoes of jazz, the surrealism of art nouveau. On Coolidge Street it is 1935. A man chokes from a noose—a suicide—as two children cry from hunger in the next room. The Great Depression. With the man dead, a foundling home must take his children.
The LaSalle gleams shiny, black, spectral. Gerald rolls along Jackson, where—at this time of night in 1942—a mob beats death into a Japanese gardener; while a smuggler uses the frenzy of the crowd as cover to transport counterfeit ration stamps.
On Garfield it is 1956; racial strikes in Montgomery, workers’ strikes in Poland, general strikes in Hungary. A woman wearing a tight angora sweater parades large breasts as she examines the size of her new refrigerator. Gerald idles past darkened windows of Janie’s Tavern—silent now—past darkened windows of The Fisherman’s Café, and for a while it is 1965. From the boat haven swirls the heavy perfume of marijuana, grass, weed, Mary Jane. Elsewhere there is a blackout in Boston; Malcolm X is assassinated; the International Society for Krishna Consciousness is founded. When Gerald and the black LaSalle drive the long road and arrive back at the outskirts, it is once more 1973.
Gerald, who has seen it all before, sits in the police car as pink sunrise lightens mist. He tells himself the new preacher is harmless, and Kune is just one more box of Cracker Jacks, but August Starling had better be watched. Gerald wonders idly how Bev is going to explain staying in a house all night with three men and a cat. Then he chuckles. The cat is the only make-out artist in the bunch.
Perhaps Gerald has been at the job too long, has fallen too deeply into routine. As the long years pass, perhaps Gerald has become a little deaf. From the town a congregated sigh rises as ghosts flicker in morning mist. Generally speaking, the sigh is not remarkable. Ghosts are experts at sighing. This sigh, however, might even impress Maggie, who snores in an upstairs room above Janie’s Tavern. The sigh is filled with hope.
After all, the sigh seems to say, August Starling’s return from the dead may be a sign. Will all of Point Vestal return from the dead? Because, the sigh says, a second chance would change this dull eternity. Because—hell is whatever place you are when you are tormented. In the dungeon below City Hall, The Sailor clanks his chains.
Gerald does not hear. He heads the LaSalle down the hill, into the sunrise, headed for the barn. He leaves the sleeping town to its daily tasks of selling things to each other, its rituals of multicolored sprinkles on vanilla doughnuts—like balloon at a children’s party—and Gerald chuckles because he remembers Collette saying clams don’t whistle, ‘cause clams have got clack-yaks.
Chapter 16
October of 1973 produced Halloween, then faded to November. Werelight shone luminous above the Strait, and in Seattle they were having a splendid little war somewhere, battling well-oriented Orientals. Point Vestal loyally sent a few sons, and one became highly decorated. After his burial, the town installed a plaque on the windy bluff. Then everybody went about their business.
All of us have November tasks. Bev, wearing sturdy apron and slacks, looks like a movie star in a murder mystery. She climbs ladders to dust every bookstore shelf in anticipation of Thanksgiving. One show window displays Pilgrim Father coloring books. The other displays heavyweights: Cotton Mather, Perry Miller, Jonathan Edwards, and Jonathan Livingston Seagull. This confuses Samuel, who, back in 1973, still did some preaching.
During November and December, Samuel used to be an outrider, bringing the Word to scattered Indians with blood dulled by chill weather; Indians so forgetful they failed to hide in the forest. Samuel rode an old horse named Wesley around the circuit. Samuel rode valiant, and, wearing a frock coat, and with his gray beard pressed by the wind as the dark horse cantered, Samuel was imposing. One may say what one wishes about Samuel’s notions of Presbyterians, but when a really good missionary preacher is needed, one may depend on Samuel.
In November Jerome must write his Turkey Day editorial praising the local high school football team, and advising us to patronize local merchants. Jerome wears his double-ender Sherlock Holmes hat to Friday night football games. At the newspaper office, lights burn late.
In October and November, Collette nearly has fits. Every brass spittoon, every piece of coin silver, plated silver, sterling silver, every pan, pot, skillet, trivet, turnip watch, wash boiler, moon-phase clock, and straight razor in her antique shop gets polished. Collette is little and cute, her dark curls sometimes tipped with silver polish.
But Frank is busiest. For a week Frank decorates Janie’s Tavern with gold and blac
k crepe paper, pumpkins, black cats, cutouts of witches, pictures of Point Vestal founders. He also uses real artifacts: dried-out skulls and crossbones, skeletons awry, a tacky old coffin complete with a pickled Irish cop dormant since 1913, gorgeous daguerreotypes of Victorian funerals showing young women, babies in lace, stalwart gentlemen—eyes closed—(serious and dutiful, but with lots of frills); and Frank decorates with symbols: crosses, totems, and Chinese signs left over from World War II. According to Obed, the signs above the restrooms read “Chinese relief.” At the end of the bar, Maggie sits like a small and feisty volcano. Frank brushes his whiskers, twiddles his mustache, looks sorrowful. Frank must ignore Maggie because he engages in tradition.
It was onto this November stage in 1973 that drama entered. Lights. Camera. Action.
From the basement of The Parsonage, on that November morning, Joel-Andrew and Obed stepped into werelight. Joel-Andrew carried his violin because later in the day he would go to work. Kune muttered at their heels. Two weeks had passed since Bev, Kune, Joel-Andrew, Obed, and August Starling spent a night in custody of The Parsonage. Now August Starling lived in a modest downtown hotel. Since the town meeting at Janie’s Tavern, Kune was censured, a scapegoat. Kune walked with the inexorable flow of contamination.
“I didn’t think being a scapegoat would be this tough,” Kune confided to Joel-Andrew. “I never used to talk to anyone but Gerald and Maggie and Bev, anyway. Now I feel just awful.”
“When people do something bad,” Joel-Andrew said, “you get the credit. They get the fun.”
“That’s why some kid picked his nose and then wiped me with the booger,” Kune said reflectively.
“Some people care for you. Me, Bev, Maggie.”
“It was different when the AMA banned me,” Kune explained. “I hurt their feelings.”
For two weeks Joel-Andrew and Obed drifted, as Joel-Andrew tried to enjoy his vacation. Joel-Andrew found that idle hands are not the Devil’s workshop, only boring. Since Frank enjoyed the music of George Gershwin, Joel-Andrew daily entertained at Janie’s Tavern before and during happy hour.
Joel-Andrew also enjoyed relaxed evenings with Kune, who came to The Parsonage each night like a laborer returning from work. The men spoke of weighty matters, drank red wine, ate onions, French bread, soft cheeses. The Parsonage listened, approved. Obed usually sat at Joel-Andrew’s feet, although Obed was technically shacked up with a calico yum-yum on Madison Street.
“Something is different about the town this morning,” Kune said. “Something awful.”
Werelight glowed through patterns of mist: On this strangely lit morning, mist boiled, churned, sent little wind-devil tendrils. Mist formed vaguely Chinese-looking faces, plus the figures of tigers, rabbits, and oxen.
“I’ve seen it before,” Kune explained to Obed. “You may have another white whisker before this day is past.” Kune explained that when mist took shapes, one or more time jumps were likely.
“You’ll recall when you first came to town,” Kune reminded Joel-Andrew. “You met a middle-aged lady and gentleman outside City Hall, where you heard The Sailor dying. I explained they were actually old people who lived in a nice house on the hill, but you encountered them in 1947. We had a nice discussion.”
Joel-Andrew remembered. He also remembered, after meeting the lady and gentleman, he and Kune had entered the servants’ entrance of the Starling House. On that occasion they had shifted back to 1888.
Such things amazed him two weeks before; now they seemed common. Joel-Andrew had still not brought Kune to the Lord. Kune was not an infidel—that could be overcome—but Kune had learned not to believe in anything. Joel-Andrew was not discouraged. When The Lord wanted Kune, Kune could be netted like a guppy from a fish tank.
“August Starling,” Kune said mournfully, “is noising it around that his wife will arrive from Boston the moment he restores his fortune.”
Joel-Andrew was appalled. History would repeat. If August Starling kept conning himself about having a wife, August Starling might kill a woman once more.
“Starling is too blamed interested in Collette,” Kune said. “Collette can’t talk to me because I’m censured.”
Joel-Andrew gasped. Collette, with her antique shop and her fascination with history, was a natural target.
It was time for the Lord to take a hand, although Joel-Andrew said nothing to Kune. Talk of the Lord, and talk of miracles, did more harm than good.
“Come to Janie’s Tavern during happy hour,” Joel-Andrew told Kune. “We’ll talk this over with Maggie.”
Kune pulled his watch cap to his blond eyebrows and checked the ties on his boots. “I’ll leave you here,” he said. “Time for a walk.” He strode into the mist—promising nothing—walking pneumonia.
“You will probably be amazed,” Joel-Andrew mentioned to Obed, “but it looks like I goofed. I thought Kune would be easy, and August Starling tough. Now it looks like a toss-up.”
Obed was unamazed. Having coupled with the white cat back in 1888, Obed became the founder of a dynasty. No matter where they traveled in Point Vestal, they met white cats with gray tails and gray cats with white tails. Obed’s white whisker twitched. He compared himself either to George Washington or King David.
The first jump in time happened as they passed the boat basin. A great, shaggy man strode toward town. He sang a lewd ditty, walked with a rolling gait, and wore a gold ring in his ear. The Sailor headed ashore with a thirst, the thirst complicated with a case of unrequited lust.
“We must warn him about Gerald,” Joel-Andrew told Obed. “Gerald will not allow bawdiness.”
Obed objected, alarmed, proprietary. Obed wanted no one but Obed to change Point Vestal history. Obed gave advice. By the time the squabble with Obed ended, The Sailor disappeared.
Fog. Mist. Rain. Joel-Andrew loafed through the morning.
Bright lights of The Fisherman’s Café drew him. He drank herb tea, listening to the small lick and slurp of wavelets on the stone beach behind the café. Important talk shifted between tables as fat men and skinny men, bald men and barbered men spoke excitedly of August Starling. They chatted about real estate, interest rates, tourism. Visionaries spoke of ways to improve the town; a fertilizer plant, a tannery, a pipeline to transport oil. The men were dutiful.
In the café and in the streets, Joel-Andrew saw renewed determination in squared shoulders and resolute eyes. He observed humility, pride in right conduct, and sacrifice. Gold Star mothers, proud wattles beneath firm chins, paraded like infantry. In the streets talk was of duty, duty, duty. And progress. Proposals were made to send missionaries to Seattle.
Joel-Andrew wanted to talk with Maggie. He showed up for work an hour early.
Maggie momentarily looked like an abandoned bird’s nest. “Four-flushers,” she said about the people in town. “Five-flushers, even. Sheep. Now that Starling is loose this hick town will turn dutiful as a steel engraving.” Maggie belched, then viewed Janie’s tavern with native tranquility.
Along the bar, this early afternoon, sat five drunken fishermen, two snoozled loggers, a World War I vet, and a couple of wide-hipped ladies who were no better than they should be. Frank arranged a bouquet of shamrocks at the feet of the pickled Irish cop. Obed sauntered to the cop’s coffin and saw a wizened but still stocky figure smelling of mash. The cop’s eyes squinched. Nicely dusted with Frank’s feather duster, the cop looked fresh and lifelike. Obed seemed impressed by the pickling process. He muttered barely acceptable Chinese.
“August Starling has been doing his duty for two weeks,” Maggie said. “He sold a bunch of old coins to Collette. He parlayed the money with a minor drug deal, a bigger drug deal, and then a really big drug deal. He researched the twentieth century by reading every Life magazine in the library. He contacted City Hall and the school board. He was introduced at a businessman’s lunch, gave a talk about Victorians to the seventh grade. He is a town hero and welcome at the bank. August Starling is not yelling, ‘Woe, oh wo
e is me.’ He is too interested in the tourist industry.”
The Lord was not going to like that. Joel-Andrew told himself he had best get busy, or Starling would moult all over his last chance. Joel-Andrew, who genuinely loved the sinner while despising the sin, watched Frank arrange the last of the shamrocks. The coffin was little more than an old packing box, but Frank thought it good enough for an Irishman.
“lt has to be hard on Starling,” Maggie said, “not that I care.” She watched Frank put finishing touches on the coffin. “You showed up at an interesting time,” she mentioned to Joel-Andrew. “In a few minutes, Frank will need splints for his his whiskers.” Maggie’s wise and wrinkled face hid behind a toothless grin. “Because,” Maggie said about August Starling, “the Victorians didn’t just have boffing on their brains. They did a balancing act with how they thought.”
Joel-Andrew watched Obed, who sat on the end of the coffin watching Frank. The Irishman’s face reflected in the mirrored ceiling and seemed to be watching all of them.
“The Victorians were crazy over sex,” Maggie explained, “but they were crazy over religion, too. They tied their religion to what they called progress and duty.” She sniffed. “That meant they had to lie and cheat and steal.”
To Joel-Andrew it sounded just like San Francisco.
Maggie caught his drift. “It wasn’t that plain to see,” she told Joel-Andrew. “The way they talked up their big religious news made the difference. It was missionary. So they turned the screws on Indians, Chinese, and on their own people. Anybody who wasn’t rich was dirt.”
To Joel-Andrew it still sounded like San Francisco.
Maggie explained, “The difference was something called the white man’s burden. They felt responsible for civilizing the people they walked on. They’d work a servant twelve hours a day while paying only room and board, get her pregnant, be starchy about her immorality, and ship her off to a home for wanton women. The point is, they had the dutiful foresight to build the home.”
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