STEED: My suspicions began when I heard the first tapes, the clean ones, and listened to those revelations of how these men conducted the business of this nation. The low quality of the thought. The inability to hold on to any subject consecutively. The frowzy language. The big enchilada. Pusey, I assure you, if a meeting I was conducting at Western Oil had ever proceeded in such a sloppy manner, with my staff unable to keep to the main topic, I’d have fired the bunch.
PAXMORE: Thee falls into a common error, Owen. Thee expects a President to be presidential twenty-four hours a day. Thee must grant him license to be a human being, to speak from time to time like ordinary men, with all their vulgarities.
STEED: But in a presidential crisis I expect him to be presidential. And tell me this, Pusey. Didn’t you ever have lawyers at those meetings?
PAXMORE: What does thee mean?
STEED: When we discussed something important, or even close to a moral problem, we always had at least one lawyer present. And after a while he might interrupt and say, “But you can’t do that. That’s illegal.”
PAXMORE: Thee can’t say no to a President. (Here he lost interest in the post-mortem, but after watching the geese for a while, he resumed.) Yesterday I was reading The True History of Patamoke and it says that in the old days men like Clay, Calhoun and Webster visited your family mansion. How would they have reacted to Watergate?
STEED: My Great-Grandfather Paul, who did the little book on slavery, defended it, if you remember. He left a group of memoranda on these men, and from them I conclude that if Daniel Webster had ever been elected President, he would probably have behaved exactly like Nixon, not because he was corrupt, but because he was so respectful of money and so personally vain. Henry Clay? Not a chance. He had a super-refined sense of honor which would have kept him honest in a nest of thieves. Calhoun? (Here the reverence in which the Steeds had always held this great man manifested itself.) It would have been unthinkable for him to behave poorly. He might have burned the nation down but he would never have stolen it.
PAXMORE: That’s about my conclusion, Owen. Any man of flawed character would have stumbled into the Nixon errors.
STEED: But of one thing I can assure you. No one of those men, running the White House, would have tolerated the disgraceful thought processes displayed in the tapes. They’d have called the meeting to order sharply and reminded their associates, “Let’s get on with the main business.” Pusey, do you think the main business of your gang was installing a dictatorship?
PAXMORE: Thee must remember, Owen, how they characterized me. “That Bible-quoting asshole.” I was never allowed to see their inner purposes. My job was to collect money, launder it, feed it into unknown hands. My job was to collect personal dishonor. (His voice trailed off, and Steed supposed that tears were choking him, but they were not. He was looking down at the Choptank, along whose banks the earlier Paxmores had gamed so much honor in facing the routine tasks that arise on any river—the building of ships, the speaking in meeting, the teaching of others, the defending of the laws. He was dry and worn-out because of his faithlessness to those principles.)
STEED: We’ll go hunting next month.
There was no answer.
The fact that Hugo Pflaum saved the life of Amos Turlock during the fire aboard the Eden did not mean that the stubborn old warden relaxed his determination to capture The Twombly. In semi-retirement, the thick-necked German reported to his office only three mornings a week, but whenever he saw the empty space on his wall of pictures, he resolved anew to find that gun.
His superiors in Annapolis were neither amused nor patient. “For thirty-nine years you’ve been telling us, ‘I’ll find that gun any day now.’ Where in hell is it?”
“We think it’s hidden close to where the old marsh used to be. And we know he’s using it because on some mornings when he comes to town we can smell powder on his clothes.”
“Sign out a warrant and search his trailer.”
“I been through that trailer four times when he was out. Found nothing.”
It was decided that since Amos used the gun as many as nine or ten times each season, he must keep it hidden somewhere close to the trailer, and Pflaum was directed to hold the place under surveillance, but this raised more difficulties than it solved, for the Turlock establishment had certain extraordinary features. From the enthusiastic potteries in North Carolina, Amos had enlarged his collection of lawn statuary to twenty-one major items, and casual passers-by were usually on hand to admire the art collection. Older people liked the white cement replica of an Italian marble; it showed a naked girl scrunched over from the waist, her hands in position to hide those parts deemed most vulnerable. But children preferred Santa Claus and his eight reindeer.
When Pflaum initiated his regular spying, things were complicated by the fact that Amos had imported an ensemble of eight fairly large pieces which gladdened his heart: Snow White accompanied by seven dwarfs, each carved with maximum cuteness. When trailed across the lawn, the sculptures captivated the public, and the local policeman said approvingly, “Sort of rounds things out. More grass to trim by hand, but also more fun for ever’body.”
Hugo, seeing the eight additions for the first time, said, “Place looks even junkier than when it was a shack,” and this was true, for in the old days the cabin, weathered and dilapidated though it was, had shared the dignity of the surrounding woods. But this chrome trailer with its little picket fence and lawn sculptures had been offensive at birth and got worse as it grew older.
What Pflaum particularly disliked was the stiff manner in which Amos had placed the three dwarfs Smiley, Bashful and Grumpy. “He’s got them lined up as if they were soldiers. The others, he at least has them strung out.” He was so offended by the awful aesthetic of this lawn, and so irritated by his failure to find the gun, that one morning he pushed open the low gate guarding the path to the trailer, then jumped back as a hidden spring triggered a set of automobile horns which sounded Do ye ken John Peel?
Alerted, Amos Turlock came to the Dutch door and opened the top half. “Do you like the time, Hugo? Me bein’ a hunter and all that?”
The klaxon greeting had been the last straw, so without extending the amenities Hugo said, “Amos, I want you to turn in the gun.”
“What gun?”
“The Twombly. I know you have it hidden, and I know you love it. But the time’s come, Amos. I want it.”
“I haven’t had my hands on that gun—”
“You fired it four nights ago.”
“How would you know?”
“Up and down the river, Turlocks eating geese.”
“We’re good hunters, Hugo, all of us.”
“You are good, and you don’t need that old cannon any longer.”
“Where could I hide a gun twelve feet long?” With a generous gesture he invited the warden to inspect the trailer, and even shouted, “Midge, have we got a gun in there?”
“We sure have,” his toothless paramour called back, and forthwith she produced a shotgun. Amos laughed, and Pflaum said, “I should of let you drown.” Then his irritation got the better of him, and he said, “Those seven dwarfs look like hell,” and with that judgment he stomped off the premises.
Five nights later, when there was a strong frost in the air and no moon to betray the midnight hunter, Amos summoned Rafe, the grandson in whom he had most confidence. “We ain’t obliged to get ourselves some geese, because we ain’t finished the ones we got last time, but a man oughta keep his hand in. We’re goin’ gunnin’.”
At eleven he and Rafe left the trailer, walked out into the yard, bent down and cautiously pulled on two rings hidden in the grass on which the three dwarfs stood: Smiley, Bashful, Grumpy. Slowly the dwarfs rose in the air, falling backward from a grave twelve feet long. It was a scene from a Dracula movie—even the hinge creaked—except that when the grave was opened, it revealed not a vampire but The Twombly.
With loving care Amos lifted it, stared at
the moonless sky and told Rafe, “Fetch the dog,” and as the Chesapeake bounded out of the trailer, Amos lowered the lid, checked the three dwarfs and led the way through the woods to where the skiffs lay hidden.
It was a perfect night for goose hunting, cold but not blustery, starry but with no moon. When they reached the spot where La Trappe River joined the Choptank they detected large numbers of fowl rafting at the proper distance, and as Amos primed his massive gun and checked the seating of its stock against the bags of pine needles, he whispered to his grandson, “Best thing a man can do in this world is hunt, or fish, or go arsterin’. God put all these things down here for us to enjoy, but He hid ’em so’s only a resolute man can catch ’em. It’s our manly duty to try.”
As he sighted along the polished barrel of The Twombly, he saw the glimmer of Orion and he showed the boy how that constellation stalked through the heavens, a mighty hunter seeking game. “It ain’t by chance he comes out in winter. Stands up there to protect us ... and the gun.” Softly he touched the brass cannon, and then asked, “How old are you, Rafe?”
“Ten.”
“God A’mighty, boy, this here gun is fifteen times older’n you are. Think of it, fifteen different boys your age coulda’ cared for this gun, and now it’s your responsibility.”
The red Chesapeake, sensing the geese ahead, was growing restless; Amos hadn’t even taken out the short paddles, and the dog feared something might spook those geese. He made soft noises to indicate his displeasure at the sloppy methods being pursued this night, but Amos growled at him to keep silent. He wanted to talk with the boy.
“Man’s got only three obligations, really. Feed his family. Train his dog. Take care of his gun. You do them jobs properly, you ain’t got no worries about such things as mortgages and cancer and the tax collector. You take care of the gun, God takes care of the mortgage.”
“Won’t the law ...”
“The law takes this gun away from us, Rafe, when it’s smart enough to find it. I been guardin’ this gun for fifty years. You’re good for another fifty.”
“But Hugo Pflaum was practically standin’ on it that other mornin’.”
“That’s why us Turlocks will always have this gun.”
“Why?”
“Because we’re smart, all of us, and game wardens is stupid, all of ’em.”
The dog whimpered, eager to get on with the hunt, but he was astonished at what happened. Amos Turlock was climbing gingerly out of the skiff that carried The Twombly and inviting his grandson to take his place with the short paddles.
“Time you learned, son,” he said when the delicate transfer was completed.
“You want me ...”
“Two things to remember. Aim the skiff, not the gun. And for Christ’s merry sake, stay clear of the stock, because it kicks like hell.” With a gentle and loving push he launched the skiff toward the rafted geese, then reached for his dog’s head. Pulling the Chesapeake to him, he clutched him nervously as the boy disappeared into the darkness. The dog, sensing that this was an unusual night, stayed close to his master and waited for the great explosion that would project him into the water in search of geese.
It was a long wait, but neither the man nor the dog grew restless; Amos could remember nights when it had taken him an hour of working with short paddles before he had been satisfied with his position, and Rafe had been trained to be meticulous. In the blind, Amos remembered admiringly, Rafe had been the boy with guts to wait.
At last he began to tremble, hoping desperately that his grandson would handle the skiff properly, and the great gun, and the traditions of this river. “It’s a baptism,” he whispered to the tense animal, and the fingers of his right hand twined in the dog’s hair so tightly that the Chesapeake whimpered and withdrew, going to his accustomed place in the bow, where he could stand with forefeet on the gunwales, peering into the darkness.
“Blessed God,” the old man prayed, “let him do it right ... so he gets the taste.”
Forty minutes passed, and Orion, failing as ever to catch his prey, roamed the heavens. But when the tension in Amos’s skiff became intolerable, the night sky exploded, and geese cried, and the dog was gone.
Seven different homes called Hugo Pflaum’s office next morning to report illegal gunning on the Choptank. “I know they were out there, Mr. Pflaum, because two dead geese drifted to my shore. Besides, I was lookin’ at the Late-Late Show and remarked to my wife, “That gunfire wasn’t on TV.’ ”
The reports were so circumstantial that Pflaum climbed into his pickup and roared out to the Turlock trailer, but as he had anticipated, Amos was absent. Distributing geese up and down the river, he supposed. Midge was gone, too, doing her shopping at the Steed store in Sunset Acres. Only a boy, not more than eleven, stood at the corner of the lawn, watching suspiciously as the big, hulking warden moved among the seven dwarfs.
“Who are you, son?”
“Rafe.”
“You can’t be Amos’s son?”
“Grandson.”
“You wouldn’t know where your grandfather is?” No response. “You wouldn’t know where he was last night?” No flicker in the pale-blue eyes.
Hugo was perplexed by the Turlocks, even though his mother and his wife came from that clan; always they seemed stupid, but always in a crisis they mustered just enough brains to outsmart their betters. Look at this boy! Blond hair almost in his eyes, cut in back with the aid of a bowl, vacant stare, heavy woolen pants held up by torn suspenders, didn’t even seem to know that Pflaum was a relative of sorts and the game warden. Perhaps, Hugo thought in a misbegotten moment, I can trick this lad.
“Your gran’daddy out huntin’ last night?”
“What?” The boy refused to leave his position at the corner of the lawn.
“Does he ever hunt with that big gun?”
“What?”
“Where’s he keep it, Rafe?”
“Keep what?” the boy asked, a kind of stupid glaze over his face.
“You tell your father—”
“My father’s in Baltimore.”
“I mean your grandfather,” Pflaum snapped.
“Tell him what?” the boy asked.
“That I was here.”
“Who are you?”
“You know damned well who I am. I’m Hugo Pflaum, your uncle more or less. You tell him I was here.”
“I’ll tell him. Hugo Pflaum.”
With disgust, the game warden kicked at the sod, gingerly retraced his steps through the garden sculpture and drove back to town.
When he was gone, and well gone, with the pickup far around the bend, Rafe Turlock slumped against the trailer and would have fallen except that he caught hold of a coping. Keeping himself more or less erect, he began to vomit, not once or twice but seven times, until his stomach was empty and his body racked.
Midge found him there, still retching, and thought he might have whooping cough, for the boy would give no explanation for his spasms. She insisted that he go to bed, and he lay there with wet packs on his forehead, waiting for his grandfather’s return.
Amos was absent for a long time distributing geese, but when he reached the kitchen and heard the rambling report of his grandson’s seizure, he could guess what had caused it. Slipping into the sickroom, he asked, “Hugo Pflaum here?”
“Yep. He was standin’ right on the gun, askin’ his questions.”
“About last night?”
“And the gun.”
“And what did you tell him?”
“Nothin’, but when he kicked at one of the rings I almost vomited.”
“Midge said you did. All over the place.”
“That was after.”
Amos did not pat his grandson on the head, or congratulate him in any way. The boy had done only what was required, but he did want to let Rafe know that he was pleased, so he whistled for the Chesapeake, and to the dog’s surprise, the door was opened and he was invited into the trailer. Quickly he sought out h
is young master, and realizing that the boy was ill, stayed by his bed, licking his limp fingers.
Amos, closing the door on the room, offered no explanation to Midge. He walked out onto the lawn to survey his twenty-one sets of sculpture: the deer were lined up behind Santa, the purple flamingo spread its concrete wings toward Sunset Acres, and the seven dwarfs trailed along behind their mistress in seven distinct styles of cuteness. Looking to where the three stood in line, Amos could visualize the great gun nesting at their feet
“Safe for another fifty years,” he said.
One crisp November morning Owen Steed awoke to the sound of birds squabbling at the feeder outside his window, and he was so enchanted by their vitality that without dressing he went onto the lawn, where he could see the creeks from which the osprey had migrated. Standing reverently amidst a beauty he had discovered nowhere else on earth, he reflected that no one had successfully described the quiet splendor of the Eastern Shore. He was sixty-six that morning and aware that he could enjoy these estuaries for only a limited number of years, but he was grateful that misadventures in Oklahoma had forced him to come back to the drowsy glories of his youth.
When he returned to his bedroom he heard Ethel washing, and called, “They refer to this as the land of pleasant living, but that’s mere hedonism.”
“What are you talking about, Owen?”
“The lasting values of this place. Bright mornings like this. Cool nights.”
“They were cool last winter.”
“I’m trying to be serious. About a land worth preserving.” He hesitated. “Are you joining me at the meeting?”
“What meeting?” And before he could reply, she cried enthusiastically, “That chap from Annapolis. Going to advise us as to how we can end the plague of beer cans.” Indeed she was attending.
But as they entered the meeting hall Chris Pflaum dampened their enthusiasm. “You’re not going to like what he says. He’s quite gloomy.” He certainly was, a tall angular man in his late fifties, worn down by bureaucratic haggling.
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