"Ach, ja, I'm late." He nodded, fury in his aged eyes. "So vhen you are my age, ve see how fast you valk, eh, Imhof? Ve see how qvick you get places, ja?"
An outburst of octogenarian pique is the last thing we need at the moment, Ostlich thought. "We apologize, Johann. We just all knew how you feel about this, and we knew how you'd vote, so we—"
"Ja, you know how I vote, ja?" he spat. "So here is my vote. Ve don't sell no more bonds, ve don't buy dat land, ve don't build no factory, and ve keep de river for de fishes."
The five men stared at him, speechless. At last Imhof said, "Johann, what are you talking about? You've been in favor of the factory from the beginning."
"Ja, so I change my mind, okay? I start to tink maybe dat young fella is right, dat ve shouldn't dump all dat garbage in de river, okay? So I vote ve don't buy nutting from dat gottverdammte hippie bum. Ve leave de whole place just like it is, ye don't touch nutting. Ve leave it for de animals."
Bruno jumped to his feet and gaped at his father-in-law. "Dad, what's gotten into you? You know as well as I do that this town needs that factory!"
"De hell vit de town, and de hell vit de factory," Schilder barked, and then turned to Alex. "So I hear vhen I come in dat you don't vant to buy from dat bum, too. So good. Four votes to two."
Ostlich's face was growing flushed. "The proposal still passes, Johann."
"Ja, you pass de proposal," he grumbled, turning to walk back out the door he had just entered. "You pass it, and me and Alex, ve tell de people not to vote for it." He stormed from the room.
Bruno ran after him and called out, "Dad! Where are you going?"
"None of your verdammte business!" he shouted, and walked on.
Ostlich looked at Alex. "Well? Is this what you want? A four-to-two vote, when we need at least a firm majority if we intend to sell this idea to the public?"
Alex wiped his brow with his palm and stammered, "W-well, n-no, I—I want the factory as much as you do. I just . . . I just don't want to see that son of a bitch make a profit from this."
"We can't afford to think in those terms," Bruno said, walking back from the door. "We have to do what we have to do."
"Yes, yes, of course," Alex said softly. He was shaken by the vehemence of Schilder's words and frightened by the sudden realization that his own obstinacy might prove fatal to his own prospects. "I, ah, I'm changing my mind. I'll vote for the new bond issue. . . ." And I'll help make that goddamn good-for-nothing bastard a hundred thousand dollars richer.
A hundred thousand dollars! Goddamn him to hell!
"Very well," Ostlich said, his voice now sinking back into a weary, lifeless monotone. "This is how I think we should approach getting the idea across to the commu-nity, especially to the farmers. . . ."
As Dr. Timothy Ostlich was beginning to discuss strategy with four of the other five members of the council, his daughter Dorcas was walking slowly along the River Road, her hand tightly held in Peter Geerson's. Neither of them spoke, but Peter glanced at her face periodically. When they came to the slight break in the wood line that had once been the entrance to the path, she paused for a moment and then turned to enter. Only then did he say, "Dorcas, are you sure you want to do this?"
She nodded. "I have to see the spot."
He sighed and allowed himself to be pulled gently forward into the snowy forest. This is not a good idea, he thought. She's only been out of the hospital for a week and a half. The last thing she needs is to see the place where her sister was killed. And why in God's name does she want to visit Grogo's house?
"Dorcas . . ." he began again gently.
"Peter, I know you're worried about me, and I appreciate it," she said, "But I'm okay, really. It was all just such a shock, that's all." She breathed deeply, and the bitter winter air stung her nostrils. "What's done is done. Nothing will bring Sarah back, and I have to learn to live with it, that's all. Seeing where it happened will . . . I don't know, make it easier."
How the hell will that make it easier? he wondered as they went deeper into the woods. The density of the forest, even with the branches now denuded of foliage, made it difficult to walk side by side, so she released her grip on his hand and preceded him. Dorcas knew the way to the old Sweet place by heart, but to Peter, who had never been there, it seemed that they were walking aimlessly through the woods. Dorcas knew where the path had once been, where the path still was for those who had eyes to see it. Peter was beginning to fear that she had gotten them lost. "We don't even know for certain where it happened," he said. "Hey, do you know where we are? I mean, it's getting dark already. . . ."
Melancholy warmth was in her smile as she said, "Peter, I know these woods like the back of my hand. I could find my way in and out blindfolded."
"That's good to know," he muttered as he followed her. "But we still don't know where it happened."
"Daddy told me that Vernon broke a jug of moonshine nearby. He got drunk and then attacked Sarah, they say. I don't believe it."
"Had to have been somebody."
"Yes, somebody else."
"How can you be so sure?"
"I just am."
Okay, he thought. No logic problem here. "It isn't gonna be easy finding a broken jug in a forest at night, Dorcas."
"If it's still here, I'll find it," she replied with conviction.
They walked on through the darkening woods for a half hour, and then Dorcas said, "There it is, I think."
"There?" he asked. "Where? I can't see a fucking thing!"
"Right there." She sighed, walking forward a few yards and then stopping to look down at the shards. "So it must have happened here, or right near here."
He stood quietly to one side as she gazed down at the supposed signature of the crime. "I don't believe it," she repeated. "It couldn't have been Vernon."
"Yeah, maybe not." He coughed, all his urban fears of the wilderness being brought to the fore by the increasingly hazy light of the forest dusk. "You want to go back now?"
"No," she said. "I want to go to his house."
"Dorcas . . ."
"Please, Peter? Please?"
His face wore an exasperated look as he sighed and said, "Okay, okay. But let's not waste time. I mean, let's not just hang around there, okay?"
"Okay." She smiled. "Thanks, Peter. You're awful considerate."
He grinned. "Yeah, one of my many fine qualities." She held out her hand and he took it and squeezed it gently. She released it as they began again to walk single file deeper into the woods, and Peter's smile faded immediately. The chirping of the crickets and the croaking of the frogs unnerved him, and he jumped, startled, at the hoot of a nearby owl. Shoulda stayed in Queens, he thought, and then grinned sheepishly. A fine environmentalist I am, scared of the woods.
When at last they drew close to the old Sweet place, Dorcas stopped abruptly and peered ahead of her. "What's the matter?" Peter asked.
"Lights," she whispered. "Somebody's there."
He cleared his throat. "Uh, look, Dorcas, I think maybe we should like go back now, you know?"
"Who could it be?" she mused, not listening to his suggestion. "Nobody's supposed to be here, nobody I can think of anyway...."
Peter released a soft laugh of relief when he heard the distant voices of Clayton Saunders and Sean Brenner crying. "All right!" in unison. "Clay and Sean," he said smiling.
"What are they doing here?" she wondered aloud, a hint of annoyance in her voice.
Peter shrugged. "Clay bought the place this morning. It's his now, isn't it?"
She shrugged as she began again to walk toward the house. "I suppose," she muttered. "I can't help but think of it as still belonging to Miss Edith."
"Miss . . . ? Oh, Grogo's sister?"
"Vernon's sister," she corrected him.
"Yeah, right." Grogo, Vernon, tomato, tomahto. . .
Sean saw them as they approached, and he waved and called out. "Hey, Pete, Dork! Come and look what we've found!"
"W
hat are you doing out here?" Peter called back, and then saw Lydia sitting on the steps of the porch and Rebecca standing in the doorway. Rebecca seemed cheerful and excited. Lydia looked bored to tears. "Hiya, Becky, Lyd. What's going on?"
Rebecca waited until they were closer before replying, "I found all this neat shit in the house! Come on in. You gotta see this stuff!"
Peter nodded, but turned to Clayton instead, looking quizzically at the bright glowing Coleman lanterns, the numerous holes in the ground, and the shovels he and Sean were holding. "What are you guys doing?"
"Digging for buried treasure," Clayton cackled, "and we've found some. Look!" He pointed down into one of the holes and Peter peered into it. "Old Man Schilder said that Grogo's father was a moonshiner, and he buried jugs of this shit all over the place. We've been digging around in front of the trees near the house all day, and we found one. Fucking forty-year-old moonshine!"
"Wow," Peter whispered. "How'd you know to dig by the trees?"
Sean coughed. "That's where Grogo found the other one, the one we drank from that day before he . . . well, you know." He shook his head. "If we'd have taken that moonshine back with us instead of leaving it with Grogo, things would have turned out a lot different."
"Yeah, probably." Pete looked over at Becky. "What's in the house?"
"C'mere, both of you," she replied, and then went back inside. Peter and Dorcas followed her up the stairs and into the large central room of the house. A single bare bulb of low wattage burned in the ceiling socket, and Peter squinted his eyes as his nostrils flared against the dusty, musty air in the house. Rebecca walked over to a pile of books, pictures, and papers that were strewn on the floor beside an empty duffel bag and said, "Look at all this stuff!"
Dorcas picked up one of the pamphlets and read the title aloud. "'Life History of Grogo "The Goblin," Written by Himself.'" She opened it and perused it quickly. "Vernon didn't write this. He couldn't have written this. He couldn't even write."
"Yeah, I know. He could barely even think," Rebecca agreed. "But look at this other stuff, all these old pictures and stuff."
Peter walked over to Rebecca and began examining the rest of her discovery. There were old photographs of Vernon and his family, pictures of him as a child and in the sideshow, etchings of Hindu gods on thick parchment, and books printed in a peculiar cursive script that Peter did not recognize.
As he and Rebecca sat on the floor and went through the plunder, Dorcas began to read the pamphlet. It was four pages in length, printed on cheap, yellowing paper, and bore the price notation "5 cents" prominently beneath the title.
A SHORT LIFE STORY OF VERNON L. SWEET, KNOWN AS "GROGO, THE GOBLIN BOY"
For those who are interested, this is a true story of my life, and summed up with a few notes of the famous story of Rip Van Winkle, as written by Washington Irving. The identical spot as men-tioned in this legend is just ten miles from the place in the heart of the Catskill Mountains where I was born and spent a very eventful life.
Beginning my story with the day of my birth on February 1st, 1895, in the town of Jewett, Greene County, New York State, the people of that vicinity were witnessing a severe snowstorm; the snow already four feet deep on the level was overhauled by a gale on the day of my birth and rapidly drifting into banks making it impossible to go forth for any reason whatsoever. I was an unusually large baby, weighing fifteen and a half pounds when first born. During the first part of my life I didn't see many well days, owing to the fact that at birth the back of my head was crushed, also my jaw was dislocated, and my collarbones misplaced. The doctors of that vicinity did not know my trouble or it might have been adjusted right when I was young. But it was not until I was eighteen years of age that I learned the cause of my unnatural and retarded development, and it was too late by then to do anything to improve my difficulties. But old Mother Nature had worked her wonders and I had become practically well at the age of fourteen years. Surely there is nothing can beat God's plan if we give it a chance.
"I wonder how much of this is true?" Dorcas muttered.
"Huh?" Rebecca asked as she rummaged through more of her unexpected bounty.
"This biography of Vernon. I wonder how much of it is true? I mean, it says here he weighed over fifteen pounds when he was born—"
"Talk about an argument for legalizing abortion!" Rebecca laughed. Dorcas frowned slightly and then returned her attention to the pamphlet. Rebecca Saunders was not at all intrigued by the subject of Vernon Sweet's life story, so she decided not to make any effort to share it with her.
During the winter months I earned a small sum from hunting and trapping the furbearing animals until I became eighteen years of age when I had the misfortune to fall upon some ice and badly fracture my hip joints. This has never healed properly and has deprived me of that freedom and pleasure of getting about as in previous days. It was when consulting a specialist in regards to the fractured joint that I learned the cause of my unnatural growth, also learned that my joint would never be much good anymore.
She noticed Peter reading over her shoulder, and she moved the pages to make it easier to him to see. "Do you think it's true?"
"Sure, I guess so." He shrugged. "But he couldn't write this. I mean, I hardly knew the guy, but he sure seemed retarded to me."
"Yes." She nodded. "But look at what he says in here. He used to carve little animals out of wood and sell them to tourists—"
"I bet Patanjali wrote this," Peter interrupted. He was reading intently, and she sensed that he did not want her to read any sections of the pamphlet to him. She fell silent and read on.
I was the third child of six, having two brothers and three sisters; the sisters have all acquired diplomas for teaching school, and each taught a few terms of school. My father still lives, but I lost my dear mother in January of 1923, and our family is scattered since then to different places, excepting one sister and myself, when I came this season with the circus of Ringling Bros. and Barnum and Bailey's.
"He was with Ringling Brothers?" Peter asked skeptically.
"I used to go to that circus when I was a little kid," Dorcas said. "I don't remember a freak show."
"Probably did away with it," Peter mused. "Upgraded their show and put the little guy out of work."
"And sent him out to some freak-show circuit or something. That's terrible."
Peter shrugged. "Progress, I guess."
"Right, progress. Like dumping waste into rivers?"
He smiled, "Touche." They finished reading the old pamphlet.
They have entitled me "Grogo, the Goblin" from the fact that I came from within ten miles of the spot where the story was written of Rip Van Winkle as previously mentioned. I recall how it stated that old Rip was driven from home one terrible stormy night by his enraged wife, and he took refuge in the Catskill Mountains. While there, he met with a colony of little people called the Goblins, who took pity on old Rip and gave him a drink of their own brew, which put Rip to sleep, and he slept for twenty years.
Peter shook his head. "Weird shit."
"What is?" Lydia asked as she entered the room. She had been sitting and watching Clayton and Sean dig holes for hours, and was restless and irritable.
"This," he said, handing her the pamphlet. "It's a biography of Grogo from back when he was in the circus, or the sideshow, or whatever. I wonder how much of it is true?"
"Hmm," Lydia grunted, not the slightest bit inter-ested. She looked down at her sister and said, "You know, Dork, I don't think being here is the best thing in the world for you."
"I'm okay, Lydia," Dorcas said softly as she gently, almost lovingly touched a leather-bound book. "Really I am."
Lydia took the book from her sister's hands. "What's this thing?"
"I'm not sure," Dorcas replied. "It isn't printed in English. Looks like some kind of Bible or something. Probably some holy book from Mr. Patanjali's religion."
"Yeah, probably," Lydia said, tossing the book back to her, not the
slightest bit interested in this either. "Hey, Becky, can you drive a car with like a clutch?"
"Yeah, sure," she replied. "Why?"
"Cause those two assholes out there are barely gonna be able to get into the jeep, let alone drive the fucking thing. They're drinking that disgusting shit they dug up."
Rebecca's eyes locked with Lydia's for a moment, and they shared a common thought: two drunken boyfriends make for a particularly unamorous evening. "Son of a bitch," Rebecca muttered, and then preceded Lydia out the door.
Peter watched Dorcas fondle the old book, and he asked, "You gonna take that with you? I'm sure Clay doesn't care."
"No," she replied. "No, I don't think so. I don't know." She shook her head. "This isn't right, Peter. I feel like a burglar or something. I mean, I know they're dead and all this stuff belongs to Clay now, but still . . ."
"I understand." He nodded. "Look, let's go, okay? We can go back to the trailer for a while and hang out, and then I'll take you home if you want." He grinned. "If I can get Russell's car started."
Whatever reply Dorcas would have made was cut short by angered shouts from outside the house, and she and Peter went quickly to the door. They found old Johann Schilder confronting Clayton and Sean, shaking his fist at them and screaming, "You bums got no respect for udder people's property!"
"This is my property, old man," Clayton shouted back, slurring his words.
"People lived in dis house, made dere lives here!" Schilder said angrily. "You treat it like it vas nutting, like you can do vhatever you vant here, digging tings up, getting drunk on somebody else's likker!"
"You ain't listening, Pops," Sean said, his voice even less distinct than Clayton's. "This is his liquor, and this is his house, and this is his land, and so why don't you like get the fuck outta here, you know?"
"That's right, by God!" Clayton shouted, laughing. "You're trusspessing. I'm gonna put a big sign up, gonna say trusspessers will be persecuted."
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