Copyright © 2018 Daniel Gumbiner
Cover by Sunra Thompson
All rights reserved, including right of reproduction in whole or in part, in any form.
Grateful acknowledgment is made for permission to reprint lyrics from the song “The Wire (Reprise) / Kicked Down the Road” by James Wallace and the Naked Light. Copyright © James Wallace, 2013, all rights reserved.
McSweeney’s and colophon are registered trademarks of McSweeney’s, an independent publisher based in San Francisco. McSweeney’s exists to champion ambitious and inspired new writing, and to challenge conventional expectations about where it’s found, how it looks, and who participates. McSweeney’s is a fiscally sponsored project of SOMArts, a nonprofit arts incubator in San Francisco.
ISBN 978--1944211-54-7
10987654321
www.mcsweeneys.net
For my parents, Richard and Ellen Gumbiner
I have had an entirely new feeling about life ever since making an ax handle…
—E.B. White, in a letter to his wife
CONTENTS
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Acknowledgments
About the Author
CHAPTER 1
BERG CRACKED THE WINDOW and squeezed his way into the farmhouse. He had first seen this farmhouse while walking the dog on the hiking trail that circumnavigated the bay. In the morning the house seemed to be occupied, but during the day it was empty and often some of the windows were left open. People in Talinas always left their windows open. They were not used to thieves breaking and entering. Berg was not used to breaking and entering.
He went to the medicine cabinet first because that was the most likely place to find what he was looking for, but there was nothing of interest. Heart pills, vitamin supplements, deodorant, foot creams, and, strangely, Scotch tape. He moved back to the main room and began rifling through the drawers of a dresser. A seed catalogue, lots of photos of boats, two pairs of scissors, a dead black fly.
The next room appeared to be a study. There was an oilskin map and a large bookshelf and an old iMac, its case bright blue like some kind of tropical drink. Are you kidding me? he thought. The last time he had seen one of these computers was in elementary school, in the computer lab, and he had used it to play Oregon Trail. He had never been very good at Oregon Trail, too reckless with his decision-making. His oxen always died fording the river and the members of his party often ended up suffering from some kind of bowel-related disease.
It was a cold day, the day he entered the farmhouse, with a searching wind from the west and a layer of fog, low-slung and thick, covering the bay like marshmallow topping. But inside the house was warm and full of clear light. It smelled like cedar and coffee and salty air. If he hadn’t been robbing the house, he would have liked to sit quietly in its living room and pass several hours reading a book. Whoever owned this place had a lot of beautiful furniture, including a dining table built from barn siding and a desk that seemed to have been carved out of the base of an oak tree.
Finding nothing useful in the living room, Berg made his way to the bedroom. A king-size bed and a window looking out on a grove of laurels and cedars. He thought he should be looking at the bay through this window but he couldn’t see it. He felt a bit turned around. He was sweating now, a cold sweat that he felt primarily in his hands and feet. In the upper drawer of the bedroom closet he found what he was looking for: a bottle of Lortab 7.5s. There was also a set of keys and a book of poems and some sort of amulet with an inscription in a foreign language. It seemed like the type of thing that would give him +2 dexterity.
Berg had spent the vast majority of seventh and eighth grade playing an online role-playing game called Quest. Every day, from the carpeted basement of his parents’ suburban home, he battled orcs and traveled to foreign lands. His mother had to wrench him away from the computer to go to soccer practice or Hebrew school and, over time, she grew tired of this, and banned the game. She insisted that he read instead. Her father, Rabbi Joel Rothman, had been a genius Talmudic scholar and she often expressed, in overt and covert fashion, the hope that Berg would follow in his learned path.
“Such a sweet, wise man,” she would say. And then always: “May he rest in peace.”
Berg grabbed the Lortabs and went back to the main room, where he continued to open and close drawers. Suddenly, in the middle of his sifting, he felt compelled to go to the bathroom. Percocet made him constipated so these days he was often constipated. The constipation moved in bizarre cycles, an astrology he couldn’t decipher. He would go days without being able to shit and then, all of a sudden, he’d have to shit very badly, which was what was happening to him right now, as he opened and closed drawers, looking for prescription medicine inside the farmhouse of a person he did not know.
He went to the bathroom because there was no other choice really. Well, there were other choices but they eluded him at the moment. It was a high-speed moment.
Things progressed well on the toilet but not as quickly as he’d hoped. In the middle of the process he heard a shuffle outside the door. He held still, which was not easy in that instant, and he listened closely. It was just house noises, he assured himself. When he was finished on the toilet he thought, for a second, about whether or not he should flush. If he flushed someone might hear him, but if he didn’t there would be clear evidence of a break-in. He knew this was a thing that robbers did, break in and shit in the toilet and leave the shit there. Some kind of malevolent, scent-marking ritual.
He poured a glass of water and took four Lortabs. Then he flushed and left the house. Once outside, he found the trail on the ridge, and began walking home. The sun was setting now and the bay spread out before him, brown and ebbing, the color of pinto beans. Cows stood sedately in the fields and, every once in a while, a flock of cowbirds burst from the wet earth like black confetti. He could feel the Lortabs brimming inside him, warmth flooding his whole body, and soon, he knew, he would be in love with everything.
CHAPTER 2
BERG HAD MOVED TO Talinas a few weeks earlier to house-sit for Nell’s friend’s mom, who was traveling to Bali. Her name was Mimi. She was sixty-five and it was the first time she’d been out of the country. Mimi was retired and, in her retirement, she had devoted herself to pottery. She had many earth-toned coffee mugs and her yard was filled with ceramic bunnies, all of them standing stony watch like scouts in a frontier army. Mimi had left him a six-pack in the fridge and some eggs and several blocks of cheese. She also left him a long list of things to do, including watering the plants, caring for the chickens, and feeding and walking the dog, Fish. He was a leggy black dog who didn’t like making eye co
ntact. He was very smart but very anxious and whenever Berg reached out to pet him he would draw back and give him a skeptical, sideways glance. The chickens so far had proven easier to deal with. There were four of them and they were all named after state capitals: Sacramento, Atlanta, Baton Rouge, and Lansing.
Berg spent most nights at the Tavern. He would sit at the bar, stoned on Perc 30s, drinking beer and watching baseball games he didn’t care about. He often ended up in conversations with the owner of the bar, a man named Ed Conotic, whose family also owned the other bar in town, the Western, which was located on the bay, next door to Vlasic’s Boat Works. Ed Conotic hated Nick Vlasic and often told long, convoluted stories which concluded with Ed or one of Ed’s family members suffering some grave miscarriage of justice at the hands of Nick Vlasic or one of Nick Vlasic’s family members. Ed also liked to tell stories about his stepbrother, Gary Conotic, who, were it not for a freak staph infection caused by a dirty knee brace, might have made it in the NBA.
“He could shoot the lights out,” Ed said. “Played on that team with Walt Weir that went to the state semifinals. Could shoot the lights out.”
Ed was not really interested in listening to what Berg had to say, or what anyone had to say for that matter. He was one of these old men who seemed to have chosen his profession so that he would have a convenient and unassailable soap box from which he could express his opinions. This suited Berg fine: he was not very interested in discussing his life.
Also at the bar was Tom, an older rancher with coarse, unfinished features. Tom was slowly settling into dementia and he was no longer able to add sums well. Every time he settled up his tab, he’d count and recount his money, licking his finger before removing each dollar bill and placing it on the table.
“Oh hang on, let me start again,” he’d say, shaking his head. Sometimes Ed Conotic came over and counted the money for him.
“You’ve got seven here, Tom. Three beers so you owe nine.”
“Oh I knew I was missing a few. Knew I was missing a few.”
There was John Coleman, too, the fisherman, and a younger guy he hung around with named Dennis Lapley. And there was Claire, an engineer for the water district, and her boyfriend, Lenny, and Joe Leggett, who delivered gas tanks and had fought in the Korean War and seemed to have a lot of hobbies. On Friday nights, there was a guy named Woody who played a thirty-minute set of his own country songs, which were mostly about deer.
“This song’s about a deer I saw that went and disappeared behind a hillside,” he would say. Or: “This is a song about two small deer and one medium deer that I saw on the road by the Dance Palace.”
The only person Berg had talked to about pills was Lapley. Berg could tell he was an addict the moment he met him: the small bruises on his arms, the runny nose, the constant sniffing. Lapley was from Oregon but he’d worked in construction in Talinas for a few years now. Berg suspected that he was in his thirties but he wasn’t sure. His eyes were small and dull and it seemed like the skin on his face had been stretched tight and then stapled across his jawline. Unlike Berg, Lapley shot up, and he once asked Berg if he wanted to join him in the bathroom.
“Nah, man,” Berg said. “I stay away from needles.”
“It’s the same thing,” Lapley said. “You’re kidding yourself. It’s the exact same thing.”
Lapley said he was a volunteer with the Sheriff’s Department and claimed he could arrest people. Berg didn’t believe it. A dopehead volunteering with the Sheriff’s Department? Lapley seemed to lie about almost everything. But when he spoke about the two times he’d been through withdrawal, Berg had the sense that he was telling the truth. Lapley’s descriptions reminded Berg of his own experience: sweats, muscle spasms, watery eyes, stomach cramps, violent shaking.
“I did it all on my own,” Lapley boasted. “And I know, if I wanted to, I could do it again. Don’t need no damn rehab center holding my hand.”
Berg had gone to rehab. For the first two weeks they’d put him on Clonidine, Baclofen, Meloxicam, and Gabapentin; 50 mg Seroquel or 100 mg Trazodone to help him sleep. And then, after the first month, Clonidine as needed, Vistaril for anxiety, B12 vitamins, a slow tapering of his Gabapentin dose, peaking at 1600 mg. Antidepressants, too, mostly Wellbutrin, 150 mg, but also 30 mg of Prozac.
It was important to identify your triggers, they had told Berg, to know them and track them. Eliminate your supply. Remove the numbers from your phone. And he had done this, deleted Eugene’s number from his phone, all the people he’d ever taken pills with. When the opportunity to house-sit for Mimi materialized, it seemed like a good first step toward reestablishing a sober life. If he moved up to Talinas, he could stay with Nell while also putting some tangible distance between himself and the world of his addiction.
But shortly after he moved up there he’d relapsed. He was over at Gloria and Jerry’s for a neighborly dinner and, during a trip to the bathroom, he couldn’t resist opening the medicine cabinet. Gloria and Jerry were old people and old people in America always had opioids. Like fifteen different kinds of opioids. It was as if they had been collecting them since the ’60s, planning to bring them over to Antiques Roadshow and get them appraised.
The next couple of weeks were immensely pleasurable. Berg’s stretch of abstinence had lowered his tolerance and he was able to get high in a way that had eluded him in the months prior to rehab. He stopped calling his sponsor, stopped going to the NA meetings in Pine Gulch. When his supply ran out, he began to casually enter homes that appeared unoccupied. He usually picked homes that were along the hiking trail, and he always carried a walking stick with him. If someone caught him, he would say he was lost and had been looking for some place to use a phone.
Every addict has a story about the impermanence of their addiction. For Berg, at this time, the return of Nell would constitute the end of his use. She was still on tour, had been on tour for the last two months. He was only doing this until she returned, having one last affair with opioids before he buckled down and endured sobriety for the rest of his life.
This was why he had gotten sober in the first place, why he had gone to rehab and quit his job at Cleanr and moved up here. He was sick of the city. It was all garbage and noise and men with gelled hair. He intended to go clean in more than one sense: he wanted to find work that was simple and fulfilling, to live a life of health and exercise and fresh air. But at the moment, these ambitions seemed distant.
One morning, after a night of drinking at the Tavern, he woke up with a headache. The headaches had a creepy, slinky quality at first, as if he were prey and they were stalking him. The pain was not there but he knew it was on its way, knew that a slight movement or sound could catalyze it. He took a couple of Vicodin and started a pot of coffee. While he was waiting for the coffee, he headed down to the coop to feed the chickens.
It took him a few moments to process the scene of carnage he encountered. One of the chickens, Baton Rouge, was missing and there were feathers and blood all over the plywood floor. Sacramento and Atlanta were pecking at Lansing, who appeared gravely wounded. Berg yelled at the two of them and shooed them away and then picked up Lansing, who had a bad wound near her neck. She shuddered in his arms and he whispered calming things in her ear. When she seemed still enough, he began walking toward the house.
He couldn’t leave her outside but he couldn’t let her run around loose inside Mimi’s house either. In the end, he decided to place her inside Fish’s crate. He pulled out Fish’s bed, which was covered in black dog hair, and laid down newspaper for Lansing. Fish trotted over, clearly disturbed. He kept looking at the crate and then looking back at Berg, waiting for someone to explain this obvious injustice.
Back in the kitchen Berg consulted the note Mimi had left him and found the number he was looking for.
“If there are any problems with the animals,” she had written, “call Ben at 415-327-6688.”
Berg called Ben and began explaining, in great detail, what he had
found in the chicken pen.
“Blood everywhere,” he said, and then he repeated it: “everywhere!” As he relived the scene, the drama of the moment really took hold of him. He was a little stoned now, the headache receding but still there.
“I’ll be right over,” Ben said.
Ben was in his late thirties, with thinning hair and some kind of red streak in his right eye. He wore a white shirt with holes in it and a camouflage baseball hat. He had tattoos on his knuckles. Ben surveyed the coop for a minute and discovered a gap between two of the boards. He kneeled down, examined the crevice, and then issued his verdict:
“Looks like a coyote got ’em.”
“A coyote?” Berg said.
“Yep, must have snuck right through here, picked his favorite chicken, and scurried off for a nice dinner.”
Ben told Berg that he should build a wire fence around the coop. He said the fence should go down eighteen inches underground to prevent the coyotes from burrowing beneath it.
“And what do I do with the wounded chicken?”
“The wounded one? Where is she?”
“I put her in the dog crate.”
Ben looked like he was about to say something but thought better of it.
“How bad is she injured?” he asked.
“Pretty badly,” Berg said. “There’s a big gash near her neck.”
“From the coyote?”
“It seems like it. And the other chickens.”
“Well, I would just put her out of her misery then,” Ben said.
“Kill her?”
“Yeah, she’s just going to suffer otherwise.”
Berg thanked Ben for his help and walked back up to the house with a sick feeling in his stomach. This is what you have to do, he said to himself. You’re helping the chicken. This is life in the country. This is nature. Coyotes attack chicken coops and chickens get weird neck wounds and then you have to kill them.
He walked into the kitchen and picked out the largest blade. It suddenly seemed like a very small blade and he wondered whether Mimi had something larger he could use. He looked through the shed but the only potential substitute he found was a pair of garden shears, but this seemed cruel, medieval somehow.
The Boatbuilder Page 1
