Migrators

by Ike Hamill

  Alan nodded.

  “I’ll be by in about an hour,” Bob said.

  “I’ll be up in the attic. Come on in if you don’t see me.”

  X • X • X • X • X

  “Hello?” Bob called.

  Alan turned down his radio and cupped his hands around his mouth. He blew between his freezing fingers.

  “Hold on, I’ll be right down.”

  He went downstairs and found Bob in the kitchen.

  “Come on up, I’ll show you what I’m up to,” Alan said. He led Bob up the stairs, through the opening in the closet, and then up to the attic.

  Bob brushed a hand over the back of the tight insulation.

  “This is looking good. You’ll have this place warm and toasty in no time,” Bob said.

  “Here’s my problem,” Alan said. He walked his measuring tape over to the window. Laid diagonally across the rectangle, the tape read forty-four inches. “These windows are the only way I can get drywall up here and they’re only forty-four inches. I think if I take off all the trim, I might be able to bend the drywall enough to fit through, but then I still have to get the sheets up a ladder or maybe rent a bucket truck to lift them. I’ve got better access to the front window, but the back one isn’t as high. This project is steeped in issues.”

  Bob looked at the window and ran his hand over the trim surrounding the frame. He wandered back to the stairs.

  “What if you opened up a real door at the bottom of the stairs and just carried the sheets through the house?” Bob asked.

  “Yeah,” Alan said, “that’s probably the only way to go. I just think that Liz will freak out if I bring it up. She’s awful touchy about making changes to the house. I figured that if I finished off this space and made it livable then she would soften about putting in a real door and real stairs.”

  Bob nodded. He put his hand on the back of the rocking chair that sat in the center of the room. He looked down at the chair and seemed puzzled. Then a smile spread across his face. “Did you screw this rocking chair to the floor?” he asked, laughing.

  “Yes. Yes I did,” Alan said. He jiggled the chair to show that it was locked in place. “The wind was making it rock at night and it woke up Joe.”

  “Spooky,” Bob said. He grinned.

  “It’s the time of year for it,” Alan said. “Plus it was always underfoot, so I figured I would just make it a permanent obstacle instead of moving it around all the time.”

  Bob nodded. He walked over to the back window and looked out.

  “Okay,” Bob said. “Why does it have to be drywall? What about bead board or tongue and groove paneling?”

  Alan frowned. “I don’t know. Do you think that would look cheesy?”

  “In an attic? I think with the sloped ceiling of an attic, you can get away with more. And it doesn’t have to be permanent. You can put something up, live with it for a couple of years, and then when you get around to re-thinking the stairway you can make a change then. Didn’t you say you eventually wanted to panel the inside of your camp? You can re-use the material for that down the road.”

  Alan was nodding by the time Bob finished his proposal.

  “That could work. It would certainly be a lot easier to get up here. That stuff is thin enough that I can bend it a little to fit through the window.”

  “For sure,” Bob said. “Why don’t I help you finish up this insulation and then we’ll go shopping?”

  “That would be great,” Alan said.

  “And I’ve got a surprise for you, too,” Bob said.

  “Oh yeah?”

  “Yup,” Bob said. He smiled.

  X • X • X • X • X

  At the lumber yard, Alan found a suitable treatment for the attic walls, but it didn’t make sense to carry the sheets home in the big green truck. The salesman offered to deliver it for free, and that would save a lot of hassle. It was about noon as they drove back from town. The steep angle of the light was starting to make Alan claustrophobic, like the sky was too low or something. And it was still two months before the days would start to get longer and the sun would be higher in the sky at noon. Alan wondered if he would be able to stay sane in the darkness of winter.

  “Turn left here,” Bob said. He had a paper bag propped between his feet on the floor of the truck. He’d brought the bag from his own SUV with no explanation.

  “How come?” Alan asked after he put on his signal.

  “The surprise.”

  “Ah. I forgot,” Alan said.

  Bob directed him down a dirt road overhung with bare tree branches. At the side of the road, the mailboxes were suspended at the end of long poles. That gave plenty of room for aggressive snow-plow trucks.

  “This is it,” Bob said when he saw the number of the next mailbox.

  “Where?”

  “Right there,” Bob said. He pointed at a patch of dirt that descended away from the road at a steep angle.

  “If you say so,” Alan said. He slowed and downshifted as they made a sharp turn around a rock wall. The driveway led back the way they’d come, parallel to the road, before it took another turn between the trees. The house they saw at the end looked like a museum of discarded building supplies. Every window was a different shape, Alan saw three types of siding, and the roof was half metal and half shingles. “What is this place?”

  “You know that lumber yard we were just shopping at? The guy who started that business had a brother. The brother’s name was Clyde, but everyone called him Buster. This is Buster’s house.”

  “You’re kidding.”

  “Nope.”

  “What are we doing here?”

  “We’re going to see if he can tell us anything more about that body we saw, and maybe the nest of bones.”

  “What makes you think he’ll be any more forthcoming this time?”

  “I brought a bribe,” Bob said. He picked up the paper bag and pulled the bottle from within. “It’s very rare. It says so right on the label.”

  Alan pulled the truck to a stop. “You think that will work?”

  “I have it on good authority that Clyde would do almost anything for this particular brand of Irish whiskey.”

  “Good authority from whom?”

  “That guy at the dump. You know the really big guy? He told me,” Bob said. “Come on.”

  Bob got out and started across the lawn. Alan hesitated, but Bob was already underway. Alan got out and headed after his friend. Bob held the bottle against his chest, label out, as he knocked on the door. Despite the yard sale impression of the house, Alan decided the house looked well put together, as soon as you got close enough to assess such things. The paint was fresh and the construction looked tight.

  “Maybe he’s out hunting again?”

  “Could be,” Bob said.

  The door opened. A wave of warm air billowed out.

  “Well now,” a deep voice said from the dim interior. “Looks like my best friend has come to visit.”

  The old man’s hand came out from the dark and took the bottle from Bob’s hand.

  “Who are these two scoundrels he’s brought along with him?” the voice asked.

  “Buster? We met the other day in the woods?” Bob asked. He reached in his pocket and pulled out the orange bandanas. Alan had forgotten about them. “We didn’t see your truck, and we wanted to give these back.”

  “Come on in,” Buster said.

  Bob entered and waved Alan through the door. It took Alan’s eyes a few seconds to adjust to the interior. Buster had the shades down and heavy curtains bracketing the windows. He shut the door behind himself and felt the warm room’s embrace. It was a dry, baking heat coming from the wood stove against the wall. Buster had a stack of short pieces of wood against the wall. There was a teapot atop the little stove. In the center of the room, Buster had a chair flanked with two end-tables. On one, he had a stack of newspapers. On the other, a reading lamp gave off the only illumination.

  “Have a seat,�
�� Buster said. He motioned to the loveseat across from his chair.

  The old man wore blue overalls today over a white shirt. His feet had only socks. Alan looked down and wondered if he should remove his own shoes. Bob didn’t—he just went to the loveseat and sat down—so Alan didn’t either.

  Buster didn’t sit. He set the whiskey down on the coffee table and disappeared through doorway. He returned with three mugs on a little tray. He didn’t speak, but he grunted with each movement as he set the tray down on the table, opened the whiskey, and dropped a dollop of liquor in each mug. He held the tray out towards Alan and Bob.

  Bob took a mug and nodded to Alan.

  The one Alan took said “Get Bent,” on the side. It had two stick figures—like pictograms you’d see on a restroom sign—of two men under the words. One of the men was bent over and the other man was pulling up very close behind.

  “Thank you,” Bob said. He took a sip.

  “Thanks,” Alan agreed. The coffee was thick and looked oily. Alan took a tiny sip—the coffee was unbelievably strong and so was the whiskey.

  Buster gulped at his.

  “So you made it out of the woods in one piece? Just the right number of holes in you, I gather?”

  “Yes, thank you,” Bob said. “Did you have any luck?”

  “Me? I’m not really out for moose anymore. I like to get out there, but I wouldn’t know what to do with one if I shot it. Take me fifty trips just to carry it out.”

  Alan glanced at Bob. He got the message—let’s get this conversation on track.

  “So, Buster, we were asking the other day about the body we saw in the marsh grass,” Bob said.

  Buster held his coffee mug up in front of his face. He seemed to want to inhale all the steam rather than let it get away. His eyes bounced between Alan and Bob.

  “Do you have any idea what it was we saw?” Bob asked.

  “You saw the thing,” Buster said. “How should I know what it was?”

  “Have you ever seen anything like it? Looks almost human, but with weird hands and no face?” Alan asked.

  “Them woods is lovely, dark, and deep,” Buster said. “My old man started taking me back there hunting since before I was tall enough to pee in the trough at the fair, and I’ve only ever seen one black bear. You know how many bear are back there? Generations have raised their cubs in that same forest, but have I ever seen them? Just the once. Of course they like to hibernate in the winter. There’s only so much opportunity to see them.”

  Buster took another gulp and then burped.

  “Pardon,” he mumbled.

  Alan puffed out his cheeks and looked at the ceiling. The warm living room with its low ceiling, covered windows, and wood stove pumping out waves of dry heat, seemed like a little den. He could imagine Buster curling up in here and not emerging until spring melted all the snow and ice outside. The old man would probably indulge in one last big meal and then fall asleep in his recliner, not waking up for another five months.

  “I think you know what we’re talking about, whether you’ve seen one or not,” Alan said. “I’ve never seen an octopus in the ocean, but I could name it if someone described it. If those things live back there, I bet you know about them.”

  “People say believe half of what you see, and none of what you hear,” Buster said. He tilted his mug at Alan. “Quid pro quo.”

  Alan covered his smile with his hand.

  “Whether you believe in it or not,” Alan said. “Can you tell us what you’ve heard?”

  Buster took another gulp.

  “My cousin on my mother’s side was a curious boy. He pestered his ninth grade science teacher until the man explained how to combine saltpeter, charcoal, and sulfur. Next thing you know, my cousin was missing his right hand. He had to learn to beat off with the stump—he never could get a feel with his left hand. His father always blamed the science teacher. Gave him a little love tap in a parking lot with his Chevy and broke the teacher’s hip.”

  “That’s charming, but we’re not children,” Alan said. “I have a boy myself. He’s not yet in high school. If there’s something living on my land, then I’d like to know what it is so I can keep him safe.”

  Buster smiled and nodded. He turned to Bob. “Do you see that? He used my own logic against me. That’s pretty clever. But if you listen to my story, you’ll note that the science teacher paid a pretty heavy price too.”

  “So you’re not going to tell us because you fear retribution?”

  Buster wiped his face with his hand. As he scratched his neck, he gave another little burp and a look crossed his face. The look said he didn’t like what he tasted.

  “Retribution,” Buster said. “Maybe a little fear is healthy.” Buster set down his mug and pushed his hands against his knees, stretching his shoulders and back.

  Bob leaned forward. Alan took another sip of his laced coffee.

  “Everything I’m about to say is pure conjecture and hearsay,” Buster said. “You have no business believing anything that’s about to come out of my mouth.”

  “Fair enough,” Alan said.

  X • X • X • X • X

  “My father was a Jack of all trades,” Buster said. “Always used to tick him off that he was good at learning lots of new things, but never the best at anything. He cut wood for awhile, but Dickie and Vernon did it better. He trapped and tanned for awhile, but Donnie cleaned his clock at that. He couldn’t work a garden best, make a table best, nothing. He did all those things passably, but never enough to really make a living. We were always just scraping by.”

  Buster stood so he could pour a little hot water from the teakettle into his mug. With just an inch of water in the bottom, Buster added a couple of inches of whiskey. He sat back down with another burp. With a practiced jerk, he pushed his torso back and the footrest popped out from under the recliner to support his feet.

  “He knocked up Mom with six boys and one girl—finally something he did well. Paul was first. To hear Mom tell it, as soon as Paul could go half a day without shitting his pants, Dad had him out in the woods learning to harvest trees. Paul was only allowed to cut trees. He could chop them up for firewood or set them aside for lumber, but by Christ that’s all he was allowed to do. The old man didn’t let him bike, swim, fish, hunt, or nothing. Just dropping and dragging trees—that was Paul. You give Paul an axe and a draft horse and he would fill your shed with wood before dinner.”

  Alan glanced at Bob and then up to the clock on the wall.

  “Skip was the next boy born. He was allowed to mill, finish, and build. My brother Hooker was deemed the gardner. Gordie fished and trapped. Hubie fixed and drove anything mechanical. I was the hunter. I think he was saving that one for himself. After all the other boys were already entrenched in their duties, my old man was the hunter of the family. He only had to work a few months out of the year to fill up the freezer with meat, and his other boys did the rest.

  “I came along after a bit of a break in the child bearing. When I was no more than three or four, Dad gave me my first twenty-two. I think maybe he hoped it would take the top of my head off, but it didn’t. By the time I was ten, I could shoot a barn cat from two-hundred yards.”

  “Charming,” Alan said.

  “The point is,” Buster said, “that us boys knew everything there was to know about our trade. We weren’t allowed any different. He pulled us out of school as soon as he could and he made us pull our own weight. By the time I learned to read, Paul had put Dickie and Vernon out of business. He cut wood ten months out of the year and split it and Hubie delivered. Paul was harvesting not just our lot, but half the goddamn woods in four towns. Of course, all the best trees went to Skip.”

  Alan sat back in his chair. He gave up on learning anything useful, but the story was interesting enough to keep listening for a little while.

  “Paul and Skip brought in most of the money, but Hooker, Gordie, and me kept the family fed. Hubie kept everything running. Without Hu
bie fixing the truck, the tractor, the boat, and making me parts for my guns, we all would have been sunk. Hubie didn’t get much love though. Everybody just took Hubie for granted. Together we made our own little self-sufficient village. Some people probably looked down on our shitty little house. We thought we were rich. There wasn’t anything we couldn’t build ourselves or find the money for if we wanted.

  “That left Dad to go off and do whatever he pleased with his friends. They built that cabin over there on your road one summer, and they used to cook up liquor and get drunk pretty much every night. Mom didn’t seem to care, and none of us brothers did either. We’d learned all that we could from the old man.”

  Bob freshened his coffee with another dollop of whiskey. Alan frowned into his own mug. He’d only drank about an inch before the mixture went cold and bitter.

  “The point is, we became isolated experts,” Buster said. “After we graduated past what Dad could teach us, we learned the rest on our own. It was a point of pride. Even though Paul was more than ten years old than me, he wouldn’t have dared to tell me anything about hunting, and I wouldn’t have listened if he tried. Just the same as none of us would ever question what crops Hooker put in the ground each spring. That’s why it was so surprising when Paul pulled us all together one September.

  “He said, ‘This year’s going to be different.’ You see, we all stopped everything outdoors in October. We’d spend nearly the whole month locked up inside, just eating our mother’s cooking and getting fat. It was no use trying to get anything done at all.”

  “Why?” Bob asked.

  Buster frowned.

  “It was just the way it was. My father was raised to eat his peas with his knife. He made us do the same. I never thought to take a spoon or a fork to a helping of peas until I’d been living on my own for more than ten years. Same with October, I guess. Anyway, I never thought anything of it until that year that Paul called bullshit. He was trying to save up enough money to get a place of his own so he could propose to Debbie Pomroy. She had a taste for the finer things, and Paul knew he’d have to work straight through October to get his finances to an acceptable level.