by Steve Berman
“That’s bullshit,” I said. “What about the cops?”
“I ain’t heard nothing,” said the male voice.
The female voice snorted, her shadowy form shifting. “Like they even care,” she whispered low.
“Hey,” said the guy. “Is that even a gun?”
I tensed. Just then, headlights from a car plied across the room, I saw the figure of the guy—just a silhouette, all darkness, and the girl. Her dark hair in her face. Eyes glittering strangely, like the dog I had seen before.
“The cops?” one said. There was cursing.
“You wait here!” I said. I don’t even know why. I made a move, there were sparks first and then a loud crack, like thunder. My leg gave out even before the pain shot through it, and I tumbled down the stairs. Pain encased me, like a friend returning from abroad.
I don’t know how much time had passed, but Miguel was there. He kept asking me, “What the fuck happened to you? What the hell did you do to your leg?” But I wanted none of that. I was sad. I couldn’t be anything else but sad.
“We gotta find out what became of them, Miguel! We gotta stay and figure this out,” I croaked.
“No,” Miguel said calmly. “We don’t gotta do any of that. You’re hurt. We’re going.”
“We gotta figure this out! This shit happens . . . ” I felt a dull throb of pain from my leg. When I put weight on it, it stung. My pants were cold and wet and sticky. “It happens for a reason. There has to be a moral.” There has to be a moral, because if there wasn’t, what does that mean to us? Who are we, then?
“You’re hurt, Hank. Can you make it a little further? The car’s just that way.”
My shrug was a faint vibration; the solitary flap of a hummingbird’s wings.
He pulled my arm around his neck. He chuckled. “You know, at least you got something for the pain.”
“We can’t leave them here, Miguel!” I cried.
“Who?” He said.
“All them ghosts.” I don’t know what I was saying. I felt impossibly sad. All those houses. All those families. Just gone, and nobody knew and nobody cared. Was that the way of life? Was that our purpose? Just to be flushed out with the flick of some divine wrist? How many times had this happened in the world? I thought of all those people talking about outdoor grills and looking forward to Tuesday nights and the televised singing competitions, just snuffed out. “It hurts,” I said.
“I know,” Miguel said. “Just a little further.”
He slid me into the passenger seat and lit a cigarette, then slid in the driver’s seat and turned over the engine. The lights flickered on and the engine coughed. I saw something in the shadows there: the pack of dogs, maybe more of them. Hunched figures, ears swiveled forward. Eyes shining, eyes watching. Always watching. Always hungry, always waiting.
I don’t know if he saw them. He gunned the engine. He was sweating—had he helped himself to my stash before, and I hadn’t noticed? Or was he scared? I felt delirious, I wished I could tell.
The car crept away. I turned and thought of my uncle’s brother-in-law, rubbing his head, smiling dumbly. The polo shirt, the expression on his face. I tried to fix it in my memory, but I couldn’t see his face. We pulled off the street and I watched it fade away, illuminated only by the taillights of Miguel’s car: dark looming shadows with hints of red, fading into nothing.
WHAT PRESIDENT POLK SAID
Vylar Kaftan
You have to understand how it was. No doctors. No hospitals. Most of us hadn’t seen civilization in months. Years, if you counted the fellows who camped here last winter instead of heading to Sacramento. We each had a pick—most of us—and boots, and clothes, and dreams. We were covered in mud and never came clean. That’s what we shared, all of us ‘Niners.
And Dawson was crazy as a loon. Bigger than any man I’d ever seen: near seven foot tall and broad as a wagon’s backside. His breeches fit like leggings and his flannel exposed his elbows. We all smelled worse than a dog’s behind, but Dawson stank like a festering wound. He harassed everyone in the camp—white, Negro, or Mexican. He pushed up at night into a man’s face like a desperate whore: “Where’s the gold? Did you find gold?”
Dawson knew the truth, he said. The government planted the gold out here to tempt greedy men. The Army was waiting to see who died. They’d round up the survivors and sell them to the Injuns. When he spoke like this, he got a terrible gleam in his eye, and you knew all sense had left the man. Dawson muttered to his Bowie knife at night, calling it President Polk. He’d sneak up on men, grab them by the neck, and bring out the knife. “President’s coming for you, boys.” Scared the greenhorns out of their wits, but he always let them go.
Dawson was held to be scary but harmless. But when someone stole Kingsley’s gold right out from his tent, we knew it was Dawson. Axman Joe said he saw Dawson skulking round the tent, like he was going to piss but changed his mind. We trusted Joe. Everyone knew everyone’s business here. We all knew where each man slept and how he scratched himself. We knew who the thieves were and they weren’t us. That’s how we got through the days: trusting each other, because if we didn’t we’d start killing each other. Words were whispered, opinions exchanged, and some of us decided to meet by the old tree north of camp.
The tree was like Dawson—a broad oak, taller than its fellows. It was bent in the middle like it had battled another tree for the right to grow. That tree was older than California, a century perhaps, while this state was only two years old. Perhaps the tree was insane as well; I couldn’t tell with trees.
There were four of us—me, the Crane brothers, and Axman Joe. The Crane brothers just wanted him gone. It was Joe who said we had to take it further. Joe said a gold thief would be slitting throats in a week. “Saw it in Stockton,” he said, fingering his knife.
And there it was. Couldn’t kill him. Couldn’t let him go. We knew what happened to murderers—hanging. But we also couldn’t let him steal gold from other camps. That’s what I’m telling you: we had to trust each other to get through the days. That meant everyone, including men at other camps.
We hatched a plan. Joe was a burly guy, ex-coal miner. The brothers were farm boys, strong as oxen. That left me, the educated man, to do the persuading. My weapon was whiskey. I spent my last gold on the best bottle I could get. I whispered my plan to Dawson. We’d meet at the old oak on Sunday afternoon, just him and me, and get sopping drunk. His eyes widened and I knew I had him.
When the time came, Axman Joe and the Crane brothers crouched behind a rock. I sat under the tree with the whiskey. Dawson came up the hill, with President Polk tucked in his belt like always. He and I drank together. He did most of the talking. He ranted about suspenders and Chicago and the Army’s plans for us all. The sun crept across the sky. We got drunker. He drank more, but he was bigger. It seemed like he’d never go down.
Suddenly a twig snapped nearby. Dawson stopped mid-sentence and tilted his head. I feared the worst. He said, “Listen.”
I did. I was so drunk I could hardly think. Birds chirped and a stream was running in the distance. I thought I heard someone moving behind the rock. Dawson whispered, “President Polk wants to talk to you.”
The trees spun around me. The knife. I thought I was supposed to be doing something about the knife. That was the plan. “All right,” I said, wondering if he meant he would kill me.
Dawson nodded gravely. “Listen closely,” he said. He handed me the knife. I fumbled blindly before taking it. I heard the blood rushing through my ears like the American River. My pan was coming up empty. I held the knife to my ear, listening for gold nuggets.
Well, the other three took that as their cue. They jumped him. Dawson was a mean drunk, but a stupid one, and he’d had enough to miss his punches. I ducked out of the way. The three of them overpowered him. They drove him to the ground and bound his wrists and legs.
We strapped him to that oak, tight enough to hold but not constrict him. He howled like a demon.
He kicked and screamed, and then got hysterical and soiled himself. We backed away slowly, mumbling promises about bringing him food. We didn’t think we’d keep them.
We went back to the camp. The others wondered where he’d gone, but not for long. Men came in and out of camps all the time. If anyone guessed the truth, they must have approved. Dawson became a camp legend told to scare greenhorns. I kept his knife. One Bowie looks just like another, and no one realized it was President Polk.
Four days later I struck the motherlode—gold like a waterfall dried in place on the rock wall. I dug my fortune, gave away my pick, and got the hell out of there. I still have the knife.
I see that look. You’re thinking I went back to the tree. Well, I thought about it. Thing was, I couldn’t do it. I know what he’d want. But by God, the preachers say we’d go to hell for murder. You have to understand. There was nothing else we could do.
Every summer, I get President Polk from his hiding place in my bureau. And I say, “You see how it was, don’t you?” All these years, the knife’s never spoken to me. I wish it would. If President Polk explained himself, I’d know I was mad. And that would excuse the thing we did that afternoon.
KINDER
Steve Berman
Alexander sniffed the damaged book. The Brim Above the Brow: Meditations on the Chapeau. His nose caught a blend of must from the foxed pages and an unexpected sweetness. He ran a fingertip along the scalloped edges of the bite mark. Strong jaws but the teeth had to be small. Perhaps a rat? The thought disgusted him. He peered at the bookcase and moved aside the 1902 edition of Lexicon of European Millinery and The Proper Tip: Social Demands of the Bowler. No droppings, no debris, only the usual dust that Ms. Penn attacked once a week.
He crouched down on his knees. The titles on the lowest shelf were novels and collections. Early editions rendered near worthless by cracked spines and loose pages. Every so often, a Trustee would present a plan to sell one. Had the rats disliked Hawthorne? He pulled out his note pad and scribbled a reminder to ask Mr. Cassey to bring his poisons early this season.
For the next few hours, Alexander searched the rest of the study for any other damage or misplaced objects. He found the remains of a lollipop underneath Grueller’s mahogany desk. Wine-colored sugar crystals clung to the worn Persian rug.
“Children,” Alexander muttered to the empty room.
He wore gardening gloves while removing the offending stick. Alexander had heard somewhere that a dog’s mouth was cleaner than a child’s. He imagined both as drooling pits.
He had asked the Board on several occasions during his years as caretaker that Grueller House not admit any person under ten years of age, no matter how many adults were present. How could a child appreciate the historical worth of Pennsylvania’s—arguably the entire Eastern seaboard’s—preeminent late 19th century hatter? Bored tourists stumbled upon the sidewalk sign were bad enough. Alexander shuddered whenever someone other than the quiet graduate students or powdered, old women from the Historical Society came through the front door.
After one last walk through the house, Alexander turned off the lights and headed upstairs, his feet avoiding the bald patches on the runner. He went through the second floor hall, with its thirteen coat racks capped with russet derbies, tan fedoras, and homburgs of dusty silver felt. Past the master bedroom, Grueller’s changing area had been refurbished for the caretaker’s stay. Crème-colored walls held the early summer’s heat, and Alexander stripped down entirely before slipping into bed. He closed his eyes and listened to the house groan.
Standing before the hallway mirror, Alexander adjusted the hat, which resembled a pale thimble ornamented with a white satin band and silver buckle. He hid the price tag. The gift shop offered replicas of Grueller designs. Boxes from China filled the basement.
He checked his watch: just shy of 10 A.M. and he still had several chores and piles of paperwork unattended. When Henry had been docent, there had been time for everything.
Alexander unlocked the front door.
In the late afternoon, the first visitor arrived: an elderly woman in a bold floral dress smelling of rose water. She tilted her head back and forth while looking around the foyer. “Did anyone die here? Someone important. I’m a mystery writer, you know.” She took a gilded pen and small memo pad from her canvas bag. “I’m doing research. I just adore cozies.”
“The only cozies used at Grueller House are found in the dining room.”
The woman nodded and began scribbling. Her bag toppled the stack of slick brochures on the demilune table.
Alexander bent down to recover the brochures when the children stampeded past him. An arm smacked the side of his face, and fingers scratched his cheek. Wincing, he checked his face in the mirror. His reflection scowled as he touched the edges of the red marks underneath one eye.
“You should keep those children on a leash.” He did not see where they went but heard them running through the house’s first floor.
“They aren’t my children.” She finished whatever notes she’d been making and headed off, not in the direction of the dining room, clearly marked, but the parlor.
Alexander tracked the sounds of gaiety and stomping feet to the front room. A boy in lederhosen and a girl in a blouse and Bavarian skirt ran around a table set with Grueller’s tools. They must have come straight from some school play. The Heidi reached for the pair of calipers used to measure the skull, not touched since a tipsy Henry had used them as ice tongs.
“Stop that.” Alexander clapped his hands to get their attention. “This is not a playroom. Where are your parents?” He hated how shrill his voice became around children.
The pair stopped on the other side of the table. Spittle filled the edges of the boy’s toothy smile and dribbled down to his dimpled chin. The little Heimlich fell to all fours and bit at the 19th century mahogany. Wood crunched and splinters clung to his lips.
Alexander shouted in astonishment and kicked at the kid. Its belly felt oddly solid, enough to hurt his toes. The Heimlich rolled and struck a chair. A plump hand reached up to the chair’s seat.
“That’s priceless. Off, off!” Although Alexander knew the chair wasn’t an authentic Chippendale but a weak reproduction limited by the unimaginative splat.
The Heimlich nodded and started gnawing at a leg. Heidi came over with a mouthful of feathers. She clutched a deflated down pillow.
“Get out! Out, out, now.” He grabbed them by their ears and pulled them towards the door. They snarled in some Alpine tongue. “No unattended children at Grueller House.” He hoped they did not belong to one of the Trustees, the majority of whom were laywers.
The pair stared at him from the sidewalk a moment. Then the Heidi bent down to nibble on the step’s wrought-iron railing. Heimlich scratched his pudgy head and yawned, showing a mouthful of endless teeth leading to a very red gullet.
He slammed the door shut and turned the deadbolt. He leaned against the wood while he caught his breath. He’d call for Mr. Cassey and demand he spray tomorrow. Then he’d have to speak to someone at Winterthur about restoration. And the Trustees would have to be involved.
Scrolling through the long list of contacts on his cell phone, Alexander paused at Henry’s name.
They had not spoken in the weeks since the Trustees had dismissed Henry. If not for a forthcoming article on Grueller in the Journal of the History of Ideas, Alexander might have also been let go. The gratitude at being given a second chance turned to shame whenever he thought of calling Henry.
At night, Alexander found he couldn’t ignore the house. The walls felt brittle, the rooms no longer had a sense of refinement and seclusion but left him anxious. He missed Henry’s soft voice, the way his snores sounded more like repeated sighs.
In the kitchen he was horrified to find the large woman who wanted cozies with her head in the Oberlin stove, one of the few surviving in Pennsylvania. Murmurs of regret over failing to bring a tape measure echoed in the oven. Her dress
had caught on the oven’s lower ledge to expose a glossy lavender-shaded slip and legs covered with ruddy blotches.
“Madam,” Alexander said with a gasp. He imagined a swift kick to her posterior but that might wedge her tight. “Remove yourself from the Oberlin.” He was relieved that cast iron resisted scratching.
She scuttled back and blinked at him for a moment. “Just as well. They’re all convection these days.” She made further notations before rising to her feet.
After escorting her back to the foyer, he unlocked the door for her. He took notice that she paused by the bronze box for donations bolted to one wall. She even lifted the swinging lid and peered inside.
He took a firm hold of her arm and guided her to the door. “We have no mysteries here.”
Caretakers were not permitted to cook their meals on the Oberlin. Not that Alexander had known the urge to chop wood. In the back utility room, he heated a can of Krimmel’s Old Pepper Pot Stew over a portable electric burner. He stabbed apart a congealed lump, suspected of being tripe.
Around him, Grueller House groaned. Alexander paused in his stirring and listened. Strong winds would turn the plaster walls into a bellows. He wondered if the house found comfort in creaking. Then he heard laughter.
He went into the hallway. Most of the house was dark. Something short dashed from one room to the next. Giggles and grunts trailed behind it. Floorboards creaked beneath Alexander’s argyles.
He could hear the sound of their chewing, a cacophony of rippling cloth, breaking wood, and cracking glass. Their lips smacked. Mastication. Gulps as they swallowed.
He turned on the parlor’s lights. Heimlich and Heidi looked up from where they sat on the floor, the remnants of the furniture on their wet cheeks and chins. Their wide eyes had tiny blue dots in the center.
