South of Starkville, we passed some individual farms that looked like going concerns, not exactly prosperous, but at least as though the owners had not given up. The corn was in and their gardens were laid. But you had to wonder what held them together as a community. Whenever we approached, if there was anybody outside, we’d see them head into their houses at a distance. Possibly they took us for marauders or scavengers, and for all I know they went inside in order to train rifles on us. Along in that stretch we came upon one particular young man, perhaps sixteen, leading a swayback horse pulling a hay wagon. He did not seem afraid of us.
“Are you militia or pickers?” he said.
“Neither,” Brother Joseph said and explained as how we were on a search to Albany.
“They’s all thieves down there,” the boy said. “Got any sugar? You can have a flake of hay each if you spare a little sugar.”
“We don’t have no sugar,” Brother Minor said.
“I’ve got some honey,” I said.
“I don’t have no vessel to carry no honey. I’ll give you all a flake for a spoonful.”
“All right,” I said.
We stopped and made a little trade. The hay was good, sweet timothy grass.
Brother Minor sang to himself as he fed his flake to his mount.
“A swarm of bees in May is worth a load of hay.
A swarm of bees in June is worth a silver spoon.
But a swarm of bees in July isn’t worth a fly.”
The pavements on Route 4 were badly broken, and we walked in line along the shoulder, where the asphalt had worn away altogether and the dirt was beaten soft by hooves. Black-eyed Susans, blue bugloss, chicory, and Queen Anne’s lace bloomed there. Here and there, carcasses of the odd truck and automobile that had not been collected years before in the great drive for metal sat rusting in the flowers. Now and then the road came very close to the river, and we could see through the trees along the bank. We did not see a single sail or an oar craft on the water wherever we were afforded a look.
By the early evening we had gone about twenty miles since leaving home. My hips and rear end hurt from rocking in the saddle. In vivid evening light we came upon a house sited on a barren sweep of scrubby fields on a hill overlooking the river. Thinking it deserted, like many other dwellings along the way, we dismounted to see if we might stay there for the night and make ourselves a meal. Joseph knocked firmly on the door. To our surprise, a woman answered. It was hard to tell her age because she was extremely thin, but I guessed about sixty. I imagined she had been pretty when young. She seemed friendly, unlike the others we’d encountered that day, and welcomed us all inside warmly, and even volunteered right away to cook us supper. Her name was Gladys Raynor, she said, and she was waiting for her husband to return from a journey he had made out to Utica to see about some relatives there. The house was orderly but smelled funny, like rodents had got into the walls and maybe died there. In fact, one would surmise that the Raynors had once been well off. The furniture was good quality, and the paintings on the wall were above the grade of art fair kitsch.
Joseph offered some of our provisions to help her with that supper she had offered to make us, some bacon, meal, butter, onions, but she declined, said she was all set, if we didn’t mind lamb stew with new potatoes, fresh peas, and corn bread. As far as we were concerned, that was sumptuous fare. She said we could turn our horses out in her pasture, which was still well fenced and that we could pitch a camp on any level spot we pleased outside on her property. When we got all that going, we collected out on her spacious back porch, which was furnished with nice wicker and offered a broad view across the Hudson Valley. The sun was lowering in the opposite direction, behind the house, and the few thin clouds hanging in the eastern sky blazed in rosy-golden reflected light. Mrs. Raynor banged around in her kitchen and eventually she came out with a pitcher and some glasses on a tray.
“How are you fellows doing?”
We all said fine, thank you, and offered some vague pleasantries.
“I thought you might want to try some of my strawberry wine.”
We all said thank you. She put the tray down on a round wicker table.
“This used to be a sod farm,” she said. “We had all the sod business between Albany and Glens Falls.”
“Is that so?” Brother Minor said. He managed to refrain from making a joke. Perhaps he sensed, as I did, that something was off.
“Well, there’s not much call for sod these days, as you might imagine,” Mrs. Raynor said with an attempt at a plucky smile. The effort only made her face seem more skull-like. “I’ll go back in and see to supper.”
Brother Seth, no shrinking violet, had a go at the pitcher as soon as she went back inside. The twilight had reached the purple stage where things were no longer very distinct. He filled the five glasses. One by one we all had our sips and soon enough we were all cutting looks about at each other.
“This here’s plain water,” Brother Minor said in a low voice, “or I’m a durn mud turtle.”
“Well, it’s nice clean water, at least,” Elam said, “and sometimes I think you are a mud turtle.”
“Maybe she made a mistake,” Seth said.
“Any of you all see a garden about this place?” Minor said.
“None that I noticed,” Seth said.
“Ssshhhhh,” Joseph said.
We didn’t speculate about it further. We just sat along the porch there in a row watching the last glimmers of daylight dissolve in the shadows of the far hills, enjoying our water. Time went by. We watched a quarter moon swing above the treetops while glimmers of its reflection on the river played through. An owl hooted off in the distance. We slapped at mosquitoes. Our stomachs growled. I didn’t notice any cooking aromas emanating through the screen door.
Finally, Mrs. Raynor called for us to come inside. She had no candles going in there, not even further back in the kitchen. The moon cast a pallid glow through the windows. She directed us into the old formal dining room. It contained a large oval table and padded chairs. I had a candle stub in my pocket and lit it. Elam found a tall crystal candlestick on the sideboard to put it in, while Joseph went out to get more candles from his pannier. The table was set for six with cloth napkins and nice cutlery.
“Sure smells good, don’t it,” Brother Minor said. Banter was his way of allaying nervousness.
We all sat down. Joseph returned with more candles and soon the big table, at least, was lighted.
“Can we help you with anything in there, ma’am?” Seth said.
“No, you fellows just get comfortable.”
She soon appeared with a heaping dinner plate in each hand, put them down in front of me and Minor, went back for two more for Joseph and Elam, and then two additional for Seth and herself. We all swapped glances around at each other in the candlelight.
“Potatoes and peas coming right up,” Mrs. Raynor said and she came back in with two serving bowls. I took the one full of potatoes. It was not the least bit warm. I took one and put it on my plate. It was a rock. I passed the bowl left to Seth and he took his and so on. When the peas came around I took a helping. It was grass. The lamb stew on our plates was watered up dirt: mud. Mrs. Raynor told us to dig in. I pantomimed eating and the rest did as I did, except Brother Minor, who could barely conceal his mirth. Of course, I did not regard this as a mirthful situation, and I doubt the others did either.
“Excuse me, ma’am,” Brother Minor said. “I don’t have much appetite tonight.” He got up from the table gingerly and left the room.
The rest of us went through the motions long enough to be polite. Brother Joseph volunteered our services to help with the dishes, but Mrs. Raynor wouldn’t hear of it and the four of us remaining retired to our camp. Minor had a fire started down there and a big fry pan of bacon working. I opened up my oilskin larder and got some corn bread and the hunk of sausage I brought along. The others got out their provisions. Joseph produced a jug of that Pennsylvania whi
skey the New Faithers seemed well supplied with, and it felt good going down with river water. They also had a sack of little oatmeal “sticky cakes,” as they called them, that their women made with dried currents, honey, and plenty of butter, and gladly gave me as many as I wanted. Joseph laid aside a rasher of bacon, a square of bread, and a hunk of sausage and a sticky cake on a plate, and when he was done eating, he ventured back up to the house. Mrs. Raynor came to the door and in the moonlight we watched him go in. In a while we heard shouting. Mrs. Raynor was letting Brother Joseph have it. We couldn’t make out what she was saying, but she was loud for such a frail person. Then the door opened and she shoved him out on the front portico, and that was that. She began to wail and continued up there in her darkened house the whole way Joseph was coming back to us.
“She sounded right grateful,” Brother Minor said when Joseph returned to the firelight.
“I guess I insulted her.”
“Well, clearly she is off her rocker,” Seth said.
“What’ll we do about her?” I said.
“I’d say her man run off,” Elam said. “She’s liable to starve here.”
“We should stop on the way back and take her with us,” Joseph said, and without much discussion it was pretty much agreed that we should do that. Then it was a final dram, and we tucked ourselves into our bedrolls in nice cool sleeping weather, for a change, and all fell out rather quickly from our day’s exertions.
TWENTY-SEVEN
Brother Minor might have been an irritating little fellow, but he was diligent, regular, and capable. He was awake before anybody else, had the fire going again, had watered our horses, and was boiling up a pot of cornmeal samp for our breakfast when the rest of us stirred from our bedrolls. The weather had a fractious look. The sky to the east was red and an ominous breeze was already making the weeds dip and sway. I sensed it would get hot again. We did not linger at the sod farm. On our way out, we paused in front of the house. I accompanied Joseph to the door to say thank you and farewell, so as not to leave on unfriendly terms. The others stayed on their horses.
Mrs. Raynor did not answer our knocks. Joseph said we’d better go inside. In daylight, the house was drearier than it had appeared by candles and moonlight. A coat of dust lay over most surfaces. As we entered from out in the summer meadow, the bad smell inside made its impression again. We called out to the lady of the house but she did not answer. With the electricity off, and no appliances humming, the place was stone silent. Joseph and I started poking around by unspoken mutual consent. Nothing was out of order on the first floor, except the muddy dishes remained unwashed on the kitchen counter from the night before along with the bowls of rocks and grass. Of course, Mrs. Raynor’s electric well pump was not functioning, along with everything else, and to get water she would have had to fetch buckets from the livestock pond on her property, or else walk all the way down to the river, a good quarter mile.
“Well, let’s have a look upstairs,” Joseph said.
In the second bedroom we looked in, we found the source of the odor that pervaded the house. The body of a man was laid out on a bed. In actual fact it was mostly the clothed skeleton of a man, since even the insects seemed to be mostly done with the flesh of him. We could only guess how long he’d been laid out there. A month or more. We recoiled from the sight and the stench and very quickly went through the three other bedrooms and back through the ground floor again, including the back porch, looking for the old woman.
“She’s gone,” I said.
Brother Joseph gave a kind of dubious grunt. I followed him down to the basement. It was much cooler down there. In the meager light that came through window wells that hadn’t been cleared of dead leaves for years, and among the odds and ends of a family life that circumstance had now obliterated—the old stroller, a broken bicycle, plastic incunabula, unsold yard sale junk, and trunks full of memories—we found Mrs. Raynor hanging from a pipe by a lamp cord. The ceiling was so low that she hadn’t used a chair or a box to step off. She had merely bent her knees to allow her neck to receive the remaining weight of her body. Whatever the agonies or difficulties involved, she had succeeded in ending her life.
We cut her down and took much of the morning digging a single proper grave for the both of them in the back of the house, where we had lingered in the beautiful twilight the night before, looking east toward the river. We put the missus down first and then the remains of what we presumed to be her husband, wound in the bedspread we found him on. Then we covered them both up, another hour of work with one shovel among us.
“We don’t know who these people were,” Brother Joseph spoke over their mound when we were done with our work. “Who their relations or children are or where they might be. But these two will be together in eternity now. It is an awful thing when anyone falls into despair and takes their own life. If it was up to us, Lord, we would have rescued this poor soul in a few days time. But your ways are mysterious and you didn’t allow it. So may Mrs. Raynor—I’m sorry, but I have already forgotten her given name—”
“Gladys,” Seth said.
“—may her troubled spirit come into your love and dwell in your house forever. Like as the waves make towards the pebbled shore, / So do our minutes hasten to their end. Amen.”
“Amen,” all around.
We mounted our horses.
“You know what I think?” Brother Minor said.
“What?” Seth said and Elam echoed him.
“I think she was waiting for some folks to come along who could give them a proper burial and we were elected,” Minor said. “Ain’t these times something?”
The heat was definitely back with us and we were tired from digging and hadn’t made any progress yet that day. Among the few things from the premises we helped ourselves to, we found two fishing rods, with good open-faced spinning reels and monofilament line, along with a box of lures, plugs, spinners, hooks, swivels, and bobbers. An hour or so later, we had made some headway down the river road again, and we stopped to water the horses at a place where a cool rill formed a sandy delta on the shore as it entered the Hudson. There were big flat rocks to sit on, and a grove of locust trees for shade. I took the opportunity to bathe away two days of grime. Joseph and Seth bushwhacked upstream a ways with the fishing rods. Elam was off looking for raspberries while Minor made a fire on the rocks.
The blister on my burned left hand had broken open from helping to dig the Raynors’ grave. I was concerned that it might get infected. You couldn’t be too careful about infected wounds when there were no more antibiotic medicines. I asked Minor for some whiskey I could apply as disinfectant. He asked to see it. I held my hand out to him. He studied it a while, told me to wait right there, and bustled off into the woods. He returned in a minute with several stems of some kind of leafy weed.
“What’s that?”
“Solomon’s seal,” he said. “This here might seem uncouth, but it’s necessary.”
He picked off one leaf after another from the stems and put them in his mouth until he was masticating a great chaw of them. Meanwhile, he took a bandana out of his pocket. By and by, he extracted the wad of chewed leaves from his mouth and laid them on the bandana.
“Give me your hand.”
I did. He arranged it so the chaw was over my blister and then rather tenderly tied the bandana around my hand.
“You keep it like so the rest of the day and overnight,” he said. “That burn blister’ll be healed up in the morning.”
He stated this with complete assurance. I didn’t want to act contrary about it or seem ungrateful so I agreed.
Our fishermen came back in surprisingly short order with more than enough good-sized fish for our lunch: several largemouth bass and a northern pike the size of a Yule log. We were hungry after all that digging.
There had been a lot less angling in the Hudson River in recent years as epidemics drove down our numbers and motorboats stopped running, and there was no more factory-made tackl
e. Less pollution of all kinds ran into the river, no more factory fertilizers and pest control poisons, no more detergents. So the fish had returned in numbers not seen in anyone’s memory. Land-based game, on the other hand, was noticeably sparser now, as nobody observed hunting seasons anymore. The deer, especially, were down, even though commercial grade ammunition had also gotten scarce. People jacked deer all year round, by any means possible, including pitfalls, deadfalls, and traps. Rabbits were down because nobody cut lawns anymore and the grassy margins they thrived in were returning to woods. Coyotes were up in tandem with sheep and goats. Ben Deaver swore he saw a mountain lion on the roof of his chicken shed one morning the previous September, and further north of us, in Hebron, where the human population was back to the pioneer level of the mid-1700s, a “catamount” reputedly killed a four-year-old boy inside a house.
Minor butchered the fish expertly with his short knife. His grandfather ran a catfish farm in South Carolina when he was little, he said. He could cut fillets all day long and into the dark.
“How do you stop a fish from smelling?” he asked and before anyone could come up with a quip, he said. “Cut off its nose.”
He dipped the bass fillets in cornmeal and fried them in last night’s bacon grease, which he had saved in a can.
“What has big sharp little teeth, a tail, scales, and a trunk?” he asked and immediately answered. “Pikey fish going on vacation. Y’all are slow. Maybe retarded.”
The pike he just gutted and roasted whole on crisscrossed green sticks. The New Faith boys all brought jars of their own pickled peppers and onion relish. It did make everything taste interesting when salt and pepper were scarce.
Elam had discovered a thicket of raspberries growing up along the roadside and we filled our hats with them as Minor cooked off the fish. We packed up directly after this lunch and resumed walking our horses toward the city, as well fed as if we had been home.
World Made by Hand Page 13
