Cuyahoga Page 11

  You  in tsee baum

  I squiggled some and acorns fell.

  Yes  I tsee you

  Mr Umbstetter marched to my tree. He were clutching a lantern up to his face, near enough to toast his whiskers. I tried to make a statue of myself but it were no use.

  Hidy Mr U

  Herr Meed?

  No polite talk came ready to mind.

  Ya  halloa  You are in tse baum for why?

  As I looked for a reply Mr U creased his nose at the smell of the pig-lure.

  I  were  paying respects to my folks

  Even as I spoke I known the lie were a poor one. The departed should not be used in deceit. And you do not need to climb a tree to mourn. And mourning is typically done in daytime. And the filth et c.

  Ya  ya  Mr U were respectful but you could see the doubt in his mind.  Finally he determined it were not worth the lost sleep.  Gute nacht Herr Meed  Careful of tse schwein

  * * *

  The evening swallowed me back up after Mr U gone. No one there to laugh at my fool self but I still felt pricked all over. A bit of time passed before I were cured of the embarrassment. That pause were enough for fear to catch up with me. All night I had run on my desire for a feat of my own – never stopping to mind any fright at battling the pigs – finally I had slowed some and my coward shadow had grabbed my ankles.

  It were just as well – fear were the very thing – I have not told you the workings of my scheme.

  Recall Nicholas and how easy he took fright. A sudden startle and you would not see him for hours. My idea were that night pigs shared the same family trait as Nicholas. If I put a bad enough scare into them they would leave Ohio entirely.

  That is the entire scheme.

  But the workings had an elegance. The scent of the bucket would call them to supper, and as they ate I would come screeching down out of the tree like the worst owl – a ghoul mad for pork. There is nothing worse than a ruined supper. Such a fright dropping from the sky would ruin a dozen suppers. I would keep at it every night. The terror I fed them would catch like hog cholera. Before long Ohio would have only mild day pigs.

  Before I could put the fear on pigs, I had to survive it in myself. As the night crawled along and I wondered when the pigs would come, I could feel a fright burrowing into my very bones. I talked back to myself with a sermon. There is no such thing as fright  It is a trick of our brains to keep folks from foolishness  To keep them from doing feats  To keep down the population of spirits

  I had never thunk on the question of spirit so. To be a spirit you cannot balk at fears. You cannot mark them at all. You must be illiterate – or even deaf dumb and blind. To be a Big Son you must get bitten up by bears without dreading it. To be a Big Son you must not mind.

  * * *

  I have never been bitten by bears but I have been bitten by ants and I will say that my present fear felt more like ants. You would think that fear would chew from inside to outside, working out from my guts and brains toward the skin. But the fear I felt were eating at my hide. Right then I remembered my picknick cakes – not because I were hungry but because an ant crawled into my mouth.

  I realized that ants were asking after me the same as Mr U. They was put out at my trespass in their tree and also curious of the cakes what I had stuffed in my shirt. Ants do not get cakes often and in their excitement they was chewing me up too. So I went to scratching modestly, so as not to give myself away. But the biting only got worse and before five minutes passed I were squirming and scratching and kicking as best I could with one arm still holding me to the tree. Agony and irony – I had thunk to ruin the pigs’ dinner and now I were become a dinner myself.

  You are saying What a jack ass  Serves you

  Keep your peace. You will have more delight.

  * * *

  It turned out that the ants shared their tree just as Cleveland and Ohio shared the Cuyahoga. Their rival and neighbor were an owl, who objected considerably to my visiting. Just as soon as Mr Owl come home, he went right after me with his long fingernails.

  This were too much to bear – with my legs kicking and one arm battling the ants, I swatted at my inhospitable host.

  Count up my appendages and you will see I had forgotten to hold on to the branch.

  Down we went – owl, ants, Meed and whatever else.

  In my brief flight I had a lucifer snikpf in my brains. All my fears had drowned each other. Whatever come next could not be worse than what I already felt.

  What come next were landing in the puddle of s___ spread out for the night pigs. I settled face-first with a splurch, and quickly the owl were gone and the ants were gone, like they wanted no part of my indignity.

  Which were the least of my misfortunes. I were now alone, at night, and dressed up in what night pigs like to eat, in a place much favored by night pigs. But I did not feel any great fear. I had gone right past fear. Courage is an imbecile.

  Which were good, because the pigs had arrived.

  * * *

  If you asked me to imagine the night pigs I would have seen them as the very devil’s companions – long bristled hairs – blood-hued eyes – wild teeth as corkscrewed as their tails – and the smell! I would have imagined a stink worse than any barnyard filth – the very smell of freedom – the freedom of death – the freedom of a rotting thing.

  I learned different in the graveyard that night. Night pigs was only pigs. Sleeker than day pigs what got more regular dinners – but still pigs. They looked blue instead of pink but that were only the moon’s paint.

  A shoat come right up to me and licked s___ from the side of my face. Her snoutbristles tickled my ear some. I dug a corncake from my blouse and offered it up as a gift. The shoat ate from my hand meek as a lamb and ran off with a cheerful grunt.

  With the blue pigs circling my puddle of mess, I set and waited for spiritedness to come over me, for something inside me to bust – like this idiocy were my Samantha-ing, my coming into powers. But my spirit did not come with any haste. Did not come at all.

  I drank down a gulp of autumn air and looked through my brains for what I ought to do.

  I could scream and holler and chase the pigs off – then tell stories on myself. I battled the awful night pigs!

  I could walk home and wash off the mess and never say a word.

  I could stay here among the tombs like the Gadarene – swear off britches and pretend I were a pig – wear my madness as chains.

  Or I could go down to the river – wait for dawn and the first boat bound for anywhere and run off. Folks could say The pigs took Meed or that I had swarthout-ed for reasons unknown.

  * * *

  I climbed out of the filth and walked calm as Sunday into Monroe-street.

  What a sight I was – though only dark windows and water puddles seen me. Somehow my reflection told me that I should go down to the Cuyahoga and wash myself.

  At the crown of the bluff I seen the first breath of dawn on the eastern sky. Down along the tangled river, Mr Clark’s bridge looked orange – half pink dawn and half blue night. My soiled clothes were chilling me and I shed them. There was no one to mind my jaybirding, and the air were a vigorous refreshment.

  I followed the Detroit road down to Centre-street, where the timbers of Big’s failed bridge were heaped on the side of the river like hay for some great creature. I walked past the steam furnace and the rope walk and barrels and boxes and bales heaped up at the canal docks – the sun peeking shy over the warehouses of Cleveland.

  I came through the last of the heaps and hills of merchandise to the water’s edge, eager to hear what the water would tell me. It told me that I were not alone. A long low canal packet were unloading – surly mules yawning – burly boatmen handing ashore parcels and passengers.

  Among them were Miss Cloe Inches.

  Next to Cloe were a man dressed all in white duck – his garments looking orange in the dawn, same as the bridge. The l
imbs inside the white suit were lean and long, and framing his visage were a black silk cravat and a new straw hat. The face between were crimped all over with pox scars, but somehow more handsome for it, like cut glass.

  Autumn.

  My joy at Cloe’s return caused me to forget that I were entirely naked. I called out a hulloa and she looked right at me.

  MEED!  Turning sideways to escape my shame. There were rebuke in her eyes but half a grin on her lips too.  How the fashion has changed since I’ve been gone

  I were stuck for manners so I only put hands over my nuptial bits for etiquette.

  The man with the cut-glass face stood by smiling. Behind him a boatman were piling up bags and trunks. I could not say if the man in white grinned from embarrassment or amusement or if his face just sat that way – that he and the world shared a private comedy. In all cases he did not seem to mind my nakedness any more than you would mind a breeze.

  Miss Inches  Will you meet me to your friend?

  Still turned sideways, Cloe chopped at the air, graceful and surly. There was no smile in her voice as she made manners.

  Meed  this is Mr Tod who were on the packet

  The new man lifted his hat over his head.  Tom to my friends and we  are  friends now Miss Inches

  Cloe did not say whether they were friends only that Mr Tod this is Mr Meed Stiles my brother

  He stepped forward and lifted his hat even higher. Mr Need, is it? he asked.

  Meed  with an M

  He nodded uncertainly and pushed his hat higher again.

  I did not have a hat to doff so I took a hand from my crotch and stuck it out for a shake. Unfortunately the hand were covered in pig mess.

  Mr Tom Tod apprehended my soiled hand some before returning his own. I credit his character for being game. After we shook he held his right hand out from his body, like he would have it cut off once an axe were found.

  * * *

  As we made manners the boatman piled up the newcomer’s possessions. This Tom Tod had brung an entire personal circus of hatboxes and carpetbags and luggage. With his clean hand Tom reached into a pocket and fished out a quarter-eagle coin for the boatman.

  Take my things to the Franklin House on Pearl-street

  I am not a busybody. I do not like to count other folks’ money. But a quarter eagle were nearly a week’s wages. The porter took the coin like it were the very host, and Tom Tod went right back into his pocket. He fished out what looked to be a banknote and used it as a napkin on his soiled hand.

  Permit me to see you home, Miss Inches  or Cloe if I may be bold

  You may not  My brother will fetch me home, Mr Tod  Cloe said.  I wish you good fortune

  I could find no better fortune than your company  He tossed the soiled shinplaster to the ground.

  I thank you but surely you must look to your affairs  Good day

  I would be a rascal if I did not escort you

  The boatman edged up behind Tom Tod and collected the filthy money.

  Lips pursed at the new arrival’s manners. Do what you like, Mr Tod  I cannot hobble you

  * * *

  Cloe kindly gave me her shawl and I covered up. It were good of her – I do not know how Adam and Eve kept their fig leaves in place. Meanwhile this Tom Tod returned to his pockets again and come out with a bottle of scented water to pour on his hands.

  As he rubbed on an improved smell, Tom asked me What kind of a name is Meed?

  Short for Medium

  And what kind of name is Medium?

  Before I could say what kind, Tom Tod announced he could just taste the prospects in this place  The west is ripe  The Lord’s own garden for money getting

  He liked to pose a question but did not seem to mind how folks answered. Miss Cloe had bolted ahead already and we went to a quick step. As we trotted Tom were always diving back into his pockets for some notion or another. First it were a pocket watch – then it were a cigar to bite between his teeth – then it were lucifer sticks for snikpf, setting the cigar burning.

  Mixed in with the brisk pace and the pocket fishing and the cigar puffing he ran his mouth too.

  On my travels I have seen pastures and purple valleys  A country singing out for the plow  For the factory  For progress etsetra

  I did not know how to reply – I did not know what travels he meant – it were hard in any condition to make conversation hurrying uphill in a diaper.

  I have seen riches just asking for hunting  Like pigeons  All a man has to do is shoot

  I had never known gold eagles to drop easy as pigeons.

  And what feathered fortune do you stalk Mr Medium Stiles  Apart from a suit of clothes?

  Skilled as he were with hands and mouth Tom Tod did not bother much with ears. Even as I mumbled a reply I noticed his eyes pointed at Cloe up the hill.

  * * *

  From his stall Asa seen Cloe into the yard and he went to hopping with gladness. The whole homeplace soon joined – the seven young Stileses run out in their bedclothes to hug Cloe’s skirts. She had run off and returned before, but never for two months. The children had not seen their Cloe from the middle of July ’til this first day of autumn. A bit of sentiment come into the corner of her eyes at the embrace of the little ones.

  From inside the barn I heard the sound of coffin-sawing pause and Mr Job said Praise be  She is back

  Mrs Tabitha come out of the kitchen with a smile on her face and a chicken in her hand. The chicken were not happy to see Cloe only because Tab had yanked its head off.

  Then Mrs Tab seen my condition and the smile guttered some.

  I will cook water for a bath

  At the window of our attic I saw the top of Big’s head just down to his haggard eyes – aimed at Cloe – half hungry, half afraid.

  * * *

  I climbed up to the attic for clean britches and found the rest of Big, robed in blankets like a monk – hair hooded – knobbed knees sticking out. I were no Baltimore belle in my soiled shawl but I did not wish to trade conditions with him. I were relieved to see him awaken from sleep all the same.

  Big’s face were hidden in shadow but I heard a grin in his voice at seeing my state.

  You are used up, Meed

  We make a pair

  From inside the shroud came a mob of questions.

  Who were that dandy making manners at the gate?  Where did Cloe come back from?  Did she not find the money I left her?  You have got a powerful smell  Where did you find her?  Why are you dressed so?  Is that s___ you are dipped in?  Is my name cussed around town for my failed bridge?

  * * *

  Every incident wanted a bit of explaining, and as I put down answers Big paced the attic.

  The dandy were named Tom Tod.

  I could not say where Cloe had been but Tom Tod were from somewhere else. He were on the canal packet with Cloe.

  I knew this because I met them at the river landing.

  I were dressed this way because Cloe did not care to walk home with a naked person.

  I were naked because I had fallen into a puddle of s___.

  I had fell into a puddle of s___ because I were after the night pigs.

  * * *

  The mention of the night pigs froze Big.

  Too early for talk of the pigs, Meed

  I know, but you will be glad to hear it for once—

  I went along with my story slow, and cut out the part about how I had wanted a feat of my own on account of envy. As for why I had come to be in the graveyard at night, I said that somehow I got lost and turned up at Monroe-street. Big did not question it. The rest I kept true, and made into a comedy of itching and angry owls and tumbling from trees, then a regular sermon about how I seen how night pigs are only regular pigs that we do not see right   On account of the darkness  I paused a moment for drama. You have got to mix different sentiments and styles in a tale, like
cooking. We are only afraid of being afraid

  * * *

  At the end of my story, Big peeled the blanket back from his head – eyes wide as windows. Meed  you got rid of the night pigs?

  No, the night pigs are still there  It is only that they are not devils  Just regular pigs at night  One of them licked my face sweet as a pup—

  I were swallowed up by a joyful bear hug – Big were not worried about getting s___ on the blankets. A hand come out of the bedclothes and shook me by the hair tenderly.

  In the middle of this tenderness I felt a snikpf of guilt. Big had told me he feared busting up the pigs might bust up his spirit, and I had done it anyway. I had not meant the gesture that way at all – I did not mean to bust up Big – only to have a feat of my own. I did not know just what I meant to do.

  * * *

  After the tumult of returns and greetings and washing-ups Mr Job said we had better get after work, and chased the flock to their chores. Job Jr and Johnny was old enough to help with coffins. Mrs Tab gone back to plucking. Jonah, Joe, and Josiah squired Cloe as she gone to unpack. Little Jom and Joy wandered in the yard under the eye of their uncle Asa.

  After my bath, I gathered up the makings of my almanac from the attic and headed for Dog’s. All over Ohio and Cleveland folks gone to their work of a morning – preachers hunted souls and Philo made shoes and Ozias run his wagons and Dog made whiskey. All the world set to work, except Big, still in his blankets, watching out the attic window.

  * * *

  I were not a eighth mile gone when I heard Big hollering to wait. Still wrapped in blankets, on account of all his clothes being tattered, he were waving his own sheaf of papers. The shinplasters he had got for building his useless bridge – taken from Cloe’s bed. I did not know that she had ever seen them. If Big felt sorry to have his gift spurned, his face did not tell.