Cuyahoga Page 13

  Only after a quarter hour did the Stoat mark that the work was done. He raised a hand to halt. Then Big seen it too. Heavy swallows of air from both, and awkward laughter from Big – the church organ wanted tuning. His new clothes were ripped to bits. All I could read of the advertisement were SON HASN’T GOT IT.

  * * *

  With Big asleep behind me on Agnes, I had ample time to wonder on the long ride home.

  I wondered whether the Stoat were hard up for feats in the same way as Big. I wondered how he were paid for his work.

  I wondered why Big had brought me along. I were no use in clearing rocks. Perhaps he brung me to trap the tale and put it in the almanac. I did not think I would, as Big’s conduct had been so poor.

  I wondered what had curdled Big’s heart. I would have liked to ask but he were fast asleep, snores tickling my ears, breath brandied with shame. Perhaps the day’s disgrace did belong in the almanac – showing how pride were worse than whiskey – how a man who wants glory too much will only fetch shame. There were a comic aspect to the incident, too.

  * * *

  At the barn I found Asa hosting a visitor – a tall and proud stallion the color of cider, wearing a fancy five-dollar saddle embroidered with PRESIDENT ANDREW JACKSON in silver thread. The whole horse looked like he were fresh bought from a store – Asa eyed the glowing guest with polite caution, and Agnes greeted them both with haughty snorting.

  I slid out from in front of Big and let him slump forward onto Agnes’s broad neck. It were a relief to get from under his sodden bones. I tied her up and set out a late supper. In her eagerness to dine she pranced some, enough for Big to shift a bit – and a bit more – and he molasses-ed right off Agnes and landed with a gentle fumpf in the straw and s___ of the barn floor. Big did not mind the fall any.

  It would take a second set of hands to get him up to the attic.

  * * *

  In the family room I found the seven young Stileses gathered around a vast game of marbles – a rare and wicked delight to have marbles run to such a late hour. There were an eighth child as well – Mr Tom Tod in a suit the color of port wine. Tom were right in with the little ones, on his knees shooting. I also seen that the game were conducted with brilliant agates – the finest marbles I ever saw. I felt a poke of jealousy.

  Tom were the first one to greet me, like this were his home and not mine. There were rubies in his pitted cheeks, and he held up a jug like it were something he had hunted.

  Medium, join us  Have a sip of health

  The marbles and Tom were not the only new notions. Around the room I saw a pair of silken handkerchiefs on Mrs Tab’s lap. She looked terrible sore at the heathen practices under way, but she were holding her tongue for some reason, and only angrily sewing. Mr Job were asleep in his chair with the Bible spread on his lap like a blanket – I spotted a fine new folding knife on his knee.

  Cloe were sat as far as she could get from Tom without taking to the ceiling or leaving altogether. I marked a fine brush with a pearl handle clutched in her hand like a hammer. Behind the chatter of marbles and the stink of Tom Tod’s cologne water, the air were strangled some.

  Strangling aside, I considered it rude to dismiss Tom’s offer to sip. As I tilted my head back I could see Cloe and Tab staring knives at my manners. A scale or two fell from my eyes and I realized I had walked into a sitting-up. Tom had come to court Cloe, and Cloe had asked Mrs Tab and Mr Job to linger, to avoid the courting. I did my best to disappear into the game of marbles – better to act a child.

  The shooting had come down to Tom – who did not consider marbles at all child’s play – versus Jonah Stiles, the champion shooter of young Ohio. Before long, I forgot the sore manners of the courting for the drama of the match. Even as Cloe stared at the fire and Mrs Tab stared at her needle, six children, one Meed and one Tom watched Jonah’s steady thumb strike the winner.

  Aw s___, laughed Tom.  Let us play again and put some skin on it

  He dug in his pockets for money, but the cussing had finally torn matters for Mrs Tab.

  MR TOD  thank you for your visit  So much pleasure leaves us tired out and we must have our rest  I do not know that we deserve your many presents but we do thank you

  Tom remembered himself some and put his money back into his pants. Enjoy the gifts is all the thanks I want ma’am  The hour surely is late  he said.

  Tom expected he were being left alone to court Cloe, and only caught on slowly that he were spurned.

  I had better see Andy Jackson home

  Without stepping one hair closer than she had to, Cloe shoved the gift brush into his hands saying she could not imagine keeping such a rich gift with no way of returning the gesture

  I haven’t got any gift half as pretty as your smile Miss Inches  All the reward I want, Tom said back. He did have a style to him.

  Cloe looked more likely to go for Tom with a hatchet than give a smile.

  * * *

  I chased Tom out into the barnyard hoping he might help drag Big up to the attic. Mr Job were asleep and Mrs Tab were on her last worst nerve and I known better than to mention Big to Cloe in her present mood.

  Mr Tom  can I ask a private favor?

  Under the moon his whole aspect changed. The rubies were gone from his porridge skin and his suit were changed from wine to the color of rabbit guts. I imagined his pride were pinched at the edges some.

  Mr Tom  would you help me put my brother to bed?

  Tom did not answer right away. As he eyed up Big, still abed in the barn mess, a smile like a rat’s tail curled across his chops.

  He looks content where he is

  With that Tom put his boot to Big’s head and used him as a block for climbing on golden graceful Andy Jackson. He swung the stallion around like they was dancing and went from the yard as smooth as a marble rolls.

  * * *

  August Dogstadter had a way of walking you could spot a league off. Every stride were a different length, and he looked unsteady, but like a drunk dancer, he had the utmost confidence. His footfall were faint, like he only just touched the ground. Quiet or no, you could not miss him.

  The sentries at the bridge marked Dog approaching long before he hailed them. They swapped fearful looks over the tops of their muskets. Dog’s contempt for the bridge were common knowledge on both sides of the river – as were rumors that he was the fiend behind the bombings.

  To have him walk up at midnight – dressed in his red-and-blue patriot coat – waving a jug – were a considerably ill omen.

  Good evening f__kers  in a hush croak.

  What do you want here, Dogstadter?

  I mean to use the bridge to cross the river  I am too old to swim

  The sentries looked at each other.

  Trail arms, cretins  I am only going visiting

  The last time you come visiting the bridge were exploded

  Not me, lads  Only visiting friends  A wave of the jug in his hand. Go into my pockets and see if you find any barrels

  Up close Dog’s frailty were hard to miss – the glaze in his eyes and the spots on his skin. His tongue were dangerous but his old bones were nothing to fear.

  The guards stepped aside and the voice come out from the booth.  Five cents

  * * *

  The bridge men were not scholars. They did not think how it were awful late for social calls or that Dog did not have any friends anyhow. The hour were odd, but ours is a free country for good and bad. The old bat had as much right as anyone to use the bridge as long as he did not try to explode it. Besides, look at him wobbling like he had busted spokes – dressed up in his old soldier’s uniform – living in yesterday.

  What is there to fear from such a used-up sort? Besides, it were poor manners to refuse a patriot.

  * * *

  As Dog paid the toll to the invisible man in the cabinet, a salamander look run across his lips. He ambled out to the wooden draw at the center
and gave the moon a gracious bow. He set down his jug and proceeded to strip out of his clothes – like he meant to dive into the river for bathing.

  Dogstadter has finally lost his mind, said one of the sentries.

  It run off long ago  He is only missing it now  said the voice inside the tollbooth.

  I wish he had left that jug behind  said the other sentry. Let us have some peanuts

  Peanuts are a penny

  * * *

  In the moonlight Dog’s threadbare skin had the color of dead wood – his shed clothing at his feet like fallen leaves. Standing over his shed skin, Dog brung out a knife from I am not sure where and set to slashing at his prized soldier coat.

  He poked and punched and ripped his coat into ribbons, all the while hopping on this foot, then that. With cheerful hums that carried across the water, he strewn the pieces into a posy-ring. After a bit of this maniac dance, he reached for his jug. He did not refresh himself but instead he poured a toast all over the remains of his army frock, skipping around the circle like spring’s very maiden.

  With the jug empty, Dog crouched down and then came a snikpf clear as church bells. Sudden as a roach he run to the edge of the bridge. It were a startlement to see how fast he climbed the railing and over – just a glimpse of his bare shriveled ass catching the moon as he dove. Before you even heard his splash, the red and blue of the soldier coat turned to wild orange and the flames coughed krtHNGFNG – before you known it the whole heart of the bridge were burning.

  * * *

  The night has only got one eye to watch with. On this particular evening, the quarter moon had a great deal to consider.

  All in the same night, it saw Tom Tod step on my brother’s beanpot.

  Saw the naked Dog make a fiery furnace from a suit of clothes.

  Saw the bridge burn yet again.

  I apologize to the moon but there is more veils to lift.

  * * *

  You will pardon bragging but making Dog’s soldier suit into a bomb were clever. A dozen pockets and pouches added to the inside and filled with gunmeal – and a jug filled not with whiskey but with Dr Strickland’s kreosote – which burns wild and fast.

  You have got a question. How is it that I have such good tales of Dog’s explodings?

  The night of July 3 – carrying barrels of powder down the hillside in a parade of fools.

  In the September rain – Dog riding a wagon-bomb.

  And now – his October bonfire.

  I ought to have told this a while before.

  I were with Dog at every exploding.

  * * *

  You are cross with me – I know it. Rightfully. But hear my confessions.

  The first exploding were only a demonstration, and half of the west side come along – Barse – Philo – Ozias – YL – even Absalom the mule and fat old Oliver. It were not half as evil as you think.

  The exploding in September I gone because Dog asked, and I were always liable to folks asking me – and because Mr Job setting me to make the almanac poked a bruise on my heart. I were proud of Big, but that storm of envy were well along – the one that would soon carry me to Monroe-street and my great trial. My manners and good sense was busted some by volatile emotions. Surely you have felt such a way.

  Before I explain why I went along with the third exploding, let us haint through time for just one moment. You recall my night among the tombs. How I seen that night pigs is only day pigs dressed up in our fears. How I lost my britches.

  I got my britches back but I did not collect myself entirely. Ever since that night I could not stop my mind from running after a dozen different ideas like four-legged dogs after squirrels.

  Big and I would leave Ohio for the west and find him more feats.

  I would leave Ohio alone and find my own feats.

  Big and Cloe would leave Ohio and I would make a life without them.

  Big would leave, and Cloe and I would make a life.

  Cloe and I would leave.

  * * *

  The third exploding I gone because I liked to.

  After Tom Tod used Big’s head for a stool, I did not have time to get Big up into the attic. I did my best to bed him down in the straw and hurried to meet Dog at the grocery.

  Now, I am not a maniac for NONE. Two bridges or twelve. Rivers are meant to be crossed. I do not pretend that exploding the bridge ever made sense. Not even Dog would lie on you so bad. He would only say he liked to blow up what vexed him. Violence sometimes works like leeches – spill some bad blood, to speed the good along. But the contempt over the bridge were past reason.

  I believe that Cloe came near some invisible truth when she imagined that Big Son is only a costume. A suit that folks put on for courage. Only Cloe did not go far enough in her claims. I think we all are forever looking for costumes. We are naked and fearful fools in search of disguises, with pockets to hide our sins in. Actor’s rags. I were swapping between coffin maker and brother and biographer and apprentice felon freely all summer and fall – and there were more actor’s clothes besides.

  * * *

  The coat-bomb awoke the night to screaming – screams of FIRE and TREASON and BUCKETS streaked along the east side of the Cuyahoga. Four-legged dogs took up the cries and then church bells joined with their own barking. At night you cannot see smoke but you can smell its merry stink – the great orange eye of the burning bridge admired itself in the dark river. It were a handsome vista, enough to distract folks from my climbing down to the riverside. There I played the part of Pharaoh’s sister and grabbed up Dog from the reeds.

  * * *

  Sleep fled before I had enough of its company. It were not singing birds or the light of the sun that woke me but Mr Job’s shoe – knocking on my ribs.

  Meed  Get up

  Mr Job stood over me, curled forward some, eyeing me like I were a mess to tidy.

  I need you as a carpenter today

  Mr Job  it is Sunday  and besides I ought to finish up the almanac

  That looks to be more than enough  He eyed up the pile of pages next to my straw. I think you have hunted everything worth eating out of Big  We will take it over to the ARGUS offices tomorrow

  * * *

  Downstairs, the whole homeplace were boiling with work. Cloe and the young Stileses made busy gathering saws and mallets and boards – even littlest Joy carried a load. Mrs Tab were stuffing folks with corncakes. Asa were already hitched up to the cart and watching the corncakes carefully. The chickens seemed serious in their peckings, and even Big’s snores of brrrghhg from the straw had an industry to them.

  I yielded to Mrs Tab when she came after me with the cakes. As I chewed I asked what had bit the household so.

  Snakebrained Mr Dogstadter has exploded the bridge again  she said. And on a Sunday

  No  When will this madness end?  I acted the part of innocent keenly, in my estimation.

  Madness is the very word for it  Besides cusses, said Cloe as she swept past under an armful of lumber.

  I am going to bury this peabrained feud with hammer and nail  said Mr Job as he shoved my apron into my hands.  We are going to mend the bridge as an apology to Cleveland and then we will have peace

  I realized what mood were on Mr Job – he had reached the place beyond the shroud of silent judgment. Where he were become agitated enough to tell you his mind. This place were visited only rarely but from my youth I did recollect that it often was accompanied by a sore bottom.

  Before five minutes gone, Mr Job had chased me, Job Jr, John, and Jonah onto the wagon and gave Asa a huphup. We clattered out of the yard even as Big tumbled down from the attic, still pulling his britches on.

  All of Ohio were stirring. The trees and their dying leaves were restless in the wind and a gang of four-legged dogs rumpused through the lane – dashing under and between Asa and the wheels of the cart and causing Mr Job to yell Whoa now

  Just then neighbor Dennes hollered
from his door that goddamned Dog done it again

  We have got to put law on that creature  Mr Job hollered back.

  As we swung into the lane I looked back and saw Big back in the yard, chewing a corncake, surrounded by chickens. He had a particular dip to his head, one that meant that he were experiencing a notion.

  * * *

  You can imagine what the idea were—

  Big had woken up on the barn floor, with his brains fogged by the Stoat’s fists and his face decorated with mess. He had climbed up to the attic for more sleep, but before long Mr Job were rousting us, saying the almanac were finished, Big were hunted out et c.

  The only thought on Big’s brambled mind were to find just one more feat. That were his concern as he straggled down to the yard, where he saw the household abscond in different directions – kitchen door whanging shut, Asa’s cart clattering out – and the only explanation he got were Mr Dennes goddamning a pack of rumpusing dogs and Mr Job shouting back that we have got to put law on that creature.

  Big looked over at Agnes, who tilted her head just the same way.

  When the Baptists first put their church up in Cleveland they took to theatrical gestures to grab an audience. I do not judge them for it. Only I will forever recall the first baptism they did. They had opened for business at January of 1833, and the preacher declared that he would make his first baptisms in Lake Erie – nature’s vastest bathtub.

  Lake Erie tends to have a dress of ice at that time of year, but the preacher went right ahead. On the appointed Sunday he wrapped himself up warm. If a stranger come asking for his cloaks and coats, it would have taken ’til Monday to finish the robbery. He led his flock out a furlong onto the lake’s frozen face. They swung picks to make a holy font – the cold coming off the water must have bit at their very eyes.