Cuyahoga Read online

  A crowd of curious eyes from both sides of the river gathered around the hole to see how Baptists done – and the preacher begun his show. Fat as a fall squirrel in his coats he gone down on his knees – grabbed ahold of the first sinner by the underarms – lowered them into the lake’s greenblack eye. I swear the water made a sound like snikpf as they gone under.

  A tidy pause and up come the redeemed – their white gowns soaked through – their eyes bulged out – their teeth going like popcorn. The crowd made eyes right back, watching carefully for the holiness.

  Near to five years later some of the same folks stood on both sides of the hole in Mr Clark’s bridge, wearing the same Sunday faces. Two dozen feet down, past the scorched and splintered timbers, the snot-colored river peered back at them, just as curious. Dog’s coat-bomb had blown away nearly all of the bridge’s draw – just enough of one railing survived for someone to gingerly make their way across – but no farm wagons would cross to Cleveland today.

  Asa tugged the cart up to the edge of the crowd – just as curious as folks to see the elephant. He snorted and shook his ears as begyourpardon but there were no room. The crowd were thicker than bugs on butter. Mayor Frawley – Philo – Ozias – YL Honey, his blasted hand still bandaged – Mr Clark’s orphans, draped in damask – Dr Strickland and Barse and Tom Tod – and across the hole were half of Cleveland.

  Confronted with what they cannot fathom, folks turn to what they know best. So Philo and Ozias went to squabbling.

  This is the work of the devil   said Ozias.

  You flatter the deceiver  This is the work of white men  frogged Philo.

  Ozias considered this briefly.  The devil IS white

  Philo somehow took offense at this.  The devil is all different colors  Speckled like a snake

  This set Oze to screeching.  O you are a scholar of devils now?  No the devil is white  He were once an angel and angels is white folks  He might could be French—

  The devil cannot be French  He speaks English  He has got to speak the same language as God

  I tend to agree with Ozias that the devil is a white man. Not because the devil is clever or the devil were once an angel – though both are true enough. Our devil is a white man because the devil looks like what you seen in a mirrorglass. Besides, I had it on confidence from my brother – who met the devil, you will remember. Big said the devil were just plain folks.

  * * *

  Philo and Ozias were only amateurs at jackassed talk compared to the two mayors.

  You are always free to soil your own britches  but now you have soiled mine Frawley, bellowed graybeard Willey from the Cleveland side.

  Willey you know this is not my work  This is fool’s madness

  Just last week you vowed to tear the bridge down by November

  Frawley made to protest but had no ground.  That was  only bluff

  Your bluff is called by your own August Dogstadter  You lose the hand

  Frawley scratched at an ear, like Willey had bit it.  You are not wrong but  that does not make you right

  Tom Tod – in a suit of daffodil yellow – suddenly went to Frawley’s side and counseled him. The lanky Tom bent down and whispered into the badger’s hurt ear. I could not say if the dandy advised Frawley or made him a Punchinello.

  Tom to Frawley, inaudible:

  Frawley to Tom, sotto voce:

  Frawley to Willey, shouted:

  fsst fsst fsst

  I don’t want to say that Fine

  You are—

  fsst

  No goddamn it I will not say it

  A look of reproach

  Goddamn it

  You are right

  This is idiocy Both sides have been idiots

  fssssssstfsst

  No I won’t say it

  Ohio city have acted and continue to act as idiots more so than Cleveland You may consider this an admission that Ohio is at fault

  fsst fsst fsst  fsst

  Nodding

  We will never make money in these towns if we are always cleaning up such messes

  fsst

  A look like he meant to puke his breakfast

  A last barrage of fsst and several sharp gestures with a forefinger – at the bridge – at the river below – at his own crotch and then finally at Frawley’s forehead

  A thoughtful grimace

  Let us have negotiations toward a marriage of the towns

  A tumult followed – a regular charivari pan-banging. Hollering and large gestures. Stomping of feet and arms thrusting skyward. It were a surpassing rumpus. What Tom and Frawley proposed were for Ohio city to own that she were the little sister, once and forever.

  Dog did not mean for this  I said – not minding that it were out loud.

  He has mistaken himself awfully  said Mr Job from next to me. With that he grabbed a saw and mallet from Asa’s cart and set to chasing folks off so he could work.

  I went to the wagon as well but stopped to watch a brown dog race toward the crowd. The animal streaked past the back of the gaggle and went right along the flimsy railing that remained on a side of the scorched draw – nearly knocking YL Honey into the hole. Poor one-handed YL hardly noticed the dog blazing past, as his ears was being separately chewed by Philo and Ozias. He never seen the second dog coming at all.

  Chasing its comrade, the yellow dog barreled into YL’s legs and sent him into the hole in the bridge. Hardly anyone marked the sound of his splashing into the river. What was observed was the sound of a hundred more dogs, heading down the hill, their barks a lunatic choir. At their head were Big, hollering and swinging his arms and laughing as the voice inside the tollbooth cried that each creature owed five cents to cross.

  * * *

  The story took some patching together from those who seen different bits, but the Club for the Detection of Horse Thieves was not wanted to solve any mystery. My brother must have heard Mr Job declare you have hunted everything worth eating out of Big from where he slept below. He had woke up desperate to have just one more feat.

  With his head still clouded from the Stoat’s pummeling, Big had mistaken two-legged Dog as four-legged dogs in Mr Job and Mr Dennes’s hollering about putting law on creatures. Big were often a fool, but not an idiot. He put his brains to the situation and considered that a four-legged dog will not know to follow a regular written-down law or sheriff’s sign. But you could get a dog’s attention with smells every time. So he had just got to talk in smells. I do not mind saying that his plan for the dogs and my plan for the pigs shown a certain shared sophistication.

  Big went into the kitchen and found himself a piece of salt pork and rubbed it all over like Tom Tod’s perfume water. He got that pork inside and outside his tattered shirt and on his hair. Once the scent was good and fixed, he went on a triple-time march around Ohio city, visiting every roosting place familiar to dogs – mostly meaning rubbish piles. The plan were a ripping success from the first. Before he had gone a half mile, a dozen dogs. A half an hour and he had enough dogs for a revival meeting. Beggar dogs – pet dogs – cur dogs – dogs of every size and manner – Democrat dogs and Whig dogs – yellow, brown and black dogs.

  Remember that the coin has two sides – my brother were not an idiot but he were certainly a fool. He had not thunk out what to do once he had all the dogs. But there are situations where you cannot admit of doubt, or the whole enterprise will falter. So he did not stop to seek counsel. In fact he only took on more confidence. He met a few folks around town who did not care to see the exploded bridge, and they laughed at his dog flock, and a few brought out jugs to toast. You cannot deny a sip when you are toasted.

  That colored his mood as he and the dogs stormed the bridge. Forgetting poor YL in the water below, folks made way for them, and the dogs streaked across along the narrow sliver of bridge. Big himself broke into a run and leapt across the gap – making a cannonball of himself – and b
owled into a thicket of spectating east siders, who clucked at his wild manners.

  The procession did not halt to beg pardon – they galloped across the river bottoms and up the bluffs – circulating through the Sunday streets of Cleveland – followed by folks glad for something to do besides counting up sins – myself included.

  * * *

  Ours was a good-natured invasion. We gone to the Public Square and marched all around it a dozen times, making more noise than Dolores the cannon and collecting more critters and a few children. If Big were worried at all on how to fix law on the dogs, he did not let on. Marching and merriment on a fine fall day was purpose enough, until matters turned sour.

  That moment come when Big brought his flock past the Baptist church at Michigan- and Seneca-streets. It so happened on the Sunday in question that one of the foremost Baptists in Cleveland – Mr Basil Clam – were marrying off his daughter Ebizaleth to the wheelwright Fert Derby. In fact, Ebizaleth were already round some in the belly with the latest of Fert’s wheels. But folks was not rude and only said that pretty Ebby were still growing into her womanhood. On account of the cheerful church music and murmuring crowd, my brother could not resist paying his respects to the wedding.

  So my drunken pork-smelling brother and his brigade – and myself – barged into the church at the precise moment of the preacher cinching Ebby and Fert as man and wife. The whole assembly went quiet with the work of believing their eyes.

  Big were very happy to see so many friends from the Cleveland side, and all dressed up so nice. But he did wonder why all their finery was topped by curdled faces. Why had Ebby keeled over? Why did Mr Clam issue such a fancy curse? Fert were more forgiving and acted that he were flattered to see my brother.  Hidy Big  Good of you to come  even as Ebby were going to the floor with a rustle. After Fert spoke, the silence come back, broken only by several of the dogs lapping at the holy water.

  * * *

  This were not the first nuptial gathering my brother wrecked by mistake.

  There was the time he had fallen through the roof of the Episcopal house during a wedding – but only while retrieving a kite for some children. In fairness to Big, that roof were not carpentered well and he had been after a good deed.

  And the time he chased down a spooked horse and finally brought it to calm in front of St John’s. Now, this were no crime, except he had been at his washing when the horse run off and was wearing only shirtsleeves, and his hind and front bits were visible all around just as the wedding party come out. Men frowned at Big for a month after that, and some women still did not return his hidys.

  And the time Big gone on a spree with Squirrelcoat – a spirit whose every garment were made of… squirrels, little pelts all knit together. For all the practice, Squirrelcoat’s skills as a tanner were poor. He did not get all the blood and guts off his pelts or let them cure enough. As a result he smelled slapping bad – folks said his stink could curdle milk in the udder.

  Squirrelcoat were strictly a rascal spirit – only after mischief and merriment. He and Big Son had met by happenstance and liked to see who could roll a stone farthest – a game of bowls! Soon enough a stone were rolled into a tree what crashed in on an outdoors marrying picknick. Big and Squirrel behaved honorably and helped pull folks out from under the branches, all the victims in their best, spotted with blood and picknick foods, their eyes wide at Squirrelcoat’s stink.

  In truth, Big had a compass needle under his hair what steered him toward weddings. He hardly ever busted up a funeral or a sing or a dance. He did not mean bad by it, I do not think. It is too easy to say his faulty needle come from the crisis with Cloe. Were he acting as a child, busting what he could not have for himself ? Was it pulling braids and shoving into mudholes all over?

  Whatever drove Big, the incident with Fert and Ebby went past suffering for some folks. Mr Clam were not the wealthiest man in Cleveland, but he were close enough to toss an axe. He agitated loudly against my brother, saying Big Son ought to be in chains et c. Mr Clam were not alone in sharp talk. I heard folks ask for the first time whether Big might be happier elsewhere. Such sentiments thickened in the following days. Folks asking about Big – considering his prospects – lamenting his sidewaysness – regretting him.

  Big were not present to mark all the broil – he were seen to ride off that Sunday, jug in hand, with the look of a spree on him. It is good that he cleared out for a time. Otherwise he would have itched from the ears awfully.

  Even with Mr Job, myself, Job Jr, John and Jonah all taking up the work, it took several days to mend the busted jaw of Mr Clark’s bridge. I found the work a satisfaction – I had not forgotten how to carpenter wood while I were lost in the almanac. To bend my arms and gulp down the fall air, which tasted of brass somehow. The sound of sawteeth comes to feel a second breathing, the very babble of your blood. Workworkworkwork, is what sawteeth said.

  Oh f___ is what Jonah Stiles said. His saw had busted apart, and the blade tumbled down into the water with a slap.

  Mr Job slapped with his tongue.  Jonah Stiles I will take back the teeth and tongue I begot in you if you do not cease cussing

  I am sorry father  It is only that my saw—

  Never cuss your tools

  Yes father

  Not five minutes later Job Jr stepped on Jonah’s hand and another cuss flew.

  Jonah!

  You said never to cuss tools  Job Jr is not tools

  If you can’t speak politely, then cease entirely  Do not say a word  Where did you find that putrid language?  Was it a gift of Tom Tod?

  Jonah did not know which of his father’s orders to obey. It weren’t Tom— he begun before realizing the only answer worth making were I am sorry father

  * * *

  As we sawed, mayors Frawley and Willey haggled how the two cities would unite – practical matters such as wards and councils, and what to do with a second mayor when you have only got one city. Squat surly Frawley said they ought to be brother-mayors, like the old Roman emperors. Willey politely invited Frawley to return that idea to his rear end. Frawley then asked whether they might split up the mayor’s mantle – Willey taking four days a week including the sabbath, and Frawley the remainder.

  Such practical questions only held the mayors’ attention briefly. The real questions were matters of pomp and pride. What would the new city be called? Old man Willey thought Cleveland suited just fine. Frawley asked if they might stitch the two names together into Ohioland – or perhaps a high-toned coinage like Frawlepolis – anything but just Cleveland, which suggested Ohio city being swallowed up. Willey did not care for any of these points.

  With the bridge ruptured and commerce slowed, both sides of the river turned to the business of talk. The staple crop of all seasons – talk of fast horses and pretty girls – talk of whether Dog had died or only disappeared – talk of newcomer Tom Tod and how he had such deep pockets – talk of how Tom means to make Cloe Inches his bride  You mean Cloe Stiles  No no she is an Inches  I seen what inches of her caught Tom’s eye  that catfish  The sound of men laughing like meat frying. Hushed talk of a manner that were never dared around Mr Job or Big – but I have always had nimble ears.

  Men did not bother hushing talk of Big. He were off on his spree still, and there were no point keeping confidences, so general were the sentiments – that he were not worth the lamp oil to look at – that to have a spirit who don’t do feats were like a mule who don’t haul  You cannot teach a mule indoors work  You cannot teach his meat to eat good  But he still wants his hay

  You can only cut such a creature loose

  Folks east and west put no trust in Dog’s actual demise. They agreed that living or dead he was now an outlaw, witnessed at his sin. Mayor Frawley even allowed sheriffs from Cleveland to search the grocery for the missing Dog. But he were never seen after his dive into the river. The grocery was peopled only by cats and a few faithful idlers – whi
skey widows who helped themselves to merchandise, promising to pay Dog if he ever lazarussed.

  * * *

  Confess it. You have thought at least once in your life that matters might go easier if a certain person died. You do not wish them dead. You would not say it aloud. You would not murder them. Only thought that if fate did strike them down it might grease matters favorably.

  Confess. I know you well enough by now.

  Such were the case with Dog.

  Both sides of the river seemed relieved at his vanishing. It were poor manners to swing an aged patriot at the end of a knot – no way of respecting elders, even spoiled ones. Putting Dog to trial would have only soured the wound between towns.

  * * *

  A feeble peace prevailed once the bridge were mended again. The public view in Ohio city regarding the union of cities softened some, from an outrage to an unpleasantness to perhaps a tolerable wrong. Dog’s absence helped keep the peace, although Cleveland could not forget the sour grapes entirely. The bridge guards kept teeth on edge – belts full of knives and guns – eyelids nailed open. Every wagon that come near the bridge were searched. Every man and woman wishing to cross made to take off their shoes and empty out their parcels. It were a wonder that the guards did not skin folks to look for a bomb in their guts.

  The sin already done is the one we look for sharpest.

  After God rousted Adam and Eve, He put an angel at the gates of Eden to keep them gone. I imagine that angel stood around – sweating some on account of the flaming sword – stuck in his own tollbooth cabinet – his face never seen. I wonder how that angel passed his days. Whether he ever wondered why the Lord had him mind an empty garden.