Mink River: A Novel Read online

And he sets off on his rounds.

  Around the Department of Public Works building, one circumference, for luck and to check the mildewing southwest corner of the building where Cedar has his rain gauge.

  Then up Hawk Street to the doctor’s to collect the doctor.

  Then Lark to Heron to Murre to Cormorant to Warbler to Chickadee, which has only the one resident, Mrs. L, who hands him berries or pears depending, whose pain is in her wrists and knees. He can feel her grinding soreness as they turn into Chickadee. When they get to her gate she hands him a little soft paper box of salmonberries, which he hands to the doctor. As the doctor asks her about her pills and such, Worried Man rubs her wrists.

  His huge hands are beaver tails, maple leaves, baby halibut.

  He notices that the berry box is deftly made of yesterday’s newspapers.

  From Mrs. L’s they take the old sand quarry road, now half overgrown with young alder, to the other end of town, where the few houses huddle in a rough circle around a seasonal marsh, waist-deep in winter and dry in summer. Around the dell they go, on these streets that have no names, streets known by who lives on them, and then down the beach stairs to the water. By now the sun’s nearly in the ocean and the tide’s mostly out and they brisk along stride for stride, silent, meditative. This is the real edge of the town, this strand of sand and seawrack, the shells of Dungeness crabs, a sneaker here and there from a wreck at sea, a fishing float occasionally, a shard of wood, bones, sticks, logs. Sometimes a dead seal or sea lion or shark. Once a doe that maybe fell from a cliff. Once a humpback whale. Sometimes very much alive sea lions, who are really big and bark like dogs and move much faster than you might imagine. Once a dead man.

  As they near the river they pass the keel of the Carmarthen Castle, which wrecked there more than half a century ago.

  Welsh, says the doctor, not slowing.

  Mm?

  Wheat and timber, sailing from California to Oregon.

  Why did it wreck?

  The captain who was roaring drunk on an unbelievably foggy night turned into the Mink thinking it was the mighty Columbia River and discovered he was wrong. The whole load of lumber slid into the Mink. Some was teak. Note that the O Donnell barn has a lovely teak door. The only fatality: a rooster that had three times been around Cape Horn.

  Worried Man stops suddenly.

  You feel it? says the doctor quietly.

  Mm.

  The doctor stands silently for a minute while Worried Man casts about for the pain in the air. He has tried to explain to the doctor, and to Cedar, and to his wife, that he doesn’t hear or smell or feel the aura of someone else’s pain—he, just, well, catches it, sort of. I just am apprised of its existence, sort of, he says.

  What does it feel like?

  Like electricity, in a way, says Worried Man. But there’s a sort of screaming or tearing in it. A chattering. It’s hard to explain.

  Where is it?

  Nearby. Up.

  Can you tell … ?

  A woman.

  The doctor, discreet, bows gently and heads back to his house. Worried Man, equally discreet, waits until the doctor turns the corner and then he heads uphill away from the ocean.

  The night falls thick, he thinks, I go upon my watch. Blake.

  17.

  Daniel arrives, panting for dramatic emphasis, with only five minutes to go before the last bell rings. His grandmother glares at him but he is smart enough not to smile and then the bell rings and the class flutters and rustles and sprints and bustles off and Maple Head crooks her finger at Daniel to come to the desk and as he shuffles to the front of class he looks closely at her eyes under her thunderstorm eyebrows but sees no green fish leaping so he smiles.

  I’m sorry, Gram.

  I’ll only be a half a minute, you said.

  Sorry.

  Hmf.

  You know what Dad’s shop is like, Gram.

  O alright. You missed geometry.

  I know it all. Test me.

  Just do the questions after Chapter Five tonight. How’s your dad?

  Stuffing a beaver.

  Sentence of the day. Where’d he get it?

  Grace.

  Walk home with me?

  Okay, Gram.

  He rides his bike slowly, standing up on the pedals, and she floats smoothly over the fresh-washed asphalt, her feet feathers and songs, the rising wind pours her hair into the air. Rained gently last night, just enough to wash the town clean, and then today a clean crisp fat spring day, the air redolent, the kind of green minty succulent air you’d bottle if you could and snort greedily on bleak wet January evenings when the streetlights hzzzzt on at four in the afternoon and all existence seems hopeless and sad.

  Daniel watches his grandmother’s hair stream behind her and he sees the brown fish leaping in the swirling silver river.

  How’d you meet Grampa?

  We met by the river.

  Did you love him right away?

  No.

  No?

  I was fascinated, though.

  Was he fascinated too?

  Yep.

  How could you tell?

  I could tell.

  How?

  I could tell. You’ll see someday.

  Was he in love?

  He was … fascinated.

  Is that the same as love?

  Better.

  Better than love?

  There is no real love without fascination.

  Is he still fascinated?

  I sure hope so.

  Are you?

  Yes indeedy.

  Was Grampa skinny then too?

  Skinny as a stick.

  And funny like now?

  Funny and kind like now.

  What year was it when you met him?

  A long time ago, Danno.

  How old are you, Gram?

  Old enough not to tell my impertinent grandson.

  Why don’t women say their ages?

  Because people make assumptions.

  How old is Grampa?

  Older than dirt.

  How old is Cedar?

  No one knows. Not even Cedar.

  Really?

  He doesn’t know what year he was born, love. Or where. Sometimes I think he is one of what your dad calls the ancient ones.

  Daoine sidhe, the fairies.

  He doesn’t say fairies, does he?

  Daoine maithe, the good people, he says. That’s respectful.

  You’re getting good with the Gaelic.

  Dad’s teaching me a little. It’s cool.

  The good people are always found near water, right? Like Cedar.

  Cedar’s small and fast, too, like them.

  He is that.

  Wasn’t he ever married?

  Not that I know of.

  Was he married before you met him?

  I don’t know, love. I don’t think so.

  Didn’t you ever ask about when he was a boy?

  He doesn’t remember, Daniel. He was nearly dead when your grampa pulled him out of the river, and being in the water that long can hurt your brain.

  It didn’t hurt his, did it?

  No. It did drown his memory, though.

  I think he’s really smart.

  He’s a great man in many ways.

  If Grampa died would you marry Cedar?

  Your grandfather is too fascinated with this world to leave it. Trust me.

  But if he did die would you marry Cedar?

  I see you want Chapter Six for homework also?

  Daniel grins and pedals off like a rocket and Maple Head floats along through the fallen leaves smiling, her eyes flashing with fish.

  18.

  Owen at work on the beaver grins remembering the afternoon he gave No Horses her first lesson in the Irish language. They met on the windy beach again and walked hand in hand down to the cave at the south end and sat there facing each other in the brilliant sand.

  Okay then, he says.

  Oka
y then, she says, smiling.

  We’ll start simple.

  We’ll start simple.

  They grin.

  I’ll give you the Irish and you repeat it.

  Okay.

  That way it will slip into you gently.

  Okay.

  Like music does.

  Okay.

  Not like school.

  Enough already. Let’s start.

  Okay then.

  Okay.

  Ta an thathnona go brea.

  Ta an thathnona go brea.

  That means good afternoon.

  Ta an thathnona go brea.

  Good. Now: conas ta tu?

  Conas ta tu.

  Good. That means how are you?

  Conas ta tu?

  Good. Now cen t-ainm ata ort?

  Cen t-ainm ata ort?

  Excellent. That means what is your name?

  Cen t-ainm ata ort?

  What actually is your name?

  Cen t-ainm ata ort?

  No no, I mean what is your name really?

  Sometime I’ll tell you.

  Now is a good time.

  Some other time.

  He thinks: who is this woman?

  Okay then, he says.

  Okay.

  We’ll start simple.

  Okay.

  I’ll give you the Irish and you repeat it.

  No.

  No?

  No. This time you just say it and I will listen. I like the music of it. I like watching your mouth form the words. You have a good voice. I won’t understand a word of it but it’ll slip into me gently. Like music.

  What should I say?

  Say anything you want. I won’t know.

  Okay then.

  Don’t be rude.

  No no. Well, ta gruaig dhubh ag an mbeirt againn.

  What did that mean?

  We both have black hair.

  That sounds sweet. Okay. I’ll stop asking what it means. You just talk now.

  Okay. Is capall fain I an fharraige inniu [The sea is a wild horse today]. Creatur fiain, alainn is ea tusa freisin [You are a wild lovely creature also]. Bhi blas salainn ort nuair a phogamar a cheile inne [You tasted like salt when we kissed yesterday]. Ba mhaith liom pog a thabhairt duit aris inniu [I would like to kiss you again today]. Chun an fhirinne a ra, ba mhaith liom do do phogadh an oiche go leir [I would like to kiss you all night long in fact]. Ba mhaith liom do chiocha teanna a phogadh freisin [I would like to kiss your firm breasts also]. Ba mhaith liom do dhidi a phogadh go dti go seasfaidh said suas cosuil le saighdiurini [I would like to kiss your nipples until they stand up straight like little soldiers]. Ba mhaith liom unfairt leat ar an ngaineamh lom laithreach agus muid inar craiceann dearg [I would like to roll in the sand naked with you right now]. Isteach linn san uaimh seo ‘s bauilimis an craiceann go mall reidh ar feadh seachtainne [Let’s go in this cave and make love slowly for a week]. Aithrimis an t-abhar I dtreo go bhfeadfainn seasamh faoi dheoidh [Let’s change the subject so that I will be able to stand up eventually]. Ta do shuile chomh fiain agus chomh tarraingeach leis an bhfarraige [Your eyes are as wild and alluring as the sea]. Silim go bhfuilim ag titim I ngra leat [I think I am falling in love with you]. Nil d’ainm fiu amhain agam [I don’t even know your name]. Is bean iontach thu [You are extraordinary]. Ce faoin speir ata ionat? [Who are you?]

  19.

  Owen grinning finishes the beaver and stands back to get a good eyeful of his work. The trick with stuffing a beaver is to make it the imposing animal that it is alive, but not to force the issue of aggression; to reflect, in the now-frozen carriage of the creature, its diligence and muscularity, its sturdy urge to relentless work, not the fact that it could bite your pecker off with bright-orange choppers the size of playing cards. So Owen has placed beaver-bitten alder sticks in its rubbery black hands, and mounted the animal half-risen, alert to danger but unafraid—a burly worker absorbed in the business at hand but attentive to and ready for trouble if it shambled into view.

  Very deftly done, says the crow.

  Thank you, says Owen.

  It looks alive. I’m scared.

  Liar. If it was alive you’d be teasing it.

  Grace will be pleased.

  Hope so.

  A most interesting young lady.

  Owen turns to regard the bird carefully. Moses, who had been taught to speak by a shy nun who found him broken in the mud, is intricately courteous and circumspect; also he has a dry humor and a corvidian cast of mind, as he likes to say, that combine to make his remarks intriguing. Owen enjoys the play of Moses’ mind. They have been friends, he and Moses, since the nun brought the bird in to be repaired, years ago now.

  What do you mean?

  Just that. A most interesting young lady.

  How so?

  Well, this morning I noticed her cutting apart a car with a blowtorch, for one thing. And you notice she chopped all her hair off.

  I assume she had reasons for these things.

  I think she likes you.

  So she cut up a car?

  Who can understand the ways of human beings?

  I am a joyously married man.

  Which has nothing to do with it.

  I’m not available.

  Which is not the point.

  It is the point. She knows I’m married.

  Yet she likes you.

  How do you know?

  I can tell.

  Tell me. I’m curious.

  The way she carries her body when you are near.

  I think you’re wrong.

  I have been wrong before.

  Let’s go home, says Owen.

  Okay, says Moses.

  Keep an eye out for Daniel on the way home.

  Okay. Not hard to spot him. Always speeding, that boy.

  And all that hair.

  And all that hair.

  Moses floats over the town: over the grocery and the church, the pub and the bowling alley, the clinic and the school, the barber on his porch with a cigar, the cop car behind the liquor store, the teenage boys smoking dope behind the rec center, the father beating his son again, the teenage couple in a dark fringe of woods near her house, kissing gently, their lips bruised and hot, their empty bellies churning, his pecker sore, her breasts sore from his sucking them all afternoon, her mother just coming through the screen door and opening her mouth to call O Rachel where are you where are you?

  Moses floats over the old hotel where the nun is dying in the last light, the very nun who taught him to speak. She sees him from her bed but he doesn’t see her and she can no longer cry out to catch his ear, nor whistle, she can no longer speak at all, but she stares at him wheeling, and a hundred yards away he feels her hot glance like a whisper in his feathers.

  The mother on the porch calls: Rachel? Rachel?

  Moses sees the doctor on his porch and Grace at sea smoking a cigarette and Worried Man climbing uphill through salal bushes and Maple Head loping over the maple leaves and Owen shuffling longleggedly home and the teenage couple kissing gently in the trees near her house; but he doesn’t see Daniel.

  20.

  Worried Man pushes through the salal thickets, gets halfway up the hill, and has to stop and sit down. This has happened to him several times in recent weeks but he hasn’t told Maple Head. It’s like he hits a wall and his legs get so rubbery that he’s afraid that if he doesn’t sit down pronto he will fall down and he is old enough now to worry about broken hips and such.

  Twilight.

  He peers uphill, sees nothing but more salal, blackberry, elderberry, huckleberry, alder all grandfathered with moss; near the top of the hill an old spar tree from the logging days here before the war.

  He stands up and closes his eyes and feels for her pain. It’s straight uphill. He slogs ahead through the thickets, looking for deer trails. He’s lived his whole life in these little dense green hills, and he’s learned to cast about for the subtle trails that animals make and do not advertise, but
this hill doesn’t feel familiar at all, which is a puzzle: he knows the town like he knows his face, its crannies and pools and slopes and angles and corners and scars.

  Up he goes.

  21.

  Cedar gathers up his recording equipment and goes back to the Department. As he passes under the lintel he sees the Mission Statement (BRAINS AGAINST PAINS!) pinned up there, and the photograph of the founder, George Christie. George had been a logger as a young man and wished to get out of the woods, having seen his partner decapitated by a falling fir limb. He went to the three-man County Planning Commission, two of whom were his cousins, and a day later he was appointed supervisor of the newly established Department of Public Works.

  The county paid George half of what he had earned in the woods but he figured he’d live longer and he could find some wiggle room in the budget for himself and the family he dreamed of nightly in his room at the hotel. Soon afterward he fell in love with the grocer’s daughter Anna, who loved him back, and they eventually had the family he had dreamed about and she hadn’t: six daughters and two sons. Eventually Anna drank heavily and the family shivered and teetered for a while, but as families sometimes do it turned its collective energies to caring for Anna.

  George ran the Department for thirty years, the last five with Cedar’s assistance, and when he retired he appointed Cedar supervisor. Cedar immediately appointed Worried Man co-supervisor, much as Captains Lewis and Clark were co-captains of their Corps of Discovery (which had been on the beach not far north of the town, many years ago, and in fact Worried Man’s greatgrandfather had met and conversed with Captain William Clark of the United States Army, whom he found to be a pleasant and efficient man, although a little obsessed with salt, and weary of eating elk, which they had eaten for seventy days in a row at that point, I hope to never see let alone partake of elk ever again in this blessed life, said Captain Clark, a line that Billy’s greatgrandfather found endlessly amusing).

  Just before George retired, he and Cedar drafted the Department’s Mission Statement and posted it publicly, as required by the county, and although the Planning Commission had fervently ignored it, Cedar kept it posted by the door and referred to it often. Below the firm pithy headline it read: This Department, will be responsible for, the construction and maintenance, of all necessary roads, paths, passageways, and trails, within the boundaries of the town, without regard to species of resident; e.g., deer and rabbit trails will be maintained at public expense, as well as waterways, of all sorts, heretofore established, or to be established at any time, in the future, in any way, shape, or form. Also the Department will record and advocate the recording of history, in every way, shape, and form, in all extant media and via media to be invented in the future. Also the Department, and/or its assigns, will also at all times practicable offer its services to residents, of all species, in matters having to do with public assistance and education, under any conceivable, or to be conceived, definition of public work. Questions? See the Director.