In fact, it was Joe Ben, whose faith in Hank’s invulnerability had been a long-time joke, who was the first to glimpse for certain those spots of rust. He saw these spots in the way Hank brooded over his supper coffee, in the sharp way he spoke to Viv or the kids, in a dozen places. Joe tried to avert his gaze, and most of the time managed to smother his misgivings under surges of enthusiasm, but it was these same surges that began to gradually reveal to Hank the very misgivings Joe was trying to smother.
They were all tired and edgy with overwork. By the end of that week there were only five left working: Hank and Joe, Andy, Lee, and, surprisingly, John. John was the only outsider relative left (Andy was never considered with the “outsider folks”; while he was a more distant relation than most, his absence from the job would have surprised everyone as much as Joe Ben’s would have), and Joe could see that John was beginning to get the itch to join the other defectors. The five of them had worked doggedly all that day, falling and cleaning up the few logs still standing in their spread, until they were numb with cold and fatigue. They had finished all the cutting and hauling; nothing was left but the clearing required by the Forest Service. Not the sort of work for a trucker, Joe knew, but he knew as well that Hank needed the help of everyone, including John. They were all standing near Hank at the spar tree, looking out across the slopes they had cut. It was already growing dark, the night drifting down with the rain. John made a circle to check his load, then mounted to the cab and waited. Joe watched Hank draw at the cigarette angling out of the corner of his mouth.
“Take us most of tomorrow to doze the place clean and set the slash to burning,” Hank said. One eye was squinted against the cigarette’s looping smoke. “We’d of got to it today if we’d had one other man helpin’. That means we’re gonna be short a day an’ maybe have to work this weekend.”
Joe watched the others. “Andy, you make it this weekend?” Hank asked while he continued to look down the slope. “I know that’ll be twelve days straight for you, without a let-up, but whatcha say?”
The boy was leaning against the muddy side of the carrier, stubbing out a hole in the ground with the toe of his boot. He lifted a shoulder in a shrug and said without looking up, “I can make it.”
“Good goin’.” Hank turned toward the log truck, where John sat looking straight ahead through the clicking wipers on the windshield. The smoke of John’s cigar rolled from the open window and up to mix with the flutter of exhaust. He was waiting for Hank to repeat his question. When Hank only looked at him he began to fidget with the choke knob, then finally blurted out, “Hank, look here: you don’t need me up here tomorrow for burnin’ slash. And I hate to chance the rig on this road more’n I have to, the way the bedrock’s washing loose.”
The motor of the truck idled; a sleepy, restful sound; smoke rose from the stack to blend with the rain and oncoming night. Hank continued to watch John narrowly until he went on. “Blast it . . . the way I see it you boys’ll be falling direct to the river at this state-park deal, without much use for a trucker.” He licked his lips. “So the way I see it . . . Thanksgiving on its way and all . . .”
Hank waited until the man’s voice trailed to a stop. “Okay, John,” he said evenly. “I reckon we can get by. You go ahead an’ tie one on.”
John was stung by this for a moment, then nodded and reached for the gear. “I might do just that.” Joe Ben climbed into the carrier and started the motor, wondering at Hank’s noncommittal acceptance of John’s desertion. Why hadn’t he pushed John more? They needed every man they could get, and Hank could have put a lot more squeeze on than that . . . how come he didn’t? On the drive back down Joe opened his mouth a number of times to ask something about it, something funny to take the gloom off, but always stopped when he realized he couldn’t think of a funny thing at all.
After supper Viv wanted to phone Orland and his family to ask how they felt. From behind his newspaper Hank said, “I guess not, Viv. I guess we’ll find out in good time.”
“But I think we should find out
now
, Hank, in case . . .”
“I don’t believe we better call,” he said. “That Asia flu is damned contagious; we wouldn’t want to pick up somethin’ over the phone from Orland.”
He gave a short laugh and went back to his paper. Viv wasn’t ready to drop it. “Hank. Honey, we should
know.
There’s the kids, and Janice. And Lee had that temperature last night and tonight he had to lie right down after supper, so I know he doesn’t feel so good—”
“Lee still doesn’t feel so good, huh? Along with Orland? And Big and Little Lou and the rest? Doggone, sounds like a epidemic.”
She ignored his sarcasm. “And I think we should find out from Olivia what the symptoms are.”
Joe was on the couch, helping Jan get the kids in pajamas. He watched Hank put down the paper. “You want to know what the symptoms are? Hell,
I
can tell you what they are: the symptoms are clear as glass. First, see, it rains. Then it gets a little chilly. Then it gets muddy and tough goin’ on the hills. Then one morning you get to thinking how much nicer it’d be layin’ in bed all day with your finger up your ass instead of goin’ out in the goddam woods workin’ yourself punchy! Those are the symptoms, if you want to know. In Orland’s case I got a notion there’s probably some special complications, like living next door to Floyd Evenwrite, but as far as just the
usual
symptoms go, you can’t miss ’em.”
“What about a temperature? Don’t you think a three-degree fever means something?”
He laughed and picked up the paper again. “What I
think
don’t means beans, so we’ll just leave that out. I mean I could
think
all sorts of stuff; in the Marines I used to think maybe the guys who got put on sick call by rubbin’ a thermometer on their pant leg wasn’t so sick as they’d like you to believe, but I couldn’t be
sure
of that. So let’s just forget what I think and I’ll tell you what I
know.
I know we ain’t calling Orland; I know I’m going up to the bedroom to finish the paper if you think I can make it without
catching
something in the drafty hall; and then I know—shit, never mind.” He rolled his paper into a tight club and started for the door; at the stairwell he stopped and turned and pointed it back at the table. “I know this too: I’m going to finish out that last boom, it don’t matter if I come down with flu from every country in the world. And if Orland or Lou calls, you can tell them that!”
He whapped the paper against his thigh and turned to tromp on up the steps. From the couch Joe listened to the stockinged feet striking the floor overhead, loud as old Henry’s cast and just as hard-sounding. And didn’t he sound plenty hard just now, tellin’ us what to say to Orland? You bet he did. . . .
But, just as Joe knew that those feet banging around upstairs were bare, for all their hard and booted sound, he knew that there was something bare about Hank’s hard talking too. Something naked-sounding about the voice . . . Joe frowned for a moment, searching for a way to explain the sound to himself; a slight cough from upstairs gave him the chance: Not naked, he insisted to himself in an attempt to find peace with his worry . . . no, not naked,
raw!
Throat all raw. Cold, that’s what made him sound like he did. Raw. Yeah. Have to see that he takes care of that bad throat, I will. . . .
Upstairs, Hank’s attempt to find some kind of peace didn’t meet with much luck. First off, the sports page had been left downstairs. (
The kid is down there. . . .
) Then there wasn’t enough hot water left from dishes to take a decent shower. Then those damn geese were out there again so thick and heavy and hullabalooing that I found myself wishing to beat heaven that Joe Ben’d not only laid into that one lone honker when he had the chance earlier but into every other goddam goose that had come over since! Then, to top it all off good, those mothering phone calls started up again. They was worse than the geese. At least the geese didn’t insist you get out of bed and walk all the way downstairs to say hello, like the phone-callers did. I tried to get Lee to handle some of the calk for me, seeing that he was downstairs anyhow, but he claimed he wasn’t feeling up to it (
he’s lying on the couch, sucking that damn thermometer
); Joe was more than willing to answer a few for me but I told him it was a shame but he didn’t have the knack for such chit-chat. (
After about the third trip down I ask the kid if he can’t see his way clear to let me have the couch so I could be near the phone. He says yes and starts upstairs.
) Joe wanted to know what that knack was we had that he didn’t, and Lee stopped on the steps and told him it was the ability to be nice to somebody at the same time you’re cutting their throat. “You’re one of the few people left without the ability, Joe,” Lee told him. “Be proud of the lack. Don’t force such rare innocence into extinction any quicker than necessary.”
“What?” Joe said, looking over at me.
“He means you’re a poor liar, Joby,” I told him. “Not many of you left. It’s almost as good as bein’ ‘incorrigible.’ ”
“Oh,” he said, then, “
oh!
Well, in that case”—he swelled up his chest—“I reckon I
should
be proud.”
“If not
proud,
” Lee said, “at least thankful”—and headed on upstairs (
Viv comes in from the kitchen, drying her hands. She asks where Lee went with the thermometer. I tell her upstairs . . . and she goes on up after him
), leaving Joby standing there pleased as a frog eating fire.
By the time the calls slacked off everybody was in bed but me and the old man (
Viv doesn’t come back down. They’re up there together. I can hear Lee’s voice reading that goofy poetry .
. .); the old man was asleep in his chair by the stove and every time the phone’d ring he’d jump like he’d been goosed. (
She calls down that she’s going on to bed. I say okay, an’ what about the kid? She says he’s already in bed, feeling pretty rocky.
I say okay, I’ll be up after a while.
) Finally the ringing got too much for Henry and he hauled himself on up to his room and left me there to chew the fat with all the folks phoning to let me know what a
boon
I was to the community and what an
inspiration
I was to the impressionable young kids, and that sort of thing. Gradually the calls got farther apart, and the geese let up a little, and I dozed off. I must’ve slept an hour or so, dead to the world, then the next thing I was over at the phone table in a kind of stupor like I’d been bopped a good one or something. All I knew was that I was sweated clean through my clothes from sleeping so near the stove, and my eyes was burning and my head ringing and I was jerking the phone out of the wall.
I didn’t know for sure what it was had woke me, or set my ears to whanging. When you doze off someplace strange, not expecting to, it takes a second to get straight. Especially if you been sleeping too warm. But it seemed it was more than just that. It seemed like I’d got a call from somebody. Something real screwy. But I wasn’t sure, not till the next night, actually sure whether I’d heard that call or dreamed it or what.
I carried the phone back to the couch with me and sat down and shut my eyes (
There’s still a light on upstairs
), trying to remember if somebody’d called and what he’d said (
What time is it?
), but it seemed like the words just blew in and out of my head like pieces of torn newspaper. (
The light’s coming from Viv’s room it looks like
) I wasn’t able to get a thing straight; I was just too goofy-feeling and wrung out to know if I’d got a call.
I stood up to go up to bed and looked down at the phone. “Well, by god, there’s one thing I know,” I told myself, while I wound the wire around the phone and put it on the TV set on my way to the stairs. “That is if I get any more calls I’d be pretty damned sure they come from too long without sleep and too many nights with geese,
not
from the goddam telephone.”
(
She’s in bed but she’s left the light on in that room of hers. I go down. That heater is going too. I go in and flick the heater off and start to turn off the light. Then I see that thermometer; it’s sitting right beside that poetry book he reads out of. Up on the sewing-machine case. Right near the edge. I bump the case and the thermometer rolls off. It hits the floor sparkling like a icicle hitting a rock. I sweep the sparks under her cot with my foot; then I turn out the light and go on down to bed.
) “I have seen things, Peters, I have seen a few things . . .”
. . . Lee went on to write in his ledger:
And, while I have only had uncertain glimpses at the iron man’s rusty moments, they are glimpses that you would consider quite convincing if you could have seen them yourself. For example, the tremendous significance behind an act such as the deliberate destruction of an innocent little thermometer . . .
I stopped writing, once more struck with the near-impossibility of communicating a scene so complex with a pencil so short. Too much went to make up the situation, both above and under the surface, too much to circumvent in a letter.
Watching Hank through the hole and seeing him break that thermometer had come very close to pushing me to my final stroke. The morning after, when the old man’s wake-up war-whoop knocked me from sleep, I awoke still trying to decide. Everything awaited my go-ahead. The scene with the thermometer proved this. So I tried a few practice coughs, and was checking down into my poor fevered frame to see if I was anywhere near well enough to have the energy to fake illness, when Joe Ben came bouncing in to try to coax me from bed by promising me an easy day of work. “Just burning today, Leland,” he announced, “no more cutting, no more cable-pulling, no more choker-setting. Just lighting a few little fires is the all of it! Come on up. . . .”
I groaned and closed my eyes to try to shut out my tormentor, but Joe was never one to give up easily.