Pricksongs & Descants (13 page)

“
here
’
s to you Nathaniel
”
and we drain what
’
s left in the bottom of our cups and the next day we wake up in each other
’
s arms and it
’
s rainin and than\ God we say and since it
’
s rainin real good we stay inside and do things around the place and we
’
re happy because the rain has come just in time and in the evenin things smell green and fresh and delicious and it
’
s still rainin a little but not too hard so I decide to take a walk and I wander over by my brother
’
s place thinkin I
’
ll ask him if he
’
d like to take on some pet termites to go with his collection and there by God is his wife on the boat and I don
’
t know if he drug her on or if she just finally come by herself but she ain
’
t sayin nothin which is damn unusual and the boys they ain
’
t sayin nothin neither and my brother he ain
’
t sayin nothin they
’
re just all standin up there on top and gazin off and I holler up at them
“
nice rain ain
’
t it?
”
and my brother he looks down at me standin there in the rain and still he don
’
t say nothin but he raises his hand kinda funny like and then puts it back on the rail and I decide not to say nothin about the termites and it
’
s startin to rain a little harder again so I turn away and go back home and I tell my wife about what happened and my wife she just laughs and says
“
they
’
re all crazy he
’
s finally got them all crazy
”
and she
’
s cooked me up a special pastry with £rcsh meat and so we forget about them but by God the next day the rain
’
s still comin down harder than ever and water
’
s beginnin to stand around in places and after a week of rain I can see the crops is pretty well ruined and I
’
m havin trouble keepin my stock fed and my wife she
’
s cryin and talkin about our bad luck that we might as well of built a damn boat as plant all them crops and still we don
’
t figure things out I mean it just don
’
t come to our minds not even when the rain keeps spillin down like a ocean dumped upsidedown and now water is beginnin to stand around in big pools really big ones and water up to the ankles around the house and Icakin in and pretty soon the whole damn house is gettin fulla water and I keep sayin maybe we oughta go use my brother
’
s boat till this blows over but my wife she says
“
never
”
and then she starts in cryin again so finally I says to her I says
“
we can
’
t be so proud I
’
ll go ask him
”
and so I set out in the storm and I can hardly see where I
’
m goin and I slip up to my neck in places and finally I get to where the boat is and I holler up and my brother he comes out and he looks down at where I am and he don
’
t say nothin that bastard he just looks at me and I shout up at him I says
“
hey is it all right for me and my wife to come over until this thing blows over?
”
and still he don
’
t say a damn word he just raises his hand in that same sillyass way and I holler
“
hey you stupid sonuvabitch I
’
m soakin wet goddamn it and my house is fulla water and my wife she
’
s about to have a kid and she
’
s apt to get sick all wet and cold to the bone and all I
’
m askin you—
”
and right then right while I
’
m still talkin he turns around and he goes back in the boat and I can
’
t hardly believe it me his brother but he don
’
t come back out and I push up under the boat and I beat on it with my fists and scream at him and call him ever name I can think up and I shout for his boys and for his wife and for anybody inside and nobody comes out
“
Go
w
damn you
”
I cry out at the top of my lungs and half sobbin and sick and then fe
e
lin too beat out to do anythin more I turn around and head back for home but the rain is thunderin down like mad now and in places I gotta swim and I can
’
t make it no further and I recollect a hill nearby and I head for it and when I get to it I climb up on top of it and it feels good to be on land again even if it is soggy and greasy and I vomit and retch there awhile and move further up and the next thing I know I
’
m wakin up the rain still in my face and the water halfway up the hill toward me and I look cut and I can see my brother
’
s boat is fioatin and I wave at it but I don
’
t see nobody wave back and then I quick look out towards my own place and all I can see is the top of it and of a sudden I
’
m scared scared about my wife and I go tearin for the house swimmin most all the way and cryin and shoutin and the rain still comin down like crazy and so now well now I
’
m back here on the hill again what little there is left of it and I
’
m figurin maybe I got a day left if the rain keeps comin and it don
’
t show no signs of stoppin and I can
’
t see my brother
’
s boat no more gone just water how how did he know? that bastard and yet I gotta hand it to him it
’
s not hard to see who
’
s crazy around here I can
’
t see my house no more I just left my wife inside where I found her I couldn
’
t hardly stand to look at her the way she was

○ ○ ○

4

In a Train Station

At 9:27 Alfred purchases a ticket from the Stationmaster for the 10:18 Express Train to Winchester.

Here
’
s Alfred: squat, work-stooped, thick white moustache on his upper lip, pale blue eyes, white hair nearly gone on top, face and neck tanned and leathery, appears to be about fifty-two. He wears an unfashionable gray suit, loose on him and stained from the knees down, a blue checked shirt buttoned at the neck without tie, bulky thick-sol
e
d brown shoes caked with field mud. In his left hand (gold ring on it) he carries his squarish soft-billed cap, while he conducts the ticket transaction with his right. He stuffs the ticket into his coat pocket, then picks up the small bag at his feet.

The 10:18 Express Train to Winchester: it is not now in the station, and little need be said about it. It is mainly for passengers and happens to be electric. It leaves always at 10:18 from Track
2
.

Now, assuming both Alfred and the Express Train to be real (to say nothing of the contract of the ticket), it will perhaps seem strange to some that when the train departs for Winchester exactly fifty-one minutes after Alfred buys his ticket—that is to say, on time—Alfred is not on it.

But
to
return
...

After obtaining his ticket, pocketing it with that old man
’
s whole-hand-into-the-pocket gesture, and picking up the small bag, Alfred shuffles heavily a few feet from the ticket window to a bench which faces the gate to Track 2 and the clock over it. The station is empty except for Alfred and the Stationmaster. A couple ceiling lamps glow dully. A bare bulb umbrella
’
d by a green metal shade brightens harshly the Stationmaster
’
s small office. The station smells of musty wood.

Alfred puts his bag on the bench and sits down beside it. As he sits, he sighs, as though the mere act of sitting is an awful strain on him. Once seated, he sighs again and gazes straight ahead of him at the Track 2 gate, his cap in his lap.

Behind him, the Stationmaster writes something in a large elongated ledger, and as he does so, glances up at the clock over the Track 2 gate. 9:29.
“
Nice evenin
’
,
”
he says.

“
Yep, nice enough at that,
”
says Alfred.
“
May rain tomorra.
”

“
Low pressure area movin
’
in, I hear tell.
”

“
Yep, Good for the crops, though,
”
says Alfred.

“
Been doin
’
much fishin
’
lately?
”

“
Nope, I ain
’
t. Been too blamed hot for fishin
’
.
”

“
What d
’
ye catch mostly?
”

“
Oh, smallmouth. Bluegills.
”
All the while, Alfred continues to stare at the gate to Track 2, sitting slumped and expressionless, his cap in his lap.

“
Oh, that so? Fish for bluegill, do ye?
”

“
Yep,
”
says Alfred.
“
They
’
re small, but they make good eatin
’
.
”

“
Yep, so they do. Well. And how
’
s the family ?
”

“
Cain
’
t complain. Wife
’
s been a bit poorly, but she
’
s gittin
’
on better, now the summer
’
s come on.
”

“
Oh? Ain
’
t been nothin
’
serious, I hope.
”

“
Nope,
”
says Alfred.
“
Jist female troubles.
”

“
Them
’
s pretty fine lookin
’
vittles,
”
the Stationmaster continues, his voice pitched slightly louder.
“
Your wife put
‘
e
m up for ye?
”

Alfred fumbles nervously in his bag, produces a greasy brown paper sack. From it, he now draws an apple, an egg, a jackknife, and a small chicken leg wrapped in wax paper. He puts the apple, the knife, and the egg in his upturned cap, drops the paper sack beside the bag, and unwraps the chicken. It has already been partly eaten. His hands are trembling.
“
Yep,
”
he says faintly.
“
She
’
s one good cook.
”
He hesitates, then bites resolutely into the chicken.

“
That
’
s a lucky man who
’
s got him a good woman and good food and good work,
”
the Stationmaster says.

Alfred tears off a bite of chic
ken leg and chews it slowly, ab
sently. So far, he has not veered his gaze from the gate to Track 2. The clock above it reads 9:33. He stops chewing, opens his mouth as though to speak, but does not.

The Stationmaster looks up at him through the ticket window. After a moment, he says:
“
And a
…
”

“
And a
...
”
says Alfred, his mouth still full of half-chewed chicken leg. But his eyes are puzzled and he does not continue.

“
And a
good
...
”

“
And a good wife!
”
cries Alfred. Both men laugh. Alfred re turns to his chewing.
“
Well, it looks like the old 10:18 will be in on time tonight,
”
says the Stationmaster, returning to his ledger.

“
Good,
”
replies Alfred.
“
Good. Don
’
t wanna git home late. Not on a Sattiday night.
”
He wraps the leg of chicken in the wrinkled wax paper, returns it to the paper sack, along with the apple and the egg. The apple has a few bites taken from it and the cavities have turned brown. It has been a long time since the apple has been tried. The egg is still whole. He reopens the canvas bag on the bench beside him, peers inside, stuffs the paper sack back into it, closes the bag. He sighs. Then he notices the jacknife still in the cap in his lap. He stares sullenly at it. Then, suddenly, as though terrified, he grabs up the knife, reopens the bag, thrusts the knife inside, snaps the bag shut. Visibly shaken, he sits back and, staring once more at the Track 2 gate, continues to chew mechanically on his unswallowed bite of chicken leg.

Both men are silent for a while. The Stationmaster, finally, closes his ledger, squints up at the clock. 9:42.
“
How
’
s the tomaters doin
’
this year?
”
he asks.

“
Aw, well as kin be expected. Need
a—
look!
”
Alfred spins suddenly around to confront the Stationmaster, his pale blue eyes damp as though with tears.
“
Don
’
t y
e think this time I could—
?
”

“
Need a little
…
,
”
intones the Stationmaster softly, firmly.

Alfred sighs, turns back toward the gate, works his jaws over the chicken.
“
Need a little rain,
”
he says glumly.
“
Whole area could use some rain,
”
responds the Stationmaster. Just then, at 9:44, the door of the station bangs open and a man stumbles in. He is tall and thin with uncombed dark hair, a couple days
’
growth of beard. Khaki pants, gray undershirt, tennis shoes, the laces broken and r
e
knotted. He introduces with him a large odor of stale alcohol, and his eyes, though blue and as if thoughtful, focus on no fixed thing. He lurches for a bench, misses, smashes up against a wall. Leaning there, he breathes deeply, his eyes rolling back.

Alfred, all the while, is watching him. His face has blanched, his hands quaver. The Stationmaster is watching Alfred.

“
Belov
é
d!
”
cries the intruder, grinning foolishly, heaving himself away from the wall. He weaves.
“
The su
’
jeck f
’
my dishcoursh is
...
”
He slams back against the wall again, gasping brokenly. Alfred watches, paralyzed.
“
The su
’
jeck ... the su
’
jeck
...
aw,
fuck
it!
”
and the man careens away from the wall, collapses over the back of the bench nearest him.

Alfred glances anxiously at the
Stationmaster, who is still ob
serving him calmly, back at the tall man folded over the bench, up at the clock (9:54), back at the man.

The stranger slowly lifts his head, braces himself half-erect with his hands against the bench, looks toward Alfred, but bl
earily, with
out focus.
“
Our fa
t
her,
”
he cries out, then sucks the spittle off his lips and swallows it,
“
our fa
t
her whish art
‘
n heaven
...
‘
n heaven
...
is eating hish own goddamn chil
’
ren
!
”
And, staring down appalled at the bench under him, the man vomits all over it, rolls off to the floor, lies there with his hands over his face.

Alfred, chewing frantically, fumbles with the bag, looks up at the clock. 10:01.

The man on the floor shudders, then with great effort pulls himself to his feet. His eyes cross and a string of vomit drips from his mouth. He wipes his mouth, then drops his hands limply to his sides. He twitches as though with unresolved retchings. His face is white. The stubble on his chin glistens. He takes an uncertain step toward Alfred, pauses, takes another. Alfred unsnaps the Hag.
“
So help me
!
”
cries the tall man, focusing that instant on Alfred—then he reels, his eyes rolling back, and topples over toward Alfred. Alfred drops the bag, reaches out, catches the man in his fall, eases him to his back on the floor. In the excitement, he has unwittingly swallowed the bite of chickenleg. He looks guiltily at his own hands, then down at his feet. His lower lip is trembling.

“
Alfr
e
d
!
”
scolds the Stationmaster.
“
Alfred! Shame,
shame!
”

There are tears in Alfred
’
s eyes. He turns his head upward toward the clock, brushes the tears aside. 10:13.
He
utt
e
rs a short pained cry, grabs up the canvas bag, scratches desperately through it. He tears out the paper sack, pokes inside it, pitches it away. Again he searches through the canvas bag, draws out the jackknife, throws the bag away, crouches over the fallen man. 10:14.

“
Well?
”
demands the Stationmastcr harshly.
“
Well, Alfred?
”

Alfred squeezes shut his eyes, takes a long desperate breath. Opening his eyes again, he drops quickly down over the man on the floor. He clicks open the knife, grasps the fallen man
’
s hair. The man is sleeping fitfully. Under his white moustache, Alfred
’
s lips arc parted, his teeth clenched. A fa
int whining animal complaint es
capes between them. As though struggling against an unseen hand, he presses the knifeblade downward, touches it finally to the man
’
s throat, but, with a short anguished cry, withdraws it.