Authors: Thomas Williams
The Followed Man (14 page)
Luke recognized some of them,
seeing the old-fashioned one-piece screwdrivers, for instance, in
Shem's big hand. There was a small square with its spirit level, the
bubble in its yellow oil still free to find the center of the earth.
Luke picked the tools out, one by one, and handed them to George, who
hefted them, named them, then replaced them with the reverent
attention given to objects on an altar. There were pliers with
various jaws, a bolt-cutter, cold chisels, a ballpeen hammer and
a balanced carpenter's hammer for common nails. No rust was anywhere,
just a film of light oil on the metal that was browned with age, or
citizen's blued, or of the silver revealed in the steel by a
finishing whetstone. There were stones, too—aluminum oxide,
fine and coarse, Iwashita, India, Arkansas soft and hard, each in
its wooden box. A short-bladed but long-handled bench knife suggested
the power of a muscular hand, given leverage.
Luke said, "Shem told me
once when I was about ten that it was better to walk fifty yards to
get the right tool, then walk all the way back, even if you had to
climb two fences on the way, than to mash up what you were trying to
fix. I remember that as if it were yesterday."
"Amen," George said.
He was examining a small, fine-toothed cabinetmaker's saw that had
its own canvas sheath. There were also a set of spade drills, a
spokeshave, calipers and Allen wrenches, thread pitch gauges, a set
of three wooden planes, clamps, tin snips, a miter saw and coping
saw, a drawshave and more wrenches, including an eighteen-inch pipe
wrench.
When they had looked at all the
things in the tray they lifted it off to find another tray of the
same size, but this one was compartmented and lined with green
velour, and it held guns and their accessories—ammunition,
cleaning equipment and gunsmith's tools. First was a single-barreled,
single shot Harrington and Richardson twelve-gauge shotgun. Luke
remembered it; he had been allowed to shoot it once, and remembered
the kick. He took the forearm off the barrel, put barrel and action
together, snapped on the forearm and held the assembled gun in his
hands. It seemed much smaller now, which wasn't strange.
"Barrel's sawed off a few
inches," George said. "Makes it cylinder bore instead of
full choke. Handier. I recall when you could buy one of them brand
new for under twenty dollars." Next was a Marlin lever action
.22 rifle with the old square bolt and an adjustable tang sight.
What they found after that made
George sigh. In matching fleece-lined cases were what looked at first
like matched .45 automatic pistols. Luke put them down side by
side. One was marked U.S. and was the M1911 Al army issue Browning,
but the other, though the same size and weight, was chambered and
barreled for the .22 long rifle cartridge. It was made by Colt and
had, on closer inspection, a slightly lighter, smoother job of
blueing.
"Look at that!" George
said. "I bet that one cost an arm and a leg. The other one, Shem
probably got in the first war and then sometime he got the other one
made up so's he could shoot the smaller shells. Damn." He picked
up the .22 and looked it over. "Don't see how a .22 long rifle
cartridge would have the power to blow that action back. Maybe it's a
single shot, or you got to pull the slide back by hand each time."
He took out the clip. "Clip's made for the .22 all right. Wait,
now. Hold on here a minute. Seems the slide's lighter, made of an
alloy. 'Course, the barrel's got to be heavier 'cause it's got so
small a hole in it." He picked up the regulation .45. "Near
the same weight overall, almost the same balance. That's pretty
slick. Now, that ain't no barrel insert, that's a whole barrel just
made for that gun." He looked at the .45 again. "That ain't
the regulation sight, neither. It's your wide Patridge. He must of
had that done, too."
There was the one holster,
marked U.S. on the full flap, that fit both guns, and an issue webbed
belt.
"I carried a .45 for a
while in Korea," Luke said.
"Not much different from
that one, I imagine. I carried one in Africa and Europe, and then
about twenty years ago I got one, surplus, through the NRA for
fifteen bucks. I can't afford to shoot it much, not at a quarter a
goddam round, or thereabouts. My son Bill brought me a case of
shells, once, he liberated from the army, but we went to the dump and
wasted most of 'em on rats. I got maybe fifty rounds left in case
they come and try to take my guns away from me."
"That's why George has all
his guns," Phyllis said, "so they can't come and take them
away."
"This ain't goddam
Massachusetts," George said. "Not yet, anyways. We
always had our guns and we're always going to have our guns, and no
holier-than-thou goddam liberals going to say we can't, 'less they
want their goddam legs blowed off." George's voice had turned
ominous. "Goddam busybodies. What am I supposed to do, some
crook comes to the house, call Lester Wilson? He's chief of the whole
police force, which consists of himself, and he drives one of them
souped up supercars, which makes a noise like a wood chipper and half
the time has a dead battery anyways. Not to mention Lester couldn't
hit the broad side of a barn and I never seen him yet he didn't have
most of a six-pack under his belt. He's about thirty years old. No,
sir, I got my .45 up by the bed and loaded, and by the Jesus, mother,
you can say what you like!"
"It's all right, George.
It's just that I'd hate to see you shoot somebody."
George calmed down and shook his
head in mock frustration. "Well, I never meant to go on about
it, but by God, Luke, it does fry my ass."
They looked over the ammunition,
and George recommended that he throw out the old .22s and if he shot
the .45s he'd better clean the pistol well because it looked to him
they might be so old they'd have the old, corrosive mercuric primers.
"They'll shoot all right, probably, but you want to clean her
right away."
Under that tray was the body of
the chest, and here they found, among other things, a block and
tackle with old, slivery hemp rope on it, an adz, a broadax with no
handle, a double-bitted ax, a set of iron wedges, a splitting maul, a
sledge, two steel squares, hand auger bits and handle, extra ax
handles, a Hudson Bay ax, a glass jar of blasting powder and eight
feet or more of fuse, a tin box full of fishing equipment including
rod eyelets and tips, hooks, swivels and an ancient Hardy trout reel,
a can of Dupont FFF black powder, several cans of number nine
percussion caps, a sewing awl and waxed thread, a roll of thick
tanned leather and a ball of oily rawhide, a sight level and other
bottles and cans of nails, screws, washers and bolts.
"Damn," George said.
"I'd say you were pretty well equipped, Luke, I don't exactly
know what for."
Phyllis said, "What are you
going to do with your life, now, Luke? I know you always sort of
gravitated toward the city, with your writing and all."
"I've got to finish the
assignment I told you about, but then I don't know." He looked
from one to the other, and found them curious, sympathetic, a little
avid somehow—at least Phyllis was. She had something in mind
for him. George evidently knew about it and, though curious, he
disapproved of it, or at least washed his hands of it. He poured them
more cider and sighed at the devious schemes of women.
"I mean, are you going to
spend some time here in Cascom after you get your assignment
done?" Phyllis said.
"I wonder what Shem was
doing with that triple F powder and them number nine caps,"
George said. "He must of had a muzzle loader at one time."
"Weren't you going to call
about your house?" Phyllis said.
It was ten o'clock. George
pulled out his pocket watch and looked at the time too.
"I guess I'd better call.
I'll charge it to my own number," Luke said. He went into the
front room and sat at Phyllis's desk to phone. George came in and
turned on the television, the volume hardly audible; he must have had
a program he wanted to see at ten, and that accounted for his looking
at his watch. While Luke waited for someone to answer at Ham's house
he glanced at the television, a large old black and white console,
and saw that the program was a documentary on the battles of World
War II. That was George's war and in a sense his youth, as it had
been Luke's youth, too, having dominated so much of his thoughts in
grammar school and high school.
Ham's wife, Jane, answered and
seemed joyful to be talking to him, although they had once had an
argument over politics during which she'd accused him of
patronizing her. She'd been very cool toward him for at least a year
afterward. Now she asked when he could come for dinner, and why
didn't he stop in and see them anytime? She was a tall California
girl who had that brassy physical symmetry that made him think
such people had bigger, straighter and brighter, though fewer, teeth
than other people, or perhaps one less finger on each hand, like
animated cartoon characters. Maybe he had patronized her. Maybe
he hadn't signaled strongly enough that he found her attractive, if
that was what she wanted. God knew. He promised to come see them.
Then Ham came to the phone.
"Luke, if you want to go
through with it, it's pretty much in the bag. Hell, we can set a
closing date anytime."
"All right, Ham."
"You mean it, now? You're
one hundred percent sure?"
Luke thought of Shem's farm, all
its land and trees silent in the darkness of the summer night, the
brook flowing in the dark. He felt himself there, alone with a clean
terror of the dark.
"I'll see you tomorrow
sometime, okay?"
"Come for dinner. Jane
wants you to."
"All right. That's nice of
you people."
"Just a minute—Jane
wants to talk to you. See you tomorrow."
"Luke?" Jane said in
her American voice that seemed totally clean of any regional
inflections. "What would you like for dinner? How about a
cookout? Drinks at five or so and barbecued spareribs or something
when we're properly mellow? Would you rather have steak? Lobster? You
name it."
He'd have to name one thing or
she'd think him too indifferent. "Spareribs and your famous
tossed salad," he said, feeling a touch of dishonor.
"Super! We'll see you at
five or so. Bye bye, Luke."
From the television came the
muted, portentous voice of Richard Burton. George's rough,
compressed face seemed in black and white too as the ancient
explosions of the British barrage before El Alamein rumbled from
the set.
George looked up. "North
Africa. Monty. Rommel. You remember?"
"Yes, I do," Luke
said.
"When we come in we got our
asses whipped at Kasserine Pass, but they said—some Kraut
general said it—was the Americans always fouled up at
first, but once blooded nobody learned faster. That's what this Kraut
general said, anyways."
Phyllis came slowly into the
room and George fixed her chair for her. She read a book while they
watched the last days of the Afrika Korps. They watched in silence,
and when it was over, the last columns of dusty prisoners trudging
along in their visored caps, George sighed and clapped his palms down
on his knees. "Well, we won that one," he said. "You
always know how it's going to come out."
They wrestled the wooden chest
onto the dolly, then out of the house and back to the shed. "You
can leave her here as long as you like. It ain't in the way,"
George said. He sat down on the chest and filled his pipe. Luke found
himself reaching for a cigarette for the first time that
evening. He hadn't thought of having one, even though he just now
remembered from six years ago that George didn't smoke in the house.
Suddenly George got up and said,
"Now, what in the hell got into me? I got another box of Shem's
belongings in the house I plain forgot! I'm losing my wits in my old
age!" He put his unlit pipe back in his pocket, and Luke put his
unlit cigarette back in the package. "I'll get it for you. Go
ahead and smoke your cigarette. I'll bring it out here."
George brought back a shoe box,
which they opened under the shed's cobwebby light bulb. "We
found these on him, or near him," he said.
Inside the box was a large
old-fashioned wallet with many compartments, the light tan
leather disintegrating with age, rather than use. In it were some of
the papers and documents of Shem's life—his discharge papers,
Social Security card, Luke's address, old newspaper clippings, odd
stubs, letters and his driver's license for the year 1960, among
other things; Luke would look at them more carefully later. There was
a worn black briar pipe and a package of Beechnut tobacco, and a
large jackknife with staghorn slab handles smoothed by use down to
the ivory, its largest blade honed narrow. Luke could hear Shem
telling him that the blades were called clip, sheepfoot and spay, and
that the knife "walked and talked," which had to do with
how healthy a click the blades made when opened or shut. Back when
Shem showed it to him his fingernails were not large enough or strong
enough to dig into the blade nicks and open it. But now they were,
and it still walked and talked. Also in the box were five one-dollar
bills and forty cents in change, a silver necklace set with dark blue
stones, a thick brass fountain pen and a split ring with several keys
on it.
"There's salvageable stuff
in that kitchen you might want to poke around for," George said,
knocking out his pipe at the shed door. "It was pretty near flat
when we found him. Hell of a blizzard the night before, no
telling how long before the plow'd get up there, so I borrowed my
neighbor's snowmobile, and Jim Pills-bury—he's the game warden
now—he took his and we went up to check. That's when we found
him."