The Followed Man (50 page)

Luke walked slowly through the
woods, Jake ranging far out of sight. Jake came back once, on Luke's
trail, an approaching gallop of small feet coming on so fast from
behind Luke was startled, then saw that it was Jake, who passed him
in a rush and went on ahead with no greeting, busy and serious. The
day was dry, crisp, the blue above the mesh of trees so constant and
pure it seemed opaque. From far to the south Jake found a cold trail
and howled sporadically, minutes in between, not with the intensity a
fresh scent would have caused in him.

An hour later the voice came
back high and sharp, this time from the west, and continued to ask a
constant hysterical question as it moved. Luke tried to guess its
course, and moved as quietly as he could up the hill, feeling and
thinking himself into an arc of an imaginary, uncreated circle that
existed only in the intentions of a rabbit. When Jake's voice seemed
to turn toward him he stopped and studied the slopes and rises he
could see, to find which planes of the forest's surface he could
actually see behind folded dry ferns, witch hobble, low spruce
seedlings, banks of windrowed leaves and the columns of hardwoods.
Jake came on, closer and more piercing of voice, and passed just for
a moment within sight, the white tip of his tail whipping back and
forth, the dark back in sight and then gone. The rabbit had passed
there, probably hadn't seen Luke, and might traverse this general
area on his next round. Since Luke could see fairly well here, he
stood still as Jake's voice receded in an invisible arc defined only
by sound.

In twenty minutes he seemed to
have learned by heart each rock, tree, bush and dead fern within his
view. Jake's voice kept moving, far away now. Then he heard a light
tick and jump, stop, the movement of something, Jake's voice far
behind, not in this hollow of vision, and a brown rabbit appeared
thirty yards away, disappeared, came up over a hummock between trees,
was there, hopping along, a little gray on his belly in the beginning
turn to­ward his winter white, his paws white already. He was
about to go out of sight for good, or for another long unpredictable
circle when Luke without conscious thought of the mechanics of the
gun leaned into it instantaneously and shot, an invisible cone of
energy flailing across the air and the rabbit was brushed away,
rolling once and then out of sight. Luke ran over, loading another
shell as he ran, and the rabbit was still there, bunched soft hair,
awkward legs and the brown eye still bright though it was dead.

He waited for Jake to come along
the still-live trail of this rabbit, to find what he had earned. In a
few minutes Jake came in sight, casting, weaving along the
still-bright scent. When he came near Luke the trail was gone, blown
away by the shot, and Jake cast des­perately though still
joyfully in circles until he smelled Luke, a surprised quick look,
and Luke said, "Here." Jake finally saw the dead rabbit and
came to it all wagging and friendly, curious, mouthed it without
biting, smelled it and licked the soft fur. "Okay, Jake,"
Luke said, feeling good because of Jake's approba­tion, even
triumphant. "Jake, here is the first tangible product of our
relationship, right?" He took the rabbit, made a nick in its
warm belly with Shem's knife and pulled the belly skin softly apart.
He hadn't killed for a long time. Then the knife point slit the hard
belly and hot blood warmed his fingers. There was the liver,
fortunately clear and healthy, and he pulled it and the kid­neys
firmly against their tethers out for Jake, who gobbled them
delicately from his hand, then licked the blood from his fingers.

Another happy nosing of the
rabbit and Jake was ready to hunt again. "Which way?" he
asked. Luke pulled the skin from the long muscular body of the
rabbit. He would clean it above the dia­phragm later, at home.
The entrails, on the leaves speckled with blood and their own
bloodlike pigmentation, still moved in waves, but they would soon
cool and stop.

"Home, now," Luke
said, but Jake went on ahead, hunting again. Luke carried their meat
back through the woods to the ca­bin, the firm dark flesh of legs
and backstrap speckled even dark­er by a few shots. He remembered
now, from odor, texture, heat and the stoppage of death the prize
that was the weight of good meat. He had been allowed to hunt with
Shem one fall. His par­ents were away somewhere and left him at
the farm, lonesome and a little apprehensive of the fascinating real
world of slaughter and game and of his fierce uncle who knew how to
do everything and do it right. But Carrie had made rabbit pie, with a
light pastry crust that when crumpled by the serving spoon emitted
rich steam. He would see if he could find such a recipe in one of
Hel­en's cookbooks, and this evening he and Jake would divide and
eat, the absolving act, the one absolving act, for this small vivid
harvest.

One day George came by hunting
grouse, stopped in with some diffidence, and said that Phyllis would
like to see the cabin some­time. "And Eph and Tillie,"
Luke said. "I had you and Eph in mind whenever I did something
right, and I'm not exactly ashamed of my joinery. Anyway, you'll be
tactful enough now it's done."

So the four of them were to
come, bringing food. "You know Phyllis," George said.
"She's got to pay for the privilege of you in­viting her or
she won't be happy about it." George was the same way, of
course. "Well, don't bring any beer or booze, then," Luke
said, a concession he wasn't sure they'd honor.

The day when they were to come
was cold, though bright. Octo­ber was changing toward its end,
and the colors were gray, purple at a distance in certain light. The
sun was only slightly warm, if the wind didn't get to the body first,
the pale light seeming as diminished as a reflection as it lay
briefly across the fields. When a small white cloud crossed the sun
the valley grayed into winter.

They arrived in Eph's old Buick,
driven by Tillie Cole, and from the trunk brought hampers,
casseroles, plates, silverware and all the equipment of caterers,
Tillie and Phyllis supervising this treasure as Eph and George helped
carry it in.

Then was the time for the
inspection tour of the cabin. "Looks like it'll make the
winter," Eph said, "Rugged enough. You sure do like strong
studding!" He laughed, referring to the logs. "Tell you the
truth, Luke," he said seriously, "I kind of thought you'd
give up on the logs, get somebody to put you up a frame camp and let
it go at that." Eph seemed a little shaky, slower and more
hesitant when he moved. He'd missed a patch of hair under his chin
when he'd shaved that day. He leaned on his arm when he stood,
walking slowly toward where he could get an arm down on a railing or
on a log in the wall so he could lean on it. His belly sagged from
his tall body like a sack beneath the wide chest. His cheeks were
splotched with islands of veins, and he glistened with sweat as
though he might have a slight fever.

They all thought the cabin good,
the kitchen handy, the com­posting toilet a wild idea because it
was actually inside the house. They asked if it smelled. Luke
explained the venting system which took care of this. With the
eagerness of his comparative youth and its desire for approval he
explained this, and his solar window. He demonstrated the internal
shutters, and explained, perhaps over-explained or waxed enthusiastic
beyond the proper taste. Of the heat absorbing column George said,
"That's a lot of stone wall in a room. Don't it make you think
you're living in a cave sometimes?"

"It's a warm cave, anyway,"
Luke said.

"It is comfortable in here,
and no fire in the stove," Tillie said.

"It's cozy, sort of,"
Phyllis said, "though different." She stood with her cane
looking at Luke's books. "George, you make me some bookshelves
like this, we won't be tripping over books all the time." Then
she said to Luke, "George don't like bookshelves— can you
figure that out? He just don't like bookshelves in a room. Says it
reminds him of a library and he never wanted to live in a library."

When
it was time to get the food ready, Phyllis and Tillie took over the
kitchen end of the room. George, saying he'd done it a hundred times
when he was a kid, opened up the old kitchen table and put in the
center leaf, and soon the feast was on.

George and Eph would be more at
ease sitting at the table than afterward, having to sit on sofa or
chairs in the living room with all its clues, such as the books, to
show that Luke was indeed a city type who had in a sense recreated
his world in this room. Then they would make noises and gestures
about leaving. But when the table was finally cleared they did sit a
while. Tillie stood at the sink, having insisted upon doing the
dishes, the sleeves of her cot­ton blouse rolled up her long arms
above her elbows.

George sat on the front edge of
the sofa, Eph beside him, though deeper, with his long legs stretched
out. Phyllis was more comfortable in a straight chair, wishing out
loud that she were helping Tillie and Luke with the dishes and saying
how she hated to be a shirker.

"I read in the
Manchester
Union
they found Lester sane, down to Concord," George said.
"He'll have to stand trial."

"They got two witnesses
seen him do what he done down there in Rhode Island," Eph said.
He took out, with some effort, a large blue bandanna and wiped his
face and neck.

"You got the sweats, Eph?"
Phyllis said, worried. Tillie turned from the sink and looked at Eph,
a steady look, then turned back to the dishes. Eph didn't want to
respond to Phyllis's question, so ignored it.

Lester Wilson was in Concord,
the state capitol that was synony­mous with the hospital for the
insane. George's mother had died there. Lester had come out of the
woods on his own the day after Luke had seen him by the brook.
Bloodhounds hadn't been used because of the heavy rain.

"He give himself up,"
George said. "Was me, I'd of been in the woods till hunters come
across my bones, but Lester, puh! They used to be good blood in that
family but it all went bad."

"Ayuh," Eph said,
shaking his head.

"If I found the
son-of-a-bitch in the woods I'd of saved the state time and money,"
George said. He had begun to tremble with anger, his gray eyes small
in his head. "I just wished I come across the murdering bastard,
I'd of blowed his worthless goddam head off."

"Well, now," Phyllis
said carefully, "he did give himself up."

"And now they give him
three squares a day and a dry place to sleep. Probably let him go
free in a few years. The son-of-a-bitch killed his wife and two
innocent kids, one a baby." George hummed with hatred, his voice
as restricted and pressured as his eyes. Luke didn't want one of
these older people to be irrational or unpredictable. Whatever
George's personal reasons were for hating the murderer, they should
long ago have been resolved. He wanted to be fairly judged by these
people found good.

"I heard from Louise,"
Phyllis said.

At first Luke thought she was
speaking about someone in Lest­er's family, and the name meant
somebody else and didn't mean anything to him.

"That was a shocker,"
George said, willing, at least for the mo­ment, to let his anger
go. This began to mean to Luke that it wasn't Lester's case they were
referring to. He was at that moment taking dishes from Tillie, wiping
them and stacking them on the drainboard.

Phyllis said, "She said the
funeral's going to be in Wellesley. That would be tomorrow, come to
think of it."

"Wellesley?" Luke
said.

"She wrote me the time and
all, but I don't remember. The let­ter's on my desk at home."

"Whose funeral is that?"
Luke said.

"Why, Coleman's. Haven't
you heard? Louise had to make all the arrangements, too. And him so
young, but he would drink and drive, and now he's dead. You can
imagine how it is for Louise, her only brother and all, and she
having her own trou­bles."

"Will you look at that!"
Eph said in his high voice, surprised and pleased. Jake had just come
through his little tunnel, and stood for a moment cautiously
assessing all these people, though he was not antagonistic or afraid.
"By the gods!" Eph said. "That hound's got his own
private door! Now what do you think of that?"

"But I thought Louise
committed suicide," Luke said to Phyllis.

"Oh, she tried, but you
knew that, didn't you? Now she's back with her husband maybe she'll
feel better about her life, though this tragedy won't help, I'm
sure."

Luke put these conceptions
together very carefully, as if haste might make him lose his balance
in front of these people. At first he believed no one, not even
Phyllis—or at least Phyllis's informa­tion. He felt the
same weakness and vertigo he'd had when he rec­ognized his own
bridge while it was still in another valley.

Jake came over to him and asked
for a touch, then went to his rug in front of the cold stove and
proceeded with some desultory licking of his genitals.

George had stood up, his hands
out in the air in front of him in a strangely blind, or supplicating
fashion, his eyes toward some­thing in the air. A vision? Then he
clapped his hands violently. "Mosquito!" he said. "Must
of been the last one of the year. Come up out of the cellar,
probably." He opened his hands and looked at them for evidence,
which he found. "I got him all right!" He wiped the remains
on his pants. "Now, that's a case, you might say, where the
punishment exceeded the crime!"

Tillie said, "Eph's getting
too tired, I can tell, and I think we'd better be getting him home.
Lately he's had to give up driving his machines, you know, and he
gets weary."

Eph didn't hear this. He watched
Jake, or seemed to be watch­ing him. He looked morose, out of
energy, and his forehead and pate, where they were pale above his cap
line, were shiny with oil or moisture.