Tag: poverty

In the Quiet After Slaughter

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excerpt

I possessed neither the strength to stop the torment nor the courage
to try.
– I’m going for more wood.
When I return Larry is flicking lighted matches at Lenore. Her
cheeks are stained with tears.
– Burn, witch!
Larry exits for a pee. Lenore and I face each other across the campfire.
I wonder what it would take to make the poor girl smile, so I use
my roasting stick to scratch a happy face in the dirt. Lenore uses hers
to erase the upturned mouth and replace it with a frown.
– Fee-fi-fo-fum, we hear Larry carolling. Wisely, Lenore retires.
Larry and I decide to sleep outside. We arrange our sleeping bags
around the fire.
– I’m going to move to the States one day, Larry says.
– That would be neat.
– I’m going to join the Marines. Special Forces, probably.
– Wow!
A log tumbles into the flames; a glowing ash disappears into
the star-spangled Washington night. People disappear from our
lives all the time. They move away, promise to write, don’t. They
go wacko, drop dead, find God. You say something stupid and
you’re ostracized for life. It doesn’t take much for us to abandon
each other.
When we were young my mother enrolled Burt and me in free
swim lessons in Stanley Park. The bus ride took an hour each way;
the lessons lasted 20 minutes. Hundreds of kids from East Van sat
shivering on the seawall at Lumberman’s Arch waiting their turn to
blow bubbles in the frigid surf. My brother always pissed in the
water. Later Mom would buy us fish and chips.
– I dreamed about Marilyn Monroe last night, Larry says. His
hands are folded behind his head.
– She’s something, that’s for sure.
– She was bare naked, he said. Just standing there with a tube of
coconut butter, begging, Do my thighs, Larry.
The next day we saw Cindy and Corrine riding in a convertible with
some older guys. They were racing along one of the back roads.
Cindy was standing up in the front seat, arms outstretched,

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Poodie James

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“What are you going to do?”
“If the railroad says there was sabotage, I’ll have my people run a
full investigation.”
“If they don’t?”
“I’ll give the mayor my report.”
“And?”
Spanger grinned.
“Thanks for your help, Paul. See you in court. Or somewhere.”
As he passed the checkers players, the old cackler was eyeing his
partner across the board.
Piles of broken ties, twisted rails and fragments of the blasted tank
car bordered Gellardy’s orchard. A section gang was tamping new
ties into place. The smell of creosote was heavy in the air. Spanger
saw the locomotive upright on the track near the hobo jungle, a
section of its cab wall bowed out, a sheet of steel dangling from it.
The crane, engine roaring and cables screeching, was beginning to
ease the distorted chassis of the tank car out of the depression
alongside the track. Spanger walked toward a half dozen men who
stood watching. He recognized all but one. As two of them greeted
him and moved aside to make room, he saw Poodie James. Poodie
looked up and made glottal sounds of greeting. The chief looked
from Poodie’s eager face to the blackenedwreckage and back again.
“It’s good to see you safe and sound today, Mr. James,” he said.
The inspector introduced himself as Lawrence Hall. Spanger
made small talk with the group of railroaders, then took the man
from Spokane aside.
“What have you found so far, Mr. Hall?”
“I’ve found a mess, Chief. There are no orderly derailments. I’ll
tell you, though, the fire department here did everything right and
kept this from becoming a first class disaster. Worst thing, of
course, is that we lost a good man. First death in a wreck since I’ve
been with the company. The coroner did an autopsy this afternoon
at my request and found that Mo d’Aleppo’s heart gave out. Massive
failure. I guess the crash triggered it. He’d had a couple of mild …

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In the Quiet After Slaughter

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– There’s something about these chips, Mr. Cameron says.
– Not as good, are they? Mrs. Cameron agrees. Aren’t as crunchy
as ours.
– Nowhere near, Reggie Cameron replies. He extends an open
hand for further testing.
In the back seat, Larry lifts a buttock and releases a burst of sharp
anal burps. He elbows me and says, Do your parents allow you to
behave this way at home?
The postman reported seeing a naked woman in the park. Later she
was spotted atop the Kennedys’ garage. She twisted her ankle in the
jump. A crowd gathered.
– Get the butterfly net! someone cackled. It’s escaped again!
Almost everyone laughed.
After the ambulance had left and the looky-loos dispersed, Mrs.
Cameron knocked on our door. Kids had nicknamed her Meat on
account of her bulk.
Camping will do the boy good, she told my dad. The two of them
sat on the stairs watching her Reg give the Impala a good scrubbing.
He buffed the chrome until it gleamed.
– I used to be a little nutty myself, she said.
We got one of the last campsites at Oceanview Resorts in Birch Bay.
Mr. Cameron pitched a family-size tent while Mrs. Cameron barbecued
some burgers. Larry and I erected a nylon pup tent.
– If I get any broads in here, Larry said, you’ll have to take a walk.
We lifted our bicycles from the roof rack and took a spin. Some of
the other vacationers had motorhomes and vans, but many, like the
Camerons, were sleeping under canvas. Most vehicles at the campsite
bore Canuck plates.
After lunch we drove into town. Birch Bay consists of a smattering
of stores and clapboard cottages facing Juan de Fuca Strait. Droves
of oiled tourists fanned out on the sand. The main road was clogged
with slow-moving cars blasting loud music.
Well it’s been building up inside of me
For oh I don’t know how long . . .
We parked the car and fell in with the procession of shoppers.

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In the Quiet After Slaughter

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excerpt

Back on the road, rain-streaked fronds slapping at the windshield,
parrots screeching in the jacaranda trees, Paco asks if Witherspoon
would care to meet his fiancée, Carmela.
– A little detour, he says. It’s not far.
They arrive after nightfall. The settlement is without electricity;
oil-fueled torches illuminate the village’s muddy streets. Witherspoon
unfolds a map on the hood of the Datsun and searches with his flashlight.
– What do you call this place again?
– Absolución, Paco says. It means — he consults his phrasebook
— forgiveness.
Carmela’s folks operate a popular eatery. It has a thatched roof, a
fire smoldering in the stone hearth. The food is superb and the
fiancée as lovely as Paco had claimed. She has copper skin that in the
glow of the charcoal embers shines like a newly minted coin.
– Carmela has two sisters, Paco says. Look.
There’s an enclosure walled in by mosquito netting at the rear of
the family compound. Witherspoon is able to make out a pair of silhouettes.
One sister sways in a hammock, an arm lazily draped over
the side as though her fingers trail through water. The other is
perched on a stool. She is raking a brush through her hair, the back
arched like half a parenthesis, thighs spread.
The Canadian thinks to himself: Forgiveness. What a strange
name for a village.
A backlog of vehicles has been idled by the roadblock. Lined up
around the bend are a few squeaky transport trucks, a second-class
bus with threadbare tires, a taxi painted with dust. Youngsters
trickle from the jungle to sell refreshments to the inconvenienced.
His guard off scrounging a cigarette, Witherspoon stole a glimpse
of the swelling crowd. Some huddled in the shade, readying their
bribes. Others made the sign of the cross, wincing with every blow
administered to Witherspoon’s new friend. The ballplayer supposed
all were as terrified as he—evidently the point of the delay.
The welts on Paco’s face were beginning to change colour.
Witherspoon wondered how much more his friend could endure—
wondered how much he himself could endure. And was he next?

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Poodie James

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Spanger stepped back.
“If there’s evidence to support your suspicion, we’ll decide what
steps to take. The law mentions probable cause.”
Torgerson’s face darkened.
“I think, Mr. Police Chief, that when you take a closer look at
those tracks and that wreck that killed a man, you’ll find probable
cause to hold those two for a while. Now, why don’t you just have
some of your men round them up?”
“And charge them with what?”
“Suspected criminal activity. Material witnesses to a wrongful
death. Mopery. What do I care? Just get them in jail. The town’ll
be a better place with them off the street.”
“Mr. Mayor,” Spanger said. “We ought to discuss this with the
city attorney. It could lead to a lot of legal trouble. You can’t just
invent charges and lock people up.”
“Oh, those two don’t strike me as jailhouse lawyers, Darwin.
Don’t worry about that. Hell, one of ’em can’t even speak.”
“Mr. Mayor,” Spanger said, “I won’t help you use this train
wreck to make Poodie James and the hobos part of your election
campaign.”
Torgerson smiled and turned away from the wreck toward his
police chief. His eyes are the color of dirty ice, Spanger thought.
“Why, Darwin, I haven’t even decided to run again. You just go
ahead and investigate. You’ll find enough to lead you to your duty.
I expect you to protect the citizens of this town.”
Torgerson turned and strode down the tracks toward 13th
Street. Spanger watched until the mayor got into his big blue
Packard and drove away.
Albert Swan, the city attorney, cleared his throat and raised his fingers
to smooth his tie. As he spoke, he looked past the police chief.
Spanger turned to see if someone had entered the office. They
were alone.
“Darwin,” Swan said, “we don’t much get into criminal matters
in this office. It’s mostly city business, you know.”

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In the Quiet After Slaughter

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Sgt. McManus, as promised, delivered Fender to hismotherwith the
promptness of a pizza. Mrs. Rhodes, when she opened the door that
night, thought she was hallucinating. Reeking of animal scent, face and
hands coated in a layer of slime, Fender had the beginnings of a moustache
and appeared to have grown a few inches. And though he had
been in hiding for most of the summer, he seemed especially vigorous.
His weight gain puzzled the policeman considerably.
It later came out that Fender had used the hour The Fugitive aired
on Tuesday evenings to switch hideouts, moving from one refuge to
another as the populace gathered around their TV sets. Employing a
stealth rare in one so young, he inhabited an abandoned car and then
a child’s treehouse. He camped out in the brambles that grew along
the banks of Still Creek and took advantage of the Bartons’ garage
hideaway. The night of his apprehension, Fender was returning to his
new abode, a raccoons’ lair under the school portables. In his pocket
they found peanut butter cookies baked by the Widow Nighs.
Fender Rhodes accompanied the social worker Lois Daniels to the
group home. He stayed two years. It was said he learned to tolerate
the routine there and that he became a talented billiards player.
Eventually, however, the approach to mental health care evolved. It
was now thought progressive to integrate Fender into the community
that had formerly sought his detention.
A young man now, tall and broad in the shoulders, Fender has
returned to his old street corner. He has re-established business relationships.
I understand he leaves telephone poles alone, although he
has been seen anxiously eyeballing the heights of an old favourite.
If you take a drive through the Project you can see him most days.
He’s probably there now. Maybe you’ll find him discussing hockey
standings. Or — not that anyone would believe him — describing
what it’s like living with a family of raccoons.

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Poodie James

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to the surface and throwing columns of water into the air. He
thought about being water, whipping into froth, rising to ride in
clouds above the world, dropping onto hills and fields, roaring
down mountainsides, lazing in lakes, plunging over dams and falls,
spreading to meet the ocean, enveloping rocks and logs and sunken
ships, fish swimming through you, sunlight playing on you.
He wondered if the world was alive and all of its plants and creatures
lived on it, as funguses and bacteria live on animals and people.
Poodie lay on his back in the sunshine and watched a hawk
circle in slow turns above the valley, soaring on updrafts. The only
effort he could see was a tilt of the wings now and then as the hawk
drifted up. It rose so high that wings and body blended into a speck
against the blue, then regained form as the hawk wheeled down to
float up again. He tried to imagine wind pushing against wings,
rushing over feathers, the thrill of the downward spiral, the elation
of being lifted atop a column of air. He wondered what the hawk
saw as it hung above the hills and orchards, the streets and houses,
people, the river. One of the books at the library said that hawks
and eagles could see a mouse from high in the air. He waved, in
case the hawk could see him. He wanted to know the currents of
the river the way the hawk knew the currents of the air. Swimming
the river, he had to work against the flow and eddies of the water
and fight his way across, as if the river didn’t want him there.
Sometimes it lulled him in its embrace, but the river’s power
frightened him. The air welcomed the hawk and bore it like a
mother carrying a child.
September 17
Swam the river today. Maybe last time this year. Air cold, water warm.
Very tired when finished. Getting old? Found a man looking in the
window when I came back. Showed me a card from the health department.
Said he had to inspect my cabin. Showed him inside. He took
notes. He wanted to look at the outhouse. More notes. Showed him my
apple trees, ready to pick. I gave him apples. Wrote my name for him. “I
know,” he said. Nice man.

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In the Quiet After Slaughter

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infant, the swell of faraway traffic, but not a peep from the boy. The
gate opened and slammed shut again as though instructed to do so
by an invisible hand.
He’ll be home by dinner, they told Esther Rhodes. He’s at that age,
they said. But the assumption that Fender would soon saunter
home, as Lois Daniels predicted, proved groundless.
– Call me when he turns up, the social worker said. She left her
card on the table.
By early evening the stifling summer air had cooled, shadows
lengthened in the yards. I was told to peddle to the drugstore and
get Mrs. Rhodes’ prescription refilled.
The All-Stars, their practice cancelled, gathered around our
kitchen table. They divided themselves into groups and assigned
duties, filing out the front door solemnly in their black and silver
club jackets.
A few teammates sat with Esther as she worked the phone. She
called kids Fender had gone to school with, fellow idiots, people
he’d done odd jobs for. When, at 9 p.m., he still hadn’t returned, she
called the police.
Others fanned out across the neighbourhood. They knocked on
doors and scoured the woods. The All-Stars aimed their flashlights
into garages and yards, under parked cars, behind every bush. They
rang bells and blew whistles.
Sgt. McManus turned up at the house to explain to Esther that police
don’t file reports until someone has been missing 24 hours. People in
the Project respected the veteran policeman.He had fought at Dieppe.
–We’ll find him, he said. I’ll bring him straight home when we do.
But they didn’t find Fender that night or the following evening
either. Esther Rhodes looked like she was about to unravel. I think
she had so many pharmaceuticals coursing through her bloodstream
that she no longer knew what was going on, which was, I
suppose, their purpose. After three days the All-Stars declared a
moratorium: no more frames tossed until Fender was found.
– Esther has already lost a husband and a baby, a team member
reminded. She might not have the strength to survive the loss of
her angel.
A week passed without a sighting. It was as if the boy had
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Poodie James

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town and the prospects. He listened carefully to the details of the
planning. The enthusiasm of his own replies still rang in Jeremy’s
mind.
“Dad, the state is only 13 years old. There’s opportunity everywhere.
East of the mountains, they’re bringing water to the land.
It’s going to bloom and it’s going to make people rich. It’s in the
center of the state, on the river, on the railroad that runs east and
west. They’re already shipping apples to Chicago and back east.
They’ll need a good newspaper. A paper can make a difference in
how that valley develops. The man who owns that paper will be an
influence.”
“And Winifred? Is it right to take your young wife away from all
she’s known, into a wilderness?”
“It is not a wilderness.” Jeremy reached into his breast pocket for
a post card and handed it to his father. Zeb Stone studied the
scene: A few buildings, a handful of carriages, a line of poles, the
blurred image of a man striding across a dirt street that stretched
into an infinity of sagebrush and bare hills. He looked up and contemplated
the club’s spread of gardens, fairways and trees. Jeremy
was determined to go west with or without his father’s approval,
but he ached for the endorsement. The perspiration and the dread
accumulated as he waited. The severity of the look his father
turned on him, his relief when a trace of a smile appeared and his
father offered to help with finances; it was all as clear as the day it
happened.
“As it is, sir, I’m going to use your money” Jeremy told him. “I
haven’t touched the trust fund since I turned 21. I’ll take money
from that and my savings and, if need be, Win will chip in from her
inheritance. We want to do this on our own.”
“If you ever decide to go back into banking, tell me,” Zeb Stone
said. “A growing town will need a good bank.”
Jeremy never dreamed that 25 years later he would turn his
newspaper over to his wife and plunge fully into banking. Winifred
had turned out to be as good a publisher as he was, and a better,
tougher editor. He had stayed out of the paper’s business since

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In the Quiet After Slaughter

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But their censure didn’t weaken her resolve. She savoured my
father’s embarrassment — and cursed his having been conceived
every step of the way home.
He drank with old navy buddies at one of the Canadian Legion
branches and foolishly denied doing so. He attempted to disguise
the alcohol on his breath with Halls Cough Drops. Tobacco fumes
clung to his clothes like an invisible lint. Sometimes my mother
alleged the scent of woman.
On occasion, it was true, my father would take off for a few days
—to where, no one knows. Going absent without leave guaranteed
an intensified resumption of their conflict at some future date. The
air in our house crackled in anticipation of the rematch.
Once, to regain entry, he claimed to have gone angling with
friends.Mymother circled him warily, a dog sniffing a fire hydrant.
– Lying bastard!
Punishment often entailed his eviction from their bedroom. Banishment
could stretch from three days to three months, depending.
He appeared relieved to be sentenced to an air mattress on the living-
room floor. Because mybrother Burt and I often took myfather’s
side, it was self-serve in the kitchen until a truce was reached. Our
body weights fluctuated accordingly.
I viewed my father’s carousing like this: he was born during the
First World War and orphaned in the Depression. He spent the best
part of his 20s fighting the Second World War. I reckoned the occasional
disappearance was his way of making up for lost time.
People sometimes remarked that my parents seemed to have little
in common. This may have been the case. But there had to be a reason
they were able to cohabit for as long as they did. I think they
were joined together, as many unions are, by the sum of their unfulfilled
expectations, and because as the years passed, options
decreased and habits fossilized.
My parents, you see, were either in love or at war. Rancour
seemed an aphrodisiac. There was no Switzerland, no neutral
ground. It was the one thing they seemed to agree on: the enemy of
love is indifference.
My mother, in anticipation of their evening fete, had passed the afternoon
tethered to the dresser. Her features had been transformed by …

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