Bag of Bones Part 46

I know, be brave, I know, be brave, he says. he says. We're gonna be all right, sugarplum, but you have to be brave. We're gonna be all right, sugarplum, but you have to be brave.

The fire isn't just coming,' it has come. The entire east end of Halo Bay is inflames and now they're moving this way, eating one by one the little cabins where the men like to lay up drunk in hunting season and ice-fis.h.i.+ng season. Behind Al LeRoux's, the was.h.i.+ng Marguerite hung out that morning is in flames, pants and dresses and underwear burning on lines which are themselves strings of fire. Leaves and bark shower down,' a burning ember touches Carla's neck and she shrieks with pain. Fred slaps it away as he carries her down the slope of land to the water. The fire isn't just coming,' it has come. The entire east end of Halo Bay is inflames and now they're moving this way, eating one by one the little cabins where the men like to lay up drunk in hunting season and ice-fis.h.i.+ng season. Behind Al LeRoux's, the was.h.i.+ng Marguerite hung out that morning is in flames, pants and dresses and underwear burning on lines which are themselves strings of fire. Leaves and bark shower down,' a burning ember touches Carla's neck and she shrieks with pain. Fred slaps it away as he carries her down the slope of land to the water.

Don't do it! I scream. I know all this is beyond my power to change, but I scream at him anyway, try to change it anyway. I scream. I know all this is beyond my power to change, but I scream at him anyway, try to change it anyway. Fight it! For Christ's sake, fight it! Fight it! For Christ's sake, fight it!

Daddy, who is that man? Carla asks, and points at me as the green-s.h.i.+ngled roof of the Dean place catches fire. Carla asks, and points at me as the green-s.h.i.+ngled roof of the Dean place catches fire.

Fred glances toward where she is pointing, and in his face I see a spasm of guilt. He knows what he's doing, that's the terrible thing - way down deep he knows exactly what he is doing here at Halo Bay where The Street ends. He knows and he's afraid that someone will witness his work. But he sees nothing.

Or does he? There is a momentary doubtful widening of the eyes as if he does spy something - a dancing helix of air, perhaps. Or does feel me? Is that it? Does he feel a momentary cold draft in all this heat? One that feels like protesting hands, hands that would restrain if they only had substance? Then he looks away,' then he is wading into the water beside the Deans' stub of a dock.

Fred! Fred! I scream. I scream. For G.o.d's sake, man, look at her! Do you think your wife put her in a white silk dress by accident? Is that anyone's idea of a play-dress? For G.o.d's sake, man, look at her! Do you think your wife put her in a white silk dress by accident? Is that anyone's idea of a play-dress?

Daddy, why are we going in the water? she asks she asks.

To get away from the fire, sugarplum.

Daddy, I can't swim!

You won't have to, he replies, and what a chill I feel at that! Because it's no lie - she won't have to swim, not now, not ever. And at least Fred's way will be more merciful than Normal Auster's when Normal's turn comes - more merciful than the squalling handpump, the gallons of freezing water. he replies, and what a chill I feel at that! Because it's no lie - she won't have to swim, not now, not ever. And at least Fred's way will be more merciful than Normal Auster's when Normal's turn comes - more merciful than the squalling handpump, the gallons of freezing water.

Her white dress floats around her like a lily. Her red stockings s.h.i.+mmer in the water. She hugs his neck tightly and now they are among the fleeing loons,' the loons spank the water with their powerful wings, churning up curds of jam and staring at the man and the girl with their distraught red eyes. The air is heavy with smoke and the sky is gone. I stagger after them, wading - I can feel the cold of the water, although I don't splash and leave no wake. The eastern and northern edges of the lake are both on fire now there is a burning crescent around us as Fred Dean wades deeper with his daughter, carrying her as if to some baptismal rite. And still he tells himself he is trying to save her, only to save her, just as all her life Hilda will tell herself that the child just wandered back to the cottage to look for a toy, that she was not left behind on purpose, left in her white dress and red stockings to be found by her father, who once did something unspeakable. This is the past, this is the Land of Ago, and here the sins of the fathers are visited on the children, even unto the seventh generation, which is not yet.

He takes her deeper and she begins to scream. Her screams mingle with the screams of the loons until he stops the sound with a kiss upon her terrified mouth He takes her deeper and she begins to scream. Her screams mingle with the screams of the loons until he stops the sound with a kiss upon her terrified mouth. 'Love you, Daddy loves his sugarplum,' he says, and then lowers her. It is to be a full-immersion baptism, then, except there is no sh.o.r.ebank choir singing 'Shall We Gather at the River' and no one shouting he says, and then lowers her. It is to be a full-immersion baptism, then, except there is no sh.o.r.ebank choir singing 'Shall We Gather at the River' and no one shouting Hallelujah! Hallelujah! and he is not letting her come back up. She struggles furiously in the white bloom of her sacrificial dress, and after a moment he cannot bear to watch her,' he looks across the lake instead, to the west where the fire hasn't yet touched (and never will), to the west where skies are still blue. Ash sifts around him like black rain and the tears pour out of his eyes and as she struggles furiously beneath his hands, trying to free herself from his drowning grip, he tells himself and he is not letting her come back up. She struggles furiously in the white bloom of her sacrificial dress, and after a moment he cannot bear to watch her,' he looks across the lake instead, to the west where the fire hasn't yet touched (and never will), to the west where skies are still blue. Ash sifts around him like black rain and the tears pour out of his eyes and as she struggles furiously beneath his hands, trying to free herself from his drowning grip, he tells himself It was an accident, just a terrible accident, I took her out in the lake because it was the only place I It was an accident, just a terrible accident, I took her out in the lake because it was the only place I could could take her, the only place left, and she panicked, she started to struggle, she was all wet and all slippery and I lost my good hold on her and then I lost any hold on her and then - take her, the only place left, and she panicked, she started to struggle, she was all wet and all slippery and I lost my good hold on her and then I lost any hold on her and then - I forget I'm a ghost. I scream 'Kia! Hold on, Ki!' and dive. I reach her, I see her terrified face, her bulging blue eyes, her rosebud of a mouth which is trailing a silver line of bubbles toward the surface where Fred stands in water up to his neck, holding her down while he tells himself over and over that he was trying to save her, it was the only way, he was trying to save her, it was the only way. I reach for her, again and again I reach for her, my child, my daughter, my Kia (they are all Kia, the boys as well as the girls, all my daughter), and each time my arms go through her. Worse - oh, far worse - is that now she is reaching for I forget I'm a ghost. I scream 'Kia! Hold on, Ki!' and dive. I reach her, I see her terrified face, her bulging blue eyes, her rosebud of a mouth which is trailing a silver line of bubbles toward the surface where Fred stands in water up to his neck, holding her down while he tells himself over and over that he was trying to save her, it was the only way, he was trying to save her, it was the only way. I reach for her, again and again I reach for her, my child, my daughter, my Kia (they are all Kia, the boys as well as the girls, all my daughter), and each time my arms go through her. Worse - oh, far worse - is that now she is reaching for 'me' 'me', her dappled arms floating out, begging for rescue. Her groping hands melt through mine. I cannot touch, because now I am the ghost. I am the ghost and as her struggles weaken I realize that I can't I can't oh I couldn't breathe - I was drowning.

I doubled over, opened my mouth, and this time a great spew of lake-water came out, soaking the plastic owl which lay on the pallet by my knees. I hugged the JO'S NOTIONS box to my chest, not wanting the contents to get wet, and the movement triggered another retch. This time cold water poured from my nose as well as my mouth. I dragged in a deep breath, then coughed it out.

'This has got to end,' I said, but of course this was was the end, one way or the other. Because Kyra was last. the end, one way or the other. Because Kyra was last.

I climbed up the steps to the studio and sat on the littered floor to get my breath. Outside, the thunder boomed and the rain fell, but I thought the storm had pa.s.sed its peak of fury. Or maybe I only hoped.

I rested with my legs hanging down through the trap - there were no more ghosts here to touch my ankles, I don't know how I knew that but I did - and stripped off the rubber bands holding the steno notebooks together. I opened the first one, paged through it, and saw it was almost filled with Jo's handwriting and a number of folded typed sheets (Courier type, of course), single-s.p.a.ced: the fruit of all those clandestine trips down to the TR during 1993 and 1994. Fragmentary notes, for the most part, and transcriptions of tapes which might still be down below me in the storage s.p.a.ce somewhere. Tucked away with the VCR or the eight-track player, perhaps. But I didn't need them. When the time came - if the time came - I was sure I'd find most of the story here. What had happened, who had done it, how it was covered up. Right now I didn't care. Right now I only wanted to make sure that Kyra was safe and stayed safe. There was only one way to do that.

Lye stille.

I attempted to slip the rubber bands around the steno books again, and the one I hadn't looked at slipped out of my wet hand and fell to the floor. A torn slip of green paper fell out. I picked it up and saw this:

For a moment I came out of that strange and heightened awareness I'd been living in; the world fell back into its accustomed dimensions. But the colors were all too strong, somehow, objects too emphatically present present. I felt like a battlefield soldier suddenly illuminated by a ghastly white flare, one that shows everything.

My father's people had come from The Neck, I had been right about that much; my great-grandfather according to this was James Noonan, and he had never s.h.i.+t in the same pit as Jared Devore. Max Devore had either been lying when he said that to Mattie . . . or misinformed . . . or simply confused, the way folks often get confused when they reach their eighties. Even a fellow like Devore, who had stayed mostly sharp, wouldn't have been exempt from the occasional nick in his edge. And he hadn't been that far off at that. Because, according to this little scratch of a chart, my great-grandfather had had an older sister, Bridget. And Bridget had married - Benton Auster.

My finger dropped down a line, to Harry Auster. Born of Benton and Bridget Noonan Auster in the year 1885.

'Christ Jesus,' I whispered. 'Kenny Auster's grandfather was my granduncle. And he was one of them. Whatever they did, Harry Auster was one of them. That's the connection.'

I thought of Kyra with sudden sharp terror. She had been up at the house by herself for nearly an hour. How could I have been so stupid? Anyone could have come in while I was under the studio. Sara could have used anyone to - - I realized that wasn't true. The murderers and the child victims had all been linked by blood, and now that blood had thinned, that river had almost reached the sea. There was Bill Dean, but he was staying well away from Sara Laughs. There was Kenny Auster, but Kenny had taken himself and his family off to Taxachusetts. And Ki's closest blood relations - mother, father, grandfather - were all dead. I realized that wasn't true. The murderers and the child victims had all been linked by blood, and now that blood had thinned, that river had almost reached the sea. There was Bill Dean, but he was staying well away from Sara Laughs. There was Kenny Auster, but Kenny had taken himself and his family off to Taxachusetts. And Ki's closest blood relations - mother, father, grandfather - were all dead.

Only I was left. Only I was blood. Only I could do it. Unless - - I bolted back up to the house as fast as I could, slipping and sliding my way along the soaked path, desperate to make sure she was all right. I didn't think Sara could hurt Kyra herself, no matter how much of that old-timer vibe she had to draw on . . . but what if I was wrong? I bolted back up to the house as fast as I could, slipping and sliding my way along the soaked path, desperate to make sure she was all right. I didn't think Sara could hurt Kyra herself, no matter how much of that old-timer vibe she had to draw on . . . but what if I was wrong?

What if I was wrong?

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

Ki lay fast asleep just as I had left her, on her side with the filthy little stuffed dog clutched under her jaw. It had put a smudge on her neck but I hadn't the heart to take it away from her. Beyond her and to the left, through the open bathroom door, I could hear the steady plink-plonk-plink plink-plonk-plink of water falling from the faucet and into the tub. Cool air blew around me in a silky twist, caressing my cheeks, sending a not unpleasurable s.h.i.+ver up my back. In the living room Bunter's bell gave a dim little shake. of water falling from the faucet and into the tub. Cool air blew around me in a silky twist, caressing my cheeks, sending a not unpleasurable s.h.i.+ver up my back. In the living room Bunter's bell gave a dim little shake.

Water's still warm, sugar Water's still warm, sugar, Sara whispered. Be her friend, be her daddy. Go on, now. Do what I want. Do what we both want Be her friend, be her daddy. Go on, now. Do what I want. Do what we both want.

And I did did want to, which had to be why Jo at first tried to keep me away from the TR and from Sara Laughs. Why she'd made a secret of her possible pregnancy, as well. It was as if I had discovered a vampire inside me, a creature with no interest in what it thought of as talk-show conscience and op-ed page morality. A part that wanted only to take Ki into the bathroom and dunk her into that tub of warm water and hold her under, watching the red-edged white ribbons s.h.i.+mmer the way Carla Dean's white dress and red stockings had s.h.i.+mmered while the woods burned all around her and her father. A part of me would be more than glad to pay the last installment on that old bill. want to, which had to be why Jo at first tried to keep me away from the TR and from Sara Laughs. Why she'd made a secret of her possible pregnancy, as well. It was as if I had discovered a vampire inside me, a creature with no interest in what it thought of as talk-show conscience and op-ed page morality. A part that wanted only to take Ki into the bathroom and dunk her into that tub of warm water and hold her under, watching the red-edged white ribbons s.h.i.+mmer the way Carla Dean's white dress and red stockings had s.h.i.+mmered while the woods burned all around her and her father. A part of me would be more than glad to pay the last installment on that old bill.

'Dear G.o.d,' I muttered, and wiped my face with a shaking hand. 'She knows so many tricks. And she's so f.u.c.king strong strong.'

The bathroom door tried to swing shut against me before I could go through, but I pushed it open against hardly any resistance. The medicine-cabinet door banged back, and the gla.s.s shattered against the wall. The stuff inside flew out at me, but it wasn't a very dangerous attack; this time most of the missiles consisted of toothpaste tubes, toothbrushes, plastic bottles, and a few old Vick's inhalers. Faint, very faint, I could hear her shouting in frustration as I yanked the plug at the bottom of the tub and let the water start gurgling out. There had been enough drowning on the TR for one century, by G.o.d. And yet, for a moment I felt an incredibly strong urge to put the plug back in while the water was still deep enough to do the job. Instead I tore it off its chain and threw it down the hall. The medicine-cabinet door clapped shut again and the rest of the gla.s.s fell out.

'How many have you had?' I asked her. 'How many besides Carla Dean and Kerry Auster and our Kia? Two? Three? Five? How many do you need before you can rest?'

All of them! All of them! the answer shot back. It wasn't just Sara's voice, either; it was my own, as well. She'd gotten into me, had snuck in by way of the bas.e.m.e.nt like a burglar . . . and already I was thinking that even if the tub was empty and the water-pump temporarily dead, there was always the lake. the answer shot back. It wasn't just Sara's voice, either; it was my own, as well. She'd gotten into me, had snuck in by way of the bas.e.m.e.nt like a burglar . . . and already I was thinking that even if the tub was empty and the water-pump temporarily dead, there was always the lake.

All of them! All of them! the voice cried again. the voice cried again. All of them, sugar! All of them, sugar!

Of course - only all of them would do. Until then there would be no rest for Sara Laughs.

'I'll help you to rest,' I said. 'That I promise.'

The last of the water swirled away . . . but there was always the lake, always the lake if I changed my mind. I left the bathroom and looked in on Ki again. She hadn't moved, the sensation that Sara was in here with me had gone, Bunter's bell was quiet . . . and yet I felt uneasy, unwilling to leave her alone. I had to, though, if I was to finish my work, and I would do well not to linger. County and State cops would be along eventually, storm or no storm, downed trees or no downed trees.

Yes, but . . .

I stepped into the hall and looked uneasily around. Thunder boomed, but it was losing some of its urgency. So was the wind. What wasn't fading was the sense of something watching me, something that was not-Sara. I stood where I was a moment or two longer, trying to tell myself it was just the sizzle of my overcooked nerves, then walked down the hall to the entry.

I opened the door to the stoop . . . then looked around again sharply, as if expecting to see someone or something lurking behind the far end of the bookcase. A Shape, perhaps. Something that still wanted its dust-catcher. But I was the only Shape left, at least in this part of the world, and the only movement I saw was ripple-shadows thrown by the rain rolling down the windows.

It was still coming down hard enough to redrench me as I crossed my stoop to the driveway, but I paid no attention. I had just been with a little girl when she drowned, had d.a.m.ned near drowned myself not so long ago, and the rain wasn't going to stop me from doing what I had to do. I picked up the fallen branch which had dented the roof of my car, tossed it aside, and opened the Chevy's rear door.

The things I'd bought at Slips 'n Greens were still sitting on the back seat, still tucked into the cloth carry-handle bag Lila Proulx had given me. The trowel and the pruning knife were visible, but the third item was in a plastic sack. Want this one in a special bag? Want this one in a special bag? Lila had asked me. Lila had asked me. Always sa]b, never sorry. Always sa]b, never sorry. And later, as I was leaving, she had spoken of Kenny's dog Blueberry chasing seagulls and had given out with a big, hearty laugh. Her eyes hadn't laughed, though. Maybe that's how you tell the Martians from the Earthlings - the Martians can never laugh with their eyes. And later, as I was leaving, she had spoken of Kenny's dog Blueberry chasing seagulls and had given out with a big, hearty laugh. Her eyes hadn't laughed, though. Maybe that's how you tell the Martians from the Earthlings - the Martians can never laugh with their eyes.

I saw Rommie and George's present lying on the front seat: the Stenomask I'd at first mistaken for Devore's oxygen mask. The boys in the bas.e.m.e.nt spoke up then - murmured, at least - and I leaned over the seat to grab the mask by its elastic strap without the slightest idea of why I was doing so. I dropped it into the carry-bag, slammed the car door, then started down the railroad-tie steps to the lake. On the way I paused to duck under the deck, where we had always kept a few tools. There was no pick, but I grabbed a spade that looked up to a piece of gravedigging. Then, for what I thought would be the last time, I followed the course of my dream down to The Street. I didn't need Jo to show me the spot; the Green Lady had been pointing to it all along. Even had she not been, and even if Sara Tidwell did not still stink to the heavens, I think I would have known. I think I would have been led there by my own haunted heart.

There was a man standing between me and the place where the gray forehead of rock guarded the path, and as I paused on the last railroad tie, he hailed me in a rasping voice that I knew all too well.

'Say there, wh.o.r.emaster, where's your wh.o.r.e?'

He stood on The Street in the pouring rain, but his cutters' outfit - green flannel pants, checked wool s.h.i.+rt - and his faded blue Union Army cap were dry, because the rain was falling through him rather than on him. He looked solid but he was no more real than Sara herself. I reminded myself of this as I stepped down onto the path to face him, but my heart continued to speed up, thudding in my chest like a padded hammer.

He was dressed in Jared Devore's clothes, but this wasn't Jared Devore. This was Jared's great-grandson Max, who had begun his career with an act of sled-theft and ended it in suicide . . . but not before arranging for the murder of his daughter-in-law, who'd had the temerity to refuse him what he had so dearly wanted.

I started toward him and he moved to the center of the path to block me. I could feel the cold baking off him. I am saying exactly what I mean, expressing what I remember as clearly as I can: I could feel the cold baking off him. And yes, it was Max Devore all right, but got up like a logger at a costume party and looking the way he must have around the time his son Lance was born. Old but hale. The sort of man younger men might well look up to. And now, as if the thought had called them, I could see the rest s.h.i.+mmer into faint being behind him, standing in a line across the path. These were the ones who had been with Jared at the Fryeburg Fair, and now I knew who some of them were. Fred Dean, of course, only nineteen years old in '01, the drowning of his daughter still over thirty years away. And the one who had reminded me of myself was Harry Auster, the firstborn of my great-grandfather's sister. He would have been sixteen, barely old enough to raise a fuzz but old enough to work in the woods with Jared. Old enough to s.h.i.+t in the same pit as Jared. To mistake Jared's poison for wisdom. One of the others twisted his head and squinted at the same time - I'd seen that tic before. Where? Then it came to me: in the Lake-view General. This young man was the late Royce Merrill's father. The others I didn't know. Nor did I care to.

'You ain't a-pa.s.sing by us,' Devore said. He held up both hands. 'Don't even think about trying. Am I right, boys?'

They murmured growling agreement - the sort you could hear coming from any present-day gang of headbangers or taggers, I imagine - but their voices were distant; actually more sad than menacing. There was some substance to the man in Jared Devore's clothes, perhaps because in life he had been a man of enormous vitality, perhaps because he was so recently dead, but the others were little more than projected images.

I started forward, moving into that baking cold, moving into the smell of him - the same invalid odors which had surrounded him when I'd met him here before.

'Where do you think you're going?' he cried.

'For a const.i.tutional,' I said. 'And no law against it. The Street's the place where good pups and vile dogs can walk side-by-side. You said so yourself.'

'You don't understand,' Max-Jared said. 'You never will. You're not of that world. That was our world.'

I stopped, looking at him curiously. Time was short, I wanted to be done with this . . . but I had to know, and I thought Devore was ready to tell me.

'Make me understand,' I said. 'Convince me that any world was your world.' I looked at him, then at the flickering, translucent figures behind him, gauze flesh heaped on s.h.i.+ning bones. 'Tell me what you did.' me understand,' I said. 'Convince me that any world was your world.' I looked at him, then at the flickering, translucent figures behind him, gauze flesh heaped on s.h.i.+ning bones. 'Tell me what you did.'

'It was all different then,' Devore said. 'When you you come down here, Noonan, you might walk all three miles north to Halo Bay and see only a dozen people on The Street. After Labor Day you might not see any one at all. This side of the lake you have to walk through the bushes that are growing up wild and around the fallen trees - there'll be even more of em after this storm - and even a deadfall or two because nowadays the townfolk don't club together to keep it neat the way they used to. But in our time - ! The woods were bigger then, Noonan, distances were farther to go, and neighboring meant something. Life itself, often enough. Back then this really was a street. Can you see?' come down here, Noonan, you might walk all three miles north to Halo Bay and see only a dozen people on The Street. After Labor Day you might not see any one at all. This side of the lake you have to walk through the bushes that are growing up wild and around the fallen trees - there'll be even more of em after this storm - and even a deadfall or two because nowadays the townfolk don't club together to keep it neat the way they used to. But in our time - ! The woods were bigger then, Noonan, distances were farther to go, and neighboring meant something. Life itself, often enough. Back then this really was a street. Can you see?'

I could. If I looked through the phantom shapes of Fred Dean and Harry Auster and the others, I could. They weren't just ghosts; they were s.h.i.+mmergla.s.s windows on another age. I saw a summer afternoon in the year of . . . 1898? Perhaps 1902? 1907? Doesn't matter. This is a period when all time seems the same, as if time had stopped. This is a time the old-timers remember as a kind of golden age. It is the Land of Ago, the Kingdom of When-I-Was-a-Boy. The sun washes everything with the fine gold light of endless late July; the lake is as blue as a dream, netted with a billion sparks of reflected light. And The Street! It is as smoothly gra.s.sed as a lawn and as broad as a boulevard. It is a boulevard, I see, a place where the community fully realizes itself. It is the main conduit of communication, the chief cable in a towns.h.i.+p criss-crossed with them. I'd felt the existence of these cables all along - even when Jo was alive I felt them under the surface, and here is their point of origin. Folks promenade on The Street, all up and down the east side of Dark Score Lake they promenade in little groups, laughing and conversing under a cloud-stacked summer sky, and this is where the cables all begin. I look and realize how wrong I have been to think of them as Martians, as cruel and calculating aliens. East of their sunny promenade looms the darkness of the woods, glades and hollows where any miserable thing may await, from a hot lopped off in a logging accident to a birth gone wrong and a young mother dead before the doctor can arrive from Castle Rock in his buggy. These are people with no electricity, no phones, no County Rescue Unit, no one to rely upon but each other and a G.o.d some of them have already begun to mistrust. They live in the woods and the shadows of the woods, but on fine summer afternoons they come to the edge of the lake. They come to The Street and look in each other's faces and laugh together and then they are truly on the TR - in what I have come to think of as the zone. They are not Martians,' they are little lives dwelling on the edge of the dark, that's all.

I see summer people from Warrington's, the men dressed in white flannels, two women in long tennis dresses still carrying their rackets. A fellow riding a tricycle with an enormous front wheel weaves shakily among them. The party of summer fo1k has stopped to talk with a group of young men from town; the fellows from away want to know if they can play in the townies' baseball game at Warrington's on Tuesday night. Ben Merrill, Royce's father-to-be, says Ayuh, but we won't go easy on ya just cause you're from N'Yawk. Ayuh, but we won't go easy on ya just cause you're from N'Yawk. The young men laugh; so do the tennis girls. The young men laugh; so do the tennis girls.

A little farther on, two boys are playing catch with the sort of raw homemade baseball that is known as a horsey. Beyond them is a convention of young mothers, talking earnestly of their babies, all safely prammed and gathered in their own group. Men in overalls discuss weather and crops, politics and crops, taxes and crops. A teacher from the Consolidated High sits on the gray stone forehead I know so well, patiently tutoring a sullen boy who wants to be somewhere else and doing anything else. I think the boy will grow up to be Buddy Jellison's father. A little farther on, two boys are playing catch with the sort of raw homemade baseball that is known as a horsey. Beyond them is a convention of young mothers, talking earnestly of their babies, all safely prammed and gathered in their own group. Men in overalls discuss weather and crops, politics and crops, taxes and crops. A teacher from the Consolidated High sits on the gray stone forehead I know so well, patiently tutoring a sullen boy who wants to be somewhere else and doing anything else. I think the boy will grow up to be Buddy Jellison's father. Horn broken - watch for finger, Horn broken - watch for finger, I think. I think.

All along The Street folks are fis.h.i.+ng, and they are catching plenty; the lake fairly teems with ba.s.s and trout and pickerel. An artist - another summer fellow, judging from his smock and nancy beret - has set up his easel and is painting the mountains while two ladies watch respectfully. A giggle of girls pa.s.ses, whispering about boys and clothes and school. There is beauty here, and peace. Devore' s right to say this is a world I never knew. It's All along The Street folks are fis.h.i.+ng, and they are catching plenty; the lake fairly teems with ba.s.s and trout and pickerel. An artist - another summer fellow, judging from his smock and nancy beret - has set up his easel and is painting the mountains while two ladies watch respectfully. A giggle of girls pa.s.ses, whispering about boys and clothes and school. There is beauty here, and peace. Devore' s right to say this is a world I never knew. It's 'Beautiful,' I said, pulling myself back with an effort. 'Yes, I see that. But what's your point?'

'My point?' Devore looked almost comically surprised. 'She thought she could walk there like everyone else, that's the f.u.c.king point point! She thought she could walk there like a white gal! Her and her big teeth and her big t.i.ts and her snotty looks. She thought she was something special, but we taught her different. She tried to walk me down and when she couldn't do that she put her filthy hands on me and tumped me over. But that was all right; we taught her her manners. Didn't we, boys?'

They growled agreement, but I thought some of them - young Harry Auster, for one - looked sick.

'We taught her her place,' Devore said. 'We taught her she wasn't nothing but a n.i.g.g.e.r. This is the word he uses over and over again when they are in the woods that summer, the summer of1901, the summer that Sara and the Red-bps become the musical act to see in this part of the world. She and her brother and their whole n.i.g.g.e.r family have been invited to Warrington's to play for the summer people,' they have been rid on champagne and ersters . . . or so says Jared Devore to his little school of devoted followers as they eat their own plain lunches of bread and meat and salted cuc.u.mbers out of lard-buckets given to them by their mothers (none of the young men are married, although Oren Peebles is engaged).

Yet it isn't her growing renown that upsets Jared Devore. It isn't the fact that she has been to Warrington's; it don't cross his eyes none that she and that brother of hers have actually sat down and eaten with white folks, taken bread join the same bowl as them with their blackn.i.g.g.e.r fingers. The folks at Warrington's are flatlanders, after all, and Devore tells the silent, attentive young men that he's heard that in places like New York and Chicago white women sometimes even f.u.c.k f.u.c.k blackn.i.g.g.e.rs blackn.i.g.g.e.rs.

Naw! Harry Auster says, looking around nervously, as if he expected a few white women to come tripping through the woods way out here on Bowie Ridge. Harry Auster says, looking around nervously, as if he expected a few white women to come tripping through the woods way out here on Bowie Ridge. No white woman'd f.u.c.k a n.i.g.g.e.r! Shoot a pickle! No white woman'd f.u.c.k a n.i.g.g.e.r! Shoot a pickle!

No, he doesn't care about slaves and he doesn't care about the land of cotton and he doesn't care about blackn.i.g.g.e.rs who sing dirty songs and then get treated to champagne and ersters (Jared always says oysters oysters in just that sarcastic way) in payment for their s.m.u.t. He doesn't care about anything so long as they keep in their place and let him keep in his. in just that sarcastic way) in payment for their s.m.u.t. He doesn't care about anything so long as they keep in their place and let him keep in his.

But she won't do it. The uppity b.i.t.c.h will not do it. She has been warned to stay off The Street, but she will not listen. She goes anyway, walking along in her white dress just as if there was a white person inside it, sometimes with her son, who has a blackn.i.g.g.e.r African name and no daddy - his daddy probably just spent the one night with his mommy in a haystack somewhere down Alabama and now she walks around with the get of that just as bold as a bra.s.s monkey. She walks The Street as if she has a right to be there, even though not a soul will talk to her- 'But that's not true, is it?' I asked Devore. 'That's what really stuck in old great-granddaddy's craw, wasn't it? They did did talk to her. She had a way about her - that laugh, maybe. Men talked to her about crops and the women showed off their babies. In fact they gave her their babies to hold and when she laughed down at them, they laughed back up at her. The girls asked her advice about boys. The boys . . . they just looked. But talk to her. She had a way about her - that laugh, maybe. Men talked to her about crops and the women showed off their babies. In fact they gave her their babies to hold and when she laughed down at them, they laughed back up at her. The girls asked her advice about boys. The boys . . . they just looked. But how how they looked, huh? They filled up their eyes, and I expect most of them thought about her when they went out to the privy and filled up their palms.' they looked, huh? They filled up their eyes, and I expect most of them thought about her when they went out to the privy and filled up their palms.'

Devore glowered. He was aging in front of me, the lines drawing themselves deeper and deeper into his face; he was becoming the man who had knocked me into the lake because he couldn't bear to be crossed. And as he grew older he began to fade.

'That was what Jared hated most of all, wasn't it? That they didn't turn aside, didn't turn away. She walked on The Street and no one treated her like a n.i.g.g.e.r. They treated her like a neighbor.'

I was in the zone, deeper in than I'd ever been, down where the town's unconscious seemed to run like a buried river. I could drink from that river while I was in the zone, could fill my mouth and throat and belly with its cold minerally taste.

All that summer Devore had talked to them. They were more than his crew, they were his boys: Fred and Harry and Ben and Oren and George Armbruster and Draper Finney, who would break his neck and drown the next summer trying to dive into Eades Quarry while he was drunk. Only it was the sort of accident that's kind of on purpose. Draper Finney drank a lot between July of 1901 and August of 1902, because it was the only way he could sleep. The only way he could get the hand out of his mind, that hand sticking straight out of the water, clenching and unclenching until you wanted to scream Won't it stop, won't it ever stop doing that. Won't it stop, won't it ever stop doing that.

All summer long Jared Devore filled their ears with n.i.g.g.e.r b.i.t.c.h and uppity b.i.t.c.h. All summer long he told them about their responsibility as men, their duty to keep the community pure, and how they must see what others didn't and do what others wouldn't.

It was a Sunday afternoon in August, a time when traffic along The Street dropped steeply. Later on, by five or so, things would begin to pick up again, and from six to sunset the broad path along the lake would be thronged. But three in the afternoon was Low tide. The Methodists were back in session over in Harlow for their afternoon Song Service; at Warrington's the a.s.sembled company of vacationing flatlanders was sitting down to a heavy mid-afternoon Sabbath meal of roast chicken or ham; all over the towns.h.i.+p families were addressing their own Sunday dinners. Those who had already finished were snoozing through the heat of the day - in a hammock, wherever possible. Sara liked this quiet time. Loved it, really. She had spent a great deal of her life on carny midways and in smoky gin-joints, shouting out her songs in order to be heard above the voices of redfaced, unruly drunks, and while part of her loved the excitement and unpredictability of that life, part of her loved the serenity of this one, too. The peace of these walks. She wasn't getting any younger, after all; she had a kid who had now left purt near all his babyhood behind him. On that particular Sunday she must have thought The Street almost too too quiet. She walked a mile south from the meadow without seeing a soul even Kito was gone by then, having stopped off to pick berries. It was as if the whole towns.h.i.+p were quiet. She walked a mile south from the meadow without seeing a soul even Kito was gone by then, having stopped off to pick berries. It was as if the whole towns.h.i.+p were deserted. She knows there's an Eastern Star supper in Kashwakamak, of course, has even contributed a mushroom pie to it because she has made friends of some of the Eastern Star ladies. They'll all be down there getting ready. What she doesn't know is that today is also Dedication Day for the new Grace Baptist Church, the first real church ever to be built on the TR. A slug of locals have gone, heathen as well as Baptist. Faintly, from the other side of the lake, she can hear the Methodists singing. The sound is sweet and faint and beautiful,' distance and echo has tuned every sour voice. deserted. She knows there's an Eastern Star supper in Kashwakamak, of course, has even contributed a mushroom pie to it because she has made friends of some of the Eastern Star ladies. They'll all be down there getting ready. What she doesn't know is that today is also Dedication Day for the new Grace Baptist Church, the first real church ever to be built on the TR. A slug of locals have gone, heathen as well as Baptist. Faintly, from the other side of the lake, she can hear the Methodists singing. The sound is sweet and faint and beautiful,' distance and echo has tuned every sour voice.

She isn't aware of the men - most of them very young men, the kind who under ordinary circ.u.mstances dare only look at her from the corners of their eyes - until the oldest one among them speaks. 'Wellnow, a black wh.o.r.e in a white dress and a red belt! d.a.m.n if that ain't just a little too much color for lakeside. What's wrong with you, wh.o.r.e? Can't you take a hint?' She isn't aware of the men - most of them very young men, the kind who under ordinary circ.u.mstances dare only look at her from the corners of their eyes - until the oldest one among them speaks. 'Wellnow, a black wh.o.r.e in a white dress and a red belt! d.a.m.n if that ain't just a little too much color for lakeside. What's wrong with you, wh.o.r.e? Can't you take a hint?'

She turns toward him, afraid but not showing it. She has lived thirty-six years on this earth, has known what a man has and where he wants to put it since she was eleven, and she understands that when men are together like this and full of redeye (she can smell it), they give up thinking for themselves and turn into a pack of dogs. If you show fear they will fall on you like dogs and likely tear you apart like dogs. She turns toward him, afraid but not showing it. She has lived thirty-six years on this earth, has known what a man has and where he wants to put it since she was eleven, and she understands that when men are together like this and full of redeye (she can smell it), they give up thinking for themselves and turn into a pack of dogs. If you show fear they will fall on you like dogs and likely tear you apart like dogs.

Also, they have been laying for her. There can be no other explanation for them turning up like this.

'What hint is that, sugar?' she asks, standing her ground. Where is everyone? Where can they all be? G.o.d d.a.m.n! Across the lake, the Methodists have moved on to 'Trust and Obey,' a droner if there ever was one. 'What hint is that, sugar?' she asks, standing her ground. Where is everyone? Where can they all be? G.o.d d.a.m.n! Across the lake, the Methodists have moved on to 'Trust and Obey,' a droner if there ever was one.

'That you ain't got no business walking where the white folks walk,' Harry Auster says. His adolescent voice breaks into a kind of mouse-squeak on the last word and she laughs. She knows how unwise that is, but she can't help it - she's never been able to help her laughter, any more than she's ever been able to help the way men like this look at her b.r.e.a.s.t.s and bottom. Blame it on G.o.d 'That you ain't got no business walking where the white folks walk,' Harry Auster says. His adolescent voice breaks into a kind of mouse-squeak on the last word and she laughs. She knows how unwise that is, but she can't help it - she's never been able to help her laughter, any more than she's ever been able to help the way men like this look at her b.r.e.a.s.t.s and bottom. Blame it on G.o.d.

'Why, I walk where I do,' she says. 'I was told this was common ground, ain't n.o.body got a right to keep me out. Ain't n.o.body has. You seen em doin it?' 'Why, I walk where I do,' she says. 'I was told this was common ground, ain't n.o.body got a right to keep me out. Ain't n.o.body has. You seen em doin it?'

'You see us now,' George Armbruster says, trying to sound tough.

Sara looks at him with a species of kindly contempt that makes George shrivel up inside. His cheeks glow hot red. 'Son,' she says, 'you only come out now because the decent folks is all somewhere else. Why do you want to let this old fella tell you what to do? Act decent and let a lady walk.'

I see it all. As Devore fades and fades, at last becoming nothing but eyes under a blue cap in the rainy afternoon (through him I can see the shattered remains of my swimming float was.h.i.+ng against the embankment), I see it all. I see her as she starts forward, walking straight at Devore. If she stands here jawing with them, something bad is going to happen. She feels it, and she never questions her tidings. And if she walks at any of the others, ole ma.s.sa'll bore in on her from the side, pulling the rest after. Ole ma.s.sa in the little ole blue cap is the wheeldog, the one she must face down. She can do it, too. He's strong, strong enough to make these boys one creature, his creature, at least for the time being, but he doesn't have her force, her determination, her energy. In a way she welcomes this confrontation. Reg has warned her to be careful, not to move too fast or try to make real friends until the rednecks (only Reggie calls them 'the bull gators') show themselves - how many and how crazy - but she goes her own course, trusts her own deep instincts. And here they are, only seven of em, and really just the one bull gator.

I'm stronger than you, ole ma.s.sa, she thinks, walking toward him. She fixes her eyes on his and will not let them drop,' his are the ones that drop, his the mouth that quivers uncertainly at one corner, his the tongue that comes out as quick as a lizard's tongue to wet the lips, and all that's good . . . but even better is when he falls back a step. When he does that the rest of them cl.u.s.ter in two groups of three, and there it is, her way through. Faint and sweet are the Methodists, faithy music carrying across the lake's still surface. A droner of a hymn, yes, but sweet across the miles. she thinks, walking toward him. She fixes her eyes on his and will not let them drop,' his are the ones that drop, his the mouth that quivers uncertainly at one corner, his the tongue that comes out as quick as a lizard's tongue to wet the lips, and all that's good . . . but even better is when he falls back a step. When he does that the rest of them cl.u.s.ter in two groups of three, and there it is, her way through. Faint and sweet are the Methodists, faithy music carrying across the lake's still surface. A droner of a hymn, yes, but sweet across the miles.

When we walk with the Lordin the light of His word,what a glory He sheds on our way . . .

I'm stronger than you, sugar, she sends she sends, I'm meaner than you, you may be the bull gator but I'm the queen bee and if you don't want me stingin on you, you best clear me the rest of my path.

'You b.i.t.c.h,' he says, but his voice is weak; he is already thinking this isn't the day, there's something about her he didn't quite see until he saw her right up close, some blackn.i.g.g.e.r hougan he didn't feel until now, better wait for another day, better - 'You b.i.t.c.h,' he says, but his voice is weak; he is already thinking this isn't the day, there's something about her he didn't quite see until he saw her right up close, some blackn.i.g.g.e.r hougan he didn't feel until now, better wait for another day, better - Then he trips over a root or a rock (perhaps it's the very rock behind which she will finally come to rest) and falls down. His cap falls off, showing the big old bald spot on top of his head. His pants split all the way up the seam. And Sara makes a crucial mistake. Perhaps she underestimates Jared Devore's own very considerable personal force, or perhaps she just cannot help herself - the sound of his britches ripping is like a loud fart. In any case she laughs that raucous, smoke-broken laugh which is her trademark. And her laugh becomes her doom.

Devore doesn't think. He simply gives her the leather from where he lies, big feet in pegged loggers' boots shooting out like pistons. He hits her where she is thinnest and most vulnerable, in the ankles. She hollers in shocked pain as the left one breaks,' she goes down in a tumble, losing her furled parasol out of one hand. She draws in breath to scream again and Jared says from where he is lying, 'Don't let her! Da.s.sn't let her holler!'