SEVEN
That evening, when both mother and child were asleep, Johann Kliever and Frederick walked through the streets of Beatrice to the Nick-Nack Inn, the town’s only tavern. Sawdust covered the floor, belching small tornadoes of beige dust with every footfall. Men hunkered down over tables pockmarked with angry craters. Chairs rocked on uneven legs. A haze of smoke hung low in the air. Kliever strode through the room, nodding at people as he went. As they sat down at an empty table, an old man approached. He was wearing a long black apron tied at the waist and carried a battered metal tray under his arm. In the dim light of the saloon his skin was gray, tissue-thin, and deathlike. His small, pale eyes were sunk deep within the craggy lines of his face.
“This is Polk,” said Kliever.
The barman gazed at the floor, saying nothing. Kliever slapped the top of the table with his enormous hand. “Give us two beers and two shots. This man is the proud father of a new baby boy, Polk. We’re here to celebrate.”
Without a word, Polk turned and wobbled toward the bar at the back of the room. Frederick watched him go. “Is that man all right?” he asked.
“Polk? He’s so drunk he doesn’t know his own name. But that’s when he’s at his best. He never forgets an order, never gives wrong change. And he won’t say a word to anyone. He’s a machine.”
Moments later the barman returned and deposited four glasses on the table in front of them without spilling a drop, and then staggered wordlessly back to his post. Kliever raised his glass.
“To fatherhood,” he said.
“Heaven help me,” said Frederick, and threw back his drink. He felt the heat of the liquor inside him. “Do you have children?”
“One son. A baby, too. He’s just a few months old. Stefan.”
“So you know all about it.”
“Not really. You would have to ask my wife.”
“Women’s work?”
“Perhaps.” Kliever shrugged.
The two men drank.
“Have you lived here long?” asked Frederick.
“Most of my life.” Kliever spoke in a low, gruff voice. His German was perfect, without a trace of an accent. He wiped his mouth on his sleeve and settled his huge frame back in his chair. “My grandfather was from Bavaria. He settled in the Mississippi Delta in 1856. My father and my uncles ran a farm for one of the big cotton families down there. They were good farmers, but they spent most of their time fighting with each other. In the end my father couldn’t stand it anymore, and moved away. I was still young when we left.” Kliever paused. “He died ten years ago. I work the farm he left me.”
“So you’ve never been to Germany?”
Kliever shook his head. “I’m an American, born and bred.”
“But your German is excellent.”
“That was all we spoke growing up. I only learned English when I got to school.”
“I suppose I shall need to go back to school myself, then,” mused Frederick, looking around him. In the far corner of the room he noticed a piano covered by a cobwebbed tarpaulin. “Your town seems a fine place.”
Kliever nodded. “The land is good. Rich soil. And the river does its bit.”
“The river?”
“The Missouri River. The longest river in America. Runs right through the town. I’ll show you on the way home.”
Before Frederick could reply, there was a loud crash from the far end of the room. Kliever got to his feet and beckoned Frederick to follow him. A crowd of people were peering over the bar. Polk’s prostrate body lay across the floor behind the counter, quite still. His eyes were open, staring sightlessly up at the ceiling. A small halo of shattered glass was sprinkled around his head. Frederick looked down in shock at the barman’s crumpled, empty face.
“He does this every night,” said Kliever. “He’ll be fine by tomorrow. Help me with him, will you?”
They carried the old man through the back door of the tavern and left him on a mattress behind the building. “He’ll wake up in a few hours and make his way home,” said Kliever as they went back inside. “Won’t remember a thing about it.”
“What happens now?” asked Frederick.
“Someone usually volunteers,” said Kliever. He looked at Frederick and scratched his nose.
Frederick spent the rest of the evening behind the bar. It was a night he would never forget. Men greeted him warmly in German, and soon he was drowning happily in one long conversation. His worries about reaching Rocheport gradually dissipated in the warmth of the Nick-Nack’s friendly welcome.
Hours later, Kliever and Frederick staggered back to Kliever’s house. Frederick sang arias as they weaved through the empty streets. He gazed up at the sky, so different from home. In Europe the stars hunkered down low across the night, dull and pendulous. Here, though, the heavens were filled with a million dazzling celestial bodies, each one casually brushing up to infinity.
“I could get to like this place,” he said.
“It’s home,” said Kliever.
“Beatrice is a strange name for a town, though.”
Kliever clapped him on the shoulder. “Come with me,” he said. After a short walk they arrived in the town’s main square, which was dominated by a large redbrick building, hulking and sinister in the shadows cast by the moonlight. It dwarfed the tidy, single-story shop fronts that surrounded it.
“Church?” guessed Frederick.
Kliever shook his head. “That’s the Caitlin County Courthouse,” he said. “Beatrice is the county seat. Here. Come and see this.” On the sidewalk in front of the courthouse there was a bronze statue of a middle-aged woman. She had a long nose and a grim expression on her face. The two men gazed up at her. Frederick leaned forward and read the plaque at the foot of the statue. It read
beatrice eitzen
.
“Beatrice,” he said softly.
“Her husband, Nathaniel Eitzen, founded this place,” said Kliever. “They were from South Carolina originally, but Eitzen had an itch he needed to scratch. He came west to seek his fortune. And he brought his wife with him.”
“Doesn’t look as if she was too happy about it.”
“Oh, she wasn’t. She missed the sunshine. In fact when they reached southern Indiana, she refused to go another step. She’d had enough. Told her husband to go on without her.”
“And?”
“And so he did. He hopped on his horse and drove out of town. Left her in the middle of nowhere. She had no choice but to wait for him to come back.” Kliever yawned. “Anyway, after a week or so, Eitzen started to feel guilty about what he’d done. So he wrote her a letter, asking her to come and join him.” He pointed up at the statue. “But she was as stubborn as he was, and refused. This went on for a couple of months—he’d beg her to come, she’d say no. Every day, of course, he was moving farther west, until he arrived here, when he decided that he’d gone far enough. So he established a township, and pretty soon there was a fair-sized group who joined him here.”
“But not his wife,” guessed Frederick.
“Not his wife,” agreed Kliever. “That’s when Eitzen had the bright idea to name the town after her, to see if that might tempt her to come.”
“Did it work?”
Kliever nodded. “Not even she could resist having a town named
after her. Eitzen put on a big parade to welcome her, and had this statue made in her honor. So the carriage pulled into the town, and stopped right about here. Everyone had turned out to welcome her. There was a hush from the crowd as she climbed down from the carriage and looked around. She slowly took it all in. Then she looked up at the statue, went very still, and climbed back into the carriage without another word. The horses started to move off. ‘Wait, wait,’ cried Eitzen. ‘Where are you going?’ ‘Home,’ she shouted out of the window. ‘But why?’ he yelled. And just as the carriage rolled out of the square, his wife shrieked, ‘My nose is too big!’ Last words he ever heard from her. Still, he kept the town’s name, in case she ever came back. But she never did. A minute and a half in this place was enough for her.” Kliever yawned again. “We both need some sleep. Come on. I’ll show you the river. It’s on the way home.”
A few minutes later, the two men stood at the end of the municipal pier, a perilous edifice of old wood that stretched out into the river. Frederick listened to the water as it coursed beneath his feet, a smooth, strong pulse in the darkness. “This is beautiful,” he said.
“Tell you what, though,” said Kliever. “The sound of running water always has the same effect on me.” He began to unbutton his flies.
Frederick felt his own bladder bulge, and did the same thing. As he emptied himself into the Missouri River, Frederick experienced an epiphany of sorts. After a lifetime spent in the city, this alfresco
piss was his first true communion with nature. It felt exhilarating.
“I like it here,” he said when he had finished.
“It’s as good a place as any,” agreed Kliever.
“It looks as if we’ll have to stay for a while,” said Frederick. “Doctor’s orders.”
“You’ll stay with us,” said Kliever.
The two men looked out across the dark water for a moment.
“Thank you,” said Frederick.
And so, as they stood side by side, making their own modest contributions to the longest river in America, did Frederick Meisenheimer and Johann Kliever become friends.
T
hat night Frederick slept on the floor next to his wife and son. When he awoke the next morning, Jette was propped up in the bed with Joseph on her chest. The baby’s eyes were tightly shut as he sucked hungrily at her breast, oblivious to everything else. Frederick got to his feet and stroked his son’s tiny head. It felt hot to his touch, full of life.
“A late night,” observed Jette dryly.
“Yes, well,” said Frederick, abashed.
Jette smiled. “I suppose a celebration was in order.”
“The doctor says that we must stay here for a while. He wants to be sure the baby is healthy before we go any further.”
“If that’s what he says, then that’s what we’ll do.”
“The driver went back to St. Louis yesterday. We’re on our own now.”
Jette nodded at this news with a faraway look in her eye. The baby was not the only one being nourished, Frederick saw. His wife was tranquil, replete with new discoveries. “We’ll manage, when the time comes,” she said, hugging Joseph to her.
After the unhappy chaos of the previous few weeks, Frederick wondered whether some measure of calm might finally be returning to their lives. He was not a superstitious man, far less a religious one, but he couldn’t ignore the serendipity of it all: the driver’s decision to stop to refresh the horses, Jette’s waters breaking just then, Kliever strolling by. They were less than a day’s ride away from Rocheport, but at that moment the final miles of their journey seemed as daunting as a return voyage back across the Atlantic.
Rocheport had only been the vaguest of destinations. Nobody was expecting them there.
T
hat evening, Frederick and Johann Kliever returned to the Nick-Nack. Frederick became increasingly preoccupied as the evening drew on.
“You seem quiet tonight,” remarked Kliever.
“Sorry.” Frederick tapped the side of his head. “I’ve been thinking. I’m wondering if perhaps we should stay here.”
“Perhaps you should,” said Kliever.
“If Jette agrees, of course. And if I can find a job.”
“There are always jobs for hard workers.”
“You know I’m not a farmer.”
“There are other things in this world apart from farming,” said Kliever. “Besides, it’s backbreaking work. Terrible hours. And you’re a slave to the damned weather. If you have a drought—
poof
.” Kliever’s large hands collided over the table with a heavy, cataclysmic thud. Polk tottered up, his tray laden with fresh drinks, and silently unloaded the glasses onto the table. “I’ve just had an idea,” Kliever said. He stood up. “Back in a moment.” He turned without another word and strode out of the bar.
When Kliever returned a few minutes later, Frederick was surprised to see Dr. Becker following him. As the two men sat down, Polk materialized and put a glass of beer down in front of the doctor.
“Good evening,” said Becker, after a lengthy contemplation of the tabletop. “Kliever tells me you’re thinking of staying with us.”
“We’ve had such a warm welcome.”
“You would need to find suitable employment.”
“That, and to convince my wife.”
Becker nodded and looked over his shoulder toward the bar. “You’ve met Polk,” he said.
“A phenomenon.”
“Yes, well. His crashing into unconsciousness at the end of the evening is getting tiresome.”
“Tiresome?”
The doctor drained his glass of beer in one long swallow. “The thing is,” he said, “the Nick-Nack belongs to me.”
“To you?” said Frederick.
“Perhaps you think it inappropriate that a member of the medical profession should own a tavern.”
“Not at all,” replied Frederick.
“Well, there are enough people who
do
,” said the doctor bitterly. “Anyway. No matter. We were speaking of Polk. Frankly, I prefer drunks on the
other
side of the bar.” The doctor turned and watched Polk wobble precariously between the tables. “After he collapses I never know who’s in charge. Volunteers are all very well, and they’re all good men, but I’d like to know there’s someone here I can trust to protect my investment. A manager, in other words.” Becker laced his fingers together. “You seem like a reliable man. And from what I hear, you have a natural talent for bar work. If you want it, the job’s yours.”
“I want it,” said Frederick at once.
“You’ll have to learn English, of course,” continued Dr. Becker. “Not everyone here speaks German.”
“I understand,” said Frederick.
“And since you’ll be staying, you’re going to need somewhere to live. As it happens, I have a house you can rent. You could move in straightaway. It’s a little run-down, but nothing that a lick of paint wouldn’t fix. And I wouldn’t ask much.”
Frederick beamed at him. “I’m sure it will be perfect.”
Just then there was a crash from the back of the room. The men turned and saw customers leaning over the bar. The doctor sighed. “Well,” he said, “now I can watch you in action myself.”