The flow of ink ceases in midword but Lee writes on to the edge of the page before he notices the pen has stopped. Then shuts his eyes and begins to laugh, beside himself with amusement. He laughs for a long time and when his lungs are empty the echoes of his laughing rattle woodenly back from the pineboard walls. He fills his lung and laughs again, and again, until the laughter finally subsides into exhausted, hoarse wheezes.
He opens his eyes and looks about his bed vacantly until his eyes fall on the third cigarette. He takes it up gingerly between thumb and forefinger and places it between his lips with great care, as though the slightest jar might shatter it. After some difficulty he finds the matches. He lights the cigarette and draws slowly in. The walls of the room draw inward with the smoke. He holds the breath as long as he can, then lets it out with a low whistling sound and the room expands once more. He draws another. As he smokes he works to get the pen functioning once more. He pounds it against the paper, he tries running the point over the palm of his hand. Finally he remembers a trick Mona taught him and holds the point briefly in a match flame. This time it marks when he traces it across his palm.
He finishes the cigarette and bends to the notebook again, but he has forgotten what he was writing and can pick up no thread from the last few lines. He shrugs, and sits smiling. He sits motionless until a sound, at once far away and quite near, is heard above the brushing of the pine bough on his window. It is like the strumming of a great bass. And the brushes . . . He begins rocking to the beat. After a few more minutes the pen moves across the paper swiftly:
drums drums drums are death drums voo drums doo drums kha-a-a-a leading a rattling dance of skeletons through steamy green saxophones, through the screeching jungle. Gruesome, stark—he’s right—godawful. And he is right, it is the very sort of manure Mother would buy. He is right and cursed right and damn him for it damn him to everlasting hell!
drums drums sucking drums ooze of mud, parched and moaning stones in sun, something swoops to scream at you with a brass beak honed like razor kha-a-a . . . and that’s Coltrane, and that’s Truth . . . and that’s true that that was mother and this is me and Hank’s right and damn him for it damn him damn him damn . . .
dum . . . dum . . . dum dum EEkha-a-a-a there is blackness in his playing, blackness slashed apart with red. There is bleak and senseless pain. Warped and torn and gha-a-gasping lovely and yes also also ugly, grotesque, but then he makes it beautiful by convincing us it’s true. Gawking mad and horrible, black apart with red, but that’s the real face of it. And beauty must be made from what is really must be must be made
He pauses again when Hank stops whacking the big cable on the levee. He looks absently about him, clucking his tongue to remember something. Then Hank starts striking the cable again, more slowly. Lee’s head begins to rock to and fro over the page, to a music swirling, broken and disjointed from the night . . .
Black
crows.
Black
crows.
Over
the cornfield.
So
what they play. So What is the name I know the piece I got it now. Listen to them. Grim missionaries of
So
What! Three chocolate-coated vacuums calling
So
What!
All a drag man, all a hassle man, all too much not enough something else nothing at all
So
What!
All three ask it together, then each at a time, then all together again. SO WHAT? SO SO SO WHAT so so so what? All together, then the trumpet, then the tenor, then the alto, then all together again SOOOOOO what?
All three vacuums, transparent lips to the glass brass bells of three brass horns, sucking in at the three brass bells, fingering reverse indrawn music of despair, playing pictures on the desert SO what? tossed hot chance of skeleton dice over dunes sifting rust . . . burnt land, burnt sky, burnt black moon . . . burnt cities wind scattering hot memo papers no one to read them SOOO what? in houses sundered with big look and WHOOO what? . . . burn if don’t shame empty up lay empty hot give stay SO loose what? look where is go is empty go so empty hot so frozen what and who
The pen reaches the bottom of the page, but he doesn’t open the notebook for more paper. He sits, staring at a little hourglass-shaped patch of light cast onto his wall through a crack in his lampshade, very still, only his finger moving as he taps out slow rhythms on the paper. He sits until his eyes begin to water, then he gathers up the scattered pages of his writing and tears them into stamp-sized pieces, working on each with bemused interest until he has a lapful of confetti. He throws the torn paper from his window into the October breeze and returns to bed. He falls asleep watching the little fragment of light vibrate across his wall, thinking how much more
efficient
it would be filling an hourglass with photons instead of those unruly grains of sand.
Up river from the Stamper house and south, back into the sudden thrust of mountains, up the deep granite canyon of the South Fork of the Wakonda Auga, I know a place where you can sometimes sing along with yourself if you take the notion. You stand on a wooded slope overlooking the crooked little deep-green river far below, and sing into a lofty amphitheater of naked rock scooped from the steep mountain across the way: “Row, row, row your boat, gently down the stream . . .”—and just as you start on your merrily-merrilies, the echo comes in, “Row, row, row . . .” right on cue. So you sing with the echo. But you must be careful in choosing your key or your tempo; there is no changing of the pitch if you start too high, no slowing down of the tempo if you start too fast . . . because an echo is an inflexible and pitiless taskmaster: you sing the echo’s way because it is damned sure not going to sing yours. And even after you leave this mossy acoustical phenomenon to go on with your hiking or fishing, you cannot help feeling, for a long time after, that any jig you whistle, hymn you hum, or song you sing is somehow immutably tuned to an echo yet unheard, or relentlessly echoing a tune long forgotten—
And the old wino boltcutter, who lives in this sort of world, not far from this granite cliff, and cuts his shinglebolts from logged-out slopes on the bank of that crooked fork of the Wakonda, gets cursing drunk to celebrate the coming thirty-first of October (the same way he paid tribute to the thirty other days) and spends his night in a Thunderbird dream joining those echoes in complete antiphonal choruses, singing against the scooped-out stone of his sixty years across a deep green river of wine, and awakes before daylight with a roaring in his ears. Just a few minutes before Viv dropped off to sleep, after tossing for hours trying to recall the words to a ridiculous childhood song: “Way up yonder, top of the sky . . .” The boltcutter coughs for a while, then sits up in his bed, giving up his songs to the museum dark: “It’s all a lotta horseshit.” And in her dreams Viv finishes her verse: “ ‘. . .
blue
-jay lives in a silver eye. Buckeye Jim, you can’t go . . . go weave an’ spin, you can’t go . . . Buckeye Jim.’ A lullaby, Mother sings it to me when I am a baby. Who do
I
sing it to, way up top of the sky? I don’t know. I don’t understand . . .”
Beside her, breathing deeply, Hank mirrors the image of an oft-repeated high-school dream—to go on to college an’ by Jesus
show
the bastards just who’s a dumbass jock an’ who ain’t—and down the hall, still high as a kite though sound asleep, Lee thrashes about in a bed full of roaches, crutches, and burnt paper matches, and, having already chanted his own inquisition, judged himself guilty, and pronounced his sentence—death . . . by shrinking—he sets about composing a ballad to sing his praises after he is gone: a musical epic that would commemorate all his heroic victories on the field of combat and all his mighty feats in the arena of love . . . to the stirring beat of drums drums drums . . .
—And sometimes, as you sing, you cannot help feeling that the unheard echoes and tunes forgotten are echoes of other voices and tunes of other singers . . . in that kind of world.
At dawn the band of black clouds that slipped into town under cover of darkness can be seen loitering on the horizon like unemployed ghosts, impatient already for the day to be over so they can get to their Halloween pranks. The lightning from the night before now hangs upside down in the firs up in the mountains, waiting out the day in electric slumber, like a recharging bat. And a scavenger wind, ribbed and mangy, runs the frosted fields, whimpering with hunger, cold and stiff and terribly lonesome for its buddy the bat overhead there, snoring sparks in the tree limbs . . . in that kind of world. Runs and whimpers and clicks its frost teeth.
As the aged and feeble sun slides up (cautiously, of course, in that kind of world, and because it is Halloween Indian Jenny opens her reddened eyes, even more cautiously. Sluggish and hung over after a night dedicated to hexing Hank Stamper for refusing to let his father marry an Indian . . . she rises from her freshly sheeted cot, crosses herself providently, and, wearing nothing more than an arrangement of the knitted wool blankets the government last year apportioned for her tribe (her tribe consists of herself, her father, a half-dozen mongrel brothers getting steadily fatter somewhere in the next county; the blankets consist of wool, also mongrel, but getting steadily thinner), pads out across the chocolate-pudding mudflats to pay homage to the new day by reading from the Bible that waits beside the smoothed sawn plywood hole of her toilet. The Bible had come with the blankets and was a holy thing, like the plastic Jesus she’d stolen from the dashboard of Simone’s Studebaker, or the bottle of aquavit that had materialized on her table one night after she had chanted out loud the mystic words from a dream about her father: she had called out the words in terror and halfhearted hope, and come morning, there the bottle had been, a talisman with a label in a magical language that she was never able to read. She was never able to reconstruct the chant, either.
Like the bottle, which she had forced herself to ration sip by pious sip over many months, the Bible had also enjoyed a long reign; she obliged herself, however cold the damp bay air, however uncomfortable the harsh edges of the plywood, to read the entire page before tearing it out. The religious discipline had paid off in kind. As she arranged the blankets about her heavy brown flanks and picked up the book she thought she detected deep within her a definite revelation that was certainly more than last night’s pepperoni. But she jumped to no conclusions. For, while she was certainly a devout woman, given to diverse worships, she had more than once been disappointed in her spiritual experiments and hadn’t really expected much action to come out of this reading business. She had entered into the Contract with the Book essentially because her subscription to
Horoscope
had run out and the bottle of Holy Aquavit had—quite unmiraculously, and in spite of all the best spells that the worst of Alistair Crowley could offer—run dry. “Read of this the first thing every morning,” the man who brought her the blankets prescribed. “Read it religiously, all the way through, it shall touch your soul.” Well, all right. It couldn’t be as worthless as that Healing Prayer Cloth that she’d ordered from San Diego, and it couldn’t possibly be as terrible as that jolt of peyote she’d ordered from Laredo (“Eat eight, mate,” had been this cult’s typed instructions, “and you got an Electra-Jet to Heaven”). So all right, she told the man and took the book, with a halfhearted show of gratitude, she’d try anything. But what she had lacked in enthusiasm she had made up for in staying power and now her devotion was beginning to show fruit. Now, eyes bulging toward the page as she shuddered, straining to rid herself of sin, she suddenly experienced a stinging needle of pain and saw—inside that little hut!—a beautiful spiraling of stars. Think of that, she marveled, shuddering once more, just think of that: she was only twelve days into Deuteronomy and already she had marked her soul! Now if she could just figure how to get these stars into her hexes . . .
Teddy the bartender prepares for the approach of All Hallows Eve by dusting his neon with a feather duster and removing the fried flies from his electro-kill screen with a Brillo pad. Floyd Evenwrite practices reading the preamble of International Woodsmen of the World aloud before a bathroom mirror toward the afternoon’s meeting with Jonny Draeger and the grievance committee. The Real Estate Hotwire, always a shrewd cooky, greets the morning by soaping innocuous sayings on his own window, as he has done every Halloween for years; “Got to be one hop out in front.” He snickers, smearing soap. “When the other galoots are just coming to the starting line, got to be two steps gone.” He’d adopted this procedure after finding his window maliciously decorated one Halloween night with what he decided must have been paraffin of a most unusual type—“probably something manufactured by the government
special
”—for, scrub as he might, he had never been able to rid his window of the memory of that evening. Detergent wouldn’t touch it; gasoline only hid it temporarily from sight; and even these many years later, when the light was right, the apparently spotless window would cast a dim but readable shadow on the floor before his desk.
With no small amount of research, he had established that the vandals who skulked this most unholy of October nights had a decided inclination toward panes unsullied and tended to bypass windows already soaped. A kind of unwritten law, he suspected: don’t muck up a buddy’s job. So he was determined to be one hop out in front with soap before the other galoots got to the starting line with more of that paraffin. So great was the triumph the Hotwire felt the following morn, when he came to find his windows untouched by any mark but his own, that he failed to notice that his was the only disfigured window on the whole street; owing to parties and apple-bobbings—initiated by the adults, the tamed vandals of those yestere’ens, for the purpose of keeping their offspring in out of the wet—paraffin, soap, and the whole art of window-waxing had gone completely out of vogue. Even when this was pointed out to him he refused to discontinue the precaution. “A stitch in time is worth a pound of cure”—he remembered one of Joe Ben Stamper’s philosophies, scrawling wow across the glass with a flourish. “Besides, I ask you: who needs ‘Zorro Go Home’ two inches deep in paraffin right across their business?”