Peace Like a River
Brother Ben waddled down the path to his backhouse and wondered where it was all going to end. As a man of the cloth, he had cautioned the brothers and sisters of Stockton against breaking God's commandments, but like willful children they did as they damned well pleased when it came to thieving, fornication and passing a jug of home brew when the fiddles began to drone.
"To hell in a handbasket," he grumbled and adjusted his worn black coat and rusty trousers for a comfortable communion with his Maker and Mother Nature.
The morning mists burned away, leaving swatches of white snagged up against the mountains to the south. The air was damp and good going down, it loosened the phlegm and rheums of winter. A phoebe called, phe--.bee, phe--.bee, and a nuthatch, upside down on a tree near the privy door, looked at Ben as if considering the splintering necessary a new kind of tree and Brother Ben some unfamiliar species of nesting bird.
In time, his business finished, Brother Ben went back to the house where he breakfasted on pancakes and coffee, the flour a tithe from John Ashe, who ran the mill, and the beverage brewed from a mixture of dandelion and chicory roots, frugally harvested by Brother Ben's own two stubby hands.
Sister Ellen, his woman and wife of many years, crept around the kitchen on silent feet, her rusty hair white at the temples, her hands bony and neat. They fluttered over her pots like birds at the harvest.
"Be a nice day," she said tentatively when she saw her husband put aside his plate and fork.
"Nice enough for sinners," her husband's voice was grim. His face twisted until it was as hard and unforgiving as the oaken stool on which he sat. "Fetch the Book."
Sister Ellen got the Bible and took her place on the other stool. There was, in her properly prayerful attitude, a hint of movement quelled, of an impatient waiting for the moment to pass. Of course, in Sister Ellen's girlhood, evening prayers had been enough, but she had been fixed on marrying Ben Butler, who had collected flesh and faith until he no longer resembled the gangling farmboy who had come, almost speechless to her father's presence, to beg for her hand.
She sighed. The passage her husband read was from the begats. Over the course of time, he had finished reading the Book for the seventh time and now begun anew at Genesis. His voice, droning the dreary list of sons who became fathers in their turn became a chant, lulling her mind to other places, other pastimes. His voice was a fly caught in the corner of a sunny spring window. "And Canaan begat Sidon, and Sidon begat Heth ..., "
Once Brother Ben looked up to see the woman smiling, a far-away look of peace on her face, and he scowled his irritation. Not one of his charges, not even this woman he had fed and protected all these years, really heard the Word or truly wished to follow. He fumbled at the tissue-thin pages with blunt, raspy fingers, until at last, the day's lesson was done.
They prayed. Brother Ben prayed for the removal of evil in the village below and Sister Ellen, for her tiresome spouse to leave the house for a spell--so she could have a little peace.
Perhaps simpler prayers are sooner answered.
Their silence was no sooner broken than Brother Ben announced he had to go to town.
Old Tom looked around resentfully as the saddle went on. The tall bay's back was already sunken from bearing the good brother's considerable weight.
But Brother Ben did not notice, he had his mind on saving his neighbors and his coin. The horse was old in any case.
Sister Ellen watched her husband down the hill.
Then she shoved the coffeepot aside, spurning the bitter brew of roasted roots, and put the kettle on to boil for tea. When it had steeped in her pot-bellied brown earthen pot, she sipped the infusion from a heavy white crockery cup that had no saucer.
When she was finished, and for once Sister Ellen took her time, moist, bitter leaves clung to the sides of the vessel and she studied the patterns she saw in the dregs with interest.
"The bridge won't hold," she said, half puzzled.
The only bridge in Stockton was even now being built by municipal labor. Even her husband had committed his time. But the broken span was there in her cup, along with a coffin, and money uncovered. Sister Ellen tucked the secrets she read away in her mind, rinsed the cup, and hummed about her chores while her husband rode down the road to meet his fate.
Brother Ben went directly to the new bridge, which was as yet far from complete, although last town meeting it had been decided the bridge must be built quickly. Too many good men were wasting time hauling grain ten miles upriver and back to reach a mill not half a mile away. Each townsman, according to his health, and acreage, and several other obscure considerations, had been assigned a certain number of hours to labor at the project.
Surprisingly enough, most days more than one man came to town to fulfill his obligation. Only during planting had the hammers lain silent.
"Mornin', Brother Ben," Stillwell Thorpe struggled to separate a beam from its brothers in the heap beside the water.
"Come to lend a hand?"
Now, of course, Brother Ben, being an educated man had only come to the river to offer help in a supervisory way, but he could see that doing a little physical work would not hurt him in the eyes of his fellow citizens. He cringed, but nodded slowly, hating the thought of working the livelong day out with Thorpe, whose daughter Tessie ran with the farm boys like a she-cat in season.
He dismounted. Old Tom's back seemed to sag the worse with the absence of his rider.
"See they got the footin's in," Brother Ben looked out across the river.
An even, parallel row of timbers had been sunk deep in the river mud to foundation the span. The water lapped hungrily at the timbers, making little slapping sounds. "They look stout enough to me."
Thorpe, who had used his rheumatism as an excuse to stay away while others worked waist-deep in the frigid spring run-off, agreed. The pilings looked solid enough. Now, as the master joiner, it was his work to tie the footings together with the heavy beams that lay piled on the bank. Later, when he was done, the beams would be overlaid with three inch oak planks to make the actual road. It was a big project for the men Stockton, but he figured if they all pulled together they could get it done.
"Time will tell," he said thoughtfully, and measured his beam from end to end to compare it with the distance between the footers. The beams had to butt up in the center of the footers for the greatest strength. A couple of inches off one way or another would result in a weak joint, and the span would go down again with the next spring melt.
Asa Polk and Henry Thatcher arrived with another load of beams from their sawmill out near Bald Mountain, which was not really bald, but had a white escarpment of rock on one face that stood out as a landmark for miles around.
Brother Ben sighed. Polk and Thatcher, married to sisters, kept a still behind their shed and often traded green lumber for the good corn they spoiled in making their brew. He hated Polk and Thatcher like thunder, and they knew it. "Abominations," he thought, moving toward the old horse.
Perhaps he should just go home.
"You come to work or to watch?" Still Thorpe looked up in irritation. "I'm going to need a hand with this thing."
Trapped into proving his deeds were as good as his words, Brother Ben shed his long-tailed coat and threw it up over old Tom's saddle. He pushed back his sleeves revealing forearms like hams.
The beam was ready to seat. Still indicated Brother Ben was to hoist up his end and walk it out a plank lain between the first two footers.
"You get it out there and get it centered, and I"ll pull back the plank and toe it in," Still ordered with the confidence of a master joiner directing an unschooled helper.
Brother Ben looked at the plank he would walk. There was a good twelve foot of air between the spot it rested on the first piling and the second. "Think it'll hold me?" he asked lightly, then stooped to shoulder the beam.
Polk and Thatcher watched from higher on the bank.
"Sure would admire to see Brother Ben walk on water," Polk said in a tone that carried across the water the way it was meant to do.
"They show their goodness by the work of their hands," Brother Ben returned with uncharacteristic mildness. Even with the weight of the beam, he walked lightly, as big men sometimes can.
The jingle of harness on the bank signaled the arrival of more workers. Jabez Oaks and Philmont Teeter watched as their moral leader lent his hand to actual toil.
"Be good to have the use of a bridge again," Teeter said, tipping his hat brim down against the sun in his eyes.
His companion squinted out along the line of footers, taking in the plank, the beam, and Brother Ben's gingerly approach.
"River's deep and fast right along here," Jabez nodded. "Be real good to have a bridge again."
Brother Ben reached the plank and took his first step onto the part resting on the first footer. The plank seemed solid enough, but the next pier looked miles away.
"You get out there, center the beam and I'll pull the plank back," Still repeated his instructions as if Brother Ben hadn't understood them the first time.
One step, two, six, Brother Ben moved cautiously away from the shore. The plank gave with his weight, not to mention that of the beam he carried, but still seemed strong enough. He straightened a little, gaining confidence.
The knot of men on the bank had grown. Their conversation rose in counterpoint to the rush of the river beneath his feet.
Brother Ben knew they were not praying.
"Best move right along," Still advised from his place on the bank. "Plank won't only take so much weight," he added, and planted a seed in Brother Ben's mind.
Brother Ben adjusted the weight of the beam on his shoulder. It had grown heavier with time and now rested like the weight of the town's sin on his back. He placed his feet carefully, all too aware of the narrow path he must walk.
The plank gave more and more as he reached the center of its span, and squeaked little creaking noises that were lost in the river's conversation with the land.
Three more steps, four, Brother Ben had passed the half-way mark. He breathed deeply and set his mind to walk the last two yards.
Underneath his feet the good oak plank grated as its fibers parted under the stress. Then, cracking sharply, it gave way, flinging Brother Ben and his burden into the water.
The beam fell after the man, cracking his skull like a hickory under a hammer.
"Jesus," Stillwell Thorpe breathed, watching the big man's body bob like a cork in the muddied water. "You men, lend a hand over here. The preacher's got dunked."
They pulled Brother Ben out, having hooked onto his belt with a peavy from Henry Thatcher's wagon. Then they dragged him over to the bank and rolled him up onto the shore like a steer felled by the butcher's hammer. They pummelled him with fists hard as stone.
Philmont Teeter came running with a flask of home brew and applied the fiery liquid to Brother Ben's clay-blue lips.
Good as the batch had been, it did Brother Ben no good. His Maker had called him home.
"That's it, he's gone," Stillwell studied his hands as if he had inadvertently caused the preacher's untimely death.
"Jesus," the gathering of men whispered as if with one voice.
"You just never know when its your time," Asa Polk tipped his hat back and looked at the remains. "Someone's going to have to tell Sister Ellen."
Asa Polk looked at Stillwell Thorpe, and Stillwell Thorpe looked at Jabez Oaks.
"You go," each told the other at the same moment.
"We'll all go," Henry Thatcher decided. "Brother Ben was working for the common good when he was called. It'd only be right."
Sister Ellen heard them on the path and looked up from the ribbon she was sewing to her old spring hat. She smiled. A feeling of peace, deep as a well, wide as a river came over her. She knew.
"The bridge didn't hold," she said in a soft voice, and went to open the door.
Late Fruit
The sun was searing, the last day of June. The air smelled of the strawberries that rotted on their beds of straw. Donnie inched from one end of the long row to another. His hands scrabbled in the moist vegetation, worrying the small, jewel-like fruits first into his broad paws, then into the baskets, which he carried in a low crate that he shoved before him as he picked.
"Be careful you don't pick em too green." His mother looked up from under her deep straw hat. Her pale eyes were deeply shaded. She scowled at the misshapen fruit of her womb. "Mrs. Pierce said she needed nineteen quarts to make jam for the church bazaar."
"I'll pick em good." The boy in the man's body grinned vacantly at his flat of sparkling red fruit. "I got nine boxes already, Ma."
His mother sighed, wrung her hands, and asked the wind. "What on earth is going to happen to him when I'm gone?"
Her son ambled to the barn when the picking was done. He had to tend his rabbits. "You're a good bunny rabbit, ain't you Fred?" He lifted the large, chocolate-brown buck from its cage and stood, holding the animal so its quivering nose and his own met in silent communication.
"How's it going, Donnie?" His father, large and square, never acted as if Donnie were any different from any of his other kids.
It wasn't Donnie's fault he'd been born late, when the seed was spoiled.
"I think Maggie's gonna have babies again." Donnie put the brown buck down and scowled at his mate, a smaller version in chocolate fluff. "She's gettin' fat. Look."
"Best watch her then, kiddo. You know she'll eat her young if you don't get em away from her first thing."
"I know."
Donnie had already tried to raise two of Maggie's litters with a medicine dropper. He got up every two hours through the night to feed the blind, wriggling things that went cold and stiff in his hands. He didn't like to try to make things live when they didn't want to. Their stillness scared him when they went away to rabbit heaven. "Take em away right away."
"Good lad." His father ruffled his hair with calloused fingers that snagged in Donnie's coarse black hair.
The son smiled and writhed under the affectionate gesture. Donnie liked it when his Dad was happy with him.
"I gotta get 'em some more feed, Pop." He hoisted the nearly empty sack. "Think we can go to town later?"
"I suppose we might," George Larch nodded gravely. "If your chores is done."
"I'll do em, Pop."
Donnie was always cheerful about doing the work he had to do. Sometimes he had to be reminded, but he did every single thing Pop said.
"Then we'll go."
"Donneeeee--!"
"What's your mother want now?" George reached to choose a pointed weeding hoe from the array of tools hanging from a rafter beside the barn door.
"I don't know." Donnie tried to think.
Was he supposed to do something he forgot?
He couldn't remember.
"Then you'd better go find out. You know how your mother is when things don't get done."
Donnie put down the sack of rabbit food, and said goodbye to Maggie and Fred. Then he went back out into the glare of sunshine to the strawberry field where his mother stood waiting.
"Whatdaya want, Ma?"
"How many quarts of berries did you pick for Mrs. Pierce, Donnie?" Ma looked sad again. What had he done wrong now?
"Nineteen." Donnie looked at the crate of berries he'd picked and hidden earlier under the big flat trailer his father used for haying. The quarts of berries fairly sparkled in the dusty heat. "Eleven--, seven--, four, nine, nineteen."
His mother rolled her eyes to the heavens. She had to watch everything Donnie did.
"No." Her breath was sharp with exasperation. "That's only eleven quarts. You gotta pick eight more."
"Eight?" Donnie tried to think how many eight was.
"All your fingers, but not your thumbs." She held up her hands. They were black and crooked against the sun.
"Eight." Donnie got down on his hunkers to fish for more berry boxes. "There ain't many berries out there, Ma. They're real little, a lot of them is smushed."
Donnie liked the first berries, the ones that were so big and red you had to take two bites to get them down.
"I know, dear." His mother sighed. "But Mrs. Pierce wants the late ones for jam because they're sweeter and have a better flavor. You know that, Donnie. We had some for supper last night and you said yourself they tasted sweeter."
"Late berries is sweeter." Donnie repeated as if storing a secret formula for future reference.
He squatted at the end of a new row, and began to rummage through the foliage for more berries. The flat that normally would have held nine quarts of strawberries looked enormously empty, even with one space open for the box he didn't need to fill.
"Yuck." He stuck his fingers in a mess of rotten berries, crushed to a pulp by some picker's careless feet.
"Don't dawdle."
His mother waddled back towards the house to fill the kitchen with the warm, cloying aromas of thick, fried meat and boiled potatoes.
Donnie inched down the row. His thick fingers levered the tiny crimson fruits from their stems. When he looked back, the wagon looked very far away.
When he finished the row, he still had some boxes to fill. Late berries were sweet, but they didn't fill the boxes good.
He had to pee, but going back to the house wouldn't do him any good. His mother would yell. And Pop wouldn't take him to town to get feed for Fred and Maggie if she did. He edged toward the fencerow and fingered the stiff, wide zipper in his new jeans. He released his bladder, taking pleasure in the thick, yellow stream as it splashed on the dry leaves of spearmint and cow parsley that bordered the tiny creek that was really a ditched run-off for the higher fields.
Relieved, his pants zipped, Donnie squatted at the end of a new row and began to work his way back towards the wagon.
He felt cooked and light-headed when he got to the end. The sun was too hot. Two more empty boxes remained in the flat. He had to fill them up.
But the whole field had been picked and picked by the noisy people they had to let in. They needed the money, his mother said.
Donnie didn't like the pick-your-own people.
They stepped on the berries and left them laying in the straw.
They didn't stay in their rows.
But his Pop said there wouldn't be a lot of things, like new pants, if he didn't let the pick-your-own's in.
Donnie went way to the end of the field, to an outer row often neglected by the berry people--who hated to get out of sight of their cars.
Sure enough, way down at the end by the fencerow, he found a whole bunch of plants that still hung heavy with ruby fruit. Grinning, he harvested the two boxes he needed and sat for a moment to feed more berries one by one into his wide slack mouth.
"I done good." He said to a blackbird, and admired the military stripe of red and yellow that adorned the bird's shoulders. The blackbird flew away.
Donnie felt sad, but he didn't know why. He picked up the berry flat, unbalanced with only two quarts of fruit in it, and began to walk slowly towards the big wagon.
"Two eights." He counted the way his mother showed him, using all his fingers, but not his thumbs. "And a three." He had done it. He could remember three.
Mom was going to be glad. Mrs. Pierce was going to be glad. Pop would be glad, and take him to town to buy feed for Maggie and Fred. Donnie shoved the berries into the deep shade under the hay wagon and headed for the house.
"All done." He told his mother. He stood at the sink and sucked the water so fast from a peanut butter glass that it dribbled down his chin. He was thirsty. "Where's Pop?"
His mother turned from her pot and looked at Donnie. "He went to town."
Donnie tried the thought. "But he said I could go to the feed store to get food for Maggie and Fred if I did what you told me."
He felt the beginnings of a mad coming up on him, making him feel hot, tightning his fists against the scratchy blue of his new pants. "I did it, Mom. I picked em all. Nineteen boxes."
"I know." She didn't look at him, she just kept poking at the meat that spluttered in the big black spider.
"Then why didn't he take me?"
"He had to get to town before the stores closed, Donnie. You know that."
"But he said I could ride in the front seat."
"We don't always get what we want, Donnie. I've told you that a million times." She moved to the table and distributed the ugly, plain white china, the spoons and forks that tasted of metal where the plating had worn off.
It was no use. Donnie moved toward the kitchen door. The screen was so rusty you could smell it if you stood close enough.
"We'll eat as soon as your father gets back."
"Okay." He opened the door and looked out into the yard. His swing was broken. Pop said he was too big for kid's stuff like swings, and didn't fix the it when Donnie asked.
He missed the swing. Swinging felt like flying. A bird told him that.
He went into the barn to look at the rabbits. Maggie had had her babies. They lay, wet and glistening at her side as they struggled weakly to find her paps.
Donnie squatted down to get a better look. In a minute something happened.
"Two, five, seven, three--," he counted slowly as the chocolate doe calmly devoured her young.
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