Northern Lights (13 page)

“Mild?” Grace said.

“Yes, mild.”

“Mild what?”

“Oh,” he said, closing his bag, putting on a nylon parka. “Mild whooping cough. Mild bronchitis. But it’s mild enough, it doesn’t matter. Bed and orange juice will do it. Natural stuff.”

“Jesus,” Perry said when he’d left.

“He seemed nice.”

“Mild, my butt.”

Harvey lapsed into a child’s ways. Coughing himself to sleep, casting willowing searches for sympathy, moping about. Grace mothered him, but the sickness dragged on through two snowfalls and the rasping cough seemed to entrench in his lungs. He got sallow and thin. The doctor laughed it off. Harvey insisted he was seriously ill.

“Pneumonia for sure,” he muttered. “I know pneumonia. The old man had it and now I have it. You remember? Remember when Dad caught it and almost died, it was the same as this. The old man told me it runs in the family and here’s the proof, right here in my lungs.”

“Whooping cough,” Perry said.

“Know it all, don’t you?” Harvey sneered.

It went on. Confined to the house, Harvey stalked the rooms like a wolf. He would stand at the windows without speaking and his bad eye would shine and he would peer out towards the woods. He refused to shave or bathe. He came to meals in his robe, sometimes refused to eat. When he spoke it was without inflection, tight little syllables. Some days he did not talk at all, choosing to spend his time alone in the upstairs bedroom. He insisted on keeping his room hot, and with the windows closed the sickroom assumed an odor of decay. The room began to stink and the odour spread like an infection. He would not let Grace change his bedclothes. The stink spilled into the hallways, seeping downstairs to infect the whole house like oil into timber. A cycle, Perry thought cynically, the same diseased smell in the air. He remembered it from the old man’s last sickness. Infecting the spirit, a confrontation with the biology of doom. He had no compassion.

During Harvey’s sickness, spurred by it, Perry continued his exercises. He was catching up. He liked creeping secretly into the bathroom, shutting the door, stripping down to weigh himself. He felt strong. He could do the push-ups without thinking. His weight was down to 142.

One evening he pulled out his skis and rubbed wax into them.

“You’re all right?” Grace asked.

“I’m fine.”

“I’m worried,” she said. “You’re always going to the bathroom.”

“No, I’m fine.”

“You should eat better, then. I hope you haven’t caught Harvey’s disease or something. Really, you should eat better.”

In the morning he skied the eight miles into town. It was a
dull day and the pines were stiff along the road. Pushing with short jerky strides, he tried to keep the pace even, remembering vaguely how it was done, push and glide. It was exhausting work. Halfway into town he wished he hadn’t tried it, but he kept going and eventually caught the right rhythm. The trick was in the glide, letting the skis flow with the land and not fighting them.

He was tired, but when the road descended past the junkyard and he was able simply to ride the skis, it felt good, and he pushed hard and came fast down Mainstreet. Two boys were shoveling snow and they stopped to watch him. He felt proud. He stacked the skis outside his office door, made coffee and spent a dreamy day, feet up, reading and pottering about, and in the late afternoon Grace picked him up to go home.

While Harvey sulked and recuperated, Perry got into the routine: ski the eight miles into town, exercise, remember the feel of the skis, preparing. He slept better. The night thoughts, if they were still there, were lost in thick good sleep. The northern way, it felt good. He stuck to his rigors: chopped wood, walked about the woods, practised skiing. The snows fell in layers, climbing the trunks of the birch and pine. The town was stockaded for winter. Red flags dangled from auto antennae, the basketball season, ice hockey, TV football, hot turkey, small-town pastimes, shovels and monochrome nights, the Big Dipper blazing in fireplaces.

In the bathroom mirror he looked strong. He liked weighing himself, seeing the needle stop short and shudder and rest just at 142. He was in training, working himself up.

He was learning.

“Brute,” he smiled into the mirror.

Downstairs, Harvey was in his robe. He sat on the sofa, feet up. He cradled a beer on his belly. The television was on, Monday night football. Grace was ironing clothes with her back to the television.

“Hello, you bull,” Perry said. He was in good humor. He sat in a rocking chair. “You’re looking better, Harv.”

Harvey gave a surly dispassionate shrug. His beard was growing out. He coughed and spat into a Kleenex.

“Good game?”

“Ten-ten,” Harvey said.

“Sounds good. How you feeling?”

“Dog dung.”

“That’s nice.”

At half time, Addie came. She brought a box of doughnuts. Grace made hot chocolate and they sat at the kitchen table.

“These are some rotten doughnuts,” said Harvey.

“Cheerful, isn’t he?” Addie was in good humor, too. She was wearing a large hat, a broad-brimmed felt hat that turned up at the back. She kept the hat on while she ate her doughnuts.

“I think we should all go into town tonight,” she said.

“We can go to Franz’s and dance. How would you all like that?” Nobody spoke. “It’s settled then,” said Addie. “We have to get Harvey into clean clothes and get that beard off and so on. Who’s going to help me?”

The parking lot at Franz’s was nearly empty. Inside, Harvey’s young waitress took their orders, steering clear of them otherwise. The jukebox was silent. Nobody felt like dancing anyway. Perry felt they had all been together too long.

It was dead winter. Two men in overalls came in. They sat at the bar. The younger of them turned to stare at Addie. In her felt hat and dark skin she looked good. Perry stared at her, too. Under the table, Grace had his hand. The booths were hardwood. The tabletops were formica.

The conversation was clipped, eliding, drifting along the surface like snow, filling in the same old holes and crevices.

They finished their beers and Harvey had an extra, then they
paid and left. Addie’s Olds was cold. The starter turned and squeaked. Grace huddled against Perry in the back seat.

“Where to now?” Addie said. “Look at the lovebirds back there.”

“Home,” said Grace.

“What’s home? There’s nothing home. Let’s go to the junkyard and shine our headlights. Maybe we’ll catch a bear.”

“That’s dangerous. Let’s go home.”

“Oh, it’s not dangerous. Let’s just see if we can catch a bear.”

Addie drove up Mainstreet, honking at friends. She was well known. She drove fast past the pasteboard buildings, knowing the streets and turns, across the railroad tracks and up Route 18, swinging right on to the snowed-over gravel road to the junkyard. It was a popular pastime, stopping just short of the heaps of trash, then holding quiet awhile, then blazing headlights into the piled-up garbage. Perry closed his eyes. They had all been together too long. An old scene, nothing better to do. Shine headlights into the trash? Catch a rat in forage? Watch his eyes sparkle at the inexplicable new sun? Catch a bear? Catch a starving moose in small-town garbage?

The car’s heater was weak, blowing out musty, oil-smelling air, and Grace huddled against him. At the end of the road Addie stopped the car, turned off the engine, and they sat in silence. Everything was black. The junkyard was a great sprawling silhouette. The smell was frozen. Addie laughed. “We have to wait now. Everybody be quiet.” Perry always had the feeling she was talking directly at him.

Harvey lit a cigarette, cupping the red glow in his palm.

They sat quietly. A small-town junkyard. Perry grinned. It seemed fitting. Waiting in Addie’s Olds, shivering, waiting for that moment when she would hit the headlights and the junkyard and forest would blaze in fierce light. It was one of those things he would remember. He already remembered it.

They waited in perfect silence.
Shining
, it was called. It had a name. There was shining and ambushing, other games, too. Most of the games were played from cars. Little kids played forest games dangerously, on foot, stalking wild Indians. They’d done that, too. The insight lit up, Harvey on ambush. It was all more complicated than simple-minded adventure, that was sure. The red glow of Harvey’s cigarette seemed to shake. Lying in wait, prey or hunter, the great beam of light erupting, star flash, the great beast caught in the sudden blaze, the great terror.

“I’m freezing,” whispered Grace.

Perry put an arm around her, and they sat and waited. Harvey coughed and snuffed out his cigarette. Addie was perfectly still. There were noises in the junkyard. Perry couldn’t be sure. Animals possibly. Or just winter sounds, ice forming on rusted typewriters, cracks in the frost.

They lay in ambush at the junkyard.

“How long do we wait?” Grace said.

“Shhhh,” said Addie.

“Why don’t we just go home?”

“Excitement,” Addie hissed. “Now be quiet. Everybody be quiet. You have to play the game or it never works.”

“I wish we had a beer,” Harvey said. “A beer would make it better.”

“Hush up. Everybody play the game.”

“Can’t we turn on the heater?”

“Shhhh.”

“A beer would be enough for me,” Harvey said.

Again they sat in silence. Perry watched Addie’s breath steam against the windshield. It was very dark. He imagined the old days. Swedes dumping their rusted broken plows, then the Finns and Germans, layers of accumulated junk piled in a vertical graveyard like the strata of some ancient civilization, the town’s history now being rummaged by night creatures sniffing
at ghosts. It was an ambush, all right. Lanterns and midnight voices. He grinned at the thought. They’d all been together too long. Waiting in a small-town junkyard. He remembered carting truck loads of his father’s trash to the junkyard after the October funeral. Open graves.

“I’m freezing,” Grace whispered.

Harvey coughed and lit a fresh cigarette. Somewhere he’d learned the trick of cupping the glow in his palm. The old soldier, Perry thought with a grin.

“All right,” Addie said.

“Now?”

“Everyone ready?”

Perry sat up for a good look. The junkyard was dark. He smelled Addie’s hair.

“Is everyone ready?”

“I’m cold,” Grace said.

“Shhhh! Here we go.”

Addie reached for the dash and pulled the knob. In an instant, like a match igniting, the junkyard exploded under the headlights.

“Hooray!” Addie shouted.

Harvey coughed violently.

“No bears!” cried Addie. “What a bore.”

A washing machine gleamed under the lights. Lumps of frozen snow, two automobiles rusting on their sides. The junkyard was shadowed and still. The headlights flowed through the trash like a white river.

“There,” Grace said. “Now we can go home.”

“See the rat?”

“Where?”

Perry saw only the eyes.

“There!” Addie said. “We got him!”

The eyes glittered under the white lights. Paralyzed and still, the rat crouched with its snout high.

“Success!” Addie said. “Isn’t he ugly? Much, much better than a bear.”

“Let’s go home.”

“A miserable rat. We should kill it.”

“Addie!”

“A miserable rat,” Addie said.

“This is awful. I want to go home.”

“It’s a game,” Addie laughed. “We all love games, don’t we? What a perfectly ugly creature.”

The eyes glittered in the lights. Behind the rat was an old mattress and a sewing machine. The rat’s teeth were bared but it did not move. The headlights were merciless.

“Paul, go out and kill that miserable thing. Hurry.”

“No,” Grace whispered.

“I’ll kill it,” said Harvey.

“No. I want Paul to kill it.”

Addie laughed and partly turned. “It’s exciting. Isn’t it exciting?”

“I’ll kill the damn thing,” Harvey said.

The rat’s eyes glittered red.

“Okay,” Perry said. He slipped out of Grace’s grasp. “Why not? I’ll kill it.” He watched the rat. The eyes turned back, still glittering. “I’ll kill it.”

“Excitement!” Addie squealed. “Hooray for Paul! Hip-hip! Everybody cheer for him.”

“Are you afraid to kill it?” Harvey said softly. “I’ll do it if you’re afraid.”

“No.”

“Hurry!”

“I’ll kill it,” Perry said. “I’ll kill it.”

Like his father, in a mystical devolution, he opened his door and got out. Harvey was standing with him. “Very quiet now.” Harvey said. The rat was paralyzed. Only the eyes moved. It was a medium-sized rat. The snout was long and came to a point below the whiskers. The tail was coiled. It crouched in profile. The headlights were merciless. Perry smelled the frozen junkyard.

“Go on then,” Harvey ordered. “See if you can do it.”

Perry took a step forward, staying in the light. His own shadow startled him. The rat watched but did not move. Perry pictured raw meat. Blood and tissue and lungs and what else. He was in the headlights. The eyes sparkled like black diamonds, and he took another long step, watching the shining eyes. Frightened, he was thinking for a moment about rabies, remembering horrid stories about people raving like animals with the disease. Harvey was breathing quietly behind him.

“Go on now,” Harvey said softly.

“Won’t it run?”

“Can’t. Go on now. We’ve got it blinded. Smells us but it can’t run. Be steady and just walk up on it.”

“Jesus.”

“Go ahead. You want me to do it?”

Perry stepped forward. The rat seemed to shift, just a hair, an instant breathless cocking motion, and he knew the rat smelled him or saw him or heard him coming.

“You’ve got it now,” Harvey said softly.

“Got it?”

“Kill it.”

The eyes glittered. The rat seemed to coil into a ball.

“Kill it?”

“Smash it. Here.” Harvey handed him something, a long board. “Just bash the bastard on the head.”

“This is insane.”

“Just smash it.”

“This is crazy.”

“Here, Jesus Christ, then I’ll do it. Give it to me and I’ll do it.”