Ragged Company (44 page)

We filed into the house and settled in the living room. Margo busied herself making a pot of tea and the rest of us sat silently, wondering what to do next. It was James who took control.

“There are a few things that need to happen right away,” he said. “The first is that we need to have a plan for the media. Frankly, I’m surprised they’re not here already. Second, we need to discuss how to handle the arrangements.”

“I’ll handle the press,” I said.

“How?” James asked.

“I’ll handle the questions. I’ll also talk to my editor at the paper and tell him I’ll write the story.”

“You will?”

“Yes. Not a story, really. A column. A eulogy.”

“An honour song,” Amelia said.

“Yes.”

She nodded. “I’d like him to have the very best,” she said. “He deserves that. He always deserved the very best.”

“I know a good funeral director. I’ll inform him right away,” James said.

“Shouldn’t we try to contact the family?” Margo asked, returning with a tray bearing tea and cups.

“We are the family,” I said. “Technically, he was indigent.”

“Imagine. An indigent millionaire,” she said. “Strange, isn’t it?”

“Yes,” Timber said. “The whole thing’s been strange. The whole trip.”

“I would never have missed it, though,” I said.

“Me neither,” he replied.

“He needs a place to rest,” Amelia said. “He needs a place where he can be at peace. A nice site overlooking a river.”

“Why a river, Amelia?” Margo asked.

“Because it was his favourite hymn. ‘Shall We Gather at the River.’ Remember, Timber?”

“Yes,” Timber said. “I remember.”

“We used to go to chapel at the Sally Ann. The Salvation Army. They’d put on a big breakfast afterwards but you had to go to chapel first before you could eat. Most couldn’t stand the service but Dick really loved it. Especially the hymns. He’d sing really loud even though he didn’t know all the words. Of course, he couldn’t read but he’d try to memorize them and sing really loudly.”

“And terribly,” Timber added.

“Yes. Terribly. But with a lot of gusto anyway,” Amelia said. “
Shall we gather at the river, the beautiful, the beautiful river.
He really liked the idea of that. He said it was like meeting all your friends for a picnic, and I think he’s probably right about that.”

“Well, I think I’d best call the newspaper and start things moving there. I’ll stay here, if you don’t mind, just to head off the hounds when they call or arrive.”

“You’re always welcome here,” Amelia said.

“May I stay too?” Margo asked. “I’d like to be around as well.”

“My sister,” Amelia said. “You’re welcome here too.”

“And when Digger comes back?” I asked.

“When Digger comes back, I’ll speak with him,” Amelia said.

“Then I guess we should begin taking care of things,” James said.

And all of us moved forward together. Like continents.

“D
OUBLE JACK BACK
and two drafts front and centre, Ray,” I go, striding up to the bar.

“You got ’er,” Ray goes.

There’s a fair crowd for the Palace and the bar seats are almost all taken. Looking around I see the usual gang: the talkers busy engaging their invisible pals in politics or the drama of life; the gazers staring at one spot on the ceiling or the floor; the glass rubbers stroking the frost on their drafts like a lover, nursing it, making it last; and the sharks either enjoying the booty from a scam or a score or in the set-up stage, getting enough liquid courage to do their deed. Typical old-man-bar, middle-of-the-afternoon kinda crowd.

“So what’s shaking?” Ray goes, settling in for a talk.

“Damndest shit,” I go.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“Like what? Anything I should know about?”

I look at him. I’ve known Ray for years and I’ve never really taken a good look. He’s an old fucker now. Still got the leftovers of a ducktail in his hair, still combs it back and slicks it, but there’s a lot less to fucking grease. Wears glasses now that kinda bob on the end of his nose, the half-glasses that people figure give you the egghead look but really just bring out the bozo in you. Wears them on a rope around his neck like he knows he’s gonna forget where the hell he put them. Jesus. I shiver thinking about how easily the friggin’ years get by you.

“How fucking long’ve I known you, Ray?”

“Let’s see. I come here right after the merchant marine so that’s a good thirty years, so probably twenty-five, thereabouts.”

“That’s a friggin’ long time to be staring across a bar at somebody.”

“I guess. Only you were never that much of a talker. You were a draft-and-dash fucker for a long, long time.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. Only really started doing the good-neighbour routine once you hooked up with those friends of yours. That’s when I started to really know you.”

“And how long’s that been?”

“God. Fifteen years, maybe. How the fuck are they, anyway?”

“Good. Most of them.”

“
Most of them
means there’s a story there.”

“Yeah. You ever really like me, Ray?”

“Like you? What the fuck kinda question is that? Haven’t I always done you good here? Haven’t I always let you be?”

“Yeah. Yeah. Sure. But that’s not liking someone. That’s taking somebody’s loot and doing your friggin’ job. I wanna know if you liked me. Really.”

He looks at me over the top of those bozo glasses and I see how the years have made his eyes all watery-looking. But they’re steady. They’re strong and they’re looking at me with a look I never seen there before. “You okay?” he goes.

“No. I ain’t. I wanna know, Ray. I really wanna know.”

He pours me a fresh draft, sets it down, and fires up a smoke. “You’re a tough guy to figure. I never could. Not really. You only give what you figure you need to give, and that makes knowing somebody real tough. Still, you’ve always been a solid type and I like that. So, yeah, yeah, I liked you.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. Given the special fucking circumstances. I mean, this place ain’t exactly your basic highball lounge, you know what I mean?”

I smirk. “Yeah, I guess.”

“So what’s to it, Digger?”

“Dick.”

“Dick?”

“Yeah. D. He’s tits up. Right now. I just seen him on the fucking slab.”

“Fuck me. Really? How? When? Here, have another round. On me,” Ray goes, looking back over his shoulder while he gets my round. He hurries back and leans on the bar to get the goods.

I blow air through my lips, then drain the Jack. Burn. I cool the fire with a swallow of beer. “Cops say he overdosed on pills.”

“Fuck,” Ray goes, all solemn. “I only met him a few times but he didn’t seem like no pillhead.”

“He wasn’t. Someone gave them to him. Someone he was with.”

“Where was he?”

“The Hilton,” I go, eyebrows raised.

“The Hilton? Fuck. Times have changed.”

“Yeah. Sometimes I think so.”

“And other times?”

“Other times it’s the same shit in a different bowl.”

“Got that right. So what happens now? With the money, I mean.”

“I don’t know. The Square John lawyer’ll figure that out along with his Square John friends.”

“You split it, right?”

“Yeah. So?”

“So you should ask for it back.”

“How come?”

“How come? I don’t know. Just sounds right. Like that’s what Dick’d want.”

“You figure?”

“Sure. You guys hung tight for a long time. He wouldn’ta had the life he had if it weren’t for you.”

“Yeah. I figure the fucking Square Johns’ll be all over it, though.”

“Yeah?”

“Fuck, yeah. Why the hell else were they hanging around?”

“Maybe they liked you.”

“Fuck you. You just said you had a hard time liking me. Why should they?”

“Hey, who can figure out the straights? They seemed like good folks when they were here. I mean, they came
here.
And that was before the money.”

“I guess. But what pisses me off is how they think they’re in a friggin’ movie all the time. They walk around like every fucking thing is gonna be explained for them. Like everything is gonna be what it is and all they gotta do is hang. They don’t gotta do nothing.”

“Whatta ya mean?”

“I mean they knew D was up shit creek a long time before this and that he couldn’t swim and they didn’t do nothing for him. Just waited and fucking waited and now he’s fucking dead and I hate those cocksuckers,” I go, and wave at Ray for more.

“You saying he offed himself?”

“Fuck, no. I’m saying they’re the ones with the world by the ass. They’re the ones got the tools and shit. They’re the fucking shrinks and quacks and goody-goodies who’re supposed to help guys like him and they didn’t. They fucking didn’t. All they did was try to pass it off on me.”

“You? How?”

“Said I should talk to him. Like I’m a fucking shrink. Fuck. What was I supposed to say? What the fuck do I know about why a guy won’t sleep at night?”

“Don’t know. What
do
you know?”

I look at him and feel the old rage inside me again like I hadn’t felt for a long time. Feel it building in my belly and pushing at the sides of my head.

“I know that shit is shit and the only one who can clean out your stall is you. Me? I got no business in someone else’s head. I got enough fucking problems dealing with my own.”

“Sounds just like them,” Ray goes.

“Fuck you,” I go, draining my draft but wondering why I feel sucker-punched all of a sudden.

I
SAW THE FACE
of a shadowed one. I saw it in the fashioned wood of the carving Timber had made of Dick. Once the others had gone to take care of the funeral and the media, Timber took me to Digger’s store and showed it to me. It was lovely. I could see how it had once been a big log. I guess that’s what caught me first, the curious feeling of seeing the missing parts first, the log in its original form and then the magical unveiling of the man. I wondered if all art is like that, or if only those things that are hewn from love are graced with that particular magic. Anyway, I stood in the hushed light in the back of the store and saw it. Dick. He was wrapped in a blanket and staring across the open space in front of him in the way that your loved ones do when you catch them in private moments and they don’t know you’re there. Stark. Open. Naked. He was beautiful.

“It’s like he was here,” I said.

“Thank you,” Timber said. “I was afraid that maybe I’d missed him.”

“No. This is definitely Dick. His hands. Even his hands the way they’re holding the blanket seem alive, like they’re ready to clench tighter.”

“Yes. It’s nearly done.”

“What else is there? It looks finished to me, Jonas.”

“You call me Jonas more now. How come?”

“I guess because I know you more now and you feel more like Jonas to me instead of Timber. Sometimes I think Timber is gone.”

“Where?”

“I don’t know. Back where he always belonged, I guess.”

“Where’s that?” he asked, sitting on a stool.

“In the past,” I said. “Everybody’s past.”

“Everybody’s past? Is there a past that belongs to all of us?”

“Yes. It lives in the forget-me place.”

“Where’s that?”

“Somewhere in our journey together where someone was left behind and it was shrugged off like it didn’t matter, like that
person didn’t matter, and the rest just carried on. Every tribe has a moment in their history like that. All of us. That’s where Timber belongs. Not here. Not now. This is where Jonas Hohnstein lives.”

“I like that image. The forget-me place. Is that where Dick is?”

I looked at him. He looked like a brother trying to cope with loss, all sudden and complicated. “No,” I said. “Even if he was once, you’ve just moved him from there forever with this carving.”

“Yeah?”

“Yes. Definitely. This is beautiful. It’s like a song.”

We looked at the piece together and he talked to me about Double Dick. Told me about the lessons he’d learned from being in his company, from seeing his struggle and his small victories. He told me about how in the beginning he’d doubted that there was a friendship under all of Dick’s half-formed thoughts and questions. He told me how he’d watched him grow and how he’d wanted all of that to go into the piece in front of us. He told me how he’d loved him.

“It’s all there,” I said. “All of that is there in that wood.”

“Do you think so?”

“Yes. You can feel it.”

“Is it enough?”

I walked over and put my arms around him and hugged him. I felt his sorrow in the way his arms hung loose at his sides, like they couldn’t lift a feather. “Love is always enough,” I said.

I
WAS PREPARING
the tabletop for a few hours of writing: notepads, pens, water, and a waste basket. I’d made the necessary arrangements with Mac, and although the paper would run a short story on Dick’s passing, the bulk of it would come from me. There was a big commotion at the front door. Margo and I exchanged a look and then headed out.

It was James. He’d dropped his briefcase and he and Amelia and Timber were scrambling about trying to retrieve things,
made more difficult by a very tipsy Digger who was two-stepping around them trying to get out of the way.

“We all have to talk. Right now,” James said when the papers had been returned to his case.

“What’s going on?” Digger asked, squinting one eye shut for focus.

“We need to talk,” James repeated.

We moved into the living room and made ourselves comfortable. James took an extra moment to compose himself and in that instant we all looked at each other, plumbing for clues. We had none.

“Dick left a will,” James said, clearing his throat.

“What? How the hell did he do that? He couldn’t friggin’ write,” Digger said.

“He didn’t need to,” James said. “He put it all on this tape recorder.” He pulled a small hand-held recorder from his pocket. We all stared at it like pilgrims at a shrine.

“I’m gonna need a drink,” Digger said.

“Me too,” Timber said.