The Music of Chance (20 page)

“If I am, then that makes two of us, my friend. At least you won’t have to suffer alone anymore. That’s something to be thankful for, isn’t it? I’m with you every step of the way, Jack. Every damned step, right to the end of the road.”

By the middle of the fourth week, the weather started to turn. The warm, humid skies gave way to the chill of early fall, and on most mornings now they went off to work wearing sweaters. The bugs had disappeared, the battalions of gnats and mosquitoes that had plagued them for so long, and with the leaves beginning to change color in the woods, dying into a profusion of yellows and oranges and reds, it was hard not to feel a little better about things. The rain could be nasty at times, it was true, but even rain seemed preferable to the rigors of the heat, and they did not let it stop them from going on with their work. They were provided with rubber ponchos and baseball caps, and those served reasonably well to protect them from the downpours. The essential thing was to push on, to put in their ten hours every day and wrap up their business on schedule. Since the beginning, they had not taken any time off, and they weren’t about to let a little rain intimidate them now. On this point, curiously enough, Pozzi was the more determined of the two. But that was because he was more eager than Nashe
to finish, and even on the stormiest, most gloomy days, he trudged off to work without protesting. In some sense, the more violent the weather, the happier he was—for Murks had to be out there with them, and nothing pleased Pozzi more than the sight of the grim, bowlegged foreman decked out in his yellow raingear, standing under a black umbrella for all those hours as his boots sank deeper and deeper into the mud. He loved to see the old guy suffer like that. It was a form of consolation, somehow, a small payback for all the suffering he had gone through himself.

The rain caused problems, however. One day in the last week of September it came down so hard that nearly a third of the trench was destroyed. They had put in approximately seven hundred stones by then, and they were figuring to complete the bottom row in another ten or twelve days. But a huge storm blew up overnight, pummeling the meadow with ferocious, windswept rain, and when they went out the next morning to begin work, they discovered that the exposed portion of the trench had filled up with several inches of water. Not only would it be impossible to put in any more stones until the dirt dried, but all the exacting, meticulous labor of leveling the bottom of the trench had been ruined. The foundation for the wall had turned into an oozing mess of rivulets and mud. They spent the next three days carting stones in the afternoon as well as the morning, filling in the time as best they could, and then, when the water finally evaporated, they abandoned the stones for a couple of days and set about rebuilding the bottom of the trench. It was at this juncture that things finally exploded between Pozzi and Murks. Calvin was suddenly involved in the work again, and instead of standing off to the side and watching them from a safe distance (as he was wont to do), he now spent his days hovering around them, fussing and nagging with constant little comments and instructions to make sure the repairs were done correctly. Pozzi bore up to it on the first morning, but when the interference
continued through the afternoon, Nashe could see that it was starting to get under his skin. Another three or four hours went by, and then the kid finally lost his temper.

“All right, big mouth,” he said, throwing down his shovel and glaring at Murks in disgust, “if you’re such an expert at all this, then why the fuck don’t you do it yourself!”

Murks paused for a moment, apparently caught off guard. “Because it’s not my job,” he finally said, speaking in a very low voice. “You boys are supposed to do the work. I’m just here to see you don’t screw up.”

“Yeah?” the kid came back at him. “And what makes you so high and mighty, Mr. Potato Head? How come you get to stand there with your goddamn hands in your pockets while we’re busting our dicks in this dungheap? Huh? Come on, Mr. Bumpkin, out with it. Give me one good reason.”

“That’s simple,” Murks said, unable to suppress the smile that was forming on his lips. “Because you play cards and I don’t.”

It was the smile that did it, Nashe felt. A look of deep and genuine contempt flashed across Murks’s face, and a moment later Pozzi was charging toward him with clenched fists. At least one blow landed cleanly, for by the time Nashe managed to pull the kid away, blood was dribbling from a corner of Calvin’s mouth. Pozzi, still seething with unspent rage, bucked wildly in Nashe’s arms for close to a minute after that, but Nashe held on for all he was worth, and eventually the kid settled down. Meanwhile, Murks had backed off a few feet and was dabbing the cut with a handkerchief. “It don’t matter,” he finally said. “The little squirt can’t handle the pressure, that’s all. Some guys got what it takes, others don’t. The only thing I’m going to say is this: Just don’t let it happen again. Next time I won’t be so nice about it.” He looked down at the watch on his wrist and said, “I think we’ll knock off early today. It’s getting on close to five now, and there’s no sense
in starting up again with tempers so hot.” Then, giving them his customary little wave, he walked off across the meadow and vanished into the woods.

Nashe could not help admiring Murks for his composure. Most men would have struck back after an assault like that, but Calvin hadn’t even raised his hands to defend himself. There was a certain arrogance to it, perhaps—as if he were telling Pozzi that he couldn’t hurt him, no matter how hard he tried—but the fact was that the incident had been defused with astonishing quickness. Considering what could have happened, it was a miracle that no greater damage had been done. Even Pozzi seemed aware of that, and while he scrupulously avoided talking about the subject that night, Nashe could tell that he was embarrassed, glad that he had been stopped before it was too late.

There was no reason to think there would be any repercussions. But the next morning at seven o’clock, Murks showed up at the trailer carrying a gun. It was a thirty-eight policeman’s revolver, and it was strapped into a leather holster than hung from a cartridge belt around Murks’s waist. Nashe noticed that six bullets were missing from the belt—almost certain proof that the weapon was loaded. It was bad enough that things had come to such a pass, he thought, but what made it even worse was that Calvin acted as though nothing had happened. He did not mention the gun, and that silence was finally more troubling to Nashe than the gun itself. It meant that Murks felt he had a right to carry it—and that he had felt that right from the very beginning. Freedom, therefore, had never been an issue. Contracts, handshakes, goodwill—none of that had meant a thing. All along, Nashe and Pozzi had been working under the threat of violence, and it was only because they had chosen to cooperate with Murks that he had left them alone. Bitching and grumbling were apparently allowed, but once their discontent moved beyond the realm of words, he was more than ready to take drastic, intimidating measures against them. And
given the way things had been set up, there was no question that he was acting on orders from Flower and Stone.

Still, it didn’t seem likely that Murks was planning to use the gun. Its function was symbolic, and just having it there in front of them was enough to make the point. As long as they didn’t provoke him, Calvin wouldn’t do much more than strut around with the weapon on his hip, doing some half-assed impersonation of a town marshal. When it came right down to it, Nashe felt, the only real danger was Pozzi. The kid’s behavior had become so erratic, it was hard to know if he would do something foolish or not. As it turned out, he never did, and eventually Nashe was forced to admit that he had underestimated him. Pozzi had been expecting trouble all along, and when he saw the gun that morning, it did not surprise him so much as confirm his deepest suspicions. Nashe was the one who was surprised, Nashe was the one who had tricked himself into a false reading of the facts, but Pozzi had always known what they were up against. He had known it since the first day in the meadow, and the implications of that knowledge had scared him half to death. Now that everything was finally out in the open, he almost looked relieved. The gun did not change the situation for him, after all. It merely proved that he had been right.

“Well, old buddy,” he said to Murks as the three of them walked across the grass, “it looks like you’ve finally put your cards on the table.”

“Cards?” Murks said, confused by the reference. “I told you yesterday I don’t play cards.”

“Just a figure of speech,” Pozzi said, smiling pleasantly. “I’m talking about that funny lollypop you’ve got there. That dingdong hanging from your waist.”

“Oh, that,” Murks said, patting the gun in its holster. “Yeah, well, I figured I shouldn’t take no more chances. You’re a crazy son of a bitch, little guy. No telling what you might do.”

“It kind of narrows the possibilities, though, doesn’t it?” Pozzi
said. “I mean, a thing like that can seriously hamper a man’s ability to express himself. Curtail his First Amendment rights, if you know what I’m talking about.”

“You don’t have to be cute, mister,” Murks said. “I know what the First Amendment is.”

“Of course you do. That’s why I like you so much, Calvin. You’re a sharp customer, a real whiz and a half. No one can put anything over on you.”

“Like I said yesterday, I’m always willing to give a man a break. But only one. After that, you’ve got to take appropriate action.”

“Like laying your cards out on the table, huh?”

“If that’s how you want to put it.”

“It’s just good to keep things straight, that’s all. In fact, I’m kind of glad you put on your dress-up belt today. It gives my friend Jim here a better picture of things.”

“That’s the idea,” Murks said, patting the gun once again. “It does have a way of adjusting the focus, don’t it?”

They finished repairing the trench by the end of the morning, and after that work returned to normal. Except for the gun (which Murks continued to wear every day), the outward circumstances of their life did not seem to change much. If anything, Nashe sensed that they were actually beginning to improve. The rain had stopped, for one thing, and instead of the wet, clammy days that had bogged them down for more than a week, they entered a period of superb fall weather: crisp, shimmering skies; firm ground underfoot; the crackle of leaves scudding past them in the wind. But Pozzi seemed to have improved as well, and it was no longer such a strain for Nashe to be with him. The gun had been a turning point, somehow, and since then he had managed to recover much of his bounce and spirit. The crazy talk had stopped; he kept his anger under control; the world was beginning to amuse him again. That was real progress, but there was also the progress of the
calendar, and perhaps that meant more than anything else. They had made it into October now, and all of a sudden the end was in sight. Just knowing that was enough to awaken some hope in them, some flicker of optimism that had not been there before. There were sixteen days to go, and not even the gun could take that away from them. As long as they kept on working, the work was going to make them free.

They put in the thousandth stone on October eighth, polishing off the bottom row with more than a week to spare. In spite of everything, Nashe could not help feeling a sense of accomplishment. They had made a mark somehow, they had done something that would remain after they were gone, and no matter where they happened to be, a part of this wall would always belong to them. Even Pozzi looked happy about it, and when the last stone was finally cemented into place, he stepped back for a moment and said to Nashe, “Well, my man, get a load of what we just did.” Uncharacteristically, the kid then hopped up onto the stones and started prancing down the length of the row, holding out his arms like a tightrope walker. Nashe was glad to see the kid respond in that way, and as he watched the small figure tiptoe off into the distance, following the pantomime of the high-wire stunt (as though he were in danger, as though he were about to fall from a great height), something suddenly choked up inside him, and he felt himself on the verge of tears. A moment later, Murks came up beside him and said, “It looks like the little bugger is feeling pretty proud of himself, don’t it?”

“He deserves to,” Nashe said. “He’s worked hard.”

“Well, it hasn’t been easy, I’ll grant you that. But it looks like we’re coming along now. It looks like this thing is finally going up.”

“Little by little, one stone at a time.”

“That’s the way it’s done. One stone at a time.”

“I guess you’ll have to start looking for some new workers. The
way Jack and I figure it, we’re due to leave here on the sixteenth.”

“I know that. It’s kind of a shame, though. I mean, just when you boys are getting the hang of it and all.”

“Those are the breaks, Calvin.”

“Yeah, I guess so. But if nothing better comes along, you might consider coming back. I know that sounds crazy to you right now, but give it a little thought anyway.”

“Thought?” Nashe said, not knowing if he was about to laugh or cry.

“It’s really not such bad work,” Murks continued. “At least it’s all there in front of you. You put down a stone, and something happens. You put down another stone, and something more happens. There’s no big mystery to it. You can see the wall going up, and after a while it starts to give you a good feeling. It’s not like mowing the grass or chopping wood. That’s work, too, but it don’t ever amount to much. When you work on a wall like this, you’ve always got something to show for it.”

“I suppose it has its points,” Nashe said, a little dumbfounded by Murks’s venture into philosophy, “but I can think of other things I’d rather be doing.”

“Suit yourself. But just remember we’ve got nine rows left. You could earn yourself some good money if you stuck with it.”

“I’ll bear that in mind. But if I were you, Calvin, I wouldn’t hold my breath.”