The Peripatetic Coffin and Other Stories (8 page)

There was a deep silence on John’s end. To Thomas it sounded like both a gathering and a negation of thought; the moment after the instruments tune and resolve in communal quiet. “John,” Thomas said. “Listen to me. Don’t bring your problems home this time.”

“I knew it,” John said. He was whispering now. “I knew it. You want her so bad. You old, bearded goat, and I got you to say it.” A pause. Then, suddenly cheerful, he said, “Secret’s safe, Pops. She’s all yours. You know me.” Then the line went dead.

Thomas held the phone to his ear for a full minute before gently closing and placing it back in his pocket. He walked back to his truck, set the gas nozzle in the tank, and hooked the handle. What he wanted, now, was quiet forever. He felt gone from himself, deep in some ocean. Years of tending, and without warning, he’d slipped. What he’d said could not be taken back. What John thought he knew would not be forgotten. It didn’t matter if it was true or not.

Zachary was quiet, staring at the traffic through the slats in the trailer. The snow clouds stretched in pregnant monochrome across the sky. Sarah was waiting with the coffee in the cab of the truck. Thomas got in. When Sarah had stitched the gash in his forehead, she’d told him to hold still, and swung one of her legs between his, as if to hold him, sitting, in place. She had fixed him to his chair. He’d wanted to take one of her breasts, not inches from his upturned chin, in his mouth. He’d never wanted to leave.

He turned the key halfway in the ignition, and the radio came to life.
Blood on the road
. He took his hands from the wheel, leaned back deep into the headrest, and closed his eyes.

“What’s wrong?” Sarah said. “Hey, what is it? Is John okay?”

Thomas opened his eyes. The windshield was dirty with road-salt and snow. Everything outside of the truck looked cold. Sarah was looking at him, holding their coffee cups. “What is it?” she said again, more softly this time.

“Please,” he said. He had meant to ask her a question, but found he couldn’t.

“Please what?” she said.

“Nothing,” he said, “nothing at all.” They sat for a minute without saying anything more. And then he reached for her. He felt as if he were moving slowly, but knew that wasn’t the case. His jacket caught briefly on the armrest, and the center console pushed uncomfortably against his ribs. He felt his hand and fingers behind her neck, under her hair, as he pulled her toward him. He’d meant to bring them face-to-face, to kiss her he thought, that was, he knew, what he wanted, but then he saw her expression—disbelief, terror; a child, she looked like a child—and he brought her head to his chest instead.

He had no idea how long they stayed like that. He was aware only that after a time she was gently pulling away from him, and he was keeping her there. “Thomas,” she said into his jacket, and he reached to put his other arm around her. “Thomas,” she said again, harshly this time. Then, suddenly, she wrenched free.

He felt a pain spread out along his thigh, one that bloomed just above his kneecap, and radiated up his leg. He looked down. The coffee from the cup she’d been holding had spilled in his lap, a dark, pulsing stain. He looked back to Sarah; she had pressed herself against the passenger door, as far away from him as she could get. The left side of her face was reddened, had chafed against his jacket; the right side drained of blood. A few strands of her hair were in her mouth.

“I’m sorry,” she said. She was looking at his lap. “Sorry.”

His leg was throbbing. His vision had cleared. “Don’t be,” he said back.

T
he wood was stacked behind their house, near the now empty chicken coop, and with nothing else to do inside—wanting, in fact, to get out of the house—Joan had put on her coat and boots, grabbed the canvas log holder they kept by the kitchen door, and braced herself against the weather. Their entire property appeared still under the new blanket. The flakes falling from the sky were large; she could hear the sound of them as they hit and stuck. She walked halfway to the woodpile and stopped to enjoy it.

Her plan was to move the wood out of the weather and fill the log basin by their fireplace, so it would be dry enough to catch and no one would have to trudge out later for more. After that, she’d set some aside in the garage for Sarah.

The first bundle she overloaded, and couldn’t pick up. As she pulled some of the bigger pieces from the pile, she felt a presence, and started. When she turned, she saw the herd of alpacas, standing near the fence, watching her. They were covered in snow; they looked both mournful and resilient. She’d bought them on a whim two years ago, with some idea toward selling their fur. She regretted it now. She regretted everything now. When they’d bought this place thirty years ago, she’d been sure they’d eventually outgrow it; it was a small house. But now, with the light coming out of the kitchen window, burning soft and warmly through the falling snow, it felt, if anything, too large. They were turning into hermits, she and Thomas; their house a monument to failure and quiet and shame. They barely talked. It was a house full of empty rooms and hallways, cheerful family pictures taken by strangers.

It was three o’clock. Both John and Thomas were now overdue. Inside, the table was set. The ham she’d picked out, the ham she deliberated over in the grocery store for far longer than necessary, as if there were some secret to be found in the weight of the thing, was defrosting. Jocey—whoever this girl was—would be a hedge against John’s heavy pull. They would simply ask her questions, and then the night would be over.

On her way back into the kitchen with the wood, she miscalculated the width of the entryway, and with all the weight of the load caught her fingers on the doorframe. Her vision went white; the firewood fell like clattering bowling pins to the kitchen floor. “Goddamn it,” she said. She put her hands between her legs and squeezed. A few of the logs had rolled outside and were now propping the kitchen door open. She kicked those out of the way, closed the door, and, still in her jacket, went to the sink.

The water took some of the pain away. She turned the faucet off, and braced herself on the counter. No one prepares you for this, she thought. There’s always some way to mess up. And it was then that she looked out the window and saw an unfamiliar car, a blue sedan, in their driveway. It sat at the far end, almost fifty yards away, where the driveway connected with the street. It was idling; Joan could see exhaust puffing into the cold like tiny distress signals. Someone, maybe, waiting for Sarah. Though why make her walk through the weather? Using her left hand she gathered the wood from the floor and put it back in the carrier, and then brought it into the living room. The rest of the wood-getting would have to wait. She tried calling Thomas, but he didn’t pick up. When she went back to the window, the car was gone.

In the living room now, she built a fire and lit it. Her fingers ached only dully. As the kindling took, she flipped on the television, hoping for news of the weather. They were broadcasting clips of people in the snow: kids rolling down a hill; a huge truck with a makeshift plow hitched to its front; abandoned vehicles wedged into snowbanks like icebound ships. These were scenes from the highway, but a few hours east, where the storm had settled down in earnest. The newscast cut to a man in a snowsuit pointing out cars that were sliding sideways through intersections in a small town that looked like every other small town. The vehicles turned and slid so slowly that Joan wanted to say, What’s the problem here? Just get out of the truck and stop it with your hands. She clicked it off.

When she went to the window again, she was surprised to see the blue car had returned.

T
he pit was nothing but a large meadow off the highway. It was hidden by a ridge of evergreens, accessible only by a small paved road that after a few sharp inclines turned to dirt. It was no one’s property. Thomas had been here once before, and had been told by a neighbor who kept cows that it was an unofficial dumping ground, a small, farm-animal graveyard. The road was unplowed but still drivable. As Thomas pulled to a stop, there was a sound from the rig as if Zachary were pitching himself from one side of the trailer to the other.

He was alone. Sarah had stayed at the gas station. Before Thomas had pulled away, she’d walked inside the food-mart and returned with napkins. She handed them to Thomas through the window of the truck. “That could be really bad,” she’d said.

“I’m fine,” he’d replied. He took the napkins, and laid them carefully on his leg. The cold air from the window helped. Then he apologized. She nodded, as if she wasn’t quite listening.

“Let me at least give you a ride home,” he’d said. He wanted to explain himself if he could. A huge mistake. All of it. “How are you going to get back?” The snow was coming thickly and had already covered the wipers.

“I’m going to call someone,” she’d said.

She disappeared again through the doors of the food-mart, and Thomas drove away. A mile down the road, he pulled into the parking lot of a Rite-Aid and sat there for what could’ve been fifteen minutes or an hour. He had no idea.

Now, at the pit, Thomas opened his door and eased himself out of the truck. The meadow in front of him looked like a wide lake, frozen over. He limped around to the back of the trailer. He didn’t want to do this now. Zachary stood with his back to Thomas, near the wheel-well, leaning against the wall. Thomas bent down, scooped up a handful of snow, pressed it against his leg, and held it there. With his other hand, he reached into his jacket pocket for his phone.

“I’ve been calling you,” Joan said. “What happened?”

“I know,” Thomas said. “I’m sorry. I’m here. With Zachary.”

“Is Sarah with you?”

The snow in Thomas’s hand began to melt down his leg. “No,” he said. “No, she’s not.”

“There’s a car here, waiting for her. In the driveway.”

Thomas switched the phone to his other hand. “Joan,” he said. “Joan, I don’t know what to tell you.”

“It’s not John. Whoever it is keeps coming and going,” Joan said. “It’s here now. The car. Just sitting at the end of the driveway. It’s been coming and going for the last hour.”

“What color is it? Red?”

“Blue.”

Thomas could hear his wife moving around their house. He imagined her at the living room window, peering out. The sun was beginning to go down.

“I tried calling Sarah,” Joan said. “She didn’t pick up.”

“She’s at a gas station,” Thomas said. “Down the road.”

“Why? I don’t—”

“Joan,” Thomas said. “It’s probably John. I talked to him a little while ago. He’s driving someone else’s car.”

He heard the oven timer go off. She must be in the kitchen. “If it’s John, why isn’t he coming in?”

“I don’t know, Joan. I don’t know.”

Zachary, in the trailer, began scratching at the floor. Then he hutched up and put his head down. “Joan,” Thomas said. “I talked to him. I think he’s worse.”

“Worse,” she said. “What do you mean?”

“Joan, I made a mistake. I think you should lock the doors.”

“I’m not going to lock the doors on my own—”

“Joan,” Thomas said. “Trust me. Lock him out. He’s old enough. It’s what you want, I know that. It’s what I want. Don’t let him in the house.”

“It’s not—you’re not making sense, Thomas. You have to tell me what’s going on.”

“Joan,” he said. “You know it’s him. It couldn’t be anyone else. Jocey isn’t with him.”

There was silence on the line. All this talking, Thomas thought, punctuated by silences large enough to drown in. “I’m on my way home,” he said. “I’ll be home soon.” He pulled the phone away from his ear and cut the call.

The day was almost over. Thomas unlatched the trailer, reached for Zachary’s lead, and drew him up. He walked with him until they were in the middle of the meadow, then let go of the lead. He put his hand on the animal’s back. Zachary watched the trees, fifty yards away. They stood like that for a while, then Thomas turned and limped back to his truck for the shotgun. He told himself that if Zachary had wandered away by the time he got to the door of his truck, if he’d made any attempt to move at all, he wasn’t going to shoot him.
That,
he thought,
is the kind of person I want to be
.

He opened the passenger door, leaned in, pulled the gun off its rack, and turned. Zachary hadn’t budged. Thomas shut the door, and walked toward the feeble, ancient-looking animal, breaking the gun as loudly as he could. A bird of some kind took flight behind him. Thomas took two shells from his breast pocket and thumbed them home. He moved until he was ten feet from Zachary, and stopped. He felt like he wanted to scream. His pant leg was frozen and stiff, and there was an absence of feeling in his leg. The snow fell like static. They would, all three of them, talk this out. They would get past this. Thomas looked once directly into Zachary’s eyes, nestled the butt of the shotgun on his shoulder, and raised the barrel. The alpaca stood there, waiting to be shot.

camp winnesaka

T
he thing is, we were worried about enrollment. We were already way down for the summer, thanks to video games and league sports. Who knows what else. Overconcerned parents, maybe, worried about their kid falling behind the little engineers in India and China, etc., which I’m not discounting, you do have to think of the future. But that’s the climate we were facing, so in terms of what some of you are calling the Debacle . . .

There are things I’m sorry about. Things that probably could’ve been handled better. But everyone makes mistakes. That’s the first thing we tell our campers when they arrive in the Condor Transports: mistakes happen, but you have to keep the big picture in mind. You have to remain optimistic in your decision making. You have to value intent. And if intentions are on the up and up?

It started with Moosey, the moose head that’s hung over the mantel in the Chow Hut for Lord knows how long, and who has, over the years, become our unofficial mascot. Spirits were low with this batch of campers, I don’t know why. We just had a higher number of pasty, sort of obese kids sign up this summer for some reason. They got a kick out of Moosey, but it was hard to get them excited about much else. Any other year, maybe it wouldn’t have been such a big deal, but this year, with the enrollment issue, it was different. There are four other camps around Lake Oboe, and parents visit during the summer. If they like what they see, chances are they’ll sign their kids up for another session, which takes a load off our back in terms of marketing. But everywhere the parents—we call them Pen Pals—looked this year, it was sullen city. The kids weren’t taking care of their Teepees. The Spirit Catchers they made in arts and crafts looked like they’d been weaved by retards. We staged a Capture the Coonskin game, and it was like watching apathy battle indecision. A PR disaster, essentially.

So the visiting Pen Pals see this, and go, Why should we send our kids here next year instead of one of the
other
camps? And to that I found myself saying, Good question. I really found myself saying that. It was depressing.

And then, one day, Moosey was gone. And the campers . . . well, they were upset. We were all upset. No one knew who’d taken the thing. I didn’t think it could’ve been one of our kids, but we did a bunk search anyway. We combed the beach. Had the campers stomp through the brambles, arms linked so they wouldn’t miss a spot. They didn’t find him.

The fact that someone could just
take
Moosey, it was a little more than some of the campers could bear. To be honest, it was a little more than I could bear. Things
already
hadn’t been going well, and now this? The effect that Moosey’s absence had on these kids, especially the sensitive ones . . . it was a last-straw kind of thing. Some of them wanted to go home, and expressed it in no uncertain terms. No one signed up for the Tailfeather Talent show, which is normally a big hit. And our camp songs, I mean, you could forget about it. Frogs eating marbles. It was worrisome. We didn’t know how to fix it, all these mopey campers, but
something
had to be done.

I think it was Scott, one of our senior counselors, who came up with the idea. Moosey was missing, yes, and that was sad and infuriating, but maybe there was an opportunity here to, you know, harness some enthusiasm for Camp Winnesaka.

I called an emergency Tribal Meeting in the Chow Hut and told the campers that today was a grave day at Camp Winnesaka. One that shouldn’t be taken lightly. A day we shouldn’t forget. Some of the campers were crying. I was wearing my ceremonial button blanket and standing below the spot where Moosey’d always hung. I asked them if they had faith in me as Head Eagle. They nodded. I told them that Moosey
was
Camp Winnesaka. And that there are people who are jealous of us. And resentful of all the fun we have here. People who would rather . . . I looked at Eric, the cook, who nodded, and I said, And those people are the art fags across the lake at Camp Chickapony.

Camp Chickapony had nicer brochures than we did. They had a pool.

They said, What are art fags? I said, You don’t want to know. Chadwick Thoroughgood raised his hand and said, What now? I said we had to stand up for ourselves. What would the Elders, who are watching us right now, have done in this situation? We had to get Moosey back.

There was a brief moment of . . . I don’t know what it was. I could hear kids sniffling. I pulled my button blanket over my head and then flapped my arms to simulate the flight of an eagle and said, We have to get Moosey
back
!

They cheered.

We canceled Crafts and Activity Time to let the campers marinate on what was expected of them. We didn’t know, necessarily, where Moosey was, but he certainly wasn’t here, and Chickapony seemed like a good place to start. And then Jim, one of our junior counselors, came bursting through the door, dripping wet, and made the announcement that he’d just been at Camp Chickapony, and that they did indeed have Moosey, hanging in their refectory. Upside down. With a cardboard thought bubble taped to one of his antlers. That said “I suck.”

I should’ve—I mean, he smelled like perfume and body odor: I had my doubts he’d actually
seen
Moosey. But skepticism isn’t one of the virtues we try to instill in our campers here at Winnesaka. Skepticism is like a gateway drug to more destructive impulses, like cynicism. And who wants to sign their kids up for a summer of
that
?

We stormed Chickapony at night. I figured even if the kids didn’t find Moosey, at least it would get their spirits up. Get their blood flowing in the right direction. Generate a little common feeling among the campers for Winnesaka, and we could go from there.

But there were problems. It was an amphibious operation and this wasn’t the most athletic or boat-smart bunch we’ve had at Winnesaka. Our first raid ended—I mean, we were trying to get across the lake, but they didn’t even
get
to Chickapony. Jimmy Osteo bumped Randal Jenkins who was holding one of the bow lines, and he dropped it into the water. Tony Rademaker heaved his not-unsubstantial weight to port and bent an oarlock while trying to steady himself. Byron McKinstry said he couldn’t see through the masks we’d given them. Then there were the wooden rowboats. They’d always been tipsy, which was the reason we didn’t use them much. The paddleboats were fine, they were made of plastic, but they weren’t large enough for our purposes. So that, you know, that’s why we used the wooden ones. And since we’d sold most of our life jackets to Camp Niateano a couple of summers ago . . . I guess we thought we wouldn’t need them. I don’t know. So in terms of preparation . . . I mean, it’s easy to say always be prepared, but when something needs to be done urgently sometimes you have to go with what you’ve got and figure the rest out as you go.

A couple of the boats capsized. They were only ten feet away from the dock. And since Seaweed Sessions had been canceled this year because of cutbacks, there were a few of them who probably couldn’t swim as well as they should have. No one died, but there was some floundering. Quinn Kasem ended up drinking half of Lake Oboe, and . . . he’s home now. He’s doing fine. We just today received a postcard from him, actually. His words bear quoting: “Dear All the Eagles and Papooses at Camp Winnesaka: What . . . fun . . . proud to have . . . been [part of] . . . Camp Winnesaka [where all summers are Indian Summers].”

The campers, I guess, the Quinn incident shook them up a little bit. I reassured them what we were doing was honoring Winnesaka tradition, but some of them were a little slow putting money on the counter for a second raid. I told them that as far as safety goes, how can you feel safe knowing that someone could just creep into camp at any time and steal something as important as Moosey? I mean, what’s next? Your sleeping bag?

Thom Sloane raised his hand and asked why we couldn’t just
ask
Chickapony to give Moosey back. I told him it didn’t work like that. Chickapony campers, they aren’t like you and me, I said. You can’t just
talk
to them.

Not everyone was convinced, which, I could tell, might complicate things. I was feeling a little nervous about our next raid.

And that’s when Ward Hamilton came in. He was—to be honest, I’m not exactly sure what he was doing at Camp Winnesaka. He was good-looking. He had muscles. The rumor was that he’d lost his V-card to his twenty-three-year-old social studies teacher, Miss Robriand. Which would be, you know, certainly within the realm of possibility. This was his first summer here, and he’d already shattered the Archery and Long Toss records, and was in hot pursuit of the Sand Jump record, which I’d set when I was a camper.

We all admired him. He was everything Camp Winnesaka
should’ve
been. And something about the indignity of losing Moosey, it, I don’t know,
touched
him. He took it personally. We didn’t even have to ask him to step up. He walked into the Chow Hut in full war paint, gave the Comanche Cry, and led the campers down to the dock like it was something he was born to do.

I addressed them briefly at the water. I put my hand on Ward Hamilton’s shoulder and said I was proud of them for avenging this desecration of Camp Winnesaka, and that they should be proud themselves. Plug in and ride the lightning, is what I told them.

The night was very dark, remember. And this was . . . well, they didn’t find Moosey. I’m not even sure how far they got. And Ward, it’s possible he wasn’t wearing a life jacket. Or maybe was wearing it backward. There’s a chance that—I mean, it’s hard to say what really happened. There were conflicting reports. One kid said he fell in when one of our own boats accidentally nudged his, and he bumped his head on an oar on the way down. Another kid said he’d just jumped into the water. Which doesn’t make much sense. I think I’d just like to say that he was admired while he was here, and he was loved. And anytime a camper drowns, it’s a tragedy. I know that much.

We had a meeting in the Sacred Circle. I wasn’t sure, exactly, what I was going to tell them. I did know that Ward’s drowning was . . . well, it had the potential, if handled improperly, to be demoralizing to the campers. Not to mention the Pen Pals. And I think it was Eric who, well, it was his idea, the posters. He had some experience with Photoshop, and he—you’ve seen them. Ward, in the bow of the rowboat, hoisting Moosey over his head, looking toward the sun which, in turn, is showering him with the golden rays of a Winnesaka summer.

I told them Ward was a hero of no small degree and presented the poster to the Sacred Circle. I said, Never forget. I led them in a moment of silence, and then fixed the poster to the wall of the Chow Hut. We made another one and hung it in the Sandy Can. Grief can be confusing for kids and this . . . well, it put things in perspective, I think I would say. Because Ward didn’t just die, alone, in a cold and unbound universe, he died, an honorable Papoose, in an effort to realize all things Winnesaka.

Below the image of Ward, Eric had printed the phrase “Integrity Is Not Born, It Is Learned at Lake Oboe.”

Jimmy Donner, who’d been in the boat with Ward, then, this is when he came to us. He was upset. There were tears. I think he’d been binging on chocolate. It was hard to make out exactly what he was saying, but it was something about responsibility. He looked at us and said, Shouldn’t there have been . . . ? And Eric just said: Jimmy, don’t. We already have another raid under way, and what is finger-pointing going to accomplish? You need to think about what Ward would have done. Would he have fired off accusations? Would he have let doubt win the day?

The next raid was more successful. They didn’t find Moosey, but they did come back with one of Chickapony’s Sacred Stones. And this, I think in hindsight, we should’ve been happy with this. But, you see, Moosey was the whole reason for our going over there in the first place. And there was the general feeling around camp that once you start something . . . The ball was rolling, is what I’m trying to say. The campers, they had certain expectations regarding Moosey. Part of it had to do with Ward. Part of it was because one of the things we stress here at Camp Winnesaka is follow-through.

They came back with a boar’s head next, which was, I think, sort of like the Moosey of Chickapony. We celebrated in the Chow Hut with extra helpings of Mac and Buffalo. We placed the boar’s head near one of the posters of Ward. Things were—well, they were going better than they had in weeks, camper morale–wise. I mean, we hadn’t found Moosey yet, and that was a bit of a pebble in our shoe, but we’d been successful in a lot of other ways. We had a boar’s head. We had one of their Sacred Stones. Some of the kids even asked me if they could come back next summer, they were having such a good time. A couple of small victories, for them and for me.

But this, then, this is when things sort of got out of control. I’d figured . . . I don’t know what I figured. I hadn’t really considered . . . I mean, Chickapony is the camp you go to if you can’t get
into
Winnesaka. If you look at tradition, that is. I thought they’d appreciate the friendly ribbing and that maybe they’d just send someone over with Moosey, drop him off no-harm-no-foul, and proffer an invitation to their August Potlatch, which we’ve enjoyed for years. And that would be the end of it. I mean, it wasn’t in their interest to begin . . .

The short of it is they hit back, chopping down our totem pole while we were asleep. Dragged it through our crocus patch and softball field and down to the shore, where some boat must’ve been waiting.

It’s hard to explain things to kids. Sometimes you say the right thing, but you could just as easily say the wrong thing. They looked to me, their Head Eagle, imploringly. There was . . . well, they were pretty angry about the totem pole. I was angry about the totem pole. It had been around longer than Moosey, and had been carved by a guy who wasn’t alive anymore. Taking that totem pole, it was the height of disrespect. And what are you going to do, drop your kid off at a camp that doesn’t have a totem pole?