James Kunstler - World Made by Hand

Jane Ann was up reading by candlelight when I came in.

“Where is he?” she said with a strong note of accusation in her voice, as if she knew something bad had happened and I was naturally responsible.

“He’s over at Jerry Copeland’s.”

“What happened?”

“Wayne Karp… did a job on him.”

“What kind of job?”

“Jerry’s checking him out right now.”

Jane Ann got up and put her sandals on.

“If you go over there,” I said, “you can’t barge into the room. Jerry’s got him on the table.”

“The table?”

“The operating table.”

She went white.

“I’ve got a horse outside,” I said.

I rode her back over to Jerry’s. She knocked on the door to his lab and called through to them inside. Jerry said not to come in. Jeanette said, “Go in the house, Jane Ann, and make some tea. We’ll come and get you when we’re done.”

“Is he going to be all right?”

“We’re stitching him up,” Jerry said.

“Go in the house, Jane Ann,” Jeanette said again.

“Will you stay here with me?” Jane Ann said to me.

“I can’t. They’re bringing Wayne to the jail. I have to be there.”

Jane Ann broke down in tears and fell into my arms. She cried there for a while, then pushed herself away. Then she went inside the Copeland’s house where a candle was burning in the kitchen. I could hear that she was still sobbing when I rode off on Cadmus.

I went to my own house next. It felt like a week since I had been there. The clock on the mantelpiece said it was three twenty in the morning. I found Britney upstairs in my bed. I had to wake her.

“Where have you been so long?” she said.

“We’ve had some trouble,” I said.

“I thought it was something I did. I thought you were mad at me.”

Moonlight streamed in the window. I was struck by how beautiful she looked in it, sitting there, naked from the waist up.

“I’m not mad at you,” I said. “But I have to get something here and go.”

“Go where?”

“They’re bringing Wayne Karp to the jail. Can you move over to the other side of the bed for the moment, please? I have to get something from under the mattress.”

Britney moved over. I reached down at the head of the bed to a place between the mattress and the box spring, where I felt around and pulled out the pistol that I took to Albany with me and killed a man with, the same pistol that had killed Shawn Watling.

“What is that?”

“Nothing,” I said, as I tucked it behind my back in my waistband.

“It looked like a gun.”

“Okay, it was a gun.”

“What’s going on?”

“Just a precaution.”

“Will you come back?”

“Of course I’ll come back.”

“I’m sorry if I made you feel bad.”

“You didn’t make me feel bad,” I said. “You made me feel whole.”

I left her there in the moonlight.

I waited outside on the front steps of the old town hall, there being no reason to disturb Brother Jobe’s sleep until the others showed up. Cadmus seemed comfortable in front of Einhorn’s store, up the block, where there was a picket post and a water trough. I finished the slab of corn bread that I had snatched on my way out of the house and wished I had more, or better still a square of ham and cheese pudding, or best of all, one of Bullock’s hamburgers. The street was utterly still. With no electric lights functioning, only the moon lit the town. All around, in the houses up Academy Street, Van Buren, and Jackson, my friends and neighbors slept innocently as the earth turned them toward another day of hard work and summer heat. I wondered: if someone sat out there on the town hall steps of Union Grove long enough, night after night, would they eventually see a mountain lion walk casually down Main Street. The air was still caressingly mild. Exhaustion was creeping through my veins, my joints, and my spinal fluxes. When I blinked, my eyes did not want to open again.

I woke up sharply to the clip-clop of horses trotting down the street and the creak of harness leather. It was still fully dark, so I could have been asleep for only a few minutes. Brother Joseph had just rounded Van Buren onto Main at a trot on his big mount, Temperance. Behind him, Brother Jonah drove the utility cart. A hogtied figure occupied the box of the cart. Four other mounted New Faith men rode behind the cart. They slowed to a walk and then stopped in front of the town hall. Joseph dismounted. I went down to him. The whole group looked exceedingly grim.

“How did it go?” I said.

“We had some trouble.”

“Where are the rest of your men?”

“They’re back at the hermitage now.”

“Huh?”

“What you call the old high school.”

“Oh. What about that trouble?”

“There was some shooting.”

“Did you kill anyone?”

“No.”

“Did any of your own men get hurt?”

“We brought in your prisoner, sir.”

“I see,” I said, wondering why Joseph avoided answering my question. “Well, I’m ready to receive him.”

“Yes, sir.”

Seth and Caleb dragged Wayne to the edge of the box and made sure that he landed on his feet on the pavement. The way they had him tied up, he couldn’t stand up straight. I went over to him. He craned his neck to look up at me.

“Hello there, Fiddler Joe,” Wayne said.

“You’re under arrest, Wayne.”

“No shit. Hope your jail is fireproof?”

“Why? Your people planning to burn it down with you in it?”

“Now you’re making me a little sorry that I didn’t ram that fungo bat up your ass after all.”

“That may end up being the least of your regrets,” I said and pointed to the front stairs. “Bring him along now.”

Inside the building, Jonah led the way up the stairway with a candle lamp. Brother Jobe was sitting up in his bed, wearing a nightshirt, when we entered the old jail room. He shaded his eyes against the lamp but didn’t say anything. Wayne stopped a moment before Brother Jobe’s cell, and the two stared at each other.

“What are you in here for, little buddy,” Wayne said to Brother Jobe.

“I’m here to pray for your soul, old son,” he replied.

Wayne cackled. I had the brothers put him in the cell we’d prepared for him. I threw the length of chain around the bars and made sure the door was all snugged up with the padlock closed.

“Can I see you alone for a moment,” Joseph said, when I was done.

I took him into the adjoining room, the old police office, and closed the door.

“We lost Minor,” Joseph said.

“What!”

“You know how he was. Headstrong. He had to go in with the first bunch.”

“In where?”

“Mr. Karp’s domicile. Like I said, there were shots fired. Minor wasn’t so lucky.”

“Did Wayne shoot him?”

“Yes, sir, Mr. Karp himself.”

“How come you didn’t shoot Wayne?”

“You said not to.”

I kicked one of the old stage flats from Guys and Dolls. My boot went clean through the canvas. “Goddammit all.”

“We took Minor over to the doctor’s, but it was too late.”

“I’m very sorry. He was a fine young man.”

“We’re going to miss him,” Joseph said. Tears welled up in his eyes, but he didn’t lose his composure. “Arc you going to let Brother Jobe out now?”

“I can’t let him out. He hasn’t been in here overnight yet.”

“Don’t tell him about Minor,” Joseph said. “Not a word. We’ll tell him about it in our own way when he’s back with us. But don’t you say anything.”

“All right.”

We returned to the jail room. Brother Jobe was now kneeling at his bed with his hands clasped on the mattress, his eyes closed, and his lips moving soundlessly, the way little children pray.