John Gardner - October Light

As he was heading back for the booth, someone said behind him, near the restroom door, “We gotta get home, Fred. We gotta. Drink up.”

“Gotta get home,” the man agreed — the voice was familiar but

James couldn’t place it. He kept moving; too much trouble to turn around. “Jeezum,” the man said, “look at the time!”

Bill Partridge nodded and touched his hat-brim, coming toward James on his way to the toilet. James nodded back and continued to the booth.

The door at the end of the bar swung open and the policemen came in. Mechanically, Bea and Laurie smiled. One of the policemen mumbled something, and the four of them laughed. The older policeman — James would know his name if he thought about it — went over to talk to Merton. While they talked, leaning together, their faces serious, the younger state policeman went halfway down the bar, just far enough to see the television, then stood, hands hanging at his sides, looking up at it. On the screen a policeman was lifting a child in his arms, face sweating. The child was black, the policeman white. The camera hurried in until all you could see was the two faces. The policeman standing at the bar grinned. Someone spoke to him. He answered without looking from the screen.

Now Partridge was back. James stood up, making way for him. As he was seating himself again, he turned his head slightly, watching the couple pass — a fat young red-headed man — Fred what? — and his wife … the name at last came to him: Sylvia. He’d seen them here must be a hundred times, but the last name refused to come. They smiled at him; he nodded back. Then he shook his head, poured the last of the wine, and looked up, startled, as Henry Stumpchurch said: “Right, James?”

“Mmm,” he said. Then, with a jerk, he came out of the wine-fog. “What?” he said. A tight muscle in his cheek gave a snap.

Henry Stumpchurch leaned his chin toward him, forehead back aways. “People want to talk about animal cunning, they shouldn’t talk about women, they should talk about the beaver.”

James looked at him blankly and lifted his wineglass to drink.

“You want to know something?” Henry said. He turned to stare, slightly bug-eyed, at Partridge. “You want to know what a beaver’ll do? If the trees are cut down along the edge of the crick where he’s decided to build his dam, you know what he’ll do?” He sat waiting, head lifted, taller by a foot than the rest of them.

“What’ll he do,” James asked, annoyed.

“He’ll dig a canal, by tunkit. That’s God’s own truth. He’ll cut down them trees and trim off the twigs and the whatchamacallums — the crops, that’s it, crops —and he’ll gnaw up the boles and the whatchacallum — branches — into four-foot lengths — more or less four foot — and he’ll dig a canal about two foot across and two foot deep—” he measured it out with hands two feet apart, eyeing the gap critically “—and he’ll float them damn logs to his damsite.” He hit the table with his fist.

“Damn site,” said Partridge, and for a split second grinned.

James shot a look at him, annoyed that he should see fit to mock.

Henry’s face reddened. “Listen,” he said. “Are you aware that John Jacob Astor made his fortune on beaver, and damn near destroyed the United States?”

“Horsepiss!” Partridge said.

“God’s own truth! Caused floods such as never was seen before.”

“And then,” Sam Frost said, leaning in between them like a referee, “you talk about animal cunning, there’s the hog-snake.” He chuckled.

“Hog-nosed snake,” Henry Stumpchurch said.

“Whatever,” Sam said with a sweep of his beer bottle, expansive.

Someone started up the jukebox. James turned to look, but Sam Frost said, “You know about the hog-snake?”

James turned back, raising his glass. It was empty. Emily said at his elbow, “You want another?” It made him jump.

Before he could think, he’d already nodded. No harm. Be good for him.

The tall girl danced past him with the Graham boy. He looked embarrassed, a little defiant. Nobody else in the whole place danced. They never did, it was wrong as an Indian dime, like clapping in church. Everybody watching looked irritated, imposed on, even Merton up by the cash register. What could have made the tall girl think of it, dancing to the jukebox in a place like this? — some movie, maybe? The Ranzonas got up to leave, then Sam and Leonard Pike. Then more people were leaving, not on account of the dancing, in all fairness. He’d ought to be getting on the road himself. But the wine was doing queer things to him. Time was sped up but it was also slowed down. He could stay here forever and no complaints. The edge of some memory kept brushing against his brain, not necessarily a pleasant one.

“The hog-nosed snake,” Sam Frost was saying, “is the greatest little actor in the world. This is true.”

Partridge nodded sagely.

“Bother the hog-snake,” Sam went on, “and he’ll coil up his tail and raise up his head and flatten out his neck just exactly like a cobra — flatten it to three times its normal size — I looked it up once with the little woman in the snakebook. He’ll hiss at you and strike, though there’s nothing in this world will make a hog-snake bite, and if you ain’t convinced by the cobra act he’ll try his rattlesnake.”

Again Partridge nodded.

“That’s nothing,” Henry said. “You take the common frog—”

Sam forged ahead: “If the hog-snake sees you’re not impressed by his rattler, he’s got a whole new tactic. He’ll open up his mouth and he’ll flip into convulsions, and he’ll twist and writhe and then roll onto his back with some leaves and little pieces of dirt in his mouth, and he’ll stiffen all at once and you could look at him and swear by crimus he’s been dead for a week!”

“You take the common frog—”

“Shit, what’s a frog do but sit there and wait?” Bill Partridge snapped.

“That ain’t so stupid,” Henry said. “It’s how he waits.”

“But that’s nothing,” Sam continued. “Funniest thing about a hog-snake is, you can poke him or swing him or anything you please, and he’ll go right on playing dead.” He laughed. “Only one little mistake he makes.” He laughed harder now. “Snake’s got his act down a little too pat. Lay him on his belly and he’ll roll right over on his back again, as if nobody could really be dead except lying on his spine.”

They laughed, all but James.

“You want animal cunning,” Henry Stumpchurch said, sullen but trying to hide it, smiling, “you take your common frog.” They leaned toward him like shadows when the light of a fireplace dies low, respectful as they would’ve been to Mr. Ethan Allen, but before big old Henry had said three words, Sam Frost was squeezing out of the booth, heading for the restroom.

The Bennington girl and the Graham boy swung by again. She was talking about art; seems she was studying art at the College. James turned his head a little, trying to eavesdrop. Art was something he knew about, he’d have said. But the names she mentioned he’d never heard of, and he felt once again caught short, out of date and ridiculous. If the world knew the difference between a cow and a cornknife, he might have reached out his hand and stopped them as they went slithering by — might have said to the girl: “There used to be ahtists on every hand, this pot of the country. I was personally acquainted with a number of ’em. Cousin of mine once sat for Mr. Rockwell, and I met the man many, many times. Also knew Mr. Pelham — did covers for the Post … Whole bunch of ’em lived right there in Arlington, three, four blocks from my daughter’s place. Tell you who else I was acquainted with — Anna Mary Robertson Moses — that’s right: ‘Grand-ma Moses.’ Lived just over the New York State line in Eagle Bridge. Used to work for Peg Ellis, cleaned house for her. But you talk about painters, there’s a nun used to live here in Bennington, years ago—”