Add This to the List of Things That You Are Page 3

  That’s from the old sledge, I figure. This whole acreage would have been logged off and cleared with oxen. That farmstead would have been built with hand-hewn tamaracks from these woods.

  Cord examines the foundation of the larger structure. This is good workmanship, he says. Imagine building this without electricity or heat or anything. Freezing your ass off in the winter. No power tools.

  Fuck that, Withrow says.

  It’d be something to rebuild it like it was, Cord says.

  I could bury this fucker in fifteen minutes, Withrow says. You could walk over the son of a bitch and not know it was here.

  Everyone stops for a moment to finish their beers and consider the two options. Skin and Nicky pick up some of the skull-sized stones that have toppled and stack them by the foundation.

  Yep, I’d just bury all of it, Withrow says. You could get another couple acres tilled.

  We all know what you’d do with it Withrow, Anita says.

  Withrow here is a little anti-history, the banker says.

  Just pro-progress, he says.

  I might just keep it as it is, Timothy says. It’s like a big Danger sign. This is what happens to farmers around here.

  We don’t own it anyway, Anita says. We’re just renters. We can’t go around burying things or rebuilding them either.

  Still, it’s amazing that this old foundation comes with the newer one—itself a relic—at no extra cost. It’s like a geologic feature, the layers of history exposed. In the end though, the whole thing tanked. The Knutesons moved out and then the next family moved in. And then they tanked. On and on down the line.

  Now it’s Cord’s turn to piss. He unzips and faces the pickup. Gust follows suit, utilizing a nearby bush. Timothy too. Everyone suddenly needs to open the spigot.

  Jesus, Anita says. This is so fucking romantic.

  Truly, Cord says. The time has come for more beer.

  Everyone piles back in the truck, their seats all rearranged, except Gust, who’s still the driver. Timothy rides up front with him, the pickup bouncing along the tractor path toward home, the beer sloshing in his belly and his brain sloshing in his skull. In the side-view mirror he sees that everyone’s quiet in the back, holding onto their empty beer cups and onto the rail of the truck bed. Even Withrow seems to have nothing to say. They’re like a busload of schoolchildren returning from a field trip, and the teacher has told them to think quietly about what they’ve learned.

  Things do change at a wedding. New unions are formed, that’s obvious. Alterations are made. Accommodations. Maybe Timothy will get some photos before it’s all over. Make a record. It’s a big day, as the Old Gent would say. Of course, he’ll say that tomorrow too. Timothy’s drunk, and he feels good, and something smells good and it’s not the pig. A day does smell different when it’s heading away from you. The temperature drops a bare degree and a certain ripeness gets unlocked from the crops and greenery and from the wildflowers. It clings to the air for a while, and you can’t get enough of it, until the temperature drops another degree, and then the redolence is gone. New smells indicate evening. Dampnesses and molderings, not ripeness, but rot. Silage and spoiled feed and animal leavings.

  Back at the farm, the old folks will be going home now, and the neighbors have their own cows to milk. The ball game is done and the Brewers tanked in the ninth and have slid now into the cellar. The Old Gent says, Wouldn’t that frost you, and then nods off in the easy chair. Pretty soon you wonder where everyone has gone. In Timothy’s family, a big day shouldn’t peter out like a small one. It ought to be capped with a big night. For the serious drinkers it will be time to get serious about the drinking. The evening will turn into night, and for a while it will seem that you have an eternity before midnight, but before you know it you’ll be standing around the keg with the other diehards, waiting for the sucker to float.

  This is some matter of honor. To polish off a keg. The leftover pig has been wrapped in foil and refrigerated, the coals are dying. The keg certainly looks a bit lopsided in the ice water. The Nutts have gone home. They’ll come around for the roaster in the morning. Everyone wonders what happened to Skin, and they go around the farmyard calling him, but no Skin appears. Must’ve just wandered off. Nicky has headed off into the woods with a spotlight. He’s not hunting but tracking. He wants to get his deer before the other hunters foul the woods. Withrow’s passed out in his truck with the door open. A dark stain covers his crotch. Either he’s pissed himself or spilled his last beer. Now it’s just Timothy and Cord, Anita and Gust. Gust had been stabbing the coals with a long stick, but now he’s staring into them like he’s waiting for the last one to die.

  Timothy is beyond drunk now, some second wind the only thing standing him up. He is almost home. He should be in bed already, tucked away somewhere safe in the house, but he’s armed with something awful, and there’s still the chance he’ll use it. He hopes he does not use it. He’s watching the lightning bugs flick on and off. Cord, on the other hand, is still going strong, still has his grin on. He’s what Anita calls a happy drunk, while Timothy she calls a glum drunk. Glum drunk, she says with a laugh.

  Little Timmy Glum-a-Lot, she slurs. She waves her cigarette. She’s still wearing her wedding dress, making good on her promise to wear it all day long. She shouldn’t wear it outside where it can get wrecked. Someday someone else’s wife might want to wear it.

  Frowns-a-Lot. Anita’s going to keep saying it until he responds.

  All right, I’ve taken enough shit for one wedding day, Timothy says.

  You know what they say, Cord says.

  What do they say?

  You can dish it, but you can’t eat it.

  Eat shit, Timothy says.

  Cord laughs. I used to make you eat plenty.

  Anita catches this. There is a little flicker of mischief in her eyes. Timothy can see it. What were some of the names of some of those games? she says.

  What games? says Gust. He perks up at the prospect of horseplay and stokes the coals again with his stick.

  Don’t bring it up, Timothy says. Finish the keg. Leave it be.

  What games? says Gust.

  You know the ones, Anita says.

  Please don’t bring it up. Timothy’s standing in some of the feathers from Nicky’s plucked hen. Little tufts of soft plumage from the hen’s breast lift away from his feet when he moves them.

  Oh, those games, Cord says, pretending it’s just come to him. The ones me and Timmy played.

  You played, Timothy says. He raises his voice. I didn’t play. Please. Can we drop the fucking subject.

  Jeez, Gust says. I’m sorry I blew up. The end of his stick is on fire and he uses it to light a smoke. Weed? He says to Timothy, extending the pack.

  No. No thanks, I’m done.

  Let’s Put Mud in Our Orifices, Cord says. That was a good one.

  That’s funny, Anita says. I remember that one.

  Ha, ha, Timothy says. Drop it now. He pushes at Cord with the beer in his hand. Not shoving him, just some physical contact to let his brother know that he hears him, that he disapproves. The cup cracks and some beer spills. Cord just laughs.

  Orifices, Gust says. You played Orifices. My gosh.

  Whistle or Lose It. Cord’s on a roll now. Cry and Tell.

  Show us Whistle or Lose It, Gust says. Show us Cry and Tell. He pulls the lit stick out to light Anita’s smoke. She puffs on the end of it.

  All right, Anita says. He’s getting upset.

  Oh, he’s getting upset, Gust says, swirling the firebrand in figure eights in the night air. The flame is followed by its afterimage so it looks as if all the fire is connected. He doesn’t worry about you getting upset. About not showing up at his own sister’s wedding.

  It’s silent for a moment, but then Cord continues. How Far Can Our Spit Rope Hang? he says. Above them, as if he’s aware of an audience, a lightning bug performs his little show.

  Let’s drop it, Anita says. He’s had enough.
It’s my fucking wedding. If anybody should have his nose out of joint it’s me. I’m sorry I brought it up.

  Gust ignores her. Show us Spit Rope, he says.

  Cord recalls still another of the childhood games. I’m Put Upon, he says. Who can forget I’m Put Upon. Timothy liked that one.

  You won’t stop him now, Timothy says.

  I’m Put Upon, Gust says. Oh, that’s a good one. Let’s see I’m Put Upon.

  Fuck you, Timothy says. Go fuck yourself, your new horse, whatever.

  Oh, Mister Big Shot, Gust says.

  Big Words, Cord says. Dirty Words.

  Did he call you Words? Gust says. I wouldn’t sit still for that. Not if I was a Mister Big Shot. He drops the burning stick into the fire and crosses his arms, his hands tucked in his armpits.

  Will you shut the hell up, Gust, Anita says. She drops her butt and stamps out the cherry with her little silver wedding shoe. Have another beer. Finish the keg.

  You miss them games, don’t you Timmy? Cord says. Let’s show them Whistle or Lose It. He grabs at Timothy’s shirt. Timothy pushes back, hard this time. Cord stumbles backward and drops his beer.

  His brother stands up. Now fill me a new one, he says.

  Fill your own.

  Cord’s grin is all gone now, changed into a grimace. Timothy’s seen it happen this way before, the quick change in the weather, but it’s been a long time. Timothy thought they had outgrown it. It’s too bad one of the Nutts isn’t here to put Cord’s grin back on.

  Easy does it, Gust says. Don’t get too excited.

  It seems to Timothy that anything could happen now. But it’s too late for nothing to happen. I’ve got one for you, he says. How about, Let’s Speak Now, or Forever Hold Our Peace. That’s your boyfriend’s favorite, hey Gust?

  Peace, peace, Gust says, handing Cord a cup. The beer is free.

  You should have taken the money, Timothy says.

  What’s he talking about? Anita says.

  Whistle or Lose It, Cord says. You grab him by the titty, and then you keep twisting until he whistles. Once more, Cord lunges for Timothy’s shirt. This time Timothy steps back and pushes Cord in the back as he lunges past. His brother falls to a knee and spills his beer again.

  What did I tell you? Timothy says. Not to Cord but to Gust and Anita, as if beseeching them to intervene. But he knows it’s too late. Without getting off the ground, Cord lunges for Timothy’s knees. He tackles Timothy but not to the ground. Somehow, Cord ends up on the ground and Timothy ends up on his back. They’re drunk. Who knows how these things happen. Timothy has him in a headlock, not choking, just hanging on. Cord bucks and twists, but Timothy hangs on. Cord is gassed. Timothy should dismount, but this surprise, this coming out on top, is too new, too unforeseen, and he drinks it in.

  Let’s Ride a Hobbled Horse, Timothy says.

  Cord bucks again, but Timothy remains on his brother’s back. He can feel the heat in Cord beneath him. In an awkward somersault, Cord unlocks Timothy’s grip and throws him to the ground. Timothy lands hard in a pile of feathers.

  Looks like he’s not broke yet, Timothy says, still on the ground.

  And then Cord rises to his feet. Get up, he says.

  And then Anita. Don’t get up.

  And then Timothy. It’s a free fucking country.

  And then Gust. Big Words.

  And finally Cord. Get up.

  Timothy stays on the ground. There is a moment when you can see clearly the two courses. You recognize the right course, but you choose the wrong course, perhaps to project some hidden aspect of yourself out into the world, to show the world that it’s pegged you wrongly. Or maybe just because you’re drunk, and what’s beer for if not to make you bolder than you are?

  Timothy does as he’s told. He rises up to it, and he feels the beer urging him on.

  Cord’s first full swing comes all the way from his hip and arrives heavily on Timothy’s ear. It is an astonishing feeling, not painful, more concussive, the sound in your head a boulder dropped into still water. It stuns Timothy, and he stands there for it. The second blow lands full in his face. He feels the concussion again. He is able to think, This may be the hardest I’ve ever been hit. Hitten? Hit. Everything blurs, then it unblurs. Fireflies go on and off. Anita attacks Cord, but he swings her easily on his back, and she’s a swan up there. He’s giving the swan a ride, but then, Uh-oh, there she goes off into the dirt with the old pearl dress. Gust seems stuck to the Roast-a-Shoat.

  A big swing floats into the air toward Timothy’s head and he waits for the impact, but somehow the impact doesn’t arrive. Did he duck? By his own momentum, Cord falls to the ground in front of Timothy. His face is now level with his brother’s knee, presenting a golden opportunity for Timothy’s boot. Timothy studies the firm set jawline. His boot could put a quick end to this skirmish. But he does not lift his boot. Cord’s jawline lingers there, begging to be kicked, but strangely, Timothy does not oblige. Then Cord is back on his feet.

  I’m not going to fight you, Timothy says. You’re my brother. This is our sister’s wedding. Even as he says this he is calculating. He is not taking the moral high ground. Rather, he is daring his brother to hit him again. He can only win by refusing to participate. The bully loses either way. The conscientious objector will appear morally superior, when in truth he is just afraid. The bully may as well get his licks in.

  It’s her second wedding, Cord says. It don’t count anyway. This isn’t a Cord line. This is more of a line for Frowns-a-Lot. Now, Cord has turned on everyone. Words are always the more brutal punishment, even Cord knows. Their sister sits in her spoiled dress. Gust is propped up by the Roast-a-Shoat. It seems everyone is in momentary agreement with Cord. In second weddings, someone said, hope trumps experience. Old Gust must be wondering just what he married himself into.

  Cord’s haymaker is picturesque in its movement, the way it carries its solid freight behind it so effortlessly. There is no feigning or dodging, just as there is no suggestion of some smaller blow concealing the delivery of the big one. It will be the big ones only, from the full windup, from all the way back to roots of his hatred, roots Timothy has never understood. Back when these roots took hold Timothy was just a wee fish, finning in the pickling fluid.

  There is eventually a big show of groveling that no one can be much proud of. This is how the games always end. Much bad acting. Timothy is not hurt. Well, he is bleeding, yes, his poor face mashed, but he’s not hurt. And he has a secret he’ll never reveal.

  Timothy peers from the cradle of his arms at Cord, blocking the barn light. His lips meet to blow a kiss toward the big shadow. First there is only breath, like blowing the fluff from a dandelion. Concentrate. The tongue must be held against the bottom incisors and then the lips wet and pursed and the fluff gently blown. Easy to do when there’s no pressure. A child can do this. Go back. Just master the tongue. Ignore the antagonist. Become a small bird, a whip-poor-will, a warbler, whistler, whistling.

  There’s not going to be a honeymoon. Next morning these cows must be milked. This farmer must be fed and given drink. From his cocoon on the living room floor, Timothy hears the lonely moan of the milk pump. Somehow Gust has made it out to the barn to do his thing. The confident footfalls on the stairs can only be Cord’s. Timothy curls into his blanket, feigning sleep. Maybe Cord will leave him to lick his wounds in peace. But Cord does not. He nudges Timothy with his foot.

  You up? he says.

  Timothy plays possum, but the prodding continues. Finally, he rolls onto his back and lifts the blanket. As Cord gauges the damage, Timothy searches for some remorse in his brother’s countenance. Instead, he sees a foreman assessing a bad job.

  You look like shit, he says.

  My head aches, Timothy says.

  Head like that ought to ache.

  Anita walks through the room ignoring her brothers. She budges up to her own chores in the kitchen, tying the sassy apron around her waist and swinging her hips to it. Timo
thy’s make-do family is supporting cast to her starring role. Fixing coffee, scrambling eggs, making plans to spruce the place up.

  Old Gent is out on the porch putting a wire brush to a rusted farm chair. I like these old farm chairs, he says. Just need a fresh coat a paint.

  Cord struts into the kitchen. Feed me, he says. More pig. The women ignore him.

  Their mother’s putting oil cloth down in the cupboards. She says she has some canna bulbs to plant around the goat shed. This won’t be so bad, she says. Cannas are cheery.

  What’s that, Mother? the Old Gent says.

  I said, Cannas are cheery.

  Fresh coat a paint, the Old Gent says, almost singing it.

  Blue Rock Shoot

  They meet to settle this thing at a quaint joint called Blue Rock Shoot and choose a seat on the back stoop. The sun shines through the slant-trunked sycamores, glinting the windshields of the deluxe sedans reclined below like bronzed athletes by a pool. They wear gas station sunglasses against the California glare. For dinner they share tuna fish and Chinese chicken salad.

  They talk seriously about what a bad idea this is. She’s too Left Coast. He’s too Middle. Complicated wrinkles will never iron out. They agree. Let’s be serious. Let’s not be reduced to cliché. They drink dark beer in the sun, toast bad business, and nod gravely. They’ve learned enough about bliss to be wary of it.

  Out on the sun-drenched stoop, the dark beer disappears before the Chinese chicken salad, and somehow, their insincere gravity melts into a judicious flirting, the way, when something good is about to happen, you say that maybe it’s not so good. By agreeing that this is not a good thing, they are really saying the opposite. By agreeing that nothing should happen, they agree tacitly that something will. It is exciting maneuvering.

  With everything decided, but nothing stated, they leave Blue Rock Shoot by the front door. It’s darker out front. The sun sinks on the other side of the hill. More luxe sedans prowl the main drag. It’s September, but the trees are lit like Christmas. Well-heeled Saratogans click the sidewalks and valets sniff for a tip.