A Far Piece to Canaan (19 page)

“Nothin',” I said. “Just ain't hungry.”

“Aren't. Is that all?”

“Yes, ma'am.”

Dad had a little smile on his face. “Couldn't be because you were in a fight on the bus today and worried what your mom and I are gonna say, could it?”

“A fight!” said Mom. “With whom?”

“Those trashy Flickums called Freddie a feed sack,” said Naomi. “Samuel was right.”

“Naomi!” said Mom, and it surprised me too because Naomi didn't like fights.

“Naomi's right,” said Dad. “This is one fight Samuel can be proud to have been in. He stood up for his friend.” Then he told the whole story. It was pretty much like it happened except I come off a real hero, how I saw injustice being done to a friend and how I had backed him even though there was more Flickums than Fred and me and I had waded in anyway. After a while even Mom, who hated fighting, said she knew she had a courageous son who did his duty.

I felt awful. Wudn't any doubt in my mind the crazy man thing was a lot more important than that old fight on the bus. Things wudn't quite right about that either, because Annie Lee had got into it, and when she got mad she could stomp the whole Flickum family herself. They were praising me and I was lying my fool head off about the important problem.

“Yeah,” said Dad. “Alfred said Annie Lee told him it was something t' see, old Samuel there punchin' away on any Flickum he could find. Just like Barney Ross or Benny Leonard, I bet,” and he laughed, and I made myself grin.

“And he's so modest,” said Mom. “What's our hero have to say about all this?”

“Wudn't nothin',” I muttered, and Dad looked at me like I had just been made captain of the Kentucky Wildcats football team and I felt worse than ever.

After dinner, I took a walk to the tobacco barn. I wanted to go see Fred but I knew he wudn't going to let me get anywhere near him while he was hurting. That was how Fred was, and he wudn't about to change. Walking at night scared me now, but my problem bothered me more. To the tobacco barn and back to the house, tobacco barn and back to the house; I don't know how many times. My thoughts went in circles. I had to talk to somebody and there was only one person I could think of to trust. That Saturday, I took the Cummings Hill route to Ben's.

It was real pretty out with all the leaves green, yellow, red, and brown on the oaks and hickories. Squirrels were everywhere storing nuts and things for winter. The groundhogs were so fat they waddled and the little animals born in the spring were sleek and near full-sized, drinking at the shiny clear pools of the slightly running creeks, with the sun hanging in the sky like a yellow ball, filling the air bright and fall-smelling, with duck families flying overhead.

I come out of the last grove of trees onto the bottoms and there was Ben gathering pumpkins and stacking them in piles so the trucks could pick them up. Cain and Abel were near him so I stopped and yelled.

“Mr. Begley.”

He looked up and shushed the dogs, then called, “Come on in, Samuel.”

I walked up grinning and set one bare foot on a warm pumpkin. “Hi,” I said.

“Hi, yourself,” he answered, and grinned back. “Whatcha up to?”

“Come t' see you.”

“Reckon y' did.” He laughed. “Don't nobody else live here. You like pumpkin pie?”

“If they have ciminon,” I answered.

“Well, I got one up th' house with cinnamon. Think that'll do?”

“Yeah.”

“Then let's go have some pie and a cup of coffee, them here pumpkins can wait.” He stuck the machete he was holding in the ground, and we walked to his cabin.

The pie was great. “You cook this yourself?” I asked.

“Yeah. Whatcha think?”

“It's really good. Where you learn how?”

“Just picked hit up.”

“You cook lots of things?”

“Everything I eat,” and he laughed.

When we finished the pie, we set and drank our coffee. He didn't ask why I came or anything. I didn't know how to bring my problems up without getting all shook and crying. I didn't want that in front of Ben so I waited for my feelings to get right.

There were some new carvings since my last visit. He had a quail with six little quail strung out behind her on a shelf over his bed. The mama quail's head was cocked to the side, listening like a quail will do. In one corner, several blocks of walnut, some three foot square, were stacked up. There were mink and rabbit and muskrat pelts around. From the way his scissors and rawhide were laid out on the table, I was sure he was making other things too. Looking at Ben's stuff made me feel good and pretty soon, I started talking. “I got a problem, and I was wonderin' if you'd help me with it.”

“I can try,” he answered as he refilled our cups from his speckled black and white coffeepot. Then he sat down in his easy chair.

“Crazy man's killin' lots of stock now,” I said. “Dad and th' sheriff tried to get up a posse with dogs, but the rain washed out th' scent.” I tried to think of what to say next. It was hard to just come out and tell him I'd ignored his advice. There had to be an easier way than blurting out,
I didn't tell
.

I started feeling nervous again, so I looked around some more. The trunk Ben got my clothes out of that time had been moved to the foot of the bed and on top of it was a pile of leaves and twigs. They were pretty, but it didn't make sense to bring that many leaves into the house. Then I made out what looked like the upper part of a boy. The leaves had been put so the light-colored ones made the face, and deep red leaves the hair. The shoulders and chest were dark oak tan and fixed like a little open-neck shirt.

When I looked back toward Ben, he was slumped in his chair, with a leg thrown over one of its arms. “I didn't tell,” I said.

There was a “blump” from the coffeepot, which was putting out some steam.

“Lonnie's pa got on a drunk and nigh beat his mom and sisters and him t' pieces.”

This time Ben took a sip of coffee. He still didn't say anything, though. I was wishing he would, but I knew he wouldn't until I talked it all out.

I shifted in my chair and took a sip of coffee. The sun coming through the window half blinded me, so I shifted back and looked at the big pin oak that shaded that side of the cabin. Two squirrels were playing on a limb.

“LD says if I say anything he'll tell th' whole story, Lonnie 'n' all. We had a fight, LD and me. If I d . . . don't tell, somebody is gonna get killed by th' c . . . crazy man and, if I do tell and Mr. Miller finds out Lonnie knew and didn't tell, he might kill him,” and the tears come rolling and I hated it. I seemed to be crying all the time now and here I was, crying in front of Ben. I got up, and he got up with me.

“Don't cry, Samuel,” he said, and his hands went on my shoulders. “Maybe I—” and he stopped, then said, “Samuel, couple weeks ago a fella come here t' buy melons and was talkin' 'bout your pa. One of th' things he said was he was a good man. An educated man. He ain't gonna tell on Lonnie if you tell him why he shouldn't.”

“It don't make any difference if he don't tell,” I said, sniffling. “Any time old LD hears th' crazy man's been caught, he'll tell everything. He's scared t' death of his pa findin' out he lied. He'll tell everything th' second he hears, hoping he can make things easier on hisself!”

Ben sighed. “Samuel, I'd like t' step forward . . . I'd do most anything for you, but I can't. Talk t' your pa. He'll work it out. He'll help you, Samuel. Trust him a little. He's your pa, and this is really important.”

Ben put his arm around my shoulders and I started toward the door. The arm felt strong and warm. It was an arm a body could trust. I wanted to twist around and squeeze his waist, but I had never done that to a man outside my family, so I didn't.

The dogs snarled as usual when we stepped out, and Cain bared his teeth. When the growling was shushed, Ben spoke. “Samuel, I've lived a lot longer'n you and I've learned a few things. One of them is, you don't let somethin' important fester. You do, hit'll build up until hit's so big can't anybody handle it, then your whole life will change. Don't let that happen. Do somethin' now, before hit's too late. Lafe Miller's mean when he's drunk, but I . . . I don't think he'd hurt Lonnie about this.”

The second Ben's voice stumbled, fear went through me. He wudn't sure! And he wouldn't lie. No matter what he or Dad did, LD was so scared he was going to tell the instant he heard the crazy man was caught, and it would be all over for Lonnie.

The walk home was awful. I kept thinking about Lonnie's face and limp when he come back to school, and how I'd feel if he was killed and I was at his funeral. I couldn't tell about the crazy man. I just couldn't.

I
t was now many hours since I had driven away from Bert Raney's field. I'd been all over the heart of the bluegrass, finally following the Elkhorn Creek into Georgetown. I was born near Georgetown in a little white farmhouse during what my father described as the coldest damn winter since hell froze over. I don't know whether it was an omen, but until a half hour before I was born Dad was “sitting up” with the corpse of the “meanest white man in Scott County.” Incredibly enough, the little white house that witnessed my worldly arrival was still occupied. Not far from it I saw a diner and remembered that I hadn't eaten. It was one o'clock and all the tables were filled, so I climbed onto a stool.

“Hi there,” said the pudgy, middle-aged, pink-uniformed waitress as she put a menu in front of me. “Care for somethin' t' drink? Just made some iced tea.”

“Biggest glass you've got.”

The waitress laughed and began fixing my tea. “Haven't seen you in here before. You travelin'?” she asked, her back toward me.

“New England,” I answered. “I was born here, though.”

“How many years you been gone?” she asked, setting my iced tea on the counter.

“Sixty.”

“Before my time,” she said, grinning. “My folks been here since before th' war though.”

I knew the joke. “Which war?”

“Between the States, o'course. What's your name?”

“Samuel Zelinsky.”

The waitress thought, then shook her head. “My daddy'd of remembered but he's gone now. Anything look good on th' menu?”

“What do you recommend?”

“Fried chicken. That's all ole horse feathers back there can cook.”

“I'll have the fried chicken. I take it mashed potatoes and gravy come with it?”

The waitress winked at me. “Some things never change, do they?”

After lunch I decided my odyssey was over for the day. I drove from Georgetown to Lexington and began winding through the city to my hotel using the vehicle's GPS. I turned a corner and almost wrecked the car. There was the old conservative synagogue where we had gone to shul. I wasn't certain, but it looked like it was now part of a strip mall. I parked and began walking. Everything was different except for the names of the streets. Mom-and-pop businesses were crammed together, helter-skelter. I tried to remember what the buildings had originally been used for as I passed them. I was unsuccessful until I came to:

Instant recognition. Mr. Gollar's butcher shop! How many times had I walked up those three concrete steps to deliver produce? Eggs, vegetables, fresh milk in mason jars that Mom reserved special for bringing milk to our kosher friend. In return, we left loaded with deli and halava, a kind of sugary candy. That was for me. Mom never told him I didn't like halava.

I walked in to see what the place looked like and the proprietor descended, forcing me into tea and soup. I tried, but my mind refused to bridge the gap between a kosher butcher shop and a Vietnamese restaurant.

When I finished eating, I walked to the front of the shul. My memories of those times weren't negative, but they held little meaning for me. Judaism to me as a child was more historical than religious. In fact, a book entitled
Heroes of Israel
was my religious training. It was an accumulation of biblical stories for Jewish children in need of heroes who won great battles instead of being slaughtered in concentration camps.

My experiences in shul had been empty as a kid. Partly because my father became agnostic after our family was murdered in WWII, and partly because as dirt farmers we were looked down upon by the Lexington Jewish community. In my adult years I came to greatly admire my little ethnic group but sadly never got past a secular-intellectual concept of Judaism. And yet, in adolescence and young adult years, anti-Semitism was to play a dismal role in my life.

I had encountered anti-Semitism as a child before we moved to Berman's. The comments made about Jews got me into several fights, but it wasn't too bad, and there was very little anti-Semitism among the hill people. My adolescent years in Indiana brought about my isolation, a more subtle form of anti-Semitism. For a while that experience caused me to reject all religions.

Until Nora.

Nora didn't profess a strong belief in Judaism, but she was extremely proud of her heritage. We argued the value of the traditions from the start of our relationship. Why, I said, should one prepare Shabbos meals or celebrate the enormous number of Jewish holidays if they didn't believe in God? Her answer sounded like Tevye in
Fiddler on the Roof
.

“Tradition!”

“And what am I to get from ‘tradition!'?”

“The wonderful comfort of being a part of the whole.”

“Nora, I have read dozens of books on Judaism, and other religions . . . Buddhism, Islam, Christianity. All have wonderful things in them, all are important as bulwarks of civilization, but the vast majority require belief in a supreme being. That's fundamental. I have my own concepts of God and they don't fit with organized religion. I'm a Jew by birth and very proud of my roots, but it will be a cold day in hell when some rabbi directs my life.”