Jamestown (10 page)

And now, Sir, a brief account of events since our premature departure from Manhattan. As you wisely anticipated in planning meetings and in the series of memos subsequent to those meetings—all of which I have here not only as practical guides as to how to behave in the face of the various vicissitudes which we face on a day-to-day basis in these Southern Parts but also, if you don't mind my saying so, as, collectively, a bible, if you will (and I hasten to add: a secular bible, so as not to give you the impression that I am blaspheming, but I still cannot think of a better word than bible to express my sentiments vis-à-vis your memos, some of which I read daily), of how to survive, in moral terms, the vicissitudes entailed by interstate travel in our difficult age—as you wisely anticipated, we have encountered certain difficulties on our journey and subsequent to our arrival, and yet I am also able to transmit to you some good news regarding the kind of data we

One minute I'm writing a business letter and the next my sphincter is open wider than it's ever been and my last few remaining thoughts are pouring out of it, whew! And speaking of surprisingly large anal radiuses, I wonder if Jimmy Stuart will notice how far up his ass I am in that letter. I just don't know if I can finish it with a straight face. Maybe I'll wait till we've had this sit-down with the Indians (what's with the red skin?) that the bespectacled Judaic-looking one of them tiptoed over here balls out the other day to arrange in broken English. Beside that one peaceable gesture that I don't trust, the Indians are turning out to be a major pain in the ass, and vicious, and more formidable than you'd expect a bunch of savages living out in the woods to be, which is why I've got these two big shit-for-brains guarding me while I take a dump, which I hope they're far enough away that they can neither see nor hear nor smell what's going on here, this is one of the least beautiful experiences I've had, and I've had some doozies lately in terms of lack of beauty, like that whole bus ride, one non-highlight of which was getting buggered by that superhumanly strong race of businessmen in Delaware, wow did we ever not do well in
that
trade, though some of the fellows, and I know exactly who and how much, judging by the looks on their faces, enjoyed the event more than such an event ought to be enjoyed by people on a mission no less serious than the economic revitalization of the Manhattan Company, and this is the sort of information—who among one's employees gets pleasure from what illicit activity—one needs to keep in the safe, dry storage area of one's head for a rainy day—and it rains daily—and I just hope I haven't shat out half my memories in the last five minutes, Jesus my thighs are burning, how long can I hold this position? This is the sort of moment one hopes one's mother did not foresee for her son when she changed his diapers and ran her warm hands up and down the length of his infant body, which sent shivers of delight coursing through it. I wonder how Mother's doing now, my God, I hope Jimmy Stuart's keeping her safe, a man can barely concentrate on his leadership duties on a deadly journey to the south when he's so worried about his mother,
bastard
Jimmy Stuart, I hate to think of him with her at night, perverted frog-faced bastard, or in the morning, Mother, how could you, I know how you could, I know
exactly
how you could, which taught me as a boy never to spy on you in your boudoir or kitchen or living room or basement or attic, you do what you have to do to survive, I know that, I do too, kisses to you, Mother, and health—ooh—I hope this is the last of that Indian stew. I'm still Penny Ratcliffe's hopeful son, Mother, and I'll make my promise to you true, you and me and my future wife and the ashes of Father all living comfortably on a fortified country estate, soft white lace curtains billowing in the fresh mountain air, mornings I dictate letters to the shareholders, afternoons I write my memoirs, evenings I play croquet with the rosy-skinned future Mrs. John Ratcliffe whoever she may be as you watch and drink a lemonade and dandle the heir on the knee of your still-youthful leg. Ooh, Christ, this is really starting to burn, am I done? I think I'm done, thank God I'm done.

“Hey, Musclehead, you, Tweedledum, Ace, Buddy of Mine, Hello!”

“My name is Bill Breck, Mr. Ratcliffe, for the hundredth time.”

“Less lip and some toilet paper, please.”

“Toilet paper?”

“What have you got?”

“Nothing.”

“Anything.”

“Leaves?”

“Not leaves, did you see what happened to Martin's ass after he used ‘leaves'?”

“Mr. Ratcliffe, it's good we have Mr. Martin along, we learn from his mistakes.”

“That's not funny,
Bill
. It's a little funny. Now, Champ, we've got to work together on this ass-wiping project. One hand wipes the other's ass, it's a good thing I've got your undying devotion, boy am I a mess right now. What have you got for me to work with?”

“The Virginia Branch Charter.”

“No.”

“Your pants, which you left with me to hold.”

“No.”

“The Oath of the Virginia Branch Board of Directors.”

“No.”

“Your own shirttails.”

“No.”

“Bandages from the first aid kit.”

“How about
your
pants?”

“How about President Stuart's memos?”

“Anything else?”

“A mustard seed.”

“Approach with the memos.”

“Mr. Ratcliffe, with all due respect, sir, did a chipmunk crawl inside you and die?”

“Mr. Funny doesn't want to keep his job, I guess. Come here with the memos. Closer, I can't reach. Oh stop with the nose-holding, you big musclebound sissy. There, that's it, just a little—ah, Christ, I almost fell in, stop fucking around and just give me the damn—Oh, this is hilarious, look at this memo—don't walk away, I'm talking to you, look at this memo—Stuart, what a clown—‘Instructions by Way of Advice… Find a safe, dry patch of land upriver from, and at a higher elevation than, potential attackers.' Well, this memo sure is finding its way to an upriver patch, but not a dry one.”

“Mr. Ratcliffe, I don't think I can effectively guard you in such a densely-wooded area if I'm standing this close to you.”

“This memo's in a densely-wooded area.”

“Sir, you're delirious from dehydration. When you're all, um, done, please take a sip from my canteen.”

“That swampwater's what's making me so sick. We've got to find fresh water fast. When are we scheduled to meet with the Indians?”

“Fifteen minutes.”

“How much ammo has Newport got for the assault rifle?”

“Not much.”

“Who's got the wireless thing we commandeered from Rolfe?”

“Bucky does.”

“Who's Bucky?”

“My brother, the guy you grew up with.”

“Oh, him. I wouldn't say I
grew up with
him. I can't believe your mother named you Bill and Bucky Breck. What kind of mother—”

“Sir, I'll have to ask you please not to talk about my mother, or I'll kick your ass into the hole you just shat in.”

“You're right, good rule: no mothers.”

Penelope Ratcliffe

I am the ceiling fan whose spinning above the bed is caused by the motion of the feet of an anonymous employee of Jim's in a dark room somewhere in this building. I do not know that the room is dark but I like to think it so because I prefer not to picture the face of the man whose fall and summer hours are organized around the daily pedaling that turns the ceiling fan that keeps Jim and me cool as we make love. The purpose of my job is to ensure that my son, John, a boy of modest talent, will never have the job of the faceless man who pedals. That my job and I would come with violent pleasure I did not expect: it's no accident, I've found, that Jim Stuart is Manhattan's king: he drives me down into the bed with such force that I float up like this to the ceiling when he gets off, and remain here, sometimes an hour, reassembling my own face, which I also find more bearable to let disappear in the act. I see, in a blur, the whole periphery of the room once per second as I spin up here and let my face reconvene in its own time. The return of my face is always heralded by the appearance of John's. His appears and mine asserts itself within it. We share a face, just about. Almost anything can make my face blush, such as, for example, sex, or the thought of it, or being spun and spun and spun up near the ceiling by a motor run by the feet of a man whose face does not exist. I want, most of all, John's happiness. Absurd, I know, to expect more than survival and the slaking of the body's basic needs. But slaking itself can, I have discovered, be a higher good, an art form for which one may have a native talent, as I do: savory and sweet foods of many textures, a hard bed and soft chairs, cream-colored walls and aubergine drapes, an unobstructed view of Hoboken and the green sunset in which my son's face appears…

Father Richard Buck

Dear God, am I the path on which your seed is to be eaten by the birds? The rocks from which your seed springs up, is scorched by sun, and dies at dusk? The jealous thorns who take your seed among themselves and choke it as it grows? Could I be the fertile soil in whom your seed becomes a crop, a hundred times what was sown? And must being good feel quite so bad? Well, Lord, never mind, I know the answer to that one. And I know that being bad feels bad as well. And if I rarely know the difference between good and bad now, I know I'll have the eternity that follows death to figure it out, though my puny mortal mind can say
eternity
without knowing what it means.

Lord, I come to you with all my doubts; if I did not you'd know them anyway. In spite of all, please grant this one modest request: welcome to heaven the soul of Matthew Bernard, in whose lower intestine an arrow has made a hole. Lord, by the way, if you don't mind my saying, what were you thinking with regard to the flimsy construction of the human form? Oh, sorry, Lord, let me try to put that more respectfully. For what mysterious purpose hast thou made men such weak vessels of thyself? Really, why'd you make his middle so soft and arrow-pervious? Look at him lying here dead in the dank and miasmatic air of this bus. On an upbeat note, the mind of man is one of your beguiling inventions, being both material and not. I try, I try to make mine one of your successes. I hope you've noticed how much I've encouraged it of late to produce hopeful thoughts. I see, for example, in the upcoming meeting with the Indians, the potential for positive results for both sides, though I don't kid myself that the results will be so positive that there won't be
sides
, that from this or any future meeting between us and them there could arise an understanding so thorough as to result in the abolition of
us and them
. Lord, do you remember, from that brief time when you had a body, how good and evil scream so loud from every cell of it, and how this internal cacophony can drown out the world's other sounds, many of which are not constructed along principles as uncomplicated as
good and evil
, as, for example, when an individual becomes aware that in all conflicts between one group and another there are claims on his conscience besides
good and evil
, such as
which side is my mother on?
, or
that jackass of questionable morals saved my life yesterday
, or
that jackass of unequivocally lousy morals will more likely end than save my life but I grew up down the hall from him, and his mother and my mother are friends?

That I might appear to be explaining things to you, Lord, as if you didn't already know them, I hope you'll bear with. I think tainted water and lack of food have made me delirious as I try for the twenty-thousandth time to understand you, and feel free to give me some kind of sign, preferably something I can perceive with one or more of the five senses you've blessed me with, that would be a nice crossover moment of spirit into flesh, just shoot a clear communication on over from the non-corporeal part of the universe where, I can't help thinking, you spend most of your time. Amen.

Johnny Rolfe

I hereby refuse to begin this missive with a salutation to you as it is being written not only by nothing, to nothing, for nothing, with nothing, and about nothing, but also
on
nothing, my paper being used up and my wireless device having been commandeered for a purpose—if so dignified a word may be applied to so absurd an activity—to which I will now address myself.

Bucky Breck, with a pistol, stood in the door of the great hall, watched by Chris Newport, who stood with his rifle at the edge of the woods, ten yards from the door. John Martin, crouched behind a bush, guarded Chris with a gun. Happy Lohengrin, with a gun, high in the branch of a tree, guarded Martin. Guarding Lohengrin with a gun was Bart Gosnold, in a hollow log. Guarding Gosnold was the noiseless, patient spider he'd displaced. The spider was guarded by a gnat. The gnat was guarded by God, who invented the gnat and the gun, for reasons that shall remain unknown to us until the sea falls into the sky.

Why the hall itself had to be so dark I cannot say. Can a people have developed the wireless communications device and not the window? Or the gun? Or perhaps, like us, they've borrowed all they have from the past and are quickly using it up. Several fires burned; smoke replaced air. As all their buildings seem to be, the great hall is shaped like a lower-case letter n. It is twice my height, forty feet across, one hundred feet from end to end. Their chief or president or king, it seems, receives foreign dignitaries while reclining on a high and massive oaken bed, eyes two-thirds shut, cooled by great feathered fans swung back and forth by concubines, wives, aunts, cousins, daughters, slaves, or, for all I know, several of these in the same person. While my lungs ached and a steel vise of oxygenlessness squeezed my head, I asked myself: where is the oxygen in this room? Answer: in and being shepherded by feathered fans into the great bellows of the king's lungs. Bed, girls, air, men, hall: this sleepy big red man was lord of all.