Just North of Nowhere (21 page)

Later, Doc Mouth walked into town, to the Wagon Wheel. The fat priest was not there, nor the young Jew. People were not as friendly, did not want to shoot darts, did not want to drink with him.

He stood and drank alone until Bunch showed up. Bunch either hadn’t heard or didn’t care. “Good to see you, Doc,” Bunch said and nudged his about-empty Pilsner an inch closer.

“Bunch...” Doc started, and that was it because Doc had noticed the guy sitting at the end of the bar, two stools down from Bunch. God. The hematoma on the back of the stranger's hand, the marks growing up his arm. Oh, God. God, the guy's dead. Dead in a week. He doesn't know it. Here he is walking and drinking, getting thinner all the while, gut distending. Dead in a fortnight at best...and he doesn't know why or what for...

“What you been up to, Doc?” Bunch leaned between Doc and the dead man at the far end of the bar.

“I've been up to scaring people, I guess. Telling tales to terrify children and make their parents mad. You know?”

“Nope,” Bunch said. He still wagged the empty glass.

“I tried to tell a story. A little something. It turned into my old life, my doctor life back in the city. I began a fairy tale, I don't know, a moral fable. Something for the light and it ended a Grand Guignol blood feast. Something from 3 in the morning.”

“Grand what?” Bunch said.

“Never mind. My stories. Everything inside me is what's inside dead people, Bunch. Can't help it. All those years a doctor of the dead and all I know is sick.”

“You the doc. Doc Mouth!” Bunch said and raised his empty glass to toast the famous medical man.

“I'm an internist, Bunch. I see insides. I look and there they are. The sickness, the things' gonna kill them and is going to make them take other people into death with 'em.”

“Huh,” Bunch said.

“I can't stop looking, Bunch.” He leaned over and whispered a whisky little secret. “It's getting worse. See over by the popcorn machine?”

Bunch turned. “Yeah. Adolph Lednicer. He always comes and bops to the music.”

“That man. . .”

“Adolph.”

“Adolph's got real problems. I'd tell you what, but...” He looked at Bunch sadly, “but you wouldn't know what I was talking about, anyway.”

Doc squinted at Bunch. Looked deep in his eyes, cocked his head. For the first time, Doc took the measure of Bunch from a different angle.

Bunch let him take it.

Doc was peering up Bunch's nose holes when something came to him. Hit him! Doc rammed his eyes back at Bunch's whole face. The doctor's mouth hung open.

“You,” was all he said.

“Yep. Me.” Bunch said. He nudged the empty Pilsner.

Doc was gasping like he'd caught an eight-point buck at the round end of his rifle, first day of the season.

“Ho. Ho. Holy.” is all he could say, trying to say, “Holy Christ.” He got up, laid a five on the bar. He started to leave, came back and added a ten, then left.

Bunch covered the ten and waved his hand for a drink.

Doc locked up the house. He lives in it, down deep inside it. He almost never goes out when people are in the streets or at work or at the restaurant or meeting other people at banks and all the places where people walk in the light. Doc never goes to stores and has everything delivered.

Doc goes out. He goes out at night. Sundown in Bluffton comes quick and early. People go to bed early, too. TV's lousy in the Driftless.

It's then Doc takes the air. Summers, winters, he's out after dark and doesn't say much to anyone. He smooths along in shadows and hides his eyes when people come near. Sometimes though. . . Sometimes Doc slips up to the windows of warm-looking houses late at night. He peeks in at people who sit, eat, watch snowy TV, read, talk with each other, talk to no one, cry, laugh to the night, alone.

Doc peeks and draws it all in. He sometimes thinks it would be good to be invited into the warmth and light, it would be good to be face to face with this or that person, tell him what was wrong, how he could fix it, how she might heal, how to deal, how to watch for that 3 in the morning urge. He thinks sometimes he knows more and more every day. Every night, that is. More and more, he sucks in the town, makes it part of him, his walks, his nights. By 3 a.m. the town’s dead, asleep. Mostly. His best time, 3 a.m. All the stories are closed and Doc’s safe as a bug. He sometimes wanders, 3 a.m., to the stock yards up by where County H dips into town. There, death is simple. It waits in the mud and shit. The cattle snort and fart. They don’t know. Doc does and he snuggles into it and enjoys their company. Later, when the sun peeks over the bluffs and he starts smelling pie from the American House – Eats (he remembers to tack “Eats” to the name), then he goes home.

He puts it all down. But he hardly ever says a word. Who’s he going to tell it to? Bunch?

Nah.

The end of the world started on Friday morning after darts finals at the Wagon Wheel. Maybe it began earlier, but the sky started falling, 3:46 that morning.

Vinnie had locked up the Sons of Norway and by two a.m., 23 of the old farts were sleeping it off at Township Hall. Egil Dorbler, off his game since the kid, didn't think loosing to the Graingers was worth a sleep-over in the can and Friday morning breakfast at the American House—Eats with his buddies, so he wasn't among them.

Vinnie settled the Sons and headed out County H. By three a.m., he was parked and dark waiting for Karl Dorbler to make one of his Goddamned deer runs. The prowler's nose barely poked from the trees at the bend of the road by the Closed-for-the-Season drive-in. A mile over the limit, that's all Vinnie needed, one mile and he'd have the S.O.B.'s license yanked like that!

By 3:30 Vinnie was nodding. At 3:46 he was dead to the world and that's when the sky started falling. Stars slashed across the night so quiet they could have been in another room. The light woke him like that! He was out of the vehicle in a shot. A bright rain of shooting stars streamed from bluff to bluff. A couple big ones stripped the night vision out of Vinnie's eyes and for a half-second, half-blind, he felt he ought to what’d they call it? Duck and cover.

“Huh,” he said aloud. “Meteors,” he said too loud. “Something. Ain't it? Ain't it just, huh?” Felt good to talk.

Up the Bluffs, deep in the old woods past Karl's (Bad) Kabins, Gram Kingsolver stood on a faint perch high in the trees. She rose and fell as the slender branches breathed with the night air. She held the Good Old Book in both hands and looked at the still night.

Gram was a tall woman who cared for her family: the smelly little man, his mouse-boned woman, the kids she'd chosen along the years of traveling. They were all the Father's hope for the race of Man. They slept below.

Why them?

The question was always there but she never put it out. Oh she asked herself, yes, but never Him. Of all the folks across this New Saved World, those eleven, below, were her charge; caring for them, was her fact of life. And she loved them; loved them before she knew them. The way all mothers must.

She clutched the Book to her chest and about wept with love as she talked to the Lord Who lived everywhere. “Criminy's sake, it sure is a good night, ain't?” Gram swayed softly among the branches that bore her in the sky. “Not yet too cold and not a bit too hot, anymore neither, thank You very much!”

She thought deeply for a moment. When she spoke again, her words were the same as always, every night.

“This is a pretty good old place You made for us here. This world? A lot bettern' the old one the folks below never seen, praise Your mighty ways! This old home You provided in this place ain't too bad, either, you betcha it ain’t. Now, Father all You got to do is give word what we ought to be doing with this new chance You've given us here.”

Same words as always, but Gram never took words with the Father as an
always
thing. She gave Him a moment—in case He might want to say something. She always did.

He never had.

She didn't feel she ought remind the Old Man that His creatures, the little man, the mouse-boned woman, herself, even the youngest, below, wouldn't last forever. She took another tack: “Been a while, you know that for sure. I know what's long to us ain't but a tick of Your Mighty Heart, Lord.” She listened for a moment, then added, “...so when it's Your good time, You let me know and I'll speak Your will to the others, and we'll get on with Your work. Okay, then?”

It was 3:46 and stars slid from the sky.

Gram ducked. She hadn't meant to. A willful child would flinch; but Father would not smite her like some wrathful daddy might. She knew that. Yet there she was, dodging His Word. She still was a bad one!

The night came alive as she raised her head. The Lord breathed a sweep of bright rock. The faint sound of His mighty breath! Must have been like the fall of waters pharaoh's army heard as the sea zipped them up in its bosom.

A big star hissed, shattered in a flash. Melting rock, like summer hose-water, scattering light; a whisper, like the Father talked most-times, but now, here, His whisper spoke volumes.

Oh no!
she thought,
Oh, no, no.
She watched and waited. For now, all He said was in the fall of stars.
Oh, the poor Old Man; the world, his people become so wicked!
She clutched the Book to her chest and wept for Him. She'd wake the others soon enough. The branches of the tree lifted and fell with soft breath. “Oh,” Gram said tingling all over, swallowing sorrow. “Oh cripes, Lord. You mean You gotta find us
another
world?”

“Stars? Bunch, meteors ain't stars, for crineoutloud.” Vinnie's ass dangled, both sides of his usual stool at the American House – Eats.

Bunch shrugged. “How about some damn service here, Esther!” he yelled. “Thinks one cup and an egg is pay enough for all that work. . .”

Vinnie sucked coffee, remembering school, remembering what he knew of stars and shit, stuff his mom had told him. Mom had liked the sky and that stuff. “Cops see things, you know? You know, stuff? Out there, alone, nights, I seen... Well I seen meteors. Ones, twos of them, maybe a couple, a dozen, maybe in a night watch. This, now, was, whatdoyoucallit? A meteor
shower?
A damn downpour’s what it was! Showers, big ones you know, maybe last a couple three days. A week, maybe more. Pieces of dead worlds out there, Bunch.” He pointed to the dusty ceiling fan. “Some world like Earth, maybe, blew up one day, or got left behind from Creation. Along comes us, sweeping through space there, and we suck pieces down.”

“Y'figure, huh?” Bunch was rocking like he didn’t give a rat’s ass. He looked like a man wanted a couple, three more eggs, not star talk stuff.

Esther was feeding half the town. Alone! Twenty-three Sons of Norway were still milling before heading to home to their missuses and beds.

Einar sat talking with himself. He was pissed.

Vinnie wiped his eyes. “Yeahp. On patrol most of the Goddamned night. Wouldn't have seen them
meteors
” – he leaned on the word – “but,” he tipped his head a couple inches closer to Bunch, “between you and me, I am speed-trapping Karl Dorbler's ass.”

“Hunh,” Bunch said. He tap-tap-tapped his cup on the saucer.

“Best believe,” Vinnie said. “Sumbitch is prowling deer on County H again. Didn't see him last night, but sure as hell I saw that meteor stuff because of him. What you'd call, 'awe-inspiring', huh?”

Bunch held out his cup. “'Bout time.”

Esther stepped between Bunch and Vinnie. She topped Vinnie’s cup but didn’t seem to care about either of them at just that moment. At that moment she was looking past both and out her plate window. “You want to see a damn traveling carney show or something, you look out on Commonwealth, Vinnie.”

Bunch and Vinnie swiveled.

Something. Not a carnival, a horse and wagon was all. Not a shiny black Amish carriage, navy-bright and lye soap clean, no, no. What had eased down Commonwealth, blocking it both ways, was a beat-up open rig freight wagon, something from the last century. The slow-as-shit swayback plug that drew it crapped every couple clops, letting steamy haystacks dot the public way.

Hornblows, pissed-off drivers, the town was already stewed!

“Best see,” Vinnie said and hauled his bulk.

“Best,” Esther said.

Bunch snagged the last strip of bacon from Vinnie's plate.

The wagon had dead-halted in the intersection, Commonwealth and Slaughterhouse, by the time Vinnie hit the porch, cop gear clacking, patent leather squeaking. Without thinking, he went into cop mode: feet spread, hands on hips, toothpick tucked in the corner of his mouth.

On the wagon seat, an iron-haired old lady stared forward, head erect. A mister and missus – Vinnie figured that’s what they were at any rate – sat either side. Next to the old lady both looked shrunk down. The man might hold the reins, but granny was in charge here, that was clear.

The mister looked backward, forward, up, and down then repeated the pattern, then did it again.

Doofuses
, Vinnie reckoned. “Definitely not Amish,” he said aloud.

“Nope,” Bunch said over Vinnie's shoulder, crunching the last of Vinnie's marmalade toast.

“Hell no. That's clear as branch-water piss they ain’t!” Einar stood tiptoes on the threshold, white paper napkin still tucked between his grease-blacked wattles and his grease-black coveralls. He peered over the heads of the morning crowd. “Ass-pains them Amish are, but they ‘least know better'n to gridlock a main thoroughfare.”

The man with the reins was small and prickly, his face whiskered in double-aught emery.

“He’s tougher’n he looks,” said one of the Sons of Norway. “An hour walking in them wool pants and shirt’d take a man's flesh to the meat.”

“Ya, you got that right” someone said.

“Uh-dah” someone else said.

Vinnie pegged the little guy’s age at about 40. The wife, he figured younger. Younger because she looked so frail, dressed so thin, a sundress suited more to summer's sweat than the fall morning’s chill. Her long crooked nose added something. Horsy looked good on her, but she was so beat down, you had to stare a little to see the pretty of her. In the quarter-minute it took Vinnie to assess the picture, Bluffton had frozen, blocked or gaping.

Granny swung her arm over the man's head and pointed to the Wurst Haus. Without word or look the man gave the reins a snap and tug. The old horse heaved against the dead-stopped weight.

Vehicles that had started to pass, came to shock-rocking stops. Drivers – known Lutherans – cussed, laid blue smoke and rubber streaks and swerved long arcs around the crawling wood and horsehair disaster that was easing a wide, slow one-eighty through their midst.

Vinnie body-Englished the wagon through the turn.

The horse left a three-pound dump where it had stood.

“He’s took what? Seven, no eight, spaces there, Vinnie!” Einar yelled.

“What’d you expect, Einar?” Vinnie called back, “Can’t diagonal park a wagon for crineoutloud!”

“So what’re you going to do about it?”

What the hell
, Vinnie figured.
Plenty room. Summer crowds gone; winter folks not set in yet.
“Hell, just us chickens,” he said aloud, agreeing with himself. He shifted his weight to unlock his knees.

“What?” Esther said. She stood next to Vinnie, the register drawer cradled in her arms.

“I said, he got the thing out of the Goddamn way and now he’s parked! Am I wrong?”

Vinnie was ready to declare the event over, then the wagon people did something else interesting: they got off the wagon. Once started, they kept coming. The mister and missus were first, either side. From the back, a girl, a boy, then another kid and another – Vinnie couldn't tell what they were – scrambled over the tailgate. They orbited mom and dad. They gawked the four-story wonder of Limpitt's Hardware, they gaped pick-up trucks, station wagons, bikes and scooters. Hell, telephone wires and sidewalks seemed a wonder; they staggered small circles, open-mouthed, bumping into each other, squinting.

From her seat, the old woman reached behind her into the wagon bed. She hoisted up and handed down, a fifth, a sixth, a seventh, then an eighth kid – little more than babes – one each to the girl, the boy and the matched pair of whatever-they-weres.

Grounded, surrounded, the man and woman looked even more doofus.

Einar still crackled like a rat. He edged forward. His nose twitched as though something bad had lodged on his upper lip. “Seen nothing like 'em ever. Plain whacked-dull, slack- jawed, cold-cocked, sagged down, bare-assed, un-wiped stupid; the passel. Cripes, this is Bluffton, not LaCrosse!” He damn near shouted the last. “Kids too,” he said to the porch. His greasy face worked like he was worrying a plug of snus.

“Einar! You hock a chaw on my porch, I’ll whack you so hard you’ll get smart!” Esther meant it. “S'matter,” she said, “you mistrust folks don't use the internal combustion?”

“Them Amish. Now these!” Einar flicked his chin in the direction. “Want to know what I say? I say it’s against the law, running them things on the public way,” he snapped. “Except your Amish.” he added, leaning past Esther, looking at Vinnie the Cop. “What do you say, Vin?”

Truth be known, Vinnie was not on top of the law. Not as written. His rule was if it made sense not to, then you shouldn't do something! Whatever! Murder, say, or theft, vehicular deer poaching (Goddamn Karl Dorbler, anyway)! Catch that stuff going on, he'd kick ass and take names! The rest he made up, going.

Cop or not, Vinnie let folks be – unless some third party bit his ass about a thing. So here, this thing was almost over, then comes Einar, squinting in that way of his, like “don’t we all wonder what Vinnie’s gonna do about
that
?!”

Vinnie gave the greasy monkey his next-to-best slow-burn stare. “I don’t think a horse and a wagon represent what you call a trend, Einar.” As Einar and Vinnie stared each other down on the porch of the Eats, something else grabbed folk’s attention. One more kid, a boy, 13, maybe 14, taller than everyone except Granny, hopped the tailgate. The kid landed, hands deep in deeper pockets. He slouched, but his eyes hopped like an old hare. He looked at his family; he looked at the street. He looked at the town. He looked at the porch of the American House. When the look landed on Vinnie it stayed there.