The Bully of Order (48 page)

When I looked up, Bellhouse was alone on the balcony of the Sailor's Union, looking back at me. We were two men above the fray. I imagined myself to be the tired, lost face of the Harbor, while Bellhouse, with his unapologetic symmetries and fearlessness, was the face of time itself. I wasn't scared of him, and he looked away first.

Last anyone saw Duncan, he was heading east toward the Wynooche. There were rumors and sightings; people called him the Wild Man, and he joined the skookum and the other ghosts that had dwelled and would forever dwell in the forest. If he lived, he had to know that he was no longer wanted. He had to have heard that much. We searched for him up and down the river and into the gorge. Salem and I even went back to the cave to see if he was there. He was gone.

Boyerton's sold the mill to a California outfit that was snug with Bellhouse, so the floating fleet went thin. Ben McCandliss was convicted of attempted murder on the soldier he slashed and put in the same prison as his father. His brother Joseph vowed publicly to break him out.

Tartan died of his wounds before he went to trial. No one was sure of his real name, so Cherquel Sha carved a marker that read D
ICKERSON
. He's buried on the hill, not fifty feet from Nell's empty casket. I dug it up. I saw the box. Looked like someone had filled it with rutabagas; they were all webby and shrunken to nothing, but still there. Go with God. I put her letters inside and covered it up.

We still pretend that there will be a great city here someday, but the big trees are getting farther and farther out. We work harder for less, which is the way of the world. As the honing oil dries and the stone crumbles, the blade goes dull and rusts. There're more hills and trees upon them, and it's an insult to our very souls to look out at the wasted fortunes. I fear that what we crave is destruction, the barren world, a final and permanent bottom. For us, and this is most unfortunate, not even the end is enough.

People say Teresa split with her family and went east by herself. Maybe Duncan's with her. I like to think that he is, and that they have a child, but unlike me, and unlike Nell, they've left their selfishness behind. If I could give him any advice, it would be that one thing matters, and it isn't you; it isn't you at all. Protect your family.

R
everend Macklin stood outside
the post office and studied the letter. It had no return address, and the handwriting was poor. The streets were noisier than usual, clogged with people getting supplies for the holiday. The excitement of tomorrow was a stain on every child's face. There was to be a boxing match after the logger's contest. The new baldheaded governor would be giving a speech on the steps of City Hall and doing a ribbon cutting at the new high school. The pews would be empty come Sunday, or maybe not. It was hard to judge. Sinning swelled the ranks, but so did prosperity.

The reverend flipped the envelope over a few times, and then produced a pocketknife and slit it open. Inside was a single handwritten page folded in thirds; he opened it, and a feather fell at his feet. He stooped to pick it up and studied it for a moment, same color as his coffee when he used the goat's milk, white tufted base, an eagle's feather. Without thinking, he brought it to his nose and smelled it, smiled. The envelope had been addressed to him, but the letter wasn't. He stopped reading after the first line, slipped the paper back in the envelope, folded it, and put it in his coat pocket. He looked at the feather, and a broad grin spread over his face. The ferry whistle was blowing. He had to hurry if he wanted to make it upriver to the Ellstroms' before it got dark. He had to run for the dock. He felt the eyes of the townspeople on him as he went, and he smiled for them and waved the feather above his head, ridiculously.

The triple whistle tells us it's payday, and no work tomorrow either. Meaning we got two consecutives to drink ourselves stupid and watch the fireworks and the fights, like we're short on noise or smoke or even marvelous brawls.

At the locked gates of the mill we wait in a long and boisterous line and stamp our feet on the planks like stalled cattle.

“You must be thankful she's safe.”

“I am. Never been more fearful than that. Made my guts bleed, waiting for the doc or the sound of the child, either one.”

“It was a fever that followed?”

“Worry caused it, but she's safe now. The child will survive. My wife, she can't help but worry. We've lost one already.”

“Do you think they'll have yer pay, since you went missin?”

“Been wonderin that very thing.”

The last ship at the docks is hitched to the tug and hauled under the open bridge. When it drops it won't come up until the dawn of the fifth.

The man door swings wide at the mill yard, and we get right and begin to file in.

“What if they don't have it? What if they stiff you and tell you yer done?”

“I'll gut the fucker that steals from me.”

A few heads turn and bob yes to the prospect of violence. We want it now. The ox has horns for a reason. We step forward once every half minute like we're all in a dullard's wedding.

A ferry boat steams by in the channel and blows its whistle and we wave and whistle back. She's been freshly painted and the rails and stacks are all done up with streamers and gold ribbons.

“Ain't she a sight.”

“Beauty is a vessel that ain't crushed by lumber.”

“But also one that is.”

“Look at her go.”

The author would like to thank Bill Clegg and Terry Karten for their support, understanding, and advice; Van Syckle and Weinstein for the spark; Dustin Schumaker, because nothing beats experience; John Dominguez and the HRL, one man's trash, another man's reference material; Greg Koehler, Marla Akin, and Adam Gardner; my parents and sister; and most of all, Rachel and Madeleine, one little white house to the next.

BRIAN HART
was born in central Idaho in 1976. In 2005 he won the Keene Prize for Literature, one of the largest student literary prizes in the country. He received an MFA from the Michener Center for Writers in 2008 and is the author of the novel
Then Came the Evening
(Bloomsbury, 2009). He lives in Texas with his wife and daughter.

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Then Came the Evening

Cover design by Richard Ljoenes

Cover photographs: © Anderson & Middleton Company / Jones Photo Historical Collection (town); courtesy of the Museum of the City of New York (woman); courtesy of the Oakland History Room and the maps division of the Oakland Public Library (harbor)

This is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents, and dialogues are products of the author's imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual person, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

THE BULLY OF ORDER
. Copyright © 2014 by Brian Hart. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.

FIRST EDITION

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

    
Hart, Brian (Brian Woodson)

      
The bully of order : a novel / Brian Hart.—First Edition.

      
ISBN 978-0-06-229774-7

      
EPub Edition SEPTEMBER 2014 ISBN 9780062297761

      
1. Families—History—Fiction. 2. Families—Washington (State)—Social life and customs—Fiction. 3. Logging—Washington (State)—History—20th century—Fiction. 4. Washington (State)—History—20th century—Fiction. 5. Domestic fiction. I. Title.

    
PS3608.A78396B85
    
2014

    
813'.6—dc23

2013048447

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