Wops got this place. Going to tear it down. I had no truck with them. Troublemakers. They'd come to town nights and make trouble. I got on to them quick enough. When I was chief I kept things peaceful and the jail full. See the papers?
But Bob Stout built this house.
I remember the time they was fixing the bridge down to Windham. A clutch of them was down there — cheap labor and all and I always said they was cheap too, like Mexicans — and there was a clutch of them big ones. They was big and burnt like niggers from working in the sun. Some of them even was niggers I guess. Yes. We never had any niggers in this town till now.
There was Flack.
Who?
Jefferson Flack.
Soon as the sun came down they was at it. Came in here by the wagonload.
I was here — I lived here then.
You was? Of course you was. Well they used to come in piled up like logs on them wagons and when they let the tailgate down it was like letting a load of logs loose.
They would jump out of the wagons as soon as they got to the edge of town. There was one who—
All at once they would pour out. Har! They was big ones!
Big ones, Israbestis thought. There was only one big one. He and his huge hee-haw. Who was it always called poor Brackett Omensetter that — the huge hee-haw? Sometimes the walls in Israbestis' room closed at their corners like a book and would not let him remember. Now the sun drove his eyes down. There was nothing to see at his feet. It could have been Jethro Furber, but it wasn't. Hee-haw.
You don't look up to snuff Tott. Been sick?
Not a day.
Seen Cate?
Ah — no. He's still…?
Saw him at the farm. Too bad. Too bad. He's real bad. Pretty old you know. Pretty old. Shakes bad. Shook the whole time I was there. Terrible. Won't last long. I had a bitch did that as soon she whelped. Her jaw bobbled and her teeth clacked — constant. .
Dull old fool, Israbestis thought, he's got no flair. I know these stories. Most of them are mine, my mouth gave each of them its shape, but I've no teeth to chew my long sweet youth again. A terse man years ago and sheriff after Curt Chamlay had angered his badge in the snowy weeds, the fellow never drew a breath in his old age, but watered everyone he knew with words, haphazardly, like Israbestis did himself, he was afraid. Long? sweet? The heat… it was the heat. They had come to the train to meet the Reverend Jethro Furber: Samantha, Henry, Lucy Pimber, both Spinks, Gladys Chamlay, others, Rosa Knox and Valient Hatstat. There had been quarrels over that, oh god, such resourceful bickering. Well he didn't sweat as much now as he had then, that was one thing. The steam from the engine had seemed to issue from the ground. Neat, he remembered thinking as Furber stepped down, and then the Reverend's arm reached out and bit him. Howdju. He supposed he flinched. Neat. Neat, stiff, pressed, black, burning. The Reverend grabbed at Henry, Henry mumbling. The wheels of the engine creaked, steam threatened the cars, and they all retreated awkwardly toward the station, Furber bowing briskly. He's tiny, he's just tiny, Samantha whispered, and their new minister suddenly ran into the station where, through the window, they saw him climbing the stairs.
… well you was never married was you? Har. Well you got a pension I hear, and that house. Us men die before our women usually. You don't have to worry about that. There's Samantha though, ain't there? Well you got that pension and that house.
Yes.
Lloyd's got the shakes.
They would sit in the boat and fish in the river. The trees hung over and shaded the sides. They would drift in and out of the shade, eddying with the river, watching the cork float, their broad hats tilted, shading their eyes. It would be pleasantly cool in the shady places where the roots of the willows and the beeches came mossy to the riverside, and the water was black by the boat. They would get caught up in a curl of the river, the water still and black by the boat, until Lloyd would reach up and pull on a limb and the boat would coast out into the sun again where the water sparkled and slapped gently against the hull. It was warm and comfortable and there weren't many fish, but just slow and easy drifting down the checkered river.
Careful Lacy. He'd nearly forgot. Ford and Jasper and Willie Amsterdam. Most people didn't know about that. Careful must have been sixty then. He fought Morgan's men. The fire was a great kite flying to the river. Careful Lacy. He'd nearly forgot. Had an ass like an ape.
Like fishing, said Israbestis Tott.
Some.
Fishing's fun.
I like sledding better.
Sledding's fun too.
You're pretty old. How old are you?
Pretty old.
I bet. What do you do now you're so old.
I was postmaster once.
Not really.
I was. I was postmaster for this whole town. I had the job all by myself. I did it all.
You ain't postmaster now.
No. I was once. I used to be.
My dad says I'm the busiest he ever saw.
I bet you are. What do you do?
I live in a tree.
What kind of a tree?
A high tree. It goes way up into the air and you can see clean to Columbus.
That's a good way.
Oh it's awful high. A thousand feet. Well, good-bye.
The boy had vaulted a bench. It had Henry Pimber's bullocks on it. Israbestis considered; shook his head. The sun, too… no shade anywhere. He could have told that boy the story of the man who went to pieces, he'd have liked that; or the story of the high and iron fence. He'd begin it, gently, and then the boy would say:
Why'd they want a fence, though, anyway?
And then he'd say:
It was the kind of fence that a good stick would make a good loud noise on if you was to run it along.
Oh.
That was the kind of fence they wanted — a high iron one with tall sharp pickets close together that would ring loud and handsome with a stick. But not everyone wanted a fence just like that.
Why not?
Well some thought it would be nice to have a fence with deers in it or trees like the one that used to be around Whittacker's, the undertaker's.
I don't think much of that.
I never did either, Israbestis thought. I never did. And boys were all like that. Pop. Well. Even my own ears are weary.
There were rows of straights and rockers, kitchen and parlor chairs, both painted and upholstered, rows of empty old embraces. Everybody wants it new, he said. Then he saw where he could sit: on the slope of the cellar door. She put up a lot of vegetables and fruit and things, Mrs. Pimber did. Every year. Now for myself, I'd want a house that had a little more than my weak poozly tracks all through it. I'd want some corners other folks had warmed. I'd sit in my chair in the quiet by the window, and watch the purpling air, the lazy hats and horses, and I'd think back on… well, the seasons of families, the passage of blood through the house, just like, you know, it passes through me while I'm standing here. I'm not too old for that. He should probably have apologized for his teeth. The man's sleeves were too long, they needed an elastic. There were good days, though, days when he remembered mostly drugstores. A bee flew by his face. Omensetter was a wide and happy man. Fact. At least he had that straight. And in the mornings Mat was like a bell. But Mat had finally faded like a sound. Okay, okay, just let me ease … myself… The sun slid from his back, and it was like swimming for a moment — that moment of cool green coasting when you've jumped. He closed his eyes, but the lids flamed. Furber never listened either. He declaimed. Tott sighed. Swimming took away your weight. Was that the reason he loved the smell of drugstores, and all those drawers? It was Omensetter's luck. Likely. To lose the heaviness of life. That Furber fellow, for instance, was nothing but bones, and even those you could have wrapped in a hankie. Yet he weighed a ton. Didn't he, by george! a ton.