All That I Have
Authors: Castle Freeman
ALL THAT I HAVE
ALL THAT I HAVE
Castle Freeman Jr.
Duckworth Overlook
This edition first published in the UK in 2010 by
Duckworth Overlook
90-93 Cowcross Street
London EC1M 6BF
Tel: 020 7490 7300
Fax: 020 7490 0080
[email protected]
www. ducknet.co.uk
First published in the USA by
Steerforth Press, Hanover, New Hampshire
Copyright © 2009 by Castle Freeman Jr.
The moral right of the author has been asserted.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication
may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or
transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic or
mechanical, as a photocopy, recording, or otherwise,
without the prior permission of the publisher.
A catalogue record for this book is available
from the British Library.
ebook ISBN 978 0 7156 3939 9
And he answering said to his father,
Lo, these many years do I serve thee,
neither transgressed I at any time thy
commandment: and yet thou never
gavest me a kid, that I might make
merry with my friends: But as soon as
thy son was come, which hath devoured
thy living with harlots, thou hast killed
for him the fatted calf. And he said unto
him, Son, thou art ever with me, and
all that I have is thine.
The Gospel according to St. Luke, 15:29–31
CONTENTS
1
THE NEW MALE AND
THE MORNING BACK
Sharp at seven Tuesday morning, Clemmie, barefoot in her robe, was standing at the kitchen counter putting cream in her coffee when the squawker went. Clemmie listened. She took a sip of coffee. The squawker quit. Clemmie turned from the counter.
“What’s a new male?” she asked.
I was sitting at the breakfast table, behind Clemmie. I was looking at her back. Her morning back. We’d had another of our little go-rounds the night before, nothing too serious: a club match, an exhibition. Still, this morning here I was looking at her back. When she wants to, Clemmie can show you a back like the north side of Mount Nebo.
It was Trooper Timberlake on the squawker, from someplace way to hell and gone out on the Diamond Mountain road in Ulster. He sounded puzzled.
“That was young Timberlake,” I said. “I’d better go.”
“He said a new male, though,” Clemmie said. “What did he mean? What’s a new male?”
“I am,” I said. “I’m a new male. You didn’t know that?”
“Sure, you are,” said Clemmie.
That sounded pretty good, I thought. If I can get the door open that far, I can get her to come through it. I thought I’d try to push it for another inch.
“There’s a new kind of male,” I said. “I’m one of them. One of him.”
“If that’s so,” said Clemmie, “then things are worse than anybody knew.”
There she was. She’s back on the premises, it looks like, back on the reservation — or soon will be. I drank my coffee and got up from the table.
“I’d better go ahead,” I said.
“Have some breakfast first,” said Clemmie. “Have some toast.”
“The new male don’t eat breakfast,” I said. I went to the kitchen door and got the truck keys from their hook.
“But, really,” said Clemmie, “he did say something about a new male, didn’t he? What did he mean?”
“I don’t think that’s what he said,” I told her.
Trooper Timberlake was in the turnout for the snowplows right at the Ulster town line. I pulled the truck in behind him. I could see he had somebody in the rear of the patrol car, behind the grill. Timberlake left the patrol car and came back to me.
Timberlake was probably twenty-five. He had the state police thing about down: six-four or -five, blond, fit, head cropped so close it was nearly shaved. He looked like the world’s largest baby, a baby who had come out of his mother’s belly doing one-arm pushups. Timberlake had come to the state police from the Marine Corps. A lot of them did at the state police. You don’t have to be General Patton come back from the dead to rise in that organization, but it don’t hurt you if you are.
“Subject’s been in a fight, Sheriff,” Timberlake said. “Somebody driving by found him, called it in. He was tied to a tree over there. He’s got a bump on his head, got a big shiner, and plus his arm’s hurt somehow. Ambulance is en route.”
“Good morning to you, too, Trooper,” I said.
“Can’t get much out of him,” Timberlake went on. “One thing: he’s not from around here. He can’t even speak English — can’t or won’t. Yelling and carrying on in some language I can’t make anything of. Some garbage.”
“No clothes?”
“That’s affirmative, Sheriff. Not a patch on him.”
“Tied to a tree?”
“That’s affirmative, Sheriff. Tied to a tree, shit beat out him, and raving butt naked.”
“Let’s have a look at him,” I said.
Timberlake stepped away, and I got down from the truck. The two of us went up to Timberlake’s patrol car and the man sitting in the rear.
“Best keep back a little, Sheriff,” said Timberlake.
The man in the patrol car was handcuffed behind his back. He had a blanket wrapped around his shoulders, the ends folded across his lap. He was short and skinny. He had long greasy blond hair and skin that was too white, as though he lived in your cellar or at the bottom of your well. He wore no clothes, nothing, not even his socks. When Timberlake and I came up to the patrol car, he turned his head and spat toward us out the half-open window.
“He spits, Sheriff,” said Timberlake.
The naked man commenced to thrash around and kick the seat in front of him. He beat his head against the window glass. He shouted and cursed at us. Whatever language he was speaking sounded like you’re going through a big log of rock maple with a chain saw and you hit an old iron sugar tap in there.
“What’s that he’s talking, Sheriff?” Timberlake asked.
“That’s Russian,” I said.
“Russian?”
“Sure,” I said. “Don’t you know Russian when you hear it, Trooper?”
“Negative, Sheriff,” said Timberlake.
“I thought they trained you kids today,” I said.
“Come on, Sheriff,” said Timberlake.
“Who did you say called it in?”
“I couldn’t say, Sheriff. They didn’t leave a name.”
“Here’s your medics,” I said.