The Thicket (2 page)

As we went, I saw the sky was darkening up more in the northwest, and the smell of rain was on the air, sweet and dirty, like a damp dog. When we got to the Sabine River the sky was furious black, and the bridge for the crossing was burnt out. There were just a few timbers on both sides of the water, and they were charred and broken down. It wasn’t a wide expanse of river, but it was broad enough and deep enough a bridge was normally needed, except in a really dry season.

There was a shallow crossing about five miles down, but that wouldn’t be necessary, because now there was a ferry that came across in place of the bridge. We could see it on the other side. It was a pretty wide ferry and could hold a good bit of horses and such, and the man who was managing it was a big, hatless, redheaded fellow, like me. He was waiting for a wagon pulled by two big white horses to roll off the ferry, and when that was done he closed up the gate, started pulling on one of the ropes that was hooked to a trolley rig, and began drawing the ferry back across.

The ferry was new, built as of recent, and the ferryman was having a hard time of it. There was something about his motions that made me think he was new to the process, as if it were a recent trade he had taken up. We waited on him to get to our side, and when he did, he threw a kind of wooden brake on the rope and let down the hatch on our bank of the river. He stepped out on solid ground in a manner that made him look as if he were standing on peg legs, which was for me another clue to his newness to the profession. Grandpa gave me the lines, got off the wagon, and walked over to him. I could hear them talking.

“What happened to the bridge?” Grandpa said.

“Burnt down,” said the ferryman.

“I can see that. When?”

“Oh, a month ago thereabouts.”

“How?”

“Caught on fire.”

“I know it caught on fire, but how did it catch on fire?”

“I can’t say.”

“Is someone going to build it back?”

“I ain’t,” said the ferryman.

“Guess not. How much?”

“Two bits.”

Grandpa stared at the ferryman as if he had just asked him if he’d like a stick in the eye. “Two bits? You are surely exaggerating.”

“Nope,” said the ferryman. “Don’t think so. If exaggerating means I might be saying a price I don’t mean, I ain’t doing that, not even a little bit.”

“That’s highway robbery,” Grandpa said.

“No, sir. That’s the fee to cross this river on my brand-new ferry,” said the ferryman, scratching at his red hair. “You don’t want to pay, you can go on up five miles and cross in the shallows. But you do that, you got a rough patch before you can get on a trail that will then lead to the road, say, a mile or so later. It would be a tough go for a wagon.”

“I need to get across now,” Grandpa said. “Not five miles from now.”

“Well, then you’re going to need to pay two bits, now, aren’t you? You could maybe swim the horses across, but it’s too deep for a wagon, and to float it, you’d have to cut trees and tie them to the sides, and that would take more time and effort than you might want to do with. Besides, I bet you ain’t got an ax, and I don’t loan any. So now that leaves you with the other choices, going that five miles to the shallows or turning around.” The ferryman held out his hand.

Grandpa pushed his hat up on his head, letting his wild gray hair escape. “Very well, but I do it under protest, and with the warning to you that God does not like a thief.”

“It’s the toll—nothing thieving about it. It’s just more than you want to pay, and God ain’t needing to cross the river. You are. Now, you want on or don’t you?”

Grandpa dug in his pocket like he was reaching down in some dark mine for the last piece of coal left in the world, and pulled out his hand with two bits in it, slapped it on the ferryman’s palm, and came back to the wagon. He appeared more upset about that toll than he was about putting his son and daughter-in-law in the ground earlier that day.

He climbed up on the wagon and sat there for a moment, looked up at the sky. “I reckon we could go five miles, but that storm looks to be coming quick, so I gave him his overpriced fee, and I’ll let him live in God’s judgment.”

“Yes, sir,” I said.

“I think he burnt that bridge to build that ferry,” Grandpa said as he looked down at the ferryman. “He looks to me like a man who would do that, don’t you think? Not a God-fearing man at all.”

“I don’t know, sir,” I said. “If you say so.”

“I say so, but we need to cross. And when we get on the ferry, mind the ferryman and keep your distance. I think he has a head full of lice.”

Grandpa clucked up the mules and started guiding the wagon toward the ferry. While he had been sitting there, contemplating, a big man on a sorrel horse had ridden up and got on the ferry. We could hear him discussing the fee with the ferryman. He seemed to come to the conclusion it was worth it a lot sooner than Grandpa had, and by the time we got down there, I could see that across the field, coming down the trail where there were still trees on either side, were two men on horses. Rain-cloud shadows lay over them like dirty moss. It looked like the ferry was going to be filled tight with folks and horses and our wagon.

Grandpa’s mules were tied to a railing up front, and the wagon wheels at the back were scotched with blocks so they wouldn’t roll. My old riding mule, Bessie, stayed tied to the rear of the wagon, and me and Lula stood near her—but not too near, as she had a habit of kicking out sideways like a cow, trying to clip you a good one if she felt you were too close to her rear end. I’m not sure what she thought might be going on back there, what plan we might have, but I want to note quickly that we were not Bessie’s first owners.

The big man on the horse had dismounted, and he took his sorrel up front and tied it alongside one of our wagon mules. He came by us and looked at Lula, said, “Aren’t you the prettiest thing?”

I haven’t spoken on how Lula looked, really, and I guess I should now. She was tall and lean and redheaded, with her hair streaming out from under a pretty blue travel bonnet with a false yellow flower sewn on one side of it. She had a silver star on a chain around her neck. I had bought that for her in town in the General Store. There were other gewgaws there, but they were silver flowers and little hearts, and I reckon they would have suited her fine, but just the year before she had pulled me outside the house and pointed up at the night sky and said, “See that star there, Jack? I’m claiming that as mine.” That made about as much sense as polka music to me, maybe less, but I remembered it, and when I was in town one day and had a bit of money, I bought it for her. She never took it off. I was proud to have given it to her, and I liked the way the light caught it and made it wink around her neck. She had on a light blue dress with yellow trim to match that flower, and she wore high-topped laced boots, black and shiny as axle grease. It was clothes that Grandpa had taken out of the house early on, before they got tainted with the pox. Dressed like she was, she looked like both a young woman and a child. She was pretty as a picture, but the way that man said it bothered me. Maybe it was the way he smiled and the way his eyes ran up and down her; nothing you could lay a hand on or put a word to, but something that made me keep an eye on him nonetheless.

Lula just said, “Thank you,” and ducked her head modest-like.

The man said, “That ain’t a bad looking set of mules, neither,” which to my mind sort of put some dirt in his earlier remarks.

I don’t think Grandpa heard all this. He was still fussy and talking to the ferryman, seeing if he could get back part of his money.

When that didn’t happen, Grandpa said, “Well, then, what are we waiting for?”

“On those two men on horseback,” the ferryman said.

“How about you take us across, then come back for them?”

“It’s work for nothing,” said the ferryman, scratching his red head, then looking at his fingernail to see if he had captured anything of interest.

“We paid our two bits,” Grandpa said. “We should go across. Besides, two more, that would be a tight load on this craft.”

The big man said, “Those are friends of mine, and we can all wait.”

“We don’t have to,” Grandpa said.

“No,” said the man. “But we will.”

“I think we should,” said the ferryman. “I think we should.”

Now, let me explain something. Grandpa was a large man. He may have been around seventy, but he was still commanding, with a big shock of gray hair that was once red, and it surrounded his head like a lion’s mane. He had a thick beard the color of dirty cotton, and that made him look even more like a lion, even when he was wearing a hat. He had a face that was always flushed. He looked as if he were about to boil over all the time. He called it his Irish skin. He was wide-shouldered and strong-looking, having done hard work all his life. And then there was that air about him of I-know-how-the-horse-ate-the-apple, this being due not only to his size and experience but his true and abiding belief that God was on his side and probably didn’t care as much for anyone else. This was a sentiment I figured came from having been a preacher and feeling that he had been handed special knowledge about life, and that when he got to heaven he’d be singing hymns with God personally, maybe the two of them leaning together with smiles on their faces, passing some tasteful joke between them—meaning, of course, it wouldn’t have anything to do with women or the outhouse.

But for all his size and bluster, when Grandpa looked at the big man who had rode in on the sorrel horse, he went quiet as a mouse tiptoeing on a soft blanket. He had seen something there that didn’t set right with him, same as I had. Grandpa could be silent a lot of the time, but when he was anxious to get on his way, or was in a spin about money, he could be talkative and angry, way he had been earlier. Looking at that other fellow took it right out of him, sent him into a stone silence. I could see why. The man was big as Grandpa, easily half his age, and he had a face that looked to have been shaped with a rock and a stick wielded by an angry circus monkey. He was scarred up and his nose was bent and one of his eyes had a lid that drooped over it about halfway, so that his peeper seemed sneaky all the time. I was pretty sure that at some point someone had tried to cut his throat, cause he had a scar across it, jagged in spots. When he spoke, it sounded like he was trying to gargle with a mouthful of tacks. He was wearing an old derby hat, and though he could have done without it, it had a long white feather in it. His black suit was expensive-looking and new, but the way it fit, it was like the clothes were borrowed. To button that coat someone would have had to have let about ten pounds of air out of him and pulled it together on both sides with a team of mules.

Grandpa made a noise in his throat, which was about as far as he went to disagreeing with the big man, rested his hand on the wagon, and looked out at the water as if expecting Jesus to come walking up on it. The air had gotten that heavy feel it gets when a storm is coming, and the sky was as dark as a drunkard’s dream. The man with the derby said to Grandpa, “You’re a man used to getting your way, aren’t you?”

Grandpa turned and looked at him. I think at this point he wanted to let it go, but that Parker pride was there. “I am a man that thinks everyone should act promptly and get things done, even if it’s burying kin. Just today I buried my son and daughter-in-law.”

“I suppose you believe your misery makes you special and that I should care about it,” said the man with the derby.

“No,” said Grandpa. “I don’t. I am just stating a fact in answer to your question.”

“I didn’t ask you if you buried anyone. I said you were a man who was used to getting his way.”

“I guess burying them was on my mind, so I spoke of it.”

“Why don’t you just keep your views about things to yourself?” said the big man. “Cause just this morning I was at a funeral myself. Rode up on it when it was finishing up and everyone was going off, and the grave diggers, couple of niggers, were going to cover up the hole. I pulled my gun”—here he shoved back his coat and touched the yellowed, bone-butt of a revolver that was turned backwards in a holster with the tips of his fingers—“and had them stop what they was about to do, work that coffin out of the hole, and bust it open. Sure enough, man had on a good suit, better than the clothes I was wearing, so I had them niggers take off his duds and I gave them mine to put on him. No one will be the wiser, and I got a good suit of clothes that would have rotted in the ground, and them niggers got to live.”

“Why are you telling us this?” Grandpa said.

“Cause I want you to know what kind of man you’re dealing with.”

“A grave robber? You’re proud of that? I’m not dealing with you at all, mister.”

“Thing is, you old fart, I just don’t like you. I don’t like the way you look. I don’t like the way you talk.”

“There’s nowhere to go with this conversation,” Grandpa said. “There’s nothing for me to say to an admitted grave robber but that you’ll pay for that transgression.”

“Guess you’re talking about God,” said the man.

“I reckon I am,” Grandpa said.

“I think you’re the kind of sniveling coward that will tell the authorities on me, that’s what I think you are. I don’t think you’d wait for God to do anything. I think you’d tell the law on me.”

“You don’t want things told on you, then you shouldn’t tell them on yourself,” Grandpa said.

“That right?” said the big man. It was pretty clear he was spoiling for a fight.

I think Grandpa could sense this was turning raw, so he said, “Look here, that’s your business. I don’t like the idea of it none, but that’s your business. Just keep me out of it.”

“I think you’re just saying that,” said the big man. “I think you’re a talker, and no sooner than we get to the other side you’ll tell some law what I told you.”

Grandpa didn’t respond. He turned sideways on the man, leaned on the wagon, and looked out at the river. He put his right hand in his coat pocket and left it there. I knew he kept an old two-shot derringer in that pocket and that he was actually watching things carefully, ready to pull it if need be. I had seen him draw it once, on a threatening drunk in town, some two, maybe three years back, and that draw had been sufficient enough to sober that bully up and send him running off down the street. So I knew Grandpa was at the ready, but I could also see that the hand that hung free was trembling slightly. That was probably more out of anger than fear, though it occurred to me that he might have bit off more than he could chew, knew it, and was trying to ride things out. I also knew, as that man had said, that when we got to the other side, Grandpa would report to the law about the grave-robbing incident. Course, it might not be a true story, might be a blowhard moment from the big man to get Grandpa’s goat, but the way that suit fit I didn’t think so. I felt he was speaking honest and proud of it, like he had performed a special job of wardrobe shopping.