Crow Fair Read online

  I looked across the river at the row of houses above the line of car bodies. I heard a lawn mower over the whisper of river. A tennis ball came sailing over the bank, a black dog watching as it disappeared into the river.

  Grandma said, “When you were a little boy, I thought you would be president of the United States.” I got that odd shriveling feeling I used to get when our parents couldn’t handle us and she would have to come to our house. I decided to give her the silent treatment. She didn’t notice. I watched as she took in all she could smell and hear with the same upright posture and air of satisfaction. I unexpectedly decided that I was entitled to a little liquid cheer and began tiptoeing in the direction of my car a good distance away, wasted tiptoeing, I might add, as Grandmother said, “Bye-bye.”

  I have no idea why starting the car and putting it in gear gave me such a gust of exhilaration that the quick stop for a couple of stiff ones seemed almost redundant. But that’s what happened, and I felt all the better for it as I walked into the sheriff’s office just as Deputy Crane was leaving. I caught his sleeve and asked about the corpse. I could tell by his expression that he could smell the adult beverage on my breath. “They pulled it out of the water at the Reed Point Bridge. I’m headed there now.”

  “Oh, let me ride along.”

  “What’s the matter with you?”

  Deputy Crane would have to get up earlier in the morning if he wanted to be rid of me. By the time he pulled out of town, I was hot on his trail. The interstate followed the river, and we sped along doing seventy-five, the river intermittently visible on my left. Thus far the bridegroom had outrun us.

  Pulling off the interstate and down into a riverside trailer park, I was convinced that euphoria was the rarest of all prizes, and being as good as anyone at cherishing mine, I started to fear that seeing the corpse up close might be a buzzkill. A small crowd had formed at the riverbank, and the squad car was parked close by. I pulled up next to the deputy, who got out and, spotting me, said, “Jesus Christ.” The small crowd parted at the sight of the uniform, and I pushed through in its wake, rudely asked to stop shoving. There within the circle of gawkers was the dead bridegroom. Either his wedding clothes were too small for him or he was seriously waterlogged. I don’t know why they laid him out on a picnic table. The well-trimmed mustache seemed misplaced on the broad moon face whose wide-open eyes were giving me such a bad feeling. The gawkers would look at the face, then at one another searching for some explanation. People with sideburns that long were inevitably from the wrong side of the tracks, where me and my family, excepting Grandma, had all lived. I couldn’t say why I felt a corpse shouldn’t have a mustache and long sideburns. It seemed about time to buck up with some more artificial elation. But first I thought it only right to inform this group that it was I who had first spotted our friend floating past. This fell on deaf ears. I looked around me with a bleak, ironic smile undaunted by their indignation.

  Somebody at the Mad Hatter had told me there was going to be midget wrestling at the Waterhole. There was a van parked in front with the logo SUPPORT MIDGET VIOLENCE, but no midgets in sight unless they were asleep inside. Two horses stood tied to the hitching rack in front by the trough and beside them four pickup trucks with so much mud on the windshields that the drivers could only have seen through the wiper arcs. Between two of the trucks was a blood-red Porsche Carrera with New Mexico plates and a King Charles spaniel at the wheel. I was able to get what I wanted without giving the others the impression that I cared to mingle. The bartender was a compulsive counter wiper, and when I got up, the tip I left there disappeared. He pretended to find the bills under the rag as I departed, giving the entire crowd a laugh at my expense as I pushed through the doors. I thought of going back and raising hell but found the Porsche unlocked and released the spaniel instead. It was dark, and all I could think of was one word, “Grandma!” The dog headed off through the houses with their lighted windows as I was swept by uneasiness.

  Something was making me drive this fast. I was trying my best to reckon where those little units of time had gone. Whatever trouble I was headed for, it didn’t feel like it was entirely my fault, just because someone decided to send a corpse through my day. If he’d lived on Grandma’s side of town, he would have enjoyed more options with no sideburns to maintain.

  It was not easy to find our picnic site in the dark, and I wouldn’t have been sure I’d found it if I hadn’t spotted the remains of the box lunch. I ate the other deviled-ham sandwich, the hard-boiled egg, the spicy pickle, and the cookie, and staring at the large expanse of the river, breathing mostly with my abdominal muscles, I tried to collect my thoughts and ward off hysteria.

  The chair was gone. So, she didn’t jump in the river. Can’t have more than one corpse a day. Somebody must have found Grandma and taken her home. This thought gave me an especially sharp pain, as it suggested one more person looking down on me, the oaf who left his blind grandmother on the riverbank.

  I drove back across the Harlowton Bridge, through town heading for Snob Hollow, where Grandmother lived. My watch has a luminous dial, but I was afraid to look, fearing yet another buzzkill. By the time I stopped in front of Grandma’s, I was having palpitations. I rifled the backseat in search of the minis sometimes scattered there but found only a mocking handful of empties. I stared through the windshield at the pair of juniper hedges leading to the door. My mind was so inflamed that when I got out of the car I thought I saw a face. I approached the front door and knocked, and then knocked again. Blood rushed to my head when I heard something within.

  Mrs. Devlin was fastening her terry-cloth wrapper at the neck. She was no girl herself, and those big teeth and accusing eyes only subtracted from any impression of innocence. She had led a blameless life and wouldn’t say shit if she had a mouthful, but when backed by Grandma’s authority she could be dangerous.

  “You,” she said.

  “Just checking in on Grandma.”

  Then in the dark behind Mrs. Devlin I heard Grandma ask, “Is that him?”

  “Yes, it is, Adeline.”

  “Mrs. Devlin, kindly slap his face for me.” It sure stung.

  I imagined saying, Try this one on for size, before throwing Mrs. Devlin a roundhouse, but of course I just stood there as the door was slammed in my face. I headed back downtown, which in the dark looked abandoned, with so few lights that their silhouettes showed against the night sky, the blank face of the derelict mercantile, the bell cupola of the fire station with its mantle of cold stars. I returned to my room at the hotel, and the view of the mountains through the empty lobby, the old billiard table on which a century ago some surgeon treated the victim of a gunfight, the smells of mahogany and matted carpet, the dimmed lights gleaming off the souvenir cabinet. On my wave of booze and self-pity, one more nobody for the rest of the world to kick around. I pictured myself as the last survivor of my family, except for Grandma, who was left to contemplate what she had achieved over the generations. The thought lulled me into a nice sleep. I awakened to the sound of the breakfast dishes clattering in the restaurant, and for me a brand-new chance for success. As usual, whether I made the most of it or not, it would be fun just to see what happened, because, say what you will, I’m a glass-half-full kind of guy.

  There wasn’t time to eat before going to work, Mrs. Hessler being a Nazi about punctuality. I was careful to avoid a long look at myself as I brushed my teeth and glanced at my watch. I pulled on one of my work shirts, the one that says YOUR COMPANY NAME HERE at the top, YOUR LOGO HERE in the middle, and ONE CHILD AT A TIME at the bottom. Mrs. Hessler had gotten them in some close-out sale and expected to see them.

  When I first went to work for Mrs. Hessler, it was just after my casino years and, knowing about my résumé, she got me to teach her Texas Hold’em. She was pretty good but soon got overconfident and went off for a gambler’s weekend to Vegas and lost her ass. Naturally she blamed me. That set the tone. I told her that in a world where sperm donors are e
xpected to pay child support, anything could happen.

  Hooray for me! I was actually early. I let myself into the playroom and realized I had never cleaned up on Friday. I had been in some haste to get to the Mad Hatter, and so now, with so little strength, I would have to put everything in order before Hessler let me know by her silence how unhappy she was with me, her drone. Back to the barracoon, darky! I told her I’d read that some archbishop staying at a five-star hotel in the Seychelles got his ass scorched on a rogue bidet. She didn’t even crack a smile. Chutes and Ladders was all over the floor, and I got dizzy picking up all the pieces. Moronic instruments for tiny mites—drums, tambourines, ocarinas—all would have to go on the music shelf. The GOD MADE ME SPECIAL poster had broken free of its thumbtacks. I didn’t remember so much chaos on Friday—motivational ribbons and certificates, birthday crowns, star badges, alphabet stickers all over the room—but then my mind had been elsewhere.

  Frau Hessler made the rounds of the refrigerator, counted out the snacks in a loud voice, put the removable mop heads back in the closet, gave her own YOUR COMPANY HERE shirt a good stretch, and greeted the first mother at the door. It was on. They came in a wave of noise as Hessler and I checked each other’s faces for the required cheer. I had mine on good but felt like my teeth were drying out. Two mothers asked for the containers of their breast milk to be labeled and were quite abrupt telling me that Post-its would fall off in the fridge. The room was full of children, nearly babies, little boys and girls thematically dressed according to the expectations of their parents, little princesses and tiny cowboys, some still in pajamas. Hessler always seemed to know exactly what to do and began creating order. I dove into the sock-puppet bins, trying to find one that felt right, pawing through the Bible-themed puppets, the monster puppets, the animal puppets. I was fixated on getting one I was comfortable with, since I’d ended up with Saint John the Baptist the previous week, and Hessler rebuked me for failing to come up with relevant Bible quotes. Realizing I was running out of time by Hessler standards, I just snatched one randomly and found myself wearing an African American fireman and wiggling the stick that operated the hand holding the hose, all for the sake of a surly four-year-old named Roger. Roger was not amused and after long silence called me poopoo head. I offered up some goofy laughter, and Roger repeated the remark. “In ten years, Roger,” I muttered, “you’ll be sniffing airplane glue from a sandwich bag.” I dropped the fireman on the bench and moved on to nicer children. I made it until time-out, when I left the playhouse for a cigarette. A cold wind stirred the last leaves on the old burr oaks at the corner. Up on the hill, where Grandma’s house stood, the sun was already shining. Mrs. Devlin would be setting out her midmorning tea, and Grandma was sure to feel that things were in perfect order.

  By late afternoon, Owen’s parents were usually having their first cocktails. His mother gave hers some thought, looking upon it as a special treat, while his father served himself “a stiff one” in a more matter-of-fact way, his every movement expressing a conviction that he had a right to this stuff, no matter how disagreeable or lugubrious or romantic it might soon make him. He made a special point of not asking permission as he poured, with a workmanlike concentration on not spilling a drop. Owen’s mother held her drink between the tips of her fingers; his father held his in his fist. Owen could see solemnity descend on his father’s brow with the first sip, while his mother often looked apprehensive about the possible hysteria to come. Owen remembered a Saturday night when his father had air-paddled backward, collapsing into the kitchen trash can and terrifying the family boxer, Gertrude. Gertrude had bitten Owen’s father the first time she saw him drunk and now viewed him with a detachment that was similar to Owen’s.

  In any event, the cocktails were Owen’s cue to head for the baseball diamond that the three Kershaw boys and their father had built in the pasture across from their house, with the help of any neighborhood kids who’d wanted to pitch in—clearing brush, laying out the baselines and boundaries, forming the pitcher’s mound, or driving in the posts for the backstop. Doug, the eldest Kershaw boy, was already an accomplished player, with a Marty Marion infielder’s mitt and a pair of cleats. Terry, the middle son, was focused on developing his paper route and would likely be a millionaire by thirty. Ben, the youngest and sweetest, was disabled and mentally handicapped, but he loved baseball above all things; he had a statistician’s capacity for memorizing numbers and had learned to field a ball with one crippled hand and to make a respectable throw with the other. To Owen, Ben’s attributes were nothing remarkable: he had his challenges; Ben had others.

  It was rare to have full teams, and occasional lone outfielders started at center field and prepared to run. Eventually, Ben was moved off first base and into the outfield. With his short arms, he couldn’t keep his foot on the bag and reach far enough for bad throws. Double plays came along only about three times a summer, and no one wanted to put them at risk. So long as Ben could identify with a renowned player who had played his position—in this case, Hoot Evers—he was happy to occupy it, and physically he did better with flies than with grounders.

  Owen was happy with his George Kell spot at third base, and he didn’t intend to relinquish it. He was a poor hitter—he was trying to graduate from choking the bat, though he was still not strong enough to hold it at the grip—but his ability to cover stinging grounders close to the foul line was considered compensation for his small production at the plate. He had learned to commit late to the ball’s trajectory—grounders often changed angles, thanks to the field’s irregularities—and he went fairly early when they chose up sides. Chuck Wood went late, despite being the most muscular boy there, as he always swung for the fence in wan hope of a home run and was widely considered a showboater. Ben was a polished bunter and could run like the wind, assuring his team of at least one man on base. He was picked early, sometimes first, but never got to be captain, because in the hand-over-hand-on-the-bat ritual for choosing sides, his hand wouldn’t fit anywhere below the label. In the beginning, Mrs. Kershaw had stuck around to make sure that he was treated fairly, announcing, “If Ben doesn’t play, nobody plays.” But now he belonged, and she restricted her supervision to meeting him as he got off the school bus and casting an authoritarian glance through the other passengers’ windows.

  After a game, the equipment was stored on the back porch of the Kershaw house, where Terry ran his newspaper operation and often recruited the players to help him fold for the evening delivery. The Kershaws’ small black schipperke dog, Smudge, watched from a corner. Doug put a few drops of neat’s-foot oil in the pocket of his mitt, folded a ball into it, and placed it on the broad shelf that held shin guards, a catcher’s mask, and a cracked Hillerich & Bradsby thirty-four-inch bat that Mr. Kershaw thought could be glued. It had been a mistake to go from oak to maple, he said. Eventually, Mrs. Kershaw would appear, mopping her hands on her apron before making an announcement: “Kershaw dinner. All other players begone.” Owen and the other boys would rush out, with ceremonial doorway collisions, looking up at the sky through the trees: still light enough to play.

  Owen would walk home, reflecting on the game, his hits, if he’d had any, his errors and fielding accomplishments. His parents dined late and by candlelight, in an atmosphere that was disquieting to Owen and at odds with thoughts about baseball. He eventually gave up on family dinners altogether and fed himself on cold cereal. Sometimes he arrived home in time for an argument, his father booming over his mother’s more penetrating vehemence. There were times when his parents seemed to be entertaining themselves this way, and times when they seemed to draw blood. Owen would flip his glove onto the hall bench and slip upstairs to his room and his growing collection of hubcaps. He’d still never been caught. He had once been on probation with the Kershaws, though: Doug, hiding in the bushes with a flashlight, had caught him soaping their windows on Halloween, but winter had absolved him, and by baseball season he was back in their good graces. He still didn’t
know why he had done it. The Kershaws’ was the only house he’d pranked, and it was the home of people he cherished. He’d wanted contact with them, but it had come out wrong.

  Owen sat with Ben on the school bus every morning. Half asleep, his lunch box on his lap, he listened to Ben ramble on in his disjointed way about the baseball standings, his mouth falling open between assertions—“If Jerry Priddy didn’t hold the bat so high, he could hit the ball farther”—and his crooked arms mimicking the moves he described: George Kell’s signature scoop at third or Phil Rizzuto’s stretch to loosen his sleeve after throwing someone out. Only Ben, whose bed was like a pass between two mountains of Baseball Digest back issues, would have remembered that Priddy had torn up Rizzuto’s fan letters. Yet in almost every other way, he was slow and easily influenced by anyone who took the trouble: Mike Terrell lost a year of Kershaw baseball for sending Ben on a snipe hunt.

  The MacIlhatten twins, Janet and Janice, sat at the back of the bus, two horsey, scheming freshmen who dressed alike, enjoyed pretending to be each other, and amused themselves by playing tricks on Ben, hiding his hat or talking him out of the Mars bar in his lunch box. They laughed at his blank stare or repeated everything he said until he sat silent in defeat. Idle malice was their game, and, because they were superior students, they got little resistance from adults. Not entirely pretty themselves, they were brutal to Patty Seitz and Sandy Collins, two unattractive girls unlucky enough to ride the same bus, who quietly absorbed the twins’ commentary on their skin, their hair, their Mary Jane shoes, and their Mickey Mouse lunch boxes. Only Stanley Ayotte, who was often suspended, except during football season, when he was a star, stood up to the twins, and to their intervening mother, actually calling them bitches. They flirted with Stanley anyway, though he ignored it.