THE GREAT MYSTERIOUS a Thesis Presented to the Graduate Faculty of the University of Akron in Partial Fulfillment of the Require
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THE GREAT MYSTERIOUS A Thesis Presented to The Graduate Faculty of The University of Akron In Partial Fulfillment of the Requirements for the Degree Master of Fine Arts Jeremy Sayers May, 2010 THE GREAT MYSTERIOUS Jeremy Sayers Thesis Approved: Accepted: ________________________________ _________________________________ Advisor Dean of the College Robert Pope, Jr. Chand K. Midha ________________________________ _________________________________ Faculty Reader Dean of the Graduate School Varley O’Connor George Newkome ________________________________ _________________________________ Faculty Reader Date Eric Wasserman ________________________________ Department Chair Michael Schuldiner ii TABLE OF CONTENTS SECTION Page FENCELINE………………………………………………………………………………………………………….1 PRIMROSE…………………………………………………………………………………………......................25 IN ANOTHER WINTER………………….................................................................................................37 CONSEQUENCES………………………………………………………………………………………………...64 HORNS………………………………..............................................................................................................80 INHERITANCE………………………….......................................................................................................95 AWAY, DOWN TO THE SEA……………………………………………………………………………….122 POCHEEN………………………………………………………………………………………………………...140 A LOVE FOR BUCKS…………………....................................................................................................151 ASHCAMP………………………………………………………………………………………………………...172 THE GRAY AND THE GOLD……………………………………………………………………………….184 iii FENCELINE “Kinda scrawny, ain’t ya?” The foreman leaned against a rail. When the kid didn’t answer, he fired again. “I seen chicken hawks with more meat on ‘em than you. How old’er you anyway?” “Eighteen.” The kid stretched his neck. Scratching his back against the fence like a bear, the foreman said, “Umm hmm. You sure you can count, son? Look more like fifteen to me.” He stood his ground, looked the foreman in the eye. “You want somebody to tend your fence, or somebody to teach arithmetic?” The tone of voice made the kid’s horse toss its head. He let the rein go taut one time then pulled the nose down, scratching at the animal’s jaw to calm him. Pointing at the old bay, the foreman said, “Can you ride?” Without touching a stirrup the kid swung up in the saddle, gave a whistle through his teeth and tore off at a gallop that would have seemed impossible from that horse. He hugged the fenceline for about a hundred yards, turned back in a cloud of orange dust and thundered toward the foreman again. Still fifty yards out he slowed to a lope, turned the horse so the fence was at their backs, cantered him out through a figure-eight, switching lead in mid-stride, and to the fence again. Then he barreled back down the line, dust boiling up behind like smoke from a freight train, slowing to a fancy high-stepping trot a few horse lengths away from where the foreman still leaned against the rails, the horse 1 jigging sideways in a cross-legged dance step an instant before the man would have had to break and run or clamber up the fence. The kid pulled the old bay to a smart stop. His eyes were blazing. “And I ain’t fifteen neither,” he declared, glaring down at the foreman. “Well, son,” the foreman laughed, catching his breath, “remind me not to ask you if you can wrastle, ‘less I have a black bear with me.” “Yes sir,” the rider conceded. He still throned the saddle. “Tomorrow soon enough to start?” “Hell, start now, son. Dinner’ll be on the table time you get Methuselah there unsaddled and rubbed down.” An even two dozen men ranged around a pair long tables. Already eating, most of them stopped, raised their heads when the new hand came in. He spotted the foreman, an empty chair beside him. Sauntering up to the table, the kid pulled off his hat. Brim pointed at the plate he asked, “That my place?” “Don’t see nobody else setting there do ya?” The foreman grinned. He scraped the chair out, hung his hat on back and sat down. A slab of beef swam in steaming gravy on the plate. He felt almost dizzy. Before he could reach for the fork the foreman held his hand out across the corner of the table. “Tom Short.” The kid shook the proffered hand. “Henry Jenkins.” He got the fork and knife in his grip. First bite in his mouth, he almost swallowed it whole when Tom Short bellowed, “Fellers, this here is Henry Jones. New fence rider.” Around the wad in his mouth, Henry said, “Jenkins,” but his voice was muffled. He worked his jaw. The foreman looked confused. Munching a few more times, Henry worked the wad down. “Henry Jenkins,” he repeated. “Not Jones. Jenkins.” 2 The foreman gaped at him, then a corner of his mouth pulled up, and he bellowed out again, “It’s Jenkins, boys. Henry Jenkins.” “Knew a fellow called Scat Jenkins out in Montana. Any kin a’ yers?” Henry turned to his right. One intense brown eye scrutinized him, its partner stared unfocused at the wall. Scat? He pictured himself trailing out of the dairy barn behind his father, still early morning, Dad raking his boot soles on the iron jack by the carriage house door. Always scrape the scat off your boots, son. Don’t want folks in Pittsburgh thinking your some kind of bumpkin. Was the fellow trying to get his goat? “Scat?” Henry repeated. “Yep. He was a scout, but fellers called ‘im Scat ‘cause he tracked by by following its scat. Either that er they was just to lazy to say scout, I reckon. ” Trying not to commit, Henry said, “Huh.” “Kin a’ yer’s?” Henry ticked a shoulder. “Could be.” “Could maybe be yer granddaddy’s older brother.” Across the table a middle aged fellow in a checked shirt grinned, leaned on the table, fork in mid-motion. “Hell Jake,” he winked at Henry, “Scat Jenkins was older’n Moses when you knowed ‘im. And that was near forty year ago.” Jake studied his plate. “Wasn’t neither.” He looked up, the wall-eye bulging. “More like twenty.” “Jake, yer boots is older’n twenty years old.” “Well, I had these boots on last time I seen Scat. So there ya go.” Jake contemplated his supper for an instant, sliced off a neat little square of beef, and socked it in his mouth. 3 Uncomfortable with conversation, Henry looked at his plate too. Beef. Cows are cows, only these kind are easier to work; never have to milk ‘em. So why feel out of place? Likely not half a dozen of these men could milk a cow. Never mind getting the big cans into the icehouse. And the way most of them sat a horse, like they were about half asleep. Why, in Pennsylvania no one with an ounce of self respect would slouch in the saddle like that. Besides, riding fence wasn’t like riding herd. The point was to just keep the cows from wandering off too far, didn’t have to rope ‘em, or drive ‘em. Just drive nails to keep loose fence wire in place. Why would anyone want to wash twenty udders twice a day, and put up with chapped knuckles, and mucking out stalls, and forking hay, when you could just be out away from people, and ride, and see something new every morning? By the time a coffee pot was put on the table Henry could hardly sit still. He hadn’t come all this way to wait around with a bunch of hired hands talking about twenty year old boots, and fellows with names like Scat. When the whole thing was over it would be nice to have that roll of bills in his pocket. Right now, though, all he wanted was to get away from these talkers. You ain’t gettin’ paid to talk, your gettin’ paid to work. That’s what Dad always told jabber-jawed day laborers--Pete Johnson leaning on his hay fork, telling Bible stories to a bunch of good fresh heifers like he was their Sunday school teacher. Or Delroy Clinton idling around with a milk can top in his hand, telling some never-ending tale about the little cows in Ireland, and how the barns were made of stone, and they kept the milk in clay pots; how there were frogs in the spring house where they put the pots to stay cool and one day a frog up and jumps in one of the pots, only nobody sees it until this old woman buys some milk. She has a cupful, and when she’s done, there’s this old frog sitting in the bottom of her cup. She blinks at it a few times, and while her eyes are closed it jumps out, and when she opens ‘em again, she says Faith lads, I don’t know what you been 4 feedin’ dem cows, but if it can make de milk as strong as dat, never mind runnin’ it tru de udder, I’ll pay yous for it full strength. Then Delroy would always laugh and repeat the last part a few times, he liked hearing it so much. And in the meantime everybody else has all the cans loaded in the cart to go to the icehouse, and there’s Delroy, with one can still not lidded. The fellow across from Henry, in the checkered shirt, was still ribbing old wall- eyed Jake. Something about the way his blanket smelled. “And that feller’s got to sit by ya. No wonder he ain’t got no stomach fer ‘is food. Why if I was any closer to ya I’d be looking at my boot soles.” Not two seconds later Henry felt an odor creeping into his head, somewhere between tobacco spit and unwashed socks. “Ain’t nobody makin’ you sit there, Charlie.” Jake’s voice was almost a growl. He hunched over the plate, cup trembling in his hand. “Yer dadgum mouth ruint more meals than a dozen skunks, anyways.” A loud slurp punctuated the statement. Charlie was grinning, caught Henry’s eye when he looked up.