“Davies says you’re an old rogue. A bandit of tolerable rank. ‘Nimble Mr. Dobie,’ he called you.”
“I was obliged for a while to use names besides my own. I am sorry to have deceived you, Becket.”
“He claims you kept outlaw company for a long span of time.”
“Almost a decade.”
“Did you kill anyone?”
He turned from me and looked into the southern sky. “You have every right to be a hard customer, Becket. Will you come, or no?”
“Glendon,” I said, “what I am supposed to think of you? I wish you’d tell me that.”
I heard the porch door open again, and this time it was Royal. He called out, like an old friend, “Say, Monte, are you coming?”
Glendon said nothing. He stood relaxed and balanced—
contrapposto
, my artist wife would say, a hand on a hip. I could feel the draw of his silence, the draw of his naïve and weak-eyed quest foratonement; no doubt even his shifty past was a draw, for his life seemed a curving line, capricious, moment by moment inviting grace.
“Monte?” Royal called again.
“Of course,” I replied. “Of course, I’m on my way.” And off the dock I stepped, into that heartbroken vessel.
In this way I crossed over. In this way I slid apart from all that was easy and comfortable and lawful; and so tired was my bandit friend that I took the oars myself and rowed facing forward. You just see better, standing up, and I enjoyed the feel and sound of the sweeps, and not until we were miles upriver did I remember my clothes and grip, back at Royal Davies’s house, and my unfinished letter to Susannah, abandoned on his dock.
2
He slept several hours while I rowed upstream—my hands and forearms were aching when he woke and sat up in the johnboat.
“We’re short of food,” he stated.
I’d been wondering about that. Swing heavy oars all night, and you are likely to want breakfast in the morning.
He said, “I haven’t much: corn biscuits, salt, a water jar. About two mouthfuls of whiskey. We need to replenish.”
“Couldn’t we catch a fish?”
“I’ve got no hook and line,” he said. “We’ll try to find that too. Meantime, let me know if you see any turtles. A turtle is first rate.”
“This business doesn’t pay too well, does it?”
He gave a worn laugh, sighed, adjusted himself on the boat’s soggy floor, and pondered his dubious origins.
“I don’t even recall how I started,” he said. “I was a poor learner in most ways but you know what, I made a quick little bandit. It come to me like speech. I’d walk to town and back home to discover things in my pockets. Pulleys, bolts. Shiny stuff.”
“Like a crow,” I said.
“Yes, I suppose. I’d haunt the docks or the Odd Fellows Lodge. Or the doctor’s office—oh, but he had bright tools, scissors, tiny round mirrors for peering down your mysteries.” He laughed softly. “I had a fine collection of sparkly bits.”
“What about your parents? Didn’t they see what you were doing?”
“They missed quite a bit, for we were never acquainted,” he replied,which made me forget the oars until we lost headway and began a slow arc backward.
“Who raised you, Glendon?”
“A number of people. I remember most of their names. There was a hardheaded churchgoing couple who could see down the road and tried to iron me out, and a schoolteacher, never mind her, and there was a stumpy old duff who made toast and jam every day of the week, but by then it was late in the game. I was adept at slipping off.”
It took some time to absorb—this revealed black crow of a child. It cut from me the stubborn assumption that we all start alike, and made a larger achievement of Glendon’s everyday goodwill and decorum.
I pushed us upstream while the moon fell and was buried in the southwest horizon. When dawn touched the river I saw a large fish swimming beside the boat, a broad-backed fish with a pointy tail fin. In the chalky light that fish accompanied us upstream just beyond the radius
“I was obliged for a while to use names besides my own. I am sorry to have deceived you, Becket.”
“He claims you kept outlaw company for a long span of time.”
“Almost a decade.”
“Did you kill anyone?”
He turned from me and looked into the southern sky. “You have every right to be a hard customer, Becket. Will you come, or no?”
“Glendon,” I said, “what I am supposed to think of you? I wish you’d tell me that.”
I heard the porch door open again, and this time it was Royal. He called out, like an old friend, “Say, Monte, are you coming?”
Glendon said nothing. He stood relaxed and balanced—
contrapposto
, my artist wife would say, a hand on a hip. I could feel the draw of his silence, the draw of his naïve and weak-eyed quest foratonement; no doubt even his shifty past was a draw, for his life seemed a curving line, capricious, moment by moment inviting grace.
“Monte?” Royal called again.
“Of course,” I replied. “Of course, I’m on my way.” And off the dock I stepped, into that heartbroken vessel.
In this way I crossed over. In this way I slid apart from all that was easy and comfortable and lawful; and so tired was my bandit friend that I took the oars myself and rowed facing forward. You just see better, standing up, and I enjoyed the feel and sound of the sweeps, and not until we were miles upriver did I remember my clothes and grip, back at Royal Davies’s house, and my unfinished letter to Susannah, abandoned on his dock.
2
He slept several hours while I rowed upstream—my hands and forearms were aching when he woke and sat up in the johnboat.
“We’re short of food,” he stated.
I’d been wondering about that. Swing heavy oars all night, and you are likely to want breakfast in the morning.
He said, “I haven’t much: corn biscuits, salt, a water jar. About two mouthfuls of whiskey. We need to replenish.”
“Couldn’t we catch a fish?”
“I’ve got no hook and line,” he said. “We’ll try to find that too. Meantime, let me know if you see any turtles. A turtle is first rate.”
“This business doesn’t pay too well, does it?”
He gave a worn laugh, sighed, adjusted himself on the boat’s soggy floor, and pondered his dubious origins.
“I don’t even recall how I started,” he said. “I was a poor learner in most ways but you know what, I made a quick little bandit. It come to me like speech. I’d walk to town and back home to discover things in my pockets. Pulleys, bolts. Shiny stuff.”
“Like a crow,” I said.
“Yes, I suppose. I’d haunt the docks or the Odd Fellows Lodge. Or the doctor’s office—oh, but he had bright tools, scissors, tiny round mirrors for peering down your mysteries.” He laughed softly. “I had a fine collection of sparkly bits.”
“What about your parents? Didn’t they see what you were doing?”
“They missed quite a bit, for we were never acquainted,” he replied,which made me forget the oars until we lost headway and began a slow arc backward.
“Who raised you, Glendon?”
“A number of people. I remember most of their names. There was a hardheaded churchgoing couple who could see down the road and tried to iron me out, and a schoolteacher, never mind her, and there was a stumpy old duff who made toast and jam every day of the week, but by then it was late in the game. I was adept at slipping off.”
It took some time to absorb—this revealed black crow of a child. It cut from me the stubborn assumption that we all start alike, and made a larger achievement of Glendon’s everyday goodwill and decorum.
I pushed us upstream while the moon fell and was buried in the southwest horizon. When dawn touched the river I saw a large fish swimming beside the boat, a broad-backed fish with a pointy tail fin. In the chalky light that fish accompanied us upstream just beyond the radius
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