The moon was coming up when Frank took Bob Daggett, Dave Eamons, and Cal Partridge aside.
It was Dave he spoke to.
‘I knew it was coming, and here it is,’ he said.
‘What are you talking about, Unc?’ Bob asked.
‘My heart,’ Frank said. ‘Goddam thing has thrown a rod.’
‘Now, Uncle Frank — ‘
‘Never mind Uncle Frank this n Uncle Frank that,’ the old man said. ‘I ain’t got time to listen to you play fiddlyfuck on the mouth-organ. Seen half my friends go the same way. It ain’t no day at the races, but it could be worse; beats hell out of getting whacked with the cancer-stick.
‘But now there’s this other sorry business to mind, and all I got to say on that subject is, when I go down I intend to stay down. Cal, stick that rifle of yours in my left ear. Dave, when I raise my left arm, you sock yours into my armpit. And Bobby, you put yours right over my heart. I’m gonna say the Lord’s Prayer, and when I hit amen, you three fellows are gonna pull your triggers at the same time.’
‘Uncle Frank — ‘ Bob managed. He was reeling on his heels.
‘I told you not to start in on that,’ Frank said. ‘And don’t you dare faint on me, you friggin pantywaist. Now get your country butt over here.’
Bob did.
Frank looked around at the three men, their faces as white as Matt Arsenault’s had been when he drove the ‘dozer over men and women he had known since he was a kid in short pants and Buster Browns.
‘Don’t you boys frig this up,’ Frank said. He was speaking to all of them, but his eye might have been particularly trained on his grandnephew. ‘If you feel like maybe you’re gonna backslide, just remember I’d’a done the same for any of you.’
‘Quit with the speech,’ Bob said hoarsely. ‘I love you, Uncle Frank.’
‘You ain’t the man your father was, Bobby Daggett, but I love you, too,’ Frank said calmly, and then, with a cry of pain, he threw his left hand up over his head like a guy in New York who has to have a cab in a rip of a hurry, and started in with his last prayer. ‘Our Father who art in heaven
— Christ, that hurts! — hallow’d be Thy name — oh, son of a gun! — Thy kingdom come, Thy will be done, on earth as it . . . as it . . . ‘
Frank’s upraised left arm was wavering wildly now. Dave Eamons, with his rifle socked into the old geezer’s armpit, watched it as carefully as a logger would watch a big tree that looked like it meant to do evil and fall the wrong way. Every man on the island was watching now. Big beads of sweat had formed on the old man’s pallid face. His lips had pulled back from the even, yellowy-white of his Roebuckers, and Dave had been able to smell the Polident on his breath.
‘ . . . as it is in heaven!’ the old man jerked out. ‘Lead us not into temptation butdeliverusfromevilohshitonitforeverand-everAMEN!’
All three of them fired, and both Cal Partridge and Bob Daggett fainted, but Frank never did try to get up and walk.
Frank Daggett had meant to stay dead, and that was just what he did.
Once Dave started that story he had to go on with it, and so he cursed himself for ever starting.
He’d been right the first time; it was no story for a pregnant woman.
But Maddie had kissed him and told him she thought he had done wonderfully, and that Frank Daggett had done wonderfully, too. Dave went out feeling a little dazed, as if he had just been kissed on the cheek by a woman he had never met before.
In a very real sense, that was true.
She watched him go down the path to the dirt track that was one of Jenny’s two roads and turn left. He was weaving a little in the moonlight, weaving with tiredness, she thought, but reeling with shock, as well. Her heart went out to him . . . to all of them. She had wanted to tell Dave she loved him and kiss him squarely on the mouth instead of just skimming his cheek with her lips, but he might have taken the wrong meaning from something like that, even though he was bone-weary and she was almost five months pregnant.
But she did love him, loved all of them, because they had gone through hell in order to make this little lick of land forty miles out in the Atlantic safe for her.
And safe for her baby.
‘It will be a home delivery,’ she said softly as Dave went out of sight behind the dark hulk of the Pulsifers’ satellite dish. Her eyes rose to the moon. ‘It will be a home delivery . . . and it will be fine.’
Rainy Season
It was half past five in the afternoon by the time John and Elise Graham finally found their way into the little village that lay at the center of Willow, Maine, like a fleck of grit at the center of some dubious pearl. The village was less than five miles from the Hempstead Place, but they took two wrong turns on the way. When they finally arrived on Main Street, both of them were hot and out of sorts. The Ford’s air-conditioner had dropped dead on the trip from St. Louis, and it felt about a hundred and ten outside. Of course it wasn’t anything at all like that, John Graham thought. As the old-timers said, it wasn’t the heat, it was the humidity. He felt that today it would be almost possible to reach out and wring warm dribbles of water from the air itself. The sky overhead was a clear and open blue, but that high humidity made it feel as if it were going to rain any minute. Fuck that — it felt as if it were raining already.
‘There’s the market Milly Cousins told us about,’ Elise said, and pointed.
John grunted. ‘Doesn’t exactly look like the supermarket of the future.’
‘No,’ Elise agreed carefully. They were both being careful. They had been married almost two years and they still loved each other very much, but it had been a long trip across country from St. Louis, especially in a car with a broken radio and air-conditioner. John had every hope they would enjoy the summer here in Willow (they ought to, with the University of Missouri picking up the tab), but he thought it might take as long as a week for them to settle in and settle down.
And when the weather turned yellow-dog hot like this, an argument could spin itself out of thin air. Neither of them wanted that kind of start to their summer.
John drove slowly down Main Street toward the Willow General Mercantile and Hardware.
There was a rusty sign with a blue eagle on it hanging from one corner of the porch, and he understood this was also the postal substation. The General Mercantile looked sleepy in the afternoon light, with one single car, a beat-to-shit Volvo, parked beside the sign advertising ITALIAN SANDWICHES PIZZA GROCS FISHING LICENCES, but compared with the rest of the town, it seemed to be all but bursting with life. There was a neon beer sign fizzing away in the window, although it would not be dark for almost three hours yet. Pretty radical, John thought.
Sure hope the owner cleared that sign with the Board of Selectmen before he put it in.
‘I thought Maine turned into Vacationland in the summer,’ Elise murmured.
‘Judging from what we’ve seen so far, I think Willow must be a little off the tourist track,’ he replied.
They got out of the car and mounted the porch steps. An elderly man in a straw hat sat in a rocker with a cane seat, looking at them from shrewd little blue eyes. He was fiddling a homemade cigarette together and dribbling little bits of tobacco on the dog which lay crashed out at his feet. It was a big yellow dog of no particular make or model. Its paws lay directly beneath one of the rocker’s curved runners. The old man took no notice of the dog, seemed not even to realize it was there, but the runner stopped a quarter of an inch from the vulnerable paws each time the old man rocked forward. Elise found this unaccountably fascinating.
‘Good day to ye, lady n man,’ the old gentleman said.
‘Hello,’ Elise answered, and offered him a small, tentative smile.
‘Hi,’ John said. ‘I’m — ‘
‘Mr. Graham,’ the old man finished placidly. ‘Mr. and Missus Graham. Ones that took the Hempstead Place for the summer. Heard you was writin some kind of book.’