CHAPTER VII
The preceding was interrupted at midmorning of what turned out to be Memorial Day. Eulia was sunbathing on a cushion in one of those string bikinis favored in Central and South America: Suffice it to say that this suit would have fit, chipmunk-style, in one of my cheeks. Strang was bearing up well under the stress of telling his tale except for moments when he would lapse off into a reverie or the pain would overwhelm him. The pain, however, didn't stop him from his arduous afternoon crawls in the forest. The mosquitoes and blackflies endemic to this latitude had come to life, and his face and arms were covered with bites, despite the lotions used as a repellent.
“I don't see why you continue this therapy if it hurts that much?” I had asked.
“It's my only chance to see the world clearly, you know, to get better. If I just sat here and took all the drugs I've been prescribed, nothing would happen except narcosis. That's why I get up at first light when the world begins again. I always have. Then you see everything before your mind is involved in the struggles of the day's work. Same thing happens if you work a night shift and sleep in the evening. You go to work after breakfast at midnight. The excavation might be three miles across and mostly lighted by spots, with the roar of hundreds of earth-moving machines, and the roar of the diverted river behind you. You jump into a pickup to relieve your man and see how the work is going. Maybe you are lowering a three-hundred-ton generator into the new shell of a powerhouse. You saw the old crane was breaking down and you located one in the Alps, which was out of the question, and another one in Terre Haute, Indiana. The crane in Indiana is shipped down the Mississippi, then out of New Orleans on a freighter, down to the coast here. If we're really in the boondocks, you have to cut the crane up and ship it in by Sikorsky freight helicopters. After a job is done, a lot of the big equipment is abandoned if you're back in the jungle. You might find natives living in the cab of a crane when you come back to check a breakdown. Or say you work all night getting an eighty-ton transformer down a hill with hawsers and an airbag. Suddenly it is dawn, and everybody is happier because the birds start up and there's less fear on the site. Once a group of us were up on the side of a hill moving loose boulders at night and one of my men was half crushed. I held his head and shoulders in my lap while waiting for the doctor. Then daylight came, and over our circle of Brazilians, with me in the center on the ground, a huge bird flew, circling for a moment. No one had ever seen it before except the half-dead man in my lap, who was smiling. I moved him a little for his comfort, but the back of his head felt like a cloth sack with gravel in it. Then his life gave way, and all those católicos knelt down and started praying. Later I found out the bird was an eagle that eats monkeys. Maybe the dying man, who was a smart fellow, smiled because he saw the irony there. So to answer you, I do the crawling because it's the only work at hand and I'm a worker and it's my only chance to get back to my real work. Maybe the treatment is a hoax, even a fatal hoax, but it's the only one I got to go on. Twice I've been on a project that never should have happened. There's no more pathetic thing than building a dam that shouldn't be there. It usually happens for political reasons. I always demand a transfer. I can't bear meaningless work. Now Eulia is a dancer, and she works out at least four hours a day, and it's hard to understand how she repeats this same routine every day. She says it's to be physically capable, when the occasion arises, to do what the choreographer asks, or to do the movements her heart or spirit might ask her to do. So that's meaningful work. What if you suddenly couldn't write after spending your whole life doing so? You're no spring chicken—what if you had a small stroke and everything else was fine, but you even spelled your goddamn name backwards, what would you do? That's what I mean.”
“I understand,” I answered, not without a tremor in my stomach. “Perhaps I'd hang in there a while and see if it was reversible. I'd be full of dread—”
“That's wrong,” Strang interrupted. “You've got to beat the dread out of yourself, or you can't do anything for yourself properly. I've gathered together all the available information, and I'll give it a try until October. I've had other times in my life that seemed worse, but that was earlier. Now it's time for your sedative.” Strang had become an accurate observer of my behavior and knew when I was desperate for a drink.
Back to midmoming on Memorial Day, with its sidelong glances at Eulia's bottom staring back at the sun in an equal trade of glory. My eyes were overdazzled, and my concentration inept. Strang took a break to fish in his aluminum walker contraption downstream near a log jam. His struggle against the current created a lump in my throat. Miss, the fat dog, watched him from the bank, then rushed barking along the bank and out the driveway. A big station wagon entered the yard with the dog behind it, as if it were only through her efforts that the car could move. A large woman in her early fifties got out, followed by a younger woman in a women's air force uniform and a sluggish-looking fellow, also big, in his late twenties, I would guess. They were all spiffy in their Sunday best: The man wore the sort of doubleknit suit and string tie preferred for formal occasions in the Great White North. He actually wore well-shined brown shoes and white socks. I felt snobbish and territorial at the same time, mistakenly, it turned out. Eulia got up from her brazen mat, all supple and greasy with lotion.
“May I help you?”
“I'm Emmeline. You know, Corve's first wife. And who are you, beautiful? You could start a public riot.” She laughed the kind of deep belly laugh that makes everyone within earshot feel better.
“I'm Eulia.” She offered a rare smile. I walked over, and we completed the introductions. They were openly pleased I had come that far to talk to their ex-husband and father. Robert Jr. strode down the bank and into the muck and reeds to help his father. Strang hugged them all, half pulling them over the walker, no mean feat as they were true heavyweights. They reminded me of people who had emerged whole from the time warp of the 1950s. Aurora cried after she kissed her father. Emmeline was distressed and beaming at the same time, while Robert Jr.’s face reddened as he glanced at Eulia, who was unnaturally pleased at the reunion.
“Bobby, you stupid shit, you're muddy to the knees,” Emmeline said with another laugh.
“Guess I don't care one bit.” He gave one the impression of a man who spent a lot of time alone. It turned out he was a logger.
“You sound like Uncle Karl. Emmeline, are you sure you weren't fooling with Karl when I was in Africa?” Strang's eyes sparkled with the question.
“Robert Corvus!” She covered her face and shrieked. “You know I was true to you for years. Who knows what you was doing with those jungle bunnies overseas? I'm taking my picnic and going home.”
Strang reached over and tugged her by the arm. “You were the truest woman of my life. After you, it was pretty much downhill.”
“Nobody said you had to spend all your time away,” Aurora flared. I could see she held her own.
“I didn't drive a hundred miles to see you bitches try to tear Dad apart. Besides, I'm hungry. Aurie,” he called her, “get the picnic basket.”
“Get it yourself, you lamebrain bastard. You call me a bitch again, and I'll use judo.” She advanced on him with a silly smile, chasing him to the car.
It was an oddly wonderful picnic. Eulia got dressed to Robert Jr.’s loudly spoken regrets.
“To be frank, Eulia"—he pronounced it Yew-lee—"I've never laid eyes on one like you in real life.”
“Bobby here cuts down trees all day long. His wife ran off with a cosmetics salesman and left him with two kids. She was pretty awful.”
“You should have brought your kids, Bobby. Jesus, am I too young to be a grandpa? Eulia, I'm a grandpa.”
“What a wonderful thing to be!” I found out later that Eulia's happiness was due to the fact that she was from a big extended family and loved family confusion.
“I didn't want to tire you out with the kids. We know you're real sick, and we want to take you over to the hospital in Escanaba.”
“Thank you. They're no doubt good at chain-saw wounds and sewing up drunks, but I got some special problems. It was a good thought, and I'll call if I need help.”
Meanwhile, I was intent on the food before us. Emmeline had spread a fine Belgian tablecloth that I guessed Strang had sent years before. It was the kind of northern feast that accounts for the heaviest concentration of stomach cancer in the United States, a fact that deters no one. There were Cornish pasties wrapped in foil to keep them warm, smoked whitefish and lake trout, cold beef with a horseradish cream sauce, a container of home-pickled herring, and assorted pickles and relishes.
“You're too thin, Corve,” Emmeline said somewhat defensively.
“I busted up my guts when I fell. They took out my spleen. I couldn't keep down food for quite a while.”
“Our stepdad wanted to send over some flowers. He's a good guy, you know. He wanted to send over some flowers, but I said old Dad only likes wildflowers, so he picked these.” Aurora reached into the cavernous picnic basket and brought out violets and buttercups surrounded by watercress strands.
“Please thank him for me.” Strang buried his face in the flowers long enough to make us uncomfortable. “You didn't know my sister Violet who died. She didn't like violets, but she liked buttercups.”
Strang and Emmeline went to the cemetery to visit the graves of father and mothers, sisters and brothers, a custom still followed religiously in rural areas of our country. I clearly saw that Strang didn't want to go, but it was a palliative offered after some odd unpleasantness over business accounts. Robert Jr. had gone off to the car after the meal and returned with a pile of ledgers. I had followed Aurora's signal and moved to the riverbank, where we sat with Eulia and the dog. Eulia spoke eloquently to the dog in Spanish, which made me curse my ignorance of that language. I began talking with Aurora who, as it turned out, was stationed in Naples, Italy, with NATO as an information officer. We spoke rather excitedly about the food available in all the different regions of Italy and about Waverly Root's masterpiece on the subject. Eulia asked how we could possibly talk about food after an enormous meal.
“Jesus, Eulia, give me a break. It's my favorite thing. Call me Miss Thunder Thighs. Luckily for me Italian men don't mind a little substance. One old goat calls me piccola mamma. Are you Dad's girlfriend?”
“Of course not. I suppose I am his stepdaughter. He is my favorite man in a world of worthless pigs.”
“Thank you, darling.” I suppressed an urge to oink, but was a little too hurt to respond comically. Aurora patted my arm, and Eulia kissed my ear, our first physical contact, and my ear burned with her breath. Meanwhile, I was practicing one of my minor, schizoid talents as a writer and listening to the conversation up at the picnic table with my cooler ear. Here is a somewhat garbled rendition.
“Dad, you could at least look at the books. We busted our balls to make a go of this.”
“I've seen some of the figures. The accountant in Miami sends me figures every quarter.” Strang was plainly keeping his low pitch while the other two voices were choked with emotion.
“I just always thought we were doing our best for you. I mean, we always did real well because you put up the money—” Emmeline said.
“That had nothing to do with it,” Strang interrupted. “Lots of money gets invested, and more than half of all enterprises go bankrupt. You both did well because you're smart and worked hard.”
“I just thought you'd come back someday and be the head man or advise us, you know, when you retired. Now you're all busted up, and me and Bobby want to take care of you. We got plenty of money—”
“I don't need any money, Emmeline. The company takes care of you when you're injured. Ted gave me the cabin. And you already have a fine husband to help run things. ...”
“He don't know anything. He's a good guy, but he's got no sense. Mom runs the whole show.” Robert Jr. was red-faced and pacing.
“I just always thought you'd come back someday and live near us and we'd see you. I know we wouldn't be family, but I would see you. I loved you so much my heart just breaks.” Her sobs were strong and full as her laughter had been.
Robert Jr. strode off toward the forest. “I can tell you one thing, goddammit. I'm not taking your goddamn money,” he yelled.
Strang slid down the bench and put his arm around Emmeline. Aurora joined them and ran a hand through his hair. Eulia buried her face in her hands, and I gave her a frantic pat on the shoulder.
After Strang and Emmeline left for the cemetery, Robert Jr. walked out of the woods with an air between shame and embarrassment. Eulia had retrieved a bottle of whiskey and four glasses. We sat at the picnic table with all of them implicitly looking toward me and my seniority for wisdom. I passed.
“I guess I fucked up. I never thought I'd yell at my own father. He probably won't want to see me anymore.”
“Oh, nonsense, Bobby. You're always like that. If you stepped on dogshit in the middle of the night you'd think it was your fault.” Aurora had been out in the great world and was being sensible.
“We built up a logging business, and a motel and restaurant on his money. Now he doesn't want any part of us. Do you think my dad's got all his marbles?” The question was on the money, however inelegant.
“Not on the terms of nearly all of us,” I hedged, then tried to confront the issue. “I imagine he liked being paid well all of these years, but he has no particular use for money. As far as I can see, he's never slowed down long enough to have time to spend money. I'm sure the only regret he's had is not spending much time with those he loved, so he wanted them to live well.”
“I just don't know. Maybe I can at least get him down home to see my new skidder.” Bobby talked as he fingered through his wallet and unfolded a clipping which he passed to me.
It was an Associated Press piece printed in the Marquette Mining Journal a half dozen years before: “Upper Peninsula Man Overseas Giant Brazilian Dam Project.” It showed a photo of “head foreman” Robert C. Strang, rather shyly dwarfed by an immense dump-truck tire, and another of him pointing to a dam from the top of a powerhouse. I read it quickly and passed it back.
“I'd say that there's a man who knows what he was doing.” Bobby drank down his whiskey with the air of a man who had made the winning point.
“Bobby, remember when he brought us down to Miami to this big deal hotel? We were about ten. We waited a couple days for him and went swimming all day in the hotel pool because you asked if we could. Then Dad came into town in old construction clothes, and he just called the clothing store in the hotel and they sent up new clothes for him. You wouldn't eat lobster because you said it looked like the hellgrammites you used for trout bait.”
“I always thought Mom should have just waited for him like he was off to war or something like that.”
“That's not fair,” Eulia said. “My father went to Limón one day, and we never saw him again.”