The
Rescues of Brittan
Courvalais
by
Tom Sheehan
It
did not come with
electricity or
a smash of static
on the air, but
it was there.
Brittan Courvalais,
five minutes into
the darkness of
a new day, a streetlight’s
glow falling through
his window like
a subtle visitor,
was caught on
the edge of his
chair. Knowledge
flowed to him,
information of
a most sublime
order, privacy,
intimacy, all
in one slow sweep
of the air; his
grandson was just
now, just this
minute, into this
world, his only
grandson. He could
feel him, that
child coming,
making way his
debut into the
universe, and
his name would
be Shag. And for
this life he and
Shag would be
in a mysterious
and incomprehensible
state of connection.
This, in the streetlight’s
glow, in the start
of a new day though
dawn not yet afoot,
he was told.
People
of the neighborhood
shortly said that
the oldest man
among them, white-bearded,
dark-eyed, seventy-five-year-old
Brittan Courvalais,
loved his only
grandchild Shag
in a deep and
special way. They
said there was
a virtual connection,
a most generous
connection between
them, more than
the usual. At
times they dwelled
on the love ingredient,
and then on the
old and the young,
the near gone
and the coming.
On days when young
Shag came by,
just an infant
in his mother’s
arms, the old
man’s step
changed, his gait
changed, his shoulders
stiffened, his
voice went lyrical.
Some heard him
singing under
the silver maple
tree in the side
yard, the tone
reaching, ascendant,
carrying more
than day in it
or cool evening
or a new stab
at dawn. Shag
would come, put
his arms out,
and nestle against
the old man’s
beard. The pair
would look into
each other’s
eyes and the world
about them seemed
lost, distant,
at odds with the
very young and
the very old.
Brittan’s
daughter Marta
could only beam
when the topic
was broached,
or say, “I
don’t know
what it is. It
mystifies me,
but it’s
as if they share
an infinite else.”
She’d smile
broadly when she
said it, shrug
her shoulders,
be fully happy
in her puzzle.
From
just about every
aspect, Brittan
Courvalais was
a very ordinary
man, until such
time as an extraordinary
demand was placed
upon him. Neighbors
of the old war
dog only knew
what they saw
and heard but
a little of the
hidden parts of
his life, where
valor had surfaced
when needed. Stories
had been told,
sometimes whispered.
In Korea , it
was said, he’d
taken on a mountain
and the enemy
and beat them
both. Just after
Korea , out on
the highway, he’d
pulled an unconscious
truck driver from
the cab of his
truck minutes
before the whole
rig exploded in
a huge ball of
fire that shut
down an overpass
for nearly five
months. Later,
on a cold spring
day, skies heavy,
off the wash of
Egg Rock out in
Lynn Harbor ,
he’d gone
under a capsized
boat and extracted
two unconscious
sailors. And every
year since then,
without exception,
and for the everlasting
grace of the neighborhood,
the two sailors,
on the morning
of the Fourth
of July, would
set up a flag
on Brittan’s
front lawn, plank
down three or
four cases of
beer and drink
them off in a
day long salute.
Three or four
times the truck
driver came to
celebrate. People
said that other
unknown visitors
would drop by,
have a beer, casually
say a word or
two to Brittan,
shake hands and
quietly leave,
like shadows in
a man’s
life. Such shadows
made more stories,
and naturally,
with such kicks
for a starter,
the Fourth always
came up a party.
Otherwise,
in his quiet and
retiring life,
Brittan Courvalais
raised an exceptionally
small patch of
tomatoes with
an exceptionally
good yield, so
good that from
that little patch
some neighbors
could preserve
a great deal of
tomato sauce.
That a seventy-five-year-old
man had such a
green thumb was
quite acceptable;
he’s been
around, hasn’t
he? That’s
why his lawn was
generally trimmed
and healthy looking,
a few beds of
flowers hosted
a smash of colors
every year. His
small cottage
stood as a marker
of time, of the
seasons, a sort
of contentment
in itself. Retirement
in a very tolerable
neutral gear,
life ebbing out
in a comfortable
wake, long days
astern.
And
then one day,
at a nearby park,
when the seat
of a swing hit
another child
and Marta rushed
to help, Shag
disappeared. Nobody,
in all the hue
and cry had seen
him go. Nobody
had seen anyone
carry him off.
Hundreds hunted
all the fields
and pathways.
No Shag. On the
second day the
two sailors came
by to help. And
the old man sat
on his porch sad,
morose, and ready
to scream. The
authorities declared
it a kidnapping.
Brittan, for four
days, sitting
on his porch,
waited for some
word. Marta started
to speak one day
coming up the
stairs and the
old man held his
hand up, as if
listening. He
kept his hand
in the air for
a full five minutes.
Marta did not
speak. Later that
afternoon, when
the mailman came
by, Brittan Courvalais
once more held
his hand up for
silence. At his
next gossip stop,
at Jed Hendry’s
Barbershop, and
again back at
the post office,
the mailman repeated
the story: “The
old soldier is
listening for
something, as
if it’s
going to come
from out of space,
a space probe,
mind you. Should
have seen his
eyes, would scare
the pants off
you. Like he was
hearing something!”
Marta
and her husband
came by each day
after their visit
to the police
station. She’d
make coffee, put
nibbling food
on the porch table,
and look at her
father’s
face. She wanted
to reach out and
touch him, to
be a child again
for him, but the
look in her father’s
eyes frightened
her. “I
don’t know
what he’s
going to do, Earl,”
she said, “he’s
so locked up into
something, something
so very different.”
Then she’d
go into the house
and cry for an
hour or more.
The
weight of the
world, thus, crushed
down on the old
man who sat waiting
for good news
only.
On
the sixth day,
all hope fading,
to some all of
it gone, one neighbor
saw Brittan Courvalais
standing on his
porch, his head
tipped, as if
listening for
a bird’s
call or someone
calling from out
of sight, perhaps
in the house or
down the street.
Brittan held his
hand in the air
as though he was
asking for quiet
or noting peaceful
intentions to
an unseen guest.
The neighbor looked
about and saw
no other person
except a delivery
driver stepping
down from his
truck eight or
nine houses away.
Slanting rays
of May sunlight
were flashing
down through young
leaves and limbs
and falling on
Courvalais like
pieces of newly
minted coin. On
the porch floor
pieces of shadow
or shade were
cast like dominoes.
A slight breeze
talked in the
same leaves and
began to whisper
on the edges of
gutters and down
spouts. Two or
three times the
old man cocked
his head, his
mouth slightly
ajar, stony in
intent, inert.
The wind whispered,
the sun’s
rays played tag,
the gutters and
down spouts answered.
Then, as if coming
from a slight
paralysis, unfrozen
for a moment,
he picked his
jacket off a chair,
got into his old
Plymouth Duster
and drove down
the road. At the
end of the road
he turned left,
toward the highway.
Three
days later he
was still gone.
Marta
was beside herself,
now with a double
worry. And the
police came to
the house, eventually
asking odd questions.
First a uniformed
sergeant came,
questioning, slowly
inserting the
knife under thin
skin. Then, after
the topic was
broached, a lieutenant
of detectives
came, a cigar
in his mouth as
he stepped from
the car and came
up the front walk.
He didn’t
stumble or trip
over his words,
bringing them
up quickly and
darkly from the
cavern of his
chest, half cough
and half words,
“Why was
your father so
attached to the
child?”
“Harrumph.
Hack. Hack. Harrumph.”
“He’s
his grandchild.
He loves him.”
“Was
it not an unusual
love? Is it possible
that the old man
has taken the
baby? Harrumph.
Hack. Hack. Harrumph.
That right now
he’s with
him someplace?”
People
of the neighborhood
began to talk.
The mailman heard
the talk and carried
it. Some of those
old stories were,
in fact, made
up. The old man
wasn’t what
he appeared to
be after all.
What have we made
him? What kind
of a man would
drive his daughter
into this near
madness? You really
don’t know,
do you, what lurks
in the heart of
a man.
*
* *
He’d
been mystified
by many things
in life: the small
man down in Homestead,
Florida who secretly
moved stones weighing
many tons, supposedly
by himself; a
rocking chair
sculpted from
stone and weighing
thousands of pounds,
a tall vertical
solid stone gate
of equal tonnage
that swung on
small points of
balance, seemingly
immovable yet
moved and placed.
How the all-state
halfback he played
behind when he
was a young man
told him, just
before the big
game of the year,
that his turn
was coming, and
there he was rushing
on the field breathless
in the first quarter.
What had pulled
him up that mountain
in Korea to what
he thought was
certain death.
How had he been
able to go into
the cold water
to save those
men after almost
drowning under
a raft in Lake
Hwachon when his
unit crossed by
rafts mounted
on boats with
outboard motors
and a mortar round
had landed right
beside them, all
of them trussed
in full gear?
He couldn’t
remember how he’d
gotten out of
the clutches of
all that web equipment,
or Sanders’
hands pulling
at him, hauling
him down.
And
he never professed
to understand
the knowledge
that came to him
about Shag from
the moment of
the boy’s
birth. That they
were connected
was enough for
him. The corners
of the boy’s
mouth when he
smiled up at him
were locked behind
his eyes.
And
here he was, seven
days later, vaguely
answering some
unlimited connection,
some communication,
coming at him.
He didn’t
know where it
was coming from,
and he had driven
endlessly it seemed
from the day he
had left home,
sometimes three
or four hundred
miles a day, sometimes
fifty to sit in
the middle of
a park or a village
green, listening.
Now,
on the seventh
day, hearing his
name and description
aired over the
radio, also a
subject of search,
he was on the
outskirts of Schenectady
. He did not know
how he had gotten
here, but the
urge was unarguable,
unimpeachable.
Shag was calling
him. It had been
that way in the
beginning. It
would always be
that way. He knew
he was near. The
parts of the city
spread out, and
the possible routes
cluttered his
mind, but there
was notice of
a kind pulling
him. It was unmistakable.
It was Shag. He
drove around for
three hours, like
a moth around
a huge glowing
light, the last
light of the year,
October light
crowding down
on the life of
the moth.
And
then it was stronger
than it ever was.
He was beside
a mall. The voice
on the radio was
giving out the
description of
his car, the registration
number, and his
description. He
was at least three
hundred miles
from home. Nobody
would know him.
He parked the
car. Six hours
later, tired,
exhaustion finally
coming down upon
his body, he sat
in a small diner
and ate his first
meal of the day.
Shag had come
and gone, but
he knew this was
the place. It
had been so from
the beginning.
Sanders, all the
way from Chicago
, had been from
the beginning,
and the mountain
in Korea had been
from the beginning.
The trucker had
always been coming
at him, a journey
started a long
time in the past,
like the two sailors
caught under their
craft, unconscious,
waiting for him.
He
finished his meal
and walked back
outside. As he
neared the Duster
he saw the policeman
sitting in a patrol
car a few spaces
away. Brittan
turned to move
in the other direction.
“Sir!”
the voice said.
“Sir!”
It was a strong
young voice, somewhat
friendly in tone.
He
turned back to
the voice. The
young policeman
stepped from his
car. “May
I ask you some
questions, sir?
Is this your car?
Do you have some
ID? Are you Brittan
Courvalais? Someone
spotted you earlier
and called it
in, said you were
hanging around
too much. There’s
a warrant out
for you.”
“I’m
looking for my
grandson. That
is no crime.”
“Why
are you here in
Schenectady ?
You must be hundreds
of miles from
home.” Blue-eyed,
pink-cheeked,
probably shaved
only three times
a week, the young
officer was dubious,
but not uncomfortable.
“I checked
out your car,
and you in the
diner. I know
you don’t
have your grandson
with you. Not
unless he’s
with someone else
local. Why’s
his name Shag?”
He was pleasant
in an unpleasant
situation.
“I’ll
tell you, son.
I don’t
know why his name
is Shag, but it
was always going
to be that. And
I don’t
know why I’m
here, but something
is telling me
that he’s
near here. I cannot
leave this place.
I’ve driven
over 2000 miles,
some of it in
circles, around
mountains, across
bridges and rivers,
down beside the
huge Finger Lakes
, Canandegua on
the crown of a
hill perhaps just
because of its
name, something
pulling at me,
drawing me, and
it’s brought
me here. I can’t
leave here. I’ve
done nothing but
look for that
boy. It’s
like he keeps
calling for me,
but I never hear
his voice. It’s
a kind of impulse,
the only way I
can describe it.
It beats or hums,
but no words to
it.”
“I
know about names,”
the officer said.
“My father
named me Sawyer.
I am Sawyer Billings
and had a hell
of a time with
the name as a
kid. My father
says he has no
idea why it came
to him. I handle
my dukes pretty
good. Had a lot
of scrapes over
that name.”
“Ever
think that’s
why your father
did it? I know
of someone named
Lawyer and he
makes tackles
and interceptions,
and he’s
pretty tough at
that.”
“Not
until now, sir.
Is there any way
I can help you?
I can make a report
or hold it up.
The only one who’d
get upset about
any delay would
be the captain,
and he takes enough
time off so it
won’t matter.”
“Just
let me be around
here. Whatever
it is, it’s
very strong. I
have to check
it out.”
“Where?
In a particular
store? Nearby?”
“I
don’t know.
If I knew I’d
be there now.
I’d have
you by the collar
pulling you with
me. I just don’t
know.”
“Well,
sir, I’ll
sit on it for
a while. My sister
was crying about
Shag the other
day, saying how
sad it was. She
has two of her
own. Father named
her Cameron. Never
hurt her. She’s
a fighter too.
But gets sad.”
He walked to his
patrol car. “I’ll
be around. Good
hunting, sir.”
The car slipped
out of the mall
like a small animal
passing through
the brush.
*
* *
A
few hours after
the patrol car
had departed the
parking lot, his
neck stiff, an
old injury talking
through his knee,
he woke with a
start. Now it
was stronger,
that call of Shag,
that disruption
on the air. He
shook his head,
looked for the
patrol car, walked
toward the mall.
It came again,
stronger, not
a voice, not words,
not his name,
but a humming,
a vibration, near
electrical. Twice
he went past one
store, only to
come back and
feel the announcement
again. This was
it. Again he looked
for Sawyer Billings
or his car and
saw neither.
He
entered the store,
an open building
that seemed to
spread as wide
as three football
fields. He could
smell popcorn,
flowers, and the
burnt skin of
chicken frying.
Should he stay
by the door? Was
it the only way
out of the store?
Would he be here
for hours? No,
he would be active.
He would pursue
the feeling, the
sensation, that
vibrating hum
still coming at
him.
Scanning
the store for
the silhouette
of someone carrying
a child, he picked
an aisle and started
down it. Back
over his shoulder
he looked, afraid
he might miss
something, and
looked down side
aisles. A hum
of voices came
to him, a caustic
static that intruded
on the vibrating
hum. A wife arguing
with her husband.
A father calling
for his son to
hurry. A brother
teasing a younger
sister. Then,
from another aisle,
the next one over,
beyond the display
of electric cords
and lamps and
shades and rows
of batteries and
bulbs in blue
and white boxes,
he felt his grandson.
He felt Shag.
Back
he went to the
main aisle, crossed
over, looked down
the aisle. The
silhouette was
exclusive; a woman
holding a child.
A man near her
was looking at
a display of security
alarms, a big
man, wide across
the shoulders,
in worn dungarees
and work boots.
The woman was
in her late thirties,
dark hair, red
lips. She hummed
to the infant
in her arms.
The
eyes of Brittan
Courvalais met
the eyes of his
grandson Shag.
The boy’s
head came up off
the woman’s
shoulder. Brittan
stepped closer,
saw the curve
of a smile on
the child’s
lip as if it were
juxtaposed on
the back of his
brain. He was
ready to grab
the boy when Shag
said, “Gampa.”
The
woman spun on
her heels, looked
into Brittan Courvalais’s
eyes, saw some
kind of trouble
or ownership there,
said, “Harry,”
in a very demanding
voice. “We
have to go. Now!
Now, Harry!”
The
big man also spun
around. Courvalias
screamed, “Get
the police. This
baby’s been
kidnapped. This
is my grandson
Shag.” He
reached for the
child. The woman
spun away. The
man pushed him.
His knee pained
its whole length.
The mountain was
in front of him
again. The frigid
waters of Lake
Hwachon were there
again for him.
He reached, grabbed
the man’s
arm, pulled him
at himself, and
tossed him against
a display. Boxes
tumbled.
The
woman screamed.
“Help! Help!
He’s trying
to steal my baby!”
A
man rushed down
the aisle and
went to grab Brittan’s
arm. Brittan yelled,
“Quick,
get the police.
Sawyer Billings
is outside in
the police car.
Get him! Hurry.”
His fist closed
around the woman’s
wrist. The baby
let out a yell.
Their eyes locked
again.
Then
Brittan’s
eyes locked with
the woman's eyes.
It was then she
knew her first
terror. It was
so very real,
so unexpected.
They had only
been looking for
a simple night-light.
A simple night-light.
Officer
Sawyer Billings
was Johnny-on-the-spot,
having spent some
off-duty hours
at the mall, watching
the old man from
a distance. Cuffs
were soon on the
big man. The baby
was taken from
the woman’s
arms and put into
the arms of his
grandfather, who
was feeling the
ultimate joy,
who could already
hear the phone
ringing at his
daughter’s
home 300 miles
away.
The
Rescues of Brittan
Courvalais
© 2007 by
Tom Sheehan
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