The River Thief
by
Tom Sheehan
English
Wells fought the
Pumquich River
for forty years,
moving his will
ever by degrees
at it. “By
God, Miriam,”
he often said
to his wife, “I’ll
go at it until
I drop, most likely.
What you work
for, you get.
You get what you
work for.”
English, lacking
funds or worldly
promise, wanted
to steal more
land from this
side of the river,
to push his small
estate out over
the river’s
run, to claim
energy’s
due.
“The
two of us,”
she’d say,
partners to the
end, the crochet
needle at a small
and quick twist
in her hand, or
a sewing needle
making code against
her fingers. At
such watch her
nose would announce
when the pie in
the oven was ready,
or a roast in
its own rank of
juice. English
always noted her
almost inert actions,
the messages driven
home by them,
and said the best
things said were
often unsaid.
These days, he
thought, she had
become, for whatever,
rounder and more
content.
On
the same hand,
by its gifts,
the Pumquich was
magnanimous, an
opulent river,
a river that slipped
unheralded out
of the far country
in various disguises.
Furtive, escapee,
melodious in turns
it was, twisting
or dancing on
the face of Earth.
At first a placid
no-nonsense runner,
gaited by life,
it never ran out
of normal breath.
Then for a hectic
bit it came a
robust galavanter
in those wild,
wild places where
hideaways gleamed
their darkness
among harshest
rocks and vertical
cliffs old as
time itself. And
now, decoded and
broken into a
lesser tributary
by Earth’s
curves, sleepily
at times under
alder-branched
archways where
fishermen lurked,
near breathless
but ongoing in
the way of rivers,
it came past English
Wells. For those
forty years he
had gone without
pause in his evening
labors, after
a regular day’s
work as a truck
driver. And Miriam
watched him from
the window or
the porch of their
small bungalow,
no children ever
at her feet or
at beck and call,
saying, “You
go about your
work, English.
We have no call
on us otherwise.”
There,
for the nonce,
in this one man,
the Pumquich seemed
to have met a
match.
Miriam
dwelled on him
from odd angles;
saw him broad,
thick-browed,
his deep brown
eyes often at
repose even when
he was at labor,
his energy seeming
to leap from a
reservoir she
thought had no
end. She’d
see him at the
very edge of the
riverbank he was
always moving,
or attempting
to move. English
would look back
on his property,
at the peach and
pear and apple
trees marching
in ranks down
to the river with
him, and random
but deep green
clutches of grapevines
that joined the
slow march outward,
his invasion.
She mused he was
a mathematician
at a problem’s
resolution.
The
measurement, his
own planning with
fruits of geometric
concentration,
almost overpowered
him. Stabbed with
accomplishment,
Miriam heard,
time and again,
his confidential
but tempering
aside; “Them
peaches keep pushing
me, Miriam. Damned
if they don’t.”
He’d look
outward, and continue,
“On the
other side, over
there by them
muddy spots, it’s
too damn low for
any use. If I
can stretch our
piece of land
a foot at a time,
we just plain
get bigger. It’s
really that simple.
And them at the
town hall can’t
plot the river’s
line, but just
obey every turn
it makes.”
To
his liking, she
phrased her comments
or replies in
a turn at formality
and a bit of elegance.
“You carry
on, English, early
when the sun leaps
like a jumper.
Or the moon later
on, tired of repose
or isolation in
darkness, breaks
loose of the horizon.
Oh, like a prisoner
from his cell,
my river thief.”
The roundness
hugged him.
With
a new neighbor
at a kaffeklatsch,
English off on
his regular job,
Miriam said, “At
first English
makes a small
dent in the Pumquich’s
passage to the
sea six miles
down, hoping always
by some miracle
to bend its course
forever in one
night. He’ll
build a wall of
sorts against
the river’s
flow, backfill
it, and start
anew, all by a
measured degree…
rock by rock,
stone by stone,
shovelful by shovelful,
or eventually
by the third generation
of his new wheelbarrow.
Granite, big or
small, in all
its beauty, is
moved with a loving
care. Sandstone
and mica are nursed
into place as
well. Boulders
beget him, I swear,
fused by some
old glacier hereabouts.
English, in this
trade-off, never
knows how much
sweat his body
gives back.”
She paused, sipped
her coffee and
added, “And
he never counts.”
It
was simply one
of his old saws
that came repeated
in another voice:
“Hell, Miriam,
all it takes is
energy, and I
got a ton of that.”
She knew all of
them, the one
full page.
The
weight of the
statement, fully
defined and worldly,
fell off his shoulders,
like a slab of
rock off a Pumquich
cliff far up the
river. His thumb
was as green as
ever, but he wanted
a wider orchard,
a bigger claim.
“My sweat
demands it,”
he would say,
“and that
force pounding
in me, needing
to move the very
Earth itself.”
“English,”
she would say,
“you’re
more than ever
at your significant
work.” Her
blue eyes shone
their lamps on
him, the needle
in her fingers
working that tactile
code.
At
the same time
Miriam loved the
slight smile at
the corners of
his mouth when
he made his honest
pronouncement,
as if he thought
he was sharing
a secret she had
not known. Her
needle, or the
crochet hook,
would go its merry
way, which English
saw and took for
punctuation of
sorts.
Pointing out a
rock or boulder
he was hustling,
he’d yell
up at Miriam at
her favorite window
or at her favorite
chair on the porch.
“This rock
might become a
keystone, or this
boulder the base
of a pillar.”
There was reality
in his proposition.
Sunset glazed
his sweaty forehead.
Then
he’d shove
his shoulder against
the monster or
wedge a bar beneath
what only a glacier
might last have
moved, the glacier
long ago calving
the rock and the
land into a lake
of deposits, it
seemed. Never
had he been a
serious student
of Earth’s
history, but nevertheless
felt it tremor
through his arms
every day with
his efforts; the
shiver, the shunt,
the movement,
Earth on the slow
prowl, reforming.
Miriam
could not count
the hours English
had spent down
there at the back
of the house,
with pick and
shovel and barrow,
nor counted his
trips with donated
fill dumped practically
at their door;
he had his own
designs on what
should go where.
It was not that
he was an engineer,
she had convinced
herself as well
as he had, but
certain things
would last longer
than others in
the continual
wash the river
exerted and the
drainage plying
storm after storm
across the land.
Over the years
he had developed
his own laboratory
for tests, calculated
the results, planned
the future moves.
Neighbors
dropped their
excess fill at
the rear end of
his driveway.
Rocks, old stone
walls, parts of
foundations. Rock
gardens, suddenly
flattened out
to choicer lawns,
came trundled
onto his property.
English would
accept only that
which was natural;
no junk, no plastic,
nothing that would
take a thousand
years to get back
to its original
properties. He
could have accepted
Hank Patterson’s
old Ford, because
Hank had proposed
its use. English
could have loaded
it with brick
and stone that
it would keep
in place for years,
a miniature chunk
of breakwater,
until it rusted
out. He did not
take it.
“Hank,
I know you’re
trying to do what
you can, but this
move of mine is
for keeps, and
I won’t
really try to
screw up the river
or the land, other
than just letting
it mosey a bit.
I know iron was
here ever before
I started, but
I’ll not
add it, or any
plastic either.
None of that new
stuff that never
lets go.”
“English,”
Miriam argued,
“You could
start a new wall
with that car
sunk in place.
You could roll
it over and drop
it right where
you need it most.
It’s a sure
way to make a
bottle cap.”
She felt she was
trying to shorten
his task; to see
his dream done
sooner; his place
in the physical
world marked off
forever.
And
so it went on
for those years.
English would
handle shovel
or barrow, she
would cook or
sew or bring a
book of poems
beside the window.
She was content
with him, life
was sure, smooth,
promised tomorrow
on the plate.
He’d wave
the shovel at
her, or the huge,
rock-ribbed pick
ax, with the shades
of evening coming
down on them.
She’d wave
back, in that
gentle way she
had, a book or
the invisible
needle in her
fingers. Either
was enough for
English. She’d
be there after
the day’s
last shovelful
was flung or the
last rock dropped
into place. As
rich as the Pumquich,
she was. No other
man could be so
lucky.
From
her spot at the
window, she believed
the span of his
shoulders could
support the world,
and she knew the
promising shadow
those shoulders
threw coming into
the bedroom at
night, his labors
done, the next
drive at hand.
Never had she
said welcome,
though she could
have, but threw
the covers back
for him every
time, the white
shank of her thigh
like an exclamation
mark. She thought
it not lascivious,
but part of her
total need for
him. And he thought
she was beautiful
at cover tossing,
poetry in motion.
English could
have said so,
but he didn’t.
They had always
passed on the
pillow small talk,
their energies
matched and compensated.
Morning was often
the next thing
they knew.
Shadows,
though, as in
all of life, were
like hands reaching
to grasp one another,
or take them in;
though these mates
knew the distance
between shadows
was covered with
good ground.
The
one dark shadow
in all of it that
came at Miriam,
out of context
or kilter, was
who would, in
the end of it
all, come into
ownership of all
his labor. Even
with no children
of their own,
it still would
not be fair for
the town to end
up with forty
years or more
of English’s
work.
That
shadow, though,
lingered for her.
Often she thought
it like a forgotten
meal reinventing
itself on the
palate at the
strangest hour,
a gourmet roast,
a dry and irresponsibly
memorable red
wine. The taste
was there, even
if phantom.
The
4th of July bomb
came into their
lives, bursting
from the shadow.
Miriam’s
sister Georgette
and her husband
Paul Linkard were
obliterated in
a head-on crash
with a gas tanker
truck in a night
rain storm as
they came from
the wake of a
neighbor woman.
Georgette had
ironically serviced
the woman through
a difficult health
issue. The sole
child of the Linkard
union was 5-year
old Paul Linkard,
Jr. Shortly he
was the responsibility
of his Auntie
Miriam, or, as
his mother used
to say, Auntie
Em.
Now
Miriam had her
own task; at her
age to get this
child to some
kind of maturity
so that he could
function in the
world. English
had his river,
she had this child.
And, as with all
things emanating
from shadows,
the changes came.
Exhaustion came
early at her in
her new days,
the day full of
running, doing,
getting done,
chasing down the
child. And taking
care of her man.
The
first night the
covers were not
thrown back on
the bed, and Miriam
deep into a demanding
sleep, English
Wells knew, even
with the river
still running,
that life had
changed.
Paulie
drew at him as
well, the towheaded
smiler locking
up a new place
in his heart.
Nights Miriam’s
hand flopped innocently
against English,
and fell away.
He thought of
the river again,
as a kind of lover,
making demands,
giving parts away,
taking them back.
He tried to think
of some line of
poetry she had
read during one
of the other days,
days before Paulie.
As always, he
could not bring
it back, knowing
each verse was
but momentary
in him. Sleep,
in its stead,
came in reward.
And
it was Paulie
who came screaming
out of the deeper
yard one evening
when English was
pinned in the
water by a boulder.
Miriam screamed
at neighbors.
Two men leaped
down the yard
in bounds to find
English caught
between the boulder
and the last wall
he had built and
the river washing
over him. One
of them, Patterson
himself, wedged
the long crowbar
in place and freed
English from certain
death. Waskovitch
pressed on English’s
stomach to push
the river free
of its claimant.
English gagged
and gasped and
gave mouthfuls
of water back.
Neighbors
thought English
would give up
his quest, and
Miriam for a few
nights was back
to her cover-tossing,
but the river
continued, and
so did English
Wells until the
night, beside
her man in a sudden
stillness, him
cool as the river,
Miriam Wells knew
one journey was
over.
Evenings
occasionally,
Paulie leaping
upwards and off
to another school,
Miriam Wells waves
an invisible needle
or a twig-like
crochet needle
out the window
or from the depths
of the porch.
One night, nearly
inaudible, she
read a line of
poetry into a
small patch of
darkness at the
edge of the river:
Once, near thirteen,
we shared/a cigarette
under cover of
the mist/and the
alewives passed
us, upstreaming./That’s
the night we forgot
to listen./That’s
the night we began.
It
was the only secret
she had kept from
English, her own
poem, and that
night in the soft
darkness she let
go of it forever.
The
River Thief
© 2007 by
Tom Sheehan
|