A Place Of Light Page 9

  They had never been this far down the ditch before. “What’s that noise?” Tim asked.

  Russell looked around. “What noise?” He laughed at Tim. “You scared, little baby?”

  “I just wondered what it was.” Tim walked faster, swinging his arms, taking the lead. Russell stayed behind him and kept looking around as they walked.

  At one point, where the bank had been eroded so that nothing grew, not even briars, they discovered a large burrow. It had been dug into the sandy bank below the remains of an old tree stump.

  “Look at the size of that muskrat hole,” Tim said.

  “Maybe it’s a woodchuck hole,” Russell said.

  “This close to the water?”

  “It could be.”

  “It could be a giant muskrat,” Tim said. “Or something else big. What else could it be?”

  Russell shook his head. They went near the hole and peered in. But they could not see anything.

  They set the last trap, the one they had got from Charlie Coe, in a place where the water narrowed into a sixinch channel and the mud spread out on either side, smooth and unbroken.

  “We don’t keep anything in our old shed anymore,” Tim said. “I bet I could use that.”

  “What for?”

  “Pigeons,” Tim said. “I’m going to get some.”

  “What do you want with pigeons?”

  “I just want some.”

  “Charlie Coe’s pigeons?” Russell asked. “You going to start buying pigeons from Charlie Coe now?”

  Then they were done and they walked back through the ditch to look at their traps. “I could quit school when I’m sixteen,” Russell said.

  “No you can’t. Your mother and father won’t let you.”

  “They can’t stop me,” Russell said. “Let them try.” He kicked at a stone in his path. “I’ll go up to Canada and fish and trap all day, do whatever I want.” He kicked the stone out of his path and lost it. “You can come. But you’ll have to wait till you’re old enough.”

  “Me too,” Tim said. “I’m quitting, too.”

  They went home talking of trapping and pelts and money, lots of money, of becoming trappers, of cutting trees, maybe, and building a cabin.

  They ran to the ditch the next afternoon, expecting to find all three traps sprung and heavy with animals. But there was nothing. The clear water trickled over the undisturbed silty bottom, and the bare mud along the banks remained unmarred except for the same cluster of bird and animal prints.

  “Maybe we should use some bait,” Tim said.

  “My father said you don’t have to,” Russell told him. “Just put the traps in those runs they have to swim through.”

  “Old Man Carr uses apple chunks with cinnamon.”

  “We don’t need bait.”

  “If we don’t catch anything tomorrow I’m bringing some apples,” Tim said.

  The next day they could see before they reached it that the first trap had been sprung. But it was empty. They searched for tracks.

  “Maybe the water’s too deep here,” Russell said.

  “But we almost got him,” Tim said.

  They headed for the second trap.

  “I bet the other trap got him,” Tim said.

  It had not been sprung.

  “I’m coming back later with apples,” he said. “We got to use bait. You got any cinnamon at your house?”

  “I think so,” Russell said.

  They headed for the last trap. At first they could not find where they had left it. Then they realized it was gone. “The stick, too,” Tim said. “Somebody stole it.”

  “I bet it was one of those Housemans,” Russell said. “If I catch one of those Housemans down here I’ll kill him.”

  They found no tracks. The hole in the mud where the stick had been was widened as if the stick had been worked around in it.

  “Just let me catch one of those Housemans,” the boy said.

  “Maybe they’re still down here,” Tim said.

  They stopped looking when they passed the burrow under the stump on the eroded bank. A stick was caught across the opening. They saw the metal ring on it and a few links of chain disappearing into the hole.

  “We got a muskrat,” Tim said. “We finally got one. I knew we’d get one.”

  They stood in front of the hole and listened. “Maybe he’s dead,” the boy said.

  “We got to pull him out,” Russell said.

  “Do they bite?” Tim asked.

  Russell picked up the stick and chain and pulled. “It’s a big one,” he said. “God, it won’t budge.”

  They pulled together, slipping on the bank, making the dirt roll down into the ditch bottom. Each time they edged the animal forward a few inches it pulled itself back in. They pushed the end of the stick into the dirt so the animal could not get away, and they rested.

  “What is it?” Tim asked.

  “It’s too big for a muskrat,” Russell said. “It’s too strong.”

  “How we going to get it out?” They stared at the hole. “Maybe we should leave him here,” Russell said. “He’ll die.”

  “We could pull him out and club him,” Tim said. He looked around for a piece of wood.

  “We can’t pull him out,” Russell said. “Maybe if we come back tomorrow we can get him.”

  “I can pull him out,” Tim said. He had found a big piece of wood for a club. “I’m going to get him.”

  “Go ahead. But he’s too strong.”

  Tim dropped his club and pulled the stick from the dirt. He held the chain and began tugging. Russell watched, offering advice and orders from time to time.

  Tim grunted. “You’re just scared of it.”

  “I am not scared,” Russell answered.

  Tim fell onto his knees. “Help me,” he called.

  They pulled together on the chain. Slowly they worked the animal out. They could see its brown fur, but they could not tell what it was.

  “I think I got him,” Tim said. “Get that club. When I pull him out, get ready.” Russell found the club and put it within reach, then helped pull again.

  They got the animal out. It was big – bigger than a cat. Russell grabbed the club and raised it. The animal looked at him, glassy-eyed, not moving. “It’s not a muskrat,” Russell said, the club still raised. They stood, one holding the club, the other holding the chain, waiting.

  “What is it?” Tim asked.

  “Maybe it’s a weasel,” Russell answered.

  The trap had got the animal high on the back leg. It lay motionless, except for its silent, heavy breathing. The boy touched the stick to the animal’s face, but it did not move. It followed the stick with its glassy eyes.

  “What shall we do with him?” Tim asked.

  “Just get the trap off.”

  “I’m not touching him. He’ll bite,” Tim said.

  “If I could knock him out,” Russell said, “we could take the trap off.” He looked at the animal as he rolled the stick in his hands. “He’s too big.”

  They decided to drag the animal behind Russell’s barn. There they planned to kill it with rocks and pieces of cinder block. Russell lifted it by the chain, but when the animal jerked around suddenly he jumped and dropped it. The younger boy scrambled for the chain and lifted the animal, holding it by the chain at arm’s length. “You better carry him,” Russell told the younger boy.

  “So I can get him with the club if he tries to get away.” They walked fast, but Tim had to keep stopping to rest his arms. Every now and then the animal jerked and twisted and they would jump back from it without letting go. Russell carried the stick, keeping his eyes on the animal.

  They staked it behind the barn, knocking the wood deep into the ground with a rock. “You going to hit him?” Tim asked.

  Russell held a rock. “I don’t know,” he said. “You want to do it?”

  They looked at the animal’s face. “Maybe we can leave him for a while,” Russell said, “and he’ll just die
.”

  They gathered rocks and pieces of cinder block and piled them on the animal to keep him from getting away. The animal watched them with its quiet, glassy eyes. Its breathing had slowed. They watched him until it was too dark to see. Then they raced home.

  They came back the next morning before school. The animal looked dead, but when they poked it with a stick its eyes moved. “How can he still be alive?” Russell said.

  “Is he going to starve to death?” Tim asked. “Or die of thirst?”

  “He’s supposed to be dead,” Russell said.

  “Maybe we can let him go,” Tim said. “Can’t we?”

  “It’s too late. He’s mad now. He’ll go wild and attack us. We’ll get rabies.”

  “We should have left him where we found him,” Tim said. “We should have taken the trap off and let him go.”

  They piled more rocks on the animal and left for school.

  When they came back that afternoon they were sure it was dead. “He suffocated,” Tim said. “We crushed him.”

  “It’s about time,” Russell said.

  “Do you think we crushed its chest?” Tim asked. “That’s how Cliff Pratt’s father died – of a crushed chest.” He put his own hand to the front of his jacket.

  They stared at the animal’s face, its eyes dulled and half-opened. The pile of rocks covered all but the head and part of the chain.

  “Let’s get rid of him,” Russell said. They kicked the rocks away from the animal. They kept looking at its eyes.

  “How come he’s watching us if he’s dead?” Tim asked.

  “Hurry up,” Russell told him. They finished removing the rocks.

  “Look,” Tim said. He was bent over and pointed. “He crapped under all those rocks. Is that what that stuff is?” He laughed, then stopped.

  “Holy God,” Russell said. He leaned over Tim’s shoulder and looked.

  “Holy God. Let’s get him out of here.” He worked the stick out of the ground.

  “What about the trap?” Tim asked.

  They looked at the animal, at the trap clamped high on its leg. They saw the half-opened eyes that seemed to be watching them.

  “It was your idea,” Tim said. “You said we could make money.” He backed off, his hand on the front of his jacket.

  Russell picked up the chain. He headed for a clump of weeds, moving fast, dragging the animal. Tim followed. Russell hurled the animal into the dead weeds and brush. It made a crashing sound as it tumbled into the dead weeds. Without waiting to see where it landed, the boys turned and ran. They headed for a corn stubble field and crossed it, racing, until they reached another field. They gave their secret war cry, shrill and loud, and it pierced the air and carried. They hooted it over and over as they ran, first one, then the other, then together. They kept racing. When they reached the row of trees that bordered Tim’s yard, they were breathless and exhausted, and when it seemed they could not go any farther, they kept racing.

  EMERGENCY

  After Mrs. Woody’s husband died and her only son, Roy, left for business college, she began laying up her treasure. She turned fanatic about saving as much as she could each month from her social security check, and hoarded every little thing that came her way, all in preparation for that terrible time – which she said she hoped never came but which, in fact, she lived for – when a real emergency hit. The inside of her house started to look like a junkyard.

  Roy knew she had nearly seven hundred dollars stuffed in the rusted coffee can at the back of her clothes wardrobe. He’d seen it, after he’d come back home from college, when he went looking through her closets for things he and Candy could use in their new apartment. The sight of all that money shocked him at first. Then the money got into his blood.

  “At least,” he kept telling her, “buy yourself a good winter coat. Look at that rag of yours.” He pointed to the limp cloth that hung on the kitchen rack among an assortment of ladies’ belts tied in a bundle, a nylon bag stuffed full of hats, and a tangled Chinese wind chime. She had taken the coat out to brush it off and “get it ready.”

  In fact, she had been thinking for a while now that she needed a new coat. But the thought of spending any of her money sent a little shudder through her. After all, she could go on wearing a sweater underneath. Then, if anything came up, she’d still have her money.

  “What could come up?” he asked.

  “You never know.”

  “One damn coat,” he said. “It’s not like I’m asking you to sink your whole life savings into something foolish.”

  She eyed him, wondering what he knew about life savings.

  He tried to explain to her about investments, how she’d actually be saving money by spending it, but it didn’t make any sense to her.

  “Look,” he finally said. He waved a newspaper under her nose. “They got a sale at Sears. These are good coats. They’re giving thirty percent off every winter coat in stock, damn it.”

  Mrs. Woody turned her head away and looked out the window. She didn’t like that language he’d picked up, and he knew it.

  He softened his tone. “You deserve something nice for a change,” he said. He looked at her with sincere eyes. “God, if I had the money, I’d get you one of these coats in a minute.”

  “I don’t want you getting me anything,” she snapped.

  He thought a minute. “Well, I can tell you this much,” he said. “That coat of yours is out of fashion.”

  “Fashion?” she shot back at him. “You think I give a hoot about fashion when all I ever go to is the cemetery and the grocery store?”

  He got up and crossed the room, stumbling against a stack of newspapers she was saving, and fingered the old coat. “This thing won’t keep the cold out, that’s for sure. And look here, strings hanging, the lining coming out. People will think you’re some kind of loony bird.”

  She lay her hands on the table and looked away from him. “Well, maybe I just am.”

  Since Roy had gone away to business college things had gotten worse between them, not that they’d been that good to begin with. He’d come back more disrespectful and full of ideas, too, none of which was worth two cents. The latest and worst idea was that he was going to marry that trashy girl.

  The boy seemed to grow wild after his father died, and Candy was part of that wildness. Then, too, it had taken him an extra year to get his two-year degree. But at least he’d come back home and got himself a job, at Agway, working in the office. And at least he was thinking of her, even if she believed he had something up his sleeve. Maybe he was trying to tell her he wanted to mend things between them. Maybe he’d even come to his senses about that girl.

  She almost smiled, picturing herself in a new coat.

  “Show me that newspaper, then,” she said to him at last.

  “Well, good God,” he said. “It’s about time.” He got up from the table and hurried around to her side, upsetting her collection of Styrofoam egg cartons, and crashing his foot into a broken birdcage someone had given her. He rattled the newspaper in her face and pointed to the Sears ad and the half dozen coat styles she could choose from.

  “I’m only looking,” she said. “I’m not buying anything.”

  Roy drummed his fingers on the hood of his car while he eyed the house, waiting for his mother. The house was falling apart and the lawn hadn’t been mowed since August. Now the leaves had started to fall and were beginning to cover the grass. They’d stay that way, too, until the wind blew them away.

  Mrs. Woody appeared on the porch, holding a large black pocketbook and a sweater. She threw scraps down for the few chickens she insisted on keeping and watched them scratch through the fallen leaves covering the driveway. She frowned at Roy. “You don’t want to take my car?”

  For answer, he got in and started his engine.

  The exhaust fumes from Roy’s car made her dizzy, and she couldn’t hear herself think over the sound of the muffler. The car had never run right, either, but he’d bought it
just the same, before he went to college, because everybody was always telling him how great slant six engines were, whatever that meant.

  “I hope you’re not planning to stay long,” Mrs. Woody said as she shuffled herself into the front seat. “My TV show’s on at eight-thirty.” She had to shut the car door twice before it would stay closed. A furry skunk tail hung from the rearview mirror and she bumped it with her head and sent it swinging. “This darn thing,” she said, batting at the tail until Roy took it down.

  “Well, all right, now,” he said as he pulled out of the driveway. “Let’s get this show on the road.”

  “If I don’t see anything, we’re coming right back,” she told him. She unclasped the pocketbook and checked inside for the envelope with her money.

  Roy figured that once he got her inside the store he could talk her into at least taking a peek at the washing machines. Since hers had broken down she’d started washing her things out by hand. “What else do I have to do with my time?” she’d asked. He had to take his own and Candy’s clothes to the laundromat in town.

  Roy also wanted to check out the wedge deck radio speakers on sale in the automotive department. And Candy wanted him to look at the ninety-nine-dollar microwave ovens. “You make sure your mother goes with you to look,” she’d told him. “She’s got to get us some kind of wedding present. At least make her buy something we can use.”

  “We’re only looking for a coat,” he told her.

  “Make her look at them is all,” Candy said. “I always wanted a microwave oven.”