By the time Inez Pierce had mustered enough nerve to enter her brother’s room it was almost noon. Reed Taylor was boarding a train in Louisville that would eventually take him to the Big Andy and the town of Simpson Creeks. And some of the men of the Creeks had gathered in Charlie Simpson’s store to discuss the death of Buck, Charlie’s old hound dog.
“…not like a bear to do such a thing,” Joe Manors said. “Bears are pretty cowardly; they won’t attack you unless they’re cornered. Can’t see how a bear could’a’ done such a thing.”
“Well, it was a bear… no doubt about that. You know it was a bear, Joe.” Jake Parkey leaned forward and belched, then chugged another beer.
“He’s right, Joe.” Ben Taylor stretched his long legs out before the stove, putting his hands in back of his sandy-colored hair as he studied his old worn shoes. With all the excitement, he’d forgotten to put on the ones he usually wore in the store. The other men looked at the shoes. Jake Parkey nodded at their significance. “Nothing else could maul an animal that way. But the way it happened don’t make much sense, I admit. Hasn’t been a bear in the area in over twenty years, and I never knew one to come into a town like this.”
“I’ve seen it before,” Charlie Simpson said quietly, as if to himself. “I’ve seen this bear.”
No one said anything for several minutes. Then Jake Parkey moved his chair around boldly, facing Charlie with his long, greasy red hair falling down in his eyes. He didn’t bother to push it back. “Where, Charlie, where? Why didn’t you tell us this before?”
“I’m not sure… guess I was still thinking on it…”
“Thinking on it? Charlie, this is important! This is the biggest…”
“Hold it, Jake.” Ben Taylor pulled his own chair around and placed it beside Charlie’s. Jake scooted back a little, so he wasn’t facing the two men so directly. Ben turned his head slightly to Charlie, his eyes still examining his old boots. He started to say something, then stopped himself. He pulled out a pocketknife and began cutting at a loose piece of leather hanging out from the heel of his shoe. “Where’d you see this bear, Charlie?”
“Out by your brother’s old place, Ben. And crossing the road, I think. At least it might have been the bear crossing the road in front of my truck. I know for sure it was a bear out near your brother’s land.”
Ben continued to stare at his feet, but there seemed to be an unusual movement to his eyes—looking sidelong at Charlie Simpson, then at other places on the creosoted floorboards. “Big one, Charlie?”
“Three hundred, I’d say.”
Jake Parkey whistled. “That’s a lot of meat!”
Ben looked up and stared at Jake. “This ain’t sport, Jake. Pretty serious business, I’d say.” Joe Manors nodded his head silently.
“Pretty serious business when a bear starts attacking dogs on its own accord,” Charlie said.
No one replied.
Inez was sweeping out the third-floor hallway when she heard the rocking noises coming from Hector’s room. She stepped quietly to the door and stood there awhile, listening. It was a soft sound, almost as if the breeze were moving the old antique rocker their father had brought up from Knoxville so many years ago. It had always been Hector’s favorite piece of furniture.
But she knew the window was shut. There could be no breeze.
She turned the knob, holding it stiffly to keep it from rattling in its collar, and pushed open the door. A shadow was moving slowly back and forth on the red and blue braided rug.
Hector’s thin gray hair floated over the back of the rocker like dandelion silk. His head seemed still and lifeless as a melon. At first she couldn’t tell how the rocker was moving; she could perceive no movement of hand, arm, or leg. Then she realized it was his muscles tensing, then releasing, that moved the old rocker back and forth.
She edged around the end of the bed and stood beside him. His eyes were closed. “Hector…” she whispered.
His left eye opened a crack. His slack mouth opened about a quarter inch. He hissed.
“Hector?”
A tear rolled down his left cheek and he began to speak, so softly she could not make out the words. She bent closer.
“Mama…” he said, “I’m so scared.”
She put her arms around him and cried quietly to herself. His hand raised weakly and touched her elbow.
Charlie Simpson was standing behind the counter adjusting the items on the shelves when Mr. Emmanuel came into the store. The Nole Company man looked around at the other men gathered about the old stove, nodded briefly to Joe Manors, then turned to speak to Charlie Simpson.
But the appearance of the storekeeper stopped him. The man was usually a virtual fountain of friendly energy. Today he looked as if half his family had just died. “Pipe tobacco, Mr. Simpson. And matches,” Mr. Emmanuel said, with some hesitation.
Charlie Simpson pulled the two items off the shelf and gave them to the man. “No charge for the matches,” he said. Mr. Emmanuel felt as if he should say something in reply to that, but was suddenly at a loss for words.
Joe Manors looked around at the men gathered there, nervously, looking at his feet now and then before meeting a face. Then he looked up at Willard Marx, an elderly man from the upper part of the valley who’d come in to do his monthly shopping. “That boy of yours still with you, Willard?”
Willard looked up quickly with surprised eyes, a white shock of hair flopping down over the bridge of his nose. He swept it back with a trembling hand, then smiled quickly, as if relieved at the sudden change in subject. “No. He’s in Indianapolis, doin’ fine though. We got a letter last week tellin’ about all the weldin’ he’s doing now and the good money he’s been makin’.”
“Not many younguns left in the valley,” Nigel Jacobs said. “Don’t have enough to go round anymore, I reckon. Shame.”
Victor Strunk waved his hands grotesquely in the air. The little man had some sort of muscular problem—he hadn’t told anybody yet what it was and nobody thought it’d be right to ask directly. “Ben Taylor’s got some fine younguns home still, and the Wilsons’ two little girls and Bobby Kramer’s teenage boy… Jimmy, ain’t it?”
Ben Taylor smiled broadly. “Kramer’s boy is Jerry… and fine one he is. I let him help out at the store when he needs some extra money, could use a lot more like him around, sure could. Reminds me a lot of…” Ben lapsed into an awkward silence.
“Reed’ll be back one of these days,” Charlie Simpson said from behind the counter. “He’s gonna want to see his uncle… you were a good man to him, Ben.”
Ben looked over his shoulder at Charlie and nodded. “Hope so, Charlie. Me and Martha both. And he’s never seen Lannie or Tim; they weren’t even born yet when he left.”
The screen door banged behind him and he turned his head slightly to see old Amos Nickles, the lumberman, entering the room in full hunter’s regalia: red-checkered CPO jacket and flop-eared cap, a shotgun under one arm. Amos Nickles was probably the richest man in the area, a good deal of that wealth obtained via timber deals with the mines and railroads. Mr. Emmanuel had long known that not all of that wood was prime material, to say the least. He figured at least one cave-in at a small local mine was in part due to Nickles’ timbers. And these people considered him their friend.
“Hear there’s a bear round here needs huntin’.”
Jake was up immediately. “Sure is, Mr. Nickles! Killed ole Buck, Charlie’s dog!”
Nickles spat. “Dog weren’t worth much, I guess.”
Ben Taylor looked up with a scowl. Everyone else was careful not to look at Charlie.