The one Alan took said “Get Bent,” on the side. It had two stick figures—like pictograms you’d see on a restroom sign—of two men under the words. One of the men was bent over and the other man was pulling up very close behind.
“Thank you,” Bob said. He took a sip.
“Thanks,” Alan agreed. The coffee was thick and looked oily. Alan took a tiny sip—the coffee was unbelievably strong and so was the whiskey.
Buster gulped at his.
“So you made it out of the woods in one piece? Just the right number of holes in you, I gather?”
“Yes, thank you,” Bob said. “Did you have any luck?”
“Me? I’m not really out for moose anymore. I like to get out there, but I wouldn’t know what to do with one if I shot it. Take me fifty trips just to carry it out.”
Alan glanced at Bob. He got the message—let’s get this conversation on track.
“So, Buster, we were asking the other day about the body we saw in the marsh grass,” Bob said.
Buster held his coffee mug up in front of his face. He seemed to want to inhale all the steam rather than let it get away. His eyes bounced between Alan and Bob.
“Do you have any idea what it was we saw?” Bob asked.
“You saw the thing,” Buster said. “How should I know what it was?”
“Have you ever seen anything like it? Looks almost human, but with weird hands and no face?” Alan asked.
“Them woods is lovely, dark, and deep,” Buster said. “My old man started taking me back there hunting since before I was tall enough to pee in the trough at the fair, and I’ve only ever seen one black bear. You know how many bear are back there? Generations have raised their cubs in that same forest, but have I ever seen them? Just the once. Of course they like to hibernate in the winter. There’s only so much opportunity to see them.”
Buster took another gulp and then burped.
“Pardon,” he mumbled.
Alan puffed out his cheeks and looked at the ceiling. The warm living room with its low ceiling, covered windows, and wood stove pumping out waves of dry heat, seemed like a little den. He could imagine Buster curling up in here and not emerging until spring melted all the snow and ice outside. The old man would probably indulge in one last big meal and then fall asleep in his recliner, not waking up for another five months.
“I think you know what we’re talking about, whether you’ve seen one or not,” Alan said. “I’ve never seen an octopus in the ocean, but I could name it if someone described it. If those things live back there, I bet you know about them.”
“People say believe half of what you see, and none of what you hear,” Buster said. He tilted his mug at Alan. “Quid pro quo.”
Alan covered his smile with his hand.
“Whether you believe in it or not,” Alan said. “Can you tell us what you’ve heard?”
Buster took another gulp.
“My cousin on my mother’s side was a curious boy. He pestered his ninth grade science teacher until the man explained how to combine saltpeter, charcoal, and sulfur. Next thing you know, my cousin was missing his right hand. He had to learn to beat off with the stump—he never could get a feel with his left hand. His father always blamed the science teacher. Gave him a little love tap in a parking lot with his Chevy and broke the teacher’s hip.”
“That’s charming, but we’re not children,” Alan said. “I have a boy myself. He’s not yet in high school. If there’s something living on my land, then I’d like to know what it is so I can keep him safe.”
Buster smiled and nodded. He turned to Bob. “Do you see that? He used my own logic against me. That’s pretty clever. But if you listen to my story, you’ll note that the science teacher paid a pretty heavy price too.”
“So you’re not going to tell us because you fear retribution?”
Buster wiped his face with his hand. As he scratched his neck, he gave another little burp and a look crossed his face. The look said he didn’t like what he tasted.
“Retribution,” Buster said. “Maybe a little fear is healthy.” Buster set down his mug and pushed his hands against his knees, stretching his shoulders and back.
Bob leaned forward. Alan took another sip of his laced coffee.
“Everything I’m about to say is pure conjecture and hearsay,” Buster said. “You have no business believing anything that’s about to come out of my mouth.”
“Fair enough,” Alan said.
“My father was a Jack of all trades,” Buster said. “Always used to tick him off that he was good at learning lots of new things, but never the best at anything. He cut wood for awhile, but Dickie and Vernon did it better. He trapped and tanned for awhile, but Donnie cleaned his clock at that. He couldn’t work a garden best, make a table best, nothing. He did all those things passably, but never enough to really make a living. We were always just scraping by.”
Buster stood so he could pour a little hot water from the teakettle into his mug. With just an inch of water in the bottom, Buster added a couple of inches of whiskey. He sat back down with another burp. With a practiced jerk, he pushed his torso back and the footrest popped out from under the recliner to support his feet.
“He knocked up Mom with six boys and one girl—finally something he did well. Paul was first. To hear Mom tell it, as soon as Paul could go half a day without shitting his pants, Dad had him out in the woods learning to harvest trees. Paul was only allowed to cut trees. He could chop them up for firewood or set them aside for lumber, but by Christ that’s all he was allowed to do. The old man didn’t let him bike, swim, fish, hunt, or nothing. Just dropping and dragging trees—that was Paul. You give Paul an axe and a draft horse and he would fill your shed with wood before dinner.”
Alan glanced at Bob and then up to the clock on the wall.
“Skip was the next boy born. He was allowed to mill, finish, and build. My brother Hooker was deemed the gardner. Gordie fished and trapped. Hubie fixed and drove anything mechanical. I was the hunter. I think he was saving that one for himself. After all the other boys were already entrenched in their duties, my old man was the hunter of the family. He only had to work a few months out of the year to fill up the freezer with meat, and his other boys did the rest.
“I came along after a bit of a break in the child bearing. When I was no more than three or four, Dad gave me my first twenty-two. I think maybe he hoped it would take the top of my head off, but it didn’t. By the time I was ten, I could shoot a barn cat from two-hundred yards.”
“Charming,” Alan said.
“The point is,” Buster said, “that us boys knew everything there was to know about our trade. We weren’t allowed any different. He pulled us out of school as soon as he could and he made us pull our own weight. By the time I learned to read, Paul had put Dickie and Vernon out of business. He cut wood ten months out of the year and split it and Hubie delivered. Paul was harvesting not just our lot, but half the goddamn woods in four towns. Of course, all the best trees went to Skip.”
Alan sat back in his chair. He gave up on learning anything useful, but the story was interesting enough to keep listening for a little while.
“Paul and Skip brought in most of the money, but Hooker, Gordie, and me kept the family fed. Hubie kept everything running. Without Hubie fixing the truck, the tractor, the boat, and making me parts for my guns, we all would have been sunk. Hubie didn’t get much love though. Everybody just took Hubie for granted. Together we made our own little self-sufficient village. Some people probably looked down on our shitty little house. We thought we were rich. There wasn’t anything we couldn’t build ourselves or find the money for if we wanted.
“That left Dad to go off and do whatever he pleased with his friends. They built that cabin over there on your road one summer, and they used to cook up liquor and get drunk pretty much every night. Mom didn’t seem to care, and none of us brothers did either. We’d learned all that we could from the old man.”