Lost Man's River(276)

And yet I keep this weapon. I touch it now and then, as a reminder. This cold cold metal, this burnished hickory, fashioned somewhere in 19th century America, the simple precision of its parts—its very simplicity puts me in touch with sanity, it seems, or at least reality. For in some strange irony, that long ago day at Lost Man’s River is the only real episode in a long and ghostly life. Does that make sense?

I have never learned much about life. Maybe you know something.





Another delay. I am a prisoner and no longer have the gun, though my keepers have promised to return it. I should have gotten out of this damned life while the getting was good, because now I’m in trouble and have brought you trouble, too—“a peck of trouble” as Mama used to say, do you remember, Luke? Your mama, not mine, of course (though she did her gentle best to love me, too). It’s years since I thought about dear Mama’s “peck of trouble”—eight whole quarts of trouble! That’s enough!

Here I am on Chatham Bend, which I prayed I would never see again! How God rebukes us! What I can’t get over is this shining house, which looks almost exactly as it did when we first arrived at Chatham back in ’96 except for the screened porch and covered cistern, which came later. You were seven then so you might not remember—that big new house, fresh-painted white, way out in a vast wilderness all by itself, as if it had just dropped out of the sky! The boat sheds and the little cottage (which I only know from old photos sent me about 1909 by Julian Collins)—none of those outbuildings were built when I first knew this place, and now they are all lost to flood and hurricane.

By now you have read the true story of the Tuckers. Can you forgive me for my part in that fatal deed even though I cannot forgive myself? (being quite unable to accept, therefore atone for the eternal fact that the man I see in the mirror is a killer). To this day, I howl to the highest heaven: I am not a killer! I was never a killer! But I don’t suppose it is Heaven where I’m headed, so I’m ranting instead at my poor dear brother Lucius Watson, because he is all I have left.

Luke? Do you hear me? Do you believe me? Do you forgive me?

If not you, then who?





Tonight Speck’s kind clean-cut young fellows gave us moonshine and white ibis and fried gator tail. Life is grand! It’s just that I never got the hang of it, I’m “tuckered out.”

If I don’t stop talking, you will decide I am not serious about “taking my life.” I am serious, Luke, although not gloomy and downhearted. I am still in lively spirits! Here Lies Rob Watson: Nothing Daunted—that’s how I count on you to remember R. B. Watson, a.k.a. “Arbie Collins,” a.k.a. “Chicken.”

I have one last duty to perform—the house. I will not ask forgiveness, knowing you won’t give it. As for my own oblivion, the prospect heals me. I have put it off for fifty years but now I’m ready. So long, ol’ Luke! I miss you!

With warmest good wishes from your old pal Arbie, alias (signed) your loving brother,

Rob



Reading these hard-earned pages as Lucius passed them along, Ad Burdett wept. “Rob must have been drunk and crazy, to write stuff like this!” Lucius shook his head, attempting to explain. Their brother had suffered unspeakable loss, then the unjust penance of a long and hollow life without hope of redemption. The only crazy thing about him was the crazed endurance it required to survive such an ordeal so long on nerve alone.

Mercifully, Rob had been spared Ol’ Luke’s innate melancholy and self-doubt, as well as the self-pity which plagued Addison. And how very different he had been from Eddie, who had aged so early and whose mask was cracking with fatigue. Poor Eddie, worn out by propping up appearances, would end his days the craziest of all. Lucius would have to notify him of Rob’s death—not that Eddie would care, having always disliked Rob, in his fear of Rob’s unvarnished insights and outspoken ways.

No, he was too tired to explain this to the housepainter, who was mopping his leaky nostrils with his knuckles. Without much heart, he tried teasing Ad a little. “If you think Rob was crazy, how about us? Runs in the family—The crazy Watson brothers’! Wait till you meet Eddie!”

“My name’s not Watson and I am not crazy!”

“No, of course not.” He patted Lucius Ad’s shoulder. “Carrie and your sisters are fine, too.”

“I don’t know Carrie.” Ad complained, his voice starting to rise, with tears behind it. “I was never crazy.”

“I guess I was talking about ‘crazy’ gestures, like spending all your savings to come here from north Florida to paint an abandoned house, even though you were told it might be destroyed. I mean, that is a great gesture, Ad! I really admire it!” But Addison would not be consoled, he would not smile, nor even take pleasure in the compliment. Bowing his neck, he stared at his own paint-spotted shoes, moved to grief once more over his losses.