The goatman located the voice with narrowed eyes.
Let’s go, oldtimer.
Them’s mulish goats at times, said the goatman.
Off, said the lawman, pointing.
You Suzy. Get off that there grass now. It aint for you. All of you now.
The goats grazed on with soft goat bells, with goat’s ears tilting.
Them goats needs to be on a lead or somethin you want to bring em thew here.
You caint do nothin with em.
This aint no place for a bunch of damned goats.
We just passin thew, said the goatman.
One of the goats defecated copiously on the paving. Dry round turds that rolled like buckshot. She moved on to the green with grace, the ambling tolerance of goathood, fat teats winking from between her legs. The policeman looked at the goatman.
I want them goats out of here.
They goin.
This aint Sevierville or some damned place where you can bring a bunch of goats through the middle of town any time you’ve a notion and let em shit all over the place.
I came thew there but I never stayed over.
Well let’s be for goin thew here and not stayin over.
Come on honey, the goatman said to the nanny that stood sleeping in the traces. She opened one eye, a cracked agate filled with sly goat sapience. The goatman patted her rump where bones reared up beneath the hide that you could hang a hat on. A puff of dust. She moved. They passed the policeman in a sedate trundling. Little goat peering from the wagon. The goatman calling. Hoo now. The tiny clatter of goathooves in the silent Sunday morning and the goats and the cart and the goatman going on in a penumbra of sunlight, a cartwheel trapped and squealing in the trolleytrack till he stoops to lift it out, stout goatman, strange hat in one hand, the company swinging out and down Market Street toward the river, a bunched and sidling halfcircle of goats starting and checking and wheeling past the goatman down the steep hill and the goatman himself with his back to the cart to check its descent.
Suttree woke in late morning with the cabin filled with sunlight, light lapping on the farther wall where it played off the water, a faint bleating of goats. He rose and went out to the deck in his shorts, stretching in the sabbath noon, a dreamy tranquillity. The river lay empty of traffic and the sawmill’s small skylights winked in the sun crossriver with their crooked glass. He propped himself on the rail and looked about. The field between the railroad and the river was filled with grazing goats and there was a small strange hooded wagon there and a rigid windless spire of smoke standing in the bright air.
Goats, he said, scratching his chin.
He looked upriver, Jones’s tavernboat, the marble company, the curve of the river toward Island Home. The stand of canes tilting at the point and the dark folk fishing there in overalls and faded floral wear. He looked toward the field again.
He counted as many as two dozen. A small one tethered to the wagonwheel stood on buckling legs. A bearded man in overalls came to the rear of the wagon and got something from within and disappeared again. Suttree went in and dressed.
The goatman looked up at his approach. He was wearing little wire eyeglasses and he was reading from the bible. He went back to his reading and Suttree squatted by the fire and watched him, the old man’s finger moving on the page, his lips forming the words. After a few minutes he laid the book aside and took off the spectacles and folded them and placed them in the bib pocket of his overalls. He looked up at Suttree, one eye lightly squinted.
Morning, said Suttree.
And a good day to you, said the goatman. Aint the law I dont reckon are you?
No. I live in that houseboat yonder.
The goatman nodded.
Suttree looked up at the wagon. A large blue sign atop it read
JESUS WEPT
Pretty day, aint it? said the goatman.
It is. How many goats have you got?
Thirty-four.
Thirty-four.
Sally died.
Oh.
She never was real stout.
I guess you like goats pretty well.
Well, I’ve got used to em. We been on the road fourteen year now.
How come you to have so many?
Had nothin to do with it. Goats will be goats. I used to have more’n what I got now. Didnt have but one kid this spring. I think old Billy yonder’s gettin too old to cut the mustard.
Suttree looked out over the field at the goats grazing. Three small black boys had come across from the road and stood now uncertainly just outside the goatman’s camp and regarded him with wide eyes.
Come up boys, he said.
They made their way to the head of the wagon where a huge old billy goat was tethered. They stood around looking at him.
Can you touch him? one said.
Why sure. Just go on and rub his head.
He wont bite?
Naw. Scratch his old head there. He likes that.
One reached out tentatively and began to rub the goat’s nose. The goat sniffed at the boy’s sleeve and began to nibble at it.