looked up at the statue, went very still, and climbed back into the carriage without another word. The horses started to move off. ‘Wait, wait,’ cried Eitzen. ‘Where are you going?’ ‘Home,’ she shouted out of the window. ‘But why?’ he yelled. And just as the carriage rolled out of the square, his wife shrieked, ‘My nose is too big!’ Last words he ever heard from her. Still, he kept the town’s name, in case she ever came back. But she never did. A minute and a half in this place was enough for her.” Kliever yawned again. “We both need some sleep. Come on. I’ll show you the river. It’s on the way home.”
A few minutes later, the two men stood at the end of the municipal pier, a perilous edifice of old wood that stretched out into the river. Frederick listened to the water as it coursed beneath his feet, a smooth, strong pulse in the darkness. “This is beautiful,” he said.
“Tell you what, though,” said Kliever. “The sound of running water always has the same effect on me.” He began to unbutton his flies.
Frederick felt his own bladder bulge, and did the same thing. As he emptied himself into the Missouri River, Frederick experienced an epiphany of sorts. After a lifetime spent in the city, this alfresco
piss was his first true communion with nature. It felt exhilarating.
“I like it here,” he said when he had finished.
“It’s as good a place as any,” agreed Kliever.
“It looks as if we’ll have to stay for a while,” said Frederick. “Doctor’s orders.”
“You’ll stay with us,” said Kliever.
The two men looked out across the dark water for a moment.
“Thank you,” said Frederick.
And so, as they stood side by side, making their own modest contributions to the longest river in America, did Frederick Meisenheimer and Johann Kliever become friends.
T hat night Frederick slept on the floor next to his wife and son. When he awoke the next morning, Jette was propped up in the bed with Joseph on her chest. The baby’s eyes were tightly shut as he sucked hungrily at her breast, oblivious to everything else. Frederick got to his feet and stroked his son’s tiny head. It felt hot to his touch, full of life.
“A late night,” observed Jette dryly.
“Yes, well,” said Frederick, abashed.
Jette smiled. “I suppose a celebration was in order.”
“The doctor says that we must stay here for a while. He wants to be sure the baby is healthy before we go any further.”
“If that’s what he says, then that’s what we’ll do.”
“The driver went back to St. Louis yesterday. We’re on our own now.”
Jette nodded at this news with a faraway look in her eye. The baby was not the only one being nourished, Frederick saw. His wife was tranquil, replete with new discoveries. “We’ll manage, when the time comes,” she said, hugging Joseph to her.
After the unhappy chaos of the previous few weeks, Frederick wondered whether some measure of calm might finally be returning to their lives. He was not a superstitious man, far less a religious one, but he couldn’t ignore the serendipity of it all: the driver’s decision to stop to refresh the horses, Jette’s waters breaking just then, Kliever strolling by. They were less than a day’s ride away from Rocheport, but at that moment the final miles of their journey seemed as daunting as a return voyage back across the Atlantic.
Rocheport had only been the vaguest of destinations. Nobody was expecting them there.
T hat evening, Frederick and Johann Kliever returned to the Nick-Nack. Frederick became increasingly preoccupied as the evening drew on.
“You seem quiet tonight,” remarked Kliever.
“Sorry.” Frederick tapped the side of his head. “I’ve been thinking. I’m wondering if perhaps we should stay here.”
“Perhaps you should,” said Kliever.
“If Jette agrees, of course. And if I can find a job.”
“There are always jobs for hard workers.”
“You know I’m not a
A few minutes later, the two men stood at the end of the municipal pier, a perilous edifice of old wood that stretched out into the river. Frederick listened to the water as it coursed beneath his feet, a smooth, strong pulse in the darkness. “This is beautiful,” he said.
“Tell you what, though,” said Kliever. “The sound of running water always has the same effect on me.” He began to unbutton his flies.
Frederick felt his own bladder bulge, and did the same thing. As he emptied himself into the Missouri River, Frederick experienced an epiphany of sorts. After a lifetime spent in the city, this alfresco
piss was his first true communion with nature. It felt exhilarating.
“I like it here,” he said when he had finished.
“It’s as good a place as any,” agreed Kliever.
“It looks as if we’ll have to stay for a while,” said Frederick. “Doctor’s orders.”
“You’ll stay with us,” said Kliever.
The two men looked out across the dark water for a moment.
“Thank you,” said Frederick.
And so, as they stood side by side, making their own modest contributions to the longest river in America, did Frederick Meisenheimer and Johann Kliever become friends.
T hat night Frederick slept on the floor next to his wife and son. When he awoke the next morning, Jette was propped up in the bed with Joseph on her chest. The baby’s eyes were tightly shut as he sucked hungrily at her breast, oblivious to everything else. Frederick got to his feet and stroked his son’s tiny head. It felt hot to his touch, full of life.
“A late night,” observed Jette dryly.
“Yes, well,” said Frederick, abashed.
Jette smiled. “I suppose a celebration was in order.”
“The doctor says that we must stay here for a while. He wants to be sure the baby is healthy before we go any further.”
“If that’s what he says, then that’s what we’ll do.”
“The driver went back to St. Louis yesterday. We’re on our own now.”
Jette nodded at this news with a faraway look in her eye. The baby was not the only one being nourished, Frederick saw. His wife was tranquil, replete with new discoveries. “We’ll manage, when the time comes,” she said, hugging Joseph to her.
After the unhappy chaos of the previous few weeks, Frederick wondered whether some measure of calm might finally be returning to their lives. He was not a superstitious man, far less a religious one, but he couldn’t ignore the serendipity of it all: the driver’s decision to stop to refresh the horses, Jette’s waters breaking just then, Kliever strolling by. They were less than a day’s ride away from Rocheport, but at that moment the final miles of their journey seemed as daunting as a return voyage back across the Atlantic.
Rocheport had only been the vaguest of destinations. Nobody was expecting them there.
T hat evening, Frederick and Johann Kliever returned to the Nick-Nack. Frederick became increasingly preoccupied as the evening drew on.
“You seem quiet tonight,” remarked Kliever.
“Sorry.” Frederick tapped the side of his head. “I’ve been thinking. I’m wondering if perhaps we should stay here.”
“Perhaps you should,” said Kliever.
“If Jette agrees, of course. And if I can find a job.”
“There are always jobs for hard workers.”
“You know I’m not a
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