the end of the evening.
E xactly a week after Joseph’s birth, Frederick and Jette moved into the house that Dr. Becker had promised them. The small wooden bungalow was nestled in the cold shadow of the tree-blanketed bluff that marked the northern perimeter of the town. The house had not been lived in for several years, and the slow creep of decay and disrepair had gone unchecked. Doors hung off their hinges. Untended window frames had splintered beneath the frost and fire of countless Missouri seasons. The panes were so thickly smeared in grime that only a few pallid rays of sunlight fell through the glass. Cobwebs crisscrossed the rafters in such delicate profusion that the ghostly filigree appeared to be holding the house together.
The rooms were empty cocoons of shadows. Spiders scuttled into corners at the first footfall. There was a large fireplace in the living room, ancient ash lying in its grate. An old stove leaned against the wall by the back door. In the yard was a wooden outhouse, half hidden by overgrown grass. Beyond it a solitary sugar maple tree stood silent sentry to the forest behind.
Frederick and Jette stood on the Klievers’ porch as they prepared to walk the four blocks to their new home, the final leg of the journey that had started in the street outside Andreas’s apartment. As Frederick picked up Jette’s suitcase, Kliever stepped forward. “Here,” he said to Jette. “This is for you.” He was holding the terra-cotta angel’s wing that Frederick had broken as he had staggered backward under the force of Jette’s punch, just as Joseph was being born.
Jette took the wing and put it in her pocket.
That evening, while Joseph slept, Frederick fashioned a hook out of a short piece of wire. He hung the broken angel’s wing high up on the wall of the living room, directly over the fireplace. They gazed up at the bright patch of color, their new home’s only decoration. The terra-cotta heart glowed warmly in the light of the flames below.
Finally, they had stopped moving.
EIGHT
In the weeks that followed, Frederick watched Polk closely and learned as much as he could about running the Nick-Nack. Once the old barman realized that he was going to keep his job, and that Frederick intended to ignore his furtive nips from the whiskey flagon, his icy detachment thawed, but only a little. Nothing would entice Polk to interact with his fellow men with the same enthusiasm that he communed with a bottle. Every afternoon he began the same, slow process of getting stupendously pickled.
Like Polk, the tavern had a certain run-down charm about it. The sawdust that covered the floor hid a legion of cracks and holes. The wall of beveled glass behind the bar had acquired its own misty patina, the fog of age creeping slowly inward from its perimeter. Sometimes Frederick would eye the piano hidden beneath the tarpaulin in the corner of the room.
Johann Kliever often spent evenings propping up the bar at the Nick-Nack until it was closing time. Sometimes he would pester Frederick for a song as the two of them made their way home. Every night they would walk to the end of the pier and urinate beneath the stars. Frederick’s deposits into the Missouri River became a sort of spiritual investment, an act of primeval connection with this new land. The unchecked force of nature that surrounded him could not have been more different from the prim streets of Hanover. Those visits to the pier were a constant reminder that this was, above all, somewhere new.
By tacit agreement, neither man burdened the other with his innermost thoughts. Frederick often found himself reflecting how little he knew about his new friend. Sometimes Kliever would vanish for several days at a time, and then reappear without comment or explanation. After these mysterious absences he often moved gingerly, the ghost of a painful grimace haunting his face.
When he was not at the Nick-Nack, Frederick began work on his new home. He painted
E xactly a week after Joseph’s birth, Frederick and Jette moved into the house that Dr. Becker had promised them. The small wooden bungalow was nestled in the cold shadow of the tree-blanketed bluff that marked the northern perimeter of the town. The house had not been lived in for several years, and the slow creep of decay and disrepair had gone unchecked. Doors hung off their hinges. Untended window frames had splintered beneath the frost and fire of countless Missouri seasons. The panes were so thickly smeared in grime that only a few pallid rays of sunlight fell through the glass. Cobwebs crisscrossed the rafters in such delicate profusion that the ghostly filigree appeared to be holding the house together.
The rooms were empty cocoons of shadows. Spiders scuttled into corners at the first footfall. There was a large fireplace in the living room, ancient ash lying in its grate. An old stove leaned against the wall by the back door. In the yard was a wooden outhouse, half hidden by overgrown grass. Beyond it a solitary sugar maple tree stood silent sentry to the forest behind.
Frederick and Jette stood on the Klievers’ porch as they prepared to walk the four blocks to their new home, the final leg of the journey that had started in the street outside Andreas’s apartment. As Frederick picked up Jette’s suitcase, Kliever stepped forward. “Here,” he said to Jette. “This is for you.” He was holding the terra-cotta angel’s wing that Frederick had broken as he had staggered backward under the force of Jette’s punch, just as Joseph was being born.
Jette took the wing and put it in her pocket.
That evening, while Joseph slept, Frederick fashioned a hook out of a short piece of wire. He hung the broken angel’s wing high up on the wall of the living room, directly over the fireplace. They gazed up at the bright patch of color, their new home’s only decoration. The terra-cotta heart glowed warmly in the light of the flames below.
Finally, they had stopped moving.
EIGHT
In the weeks that followed, Frederick watched Polk closely and learned as much as he could about running the Nick-Nack. Once the old barman realized that he was going to keep his job, and that Frederick intended to ignore his furtive nips from the whiskey flagon, his icy detachment thawed, but only a little. Nothing would entice Polk to interact with his fellow men with the same enthusiasm that he communed with a bottle. Every afternoon he began the same, slow process of getting stupendously pickled.
Like Polk, the tavern had a certain run-down charm about it. The sawdust that covered the floor hid a legion of cracks and holes. The wall of beveled glass behind the bar had acquired its own misty patina, the fog of age creeping slowly inward from its perimeter. Sometimes Frederick would eye the piano hidden beneath the tarpaulin in the corner of the room.
Johann Kliever often spent evenings propping up the bar at the Nick-Nack until it was closing time. Sometimes he would pester Frederick for a song as the two of them made their way home. Every night they would walk to the end of the pier and urinate beneath the stars. Frederick’s deposits into the Missouri River became a sort of spiritual investment, an act of primeval connection with this new land. The unchecked force of nature that surrounded him could not have been more different from the prim streets of Hanover. Those visits to the pier were a constant reminder that this was, above all, somewhere new.
By tacit agreement, neither man burdened the other with his innermost thoughts. Frederick often found himself reflecting how little he knew about his new friend. Sometimes Kliever would vanish for several days at a time, and then reappear without comment or explanation. After these mysterious absences he often moved gingerly, the ghost of a painful grimace haunting his face.
When he was not at the Nick-Nack, Frederick began work on his new home. He painted
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