this land. I spent my youth here amongst the wilderness and savages. I know the way a pioneer needs his fellow man. To survive. Now; I truly like you, old fellow; I wouldn’t want to see you forced to leave by the untamed elements. Like . . . some others.”
Henry threw his handful of pebbles all together into the river. “Nobody’s leaving, Bobby Stokes, Boney Stokes—nobody else is leaving.” Laughing that old man’s ferocious laugh at the other’s somber and fatalistic expression. As the pebbles slowly melt beneath the current.
And years later, after he had used this same ferocity to build a small fortune and a logging operation the size of which was limited only by the number of relatives that migrated to the area to work for him, Henry rowed across one morning to find Boney waiting at the garage in the delivery truck.
“Morning, Henry. How’s Henry Stamper, Junior?”
“Noisy,” Henry answered, squinting a little as he looked sideways at his old friend standing like a post near the door of the truck. Boney was holding a ragged brown package against his thigh. “Yep. Noisy and hungry.” He waited, squinting.
“Oh.” Boney suddenly remembered the package. “This came for you this morning. I guess they must of got word about the birth back in Kansas.”
“I guess they must of done that.”
Boney looked forlornly at the package. “It appears to be from Kansas City. A relative, perhaps?”
Henry grinned into his hand, a gesture so like the one used by Boney to cover his barking cough that people of the town sometimes wondered if Henry had copied the move to further plague his morose companion. “Well—” He laughed at Boney’s fidgeting. “What the hell, let’s see what he sent.”
Boney already had his pocketknife open to cut the string. The package contained a wall plaque, one of those sentimental souvenirs picked up at county fairs: a frame of wooden cherubs around a copper bas-relief of Jesus carrying a lamb through a field of daisies, and raised copper letters declaring, “Blessed Are the Meek, for They Shall Inherit the Earth. Matt. 6”—and a note saying, “This here is for my Grandchild; may he grow up to have more Christian Love and Sympathy and Charity than the rest of my family who have never understood nor communicated with me. J. A. Stamper.”
Boney was shocked. “You mean to tell me you’ve never even written to that poor old fellow? Never? ” Boney was more than shocked, he was horrified. “You’ve done him a terrible wrong!”
“You reckon? Well, I’ll see ifn I can’t make it up some way. Come take a little ride to the house with me.” And in the mother’s room Boney’s horror turned to petrified disbelief as he stood watching Henry paint the plaque with dull yellow machine paint. Henry dried the paint with the heat of the burning note, and with one of the heavy red pencils used for marking the footage on the end of logs, finally put into words, into writing, what to Henry was nothing more than a good rule for his son to grow up under, but what essentially was the core of that family sin Jonas had seen in the eyes of his son in the Kansas sunlight: sitting on the edge of the bed that contained the forty-five-year-old woman he had married upon his mother’s death, with Boney looking on incredulous as a totem pole, and the newborn child crying his lungs out, Henry had laboriously lettered his own personal gospel over the raised copper words of Jesus; bent tensely over the plaque, grinning his fierce, irreverent grin at his wife’s protests and Boney’s stare, and at the thought of what pious old Jonas would say if he could just see his gift now. “That ought to do ’er.” He stood up, right pleased with his work, and walked across the room and nailed the plaque into the wall over the enormous crib he and the boys at the mill built for Henry Junior. (Where the goddamned ugly outfit hangs, all the time I’m growing up. NEVER GIVE A INCH! In Pa’s broad,
Henry threw his handful of pebbles all together into the river. “Nobody’s leaving, Bobby Stokes, Boney Stokes—nobody else is leaving.” Laughing that old man’s ferocious laugh at the other’s somber and fatalistic expression. As the pebbles slowly melt beneath the current.
And years later, after he had used this same ferocity to build a small fortune and a logging operation the size of which was limited only by the number of relatives that migrated to the area to work for him, Henry rowed across one morning to find Boney waiting at the garage in the delivery truck.
“Morning, Henry. How’s Henry Stamper, Junior?”
“Noisy,” Henry answered, squinting a little as he looked sideways at his old friend standing like a post near the door of the truck. Boney was holding a ragged brown package against his thigh. “Yep. Noisy and hungry.” He waited, squinting.
“Oh.” Boney suddenly remembered the package. “This came for you this morning. I guess they must of got word about the birth back in Kansas.”
“I guess they must of done that.”
Boney looked forlornly at the package. “It appears to be from Kansas City. A relative, perhaps?”
Henry grinned into his hand, a gesture so like the one used by Boney to cover his barking cough that people of the town sometimes wondered if Henry had copied the move to further plague his morose companion. “Well—” He laughed at Boney’s fidgeting. “What the hell, let’s see what he sent.”
Boney already had his pocketknife open to cut the string. The package contained a wall plaque, one of those sentimental souvenirs picked up at county fairs: a frame of wooden cherubs around a copper bas-relief of Jesus carrying a lamb through a field of daisies, and raised copper letters declaring, “Blessed Are the Meek, for They Shall Inherit the Earth. Matt. 6”—and a note saying, “This here is for my Grandchild; may he grow up to have more Christian Love and Sympathy and Charity than the rest of my family who have never understood nor communicated with me. J. A. Stamper.”
Boney was shocked. “You mean to tell me you’ve never even written to that poor old fellow? Never? ” Boney was more than shocked, he was horrified. “You’ve done him a terrible wrong!”
“You reckon? Well, I’ll see ifn I can’t make it up some way. Come take a little ride to the house with me.” And in the mother’s room Boney’s horror turned to petrified disbelief as he stood watching Henry paint the plaque with dull yellow machine paint. Henry dried the paint with the heat of the burning note, and with one of the heavy red pencils used for marking the footage on the end of logs, finally put into words, into writing, what to Henry was nothing more than a good rule for his son to grow up under, but what essentially was the core of that family sin Jonas had seen in the eyes of his son in the Kansas sunlight: sitting on the edge of the bed that contained the forty-five-year-old woman he had married upon his mother’s death, with Boney looking on incredulous as a totem pole, and the newborn child crying his lungs out, Henry had laboriously lettered his own personal gospel over the raised copper words of Jesus; bent tensely over the plaque, grinning his fierce, irreverent grin at his wife’s protests and Boney’s stare, and at the thought of what pious old Jonas would say if he could just see his gift now. “That ought to do ’er.” He stood up, right pleased with his work, and walked across the room and nailed the plaque into the wall over the enormous crib he and the boys at the mill built for Henry Junior. (Where the goddamned ugly outfit hangs, all the time I’m growing up. NEVER GIVE A INCH! In Pa’s broad,
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