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Authors: Tim Gautreaux
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at him and laughed. “Little brother, you’re starting to talk like the locals already.”
“I don’t speak like I’m in the parlor all the time.”
“We’ll see how bad you get.” Byron pulled up his gun belt. “As far as Galleri’s concerned, the nice fellows that bring in the liquor make him stay open. If he didn’t, they’d come up the canal in their motorboat and pay him a visit, as the oily bastards say.”
Randolph looked at his brother and frowned. “We do business with Sicilians in Pittsburgh, the Grizzaffis. They’re fine people.”
Byron shrugged. “Most of them are. But ‘fine’ is not a word I would use to describe Buzetti.”
Randolph looked down at what appeared to be a small lobster backing out of a cloudy puddle, as though the saloon’s reflection was enough to poison the water. “I don’t like men getting drunk on Sunday nights. They answer Monday’s whistle and then we have accidents. You remember the sawyer at Brinson who passed out in the saw shed?”
Byron laughed out loud. “Fell down on the carriage while it was moving toward the band saw, and got made into a six-by-six.”
Randolph looked at his brother hard and took a step away. “The accident shut us down for most of a day. Tell this Galleri he’s closed Sundays. If he refuses, we’ll issue notices to the men to stay away.” He looked into the void beyond the door on the left. “How’d Buzetti get a lot in the middle of the tract?”
“Last owners gave it to him.” Byron threw his head back and watched a hawk kiting over the mill yard. “They were under some duress to do so.”
“How many run-ins with these people have you had?”
“To hear them tell it, too many.” His eyes darted toward a barracks, where a man came out to pitch the contents of a slop jar into the woods.
“Maybe closing them down on Sundays will show for once who’s in charge.”
Again Byron looked up after the bird. “It might result in more board feet.” He laughed and kept his face toward the sky. “Do you realize that it’s finally stopped coming down?” Taking off his hat in a grand gesture, he leaned his head all the way back. “I am washed by the lack of rain,” he cried out.
Randolph put a hand on his brother’s arm, ignoring the stares of two buckers walking by, their saws springing on their shoulders in time to their steps. “Come on, By, let’s get in the shade.”
He ate the housekeeper’s supper, an amazing dark stew made with rabbit meat and served over rice. After she cleaned the kitchen and left, he rummaged through the house, finding a locker in which his predecessor had left a cracked pair of waders, a fishing rod, a half box of shotgun shells, and a Hohner piano accordion, ninety-six ebony buttons on the left-hand side. He sat it on the bed where its pearl inlay and the wavy imitation ivory of its waterfall keys blazed absurdly against the plank-plain room. The mill manager, who could play several musical instruments badly, stared at the accordion a full minute before going to the back door to make certain the housekeeper had blown out her lamp. Returning, he put his arms through the shoulder straps and ran his left hand down the buttons, stopping at the hollow-tipped one that signaled C. He popped loose the retaining straps and drew out a big chord that sounded sweet, like little birds singing harmony. Patting his foot, he began “Little Brown Jug,” playing the first time through in warbling single notes, and then adding fifths and thirds until he gained the feel of the keyboard. He switched to “Over the Waves,” the bass reeds ringing into his chest, and he started to waltz a little, fingering grace notes and rolls, his feet moving across the bedroom as he tried not to sing. Closing his eyes, he began to dance with his wife.
Much later that night, the housekeeper came into his room, a gauze nightcap on her head. “Mr. Aldridge,” she said, resting a hand on his shoulder. Always slow to wake
“I don’t speak like I’m in the parlor all the time.”
“We’ll see how bad you get.” Byron pulled up his gun belt. “As far as Galleri’s concerned, the nice fellows that bring in the liquor make him stay open. If he didn’t, they’d come up the canal in their motorboat and pay him a visit, as the oily bastards say.”
Randolph looked at his brother and frowned. “We do business with Sicilians in Pittsburgh, the Grizzaffis. They’re fine people.”
Byron shrugged. “Most of them are. But ‘fine’ is not a word I would use to describe Buzetti.”
Randolph looked down at what appeared to be a small lobster backing out of a cloudy puddle, as though the saloon’s reflection was enough to poison the water. “I don’t like men getting drunk on Sunday nights. They answer Monday’s whistle and then we have accidents. You remember the sawyer at Brinson who passed out in the saw shed?”
Byron laughed out loud. “Fell down on the carriage while it was moving toward the band saw, and got made into a six-by-six.”
Randolph looked at his brother hard and took a step away. “The accident shut us down for most of a day. Tell this Galleri he’s closed Sundays. If he refuses, we’ll issue notices to the men to stay away.” He looked into the void beyond the door on the left. “How’d Buzetti get a lot in the middle of the tract?”
“Last owners gave it to him.” Byron threw his head back and watched a hawk kiting over the mill yard. “They were under some duress to do so.”
“How many run-ins with these people have you had?”
“To hear them tell it, too many.” His eyes darted toward a barracks, where a man came out to pitch the contents of a slop jar into the woods.
“Maybe closing them down on Sundays will show for once who’s in charge.”
Again Byron looked up after the bird. “It might result in more board feet.” He laughed and kept his face toward the sky. “Do you realize that it’s finally stopped coming down?” Taking off his hat in a grand gesture, he leaned his head all the way back. “I am washed by the lack of rain,” he cried out.
Randolph put a hand on his brother’s arm, ignoring the stares of two buckers walking by, their saws springing on their shoulders in time to their steps. “Come on, By, let’s get in the shade.”
He ate the housekeeper’s supper, an amazing dark stew made with rabbit meat and served over rice. After she cleaned the kitchen and left, he rummaged through the house, finding a locker in which his predecessor had left a cracked pair of waders, a fishing rod, a half box of shotgun shells, and a Hohner piano accordion, ninety-six ebony buttons on the left-hand side. He sat it on the bed where its pearl inlay and the wavy imitation ivory of its waterfall keys blazed absurdly against the plank-plain room. The mill manager, who could play several musical instruments badly, stared at the accordion a full minute before going to the back door to make certain the housekeeper had blown out her lamp. Returning, he put his arms through the shoulder straps and ran his left hand down the buttons, stopping at the hollow-tipped one that signaled C. He popped loose the retaining straps and drew out a big chord that sounded sweet, like little birds singing harmony. Patting his foot, he began “Little Brown Jug,” playing the first time through in warbling single notes, and then adding fifths and thirds until he gained the feel of the keyboard. He switched to “Over the Waves,” the bass reeds ringing into his chest, and he started to waltz a little, fingering grace notes and rolls, his feet moving across the bedroom as he tried not to sing. Closing his eyes, he began to dance with his wife.
Much later that night, the housekeeper came into his room, a gauze nightcap on her head. “Mr. Aldridge,” she said, resting a hand on his shoulder. Always slow to wake
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