Read Online The Wooden Sea by Jonathan Carroll - Free Book Online
Authors: Jonathan Carroll
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strange things going on down there.
In the middle of the darkness the house was brightly lit from all sides.
Circling it was a ring of floodlights, all aimed directly at the building. My first thought was mining disaster. You know what I mean--those pictures forever on TV or in magazines of a mining site somewhere in the world--England or Russia, West Virginia. Miles below the earth Page 37
something went wrong and there was a cave-in or an explosion. Rescue workers have been digging continually for thirty hours to reach the survivors. The site is as bright at night as during the day. They've brought in ten million candlepower to keep it lit for the workers.
That's what the Schiavo house looked like. It was so strange and surreal against the backdrop of deep thick night that no matter what they were doing there, it looked suspicious.
And who were _theyl _Workmen. As we got closer I tried to see if I knew any of the men but not one was familiar. Dressed in no special style or uniform, they were guys in yellow and orange hard hats setting up scaffolding. Around the house they were quickly erecting an intricate system of interlocking pipes, struts, and connectors. When done, it would completely encircle the building, holding it captive like an insect trapped inside some kind of giant metal spiderweb. We stopped on the sidewalk in front of the house and watched them work.
You only needed to watch for five minutes to know these guys really knew what they were doing.
No wasted effort, no horsing around, no cluster of fuckoffs scarfing donuts and avoiding work.
This crew was series o ous; they were here to do the job and then get out.
What _was _extraordinary was how little noise they made. To fit the strangeness of the scene it would have been better if they had been completely silent, but that wasn't the case. They made noise--metal struck metal, the creak and strain of things being fitted, bolted, erected. With all the activity and workers on the site it _should _have been a hell of a lot louder.
But it wasn't. You heard things, sure, but not enough to believe it was somehow real--how could all this go on so quietly?
"They're making no noise."
The boy rubbed his nose. "1 was thinking that. The whole scene's got like a muffler on it."
"What are they doing to the house? What's with the scaffolding? Why are they doing it in the middle of the night?"
"Beats me, Chief. My job was just to get you here."
"Bullshit." I didn't believe him for a minute, but it was useless arguing.
He'd tell me only what he wanted and I'd have to figure out the rest.
I walked to the house and asked a worker where the foreman was. He pointed to a tall dark man who looked Indian passing a few feet away.
Taking a few fast steps, I caught up with him. "Excuse me? Could I talk to you a minute?"
He looked me up and down like I was an eggplant or a whore he was considering buying.
"My name is McCabe. I'm chief of police in Crane's View."
Unimpressed, he crossed his arms and said nothing.
"Why are you here? Do you have permits? What are you doing to this place?
Where are the Schiavos?"
Page 38
He remained mute until a small smile twitched on at the edges of his mouth.
As if what I had said was funny. I ran the tape back in my head but nothing on it sounded funny to me. "I asked you a question."
"Dot does nut mean I have dee an-suh." Sure enough, he spoke with the kind of thick Indian accent where the tongue never moves in the mouth, as if it were a cow lying in the middle of a road and words had to drive around it to get out.
"You wanna explain that?" The boy stepped in toward the foreman and got up so close they could have touched. His voice was one hundred percent disagreeable--a verbal shove in the other's chest.
"I explain nothing. I'm working! Can you not see I'm busy?"
"You won't be busy after I kick your ass, Gunga Din."
The Indian's eyes widened in disbelief and rage. "You little fuckah--"
_Whomp! _The kid
In the middle of the darkness the house was brightly lit from all sides.
Circling it was a ring of floodlights, all aimed directly at the building. My first thought was mining disaster. You know what I mean--those pictures forever on TV or in magazines of a mining site somewhere in the world--England or Russia, West Virginia. Miles below the earth Page 37
something went wrong and there was a cave-in or an explosion. Rescue workers have been digging continually for thirty hours to reach the survivors. The site is as bright at night as during the day. They've brought in ten million candlepower to keep it lit for the workers.
That's what the Schiavo house looked like. It was so strange and surreal against the backdrop of deep thick night that no matter what they were doing there, it looked suspicious.
And who were _theyl _Workmen. As we got closer I tried to see if I knew any of the men but not one was familiar. Dressed in no special style or uniform, they were guys in yellow and orange hard hats setting up scaffolding. Around the house they were quickly erecting an intricate system of interlocking pipes, struts, and connectors. When done, it would completely encircle the building, holding it captive like an insect trapped inside some kind of giant metal spiderweb. We stopped on the sidewalk in front of the house and watched them work.
You only needed to watch for five minutes to know these guys really knew what they were doing.
No wasted effort, no horsing around, no cluster of fuckoffs scarfing donuts and avoiding work.
This crew was series o ous; they were here to do the job and then get out.
What _was _extraordinary was how little noise they made. To fit the strangeness of the scene it would have been better if they had been completely silent, but that wasn't the case. They made noise--metal struck metal, the creak and strain of things being fitted, bolted, erected. With all the activity and workers on the site it _should _have been a hell of a lot louder.
But it wasn't. You heard things, sure, but not enough to believe it was somehow real--how could all this go on so quietly?
"They're making no noise."
The boy rubbed his nose. "1 was thinking that. The whole scene's got like a muffler on it."
"What are they doing to the house? What's with the scaffolding? Why are they doing it in the middle of the night?"
"Beats me, Chief. My job was just to get you here."
"Bullshit." I didn't believe him for a minute, but it was useless arguing.
He'd tell me only what he wanted and I'd have to figure out the rest.
I walked to the house and asked a worker where the foreman was. He pointed to a tall dark man who looked Indian passing a few feet away.
Taking a few fast steps, I caught up with him. "Excuse me? Could I talk to you a minute?"
He looked me up and down like I was an eggplant or a whore he was considering buying.
"My name is McCabe. I'm chief of police in Crane's View."
Unimpressed, he crossed his arms and said nothing.
"Why are you here? Do you have permits? What are you doing to this place?
Where are the Schiavos?"
Page 38
He remained mute until a small smile twitched on at the edges of his mouth.
As if what I had said was funny. I ran the tape back in my head but nothing on it sounded funny to me. "I asked you a question."
"Dot does nut mean I have dee an-suh." Sure enough, he spoke with the kind of thick Indian accent where the tongue never moves in the mouth, as if it were a cow lying in the middle of a road and words had to drive around it to get out.
"You wanna explain that?" The boy stepped in toward the foreman and got up so close they could have touched. His voice was one hundred percent disagreeable--a verbal shove in the other's chest.
"I explain nothing. I'm working! Can you not see I'm busy?"
"You won't be busy after I kick your ass, Gunga Din."
The Indian's eyes widened in disbelief and rage. "You little fuckah--"
_Whomp! _The kid
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