Full Wolf Moon Going Down

By Gloria Nero

The family farm and its independent way of life are brilliantly depicted in this novel of love, loss, and moral conflict.

Lucifer Cooley lives a quiet, simple life, but tragedy has struck. At odds with his brothers and neighbors, he logs the woods, milks his cows and tills the fields of his Catskill Mountain farm. Alone at night he dwells darkly upon those things he cannot undo.

Pop Cooley is an old man who needs to slow up, trapped within his ailing body, he must reconcile a secret one which will most certainly bring about misfortune.

When Lilith de Clare ventures to the bucolic farm with her innocent child, Queena, she is realizing a girlhood dream. But a sinful secret threatens to destroy her happiness.

Gloria Neros evocative style is equal to her empathy and understanding of individual hardship. She is the author of Crazysad Heart of a Fool.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: May 30, 2003
• ISBN: 9781477172766

Gloria Nero

Gloria Nero¡¦s first two novels „o Crazysad Heart of a Fool and Full Wolf Moon Going Down won her a wide readership for her imaginative storytelling, her visual use of the language, and her ability to create unforgettable characters. Ms. Nero grew up in northern New Jersey. She currently lives in the foothills of the Catskill Mountains with her two faithful dogs. Her passions include motorcycle riding and gardening. She is currently at work on her next novel.

Book preview

Copyright © 2003 by Gloria Nero.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This novel is a work of the author’s imagination. Every character and all events are purely fictitious. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. All places named are used fictitiously.

To order additional copies of this book, contact:

Xlibris Corporation

1-888-795-4274

www.Xlibris.com

[e-mail]

17823

Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

For the memory of my father and mother

Other Books by Gloria Nero

Crazysad Heart of a Fool

Laws, in their general signification, are necessary relations arising from the nature of things. In this sense all beings have their laws; the Deity His laws, the material world it’s laws, the intelligences superior to man their laws, beasts their laws, man his laws.

Montesquieu

AUTUMN/WINTER 1987

Hatred is a precious liquor, a poison dearer than that of the Borgias, because it is made of our blood, our health, our sleep and two-thirds of our love.

Baudelaire

CHAPTER ONE

LUCIFER COOLEY

He walked on down, the red mud clinging to his boots.

It was still in the woods, not a peep nor a rustle. He listened to the quiet. The shadows were deepening, a soft mantle of mauve light had fallen over the mountain. The air was earthy, cold and he could smell the coming frost. He set his McCullock and the gas can up behind the spare, in the bed. Then opening the rusty door, he climbed in, reached over and grabbed a Genny out of the six-pack under his jacket and pried the lid, using both thumbs. He drained the bottle of cold beer. Then turning the key, he pumped on the pedal. C’mon now. Baby be good to me. He spoke aloud to his old Chevy pickup, giving the wheel a fond tap or two with his left hand. She fired up. Atta girl, he said. Smiling, he backed on out of the logging road he’d bull-dozed and drove up the hill. The town road was dirt, narrow and rough but picturesque. Picture-s-k, he said, his smile breaking into a grin. The road was strewn with fallen leaves from the maples and ash. He was driving over a hand-painted decorative sash; dabs of color—yellow and gold, crimson and scarlet red,—ochre and flame orange. He passed by the old Brownell house. Somebody was living in it now. City folks. The dilapidated barn was about to tumble over. They’ll have a Barn Razing one of these days. Invite their friends. Throw a party. Then put up a sheet metal pole barn. No doubt. He didn’t like seeing all the old farms going to hell. He didn’t like the city folks much. He didn’t like them at all, in fact. They had money but no appreciation for the land, for the old places they were buying up.

It must’ve been one heckava lonesome little ole farm one hundred fifty years ago, he said, aloud. Bet a man and his family got stranded up here in a bad winter. Course that wouldn’ta been so bad. Heck no. A man would’ve had some time to think. Alone. Time to spend with his wife—maybe—with nobody to come nosin’ around—buttin’ in—ya hear what I’m sayin’ Baby. Course ya would’ve been an old broken down nag, ya know—pullin’ me along in a spring wagon. He laughed at that.

He liked thinking on what it must’ve been like back then. He craved a simpler time; a time before the advent of machinery. He’d of been a mower. Gone around mowing hay with a scythe. In the summertime. Been a woodcutter in the fall, most likely.

Going along the flat where the hollow widened a bit, he was struck dumb by a beautiful sight. He stepped on the brake. Came to a stop and let the engine idle. Then turned the key, shut it off. He’d take a minute. What the heck. No sense being in a big hurry. He was already late. He’d catch hell anyways, no doubt, so he might as well be good and late. He took it in, the sight before him. The beaver pond, taking up an acre or more was all lit up. Looking like burning gasoline. The reflection of the swamp maples painted bright by old Jack Frost were setting the pond on fire. From the glow of the setting sun that had broken through the clouds. Ma Nature, ya take my breath away! he exclaimed. He dug into the pocket of his heavy flannel shirt and got out his tobacco and papers. He leaned back and rolled himself a smoke. Then raising his butt up a bit, he stuck his hand in his pants pocket and got his lighter out and lit the cigarette. He breathed out the smoke from his lungs contentedly. Never taking his eyes off the scene. I’ll git on home, soons this here fire burns itself out, he told himself. He opened another bottle of Genny. Then he saw her. The woman. She lived around here somewhere. It was the third time he’s seen her now. Out walking. She was coming his way. The Mastiff was sauntering along at her side. He’d been utterly astonished when he’d first seen the dog. Just like old King. There weren’t that many around—leastways not around there. He’d driven four hundred miles to pick up old King Cole. That was six years ago. He leaned his head out the truck window as she neared. Ya know, I had one of them dogs, King Cole was his name. Only he was a brindle—ya don’t see many around. She didn’t say anything. She was just looking at his face. Ya live around here? he asked. He sure didn’t like these city folks—she was acting like she was afraid he’d spray spittle on her or something. The way she was holding herself back from him. But she was looking at him, alright. He knew the look. He had what was called sex appeal. Was born with it. He appealed to the opposite sex. Made them drool. Crave. He smirked at her.

The huge dog sat itself down on it’s haunches. She started in rubbing it’s broad head, back and forth, back and forth with her fingers spread. Watching her hands made him think of sensuous things. He stuck the cold bottle between his legs. Cool it now, don’t you stir. He smirked again. His name is Marmaduke, she suddenly spoke. His smirk turned into a genuine smile. And then she smiled. We live on top of Fanny Parish Road. On the little plateau. Her voice was soft-toned. That’s a dead-end, he said. Howdaya like livin’ up in the woods—on top of a mountain? he asked. He took a last drag on his smoke, put out the burning end with his fingertips and field stripped the butt. Tossed the remains out the window. She wrinkled her brow at that. It’s biodegradable, he remarked, looking directly into her eyes. She had dreamy eyes. Bedroom eyes was what he called eyes like hers. I like it. This is lovely country, she said. ‘Love’ly country, he was thinking. Yep, he said. She turned her head and looked away. What’s yer name? he asked. I’m Lucifer Cooley. I’ve been workin’ that piece of woods just across from where ya are. I know, she said. I mean I know you’ve been cutting down trees. I can hear the chainsaw. And I hear the trees go crashing down. It’s a sad, forlorn sort of sound. Death to something alive. Something that’s been living a long time. He stared at her. She was one of them save-the-earth ecology-minded types. A Voices For Trees crusader. ‘Woodsman woodsman, spare that tree’. I’m Lilith de Clare, she said. Well, Lilith de Clare, I’m only harvestin’ the woods. Takin’ out trees of a certain dimension. And I clean up after myself. I pile up the slash, use the tops for firewood. Ya can look at it two ways. The big ole trees come out to give the young ones room to grow. Or ya can lament the fact that the ole ones can’t stay around to become forest giants to get struck down by the hand of God. We all gotta go sometime, that’s for sure. She didn’t say anything. Yer neighbors aren’t so sentimental about the trees on their properties. I got a ‘nother piece of woods to log, up on this end of Bear Hollow once I’m done down there. They gotta make their country places pay for themselves, ya know. She was just staring at him. With those eyes. Her eyes pulled you to them—they were reflecting pools. You found yourself looking into their depths to see if you could see yourself. Well, ya take care of that big ole dog, now. I lost mine. Ole King was just three years old. An hysterical woman ran him over. In my driveway. She made a face of pure disbelief. And put her arms about the neck of her big apricot-colored animal. I’d best be gittin’ along. I live over on Otter Hollow—about five or six miles from here. We’re neighbors, ya might say. Got a dairy. One of the few family farms still operatin’ around here. She didn’t say anything. She was reserved, he guessed. He found himself stalling, trying to come up with something more to say.

My Pop knew ole man Brownell. He was in his nineties already, back then. Ole Brownell. I wasn’t more’n five the first time I came over this way. Yer property was Brownell’s pasture land—almost all the woods were cleared to hayfields and pasture at that time. Course these ole farms—there were five of ‘em on this road—weren’t ever too productive. What with all the rock ledges on the mountainsides up here. Ya oughta take a hike up there where I’m loggin’. There’s caves up there. Nothin’ too spectacular. Not caverns or anything but there’s a good sized cave up there—bear-size. Deep enough to live in if ya were a hermit or hide out in if ya had a mind to. He turned the key in the ignition. His pickup started up noisily. She turned her head, gave him a side-long glance and spoke above the none too healthy whirring going on under the hood of his truck. I saw the reflection on the pond, too. Is that why you stopped? It was breathtaking. That’s just what I said. I said, Ma Nature ya sure do take my breath away. He shifted into first gear. Might be I’ll see ya again. She stepped back and nodded her head. He drove off, raising two fingers to his forehead in a farewell salute.

He drove on towards home. He was thinking about her. The woman. Lilith de Clare. She wasn’t bad. No Sirree, not too bad at all. He couldn’t tell her age. She was one of them ageless types. Tall and thin. Wearing a dress and jeans jacket like that—out in the middle of nowhere. Blue saddle shoes and socks. Stylish, he supposed. There’s no telling what you might run into when you least expect it. In the most unlikely of places. You a married woman Lilith de Clare? I wonder. Suppose you are. The nice ones—the ones worth looking at twice are always taken. What kind of man do you have waiting for you up there? A damned fool, I’d say. Letting you wander around by yourself. There’s wolves lurking in these parts. Believe me. I know.

She don’t sound like she’s from around here. With that voice. It has a pretty quality to it. Her voice. A hint of an accent. Even her name has a foreign ring to it. French, maybe. She’s somebody’s wife, Lucifer Cooley. Keep your mind’s hands off, he said. Outloud. He smiled. It was becoming a habit. This talking outloud to himself. He didn’t use to do it. It wasn’t so bad when he was around his cows. At least their ears twitched forward now and then, like maybe they were paying him some mind. She’s somebody’s wife, Baby, he said to his old truck. ‘Thou shalt not covet thy neighbor’s wife. Thou shalt not commit adultery’. Two of the Big ones. The Lord’s commandments. Ha. Laws don’t stop nobody. They surely didn’t stop old Josey Ann. Good old church-going Catholic Josey Ann. No Sirree. Sweet Josey Ann opened her legs to anybody. Hells, bells. Anybody and everybody with an old dangling cock. Didn’t matter that she was Lucifer Cooley’s wife. No Sirree. Well fuck you. Fuck you and whoever the fuck you fucked. You fucking bitch! He swerved his truck to miss a nutty squirrel, darting first to head back and then on across in front of his wheels. Ya little fool, ya made it this time. Yer real lucky too, cause when I’m thinkin’ of ole Josey Ann, I turn mean. Yer real damn lucky I didn’t hit ya outta spite.

He pulled into the upper driveway, alongside the house. He sat a minute. The Old Man would be down in the barn. Cussing and fuming. Beating on the cows, no doubt. Wanting to help but being a pain in the butt. And, aggravating his back, stressing his heart. He suppressed a yawn. But then leaned back and opened his mouth wide to another yawn. He pushed the latch down and shoved against the door to his truck. Ya creaky ole thing, if I don’t oil ya one of these days soon, yer gonna break right off, he mumbled. He got out and slammed the door shut, with a bang. And glanced automatically to the kitchen window. Josey Ann didn’t come to the kitchen window no more. No Sirree. Neither did Ma Cooley. Nor Rose. Why’d he still do it? Look for their faces. How long do they have to be gone? Damn. Damn. And more damns. You are a sucker for the past. That you are. They’re gone. Gone. Got that? Gone. One. Two. Three. Gone. Gone. Gone.

He went on down the driveway, heading for the barn. Breathing in the tangy autumn smells of decaying leaves and corn silage. Good smells. He started in whistling. An old Irish tune. The Rising of the Moon. He concentrated on the sweet notes.

He paused outside the barn door. Quit whistling. Looked upwards. It was clear as a bell. The clouds had moved on, the sky was twilight blue, already dotted with a few yellow stars and the green of Venus. The red of Mars. It’ll freeze. Be down in the twenties by morning. If not the teens. A black frost. Damn. Well, you can’t stop Ma Nature from doing her thing. Just take it in stride.

Whatever comes your way. Just bow your head and say thank ye—thank ye kindly. He’d hoped to get all the corn in before it got burnt by frost. Well, you got too many irons in the fire. With the logging. But you need the dough. And dough comes first. So bust your butt, buddy. What else can a good man do? He laughed bitterly. You better take a day and get that fence up. String that wire down across the hayfield; let the cows in. Heck, you won’t get it mowed. Not now. Might as well let the old girls rejoice in that tender sweet grass. It’ll make good pasture for a week. Course, the Old Man’ll gripe. Gripe? Hells, bells, he’ll shout obscenities so loud they’ll hear him clear down in the village. ‘Lucifer Cooley’s gittin’ his butt chewed again’, the town folks’ll say. ‘Must be he’s been shirkin’ again.’

The Old Man had his own ideas and they seldom matched Lucifer’s way of doing the job. Heck, the Old Man was a Contrary. A Contrary being one who argues for the sake of arguing. Now, if you were to try and tell the Old Man, let’s say, the sky is blue, he’d turn on you quick and yell—‘You Goddamned shitass, don’t try and tell me the sky is blue—why any Goddamned fool can see it’s not blue.’ Lucifer laughed. And braced himself. He walked into the barn. Hiya Pop, he said. Frieda’s bulling, his father said tersely, in greeting. That so? answered Lucifer. You call the breeder? asked the Old Man. Lucifer frowned. Now when did I have the time? Ya tell me that. Ya think there was a telephone booth up there in the woods? Ya think I picked up by telepathy that ole Frieda’s bullin’? he retorted. He glared at the Old Man who was glaring at him. Ya could’ve called ‘im yerself, ya know? Anyways, tomorrow’s soon enough, he said. Soon enough my ass, shouted the Old Man. You go on up to the house and get hold of ‘im right now. Go on. You wanna lose a whole month? How the hell you gonna run this place—once I’m gone?

Lucifer turned away. He stepped over the gutter and leaned down and felt Tawny’s utter. He massaged it a bit. Then pulled the milkers off her teats, took the air hose from the pipe and lifting the full milking machine, he carried it across to the walk and set it down, sliding the toggle as he did so, to release the air through the milk hose. Ever since his heart attack three months back, the Old Man spoke of nothing but ‘once I’m gone’. C’mon Pop, don’t git off on that, he said. I got a lotta trees down today. It’s a good stand. Better than the low lyin’ section I cut the other day. It’s a little steep, though. It’ll be tricky skiddin’ ‘em out. Ash. Good and straight. We’ll make a few bucks. The Old Man didn’t answer him. He stomped on past Lucifer. Muttering. You Goddamned shitass. And went on out of the barn.

There were only five cows left to milk. Lucifer could see his father’s back was bothering him. He didn’t want the Old Man coming down to the barn anymore, doing the milking. But how the heck could he stop him? It was all his father knew—hard work. If the Old Man was to quit working, he’d be a goner. And Lucifer didn’t want to lose the cantankerous old buzzard. Heck, it was lonely enough there with just the two of them. Still he’d better get the Old Man to slow up some.

He let the cows out to pasture. There was still plenty of grass. He had good night pasture for his cows. Yeah, it was gonna be cold. They’d maybe come down a bit in their milk, come morning. But they had the hemlocks to get under. He chased them out of the barnyard. Git on there, he yelled to Betsy. Every damn night she tried to sneak around behind the barn. He picked up a stone and tossed it in her direction. She ran a few paces and then lumbered in her slowest gait to join the others. He picked up his barbed wire gate and pulled it back, giving Betsy a swat on the rump with his hand as she passed by. Move it, ya slow-poke, he said. He stuck the pole in it’s hole, flipped the wire noose from over the stout end-post to secure the wobbly monkey-rigged affair. Dennis had been nagging at the Old Man. ‘You oughta tell Lucifer to put up aluminum gates. Look a hellava lot better—the place is fallin’ down around his ass.’ Yeah, Dennis. You’re a fine one to talk. This ain’t Farmer Do-Well’s show-place farm. You better knock off trying to influence the Old Man with your barroom drivel. It’s easy to sit on your stool and figure out just what I need to do to make ‘improvements’, to ‘mechanize’ the farm. You had your chance. You and Patrick. Buy a new tractor. Put in a barn-cleaner. Get yourself a tedder. A kicker baler. Kicker wagons. Run yourself in debt is what you’re talking about. Run yourself so deep in debt you can’t get out for love nor money. No, brothers-of-mine, I’ll do it my own way, un-American as it might be—I don’t aim to owe nobody nothing. It’s taken me ten years to undo what the two of you went and did back then. The two of you. Brilliant brothers-of-mine. He was grumbling. Getting nasty thoughts in his head. He went back into the barn and scraped the walk. Threw down lime. And sawdust and shavings. He went up the ramp into the calf barn. The Old Man always gave the calves their milk and water while he milked. Instead of standing around dreaming like he accused Lucifer of doing. Lucifer climbed to the mow. And threw down a couple bales of alfalfa. He’d done good with the alfalfa. Got it in nice and green. He could keep the calves and heifers on it all winter. He shook the bales loose and piled the sweet hay knee deep in front of his young stock. He went along and rubbed their nubby heads. Ya little gals be quiet now. Eat yer hay. See ya in the mornin’.

He could hear the horses stamping in their stalls. Ya worthless critters, ya all oughta be sent to the glue factory, ya hear me? He slid the door open to the horse barn. Went in and broke a bale of the fragrant hay. He tossed it in the mangers. He stood and admired Beauty. Ran his hand down over her glossy arched neck. Pulled his fingers through her mane. Rose’s horse. Yer here for the duration, he said. Quietly. She loved this horse. And Teaser, too. Though she’d grown afraid of him. Her Arab stallion. He’d been a wild colt. Still was wild. She’d never gotten a chance to train him. ‘Daddy, he’s beautiful. He’s the one I want.’ They’d gone together. Just him and Rose. She was going on fourteen that summer, his Rose. They’d driven up the Northway. Spent the night in Montreal. Stayed over in a little hotel. They’d walked the streets, looked in all the shop windows. Found a nice restaurant to have their dinner. She’d had the time of her life. ‘Daddy, you’re really fun to be with’, she’d said. ‘I bet nobody even knows you’re a dairy farmer.’ ‘What’s wrong with bein’ a dairy farmer, Rose?’ he’d asked. ‘Ya ashamed of me, are ya?’ She’d taken his hand. ‘No, Daddy. Mom is but I’m not.’

They’d seen the advertisement in the Old Man’s Draft Horse Journal. They could’ve found an Arab closer to home. But the Old Man knew the Frenchman, had bought his team from the man years before. The Frenchman raised both Percherons and Arabians. And besides, Lucifer wanted to take the long ride to Quebec. Spend two whole days with his daughter. On a trip. Josey Ann didn’t want to go; she was against Rose wanting to raise horses. ‘It’s idiotic. For Christ’s sake, Lucifer. Don’t encourage her to stay on the farm.’ Rose was hoping to breed Beauty with her little stallion when he got old enough. He’d had to buy her a colt. He couldn’t afford a three or four year old. Teaser (Rose named him on first sight) was six months old. Sorrel colored. He had a lot of promise. The sire and dam were both beauties. Grays, almost white with white manes and tails.

His Rose was a charmer. Just thirteen and a half, thin as a wisp but she was turning men’s heads already. Like him, she had natural sex appeal. She’d charmed the pants off the French farmer’s two sons. Rose had walked out into the field and she and the little colt put on quite a show. Teaser already had the bad habit of nipping. He’d galloped short circles around her, tossing his delicate head. Stamping. His ears flattened. Rose stood there, her arms akimbo—pretty as they come in her tight blue jeans. The little horse sidled up to her, nuzzling her face and neck inquisitively, then nipping her on her cute bottom. Did she dance!

The colt had seemed too wild to him but Rose begged. ‘Daddy, please. He’s the one I want.’ For Rose he’d do anything. He bought Teaser. And then later Teaser hurt her. Reared up and brought his hooves down on her. Hurt her and scared her. He was a wild devil.

Rose. Rose you were a wild devil too. After she died, he’d run that trip to Canada through his mind like it was a movie he’d seen. Over and over, trying to grasp on to every detail. Her singing the words to the ballads he whistled. Like a songbird, she sang. And her laughter. And her dreams. She told him her dreams. He knew her girl dreams by heart. She would’ve needed three lives to be all the things she was hoping to be. But she never got to be anything. Cause she was gone within six months. He moved out of his trance. Went over to the ponies. They were milling about in their box stall. He kept the two Connemara ponies together. They were part of the place. He’d bought them for Rose when she was eight years old—the year he came back to the farm. Corinna and Maeve. Still pretty as the day he brought them here; they were twenty years old now. Yer gittin’ fat, the pair of ya. There was nobody to ride them. They were ‘out to pasture’ so to speak.

The Old Man’s two grays neighed in unison. Lucifer gave them their hay and rubbed their muzzles. The Old Man griped about the riding horses. At least once a week he’d go into a bellowing fit. ‘You Goddamned shitass, you’ll send us to the poorhouse, feeding those Goddamned hayburners. What the hell good are they? Horseshit and splinters!’ ‘I like ‘em, Pop. That’s what. So knock off yer belly-achin’.’ Heck, the Old Man liked them too. Every morning he filled his pockets with cut up apples, made sure they all got a treat. He’d picked bushels of apples, stored down in the cellar—for pies, he said. Ha. The Old Man didn’t want nobody knowing he had a soft heart.

Lucifer turned the barn lights out. Slid the doors shut on their tracks. The woman came into his mind. Must be Ms. Lilith de Clare had gone and churned things up—old dormant feelings. Cause he was in a nostalgic mood. And when the old feelings started in coming to life he grew lonely and bitter. Yer a bitter man, Lucifer Cooley. Ya can’t undo anything. Ya can’t bring ‘em back. She might like to come over and see the farm. Why not? Why not ask her? What would it hurt? Your pride? Ha. You don’t have any left. All she can do is laugh in your face. So what?"

He couldn’t tell how old she was—she must be in her thirties. Younger than that and she wouldn’t be spending time alone up on a mountain top. Course, she might not be spending time alone, at all. For all he knows she has some man coming around there, at night. Or maybe her husband, if she’s got one, just doesn’t like going for walks. Maybe he sits up there in their cabin and reads the newspaper or watches TV. They’ve got a satellite dish up there, no doubt. They were second-home owners. He assumed. Don’t assume nothing. Like the Drill Sergeant had pointed out, back when he was in boot camp. ‘Don’t assume nothin’. Cause ya’ll make an ass outta you and an ass outta me.’

Up in the house, he turned on the kitchen light. Whatcha feel like eatin’, Pop? he called to the Old Man. I don’t give a good Goddamn what you cook. I’m not hungry, the Old Man yelled. He had the TV going, turned on loud. You disagreeable old buzzard. So this is how you end up, Lucifer Cooley. Living with an old rattlesnake. No woman to soothe you. Hells, bells, he could use a little. A little soothing. A little sucking and fucking. Watch out you pretty woman. Lucifer Cooley is hatching ideas in his head. Thoughts of how to get his hands on your body are incubating in his brain. He dug some Italian sausage out of the freezer compartment of the refrigerator. Took it out of the wrapping and laid it on the chopping block. Then taking a sharp knife he began slicing it up. When are ya gonna learn to take somethin’ outta the freezer in the mornin’? You make a lousy housewife, you know. Must be you picked up old Josey Ann’s habits. Now she was one lousy housewife. Starting supper when you got in from the barn. (The nights she was home, that is.) Everything either got served half-cooked or burnt black as a cinder. That woman could even burn boiled potatoes and spaghetti. But she made up for it in bed. In spades. That she did. That old wife of yours loved to fuck. And so it turned out, she didn’t give a fuck, who the fuck she was fucking, either. You fucking bitch, Josey Ann. Fuck it, Lucifer. Just fuck it. Fuck the fucking fucker. He let out a harsh laugh. Listen to yourself, will you? You just made a brilliant statement. You could say the ultimate—the ultimate brilliant Lucifer Cooley statement. You start in thinking about old Josey Ann and every other word is fuck. It loses it’s effectiveness in over-use. If indeed it is effective. But for the most part he wasn’t doing too badly in his reformation. The new and improved Lucifer Cooley. It was amazing. Seriously. You stop hearing on a daily basis how dumb you are and consequently you stop thinking of yourself as dumb. Dumb as in inarticulate. ‘Ya lack the power to speak intelligibly—yer no smarter than yer dumb ole cows,’ she used to say. ‘Ya stupid hick.’ There you were, expecting bright old Josey Ann to stay blissfully married to dumb old Lucifer Cooley. She’d bring her State University friends to the house and then go crimson, her face and neck, even her arms, cause you opened your mouth. Once she even went so far as to give him speech lessons, attempted to correct his local yokel dialect. His ya for you and yer for your. ‘Listen to yerself, can’t ya hear the way ya speak, ya hick?’ She boned him up on current events too, so he wouldn’t embarrass her. It used to amuse him for the most part. But when she started in about him smelling bad, she hurt his feelings. ‘Oh, I didn’t know ya had any,’ she said. ‘Feelings.’ Once she saw it got to him, it was nonstop. ‘Ya smell like cowshit.’ Even when he’d climb out of the tub, put on clean clothes, she’d start in. ‘Christ, Lucifer, ya stink to high heaven.’ Course, Josey Ann put it in big words, long sentences. She was bright. Had her degrees. She could make a dissertation of telling you—you stink.

Well, you don’t have to smell me now, Josey Ann. And I don’t have to eat burnt potatoes nor listen to your harping on what a failure you were married to.

He took a red pepper out of the basket by the sink. The Old Man had picked the last of them. They’d done pretty good. A half bushel no less; his brilliant idea had worked out well. He’d planted the peppers up against the south wall of the wagonhouse and rigged up a plastic curtain. To raise or lower as the need be. It was the first they’d ever been able to get the peppers to ripen. He sliced a couple and put them in with the sausage. Then took a big old sweet onion and cut that up, too. He put the lid on the black cast iron frying pan. Nice and slow now, don’t go gittin’ in a hurry, he said. Aloud, to himself. He was hungry. You ought to hire a cook. Wonder how much you would need to pay a cook? He got out a beer. What you really ought to do, buddy, is find yourself a woman—a new little old wife. One who likes you just fine—the way you are. He frowned. He could feel the twitch fluttering. A dark, mean thought had entered his head. Your evil twin is taunting you, you realize that, don’t you? Get. Go on now. Get.

He went and stood in the doorway to the living room. The Old Man was watching a sit-com. The TV reception was lousy. You could barely make out the picture. TV shows bothered Lucifer. He got to feeling lost, out of touch. As if life was passing him by while he sat staring at stupidity, glaring and blaring out of a plastic box. Even if the shows were supposed to be funny, he couldn’t laugh. Heck, what’s so funny about all the dirty little deeds people do to one another? Humor is making fun of somebody’s shortcomings. He turned and went down the hallway to his room. The ‘back parlor’ was what Ma Cooley called his room. It was a private place. He closed the door behind him. Give the supper about a half hour or so. He’d have to go back and turn everything at least once or it’d stick to the bottom. He was tired. He sank down in his comfortable armchair. Took a sip of his Genny and raised the icy bottle to his forehead. Stop your damn thinking, why don’t you? Give your old brain a rest.

He picked up his library book. It was overdue by two weeks. Old Eleanor Haney would be sending him a postcard. Heck, it was probably there, in the stack of mail he hadn’t been bothering to look through. Shit, he’d better get to the bills, the electric and telephone were no doubt due. Well, not tonight. He opened the book. Eleanor had recommended it. The Life of the Bee by Maurice Maeterlinck. Not exactly what he had in mind but damned interesting, nevertheless. He was wanting to keep bees. What he’d asked Eleanor for was a sensible how-to-go-about-it book but this was more of a philosophy of the bee. The bee as a creative creature dedicated to the survival of it’s own species. There was much to learn from observing the life of a hive. And man had a responsibility to the bee’s value in the scheme of things. What he ought to do is see if he could buy the book somewhere. Cause it was the kind of book you could go back to time and again. Maybe old Eleanor would forget that he’d taken it out. Heck, nobody had borrowed it since 1957. Good Christ, l957 was the last date marked on the card. He considered that for a few minutes. And considered stealing the book. But stealing wasn’t one of his faults. Stealing and cheating were beneath him. Leastways, he hoped he’d never stoop so low.

Opening the book to the ear-marked page, he got out his tobacco and papers. Rolling his cigarette he was remembering how old Josey Ann had hated him for ear-marking her philosophy books. Shut her out. Go on. Get. He read for a while. And came to a passage that he read over and over. He decided to jot it down. He stubbed out the butt of his cigarette. It was a little insipid, maybe. But he got up and went over to his library table. Dug through the stacks of envelopes and advertisements and catalogs and found his journal and a pen. He sat down. Switching on the table lamp, he looked for a blank page. His eyes caught his last thoughts put there, in his journal. ‘Annihilation or Alienation or Both? This emptiness inside you is having been reduced to nothing. Can a man obliterate himself? Cease to exist even though he still breathes but having crossed that line where he is nothing—gone past fear? Or are you estranged from yourself and everything and nature itself because there is no turning back to get to before this annihilation came, to where your soul had not yet turned on you, didn’t hate you; can a man’s soul actually hate the physical man? Is this the emptiness? The nothingness that is far greater than any fear?’ Whew. You were doing some heavy thinking that night, buddy. He didn’t know what to add to that so he started copying Maeterlinck’s words. "The bees give their honey and sweet-smelling wax to the man who attends them; but more precious gift still is their summoning him to the gladness of June, to the joy of the beautiful months; for events in which bees take part happen only when skies are pure, at the winsome hours of the year when flowers keep holiday." Nice words old Maeterlinck. Winsome hours of the year when flowers keep holiday. Lucifer went on in his large scrawl. They teach us to tune our ears to the softest, most intimate whisper of these good, natural hours. To him who has known them and loved them, a summer where there are no bees becomes as sad and as empty as one without flowers or birds. Or a daughter or your mother. Or your wife. He threw his pen across the room. He was moved almost to tears. You sap. But inside him, he knew; he still had this kind of gentleness, this love for sweetness and beauty—the opposite of the emptiness that tormented him.

Maybe this is enough reason to keep bees. He’s been worrying about the added expense, worrying about whether he’d have enough time. Heck, he’d make time. Maybe it’d be the answer. The very thing to undo what he’d thought couldn’t be undone. Yeah, there was a whole lot more work to it than just the romantic notion of going out to his hives for alfalfa and clover honey. And there was that hillside of wild thyme. Plus he could plant a field of buckwheat. Yeah. He had that seven acres he could plow up. Once he got some of those rocks and thornapples out of it. Course the thornapple blossoms might make good honey. He’d have to find out what were the best bee plants. Why not? It sure beat laying around lamenting his losses. Ma Cooley would be proud of him for it. For one thing. And he was just like the Old Man. He had to be working. Doing meaningful work. If he ever stopped his momentum—if he were to ever become idle or bored he’d be in big trouble. Cause his old dark side was there, his old evil twin was just waiting for him to crumble. There was no telling what he’d do if he had nothing to do. His head would be saturated with thoughts like he’d written down. If you go past fear like that, what’s next? You got to keep reasons alive. Good reasons to want to be alive. Shit. You idiot. You surely burnt that sausage to a state of inedible charcoal. He ran out to the kitchen.

The Old Man had rescued their meal. Thank ye kindly, Pop. I got absorbed and forgot what I was doin’. His father had set the table and made a salad. They sat down together. Say a blessing, Luce. Sure, Pop, he said. He bowed his head. He smiled. We thank ye for bees and honey, Lord. We thank ye for the gladness of June and for our supper too. Amen. The Old Man was looking at him. You being a wise-guy to the Lord, son? Naw, I’m not bein’ a wise-guy, Pop. I got my mind on keepin’ bees. I can build my own frames and supers. It’ll give me somethin’ to do in January and February. We can set up our hives over at the far end of the orchard. I’m even thinkin’ of puttin’ in buckwheat. When I finish the loggin’ I’ll take the dozer over there and git those boulders outta the wildflower field. Plow it up. The Old Man didn’t say anything while he ate. He never did. When he finished eating his supper, he said. Well, I ain’t agin it; getting bees. Your Ma always wanted us to have some hives. I got a book, ordered it years ago, with detailed instructions. Hell, it dates back to the 40’s or earlier. But I don’t see why it won’t be useful. Your Ma’s Ma was able to follow the wild bees to their hives. In hollowed out trees in the woods. Your Ma now, she remembered the taste of wild honey. Wild honey on sour-milk biscuits—used to make my mouth water. The way she talked about it. She was after me to keep bees. I looked into it. The one time. But hell, what with raising you four boys, trying to keep our heads above water with the farm—I had to forget about it. And time just flies by. You turn around once and twenty-five years are gone. I didn’t expect your Ma to go so soon. Didn’t have time to quit mourning her—wasn’t it something Luce—she goes in for a gall bladder operation, and dies. Of cancer. Damn, just like that. And then Rose. Then Rose is gone. There was a silence that grew at the table, in their kitchen. A silence so loud it blocked out sound. But then Lucifer could hear a thumping. It was his heart. Thumping thunderously. It was going to fill up the silence with it’s deafening thumping until he could scream.

You ought to breed Beauty. The Old Man saved him. Brought him back. That’s why you and Rose went up there to Gillespe’s place. That’s why you bought Teaser. Rose couldn’t wait to set eyes on Beauty’s foal. You ought to go on and do it—Beauty’ll get too old if you keep waiting. What’s one more Goddamned hayburner. I give you a hard time Luce, but you know well as I do, I always had a fondness for horses. Beau and Dandy eat twice as much as the others. Yeah, they earn their keep. But look at me—I can’t get my own ass outta the bed in the morning. There’s nothing more useless on this farm than your old man. You hear me Luce. Luce? Yeah, Pop. I hear ya. Lemme think it over. It might be the right thing to do. I dunno. I just dunno. Look, Pop. Knock it off about yer bein’ useless—ain’t nothin’ wrong with slowin’ up some. The Old Man was in the same kind of mood as Lucifer was in—must be the phase of the moon. A full Harvest moon on the rise. Lucifer was like some kind of wild animal. The way the moon affected him. It was a wonder he didn’t go out on the ridge of their farm and raise his head and howl.

Leslie called, said the Old Man after a long silence. Lucifer was clearing the table. Oh, yeah? he responded. I wasn’t going to bring it up. But you ought to know what your brothers are planning. They’ve gone and put their heads together. Leslie wants to come out for Thanksgiving—him and Aline—their two prima donnas. Dennis and Patrick, too. They all wanna have Thanksgiving here this year. Say it’s about time we have one like in the old days. When your Ma and Rose and Josey Ann were all still here. They say you’re keeping ‘em from coming to the farm—say you don’t have the right.

Yeah? Well, what did ya tell ole Leslie? Lucifer asked. He could feel a painful anger twisting his guts, same as belly cramps. The same kind of pain, yet you know it’s anger. Ya tell ‘im not to come, Pop? The anger was doubling him up.