Excerpt
They drove through the remainder of the hours of darkness, passing through the deserted streets of sleeping towns and shared the road with only occasional headlights until the eastern sky heralded the soon-to-rise sun...
The weed overgrown dirt road along which they slowly traveled wound through the cool shade of a forest of patriarchal oaks and conifers. The height of the weeds in the roadway made it unlikely it had been used in recent time. Nearly a mile farther on the forest gave way to an expansive, overgrown field beyond which lay the ocean.
A surprised and delighted Hawkins parked beneath an aged, lofty oak, which spread its expansive boughs over the truck, and gazed with fascination upon an ancient, deserted, weather beaten, house and barn. The dim rumble of surf could be heard a long way off. Cloud shadows moved across the wide, boulder strewn, green and sandy meadow where wild blueberry bushes flourished. Silence, broken only by the lapping of distant waves, gave the scene a dimension of peace, and tranquility. A quarter of a mile east, the silver offing shone beyond a line of dark green conifers, which to the eye separated the field from the sea...
Was it the silence, a sense of trespassing on ruins left by the dead? Whatever the feeling was, whatever provoked it, whatever it disturbed, lay so deep within him that it was overwhelming and mysterious. The prospect before him evoked an impression of wildness and tranquility, that nature had recaptured something which had once known the hand of man but knew it no longer. It was stunning, momentous, a moment which influenced him more than he suspected.
.....................................................................................................................................
Shortly after their arrival in Hemlock Harbor, Hawkins had donated one of his student studies of a professional model, to be auctioned at the annual craft show of the Hemlock Harbor Fire Brigade Ladies Auxiliary. Though painted while he was a student, he was rather proud of it. It elicited high praise from Boofy Quimby as he stood admiring it during the pre-sale exhibition.
"Not bad," he said to Mabel Trott, "not bad at all. In fact real good!"
"But, Boofy," answered Mabel, "she's naked!"
"That's what makes it good aht, Mabel. Put clothes on 'er and it's just ordinary. Go look at 'em calendars in Jake's Garage if you want to see real high class art; I like the one from '78 best." He winked at her and trudged off leaning on his cane.
Boofy and Mabel had been classmates in the Hemlock Harbor Grammar School graduating class of 1935. Boofy had never married and had fished the ocean forty years for a living. Mabel married a farmer who had died several years before. In old age they were usually seen together. Hawkins admired the pair: Boofy in his overalls and baseball cap, Mabel in a plain dress and sneakers. Not only were they typical of the Mainers he liked best, they brought to mind something of the bond between his grandfather and grandmother. Would they sit for him? The only way to find out was to ask. He slid into their booth at the Wicked Good Caf to ask them about posing. You could have heard a pin drop after Mabel uttered an audible gasp of surprise. The old fahts turned in a body to hear what that was all about.
"I won't take my clothes off!" Mabel said quite loudly; she was somewhat deaf. "I might take off my dress but not my underwear!"
The old fahts were stunned!
With a red face Hawkins slid out of the booth, touched the brim of his slouched hat to the men at the counter, beckoned to Pag and departed.
"Well, I'll be damned," said Charley Bates to his fellows at the counter, "I'd never say anythin' against Mabel, but she ain't what I'd call a real shahp lookah!"
That episode elevated Hawkins in the eyes of the Wicked Good Caf regulars to the status of a dashing libertine with a damned peculiar taste in women, and Pag never let him forget it.
.....................................................................................................................................
The following morning while Pag was loading wood into the shed, three police cruisers stopped before the house. A group of men, some in police uniforms others in civilian dress, left the cars and stood looking at the house. He went up to them.
Taking no notice of Pag, they entered the house and began a search. Hawkins' paintings were each examined and carelessly flung into the middle of the floor. The same was done with the model clay horse, which Pag had nearly finished. It took two grunting men to lift it and throw it to the floor, shattering the beautiful piece. Upstairs men tore apart their beds; mattress and blankets were flung down the stairs and added to the pile of paintings and the destroyed statue. Their clothing was also strewn onto the growing pile. Ashes from the parlor fireplace and kitchen range were scooped out and discarded on the pile of debris.
"Hold on!" Pag shouted with rage, "what in hell's name do you think you're doing? Who are you?"
"Buddy, we got a tip that drugs are here," a man in plain clothes said with a snarl. "This is a raid!"
Pag advanced towards him shouting, "Get the hell out of here! This place belongs to us! You've got no right to be here! Where's your warrant?"
Two burly policemen grabbed his arms. A third struck him across the lower left chest with a large, heavy police club. The pain was intense. He gasped for air, suddenly unable to fill his lungs; he was suffocating. The law enforcer had struck him with such force it doubled him over, and his wrists were immediately handcuffed behind his back. Pag sank to the floor, unable to stand erect and bear the pain. The intruders paid no attention to him and left him lying amid the rubble they had made of the contents of the house.
|