The Last Fair Deal Going DownBy David RhodesMilkweed Editions |
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I was born in Iowa — one hundred and sixty miles west of the Mississippi River, and by looking at a map the middle of the country. My brother John Charles, whom I never knew, was hanged that night somewhere in Missouri and my sister, Nellie, not blind then, named me Reuben; and I was the seventh child born to Luke Sledge. I am Reuben. My mother, Andrea, died three days later from what I have come to believe was an internal hemorrhage. This is my book, written as a chronicle of myself hidden within the grayness of a story of the people and the City itself.
This book will allow you to see me through my own eyes. To reach where I am now you must read it. I must write it in order to go on. That is to say I must write it in order to survive. I will assemble those things that have happened to me, to us, leaving nothing out — nothing important. I will set it down, set it free and have done with it.
This country, Iowa. I can tell you about it. It is so much of me that sometimes I am confused: sometimes I believe it is more important — that it is the land and the city, Des Moines, that speak through me, using me the way I imagine I am using them. The earth itself is wet black and you can shove a spade down into it up to the handle without hitting a rock. A tin can will grow here. The fields and lots are filled with cattle, hogs, chickens, turkeys, sheep, ducks, and horses. Pheasants, raccoons, grasshoppers, mink, and crickets run teeming through the cornfields. They cannot eat it all. Trees continue coming back after they have been cut down — starting as weeds, thousands of them, so many that the animals and the farmers cannot wipe them away — some clutch hold of the ground with their iron fingers and explode upwards. The farmers come out then with axes and chainsaws, chop them up, burn them or build more houses with them, and wait and watch for it to begin again. Then the trees, pushed to the side, rise up along the fence rows, inching back out into the fields with their huge root-tendons. The farmer, jamming with his plow into these, curses and drives on.
The farmer, I know about him. I have no memory so long that he is not in it. I have always known him — his demonic love of Iowa. I have watched the sky cloud with rainbows of dust from his incessant machines. He is so filled with the earth that he is not capable of inactivity. Plowing, disking, cultivating, harvesting, picking, planting, harrowing, building fences, cutting trees, moving boulders, digging ponds, damming creeks, selling, buying, digging up weeds, spraying, trapping raccoons, resenting that he must sleep, ashamed that he does, procreating in order that his sons can help work the fields and daughters can seal the fruit in jars with melted paraffin and tend the gardens — miniature farms. Like a madman he weathers through the terrible winters, pacing through his house that he never pictures himself living in, looking out at the snow. Sometimes he will walk through the cold and out into one of his many sheds, where he stands looking at his frozen tractors. Like a war.
But now the end is in sight. Just over there the war will end and the farmer will win; all that will be left will be the doing, not the action, the motion, not the movement. The ground will give up. The farmer’s children will be sick, will look at the old barn and the grain bins, at the scythes and rusting buggy wheels, the electric dishwasher and the cider press. They will look and look till their eyes turn inward. They will be sick and the City will send out and lead them in. But that is not now.
Luke Sledge was not a farmer. He had never been one. He was old before he even came into Iowa — old in the kind of way that made farming impossible. Carrying his age around him like a yoke, he had driven into Iowa in a wagon with a horse possibly as old as himself, a Black and Tan, one hundred fifteen dollars in silver, and my mother. He had come from Wisconsin, near the Mississippi. He told me this.
Of his family I know practically nothing, only small, unrelated incidents that he has told me and I have remembered . . . dates that I have tried to fit together. All of my attempts to locate the members of his family have been futile. They have either died or the steamboats carried them away to the East. The name, Sledge, is unknown to the people where they supposedly were to have lived at least until the time of Father’s departure, and the only mention I have found of this name is in an autobiographical novel written between 1921 and 1924 by Henry Jimson, called And God Was There, the story of his youth, marriage, and declining years in Wisconsin. In chapter nine, entitled “Hard Luck,” and covering that period of his life between the years eighteen and twenty-two (which I have placed somewhere between 1891 and 1895), he writes: “. . . seeking the solemnity and peace of the forest, and wanting a chance to think out these troubling questions, I went for a walk into the woods. During this walk I met a Mr. Sledge, who had burst upon me from the heavy foliage, followed by a large work animal, a Percheron, I believe. This man told me that he and his family lived fifteen miles away in a cabin he had fashioned with his own hands. I could see from his ruddy complexion and attire that he was indeed a man of the forest, his ancestry probably going back to the very founders of the country. But there was also something... ” (page 217). This last word or words had been ripped out, as had the rest of the page, by some fumbling file boy in the Library of Congress and I was unable even through the author’s relatives to locate another copy of the book. That was Grandfather.
For two years (Father never told me this, but from my study of his 1916 diary written several years later — the way his words tended to form small, definite patterns of despair, a kind of thinking solipsism, the way his paragraphs are sprung always from the omnipresent “I,” and by carefully ordering the dates and memories he has told me — I know) he was held prisoner by his brothers in a cabin hidden in the woods. He remained there until he agreed to leave Wisconsin. As compensation (or settlement) he was given one hundred fifteen dollars in silver, a wagon, a Clydesdale named Amos, and a Black and Tan.
That cabin was of dried mud and split logs, perhaps rails, with a cement floor. Every week one of his two brothers would carry him food, dried meat, roasted potatoes, carrots, apples, corn, and water. At first he would bellow at them, demanding to be set free. He would throw the food back out the chute: “Bastards.” And each week they, one of them, would tell him that he must agree to leave, to go away from their home on the river and their trading post. And each week he would refuse. After awhile he no longer shouted at them and no longer shoved the sack of food back out of the cabin; but still he would not agree. Each week became longer. He spent a winter in the cabin: that must have broken his spirit... because of the snow and the quiet. Every rustle of wind would startle him. Perhaps he pleaded with them — promised that he would not try to burn down the trading post again; that is to say he would not drink, which always prompted him to try to burn down the trading post that his brothers had built after his father had died sitting on their new secondhand front porch watching the steamboats. Their mother had refused to come out of the house after that, although Luke always maintained that she was a full-blooded American Indian and up until that time had never slept inside but in a lean-to to the side of the house.
It was then, in the winter, when he met my mother. In that terrible silence he must have heard a crunching sound of frozen leaves and twigs. And somehow with his confused mind that had nothing to think about but itself he was able to know that it was not an ordinary sound… and later that it was a walking sound, not of a deer or a bear. From a crack in the east wall where he had dug out the dried mud between two logs, he saw her. Pressing his fear to the bottom of his stomach, he called out to her; and she, though afraid of his voice that the endless months had tortured and hammered into a shape not resembling a communicative form, had come up to the cabin.
Unable to name what he feared he wanted from her, his freedom, he stood whimpering inside the cabin, looking out at the two eyes that were looking in through the crack in the wall stained with the blood from beneath his fingernails. “Give me... Give me...” He could not say it because by then he had been there too long — so long that he had given up to his own isolation, and even madness.
She, being what she was, could not have let him out even had he asked, because of her fear of his brothers, who had become quite influential during the past several years. She was, however, able to give him the thing he most wanted and every Saturday afternoon shoved him in through the latched feeding chute a bottle of grain alcohol, which he kept hidden under the blankets of his bed and which she picked up every Thursday morning to refill in order that the cabin would not become cluttered with the containers.
The alcohol and, yes, the occasional presence of my mother gave Luke Sledge a stability that enabled him to last another full year, through another winter, before giving in and agreeing to leave. His determination might have been broken before that without her help and so she must have thought to herself many times that she was actually harming him despite her good intentions. She must have thought of this very carefully before reaching a decision — she did! And she continued to make that same kind of decision about him.
Father was let out of the cabin. He took the money, the wagon, the horse, and the dog, drove to the Andover farm, loaded Andrea’s few possessions, set her beside him on the seat, took a ferry across the river, and drove into Iowa.
They went on slowly. The horse was old and Luke stopped along the streams and unharnessed him, letting him wander up and down the creek banks drinking water and chewing on moss and waterweeds. Luke would sit with his back against a wagon wheel while Andrea walked in the water and talked to him about bugs and trees and how her father had laughed so hard when he saw the goose chasing her little brother around the yard, Luke looked at the water; and Bull Frog, the Black and Tan, lay down.
The sun clawed into Father’s milky face. His shoulders turned red and dead skin peeled off in huge patches; the reins wore blisters into his hands that filled with water and burst. In a small town not far from Clinton they bought an ax, a razor, flour, needles, thread, denim, ribbon, beef, and blankets. Father shaved the beard from his face and the sun began to dig into his neck. His muscles ached and they went slowly on, the dust barely rising above the ground under the horse, and Bull Frog running in large circles around them, making a pattern like a writing exercise with two lines drawn through it. At night they slept under the wagon.