The Hauntings of Hood Canal

Everybody Is Doing What Everybody Does on Sunday

How gay and glorious dawned the day. What optimism ran from hearts bent to poolish competition, or corruption. And what fair chance dictated this day of sun? And everything so lovely, as traffic backed up and the last maple leaves of autumn danced before a twenty-knot wind.

And, if one had been able to ride that wind, to steer it here and there, the wind would serve as a magic carpet sailing above joints where beer trucks and soft drink trucks offloaded merchandise.

And, if one rode that magic carpet, and was thoughtful, he would just naturally note down where everybody was and what they did. Because, what with magic and wind and creatures in the Canal, plus bad stuff happening; and with some kinda hustle forming and bound to be stinky, it just made good sense if a thoughtful guy had the whole situation in view.

In a snazzy neighborhood in Olympia, a ’67 Chevrolet that looked like a rolling wreck, and wasn’t, eased to the curb in front of a high-priced apartment house. As if cued from offstage, two of the fanciest hookers Olympia had to offer tripped modestly toward the Chev. The ladies were dressed to the nines, and had scarves to protect coiffured hair from wind; one head of auburn, one peachy-golden. The ladies viewed the rusty Chev, sniffed, remembered that this was a cash deal, and entered. They settled in for what was bound to be a tedious trip, what with the traffic.

In a seedy Olympia neighborhood, in a flophouse, a missionary type rose praising a benevolent but just God, while anointing his own innards with a glass of purest water. He thanked the Lord that he could remain clean, one-day-at-a-time. He pulled a pocket mirror from his kit. With tiny sewing scissors he trimmed that part of his haircut he could see. His face was lined but hopeful. His chin was shaved. Anyone who had known him in the past would have been hard put to recognize Chantrell, now known as Brother George. He pulled on faded work pants, a thrift shop shirt, and primed himself for another day’s work among the down and out. The priming was done with a second glass of pure water.

At China Bay the bartender had not yet arrived. The huge room stood empty, or rather, peopled with memories of pool and palaver, of politics and deals (a few legal), of heartbreak and hope, of seduction and harlotry, of mysticism and myth. A faint glow dwelt behind the bar, maybe a reflection from sunlit water. Maybe.

In a low rent but respectable area of Olympia nestled a hospital where a one-armed man lay broken, semiconscious, sedated and tied to monitors. Sanitary fluorescence cloaked the intensive care ward where a nurse moved quietly between beds. Lights suffused the man’s face, lay like plastic sheen on wrappings that covered the site where once had been a shoulder. Light covered the man, but darkness pressed on his mind; darkness hovered, then increased, then dwelt.

In early traffic a V10 Dodge purred like a dear-kitty, and the tow truck kid told himself he gotta hurry. Then he told himself not to get excited, ‘cause excited guys don’t win at pool, ‘cause excited guys are tense. He watched the back end of a sheriff’s car that only exceeded by maybe five mph. He watched as the car slowed and took position in a hidden spot beside the road. The kid told himself that there were more local cops around than he could ever, ever remember. When he was no more than two miles from Beer and Bait, traffic backed up. The kid cussed, fretted, told himself to keep steady even if he could not afford to be late.

At the other end of the Canal, in the parking lot of Rough and Randy, a lone survivalist sat in a Land Rover as he tasted a hangover, most fearful. He waited for Al to open. The survivalist watched fancy cars heading south, and he noted one new Cadillac driven by a rotund little rich bastard. The rich guy was accompanied by a lady dressed in purple who resembled a beetle. The survivalist cussed any dumb sumbitch who would own a Cad, and hungered for that first beer of the day.

At Sugar Bear’s fairy-tale house sunlight followed a woman, prematurely gray, as she moved from the house into the dimness of the forest. Annie moved awkwardly as the habits of youth tried to enforce themselves on a body that, if not elderly, was at least middle-aged.

The fisherman sat in Sugar Bear’s kitchen watching Annie depart, and thinking. He understood that she had to commune with spirits of grandmother or trees. Annie was boxed, but knowing Annie as he did, he knew she would fight back. He shuddered, but continued to take care of Annie in the only way he knew; by watching Sugar Bear who sat at the table slurping coffee.

“I gotta say,” Sugar Bear yelped most enthusiastic, “that all the candles and candy in the world don’t make up for lignite. Try it. You’ll see.” Sugar Bear leaned back, as if proud to have proved a point.

The fisherman watched his friend, sorrowed, and then had a loathsome thought. Annie was gonna need lots of help with this. This was not gonna go away. Annie would sooner or later get lonesome… the fisherman cussed himself beneath his breath, felt terrible ashamed, and figured he needed one full-time reality check. He told himself that when Annie returned, and assumin’ he was not too old and worn to walk, some kind of real reality would be holding forth at Beer and Bait. He listened as Sugar Bear, who had never before owned a pet, made up a list of names for an imaginary walrus.

A dog can only put up with so much, even a dog who is accustomed to crowds. The glorious day saw Jubal Jim Johnson a-trot, and in one of those rare moods where doggish comments are likely. Jubal Jim made such a comment some years ago when combating a submarine. He pointed his rear end at the Canal, put his nose to the ground so that his haunches rose, and then he lifted his tail. Thus are reputations made.

On this magic day of autumn sun Jubal Jim trotted in the forest where a dog may be unencumbered by leashes or people; where a dog can lift his leg to claim territory and bragging rights, or sniff out varmints, or dig gopher holes for the fun of it… there being no expectation of actually catching one. A dog can sniff trails not worth following, or stand and give voice to houndish-opinions.

And a dog may pause at the site of an ancient and forgotten Indian village where, through centuries, mud washes away revealing decayed artifacts. The mud, which slid in a foul storm five centuries ago, was once part of a foothill. When the great slide happened it brought with it trees and boulders. What a dog now sees is a rapidly rising slope on which are rooted large trees and tangles of blackberry; and where, occasionally, a stone or ivory tool, once useful, lies exposed as water drains off the hill.

And a dog may stand in the forest, apart from people, but watching them. Jubal Jim sat on a rise that overlooked a road filled with traffic. A yellow crane tilted crazily beside the Canal. As people cussed, and an occasional honk sounded because someone was desperate for a drink, water swirled along the shore.

Jubal Jim watched as a head appeared from the water, red-hair, permed, and simpering. The head was followed by a skinny body, as the guy stood watching traffic. The guy did not drip.

Jubal Jim stood separated by a good forty yards, what with road and beach, but Jubal Jim has a hound’s voice. He rose to all fours, barked a harsh warning, and got the guy’s attention. Jubal Jim’s voice sank to a growl, threatening, loud, snarls sounding across the road from his cover of trees. The guy tried to step forward, was stopped. Jubal Jim’s voice rose even louder with threat. The guy simpered, shrugged, and sank back into the Canal as drivers kept their gazes fixed on the back ends of cars in front of them.

Jubal Jim, whose nose is every bit as good as the miracle-type nose of a bear, turned as he picked up a delightful scent carried by sea wind. He headed back into the forest where Annie walked.