Mr. Shivers

“Jakob Hammond,” said Pike, and grinned. “With a ‘k.’ ”

“Yes,” said Hammond tersely.

“But Lord only knows what your family’s surname was back in Europe.”

“Something different, to be sure,” said Hammond.

Pike looked at Connelly. “Mr. Hammond here is a Jew,” he said.

They seemed to expect something from him, having said that. “Oh?” Connelly said.

“Yes.”

“Never seen a Jew before.”

Hammond laughed. “Well, I can’t say you were missing out on much. I’ll do my best to make a good impression. Where do you come from to never meet a Jew?”

“Tennessee.”

“You’ll find that Jews are a rarity in most of this nation, Hammond,” said Pike.

“So I’m learning.”

“And that over there is Mr. Roosevelt,” said Pike. “Like the leader of our great nation. Though he says he’s of no relation, unless he’s been drinking.”

Roosevelt tipped his hat. “Nice to meet you,” he said.

“As are we all,” said Pike. “Now. What would your name be?”

“Connelly.”

“Connelly,” repeated Pike. “Good name. And good that a man worries about giving his name, Mr. Connelly. Names are important things. They’re a part of you. A name can get a man into trouble. Seems like not long ago openness was a virtue. In days like these, it’s a risk. Get rid of it while you can.”

“They’re just words,” said Hammond. “Nothing more, nothing less.”

“Maybe so,” said Pike, and took out a small, well-cared-for knife and began skinning and gutting the rabbits, cutting off their feet and taking handfuls of their innards and flinging them away into the night. He wiped his hands on his pants as he began upon the second.

As he worked Connelly glanced sideways at the other two men, watching them in the closer light. Roosevelt was strangely dressed in some semblance of dignity, sporting a natty waistcoat with only two remaining buttons, both barely holding on under the pressure of his girth. On his head he wore an old bowler that had lost its fabric long ago. Hammond was far younger than any of them, several years from thirty at least. He wore a simple coat and pants with suspenders, but his hair was carefully slicked back. It smelled of camphor and oil, even in the smoke of the fire. He had a rushed look about him, as though he had run out of town in the middle of the night and had been running ever since.

“Why did you bring him here, Pike?” asked Hammond.

Pike turned the second rabbit over in his bloody hands on his bloody trousers, his entire being occupied in his work as he guided the edge of the blade through the gristle and meat of the carcass. Soon it no longer resembled a rabbit, no longer resembled anything at all. He took the feet and the head, then cupped the entrails in his hands and tossed them down the hill.

“I should burn them, maybe,” said Pike. “Make a stink, sure, but that’s better than bringing wolves or coyotes. But I doubt if wolves or coyotes roam a place such as this.”

He sat back down and spitted the rabbits and strung them up on two stakes. All three of them stopped to look at the rabbits and they listened to the fat begin to bubble and pop and hiss. Then their eyes moved to Connelly.

“To break bread is a holy thing,” said Pike. “What can you share?”

Connelly reached into his satchel and took out a single can of beans. Hammond laughed. “Beans! A can of beans. The bread and butter of a knight of the road. Here, I have an opener. Let me open it and toss her on.”

“Been living off of them for a while,” said Connelly. “Cheap.”

“That’s true,” said Roosevelt. “My brother lived on nothing but beans for years. Said it did his stomach good. But good God, it sure didn’t do any good for his house. Every single room smelled like something had died in it. I kept telling him to keep his windows open, he kept saying he didn’t smell anything.”

“Well,” said Hammond, “we’ll make sure to sleep upwind of you, then.”

They smiled and laughed, and Connelly relaxed a little more.

The beans cooked just off the fire underneath the rabbits, catching stray drippings, which Hammond said would add to their flavor. They watched the meal cook with a deep gravity.

“It’ll be ready soon,” said Hammond.

“And then we’ll talk,” said Pike.

Pike lifted the spits off of the fire when the hares began to crackle. They took out knives and peeled off ribs and legs and ate, fingers and lips shining with grease. Connelly ate with them. They had not cooked long so the meat was gamy and full of fat. After the can of beans cooled they passed it around, their knives dipping down to the lip of the can and then up to their open mouths, gray and yellow teeth shining in the fire. They gnawed at the bones and pulled off gristle, then placed the bones in a pot and poured in water and began a stew. They watched it heat up without speaking. Against the backdrop of the stars their glistening, mournful faces resembled men burning alive.

Connelly looked upon these strangers sitting underneath the broken-dish moon, watching meat sing and hiss on a paltry fire with quiet, lost eyes. Somewhere a train wailed and the earth shook, but they did not move. And then he recognized in these men something that was also in himself, for they were men who had been struck deaf and dumb by a terrible grief. Men who had been robbed not only of contentment and joy but the capacity to have such things. They slept in the hills not because they wished to but because they could not sleep in the camp. Such a place was forbidden to them.

“God is great,” said Pike finally. “The Lord is good to us. He guided these rabbits to our traps and so gave us this bounty today. And He has also guided this man to us, I shall say, and so I also say He has a purpose to us as we do to Him, and when the Lord speaks we should listen.”

Across the fire Hammond and Roosevelt glanced at each other. Hammond rolled his eyes slightly.

“How far have you come, Mr. Connelly?” asked Pike.

“Far. Memphis. It was my home.”

“And that was where you met him? The scarred man?”

“Never met him,” said Connelly softly.

“But encountered him? Was that the city that started you here?”

Connelly nodded.

“How long ago was that?”

“Three weeks. Maybe more. Been coming by foot and train. I hitched a ride where I could. It was tough going. No one’s heading west now. Not from the east, at least.”

“We ran into that,” said Hammond. “Boy, did we.”

“He is, though,” said Pike.

They shifted uncomfortably, unsure if they wanted to broach the topic.

“Who is he?” said Connelly. “The man with the scars? What’s he done to you?”

“Why?” said Roosevelt. “What’s he done to you?”

Connelly said nothing.

“You shouldn’t worry so,” said Pike softly. “You and we are much alike. All of us here, we are alike.”

“What do you mean by that?”

Pike frowned at him sadly. “I mean that we have all lost someone to this man.”

Connelly stared at them. The men looked back, grim-faced and silent.

“No,” whispered Connelly. “I don’t believe it. No.”

“Mr. Connelly, I wonder if you’d be willing to let me guess at your past,” said Pike. “I feel I may know it pretty well. Is that all right?” He considered it and said, “You are a quiet man, sir, if I may say so. You speak when spoken to and at all other times would prefer to attract little attention. I could see you living a peaceful life, not a life of means, per se, but one of quiet dignity, a… a modest but satisfying job working with your hands and a small family whom you held dearly. And at some point, not too long ago, a scarred man came into your life. It seemed a chance