AT 29 Page 5
Over the next week I used my knowledge to fashion a thatched cover of grass, mud and sticks over my abode, which had three sides and opened to the edge of the pool some twenty feet distant. In that time, I also returned to the ocean for more shells, which I husbanded in deep holes until I could find other sources of food. I also set about the task of making fire, which frustrated my efforts for days until I found proper wood with which to do the spin. My hands and arms ached, but it was the happiest moment of my forlorn state when smoke rose up.
With water, shelter and warmth I took my leave into the forest where I gathered sturdy limbs to fashion into spears. In the nights I had noticed an abundance of possums and determined to kill some for my needs. I scraped the ends of the sticks on rocks until I was satisfied. Then, after many failures, I learnt to throw my weapons with skill. I cooked the meats over my small fire, which I tended carefully lest it go out. The skins I used to repair my clothing and fashion a hat for my head
I lost all sense of the days, but I felt the coming of winter and wondered at my fate. It rained often and I was kept busy repairing my shelter and keeping my fire. When the rains abated I footed deeper into the forest, climbing ever higher into a region that opened upon a meadow of tall grass. In the distance, I noticed animals the size of deer, but in a shape I had never before seen. I watched them graze and, though they occasionally lifted their heads to look my way, they seemed unafraid. I ventured closer and when I came near the edge of their group I flung my heaviest spear, impaling the smallest beast in the neck. The others rose up on massive feet, leaping so swiftly and far that I was left to wonder. Through great travail, I dragged the dead beast to my camp. The meat was tough with a taste that did not satisfy, but I was happy to have provisions and the furry skin gave me cover against the cold.
At this time, I began to sense a presence around my abode. It troubled me for days because I could see no reason for my foreboding. One morning, I awoke to find black men with spears sitting around my fire. When I came out into their presence they showed no fear and one of them stood and took me by the arm. The others went ahead while this man guided my way into the forest. In time, others showed themselves on all sides including women and children. After walking a very long distance, we came into a clearing where I was made to stop while the troupe, numbering about fifty, gathered round and commenced touching me. I made no move, fearing for my life, but it soon became clear they meant me no harm.
At nightfall, a great pyre was made. I was given delicious meats and fruits and the whole tribe danced near the flames, singing in a strange manner and lifting their eyes and hands to the heavens. Coupling, in the open and with no shame, took place around me and when I made no move to take up with the women who came to my side, I noticed even greater reverence toward me. I stayed among them that evening and in the days that followed until I decided to return to my own place. When I made my way into the forest I was surrounded and gently guided back
In this way I came to live with these strange people whose manner of life and odd appearance was unlike any I have ever known. After some months, I was able to communicate through their gestures. After what I believe to be two years, I spoke in their tongue. I have said they brought me into their camp, but these are people who never stayed long in a place. They moved about the land along the ocean, stopping for a time and then without any known reason, traveling on to another place. In this, they were like the nomads described to me by my fellow soldiers from their postings in foreign lands.
They ate almost anything, even crawling things, and were skilled in the hunt. When they came upon the kangaroo, which is the beast I came to know I kilt that day in the meadow, the women and children took burning sticks and made fire at the edge of the grassland. The men of the tribe formed a wide arc at the other edge and, with spears raised, waited for the frightened animals to come their way. In this way many beasts were kilt. And, not only the kangaroo, but small animals that looked like the porcupines of my youth. After these kills a great celebration took place, lasting for days with pyres and dancing and the coupling I mentioned.
At one of these feasts I gathered berries and went off to extract the juices and bring them to ferment. When all was readied I carried my spirits to the group and offered them drink. The debauchery that overtook them once these spirits took hold was, to me, a cause for fear. Thereafter, I was delivered of huge quantities of berries and made to bring them to ferment often. But I grew ever more feared that the drink would lead to peril so I withheld it, keeping only what I needed for myself. They accepted this as I came to know they held me as a great ancestral spirit to be treated with solicitude.
I took to their customs, shedding all that I once knew. I departed from this only when I could not endure the absence of drink, as I have described, and also song. In this, I entertained them when sitting around the fire. I regaled them with accounts of my homeland to which they listened with much interest. They particularly enjoyed my songs and entreated me to sing at all times of the day. The men approached me to teach them. I believed they desired to know my songs, but I soon learnt they cared not for the words or the melodies. It was my voice that captured them, and they tried to imitate me with their own. In time, when they could not sing with my voice, they contented themselves with the listening. I concluded that my singing furthered their affection for me.
It must be told that war and killing between clans was common. No English soldier ever tortured the heart of an Irishman with such unquenchable bloodlust. Neither woman nor child was spared. In this, I took no part, but I was required to be among those of my tribe when the dirty deeds were done. I placed myself as far from the bloodletting as prudent, but always in view of the enemy because it was intended that I be seen. This seemed wise because from the time of my being noticed, our clan was never visited with reprisal although our men went in search of blood many times.
As the years went by, I took to hunting and fishing in their fashion. I was allowed freedom to roam about the shores and grasslands where I found much success. I then prepared a great pyre, making sure to pile wet wood on top so the smoke would be seen. The gathering that followed lasted for days. With spits roasting sweet meats, the children were dispatched to find berries and I was visited with ardent pleas to make my fermented drink. I complied out of respect, but when the dancing and coupling commenced, even in my drunken state, I made no bond with a woman. This abstinence was hard to hold, but I contented myself with my fermented spirits as I feared jealousy from the younger men and was determined to keep my life.
On nights of bright moon they gathered in eerie song around the fire, often gesturing skyward. This, I concluded, was as close to spiritual worship as they possessed. My own distrust for religion prevented me from imparting these principles. They did have a strong belief in those of their ancestors who came before, judging me to be one of them. This belief in life returned was quite unknown to me, and I have spent much time pondering it. Their songs were most important. These, they taught to me with the expectation that I would sing them at night by the fires. I complied out of respect whenever they called upon me to do so.
I was surprised to find that disease was not common among them except for that which manifested from rotted foods. I was familiar with this, having observed the cruel vomiting that sometimes brought death to soldiers of my regiment and my fellow convicts on the voyage to this land. Yet death did not trouble them, and I came to believe they did not fear it, as retribution in the afterlife had no meaning.
I stayed apart from their women for the reason stated before and over the many years, with the benefit of drink, grew satisfied with my fate. I will not deny that the desire came upon me from time to time, and I thought to return to my countrymen because of it. Yet I feared capture and contented myself in my own fashion when the need became too great.
After many uncounted years, my chaste fortitude was broken when I fell in love with a young woman of the tribe. I abandoned my solitary habit when it became clear t
hat she was accepting of me and the men did not give sign of protest. We joined together and within one year she came with child, bearing a son with such anguish and pain that it kilt her. For a time I could not bring myself to look upon the child, so grieved was I at her death. My behaviour must have angered some; they did not react to it in the same way. I noticed a change in their manner and soon understood that their affection for me was diminished.
In an effort to regain my position among them, I spent time with the child who was being cared for by the old women and some others who had lost their men in battles. At first, all seemed well, but I could see that the child had my appearance and I feared that he would not be accepted when he grew older, especially since his mother died because of him and because of me. I also feared for his soul. I have said I am not a spiritual man, but I did wonder at the possibility of God’s wrath, which had seemed severe upon me until I took up with these people. I determined that he might have a better life among my countrymen.
Unlike earlier times when I was guided back whenever I ventured too far into the bush, I was allowed to depart with little notice except some of the men debated whether I should take the child. To this, I delivered a stern determination and they relented. Ill prepared for child rearing, and uncertain of my own future, I brought the boy to a settlement at the bay first seen when my prison ship came to anchor at the end of our long voyage. There, I left him with a farmer and his barren wife, securing a promise that they keep the child with the Whitehurst name. Unlike my emptiness at the death of his mother, I felt no sadness in leaving him behind, as we had no bond, him being not yet a year old. I then made my way to the Yarra River and this towne.
In the years that followed, Jonathan Whitehurst never fully assimilated into the white community of his heritage. He was neither outgoing nor warm. He had little humor and avoided occasional communion, or even conversation, with the people around him. He slept outside most of the year, venturing to shelter only when the weather became too severe. When work was hard to find he set out for the wilderness along the shores of the Southern Ocean where he first encountered the Aborigines who worshipped him. He found solace in nature, away from his countrymen who meant little to him. He never tried to reunite with his son, left to grow on the farm at Apollo Bay. He thought only fleetingly of the child satisfied that he had done the right thing. Still, he knew the boy would endure prejudice because while the look of a white man predominated, some aboriginal traits were sure to manifest. But that was the boy’s fate.
In the last years of his life, Jonathan lived alone in the bush where he felt most comfortable. Sometimes gold seekers and others would encounter him on a trail or see him from a distance as he walked along the precipices overlooking the ocean. When the wind blew in from the sea as it often did during winter, they could hear his song and they would stop to listen. Then his magnificent voice went silent and Jonathan Whitehurst was never seen nor heard again.
Seven
Jimmy disappeared in January of 1979. I guessed where he went. He always turned up there when he was wounded. Except this time he made a circuitous route. He grew up in Massachusetts. That’s where he went first. Vermont came later. It always beckoned him.
- Alice Limoges
News that the Jimmy Button Band had broken up accompanied accounts of the Atlantic City fiasco in the trade publications. Jimmy was faulted for starting a brawl that resulted in the cancellation of VooDoo9’s only tour appearance in New Jersey. Varying reports said that he was injured in a post concert fight and that his whereabouts were unknown. All of the articles included comments from VooDoo9 spokespersons, Jimmy Button would no longer appear with the group.
After two weeks he let it go. His thoughts ran deeper. He was sick of the monotonous night in night out repetition of old songs. They might have been the reason people bought tickets to see him, but he had gone cold. Death ruminated in his beleaguered mind. Not his physical demise, but his old ways, his old life. It was hard to admit that he wasn’t the man he expected to be. He concluded that character was the issue. No matter what talents he possessed the promise could never be realized because he lacked the character to nurture them and give them meaning. He understood that doing right, thinking positively and speaking kindly were the foundations of patience, that patience bred self-confidence, and self-confidence was the enabler for all potential. Good people existed. They surrounded him, but he was not one of them. Succumbing to that revelation filled him with self-hate. He wanted to change, but first he had to retrace the path of the man he had become. He packed his clothes, pulled the car out of the underground garage and headed north to Massachusetts.
His real name was not Button. It was Buckman, James P. to be precise. Daisy Overton, the founder of his label, Blossom Records, coined Button on a whim, calling it cute. She wrote the name into his contract, forcing it upon him for as long as she paid the bills. At the time he was too thrilled to argue. Those who knew him had always called him Jimmy. He was a New Englander, having spent his youth in Massachusetts with four years of college in Vermont. Despite his Manhattan apartment and random concert tours across the country, he felt most comfortable in New England.
When he crossed the Tappan Zee Bridge he headed north to the narrow, winding Merritt Parkway. The Saab was equipped with low profile tires that permitted him to take the turns easily at high speeds. He came off the curves, downshifted and cranked up the RPMs with impunity, smiling smugly at the better recognized brands, idling at the roadside, a cop at the window. He did his speed thing to Hartford until it was time to exit and turn onto the less challenging Route 84. Two hours and four interstates later he exited at his childhood hometown, Chillingham.
The house was a small three-bedroom ranch on a slab in a large development of similar designs. After his mother died he decided to keep it. In part, he held on because he couldn’t face the task of sifting through her things before putting it up for sale, but he also thought he might one day use the house as a retreat. As it turned out, he thought, turning into the driveway, that one day was now. He parked in front of the single car garage, glancing up at his old rusted rim and backboard. He would shoot a few hoops in the coming days.
Chillingham was a small town situated close to the New Hampshire border and next door to the one-time industrial city of Liston. Local realtors hyped it as upscale, but Jimmy knew better, having seen real upscale communities through his concert tours. Nevertheless, he loved the town because for a time he had many friends and good memories. That time was junior high school when he grew out of his baby fat, discovered girls, sports and a modicum of freedom. He came into his own between the ages of thirteen and fourteen, achieving some successes playing sports. Like any kid who enjoyed some triumphs too soon, his head swelled. He underachieved in school and took a cocky attitude that brought warnings from his teachers. One call too many to his mother changed the direction of his life and, over the next four years, stole all happiness from his days.
The house was dark and cool. He set his bags down in the living room, turned on a light and adjusted the thermostat. A stereo console stood against the wall, nice for its day when it could pull in Bruce Bradley and Dick Summer on WBZ from Boston or play the Stones on scratch proof vinyl. The kitchen and dining room were small with furnishings past their prime. The bedrooms were even smaller with a single bathroom serving all. His old room was the smallest, but he never cared. The Gibson stood against the wall in the corner where it had been since he took his talent from Cambridge to New York. Dust was everywhere. Tomorrow he would get started cleaning the place and settle in for as long as it took for the answers to unfold.
He spent the first few days pursuing his physical conditioning each morning and making the old house habitable in the afternoon. He was woefully out of shape and he knew it would take weeks to see some improvement. He had already changed his diet while recuperating in New York, but that was mostly eating out. Now, he intended to buy his food and cook at home. He no longer cared to sit alone i
n restaurants.
He used the Chillingham High School track, running three miles at an increasing pace. In time, he intended to expand the distance. His target was the spring. By then, he wanted to be in the best shape of his life. Sit-ups, push-ups and an assortment other exercises were done at home. These, too, would be gradually expanded so he would be strong for the personal goal he set before he fled New York.
Avoiding alcohol was hard. Bourbon, vodka, tequila and most of all, scotch, had been a part of his waking moments for a long time. He missed it, especially at night. Being removed from his fast paced New York lifestyle helped. He wasn’t on a stage three nights a week and clubbing on the other four like a month ago. The routine of three shots between sets and a dozen after the show didn’t present itself. Still, he was hooked and his body protested with cravings at the familiar times and occasionally in the morning. He did not think of himself as an alcoholic and had no intention of heeding Ellis’ call to seek help. This was simply a health matter. He had spent too many years under alcohol’s spell. It was time to make amends to his body. He allowed himself an occasional beer and stayed away from the hard stuff.
He did feel better. Much of the dross that had accumulated in his system was gone, both because he was sweating it out on the track and also because he was not adding more. Breathing came easier, he was sleeping better, needing less and he even believed he was thinking more clearly with a brighter outlook. He still despised himself, however. The reckless behavior that broke up both his band and his relationship with Cindy filled him with guilt. He alone brought himself to this purgatory.
After a week the house was straightened to his liking. He found his old basketball and put a new set of strings on the hoop over the garage. Each evening, despite the cold, he turned on the lights and threw shot after shot at the rim. It was like the old days, a chance to think. In the afternoons he reacquainted himself with Chillingham. He drove around his hometown remembering the people and places of his youth. He drove by the homes of his friends, wondering what had become of them, if they were married and to whom. The drug store in the center of town was now a bank, but the exterior façade looked the same. For four years he’d waited in front of that store to catch the bus into Liston where he went to high school. Across the street the Chillingham Diner still operated as it had for sixty years. Before catching the bus he remembered cobbling together enough change to treat himself to a sweet roll and coffee, sitting at the counter in his jacket and tie, text books beside his stool, completely out of place among the construction workers, plumbers, electricians and telephone linemen who ate their eggs and bacon nearby.