For What He Could Become Read online

  “Bill Williams.”

  “Glad to meet ya, Bill Williams. Where you from?”

  “Arctic Village.”

  “Yeah? I’m just downriver. Fort Yukon. But I left there in ‘38 and haven’t been back.” His eyes were squinted so tight that Bill couldn’t make out where the pupils were. “Come on— sit down. We’ll be on our feet all day long.” He sat down with his back against the wall.

  Other workers had arrived but they stood at the other end of the hall and occasionally looked down the hallway at Bill and George.

  “What you hired for?” George said.

  “I don’t know. Just general stuff, I guess.”

  “They’ll have you doing everything, that’s for dang sure.” George inhaled on his cigarette, held it, then pushed it out across his upper lip and inhaled it through his nose back into his lungs. Then he expelled it triumphantly into the surrounding air.

  “How’d you do that?” Bill said.

  “Secret.” He did it again. “You smoke?”

  Bill shook his head.

  “Well, then, I can’t teach ya.”

  A big man in overalls came out of the office door and looked up and down the hall. The group of men gravitated toward him. Bill and George stood up.

  “Awright, guys. We’re sending you all to the job at Turnagain Arms. Get in the green truck downstairs, I’ll be right behind you. You’ll all be doing grunt labor today, so you won’t need your tools. You new guys buddy up with someone who’s been here awhile ‘til I get you lined out on the job.”

  “Come on,” George said. They filed down the stairs into the parking lot. The sun was out and there was a slight breeze. Maybe fifty degrees, Bill figured. It was a good day for work.

  In two weeks they barely got the framing in for the foundation. It was to have been done by Thursday noon, but it took all day Friday to finish it. At 4:30 the foreman came around handing out paychecks. He stopped at Bill.

  “You do good work,” he said as he handed over the envelope. “Keep it up. You like this work?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  The foreman smiled. “‘Yes, Cal’ will do. Just get out of the service?”

  Bill nodded.

  “Well, stick around.” He handed a check to George. “You did good work too, George. Keep at it. Be steady for me and show up, will ya?” He walked away.

  George smiled, folded the check, and put it in his rear pocket.

  “What did he mean, be steady and show up?” Bill said.

  “Oh, I just don’t always come to work, that’s all.”

  “You’ve been here every day.”

  “That was because it ain’t fishing season and I’m out of beer.” He patted his rear pocket. “This is gonna change that. You drink?”

  “No,” Bill said.

  “Ever try it?”

  “No.”

  George shook his head. “How old are you?”

  “Twenty.”

  George shook his head again. “By damn—we’ll get one hung on you.”

  The Cheechako Bar was full of men, and smoke hung a third of the way down from the ceiling. The noise, the acrid smoke, the mix of heat and sweat, all were overpowering and Bill struggled to control his reaction to them. George motioned him over to the table where five people were sitting.

  “This is my friend Bill Williams. Comes from Arctic Village.”

  Bill looked at the upturned faces. All native faces, but two were Eskimo, two Athabaskan, and one a woman who was quite drunk and whose origins he couldn’t make out. George didn’t say their names and they didn’t offer them.

  “Pull up a chair,” one of them said.

  George found two chairs, lifted them over the seated people, and banged them down on the floor. He reached in his shirt pocket and pulled out his money.

  “Boys and girls—it’s payday!”

  They all beamed, and when the waitress came back George threw ten dollars on the table and ordered beers all around. She brought the beers and George’s change, and George grabbed her and put a dollar on her tray.

  Bill figured a paycheck wouldn’t last long if you did that very many times. He put his hand on the pocket where his money was, the first money he had gotten since he left the army. He didn’t know how much he would need, but he had to figure that out tomorrow.

  He suddenly realized that everyone at the table was looking at him.

  “I told them you haven’t ever drunk anything,” George said. “So here’s to you,” and George and the others lifted their bottles to him and clinked them in the middle of the table.

  Bill liked the cool sour taste.

  “Well, what d’ya think?” George asked.

  “Not like anything I ever tasted before.”

  “You’ll get used to it,” one of them said.

  George drank eight beers. Bill finished his third. It was warm, but he didn’t care. He was feeling mellow, connected with himself. The smile just stayed there while the minutes stretched out, and there was time to think and assess things. He thought about the things he had done and felt there was nothing he couldn’t do now.

  The good job was just the start. Soon he would have the $10,000 and be ready to find a girl and get married.

  But George was becoming someone he didn’t know.

  “I’m going to find some food,” Bill said.

  “Hey, Debbie!” George yelled. “Food!”

  He fumbled for another bill in his shirt pocket. The folded money all came out together, landing on the table, in his lap, on the floor. Everyone laughed and grabbed for the money. Some put it on the table in front of George, some in front of themselves, some pocketed it, one put his foot on a bill on the floor and wouldn’t let George pull it up. George got out of his chair and pretended to bite the person on the leg and swiped the money back.

  When George got back in his chair he started counting the money. Every time he reached a total someone either returned another bill or grabbed a bill from the pile in front of him, throwing George off. He could never come to a total that meant anything to him.

  Debbie came over, and Bill and three others ordered hamburgers and onion rings. When the food came, those who hadn’t ordered grabbed at the onion rings. It seemed kind of like the money game. Get an onion ring and eat it while the guy who ordered it tries to keep it for himself. Halfway through the hamburger, Debbie reached over his shoulder and grabbed the neck of the bottle he was holding.

  “Empty?” She shook it, put it on her tray, and set a full one in front of him.

  He tipped the cold bottle up and nudged George. “How long we gonna stay here?”

  George’s head was close to the table and he was talking to a woman.

  “Wanna leave? By gawd, you can leave any time you want to.” He glared at Bill, then turned back to the woman. She laughed and George put his arm around her and they put their heads together.

  Bill stood up. “I’m leaving.”

  “Awright,” George said. “We’re coming with ya.”

  It was dark when they left the bar. George led the way to mid-block, where they turned into the alley.

  “Where we going?” Bill asked.

  George didn’t answer. He had his hands full holding the woman up and walking down the concave alley surface. They crossed the street. The alley was poorly lit, and the lamp was broken out on the post in the middle of the block.

  When they passed the dumpster, Bill heard a shuffling noise behind them. He felt a blow on the back of his head, and then his cheek bounced on the gravel surface. He lay there, semi-conscious, trying to get up. There were hands on his body, but when he tried to move he couldn’t feel anything.

  The hands stopped moving on him. He wasn’t uncomfortable, but his eyes were blinking in a rhythmic pattern and he realized he couldn’t control the blinks. Every time he blinked there were red shooting stars behind his eyelids; they flew from left to right, disappeared then reappeared and went across his eyelids again. He couldn’t hear anything.
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br />   A flashlight shone in his face and he felt hands under his arms and legs as he was hoisted off the ground and put in a truck. The back door was swung wide and a guy held his eyelid open and shined a light in it. He was beginning to hear sounds. Voices. Then he could hear words.

  “Hey. Can you hear me? Come around, now—talk to me. Can you hear me?”

  Bill turned his head toward the sound. A policeman moved his light away, and Bill could see his uniform hat and strong pleasant face. He tried to smile and say something, but only the smile worked.

  “I think he’s coming around,” the policeman said. A guy dressed in white moved around fast but didn’t talk.

  Bill recognized his wallet in the policeman’s hand. “They took your billfold. Did it have any money in it?”

  Bill nodded. He tried to recall the paycheck he had cashed and whether he had spent any. He couldn’t put any figures together.

  “Lift your head just a minute,” the guy in white said. He stuck a bandage over his ear. “It’s torn there. Could be a little sore tomorrow. Keep it dry for a day or two.”

  The policeman helped him sit up. “Here’s my card. Call me when you figure out how much was taken from you.” He brushed the wallet off with his handkerchief and handed it to Bill. “They threw it in the dumpster. Typical trick on payday.”

  Bill looked around. “Where’s George?”

  “They went to the native hospital,” the guy in white said. “They were out cold. You okay or do you want to go to the hospital too?”

  “Help me get off this thing.”

  The policeman and the paramedic each grabbed an arm and helped Bill down to street level. The revolving red lights stabbed him in the eyes and he looked away.

  “Where do you live?” the policeman asked. “I can drop you off.”

  “I can walk.”

  “Sure?”

  Bill nodded. He took a few steps and leaned against the light pole.

  He pulled his wallet out and opened it up. The bills were gone, but they hadn’t messed with his other stuff.

  He shoved the wallet back in his pocket and walked toward the rooming house, staying on the sidewalks under the lights. The outside door was locked when he got there, and he rang the bell. The clerk came out of the office door wearing a bathrobe.

  “Are we gonna have trouble with you?”

  “I got robbed.”

  “More likely you got drunk and got robbed. Rent’s due in a week. You gonna have it?”

  Bill nodded.

  He went up to his room, opened the duffel bag, and then it hit him. He had taken his settlement money with him, hidden under a flap in his wallet. He took the wallet out and peeled back the flap. Gone.

  On Sunday, Bill walked to the native hospital to see if George was there and learned he’d been released Friday night along with the woman he’d come in with. He didn’t have an address or phone for George, but he would see him Monday at work.

  He walked by the Salvation Army Post on his way back and heard loud piano playing through the windows, some of it not in key, and an accompanying voice that was a bit off from the piano music. Bill smiled. It tickled his funny bone to hear a person push so hard for something that obviously wasn’t coming together.

  As he passed the open door he saw a sandwich-board sign that read:

  OPEN

  FREE FOOD

  SERVICE AT 5:00

  SONGS AND FELLOWSHIP

  He had just finished reading the last line when the music stopped. On a step three feet above him was a man dressed in black pants and a white shirt stretched so tight across his stomach that the buttons were tilted halfway back through the buttonholes. He smiled at Bill.

  “Brother, come on in and talk with me. I haven’t got anyone to talk to, and my singing is just pitiful. Do you sing?”

  Bill shook his head.

  “Do you play the piano?”

  “No.”

  “Well—you can talk. Will you come in and keep a lonely man company until the service starts?” He extended his hand. “I’m Captain Russell. I was sent here to run this dog and pony show.”

  Bill shook his hand and found himself being pulled up the stairs and into the chapel. Captain Russell proceeded to show him through the entire post as if he were a visiting dignitary seeking to know how his financial donations were being used.

  “Ah…here’s the kitchen.”

  Bill could smell the soup. It smelled better than army soup. His stomach growled and he swallowed.

  “Let’s see what it is…” Captain Russell lifted the lid and inhaled the steam. He closed his eyes, and a smile formed on his round face. “Potato soup with ham and bacon. Fresh hot rolls. Coffee. What more could God grant to man on this earth?”

  Bill didn’t know if he was supposed to answer or not.

  Captain Russell looked at him. “I gave you my name but I forgot to ask yours.”

  “Bill Williams.”

  Captain Russell stuck out his hand again. “Bill Williams, I am happy to make your acquaintance.” He grabbed a hot roll and handed it to Bill, then took one for himself. “Will you stay for supper and the service?”

  Bill thought for a moment. His stomach felt empty and the smell of the hot soup made him weak.

  “Where would you be if you weren’t here, at this very moment, Bill Williams?”

  Bill did not respond. Where would he be? He’d been heading back to his room hungry when he stopped here.

  “Come on. Stay with us for a little while. I need some help. Do you speak Athabascan, by any chance?”

  Bill nodded.

  “That’s fortunate. I’ve got people who can speak Yup’ik but sometimes we need someone who can communicate in Athabascan. Some of the older ones can do so much better in their native language. Especially when they’re under stress. Bless me, I’m just rattling on, aren’t I, and not making much sense at that.”

  Bill had not heard anyone talk so much, but it was interesting to hear a person who could just keep talking, making up conversation as he went along.

  “What do you say? Come in for an hour and have a bowl of good soup, some hot rolls, that hot coffee, and help me talk with some of these folks. Come on, give me a hand.”

  He found himself washing his hands while the captain tied an apron on him. It was white with red lettering that said: “Repent OR listen to Capt. Russell’s piano.”

  When Bill left the kitchen there were eight people standing in the other room, all but one of them native. The one was a white man who carried his arms down at his side, military style, thumbs against his seams, the clothes hanging straight down on his bony frame. To Bill it looked like the man was standing at attention.

  “Hello,” Bill said.

  “Corporal Dinsmore, sir.”

  “Hello, corporal. I was in the army, the 106th Division, ever hear of us?”

  “Corporal Dinsmore, sir.”

  Bill looked around. Captain Russell was in the other room getting the food ready, but he met Bill’s eyes and smiled. Bill looked back at Dinsmore.

  “I was a corporal too.”

  “Corporal Dinsmore, sir.”

  “At ease, Corporal.” Bill did an about-face, leaving Dinsmore standing at attention, and walked over to Captain Russell.

  “Shell shock,” Russell said.

  “Why isn’t he in the VA hospital, then?”

  “He walks away. We’ve taken him back a dozen times and he just walks away again. Get him to sit down, he likes the food here. He won’t be a problem.”

  “I thought I was just going to eat and…”

  Captain Russell turned on his heel and was gone.

  He walked back over to Corporal Dinsmore and in his best command voice said, “Dinsmore. Come sit down at the table. Follow me.” He marched to a one-piece wooden table with attached benches on each side. The corporal was in step behind him and seated himself at the table, hands at his sides.

  Bill sat down beside him.

  The other people d
rifted over to the table. The smell of fresh hot food mixed with the accumulated odors of a dozen homeless people. After the meal everybody filed into the chapel, sitting mostly at the back of the room. Captain Russell attacked the piano, which explained why they sat at the back. The volume was loud, the enthusiasm genuine, the notes wrong as often as not.

  Corporal Dinsmore sat rigid in the seat. Eyes ahead, back straight, he seemed oblivious to all stimuli. Where would Dinsmore sleep tonight, and what would he do tomorrow?

  The service began, the piano playing having provided a mere prelude to the oration Captain Russell produced from the lectern. His short sermon was based on John 3:16. Like his piano playing, it made up in volume what it may have lacked in professionalism, but there was no doubt about Russell’s sincerity, belief, or commitment.

  At one point, after holding the bible open to the sacred verse, he slammed it shut, then took it in one hand and pounded it over and over into the upraised palm of the other hand. On his third back swing, it flew up and out and landed behind the piano. He continued to talk while he walked back and retrieved it, returned and finished the point he was trying to make. The point was, “God gave his only son Jesus, to die for all mankind so you could be free of sin. Just ask.”

  When the sermon was over the people scurried out and left the door open at the front of the chapel. Corporal Dinsmore stood beside the open door. Bill walked over to him and came to attention.

  “Dismissed,” he said.

  Dinsmore walked through the door and turned left.

  “So what did you think of that, Mr. Bill Williams?” Captain Russell asked him.

  Bill had a headache from the loud music and loud preaching, but he wasn’t sure how he felt about any of it.

  “Okay,” he finally managed.

  Captain Russell clapped him on the shoulder. “Feed ‘em, save ‘em, and send ‘em out happy. God only knows where the poor buggers spend the rest of the day. We need something to capture them until they commit their souls to Christ, then send them out as soldiers of the cross.”

  Bill felt uneasy with Russell’s hand on his shoulder.

  “Did you get enough to eat?”

  Bill nodded.

  “Good. Come back again. It’ll be good to see you often. Stay and help with the dishes, will you?”