The Expeditions by Karl Iagnemma

Author:Karl Iagnemma
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9780440337386
Publisher: Random House Publishing Group
Published: 2007-12-26T05:00:00+00:00

Along with the Catholics and Millerites, Reverend Stone thought. At least they are not alone. His eyelids and nose began to tingle, his breathing to thicken. He read on.

The pious missionary finds himself here, I would venture, in an indescribable confusion of vice and ignorance, that must disgust and discourage him. And yet despite this I have ever thought, and still think, that the Indian’s mind is a beautiful blank, on which anything might be written, if the right mode were taken to do it.

An image formed in Reverend Stone’s mind of a schoolhouse slate covered with scrawl: She sells seashells on the seashore. Able was I ere I saw Elba. He grinned painfully.

Voices rose in the corridor: a man arguing with the proprietress. Then a rap at the door and Mrs. Barbeau’s muffled voice: “Open up this door. You’ve a visitor claims to know you.”

Reverend Stone rose gingerly and unlatched the door. Jonah Crawley stood in the hallway, holding a straw hat and wearing a corn-yellow waistcoat and maroon jacket, his hair oiled into a cowlick. His offered the minister a confused stare. “Good jay. What’s become of your phiz?”

“Mr. Crawley,” Reverend Stone croaked, “what a fine surprise. Come in, please. I fear I can offer little by way of hospitality.”

Crawley stepped into the room as if into a smallpox pesthouse. He glanced at the ceiling and warped floorboards and flattened tick, then his gaze returned to the minister’s face.

“I’m afraid there is just the one stool,” Reverend Stone said. “My Empire chair is gone for repair.” He attempted a smile and pain flared across his cheek. He sat heavily on the bed.

“Well. My goodness.” Crawley produced two gnarled red apples from a jacket pocket. “I’ve brought these but I don’t figure they’re much use to you, what with all that swelling.” He set the apples on the bedside table then took up the pitcher, filled an ironstone mug. He offered it to Reverend Stone with an encouraging nod.

The minister’s throat felt like it was lined with flannel. When he’d finished drinking he asked, “Do you by chance have a mirror?”

Jonah Crawley chuckled. “I don’t, lucky for you! You look like—my gracious—like fresh beefsteak on a butcher’s counter. No: ground beefsteak. I guess you fared worst in the exchange?”

Reverend Stone recalled a flailing blow, a crush of bone beneath his fist. A shameful thrill rose in him: He had fought. He had passed the coward’s trial.

“I suppose that is true.”

Crawley chuckled again, then scanned the room and motioned grandly. “Well! It’s finer than it looks from the street, at least. Though from the street it looks like a Neapolitan bordello. Pardon the expression.”

“Just strolling through this part of the city, were you?”

Jonah Crawley dragged the stool beside the rickety bed. Through the slender airway came a riot of snuffling squeals, a call of chuk chuk chuk chuk: a hog reeve walking his rounds. He said, “In actuality, I’d hoped to ask your guidance on a certain matter. And I have brought you something.

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