The Hauntings of Hood Canal

Amid Rain, Chantrell Puzzles

Dawn woke beneath the pounding force of rain. Water beat on dry leaves, poured into the forest, and drained bare slopes. Rain pretended it was Biblical, a Noah-type flood, or punishment for sins committed in places like Indiana and Kansas. Rain danced an east coast number on roofs accustomed to west coast mist and drizzle. Little balls of dried moss, black as sorrow, turned green and washed into gutters. Water filled ditches, flooded the road, and formed major puddles in parking lots, schoolyards, ball fields, golf courses; as human rejoicing filled the land.

No more charming scene exists than that which happens in the Pacific Northwest when rain follows drought. While people in other places keep their children inside, we take the kids outdoors so everyone can sop it up. People are known to pack picnics, or wash their cars and dogs. A light rain is good, a medium rain is excellent, and a heavy rain—a real gully washer, flavors our world with colorful umbrellas.

Moods change. Aggravations caused by constant sun magically disappear. We shed purgatories of small responsibilities, of small sins, of unrequited lusts. All of these falter before joy smeared with optimism like fudge on a two-year-old.

And for those who love the forest, or for those who live by it, rain is a special dispensation. It is the enemy of fire. To the uninitiated, a forest fire is a grand show that takes out a few hundred or a few thousand acres. To the initiated, a forest fire spells destruction fearsome as bombs.

Chantrell George, who is next to worthless in the eyes of nearly everyone except his guardian angel, spent morning in the forest. Rain penetrated the thick cover of trees. Chantrell’s hair hung wet and stringy about his shoulders. His feet soaked in dilapidated shoes, until he took the shoes and tied them to sling over his shoulder. He moved quickly, at least quickly for a man of visions. Chantrell knows that if you don’t keep moving you catch a chill.

Mushrooms would not bloom until after dark, but mushrooms were not Chantrell’s only reason for cruising beneath sweeping branches of cedar. In the forest, sometimes, his mind clears in the same way the Canal lies tranquil on a windless day. In the forest, sometimes, Chantrell George can nearly recall what it felt like to be straight; for, unlike some unfortunate others, Chantrell was not born a junkie.

A man of visions sees infinity in small things: the smile of a gopher, the scorn of a water faucet, the shifting patterns of light on the forest floor, or in artificial bait which also smiles; but with hooks. A man of visions sees things as they really are, and not the way they look to folks who are only high on booze or religion or business.

On some days Chantrell searched the forest looking for the flying hammer that killed the dead guy. Chantrell sought the hammer because he needed a witness. He clearly remembered how the hammer hopped around Sugar Bear’s shop, then fled through a window. That the hammer had been a cartoon hammer, and one seen in a vision, did not spoil its reality. Chantrell would point out that life more often resembles cartoons, than cartoons resemble life.

He pressed his search because he wanted the hammer to testify. Early stories, after the dead guy became dead, passed up and down the Canal. Men worth admiring, because of their positive voices and positive opinions, had given Chantrell George credit for killing the dead guy. They did it because Chantrell seemed the most likely suspect. To people who think of themselves as normal, weird people appear capable of anything.

It had been a golden time, the first time in many years anyone paid attention to Chantrell. The glow of it mixed in his mind with a cold little spot of uncertainty. At first he was not sure he actually deserved credit. Since Sugar Bear did not want to talk, and since there was only one other person Chantrell trusted, he turned to that person: his bike.

As he wheeled the bike along the road, conversations turned to arguments, then turned back, and arguments were often resolved. So were doubts.

“Did I do something wrong?” he asked the bike. “I maybe did something bad.”

“I kinda doubt it,” the bicycle told him. “The way guys talk, I reckon you’re a hero.”

“The hammer actually did it,” Chantrell explained. “You weren’t there. You were parked outside.”

“Don’t tell anybody,” the bicycle advised. “That hammer don’t want any credit.”

As the story shifted back and forth, from China Bay, to Beer and Bait, to Rough and Randy, it gradually became known that Sugar Bear was the man behind the tragedy. People stopped talking about Chantrell. Chantrell knew the story was wrong, and he felt hurt. He experienced moments when he resented Sugar Bear.

“That’s the way it goes,” the bicycle explained. “A guy gets blamed for everything when bad stuff happens. Then he does something big, and crooks rush in to claim the credit.”

“It’s the way it goes,” Chantrell agreed. “A guy don’t hardly know what to do.”

“Get high,” the bicycle kindly advised. “That’s always worked before.”

Chantrell’s summer progressed with visits to the hiding places of mushrooms, with a little pick-up work at Beer and Bait, and with helping Sugar Bear by selling off his scrap metal. On two occasions Chantrell, who, out of a keen sense of self preservation never poaches items locally, chanced on tourist cars containing orphan goods; radios, cameras, golf clubs. Adoptions took place. He peddled the adoptees to guys at Rough and Randy. Summer spread its wealth around him, and life was splendid.

Then August arrived. Tourists became testy and unreliable. Traffic backed up. The forest dried. The world turned dreary as nighttime music at Beer and Bait. Without many funds, it became harder and harder to score a decent high. Then a cop showed up at Beer and Bait, and life was hell.

“It all changes because of rain,” he told his bicycle, as he hid it among trees. “This day is gonna work.”

“Luck always turns,” the bicycle assured him. “You got to ride out a bad streak, and you really got to ride a good one.” The bicycle did not explain what it meant.

Chantrell hesitated before walking in the forest. As rain penetrated the thick cover of leaves and needles, he could see glimpses of the road. Traffic was not backing up, not yet. Something went on, though. Chantrell peered through brush.

It looked like more bad driving. The back end of a car showed itself, with the trunk lid sprung and the hood buried beneath water. Chantrell could not remember where he had seen the car, but knew he had.

A couple of cop cars parked alongside the road, plus an unmarked car, plus three cops. One of the cops looked familiar, and Chantrell shivered. It was the cop who drank lemonade at Beer and Bait. The three cops wore rain slickers and hats. They looked discouraged, like guys who came to work, found that overnight somebody trashed their job; like guys who have to do a cleanup before they can even get back to work. Rain pounded. Nobody was going to hook that car out until the rain shunted off a little. Nobody could even move the crane.

Chantrell moaned. Across the fecund field of his inner vision danced a chorus line of policemen holding giant mushrooms before them like balloons of bubble dancers. The police danced on the dark waters of the Canal, and as their feet hit, little splashes flicked forward wetting the tip of Chantrell’s nose. The nose grew and became two noses, one smiling, and one with teeth…

“Not here,” the bicycle advised. “Strictly speaking, you ain’t high and there ain’t no evidence. Get a grip.”

“You got it,” Chantrell moaned. “Uh-huh. It figures. Yep. On the other hand…” He forced himself to pay attention, vaguely aware of rain pounding on the forest. He watched the cops.

The tallest cop looked kind of stoned, or his mind was somewhere else. He got in the unmarked car. He just sat there, maybe listening to cop radio, or maybe just cussing and wishing he could bust somebody.

As Chantrell faded into the forest, the cop started the car, turned it around, and headed back in the direction of Beer and Bait.