The Man in the Tree

Chapter Two

Dog River, Oregon, named after the stream discovered by Lewis and Clark in 1805, is situated at the confluence of the Dog and the Columbia. The river was originally named Labeasche, after Francis Labiche, one of the expedition's French watermen. (Neither Lewis nor Clark was strong on spelling.) "Labiche" was taken by many to mean "the bitch," but this fact apparently has nothing to do with the name finally selected for the river and the town: it comes, rather, from the experience of some early travelers who were reduced by starvation to eating dogs.

Dog River lies in a fertile valley largely devoted to apples, pears, and strawberries. Most of the valley is flat as a table, but the town itself is hilly; up from the river, the streets rise so steeply that at some intersections there are concrete steps with pipe railings. Behind the County Library, the hill is so abrupt that there is no street at all, only a switchback wooden staircase that rises to the suburban district sixty feet above.

The business section, which is entirely modern, is four blocks long; here will be found the First National Bank, the Odeon Theatre, the courthouse, the Bon Ton department store, the newspaper office, the two drug stores, the Medical Building, Stein's Meat Market, and the Book and Art Shoppe.

The town is not hostile to immigrants, of whom there are many: Mayor Hilbert, for example, was born in Germany, and Desmond Pike, the editor and publisher of the "Dog River Gazette," is English; but it congratulates itself that its young people are almost uniformly fair-skinned and pleasing in appearance.

Morris Stein and his family are the only Jews known to live in town. There is one black family, headed by a man who works as a janitor at the Dog River Hotel near the railroad depot. Out in the valley, much of the most productive orchard land was formerly owned by Japanese immigrants and their descendants, all of whom, however, were taken away to internment camps during the Second World War. The town is staunchly Republican. The state anthem, "Oregon, My Oregon," is sung with fervor in the schools. The high-school football team, known as the Beavers, has a traditional rivalry with the team of Dalles City, twenty miles to the east.

Many of the residents of Dog River came to Oregon during the first quarter of the century from Iowa, Nebraska, and other midwestern states. Among these were Donald R. Anderson, from North Dakota, and Mildred Sonderlund, from Ohio. They met in Springfield, where Anderson was working in a sawmill and Mildred was teaching elementary school. After their marriage in 1939, they moved to Dog River, where Anderson set himself up as a carpenter and builder. Their only child, Gene, was born there in 1944.

Tom Cooley, the son of a Portland bootlegger, was nineteen when he married Ellen McIntyre, the daughter of a Dog River orchardist. Their first child, Paul, was born in 1941; he was an infant when the war broke out. Cooley served in the Marine Corps, reaching the rank of sergeant. After his discharge, he worked for a while as a beer distributor and had a part interest in the Idle Hour Billiard Parlor, along with his cousin Jerry, who had been in the Marines with him. In 1944 he and Jerry sold out their shares in the billiard parlor and bought an apple orchard which had come on the market cheap. (The former owner, a Mr. Takamatsu, was in a relocation camp in Colorado.) Cooley was a silent partner in the orchard operation; he wanted something to keep him busy. In 1947 he became Dog River's chief of police.

Chief Cooley cruised the back roads around Dog River for three days and nights, ranging as far east as Dalles City and as far west as Portland. He drove slowly in his eight-cylinder Buick, watching both sides of the road and peering into every car he passed. Once on Monday morning and twice on Tuesday he saw a man on foot ducking into the underbrush. Cooley leaped out each time with his gun drawn, pursued the man and caught him, but all three times it turned out to be some tramp or migrant laborer with a guilty conscience. At night Cooley sometimes drove with his lights and motor off, coasting down a long hill, looking and listening. Toward dawn he parked the car and slept for a few hours. He stopped five times for gas and food, once for a bottle of blended rye. By Wednesday morning he had put nearly two thousand miles on the Buick.

Cooley was a short, sturdy, red-faced man who carried a .45 in a belt holster and wore a cowboy hat. He was the entire police department of Dog River. Under ordinary circumstances, the job did not call for anything more demanding than hustling an occasional drunk or vagrant into the county jail.

He came down out of the hills into town, red-eyed and unshaven; he slewed into the driveway, scattering chickens, and yanked on the emergency brake. Tess Williams, his wife's sister, met him inside the door. His voice was thick. "How's Ellen?"

"Where have you been, you sawed-off son of a bitch? She's half out of her mind, is how she is."

Cooley started up the stairs. "And Mayor Hilbert's been on the phone seven times!" she called after him.

"Tell'm go shit in his hat," said Cooley, and staggered into the bedroom.

Gus Hilbert came around at four that afternoon, when Cooley was up and dressed. Hilbert was a big man, popeyed and balding; he ran the town's one movie theater, in which, until her retirement a few years ago, his wife Ethel had played the Golden Wurlitzer organ.

He found Cooley at the kitchen table eating bacon and eggs. The chief had shaved, and looked a little better, but he still looked like a man who had been on a three-day drunk.

Hilbert dropped his hat on the table and sat down. "Tom, you through making a fool of yourself now?"

Cooley looked at him and said nothing.

"You know by now that kid's gone. Hitched a ride somewhere, he's out of the state."

"By now," said Cooley.

"Even if he wasn't, he's a juvenile. What was you going to do if you found him, beat him up? Shoot him with that damn gun?"

"He killed my boy, Gus."

Hiibert said after a moment, "How's Ellen?"

"Okay. She's asleep upstairs. Doc Phillips gave her something."

"I know what a knock this is for you, Tom, and Ellen too, but you can't take the damn law in your own hands, and I can't let you do it. Now what I want to know is, have you given it up? Because if you haven't, I've got to take your badge."

"Think you're man enough?" Cooley asked, and put down his fork.

"Now, Tom, don't be that way."

"You can have the goddamn badge any time you want it," Cooley said. He got up and threw his plate into the sink. The scared faces of two young children appeared in the doorway and then vanished. "You kids stay the hell out of here!" Cooley shouted.

"Tom, are you coming back to work? That's all I'm asking. There was an armed robbery at the Idle Hour Monday night, I had to call in the sheriff, and there's some vandalism up at the junior high school."

"Yeah, I'm coming back to work. What the hell else can I do?"

"Okay. Get some rest first. God, you look awful."

The following afternoon, just after lunch time, Cooley got out of his car in front of the Andersons' house and stood looking it over. It was a white one-story house with wood siding and a shake roof, behind a picket fence and a big maple tree. Unraked leaves were all over the yard. At the end of the driveway was a garage; through the open doors he could see workbenches and stacks of lumber. He climbed the porch steps, looking at the scratches on the paint, and rang the bell.

After a moment the door opened. "Afternoon, Miz Anderson," Cooley said. "Like to come in and talk to you, if you don't mind." She was pale, and her eyes were pink-rimmed.

"Yes, come in," she said. She led him into the living room. "Mr. Cooley, I want you to know we're terribly sorry about what happened."

"Appreciate that," Cooley said. He put his hat on his knee and took out a dog-eared notebook.

"My husband and I were at your house Tuesday night, but Mrs. Williams told us you were out of town. She said your wife was ill. I hope she's feeling better?"

"Sure. She'll be all right. Now about your boy -- haven't heard from him, I suppose?"

"No. Nothing."

"Any idea where he might of gone?"

"No. I've racked my brains."

"Some relative, maybe?"

She shook her head. "We don't have any family in Oregon. I have a sister in Iowa, and Don's brother lives in Utah."

"Mind giving me their addresses?"

After a moment Mrs. Anderson said, "I don't see any point in it. They never met Gene -- he doesn't know where they are."

"Might help anyway -- you never know."

When she remained silent, Cooley said, "What about the boy -- what does he like to do? Any hobbies?"

"He likes to draw. And reading -- he likes to read."

"Got a recent photo of him?"

She shook her head slowly. "No."

"Well, an old one, then -- whatever you got. You must have some pictures."

"They're put away," she said. "I don't know where they are."

Chief Cooley closed his notebook. "This ain't the right attitude, Miz Anderson," he said. "I'm just trying to do my job."

"I'm sorry," she said.

"Well, thanks a hell of a lot for nothing," Cooley told her, and put on his hat. "I can find my way out."

When Donald Anderson came home that night, she told him about Cooley's visit.

"Why didn't you give him the pictures?" Anderson asked. "What are you afraid of?"

"I don't know. I don't trust that man."

"Well, I don't like him either, but he's trying to find Gene. What can he do to him? He's just a boy -- it must of been an accident. The worst that could happen, they'd send him to a home for a year."

Mrs. Anderson closed her eyes. "I hope he's safe," she said. "And I hope Chief Cooley doesn't find him, ever."

On the Sunday after the funeral, Cooley drove past the Methodist Church and saw Donald Anderson's gray Chevy pickup in the parking lot. He kept on going, drove through the quiet neighborhood where the Andersons lived, and parked in the alley. The air was crisp and cool; threads of blue smoke rose from chimneys toward an overcast sky. There was no sound except for the lonesome barking of a dog up the hill.

Cooley jimmied open a basement window and let himself down into the musty darkness. He found the stairs, climbed them, opened the door into the kitchen. The pendulum clock on the wall was ticking quietly. There was a rich fragrance in the room; he felt the oven door, and it was warm. A gray cat came from somewhere, looked at him with slitted eyes and made a querulous sound.

There were two doors in the back of the kitchen; one led to the narrow screened porch. Cooley opened the other and went in, followed by the cat. This room was obviously newer than the rest of the house; the walls and ceiling were covered with Fir-tex, a gray, pulpy material made from wood fibers. The room was cold, and the air had a lifeless smell. There was a narrow metal bed, some bookshelves, a bureau, a wooden desk, an easy chair, and a floor lamp. A model airplane hung from the ceiling. Games and puzzles were stacked on the bookshelves. The bare floor and the woodwork were painted dark blue.

The cat watched him as he opened desk drawers one by one and sorted through the papers inside. Most of them were drawings in pencil and ink; some were partly ink, partly crayon. There was a clutter of ink bottles, pens, brushes, erasers, rulers; some baseball cards with a rubber band around them; gum wrappers, dice, a stamp album; glue, string, paperclips. He put everything back and closed the drawers.

In the closet he found a gray windbreaker, a yellow slicker and hood, galoshes, a pair of shoes neatly lined up with the laces tied. In the corner there was a tall stack of magazines, mostly "Boy's Life." Bile rose in Cooley's throat. They had kept the kid's room and all his stuff waiting for him, because they thought he was coming back.

Cooley thought about Paul's room at home. He had cleaned it all out, the baseball bat and mitt, the piles of dirty socks, trading cards, the clothing, the cigarettes hidden in the back of the drawer. He didn't want anything to remind him. He had closed the door oft the empty room.

The other two, the girls, were not much good; he had never wanted wanted girls. It was Paul he had counted on, his firstborn, awkward and eager. All that life and energy now was nothing but a lump of meat in a box with dirt shoveled over it.

The cat followed him out, and he shut the door. Beyond the kitchen was the living-dining room -- a table with an embroidered cloth, an oil space heater emitting a cheerful warmth, a sofa, chairs. The walls were plaster painted with gray calsomine, powdery to the touch. The first of the three doors opened into a room crowded with a brass bed, a desk, a green metal filing cabinet. The room smelled of stale cigars.

The next was the bathroom. The third was a woman's bedroom, with a flowered quilt on the bed, a dressing table and chiffonier. Cooley went through the drawers, feeling under stacks of stockings, underwear, folded clothing. In the third drawer his fingers struck something hard. He drew out a leather jewel case and a stack of photo albums.

The cat climbed on the bed to watch him. He turned the pages of the first album: snapshots of the Andersons with their arms around each other in front of what looked like a 1928 Ford sedan. Mrs. Anderson's hair was bobbed, and she wore a cloche hat. The Andersons at the beach, with four other people, waving at the camera. Pictures of houses.

The next album was baby pictures, all of the same child, fat-cheeked and bright-eyed, patent-leather shoes on his feet and a knitted cap on his head. Under this there was a stack of matted enlargements, and as soon as he felt that one of them was in a metal frame, Cooley knew. He pulled it out: it was a picture of the kid in his first suit, gawky and shy, probably taken not more than a year or two ago.

Cooley wrapped the picture and the jewel box in a pillowcase, put everything else back where he had found it. On the way home he looked into the jewel box -- a few garnet rings and pendants that looked old, some junk necklaces and earrings, a gold two-and-a-half dollar piece. He kept the coin and threw the rest of the jewelry into a ravine. Let them wonder.