Prologue
The fact of the matter is, somebody stole the statue of Hezekiah Hesper, and for months nobody noticed.
Leader of the gang that settled Arnold Falls, Hesper was a man with few virtues, fewer admirers, and no memorial until 1903, the town's centenary, when it was reluctantly agreed that a statue of the man should be commissioned, if not generously funded. The result was a shabby affair — sheets of tin crudely assembled, promptly rusted, with a plaque describing Hesper as a “foundering” father.
The old rogue had then languished in a corner of Benjamin Arnold Park, ignored by all except the dogs, fine judges of character, unwavering about the sort of tribute Hesper deserved. When the statue was removed from its stand one moonless night in March 2018, Hesper was in people's thoughts the same as he ever was, which is to say, not at all.
Chapter 1
Will and Jeebie at the Pond Fri 6/1
Gick-gick-gick.
“That’s —”
“Shhh. Jeebie. Listen.”
Gick-gick-gick-gick.
“It’s the mating call of the northern cricket frog,” Will says.
“Not exactly a sonnet.”
“It is if you’re a frog,” Will points out.
“How can you tell it’s a northern cricket frog?”
“What does the gick-gick sound like to you?” he asks.
“Like two pebbles tapped together.”
“Exactly. That’s how you know it’s a northern cricket,” Will says.
It’s a mild Friday afternoon at the beginning of June and Will and I are sitting on a large rock by the small, marshy pond at the eastern end of what will be Van Dalen Park. Looking west, you can see the Hudson River; to the north is the spot where the historic Dutch House stood until it was destroyed one morning last year by a developer.
“I love summertime because nothing ever happens in summer, except some frogs hook up,” I say.
“But —
“Summer encourages living in the present tense, that’s why people like it.”
“Except —”
“Not so much thought. Just the moment.”
“Jeebie, this is…something big,” Will says, looking at me.
“What is? Us?”
“No. Well, sure. Obviously.”
He gives me a kiss.
“But the northern cricket frog? It’s endangered. This habitat needs to be protected.”
If you haven’t been following along, Will and I have been together since last fall. I’m not entirely sure how it all came to pass — seems there were a lot of cooks involved in that broth. I’ll probably never know because Will refuses to name names. One thing I do know: I’m extremely glad it happened. Anyway, after a series of events unfortunate and fortunate, the town is getting a new park, Van Dalen Park, right where we are.
Ointment, meet fly. When Will says the northern cricket frog is endangered, I’m sure he’s right. He’s starting his masters program at Cornell in Conservation Biology in a few months and he knows this kind of stuff.
“People want a ball field,” I say.
“I get it. But they can’t infill at this pond.”
When he says that, Will’s green eyes are fiery.
“Your eyes are fiery,” I say.
“If they’re so fiery, call the fire department.”
He’s only saying that because he’s a volunteer fireman and he thinks, because of a certain incident, that I like to call in — in his words — no-alarm fires.
“You’re thinking about no-alarm fires,” he says.
“No.”
“No?”
“Yes,” I say. “But also…I love your passion about stuff. Like frogs. And going for your masters in Conservation Biology. And the hinky monkeys book.”
“We’re doing that together,” he says.
Will’s also a talented illustrator. And he got a book offer out of the blue — something that just doesn’t happen — for his hinky monkeys series.
“Yes, and I love working on it with you,” I say. “But it’s your project, Will. You created the whole thing. I’m there to support you. Nelle’s planning her album. Jenny’s got the town to run and Wilky to care for.”
“Jeebs, you helped stop that idiotic tire factory. You helped save Chaplin. Jenny wouldn’t have gotten elected mayor if it weren’t for you,” he says.
“All past tense.”
“You’re Wilky’s godparent.”
“Sinecure,” I say.
“You’re a successful voiceover artist.”
“Old news.”
“What happened to loving summer because you live in the present tense?” Will asks.
“That was then.”
“Then, meaning two minutes ago?”
“Yes.”
“Before this sudden midlife crisis,” Will says.
“I’m not having — midlife? Midlife!”
Will squeezes my hand. “Aging gay-man crisis?”
“Preposterous,” I say. “Nothing to do with aging. Everyone wants to feel useful.”
He puts his arm around me, and I lean my head into his shoulder. We stay like this for a while.
“We should call Jenny about your discovery,” I say. “They’re going to have to rethink this part of the park.”
“We’ll see her tonight at Doozy’s birthday.”
“True.”
We look out over the marsh, considering frogs and life. Everything seems warm and peaceful and possible. I know how lucky I am. It’s just…
“Gick-gick-gick,” Will says.
“In iambic pentameter, please. Looking into my eyes.”
“Gick-gick gick-gick gick-gick gick-gick gick-gick.”
It has the desired effect. Yes, reader, I swoon.
The crowd lounging in front of the courthouse is loudly enjoying the inarguably Friday-at-fiveness of the moment, loudly enough that the sound has had the temerity to travel into the courthouse, down the long corridor, and then, unwisely, to disturb the peace of Judge Lionel Harschly’s inner sanctum.
Heaving a slow, primordial sigh, Judge Harschly walks toward his secretary, who hands him the document he needs without his having to ask for it.
“Thank you, Vera. Go home. Enjoy the weekend.”
“Thank you, Judge. You, too.”
“What are you making?” the Judge asks.
“Cacio e pepe.”
“Spaghetti?”
“Bucatini. Homemade.”
“Your husband is a lucky man to have you,” Judge Harschly says.
“Stating the obvious,” Vera says.
Judge Harschly chuckles as he strides out into the hallway, still in his robes, the wiry seventy-two-year-old making short work of the corridor to the lobby. The judge swings open the front door of the courthouse and sees the source of the noise problem: at least a dozen layabouts laying about on the steps, including the former mayor, Rufus Meierhoffer, and his invariable sidekick, Dubsack Polatino. He also spots the newly installed, bushy-bearded town hermit, hired by Rufus in one of his last acts before leaving political life.
The judge, who is also president of the town council, had sat through the arguments for hiring an Arnold Falls hermit, airy assertions by then-Mayor Meierhoffer’s crew that having a resident hermit would be good for business, catnip for travel writers in need of a punchy hook, another notch in Arnold Falls’ tourist-attraction belt. As a practical matter, the hermit would be a caretaker for the shambolic, little lightning-splitter house referred to as ‘the hermitage’ because, in the 1890s, an ornery fellow called “The Old Hermit” inhabited the place without showing the slightest interest in either his fellow man, or more damningly, the goings-on of his Arnold Falls neighbors. Wisest possible strategy, the judge thinks approvingly.
Apparently, several towns in European countries had hired hermits in recent years, and that was seen as sufficient proof of concept for the council. Judge Harschly had snorted at the idea then and snorts again now, this time inhaling an unmistakable waft of Clagger, the local hooch, which he figures is fueling the elevated noise level.
“Bupbupbup!” Judge Harschly says vigorously. He has their attention. Looking down at the document in his hands, he reads in an assertive voice:
“Our Constitution, and various lesser documents therefrom derived, chargeth and commandeth all persons, being assembled, immediately to disperse themselves, and peaceably to depart to their habitations, or to their lawful business — although I doubt many of you have a lawful business if I know how to read a crowd — upon the pains contained in the act for preventing tumults and riotous assemblies. God Bless this land!”
“Not the Riot Act, Judge!” Dubsack says.
“Yes, the Riot Act! I’ve read it, now disperse ye.”
There is grumbling along the lines of ‘Oh, well, he’s read us the Riot Act’, ‘no arguing that’, ‘we better go home’, and the crowd does in fact disperse in all directions. Before returning inside, Judge Harschly looks back to survey his jurisdiction, noting that the hermit has yet to summon enough get-up-and-go spirit to actually get up and go.
“Say, you’re not much of a hermit, are you?”
“Why’s that?” parries the hermit.
“Well, you seem pretty sociable to me.”
“Takes all kinds to be a hermit,” the hermit says.
“I wouldn’t have thought so. That strikes me as counterintuitive. Seems like it would take a particular kind of person. But I don’t have a great deal of experience with hermits, so I’ll take your word for it.”
The hermit stands and stretches, picking up his bindle.
“What’s your name, anyway?” Judge Harschly asks.
Over the years, Judge Harschly’s ears had become highly reliable tuning forks, sensitive to the merest wisp of a tendril of off-note prevarication. A Rolls Royce of b.s. detectors, as his wife says.
When the man doesn’t answer in the exact meter expected, there is a flutter in the air and his tuning fork hums before the man answers, “Marvin. I’m known as Marvin the Hobo.”
“Little bit of an accent of some kind?”
“I’ve been around,” says Marvin.
“I’d say that a hobo and a hermit, strictly speaking now, aren’t the same thing at all,” the Judge says.
“You’re right about that…I’m sorry I didn’t catch your name.”
“Judge Harschly.”
“Judge Harschly? Seems unlikely, but I’ll take your word for it. I was a hobo who had been riding the rails since I was eleven. After seeing so much of the country, I’ve now transitioned into hermitude.”
“Strangely enough, that makes a great deal of sense to me.”
“Do you happen to know where I can find whale blubber?”
“Sure I do. Just go down to the harbor. But you’ll have to bring your time machine with you because Arnold Falls hasn’t processed whale blubber in over a hundred years. Mind me asking why?”
“To lay in for a long winter.”
“It’s June,” Judge Harschly says.
“Gotta walk a mile in my shoes.”
“Possibly germane, without answering the whale blubber question. I’ll let it stand. Well, I have a wife who will read me the Riot Act if I’m late. Welcome to Arnold Falls. I hope you find what you’re seeking here, Marvin.”
They shake hands and Judge Harschly watches Marvin walk away, before the Judge returns to his now Vera-less chambers. He’s looking forward to the weekly Friday date night with his wife, Elena, a tradition of nearly forty years. He hangs up his robe, grabs his crumbling briefcase, and turns out the lights.
Waving goodnight to Hamster, who is mopping the floors, Judge Harschly exits back onto the courthouse steps, from which he sees several things happen in quick succession.
First, he observes a woman being chased by a turkey across the park, and hears her shout, “No, Keaton! It cannot be!”
Something is familiar about this and Judge Harschly does one of his squint-and-peers to try to make sense of what is taking place. Is that Bridget Roberts? Gave her a warning for Clagger intoxication a while back. Officiated her wedding to that lovely gal last Thanksgiving. What the devil is she up to now?
He then watches the turkey make a beeline for Bridget’s posterior. Bridget yelps loudly. It feels like a déjà vu.
Suddenly, there is a sharp clap of thunder and it starts to hail from the cloudless sky. This thunderhail, as it’s being called, is a new twist on Arnold Falls’ longtime, unexplained hail affliction.
And after that he hears someone say through a bullhorn, “Cut!”
Ah, yes. The television series Merryvale has just started filming. Not Bridget. That must be an actress playing Bridget. Or a character like her. Gadzooks, the last thing Arnold Falls needs is more characters.
