One Hand Clapping, a novel

Hi All,

One Hand Clapping installments will be posted every Friday for 20 weeks. Each installment is roughly 5000 words (about 25 typewritten pages). All the installments will be free to read on the site or to download.

A new website will be up by next Friday, January 20th, that will be more reader friendly. Each week I’ll also post a printable PDF of the installment. I’m working on individual pod casts, but that’s a bit out.

I hope you enjoy the journey back into the installment world of Dickens and James.

Keith

One Hand Clapping
a novel

T. Keith Liggett

“They say you should not suffer through the past. You should be able to wear it like a loose garment, take it off and let it drop.”

Eve Jessye
Born January 20, 1895

(May 1970, Mekong River Delta, Viet Nam.)

I’d been out too long.
The sun hit the edge of the paddy next to me.
I was sprinting. On the dike. Half crouched. Abruptly, I was thrown back and twisted to the right. Then something else grabbed my hip, twisting me back, folding me in half, around to the left.
I heard the shots after I was hit in the hip. A short thumping burst from a heavy AK. I remember thinking, “At least the guys at the perimeter will come looking for what’s left.” Then I hit the water. Warm. Like a womb. Surrounding. I lay on my right side and half on my stomach, twisted into the water and the dark mud and soft green stalks of the rice. I felt for my Browning and couldn’t find it. I tried to crawl, but my legs wouldn’t work and only my left arm moved. I knew I was bleeding. I was getting weaker. Fast.
The pain began. First dull, then coming as sharp bursting stabs. I started falling in and out. I came in and heard some guys talking. Sing song talking. Talking Viet. They were laughing, too. Boasting. They finally got the Night Man.
I went out.
I came in again. Flying. Soaring.
I was back in Colorado, Aspen, moving over the Highlands and into Maroon Creek towards the Bells. It was fall. The aspens stood full spent gold all at once, throughout the basin. Deeper, richer than any year I remembered. They stood, barely moving in a late afternoon breeze. I felt the last heat of the late afternoon wind and marveled at the deep greens of the evergreens against the gold of the aspen leaves. The air carried the hard sharpness of moving toward night and the moldy odor of fallen leaves lying wet on the trails.
As I soared up the basin, the air changed. The higher I went, the cooler it became. And it was noisy. And I was so cold. Shaking to the beat of the noise.
I was out.
In. Still flying
Over Santa Cruz, right over Steamer’s Lane, Chris and Doug hung down below waiting for a set. The only ones out. Doug rode the board I’d sold him before leaving, the Hobie. I waved and shouted to them. I wasn’t very high. The wind was offshore. As the waves stood up in the shallow water, the spray lifted off the crests and drove sheets of white smoke across the blue of the fall swells. Chris and Doug kept watching for the set. Waiting. They didn’t see or hear me.
I wondered if I was dead.
I went out.
In.
I hurt, but not so bad. A muted comfortable hurt. I couldn’t move. Something held me down. Kept me on my back. I pushed. I tried to sit up. I couldn’t.
It was dark, really more dusk like. I was inside. I slowly realized I was in a big room. A low humming permeated air. Windows ran along both sides the length of the room. I lay next to one of the windows. In the half-light, I saw others in the room. They looked like puppets in storage. All held up by srtings and sticks.
And I had strings. They came out of my left arm, just like a marionette. My right arm was strapped to my chest. Tight. Real tight. I still couldn’t move my legs. And a string came out of my crotch. Another came out of my stomach, on the left, just above my hip. I couldn’t figure out what they’d move. All I could move on my own was my left arm. A little. I wondered if the strings made the rest of me move.
I was in a hospital, but whose hospital? There was a palm tree outside. That didn’t help.
I remembered the talking about the Night Man. They’d thought I was dead.
The guys must have found me.

For a little over three months, I recovered in Okinawa. The first round entered below my right collar bone, passed through just above the lung and exited below my shoulder blade. They put that together fairly easily. The second round entered just above my left hip taking a bunch of intestine, clipping a kidney and then headed out. That was a bad one.
In a month, I was sort of up. My legs didn’t work all that well. The doctors kept mentioning things like trauma and shock and I’d be fine in a bit.
“How long?”
“Oh, a while yet.”
After three months and a couple days, they figured they’d fixed all they were able and sent me back across the pond. The Marines were generous enough to grant me a 45 day leave. A band played as we walked to the homebound 707. Played for the guys in chairs, on gurneys and in boxes, too. I’d almost finished two complete in-country tours and then added some time in the hospital. I wasn’t sure I wanted to go home. Or even remembered the location or meaning of “home.”
I wanted to be away from people. Men. Women. Children.
Away.
Leaving the plane in Hawaii, I told the Duty Sergeant at the gate I’d finish the ride stateside space available when I felt like it.
In an airport shop, I bought a Hawaiian shirt and a pair of bleached white cotton pants with a string tie waist. After changing, I stashed the uniform and my satchel in a locker. Walking out of the terminal, I hailed a cab, still looking like a jar head, but not quite feeling like one.
I asked the cabbie to drop me at a good local travel agency. Seven dollars and some odd change later, he left me at the door of a little storefront four blocks off the beach. In the windows, the posters were faded from months in the tropic sun. With the reds almost totally gone, so blue, they looked like surreal underwater shots.
Walking in, I immediately started shaking from the cold. An ancient air-conditioner banged away in a back wall window sounding more like a Huey gunship than a machine making cold air. At one of the two desks an older Japanese lady sat. The other was empty. I walked over and sat in the single chair in front of her desk.
She looked me over. “Good morning.”
“Good morning. I’m looking to go somewhere a little different.”
“Yes?” She figured me in the service. No doubt she saw enough R & R guys walking in looking for something a “little different.” Clearly, she was not interested.
“I just spent a couple tours in Nam and the last few months in a hospital. I want to be away from people. I don’t care about booze, dope, or girls. I want a bungalow on the beach, warm water, occasional good waves and no people to deal with.”
She smiled, nodding her head. “I think I understand. Do you wish to stay on this island or would you travel to another.”
“Makes no difference.”
“Perhaps I know of the place. Please, let me make a telephone call.”
A couple hours later, I watched the waves pass below the pontoon of a seaplane heading I really didn’t know where.

The house sat back to a grove of trees fifty feet back from the palms delineating the storm line of the beach. A bookstore on the big island shipped me books on the seaplane once a week. Evenings, I experimented with recipes from the Dishes from the Orient cookbook I found in the kitchen. Each day finished on the beach with an hour or so of reading poetry outloud to the waves. Ferengetti. Snyder. Ginzberg. And the steady pounding of long riding Pacific breakers.

In the middle of the third week I received a post card.
“Charley, Don’t worry about your stuff. It’s safe at your folk’s old house. Catch a wave for me. Joey.”
I wondered how Joey found me.
It was a relief, but I didn’t really care, one way or the other.

Chapter One
(Late March, Wyeth, Oregon)

Every morning I sit or walk.
I seek the day.
The present.
That day, I walked.
Carefully, dis-engaging my arm and legs from Carole, I rolled from beneath the down quilt and tucked it back around her. Pulling on a pair of fleece pants, a heavy long sleeved t-shirt from the District 12 Star Championships and fuzzy pullover, I headed out for the walk.
The clouds hung low, loose across the mountains. The upper slopes lost in a flat gray, devoid of fine detail. The bottoms sat rich with the spring sharpened greens of vine maples and white bloomed dogwoods scattered among the orange brown basalt cliffs. The pines stood still in the morning calm, holding summer’s green in these last of winter’s dark days.
The grasses on the path to the river dripped with dew. It wasn’t raining, but brushing through, my shins quickly became wet and chilled. Without a breeze, the morning air parted thick with moisture and the smells of spring growth. Winter’s broken end carried in the air.
The path drops from my house across a small meadow then into a narrow draw leading to from the river. The Interstate bridges the draw and the wildlife of the valley pass freely below the road. Tracks of deer, a doe and a couple fawn, a raccoon, a large cat passed leaving tracks in the sandy soil since the rains early the night before.
The Columbia River’s water level changes depending on the Corp’s whims. Overnight, they decided to lose a couple feet. Walking across the slippery cobble of the exposed river bottom, reaching the water, I dipped my hands. The cold numbed my hands to the wrist. Cupping a little, I wet my forehead and cheeks, moved back to the shore and began my walking.
I walked. I listened to the birds, the muffled traffic on the highway, the lap of the water on the shore. I watched greens change from blade to leaf. The buds ready to burst, rust brown on the branch, tomorrow or the next day leaping into the air with a new green that almost fluoresces.
Finding the practiced pace on the path I’d worn in the months and years of my time at the river, I connected with the day.

Back at the house, I ground coffee and started a pot dripping. Noticing a message on the phone, I punched in the code to replay the messages from our time out the night before.
There was only the one. Joey’s.
“Hey, Charlie. How ya doin’? And how’s the Gorge these days? I need a handball partner the day after tomorrow. It’s a hot, hot game. How ‘bout it? No? Come on. At least think about it. It would be good to play again.
“Seriously, this is Joey, Joey R up in Seattle. You’re a hard one to find these days. I’ve had a guy looking for you the last couple days. All he’s found is your bar, a new batch of micro brews and a hangover. Do you work any more?
“I have a bit of biz I need taken care of. No ob’s on your part. I’m not calling any markers on this one. I need some outside, straight on help. Should be simple. Maybe not. Just give me a listen and walk if you don’t feel good about it.
“Call me at the Blu. No area code. Bump the numbers 5 and above by one. I’ll figure you’re in the Gorge.
“Be talkin’ to you.”
I called the Blu Flamingo in Seattle leaving a simple message, without my name, “I’ll be out until noon or so, Joey can reach me after that” and my slightly altered phone number.
Then wondering what Joey was up to, I walked back into the bedroom with a couple mugs of coffee. I stripped and climbed back into bed. Carole turned to me, with a low humming threw an arm and a leg across my still dew dampened cold body.
“How was your walking?”
“I sat.”
She poked my ribs. “No you didn’t, you’re too cold.”
First tousling her short blond hair, I dropped my hand to her hip and pulled her closer. Yoga. One day, not yet, I’d give in to her entreaties to join her in that practice.
“It was good. There were some big cat tracks in the draw. Maybe a bobcat.”
“Hmmm.”
I lay there with the taste of coffee in my mouth wondering what Joey wanted. What was the “biz”? We’d not been in the biz for a long time. All social for years.

on jim harrison’s death

living
dying
loving
and love’s loss

of these we write

all the rest
dandelion fluff

The Wonder

Late last night I sent an email with three attached poems to three friends. As with so many writers, I have a small group of peers I pass on words for critique. An approaching lit journal deadline (two days) prompted the email and I hastily decided to submit a batch of three connected poems. The email (with attachments) asked for comments on the poems, the order and any other thoughts.

One email. Three attachments.

Sent without thinking. A click of the send button. Gone. Off.

Even later last night, I received the first response.

“Sand in my toes, listening to Mexican music and waves on the beach. . “

Three recipients to a single email. And I thought about the distance. And time.

One recipient will be ensconced in 901 Fernie, comfortable condos in the re-purposed old school in the middle of town. Another recipient is visiting family in London (the original in England) and the last (first to answer) is lolling around on the beach in Mexico.

20 years ago this sort of effort would have involved separate letters to three very dispersed locations. Copies. Envelopes. A trip to the post office. Waiting in line and buying a bunch of foreign postage stamps. A week to get there and a week to get back, assuming good weeks on both ends. Today, push send and it’s literally there. The first reply dropped into my in-box less than two hours after sending the original email. Written on an iPhone. Pina Colada in one hand. Warm sand between the toes. The soft hiss of waves breaking on the beach.

The wonder of it all.

Fernie is Back

We’re back. These are the Fernie ski days we live for. When I left my house Thursday morning a few cms covered the walkway. At the end of the day, fresh snow broke my boot tops.

On the hill every run was new tracks knee deep. And light. And there was no one. No one.

Ski,

Ride up.

Ski.

Ride up.

Repeat until the legs give out.

Let’s go here. Let’s go there. Let’s just go.

This is the Fernie we love. Yahoo. Let ‘er rip.

A New Year

My Year starts with the opening of the ski hill, not with an artificial, overblown and facile celebration on December 31. There’s a simple unexplainable joy in those first 20 feet sliding down the ramp at the end of the first ride. There’s a freedom. A whole new world opens in that single moment and becomes real. Tangible. A fundamental shift in the world.

We are skiing.

And underneath it all is the question, the nagging doubt, Do I remember how to turn? How much have I lost over the summer?

As with most of our fears, the answer is, Get over it. You’re just fine.

At the top of the Bear I ran into a gathering gang. As we stood talking, the group became larger as one person then another joined off the Bear. The consensus was Cedar Bowl. As they skated off, I ducked into Lizard. They’d been up since the first chair. I’d just arrived and irrationally believed I’d forgotten how to turn. A couple runs down the edges of Arrow and Cascade and I was telling myself, Get over it. You’re just fine.

Stupid me.

Life is good. It’s a New Year and anything can happen.

tailored

a poem for a snowy spring day.

tailored

old gnarled
carrying the shape of an orchard apple tree
the mountain ash across the street
stretches
spreads
naked
berries exposed

then this morning
in lieu of spring leaves
the ash accepts a suit
standing still as piles grow
on the branches
hiding the berries
and burying it’s feet
wrapped in the whole cloth
of winter

from
socks in the dryer (Salmonberry Press, 2013)

The Poet Trims a House

When I’ve find myself wondering what am I doing? When it seems like I’m spinning my wheels writing, I seek for immediate tangible daily gratification. Something concrete. Do it. Look at it. Be done with it.

Hard work is good. Physical work is good. Physical work with a mental component is even better.

Most of this non-writing work is carpentry. At the end of the day, you stand back, look at job that is visibly further along. Real measures exist. The living room windows are trimmed out. The bedroom doors are hung. The floor in the hall is finished.

Recently I trimmed out a house in a traditional manner. The owner wanted the finish to reflect the old school craftsmen manner and quality. In that way, it was a traditional trim job. We installed all the wood from the walls out. Trimmed the windows. Laid the floor. Hung the doors. He wanted no end grain showing, so every piece of wood was cut at a 45 on the end and another matching, short 45 piece was slid in to finish the end into the wall. The grain, the stain, all had to match so as to be un-noticeable. Each finished window required the cutting and fitting of 23 pieces. From the extension jambs bringing the window casing out to the plane of the wall to the crown molding running across the head, each piece required thought, precision and care.

And now that I think about it, the project was as mental as it was physical. Each piece became a mental challenge as well as a physical challenge.

After the windows, we laid the floor.

The flooring was re-sawn four by six larch beams re-sawn, then run through a molder to shape into tongue and groove. The beams weathered heavily before being taken down and held spike holes with black stains from the rusted materials that once held them together. When we finished the floor, the owner spent hours filling the holes, matching each with one of four or five stained fillers he mixed for the job. Three coats of satin finish topped it off. The floor became a central feature of the house, finely finished with a rustic undertone.

As we worked on the floor, at the end of each day we could look back and state, “We started there and we finished here.”

Concrete.

Measured.

No question about the worth of the day.

And then, we hung and trimmed the doors. There were a bunch. Not as complicated as the widows, but similar. Only 16 pieces per door. But then remember, there are two sides to every door, so in reality 32 pieces trimmed out each door. Lots of little pieces. Finicky little pieces.

You learn tricks. Like using tape to hold a piece is only so good. There is bound to be a little slippage. When it dries, the edges will not remain exactly aligned. The best using good contact cement. Put two coats on the face of little piece and the larger piece. The grain tends to absorb the first layer of glue. The second layer really creates the bond. Let it fully dry and then –thunk—it holds.

That’s done now.

I am back to following up with editors, sending out queries, and trying to write little essays like this one to keep me feeling like am making progress.

And there is no longer any measure.

Wiley Coyote All Over Again

Growing up on the Roadrunner cartoons affected a whole generation and a half. It was OK to blow someone up with Acme Dynamite. Acme Catapults were perfect for throwing things long distances. And so on. There was no PC. And there was good ol’ violence. Violence after a fashion, since most was self-inflicted by/on Wiley Coyote.

I thought of that Monday morning. We’ve been ripping along in full-on summer mode. A little cool the last few days, but remaining summer. Shorts, Flip-flops. T-shirts with a sweater in the early morning and then again in the evening.

And then Monday, we dropped through a trap door into another country and another world. The mountains disappeared. It was cold. No, not just cold, but almost freezing. And raining, snowing, groppling and then raining again. And blowing. It never blows in Fernie. And cold enough to look for long pants and even socks. Did I say cold?

What’s up?

Who pulled the Wiley Coyote dropping us unexpectedly through an Acme Trap Door in the sidewalk?

Whose hand is on the switch?

Flip it back. Now.

We’re a whole town of Wiley Coyotes dropped through a trap door into late fall/early winter and we need a ladder to get back up to the real world. We desperately need to return to our last precious vestiges of summer.

Anyone got the ladder?

Anyone?

Back on the Deck.

August 7th

I’m back on the deck. It’s early. The sun has yet to hit the valley. Clouds shroud the mountains beyond the ridge across the river. The trees on the crest of the ridge are defined by the grey of the clouds behind. In a couple hours, the heat of the day will disperse the clouds and the sharp granite spires behind will appear.

After Midnight from the Cowboy Junkies powers gently out of the deck speakers. They play like the far off whistle of a train recently passed. Half memory. Soft. Half myth of an event. A memory, only a memory, without concrete matter remaining. As they finish a bald eagle flies across the opening in the trees that runs to the river. Low, skimming over the crowns of the birches, he weaves between the taller cedars. The squirrels start calliope of chatter warning of the bird. Quieting after he passes, they return to searching for lost pine comes.

For a few minutes all is quiet. A goose honks on the river and the Cowboy Junkies start in again. I remember the lonesome wail of the train passed hours ago.