The bear rocked in his chair, nose sifting and sorting the elements of springtime in his home territory. The moist air brought the smell of wild animals going their solitary ways—a deer nibbling new buds, a fox stalking on tiptoe, a porcupine slowly climbing a tree. His blood stirred with the old magic, and his rocker began to creak more rapidly. I could slip away. In a minute I’d be gone. This mess I’m in would hang behind me like an empty spider’s web, to which no one ever returns. The valleys, the meadows, honey in the comb would be mine again. I’d stamp the earth, I’d shake the mountain with my roar.
He sprang from the rocker, his primal self waking from its hibernation in the plush velvet cave of man. He filled his lungs with the impending storm and shook his head with short, sharp snaps to clear it of the last silky, sticky threads of detestable indulgence.
A dented airport taxi pulled in beside the bed-and-breakfast. “Hal, I’m so relieved to see you,” said Chum Boykins, hurrying up the porch steps, suitcase in hand. “I got away as soon as I could. Here, I brought us a New York City cheesecake, as an aid to concentration.”
The bear’s spirit faltered, the smell of the cheesecake obliterating other smells as he lowered his nose toward its moist, sweet, fascinating surface.
Boykins turned to Warwick. “How do things look?”
“Fine,” said Warwick, his confident veneer what one would expect from a man who could put on a good face while 200,000 barrels of oil were being spilled into prime fishing waters.
Boykins sat down, his fevered gaze falling on two empty rockers beside him. He made a few corrective touches to their positioning. “Bettina said she can put a positive spin on the lawsuit story, that it’s just more publicity for Hal, but I don’t like it at all. Any hint of plagiary is deadly. Reputations can be spoiled overnight.” Boykins made a further adjustment on one of the empty rockers, making it nice and straight for Mickey Mouse, should the rodent drop by. As the day of the lawsuit had drawn near, his doctor had had to switch him from Prozac to Zoloft. He shifted his gaze toward the dark wooded hills that ringed the town. “I guess all this uncharted wilderness must really inspire the hell out of you, Hal. But how you turned such a godforsaken place into such an inspiring story is amazing, really. Because there’s nothing here. You look at it, and what is it? Trees, hills, a skunk, a two-by-nothing town. Is the next book going to take place around here too?”
“I haven’t found it yet,” said the bear, mouth stuffed with cheesecake.
“My instinct says go with what worked last time.”
“Maybe I’ll never find it.”
“Don’t say that, Hal. Book number two is already shaping itself inside you.” Boykins cared deeply about his author’s future. Agents came and went, compulsive agents came and went several times, but there was only one Hal Jam. And Boykins felt there was disaster ahead for him.
“Why am I bothering with it, Vinal?” It was night, and Bramhall was seated with Pinette in front of the old lumberjack’s kitchen stove. The kitchen was lit by a single bare bulb hanging from the ceiling, and moths were fluttering against the window screen, trying to reach the light that had lured them from the fields. “Why am I fighting this battle?”
“To find out what happened to your suitcase. My guess is, this feller Jam musta shot the bear while the bear was lugging the suitcase around. Jam reads the book, says well it ain’t much use to the bear any longer, then takes off with it.” Pinette poked at the fire in his kitchen stove. “The question in my mind is, did he boil the bear down? Because you hate to see lovely grease like that go to waste.”
Bramhall turned to the window. A huge luna moth had flown against the screen, its pale green wings working furiously.
“By god,” said Pinette, “that’s a big feller. You don’t see him too often.”
Bramhall stared at the great moth and felt a fragile emotion flit through him. He’d turned his back on the forest, but it had not forgotten him; this green-cloaked messenger of the night had sought him out, to remind him of those enchanted regions he’d explored both awake and in his dreams. The eyes of the moth were glittering; its huge antennae waved, and its wings moved so quickly they created a mesmerizing luminosity. Bramhall abruptly rose and went into Pinette’s living room. The bulky, misshapen cushions of its couch and armchairs were sunk in shadows, and Bramhall stood there in the gloom until the enchantment passed, and he felt as dull and misshapen as the furniture.
After supper at the local diner, the bear, his lawyer, and his agent strolled along Main Street. Boykins gazed downward as he walked, to avoid the cracks in the sidewalk.
“Look for a briefcase,” said the bear.
“Why, did you lose one?”
“Somebody might have,” said the bear.
John Warwick had been listening in silence to the conversation of the two men as they walked. Jam had tremendous presence, but what he said made little sense. What the hell kind of defendant would he be?
Boykins continued counting the cracks.
What’s going on here? the bear asked himself as he sniffed Arthur Bramhall’s scent across the courtroom. He turned to his lawyer and said, “He’s a bear.”
“What?”
“A bear!” said the bear excitedly. “He’s a bear who’s trying to become a person!”
Some members of the jury had turned to look at them, and Warwick said softly, “We’ll talk later, Hal.”
Chum Boykins entered the courtroom. He went through a brief ritual of sitting in several different seats before finally choosing the one that felt indisputably right. Then he got up and chose another one.
Eaton Magoon, at the plaintiff’s table, looked like the proverbial cracker-barrel rube, wearing a plaid shirt and wide suspenders with his suit. Alongside Magoon sat Arthur Bramhall in a new suit from J. C. Penney. It didn’t fit much better than his other suits, as he’d been bewildered when he’d purchased it. Before coming to the courtroom, he’d emptied a bottle of Brut cologne on himself, but he knew he still smelled like an animal. His head was down, as he could not yet bring himself to face this human gathering. Depressed, alienated, with hair on his forehead, he surreptitiously lifted his eyes as his lawyer stepped forward to make the opening statement to the court:
“Your honor, ladies and gentlemen, Arthur Bramhall worked at his craft daily, in a small cabin some of you might know if you’ve done any hunting around here. Arthur is happy to let folks hunt through his land because it gives him pleasure to look up from his work and see a neighbor moving across the old field, on the lookout for small game. Arthur’s own game is different, however. Arthur hunts words, trying to bag the perfect phrase. Anyone who comes down his lane knows what they’ll see—Arthur at his window, hunched over his typewriter, recreating life as he knows it, life in Maine, the way life should be.” Magoon gave the jury a neighborly smile. “At first, he was from away. But he quickly adjusted. He learned what country life is all about and he respected it and finally he was able to write about it, as if he’d always lived here.”
Magoon paused and let his gaze move slowly from one juror to the other. “And after writing about our life here, after devoting his entire sabbatical to writing about life here in Maine, his book was stolen from him.”
Magoon walked back and forth, gesturing dramatically, and the bear watched him closely, trying to imagine himself walking back and forth like that, saying complicated things and punctuating his remarks with forceful paw movements.
“My client has been driven nearly insane by the loss of his manuscript, over which he struggled so desperately for so long. Look at him, ladies and gentlemen of the jury, and see the suffering in his face. That is the face of a man whose life’s work has been stolen from him. He was once a college professor. Yes, right here at our own University of Maine. He’s lost that job, friends. He cannot hold a teaching post any longer, because he can hardly speak. His voice has been affected by his loss, as has his overall appearance. He’s so wretched, my friends, his bodily functions have bee
n altered.”
The bear nodded approvingly, taking pleasure from the rhythmic flow of Magoon’s incomprehensible words. It was like the babbling of a Maine stream in springtime.
“Hal,” hissed John Warwick, “stop nodding.” Warwick was growing more concerned. His adversary, Magoon, was a first-rate ham playing to a hometown jury. And Judge Wendell Spurr looked like he might resent a big-city lawyer with a celebrity client. Especially a client who was nodding as if he agreed with Magoon’s accusations against him.
Warwick cast a sidelong glance at the celebrated novelist and wondered: What the hell is wrong with Jam anyway? He doesn’t seem to care what’s happening here.
“… and we’ll prove, ladies and gentlemen, beyond any doubt, that my client wrote Destiny and Desire and that this person—” Magoon pointed at the bear. The bear nodded enthusiastically at being called a person and drummed his paws together.
“—this person, who seems to have no conscience whatsoever, stole Destiny and Desire, pawned it off as his own, and profited enormously. Profited through the fruits of my client’s labors, profited through another man’s inspiration. That’s not how we do things here in Maine. And yet this person now sits smugly satisfied in this courtroom, believing himself above the law.” Magoon directed a withering look at the bear, who returned it with a friendly wave, which threw Magoon for a loop.
What does he have up his sleeve? wondered Magoon. What kind of strategy has Warwick given him? Magoon looked at the power attorney’s steel-gray hair, his calculating eyes, his Rolex watch. And his client was acting like a man who knew he couldn’t lose. Jesus, thought Magoon, I’ve gotten in over my head. He shot a sidelong glance at Arthur Bramhall, who didn’t have a penny to his name, for whom he was working on contingency and to whom he’d already committed large blocks of time.
Warwick stood before the jury and made his opening statement, defending his client against “this ludicrous accusation. Hal Jam is known across the country for his brilliance, his philosophic wit, his sense of humor, all the things, in short, that we’d expect from the man who wrote Destiny and Desire.”
Warwick cast a glance toward Arthur Bramhall and the jury followed his gaze, their eye falling on the man who looked like a lumberjack at a funeral. As he felt the eyes of the jury on him, Bramhall lowered his head still further, the expression on his face that of an animal who’d been caught at some piece of mischief, like a raccoon stealing eggs from a henhouse.
“My client,” continued Warwick, bringing his gaze back to the impeccably attired bear, “is a man of spotless reputation who has achieved a high position in the literary world. On his recent book tour, he saved the life of the vice president of the United States, an act of incredible heroism I’m sure many of you may recall. He is a man of culture and breeding. He is—and this is a little-known fact—a titled lord.” Warwick paused and made a slight bow toward the bear. “He is Lord Overlook, of North Devon, England.”
Eaton Magoon was on his feet. “Objection, your honor!”
Judge Wendell Spurr jerked his head up from the half-slumber he usually indulged in at court, and adjusted his robe. A lord, thought Judge Spurr. My, my, let’s sit up and do things right. An image of white-wigged English barristers and magistrates floated through his mind and he felt himself suddenly linked to a great tradition. He shot an unsympathetic look at Magoon. The astonishing revelation that he had an English lord in his court had given Judge Spurr a welcome lift, and he wasn’t going to let the likes of Eaton Magoon spoil it. Along with the image of wigged judges, he now had an image of shooting partridge on the Overlook estate; he could see himself walking across an English field, gun in hand, Lord Overlook by his side. He scowled toward the plaintiff’s bench. “What’s your problem, Mr. Magoon?”
“This information isn’t relevant to the case, your honor,” said Magoon, attempting to paddle upstream. A single glance at the jury showed him how impressed they were. And so was he.
“I’m overruling you,” said Judge Spurr. “The background of both parties is relevant.”
Magoon sat down, and Warwick continued. “Lord Overlook does not use his title ordinarily, for he’s a modest man. It doesn’t appear on his books or in any publicity connected to his name. But you’ll find it in the great book of British history, at the Royal Commission of Manuscripts, and in the Local Public Records Office of North Devon. It is a title that has descended to him from a family that goes back a thousand years to the time of King Edward, when the Overlook family first swore their allegiance to the crown.” Again Warwick gave a slight bow of his head, as if the crown floated in the air before them like the Grail. He was pleased to see that several members of the jury had bowed their heads too.
“He is a man who has no need to steal another man’s book, for fame or glory. He has fame enough, ladies and gentlemen of the jury, and a fine, old, hallowed name, a name that means respectability and power. A lord of the English realm does not need to come to this peaceful town in Maine and appropriate an identity. He has an enviable identity already. It is far more likely that someone would try to appropriate his identity.” Warwick gestured toward his adversary’s table and then abruptly sat down.
Magoon rose again, shaking his head and giving a neighborly smile to the jury, as if he and they had just listened to an aluminum-siding salesman. But he was greatly disturbed by this English lord thing. The jury was still looking at Warwick’s client with eager curiosity. The only genuine glamour in their lives until now had been Dollar-Daze up at the shopping mall, wet T-shirt night at the Chain Saw bar, and angel books written by Eunice Cotton which they purchased at the convenience store. Into this innocent rural setting had strode someone called Lord Overlook of North Devon.
Magoon called his first witness, the old lumberjack Vinal Pinette. Magoon hoped he’d win some jury sympathy with a man they all knew, whose backwoods style rang with honesty.
“Mr. Pinette,” said Magoon, “do you recognize that man over there? Is he someone with whom you are familiar?”
Pinette looked at his friend. “He’s my neighbor, Art Bramhall.”
“Could you tell the court what sort of man he is?”
“Pretty good feller.”
“Do you visit him often?”
“Yessir, we do a bit of jawing.”
“And when you go to visit him, what do you usually find him doing?”
“Setting in the hog trough.”
The jury let out a snicker and Eaton Magoon rushed to correct the impression. “You find him in the hog trough now that he’s been demoralized, now that he has fallen into depression over the loss of his book, now that he has almost lost the will to live. But previous to that, you used to find him at work at his desk writing, didn’t you?”
Warwick came to his feet. “Objection, your honor. He’s leading the witness.”
“Sustained.”
“Forgive me, your honor. Mr. Pinette, did you ever see Arthur Bramhall in the act of writing?”
“I been giving him some pretty fair ideas. He ain’t had a chance to write ’em up yet.”
“But you know he’s a writer?”
“Yep.”
“You’ve seen his typewriter?”
“Once or twice.”
“And his house is filled with books?”
“Smartest thing he ever done was line his walls with books. Books is better than wood shavings any day when it comes to insulating a house.” Pinette looked at the jury and prepared to embark upon a discussion of insulating materials for houses, but Magoon brought him back to the matter at hand.
“Mr. Bramhall doesn’t have books for insulation. He has books because he reads them. Isn’t that right?”
“Maybe so,” said Pinette, reluctant to commit too quickly to such a radical notion as someone reading as many books as Art Bramhall had.
“And the reason he reads them is because he’s a writer and he needs to read them. Isn’t that right?”
“Like I say, we been working on a
book together. I been providing the raw materials.”
Magoon suspected he’d opened a door for his adversary and led Pinette off to other topics, but the damage had been done. When Warwick cross-examined the old lumberjack, he went straight through the opening. “Mr. Pinette, you say you gave ideas to Mr. Bramhall?”
“Lots of them.”
“Did he ever say he’d pay you for your ideas? Did he ever say he’d give you your rightful share of an idea if he used it?”
“Never did,” said Pinette. “Of course we never got to writing—”
“I see,” said Warwick, his voice suggesting that Bramhall was planning to swindle Pinette of his ideas. “Thank you, Mr. Pinette, that will be all”
Vinal Pinette stepped down, and Magoon called Professor Alfred Settlemire to the stand. As the bear watched the lawyers, he practiced a few small arm movements and mouthed some legal sentences of his own. Could you please tell the jury … Objection, your honor … Thank you, that will be all …
“Sir,” said Magoon to Settlemire, “you are a professor at the University of Maine, is that correct?”
“Yes.”
“And Arthur Bramhall was your colleague?”
“Yes.”
Magoon pointed toward his client. “Is that Arthur Bramhall?”
“Yes,” said Settlemire. “He’s—changed though, since he was at the university.”
“I’m sure he has, seeing how his life’s work was stolen from him. Now, Professor Settlemire, did you ever see Arthur Bramhall’s manuscript?”
“Yes, I did. I saw a few chapters.”
“You saw a few chapters of the manuscript? You saw them on paper, typewritten?”
“Yes, I did.”
“You saw Arthur Bramhall’s novel in manuscript form? You’re under oath, sir.”
“I saw the novel.”