Second Cut iii -- the argument

 Den Boer removed his hat and hung it on a convenient nail.  Edgar knew his visit would not be short, and the conversation itself would continue for a long time.  It seemed only a year ago that he had heard some of these things, for then, he remembered, it was the death of his niece, a little girl who had died unexpectedly of diphtheria.  But Den Boer mentioned very plainly that the boys were known to many women, and when Edgar heard such specific reference to sin, he worked even more intently to hide his embarrassment.

The old man did most of the talking, Edgar's father responding infrequently, trying vainly, it seemed, to restrain Den Boer.  As time passed, the old man's speech slowed considerably, and each word was chosen more carefully.  He sat and swayed evenly from side to side on the retired keg.

"People say that their teams led them home many nights after the tavern closed.  But it is not only them, Henry, it is others too.  Many others, they say, are spending their time in the ways of the world.  These are our children.  We pray daily for them, but it seems of no use . . . the children of the covenant . . . ." Edgar glanced up to see Den Boer slowly shake his head.

"These are new times, Cornelius," his father offered, slowly, the ring of the anvil underlining each phrase.  "All the ways of the old country may not be taken so easily any more.  We live here, in a new country.  We covet the strength only the Lord can give us to see through the difficult times."

"Ach, Hartman, the Sabbath has not changed since we come to this country.  My commandments read today the same like yesterday.  We must change because of this new country?"

"The Lord's will is not always so easy to know." Edgar followed his father's gesture and forced a rush of air into the fire through the dusty bellows.  Although the tempo of the work remained constant, the intense conversation finally began to wane, both participants wearying of the traditional arguments.

Cornelius sat silent; tiny whiffs of smoke rose like signals from the human statue.  He was shifting and reorganizing himself, preparing for the last advance.  His thorny hands moved slowly around the bowl of the pipe, withdrawing it, then placing it back within his tightly drawn lips.

Henry pointed at the door, signaling his son to let in the air.  Edgar pushed through the stagnant cloud of smoke and threw both doors open to the street, blocking them open with iron poles.  The midday sun brightened the shop's interior, and the fresh lake air rescued the men from the strangulation of an atmosphere thickened by steam and smoke.  Shadows that danced and leaped against the walls were erased by the sun's penetration; the light from the fire faded in the face of the afternoon sun.  Cornelius shifted his position to look out on the town.  The triangular hitch hissed wildly as Edgar's father buried it in the cooler.

"The dominie has to preach on these things.  The people must understand that the Lord speaks to us in these things." Den Boer spoke through the open door as if addressing the street.  His eyes stared into the little community, until, finally, his arms reached down to the rim of the keg and he lifted himself slowly from his seat.

"I must go now, Henry," he said, turning back to the shop and retrieving his hat.  He buttoned his coat once again and stepped into the doorway.

"Tomorrow is the funeral."

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Tomorrow: finis