Let Him Go: A Novel (23 page)

He was
here
? George presses his good hand down on the table as if his question pertained to the very place where he’s sitting.

Margaret didn’t tell you?

She did not.

Huh. Yeah, he came walking up the street like this was his neighborhood and he was out for his nightly constitutional. Homer raises his watered-down whiskey to his lips and takes another carefully rationed sip. I can’t say we put the run on him exactly, he continues, but we sure as hell made it plain he wasn’t welcome.

Not like he gives a good goddamn about that.

Say this for the Weboys—they aren’t lacking for gall.

Was he alone? asks George.

Oh hell no. He had a carload with him.

Donnie with them?

I couldn’t tell. Does it matter? He’s with them whether he’s with them or not. The Weboys are so damn tight you couldn’t fit a shim between them.

Just wondering, says George, if Donnie always has someone else ready to do his dirty work for him.

That mother of his has been cleaning up his messes since he was a kid. Both his and his brothers’.

Margaret and Adeline enter the dining room. Oh please, Margaret says, no more of the Weboys.

Homer laughs his high, strangled laugh. Just like that? Snap your fingers and no more Weboys?

I heard, says George, they paid a visit last night. He looks back and forth from one woman to the other but his look of accusation lingers longest on Adeline.

Can’t we not talk about them for the rest of the day? pleads Margaret.

So the talk turns away from the Weboy clan as if that subject could be avoided like a stretch of bad road. Soon it’s difficult to imagine that anyone at this table is grieving, defeated, exhausted, or maimed, though one of the group says little, no matter whether the topic is roof shingling (which Homer Witt did back in June), soldiers fighting in Korea (where U.S. fortunes have not fared well recently), or seasons shifting (the Witts saw their last snow in April, the Blackledges in June). No, there’s not a reason in the world to believe that anyone sitting at this table is less than
whole. Unless Margaret Blackledge reaching over and cutting her husband’s food into bite-size chunks is likely to bring such a thought to mind. Or perhaps something out of the ordinary is suggested when the Blackledges stand at the front door and say their thank-yous and good-byes and make their promises to stay in touch, and Adeline reaches out for an actual touch. I still think, she says, and once again the back of her hand approaches George’s forehead, you might be running a fever. But he merely leans away from her touch and repeats his two o’clock in the morning lie. I’m fine.

T
HEY ARE BARELY OUTSIDE
G
LADSTONE’S CITY LIMITS
when George says, You should have told me the uncle showed up last night.

I intended to. The wipers keep the windshield clear but Margaret still grips the steering wheel with both hands and squints out at the highway.

When?

Oh, I don’t know. Someday. Soon.

George leans against the passenger door, his injured hand held aloft and his face against the cool window glass. His hat is beside him on the car seat. He says, Not soon enough.

What does it matter?

It’s one more Weboy telling us to get the hell out of town.

It’s advice I’m happy to take. The snow that earlier mixed with the rain has now changed to ice pellets, and a few of these accumulate on the wiper blades and leave arcing streaks on the glass.

Is that the way he gave it? asks George. As advice? Or an order?

I don’t know, George. And I can’t see how that matters either.

Almost a mile passes before George answers. It matters.

After another long silence, Margaret says, Ice on the road . . .

None of it’s sticking.

. . . makes me think of the night the twins were born. Do you remember?

I remember.

Slow down, I kept telling you. Slow down . . .

I remember.

Margaret allows herself the briefest glance at her husband. His eyes are closed. And why did we decide to drive to the hospital, anyway? Wasn’t the plan to call Mrs. Gustafson?

You didn’t want to call in the middle of the night. Besides, we thought we had time.

And we did. Even creeping along on the ice, we had time.

Just not as much as we thought we’d have.

Margaret lets up slightly on the accelerator. The car bucks a little as if in protest over the slower speed. The bluffs in the distance have turned a deeper orange-red in the wet weather.

Abruptly George sits straight up. Pull off the road at that turnout up ahead.

What’s wrong?

Just pull over.

Are you going to be sick?

Pull over, goddamnit!

Margaret does as she’s told. She signals that she intends to turn, slows almost to a stop, and then, with a deliberate hand-over-hand motion, she steers the big car across the highway, bumping off the pavement to a cleared gravel area. This is where they parked when they were on their way
into
Gladstone, the small scenic lookout from which they first gazed down on a river fringed and furred by cottonwoods, a prairie punctuated with bunchgrass and sagebrush, and a town that was their destination, spread out and sparkling in the distance. The nearby rocky outcrop with its familiar shape of the inverted bowling pin has also taken on a darker tone in the rain, a shade close to bronze.

With his good hand, George reaches across his body and clumsily pulls on the door handle and simultaneously shoves with his shoulder against the door. When it opens, the smell of wet sage and clay rushes into the car.

George almost tumbles out but he stops himself, only to sit bent over and breathing hard on the car’s running board.

By now Margaret has climbed out of the car, hurried around, and is squatting in the gray mud in front of her husband. Are you all right? George? Her voice trembles more than usual. Talk to me. Are you all right?

I’m fine, he says, though plainly he is not.

Were you carsick? Was that it? She lowers her head and twists it around so she can look up into her husband’s eyes. George?

I’m all right.

Is it your hand that’s bothering you?

I needed to stop. That’s all.

Won’t you tell me—

I’m all right. I told you.

Stiffly she stands up. When she was crouching down, the car door sheltered her from the rain, but now the drops, icy and fine, pelt the sides of her face. She brushes at them as if they were summer gnats swarming and catching
in her hair. She looks down at her husband and then takes a step back from him.

Babies. Animals. Men like this one. At some point, if you cannot divine what troubles them, you must step away. You must. Step away and wait.

Here’s something else I should have told you, Margaret says, though she’s not looking at her husband as she speaks. She gazes in the direction of Gladstone, visible but as if through a veil. When we were at the Witts’? And we were talking about that battle in Korea? I’ve forgotten the name already, but it sounded like something from a song or a poem. Anyway, I thought, well, if the army comes along to scoop up Jimmy for whatever war’s going on when he’s old enough to fight, at least I won’t have to see him go. Let Lorna see him off, Lorna and his other grandmother. So you see, I’m adjusting. Already. I’m making the best of things.

When she wipes at her face now it’s with a gesture that has nothing to do with any swarm of insects. Too late for you, George, but I’m coming around.

With his left hand he grabs the armrest on the car door and with a determined effort manages to push and pull himself to his feet. Now the rain can get at him as well.

Drive there, George says, pointing off to the northwest. I’ve had enough traveling.

She follows his pointing finger with a look of horror, as if he were suggesting she drive them off the edge of the bluff.

There’s a road, he says. You see it? Not the route we took before. Over there. Farther on ahead.

That’s not much of a road, George. And why would I drive us there? You’ve had enough traveling? Well, I’ve had enough camping. And I mean enough to last me forever.

He folds himself back into the car. Close my door, he says to Margaret. Close it and let’s go. He raises his fingerless hand in the air and holds it there in what has become its customary position. He lets his head fall back on the car seat, closes his eyes, and says again,
Go.

A
NOTHER HOUR OF RAIN AND THIS MUDDY
,
ROCKY
path might wash out completely, but the raindrops now are so widely spaced the wipers are hardly necessary. Nevertheless, Margaret must descend with the car in second gear and her foot frequently touching the brake. She tries to keep the Hudson’s wheels in the twin tracks that snake back and forth down the steep grade. When one tire slips out of its rut the car rocks precariously, but Margaret keeps them on course. Is it only the narrow road that holds her attention? She presses her tongue between her teeth and her eyes widen with concentration, yet her brow is unfurrowed as if at this moment she is content to have to make no decision more important than whether to move the steering wheel inches to the left or right.

Even when she asks the question, Where are we going, George? her voice seems animated by no real curiosity or urgency.

He sits forward and scans the valley floor. There, he says. Drive there.

Once again, Margaret allows his finger to direct her gaze.

The road, such as it is, gives out at the base of the bluff, and there, on a flat, bare parcel of land the size of a baseball diamond, sits a shack, its asphalt shingles as gray as the
sky. Traces of green paint cling to the nearby outhouse, but its boards have weathered to the color of dust. The ground around the shack looks as though it’s been picked clean of stones, smoothed, and swept. Next to the door of the shack leans a fishing rod.

Margaret stops fifty feet from the dwelling. Where in hell are we, George?

For answer, he reaches over and presses on the car’s horn. Its loud nasal bleat bounces from one rocky wall of the canyon to another and then seems to find its way back inside the car. As soon as the echo fades, George pushes on the horn again, this time holding it down until its wail becomes almost unbearable.

The door of the shack opens and Alton Dragswolf peers out.

All right, says George. Turn off the car. We’re here.

No, George. Please. Nevertheless, Margaret does as he commands and turns off the ignition. No, she says again. No. We don’t belong here. It is her husband she is pleading with, but she addresses these words to his hat on the seat between them.

Alton Dragswolf has exited the shack completely and he is cautiously walking toward the car. He paws at the air as if this light rain could be pushed aside like a curtain.

George picks up his hat and jams it onto his head, pulling the brim low over his eyes.

George is first out of the car and he raises his injured hand in greeting. Mr. Dragswolf, George calls out.

Alton Dragswolf bends down and squints, as if all the problems of recognition are on his side.

George says again, louder, Mr. Dragswolf!

Margaret gets out of the car, and when she does, Alton Dragswolf’s look of bewilderment vanishes and his customary smile returns. Come for a visit, did you? he says cheerily. Damned if I can remember your name.

The Blackledges, George says, striding forward. George and Margaret.

Alton Dragswolf nods enthusiastically as if to express his pleasure at George’s correct answer. That’s right, that’s right!

This is your place?

Free and clear. You found it, all right.

And is your invitation still good?

Although no vehicle is visible on the grounds, Alton Dragswolf’s grease-streaked coveralls give him the look of someone who’s been working under the hood of his car. He pulls a stained bandanna out of his pocket and wipes his hands. If he remembers his invitation, the recollection doesn’t show in his eyes.

You said we were welcome to put up here, George reminds him. I’d like to take you up on that, if you’re willing. We have some miles ahead of us, but once we got on the road, damned if I didn’t find that I’m not up to the journey. Not just yet, anyway.

Margaret has taken her place at her husband’s side. She pinches the fabric of his shirtsleeve as if she needs to stay close but without letting him know that she’s hanging on tight.

We can pay, George continues. Cash or goods. Or both.

She looks up at him as if this speech of his could not have been stranger had he opened his mouth and let loose with a coyote’s howl.

Don’t you know nothing about Indians? Alton Dragswolf says. We’re famous for our hospitality. And for giving away what white people charge big money for.

Crow? George asks. Or Blackfoot?

Nope. Black
feet
. I got two. Alton kicks up first one foot and then the other. Thanks for asking, though.