Let Him Go: A Novel by Larry Watson
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.
36.
ANOTHER 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. Drags
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. Blackfeet. I got two. Alton kicks up first one foot and then the other. Thanks for asking, though.
He hurries around behind the Blackledges, his scurrying steps raising dust even upon the rain-dampened earth. He makes shooing gestures toward them. Let’s go, let’s go. Inside. I don’t want my guests standing out here getting older and colder!
For all the force and volume of George’s speech of a moment ago, he now walks with halting, short strides toward the shack. Margaret is careful to remain close at his side, the exact distance a parent keeps when a child takes his first steps. Alton Dragswolf rushes ahead and opens the door for them.
And then George and Margaret Blackledge, who have spent so few of their nights under a roof not their own, once again enter a stranger’s house.
The home of Alton Dragswolf is one wide room divided into three areas according to their function. They have entered at the middle, into a kitchen. A bedroom is at one end, a work and storage room at the other, and although the interior is full of boxes, cans, and jars of foodstuffs, all of it is neatly stacked and carefully arranged on shelves and cupboards. Next to the cookstove is a woodbox filled with small logs, even in length and circumference. Above a worktable at the far end of the room, tools hang from hooks on a pegboard. At the near end is a made bed. There are no dirty dishes, silverware, or cookware in the galvanized steel sink, just a dripping pump looming over the sink’s depths. A dishrag hangs over the pump’s handle. The floors are bare and look recently swept. The shack’s interior smells of the food old people eat, the cabbage, carrots, rutabagas, and other roots that they boil into soups that can be eaten for days.
Can I get you something to eat? Alton asks.
It’s kind of you to offer, says Margaret, but we had a big lunch not long ago.
Should I put on the coffee?
Margaret glances at her husband.
Not for me, says George. He looks as though he needs to sit down, and not many choices are available—three mismatched wooden chairs pushed up against the kitchen table and, over by the bed, a high-backed rocking chair.
In spite of George’s worn-out, weary appearance, Alton Dragswolf reaches up to a shelf and brings down a deck of cards. Either of you play gin rummy?
If it’s all right with you, Mr. Dragswolf, I think my husband would like to lie down.
Oh, sure, sure. It’s not entertainment you need. It’s rest. Sure. He says this as though he’s recalling a book lesson. Sorry. Where are my manners?
Margaret says, Your manners, Mr. Dragswolf, are perfect. We’re the ones who should be apologizing. Barging in on you unannounced like this.
With his hopping little steps, the young man leads his guests toward one end of the shack. The day is overcast and Alton Dragswolf has lit none of his lamps, so the bedroom area is almost as dark as night, its single, small window covered by a towel hanging over a curtain rod.
Alton Dragswolf turns back a corner of the dark wool blanket covering the bed. When he does, he exposes sheets so white they gleam in the dim light. He tries to fluff the pillow, but it’s so flattened by years of heavy-headed sleepers that the action is futile. Alton pats the sagging mattress. Here you go.
George sits on the edge of the bed. My boots, he says.
Margaret turns her back to her husband, bends over, and pulls his booted foot up between her legs. She pulls one boot off with her own strength and then as she reaches for the other foot she slaps her own ass and says, Go ahead. Push.
Reluctantly George puts his stocking foot on his wife’s backside and Margaret removes the other boot. She laughs as though they had been performing this routine for the delight of an audience. George collapses on the mattress, its springs squealing as if receiving weight for the first time. His eyes close immediately, and he carefully lays his injured hand across his chest.
Margaret and Alton Dragswolf stand over the bed, both of them looking solemnly down on George Blackledge.
Can you die from getting your fingers chopped off? asks Alton.
Jesus Christ, says George. I’m not deaf. His eyes remain closed.
Well? Can you?
No, Margaret says, gently laying a hand on Alton’s shoulder. You can’t.
George’s eyes open and he says, But it plays hell with getting your boots off and on.
I was just wondering, says Alton. Because I heard all about what the Weboys done to you. Except I didn’t know it was you.
George props himself up on his elbows. What did you hear? His eyes are open now.
That you got your fingers chopped off. What else?
Who told you?
I got an uncle lives in Gladstone but he drives out here every couple days to see if I need anything. He was in Antler’s—that’s pretty much a cowboy bar, but it don’t bother him to go in there—and he heard you pulled a gun on the Weboy brothers and then got your fingers chopped off for your trouble.
Who’d your uncle hear this from?
Hell, everybody was talking about it. I told you about the Weboys before, didn’t I? How they’re sort of famous around here. Famous for being sonsabitches. What my uncle didn’t say but I was wondering about—was it like a quick draw or something? You went for your gun and he beat you to the draw with a tomahawk?
George lowers himself back down to the pillow. Not exactly.
My husband, says Margaret, her voice vibrating with indignation, was defending me.
Yeah? Against all them Weboys? I don’t know how smart that was. But you’d sure as hell need a gun for that job. A gun and then some.
Margaret puts her finger to her lips. Maybe he’ll nap if we get out of here, she says, backing away from the bed.
Go fishing, you mean? says Alton. Because that’s what I was going to do once the rain let up.
By all means. Don’t let us upset your plans.
Plans? Alton Dragswolf laughs. I don’t have plans. I just go fishing when I want to go fishing.
At this Margaret smiles. Then you should go fishing.
You want to come? I got another rod somewheres.
You go ahead. I’ll stay here and keep my husband company.
Well, don’t do nothing for supper. In case I catch something.
I’ll make a deal with you, Mr. Dragswolf. Any fish you catch I’ll clean and fry up for us
He grabs his tackle box from beside the door and hurries out like a boy dismissed from school.
37.
IN ALTON DRAGSWOLF’S ABSENCE, MARGARET WANDERS back and forth from one end of the shack to the other, returning every few minutes to the bedside to check on her husband, who seems, after much stretching, folding, and rearranging of his body and its limbs, to have fallen asleep. His customary sleeping position, with his right hand curled at his head like a dog or cat’s paw, isn’t available to him. Every time he brings his bandaged hand near his face, he winces as though he can’t bear the smell of himself.
On Alton Dragswolf’s workbench Margaret finds tufts of fur and feathers, shining strips of metal, and hooks of various sizes. The young man makes his own fishing lures. And he marks time. Framed between claw and ball peen hammers on the pegboard is a Northern Pacific calendar, the days crossed out with precise Xs and the ever-passing present thus consigned to the past. I’ll be damned, Margaret says softly. It’s October. The photograph for the month features a flock of geese arrowing their way across a morning sky, clear but for a few feathery, orange-tinted clouds. Or is that an evening sky?
Near the workbench is the shack’s only evidence of Alton Dragswolf’s Indian heritage. Hanging from a nail is a beautiful buckskin outfit, shirt and leggings, beaded, beribboned, fringed, and its leather tanned and treated so it’s as soft as flannel. The garments could as easily be hanging in a museum. There’s no evidence that Alton Dragswolf has any use for them but this display.
In the kitchen Margaret inspects a large cast-iron skillet sitting on the cookstove. If she prepares supper tonight, she’ll use this pan and build a fire under it, exactly how she learned to cook in her mother’s kitchen. She wipes a finger across the surface of the skillet. Alton Dragswolf keeps his cookware as clean as everything else in his home.
The next time her circuit takes her to the far end of the shack, she finds George lying on his back with his eyes open.
How are you doing? she asks. Did that nap help?
Is the boy here?
I expect he’ll stay away as long as he can. That way he won’t have to worry about entertaining us.