The Summer He Didn't Die by Jim Harrison
Praise for Jim Harrison:
“No one has advanced and expanded the American literary ethos in the latter part of the twentieth century more cogently, usefully, and just plain brilliantly than Jim Harrison. . . . This is a matter to which all literate Americans should pay serious attention.”
—Hayden Carruth
“If [Jim Harrison’s] style can be as clean and clear as [Willa] Cather’s, he writes with [William] Faulkner’s voluble, untidy spilling forth. . . . The past twenty-five years have been a timid time in American writing, pinched and cramped by ideology and theory, a time of rules and warnings. Harrison abides by none of these.”
—William Corbett, The Phoenix (Boston)
“A big, wet, sloppy kiss Harrison continues to plant on the face of life itself. In The Beast God Forgot to Invent, the biggest praise he has for anyone is to remark, ‘He’s literally taking bites out of the sun, moon, and earth.’ Which is a [good] description of Harrison’s sensibility.”
—Dwight Garner, The New York Times Book Review
Praise for The Summer He Didn’t Die:
“Widely divergent, character-rich . . . A sometimes paradoxically earthy and ever-questing writer like Harrison is not so much a creator as he is a discoverer, an ever-evolving explorer of bigger truths and visions explicated with genuine sincerity and compassion. . . . Jim Harrison isn’t just telling stories when it comes to telling stories.”
—Gordon Hauptfleisch, The San Diego Union-Tribune
“This new collection of novellas finds [Harrison] in an antic, sometimes nostalgic mood, as he explores three quite different worlds—those of a semiliterate part-Indian logger, three prosperous Michigan matrons, and a writer very much like himself—and finds their lives linked by the confusions of youth, the frustrations of marriage, the riptides of lust, and the ubiquity of death.”
—Patrick Anderson, The Washington Post
“Jim Harrison cannot write too often. . . . For those new to his vivid, deft, and poetic storytelling, Harrison is possessed by a lifelong hunger. . . . A complex compound of earthiness and erudition . . . [An] excellent trio of stories.”
—Karin Winegar, Star Tribune (Minneapolis)
“Even if Brown Dog devotees are initially puzzled by the story’s sadness and uncertainty, they’re likely to be won over by its grace. . . . Anyone interested in Harrison or the writing life will be wowed by his latest left turn, which has the feel of a longtime maverick at last achieving peace with his path.”
—Steve Byrne, Detroit Free Press
“Touching . . . Showcases the ability to get inside women’s heads that’s always distinguished Harrison from his muy macho peers.”
—Kirkus Reviews
“[Brown Dog is] a hero for those of us tortured by the nits of modern civilization. . . . Martha, Frances, and Shirley, funny and full of wry self-regard, are so unlike Brown Dog that they could be interlopers from a Larry McMurtry novel.”
—Fred Grimm, The Miami Herald
“Harrison’s command of the novella form is as impressive as the range of his voices, with his prose moving from the interiorized Faulknerian third-person of the title story to the run-on, staccato first-person of the first, and best, of the Republican Wives, Following on the novel True North, this set of short fictions shifts pitch-perfect perspectives effortlessly, with a lightness that belies its depth.”
—Publishers Weekly
The Summer
He Didn’t Die
Also by Jim Harrison
Fiction
Wolf
A Good Day to Die
Farmer
Legends of the Fall
Warlock
Sundog
Dalva
The Woman Lit by Fireflies
fulip
The Road Home
The Beast God Forgot to Invent
True North
Children’s Literature
The Boy Who Ran to the Woods
Poetry
Plain Song
Locations
Outlyer
Letters to Yesenin
Returning to Earth
Selected & New Poems
The Theory and Practice of Rivers & Other Poems
After Ikky & Other Poems
The Shape of the Journey: Collected Poems
Braided Creek (with Ted Kooser)
Essays
Just Before Dark
The Raw and the Cooked
Memoir
Off to the Side
THE SUMMER
HE DIDN’T DIE
Jim Harrison
Copyright © 2005 by Jim Harrison
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, or the facilitation thereof, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer, who may quote brief passages in a review. Any members of educational institutions wishing to photocopy part or all of the work for classroom use, or publishers who would like to obtain permission to include the work in an anthology, should send their inquiries to Grove/Atlantic, Inc., 841 Broadway, New York, NY 10003.
Published simultaneously in Canada
Printed in the United States of America
FIRST GROVE PRESS EDITION
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Harrison, Jim, 1937-
The summer he didn’t die / Jim Harrison,
p. cm.
ISBN-10: 0-8021-4255-9
ISBN-13: 978-0-8021-4255-9
1. Michigan—Social life and customs—Fiction. I. Title.
PS3558.A67S77 2005
813’.54—dc22 2004060224
Grove Press
an imprint of Grove/Atlantic, Inc.
841 Broadway
New York, NY 10003
Distributed by Publishers Group West
www.groveatlantic.com
06 07 08 09 10 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
Contents
The Summer He Didn’t Die
Republican Wives
Tracking
Author’s Note on Tracking
The Summer
He Didn’t Die
Part I
WHAT IS LIFE THAT I MUST GET TEETH PULLED? BROWN Dog thought, sitting on a white pine stump beside the muddy creek with a swollen jaw for company. It was late April and trout season would open in two days. Brown Dog was a violator and had already caught two fine messes of brook trout, not in contempt for regulators but because he was hungry for brook trout and so were his Uncle Delmore and his stepchildren, Red and Berry. Despite this Brown Dog put the highest value on the opening of trout season which meant the end of winter, though at his feet near the stump there was still a large patch of snow decorated haphazardly by a sprinkling of deer turds.
Here I sit in the Upper Peninsula of Michigan, one hundred eighty pounds of living meat with three separate teeth aching and sending their messages of pulse, throb, and twinge to each other, their secret language of pain, he thought. Brown Dog was not what you call a deep thinker but within the structure of aching teeth mortal thoughts tended to arise in the seconds-long spaces between the dullish and the electric, the surge and slight withdrawal. Sitting there on the stump he blurred his eyes so that in his vision the creek became an immense and writhing brown snake emerging from the deep green of a cedar swamp. Until the autumn before the creek had run clear even after big rains but the bumwads from the County Road Department had done a sloppy job on an upstream road culvert and now the water was the color of an average mud puddle.
Brown Dog knew that teeth were simply teeth and they shouldn’t be allowed to repaint the world with their troublesome colors. When
Stuhl, however, was far from the biggest asshole Brown Dog had to deal with in life. Stuhl merely drew Brown Dog’s file, really a rap sheet, from a cabinet and chuckled and choked his way through a recitation of Brown Dog’s low crimes and misdemeanors: the illegal diving on, stealing, and selling of old sunken ship artifacts in Lake Superior, the stealing of an ice truck to transport the body of a Native in full regalia found on the bottom of Lake Superior, the repeated assaults on the property and encampment of University of Michigan anthropologists who were intent on excavating an ancient Native graveyard, possibly the northernmost Hopwell site, the secret location of which had errantly been divulged to a very pretty graduate student named Shelley while Brown Dog had been in the usual illadvised pussy trance. There were also small items like a restraining order keeping him out of Alger County, the site of the graveyard and his former home in Grand Marais, a lovely coastal village. Another charge of flight to avoid prosecution for a trip to Los Angeles had been dropped through the efforts of Brown Dog’s Uncle Delmore, a pure-blood Chippewa (Anishinabe). Delmore had managed to keep Brown Dog out of jail by arranging the marriage to Rose, a cohort in the attack on the anthropological site. Unfortunately Rose in a struggle had bitten off part of the finger of a state cop and had another year and a half to serve which seemed to be a long time, two years in all, but then her court-appointed lawyer, a dweeb fresh out of Lansing, far to the south, had claimed the photos showed that Rose had also blackened the cop’s eyes and ripped his ear after he had touched her breasts. Rose had also intemperately yelled during the trial that the judge was welcome to kiss her fat ass which brought titters from the audience and angered the judge, especially when Rose had turned, bent over, and showed the judge the ample target. Brown Dog had regretted missing this proud moment but he had been on the lam in L. A. with Rose’s older brother, Lone Marten. Rose’s other brother, David Four Feet, had died in Jackson Prison and had been Brown Dog’s best boyhood friend. Rose had behaved poorly in detention, so that when Delmore, Brown Dog, and Rose’s children, Red and Berry, had driven to the prison near Sault Ste. Marie the children hadn’t been permitted to witness their mother’s marriage. Rose hadn’t even kissed B.D. through the heavy metal screen. She only whispered, “My heart and body still belong to Fred,” another cohort in the attack on the anthropologists. On the long drive home Brown Dog reflected that the only marriage of his fortynine years hadn’t been very imposing but was better than being in prison himself. The deal Delmore had made with the prosecutor, thus allowing Brown Dog to return from the not so golden West, was simple enough: marry Rose and assume full responsibility for raising her children, Red and Berry, whose separate fathers were indeterminate, and save the county a bunch of money. Red was twelve years old and no particular problem while Berry at seven was a victim of fetal alcohol syndrome, a modest case but debilitating enough to prevent any chance at what our society clumsily defines as a “normal life,” a concept as foggy as the destiny of the republic itself. As a purebred and an enrolled member of the tribe Rose had a few benefits, and along with some help from Social Services and what he made cutting pulpwood for Delmore, Brown Dog got them by, with the only sure check being the fifty dollars a week Gretchen and Social Services had helped extricate from Delmore after a tree kicked back and crushed Brown Dog’s knee.
In truth domesticity is an acquired talent and up until his prison wedding Brown Dog had not spent more than moments a day devoted to it. So much of his life had been lived in deer cabins where he traded his handyman services for rent. He was fairly good at laying out new but cheap linoleum, reroofing, shoring up sagging bunk beds, fixing disintegrating woodstoves, and cutting firewood that he was never without a place to stay. This scarcely qualified him to raise two children but then Rose’s mother, Doris, though quite ill had helped him right up until Christmas morning when she had died, an event that was the reverse of Dickensian expectations. Delmore’s cabin back in the woods was hard to heat by the beginning of November, and too far to the road for Red to catch the school bus, so Delmore had bought a repossessed house trailer which was placed a hundred yards from the main house. Brown Dog had pickaxed frozen ground to dig a pit for an outhouse. There was electricity, and a propane cooking stove and a heater, but water had to be hauled from Delmore’s in a big milk can on Berry’s sled. The sled broke and he had to buy a new one plus a toboggan for the water, all of which had cost him two full days of wages.
In her last waning days Doris had been moved from the trailer into Delmore’s house where he had patiently nursed her. They had been friends since they were children, over seventy years in fact, keeping in touch during the long years Delmore had worked in an auto factory four hundred miles south in Detroit, and had become wealthy by default having bought a small farm during World War II on land part of which became the wealthy suburb of Bloomfield Hills.
Back at the creek Brown Dog sipped some whiskey from a half-pint, then stuffed three fresh wet camphor patches against his teeth, a patent-medicine nostrum for toothaches, the relief offered of short duration. He was tempted to take the ten bucks in his pocket straight to the tavern and drink it up but he needed it for dinner groceries for the kids and himself. Gretchen at Social Services had given him Dad’s Own Cookbook by Robert Sloan as a present and he was slow to admit that he had come to enjoy this duty more than going to the tavern after a day cutting pulpwood. There weren’t any tourist women to look at in late fall, winter, and early spring, just the same old rummies, both male and female, talking about the same old things from bad weather to frozen pipes to late checks to thankless children to faithless wives and husbands. Since the arrival of the cookbook Delmore had taken to strolling down to the trailer around dinnertime sniffing the air like an old bear ready to gum chickens. He would carry a Tupperware container for a handout because he had a short fuse for Berry’s errant behavior, especially when Red was late coming home from school, Brown Dog was cooking, and Delmore felt defenseless in the onslaught of Berry’s affection. Brown Dog thought of Berry’s mind as being faultily wired so that if she peed out of a tree, took a walk in the night, or sang incoherent songs it was simply part of her nature while Delmore always wanted the lid of reality screwed on real tight. He loved Berry but craved a safe distance from her behavior. Delmore had overexposed himself to the Planet of the Apes movies on television and liked to say, “We’re all monkeys only with less hair” and Berry was a further throwback to ancient times. Brown Dog had noted a specific decline in Delmore beginning at the time of the death of Doris nearly four months before. On her sickbed he had sung to Doris, “I’d love to get you on a slow boat to China” nearly every day which Brown Dog had thought an odd song to sing to a dying woman though Doris had enjoyed it and joined in. The evening before when Delmore had showed up for a serving of spaghetti and meatballs he had intoned, “As a reward Prince Igor received as a gift his choice of dancing girls. More sauce, please.” Delmore listened to Canadian radio with his elaborate equipment and Brown Dog guessed that certain things Delmore said came straight from a program of high culture. Delmore liked the idea that Canadian radio gav
On his way back to the car Brown Dog detoured up a long hill, a place he favored when his heart and mind required a broader view of life than that offered by the pettier problems that were mud puddles not the freeflowing creeks and rivers he cared so deeply for. You could sit on a rocky outcropping and see the conjunction of the West Branch and Middle Branch of the Escanaba River miles away and in a thicket on the south slope there was a Cooper’s hawks’ nest and a few hundred yards away a bear den, both of which were used every year he could remember. It was a hill that lifted and dispersed sadness and when he had nearly reached the top it occurred to him that while his teeth still ached the pain had become more distant as if he were a train and the discomfort had receded to the caboose. When he reached the top he did a little twirl on the ball of one foot which he always did to give himself the illusion of seeing 360 degrees at once. There had been a brief spate of late April warm weather but enough to cause the first faint burgeoning of pastel green in the tree buds. He sucked in air to balance the arduous climb and felt he was sucking in spring herself, the fresh earth smells that were the remotest idea during winter. Rare tears formed when he saw the back of the Cooper’s hawk passing below him. If you hung out long enough in the area the local hawks and ravens grew used to your presence and resumed their normal activity though it was fun to irritate red-tailed hawks by imitating their raspy whistle. He dug under the roots of a stump and drew out a metal box that contained marbles, arrowheads, and a semi-nude photo of Lana Turner he had owned since age twelve. He didn’t take a look but dug deeper for a leather pouch that contained a half-full pint of peppermint schnapps from which he took a healthy gulp then lay back for a session of cloud study. Delmore had told him that way out west in northern Arizona there was a tribe that lived in cliffs and thought the souls of their dead ancestors had taken up residence in clouds. It was pleasant to think that his mother who he couldn’t remember lived in that stratocumulus approaching from the west, and maybe the father he had never laid eyes on had joined her in the cloud. His grandfather who raised him had loved lightning and storm clouds and would sit on the old porch swing and watch summer storms passing over the northern section of Lake Michigan. Brown Dog didn’t give a thought to his own afterlife, the knowledge of which would arrive in its own time. At the moment as the Cooper’s hawk passed overhead for a quick study of the prone figure Brown Dog thought heaven would be to live as a Cooper’s hawk whose avian head was without the burden of teeth.