by David Vann
But he doesn’t walk down, not yet. Stands on the upper deck at the railing looking out to a couple miles of open water and the hills on the far side. The lake so big, distance fading from the rain, hills disappeared as he watches, erased, and the water shortened, no droplets visible on the surface but only a general darkening, all pewter gone, every gray surface turning black as if water could be charred, invisible flame and from what source? From above or below? So much of what we see must be formed by heat but never seen. A burning world unnoticed.
Jim climbs the railing and stands crouched on top, his head bent against the roof above. How far down the water seemed when he was a kid, a forever fall. He jumps now as he did then, flinging himself out and away from all safety, but the fall is so brief, only the first hint of suspension, and then he plunges, carried low by the weight of his boots and jeans. Colder than he remembered, thinking of summers and forgetting this is winter still. Shock of it everywhere, his breath gone, and getting colder still, kicking and pulling hard with his arms to fight upward. Cold water thinner. He’s falling through it so easily, away from air and light. Interesting to feel himself struggle to live, as if his life is a precious thing, to take that next breath. His body forgotten that this is no longer urgent.
Jim surfaces and breathes, automatic, without debate, but then he relaxes and lets himself fall again and exhales slowly, steadily, letting all air go and his body sink, trying to stay relaxed despite the cold. Feeling of pressure in his ears, and of course he can’t equalize with his bad sinuses, and the pain is so pointed he kicks upward again and forgets and surfaces again. What he might be or want hidden so deeply in all that simply carries on.
He swims toward the float without deciding, just does it, watching, and then climbs the aluminum bars of a new swim ladder, not at all the same as the ladders of years past in steel and wood meant to decay.
Jim stands in his thick clothing so heavy and suddenly remembers the pistol, terrified he’s lost it, but when he reaches back quick it’s still there, somehow, intent on its purpose, refusing to be dismissed, lodged in him for better or worse and impervious to elements. He could fire it underwater, even. It would still work, the powder encased in that shell, the sealed firing pin. Jim the Navy Seal, come to free the tules from the carp.
He drips for a while, stands there a wet ghost unnoticed until the shivering sets in more and gets his teeth chattering, which strikes him as funny. He shifts his jaw from side to side to get different chatters, adds a low moan to become a stuttering ghost, raises his arms to scare the children. Dances a bit on the float, which pitches and bobs under his weight, the way all ground should, responsive. The entire world should lurch in response to us.
The poles at the corners are limiting his effect, though, rollers able to shift only a few inches to any side. He wants a float unpinned, free, wants to stand on a corner and raise a mountain with his weight. So he pitches off the edge into the tules and stink water, all the rot, surprised to sink over his head again, struggling and pulling at the long reeds which are rough on his hands, little knives if grabbed too fast. A surface of yellow scum and froth and fish bloat. His boots find slippery mud and soft earth that he sinks through to his shins but he rises nonetheless, unstoppable, until there’s sand under his boots and he towers again as tall as the tules and then taller still, walking up onto the chunks of cement slippery with green algae that looks like hair, walking again on scalp and remaining untouched, not brought down. So nimble, so careful not to come to any harm.
He rises to the fence and stands holding links in his fingers as a car passes and the passenger stares at him. Some lake beast recognized finally but too late, the town without enough warning to set up searchlights and barricades and land mines. “I’m here,” Jim says. “I’m already here.”
He climbs the fence and is really starting to resent it, the way he gets stabbed at the top and can’t get any purchase with his boots. But soon enough he’s on the other side, facing all the waterfront association homes tucked away behind their hedges. A long rectangle for each, shape of a life, corners marked. What if none of this had happened? What if all of life had been imagined differently? He might have had a chance. This version does not work for him.
17
Time. The entire ball of wax. He sits playing pinochle, freshly showered and warmed and wearing more of Gary’s clothing, baggy flannel shirt. Partnered with his mother, who is debating a bid of twenty-nine.
“Jesus, Mom,” he says. “Just do it. Your whole life going too low on the bids, missing so many lead hands, and all for what? What was going to happen?”
No one is responding to him. A secret pact they’ve all made while he was away.
She looks so worried, afraid of the twelve cards fanned out in her hand, but the cards must be good. She never bids at all unless it’s the kind of hand that would cause no hesitation in anyone else. Sighing, actually sighing and shaking her head, as if terrible things are coming, impossible to avoid.
“I bid once,” he says. “That means I have either a lead hand or a helping hand. Either way you’re safe to bid again. You must have cards or you wouldn’t have bid at all. You never bid a helping hand, so usually I’m having to take the lead with no information. Whereas here all knowledge has been laid at your feet. And it’s only twenty-nine. No need for thought at all until you hit thirty-five.”
Still staring at her cards, mouth tight and worried, head shaking back and forth in recognition of certain doom.
“Seriously, what’s the worst that can happen?” he asks.
“Well I guess I’ll say twenty-nine,” she says in the most defeated voice, as if the wagon train has just been burned and she’s contemplating the far mountains, calculating the hundreds of miles of unknown territory still to cross.
“Thirty,” Gary says.
“Sure you don’t want to evaluate the risk first?” Jim asks. Gary with a sour face.
“And I shall pass, Mom, but in full support of your lead hand, as expressed already through my initial bid. All anxiety and uncertainty burned away in an instant.”
His dad folds his cards and drops them on the table, a silent pass developed years ago to match his personal flair. He rubs at one of his ears, other arm folded over whatever chest exists above that great mound of gut.
Back to his mother now, who looks even more worried.
“All pretty simple,” Jim says. “It’s the two of you bidding for the lead, and you can’t let him have it for thirty, so of course you’re going to say thirty-one now. Thirty-three will also be automatic. Thought doesn’t have to begin until thirty-five.”
“Thirty-one,” she says, but not as a bid, only as a contemplation, the enormity of it, whether it can be reached.
“I wonder if this is what got me,” Jim says. “This worry. Maybe this is the base on which all the rest has been built.”
“Just play the game,” Gary says. “No need for the comments. We’ve been playing since we were kids. Mom’s been playing even longer.”
“But she’s frozen with fear. Look at this. Frozen at the prospect of making a low bid with a good hand and a partner who has help. Doesn’t any of that strike you as strange?”
“Just let her decide. It’s her hand.”
“But it’s not. This is a partner game. What she does or doesn’t do is my score also.”
“Well be a good partner then and shut up.”
His mother still searching the cards as if they hold secret signs, indications of a larger and certainly malevolent universe, trying to avoid wrath and fury but unable to read.
He puts down his cards and lays his arms out on the card table toward her. “The world will not end,” he says. “Or at least not for this reason. Please just say thirty-one.”
“Oh,” she says. “Thirty-one.”
“Thirty-two,” Gary says.
“Now thirty-three, Mom. Just say thirty-three.”
Her mouth open slightly in the terror of it all. “Thirty-three,” s
he ponders again, in the voice they all know is not a bid but only for her own consideration, testing its weight. One hand up to her chest, comforting herself. The unhappiness on her face, unguarded. This is when she can be seen, the most unselfconscious moment he might witness.
“I guess I’ll have to pass,” she says.
“No,” he says.
“Diamonds,” Gary says, and his father picks up his hand, awaking from slumber to sort through what four cards to send.
“I was going in clubs,” his mother says to him, her eyes liquid. The beginning of the table talk. They always ask to find out what would have been. It drives more serious pinochle players crazy.
“No,” he says. “I’m not telling you what I have. No more of that. If you want to find out, you have to bid.”
“Jim,” she says.
“No. I’m tired of the second-guessed life and the regret if it turns out we had the double run or a double pinochle. It has poisoned everything. I’m always thinking about what if I had visited Rhoda that time and not worried what the ticket cost, or what if I had never returned Gloria’s interest, what if I still had my family, or what if I had let myself drink and relax in high school or decided not to follow Dad into dentistry. All the thousands of fucking pounds of regret I’m carrying around every day. So you don’t get to know whether I had any clubs.”
“I had eight clubs. I only needed a jack.”
“You had eight clubs!”
“Keep your voice down.”
“Jesus, Mom.” He takes the jack of clubs from his hand and throws it into the middle of the table. “There. Happy? All that didn’t happen. Let’s cover ourselves in all that might have been. I’ve been smearing it over my face like shit for years now.”
“Jim,” Gary says.
“Yeah yeah.”
“Pick up your card.”
“What’s the point? I’m calling Rhoda.” Jim rises and leaves his cards faceup on the table, destroying the hand. “All the thousands of hands we’ve played over the years, what a monumental waste of time. And how pathetic, that we can relate to each other only in this way. Only killing or cards. Occasional waterskiing or bowling. It’s all we know.”
His mother looking aggrieved, and he hates hurting her. “Jesus, Mom,” he says. “Always hurt, but that’s the way you made it. Apparently you like it.”
Her mouth open as if she might say something, but of course she doesn’t, and he feels so guilty he has to turn away, lurches for the phone, a lifeline. Rhoda had better be there right now.
He turns the dial for each of her numbers, the most important code in his life, and luckily she answers. “I’m losing it,” he says. “Mom just passed at thirty-two with eight clubs in her hand. And terrified. As if the cards might come alive and kill us all.”
“It’s okay, Jim,” she says. “Your family will always have their problems, but you don’t have to fix them.”
“Hm,” he says. “I guess that does help. I don’t have to fix them.”
“Yeah, you don’t. You don’t have to do anything about them, nothing at all, no pressure. You don’t even have to visit them. You’re free to leave right now. Always free, not locked in. Remember that.”
“Okay. I want to see you.”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“We’ve been through this.”
“You see me right now. And I mean right fucking now. I need more than just a chat on the phone. And when you think about all our years together, you’d think you could give me that. Just half an hour or something in person. Is it really too much to ask?”
No response from Rhoda, which gives him hope. She’s thinking. He can hear his breathing, and he holds back from saying anything more. He knows that even one more word will spoil it. Gary drifts toward him and Jim holds out a palm telling him to back off. Gary had better not fuck this up now.
“Okay, Jim,” she says finally. “This once. I don’t think it’s a good idea, but I’ll meet you and we can talk. But only this once.”
“Thank you.”
“No,” Gary says. “Don’t go. This is not a good idea.”
Jim turns away toward the wall. “Where?” he asks.
“At the diner.”
“I don’t want to see Donna. We’ll never be able to talk with her there. She won’t even let me inside probably.”
“I guess you’re right.”
“The little motel where we used to meet. Private. No one to overhear. I want to be able to talk freely. I don’t want some idiots listening in.”
“That’s not a good idea, being alone together in a motel room.”
“I need to be able to talk. Please.”
A long pause and he thinks he’s asked too much, pushed too far.
“Okay,” she says.
18
Doom. Hard to know whether it exists, but then sometimes you can feel it happening. When too much weight has congregated.
The motel is not in the center of town but out along the lakefront, discreet. He looks at the water as he drives, going slowly, not wanting to attract attention. Coots all along the edge, thin black necks pumping as they swim, always fleeing, the equivalent of rats. Everyone shoots them out of boredom and still their numbers are relentless. White bill making an easy target.
He wonders what she’ll be wearing. Hoping for lingerie beneath. Most likely jeans and a sweater. Most likely not made up. And has she just come from Rich?
She’ll treat him like a child, even though he’s older, smarter, has worked harder, knows more. But he has to go along with that, because she holds the keys to the kingdom.
“What am I doing,” he says aloud. “What are you doing, Jim? What is today?”
What else is there left to do? He hasn’t seen his friends. John Lampson, only a short drive from here, in Kelseyville, and Tom Kalfsbeck in Williams. Maybe one of them is the key. Maybe he’ll meet John for a game of chess and find something new, a sudden rush of feeling as they both bend over the board and he’ll realize he was gay all along and that was the cause of despair, and after they get together Jim will feel mental illness dissipate, find out it never existed. That’s the story he wants, something uplifting that reaffirms he was always good, something to make him innocent.
But friends don’t make us. They don’t have the power of family. And sex is despair and for Jim it is with women and particularly this woman, and things will never work out with her.
Facts. Important to stick with the facts. The lake doesn’t care, or the patches of tules or ducks or coots, or the gray sky above, or any of the people here. Facts are always lonely.
He pulls into the gravel lot. Only eight or ten rooms, ranch style from when he was a kid, painted light blue now but so many colors over the years. Small windows looking over the road to the lakefront houses and water beyond. One possible place, as good as any.
He walks to reception, doesn’t recognize the woman behind the counter. He’s been away so long. He used to know everyone in this town.
He pays in cash, just to slow the police down a bit. They won’t know at first who they’re looking for.
He walks the wooden deck along the rooms, old wood, a sidewalk from the Wild West, enjoying the heavy clomp of his boots, wishing he had spurs. At the end of every western some showdown, and what he loves most is the quiet then. The only real peace. Struggle all the way along, but right before the final gunfight all is calm and there’s room to breathe and everyone can be their best selves. They can love their families and be good to their friends, can be ready to die nobly, and can say pithy things. There’s a bit of humor finally. But he’s missing the rest of the cast. No one to have those touching final conversations with, no chance to make some thematic observation, something about how if it would ever just rain we could be clean, or this prairie was never meant for things to grow.
What he likes is the simplicity. Six-shooters and nothing to stop them, only leather and wood, nowhere safe, and the law no more than a badge, not SWAT
teams in riot gear. Fate decided by individuals without waiting for a government larger than god. Now there’s no getting away, no riding a horse hard into the desert. Now there’s only a short time and chips all in. Once it starts it ends quickly.
The room is small and dimly lit, no overhead but only the two bedside lamps. Narrow double bed, the mattress thin. He wonders if they’ve been in this room before. Too long ago and back then he didn’t care which room. No dresser or desk. One small chair by the window, made for waiting, and so he sits there, curtains open, overcast light. Feels so sad, so relentlessly sad and lost, but he tries to experience it, last moments and the quiet and the easy sense, a new sense, that it won’t have to be endured forever. A calming.
This makes him worse, that it feels easier in the end. Unfair. After all he’s suffered, all the nights of insomnia and terrible pain and despair when he fought so hard to keep from pulling the trigger. And then to pull the trigger when he doesn’t feel that bad, but apparently that’s often when it happens. On a small upswing, when the suicide feels a bit better and has the energy finally to do it. He knows too much now about the patterns and statistics of suicide, watching himself and making commentary along the way. Another insult.
His mother’s Christianity never gone. Still this desire to be good even as he knows what he’s going to do. The main failure of his life, his inability to grab hold of that weed and yank it out. Wrapped around everything inside and in him so long it has become indistinguishable from flesh and feeling and thought, all that might be called him. Nothing can be separated out as his own.
The stranger who comes to town might as well be Jesus himself in every western. Never recognized by the townsfolk, always looked at with suspicion, but he’s here to deliver justice, defeat evil, and offer redemption. In his actions a model of goodness, because he has what no human can ever have, a solid core. The stranger in a western never changes, never can be broken, knows right and wrong absolutely and from the beginning and was born into the world this way and will leave untouched. This could never be Jim. He can carry the six-shooter and wear the spurs but inside he has no idea what to do and anything can change him at any moment and he can only read signs of himself later and wonder who he was, never know who he is.