‘How about us staying here today and enjoying the fire?’ he said with his back turned.
‘I don’t want to miss the moon,’ she said.
‘There will be other moons.’
He was ashamed as the words came out, knowing they weren’t true.
‘I’m hungry,’ she said.
‘What? I’m sorry, what did you say?’ ‘I said I’m hungry—starving, really.’
‘How about one of my omelets?’
‘And champagne,’ she said. ‘Yes, your French omelet and champagne to celebrate.’
‘Celebrate what?’
‘Everything,’ she said. ‘Let’s celebrate everything.’
Getting caught up in her enthusiasm, as he always had, he began to prepare the omelets and sliced the thick oatmeal bread while she opened a bottle of champagne.
The bread was put in a pan with butter until there was a light crust and then he covered the slices with a thin layer of strawberry jam. The omelet was placed to the side of the plate next to the halved bread. She took a bit of toast and then held it in front of his mouth. He took a bite and closed his eyes. She sipped the wine and then lifted the glass to his lips. The bubbles tickled his nose. They laughed and in that late afternoon nothing could touch them. They were in that faraway place that had always been theirs. Like Paris.
Late in the day she said she wanted to go and see the Hunter’s Moon. The afternoon had been perfect and the feeling had carried him until he packed the clothing and guns and put the shotgun shells in his pocket. As always, Mr Bear sat next to him as he collected the hunting gear. The old man knelt down and hugged him as the dog licked his ear and sniffed for scents of the afternoon meal. From the stairs she watched them and felt everything that had been good in her life.
The afternoon air was crisp and the sky clear as they made their way to the field. Mr Bear jumped out while they put on their coats. He took out his gun.
‘Leave mine in the car, will you, dear? I just want to walk.’
Mr Bear moved ahead, trying to get the scent of birds as they walked between the rows of wheat. Near the top of a rise she stopped, kissed him softly and then turned to look at the mountains.
He stood behind her as she watched the moon rise. Without turning she said, ‘I love you.’ He raised the gun and fired. Slowly she sank beneath the rolling sea of wheat. Mr Bear whined as he lay next to what had been her, and the man fired again.
For a long time he stood and watched a thin row of clouds move across the moon.
It was nearly morning when he joined them.
HOME FOR CHRISTMAS
They did not care to question him any further regarding his journey, for they perceived that he was in a mood to go rambling all over the heavens . . .
CERVANTES, Don Quixote
Bill Gambol poured a cup of coffee and stared out the window to where the tractor was stored. He remembered when his son drove the machine and how the field’s dust rose into the air, muting the morning light.
Jimmy Gambol had been a happy boy and, like his parents, he had a strong sense of right and wrong. In school he was the peacemaker, the boy who broke up fights and made people laugh. Bill couldn’t help but wonder if his son would be here if he hadn’t talked so much about what was right, or the little guy. Since Jimmy had left he had been doing a lot of second-guessing.
Given how he was raised, it was no surprise when one day Jimmy came in from the fields and said he was volunteering with the Red Cross in Bosnia. Over the last year, the fighting had intensified and Jimmy had become upset at the pictures in the paper. He talked about poor kids caught up in violence and questioned why he was lucky while others were born into misery.
He spoke with the town minister and asked how God could allow such things. The preacher told him that destruction was Man’s making and that Man would have to change it.
Jimmy Gambol was an idealist but his faith and sense of justice were tempered by the reality of ranch life. In his nineteen years he had known hard work and long hours. He had witnessed birth and death and learned early about the end of things.
When Jimmy was ten, Ollie, the family dog, had gotten caught in an old wire trap about half a mile from the house. The dog’s leg was nearly severed when Jimmy found him.
The November afternoon grew colder. Jimmy tried to open the trap, but it wouldn’t give so he took off his jacket, lay next to his friend, and covered them both.
Bill had been calling for Jimmy since 5 p.m. He looked at the sky. It was getting dark. The temperature was dropping. He telephoned the sheriff and all the neighbors he could reach.
The volunteer’s boots made crunching sounds on the frozen fields and the light from their lanterns reflected the breath that rose from their mouths. It was late when they found Jimmy with his dead friend.
In the hospital, Bill told his son that Ollie was gone. The boy blamed himself.
‘I tried, Papa. I really tried to get the trap open. Maybe I could have dragged him home.’
‘No son, he was too heavy. You did everything you could, but it was foolish what you did.’
Jimmy looked down and began to cry.
‘Yes, what you did was foolish, son, but it was one of the most unselfish things I’ve ever seen. Old Ollie died peaceful because his friend was with him. He just went to sleep.’
‘Really?’ the boy asked, wiping tears.
‘Really. When that trap got Ollie I’m sure he was about as scared as anything could be. But with you there, I know he felt safe.’
‘When I die, will God let Ollie and me be together?’ Jimmy asked.
Bill didn’t hear his wife come into the kitchen. He was still lost in thought when she walked over and topped off his cup.
‘Are you sure he’ll be here for Christmas?’ Verna asked.
‘Morning,’ he said, turning to kiss her. ‘Yes. They said he would be on the early flight. He’s getting into England tonight and then connects with another plane.’
‘I’m glad,’ she said. ‘He’s never missed a Christmas. It wouldn’t be the same.’
‘No. It wouldn’t.’
Bill picked up his coat, brushed her cheek and pulled her close.
‘I better get to work. There’s a lot to do before tomorrow.’
He walked to the door and looked back but she had already turned toward the decorated mantel filled with photographs.
Verna Gambol straightened some of the Christmas stockings and ran her fingers over the worn fabric that spelled out the children’s names. She stared at the family pictures and laughed when she saw a picture of Jimmy in his Daniel Boone hat sitting on a pony. He was making one of his rubber faces. Before turning she looked at the last photograph.
Jimmy had his brother Matt on his shoulders. Katey, the youngest, stood by his side while Mary, the second oldest, stared seriously into the camera. Bill had turned a second before the picture was taken and was looking to the side laughing while Verna smiled at them all. It was a good memory.
‘Morning, Mom,’ said Matt as he walked into the kitchen.
‘Morning. Some breakfast?’
‘No thanks. Just coffee. I want to go help Dad.’
‘Dress warm, it’s cold now and it’s going to get colder.’
‘I will, Mom. Don’t worry.’
Matt stood beside the old table and ran his hand across the worn surface, feeling its dents and scratches. The wine stains from Thanksgiving made him sad, somehow. He looked across the room and watched his mother filling the holiday stockings and knew nothing would ever be the same. He put down the cup and tried to remember when he had believed in things, but he couldn’t remember and that made him sadder than he ever thought he could feel.
Soon, he would leave the ranch but he couldn’t tell them. They had lost too much already.
‘See ya at lunch, Mom.’
Katey held up her pajamas and walked over to the Christmas tree, staring at the silver angel on top.
‘Is Santa bringing Jimmy?’
‘Well, Katey, Santa has a lot of deliveries tonight, so Jimmy will be coming on a plane in the morning.’
‘Can I sit on his shoulders?’
Verna picked up the tiny girl, tickled her stomach and began to spin around while Mary watched from the doorway. Wouldn’t it be better if they all stopped and just said the words, Mary thought, but then she thought again. No, maybe it was best for everyone to live inside an illusion where they could catch their breath and pretend.
Verna and Katey were dizzy from the spinning.
‘What are you crazies doing?’ asked Mary.
‘We’re being silly and it’s fun,’ yelled Katey.
‘Can I play?’
‘Sure,’ said Verna. ‘Come on.’
Together they turned, slow at first, then faster, until reality blurred. They savored the moment like wine, trying to get everything from it before the feeling disappeared.
Down in the field Bill and Matt were trying to break the frozen ground with a backhoe. It was slow going but, finally, the land gave way.
‘It’s a good thing we made that fire last night, Dad. I don’t think we could’ve got under without it,’ said Matt.
‘It was good thinking, Matt. I would have felt bad if we hadn’t finished. It would have upset your mother.’
As they stared into the hole, Bill said, ‘I don’t believe I’ve ever been so cold.’
‘It’s the wind, Dad. It makes it colder.’
‘Come on. It’s Christmas Eve and your mom has been cooking all day. Only a pair of damn fools would stay out here when there’s a warm fire waiting.’
Bill walked to the old Ford and Matt looked back. Like Jimmy, he was learning about the end of things, too.
The wind was blowing hard when they pulled up to the ranch house.
‘Matt, by the look of that sky it’s gonna get even colder tonight. We need to put the truck in the barn and plug in the heater.
‘You go, Dad. I’ll take care of it.’
Matt pulled the heavy cord into place and set the heater close to the truck’s radiator. He wondered what it mattered if they made it on time tomorrow but suddenly caught himself. Walking out he turned into the wind until he couldn’t feel his face or hands. Of course it mattered, he thought. It all matters.
The warm kitchen felt good as Matt hung up his coat. Bill and Verna were laughing at Katey who was performing her imitation of Santa Claus.
‘I hope you’re not making fun of Santa,’ said Mary. ‘He might think you don’t like him and then he might not come.’
A shocked look came over Katey’s face and she nearly started crying, so Matt jumped in.
‘Santa knows you’re joking.’
‘Just teasing, sweet pea. Of course Santa is coming. Why, no little girl has been as good as you and Santa knows that,’ said Mary.
‘Then he’ll bring Jimmy home. Because I’ve been good.’
Bill picked up his little girl and tussled her hair.
‘I love you, Daddy.’
‘I love you too, sweet pea. Now, everybody. Let’s eat.’
Everyone was talking as the food made its way around the table. They talked about the past and about futures.
Katey wanted to be a doctor, and Mary hoped to be a veterinarian. Verna looked on as Bill told the children how proud of them he was. They reminisced about Jimmy’s practical jokes and what a good brother he was. That night they remembered the best of him and each other and in the remembering there was grace. They believed life would go on and were assured by their faith that there were no endings. They believed all that and the believing, for a time, gave them peace.
After dinner, next to the dying fire, Bill drifted off as the world of the Gambols settled into a hushed silence. In a dream he saw Jimmy walking off the plane and waving.
‘It’s good to be home,’ he said. ‘I’ll never leave again.’
The sound of sizzling pans and tearing paper woke him.
‘Wake up, Papa. Wake up,’ said Katey.
‘I’m up, sweetie.’
‘It’s Christmas, Papa.’
The kitchen smelled of bacon and eggs and biscuits. Verna put on a Nat King Cole record and sang along out of key.
‘Chestnuts roasting on an open fire. Jack Frost nipping at your nose.’
‘When do we get Jimmy?’ asked Katey.
‘Around ten-thirty. We should start getting ready,’ said Bill.
The sky was clear and there was no wind as they made their way down the canyon. Bill looked at the Bridger Mountains in the distance and Verna watched as a neighbor’s mailbox came into view. It had always seemed to be there, though she remembered when it wasn’t. It was not that long ago when the young couple moved into the area. The couple had seen their children grow, and were Mary’s godparents, and Verna remembered how they had loved to watch the Hunter’s Moon rise over the mountains.
They knew words. They would have found the right words, she thought, but they were gone.
Bridger Canyon seemed deserted as they made their way to Gallatin Field. The plane had arrived early and was parked at the gate. They stood by the terminal windows looking at people walking down the ramp.
Beside the plane three men were positioning a large cart.
Bill watched and then, without thinking said,
‘There’s Jimmy. There’s my boy.’
They all looked at him and then outside. Except for Katey, they had all known, but the knowing didn’t help. They watched as the men unloaded the flag-draped coffin onto the cart. Verna began to cry and Mary just stood there. Matt turned and Bill couldn’t help any of them because he was far away now.
Bill Gambol thought of himself as a boy and of all the Gambols who had worked the land. He thought of the deep hole that he and Matt had dug where Jimmy would be lying tonight, and then he thought of the fields that Jimmy had worked and loved.
In time his son would be one with the dust. The wind would pick up what he had been and then settle him back down across the fields, announcing, for ever, that he was home.
PART ONE:
The Final Tally of Walter Lesser
Reason will not decide at last: the sword will decide.
ROBINSON JEFFERS,
‘Contemplation of the Sword’, 1938
THE DECISION
Walter Lesser sat on the bed and stared into the eyes of his reflection in the dresser mirror. He picked up the Smith & Wesson from the nightstand and opened the cylinder. Seeing it was loaded, he closed it and rested the gun on his thigh.
He checked the shine on his boots, brushed some lint from his jeans and for a second time began to rearrange the things on the dresser.
His mother and father’s wedding photograph in the tarnished frame was moved to the right. A silver belt buckle he had won at a rodeo in Wyoming sat next to his grandfather’s timepiece. He moved the photograph of Mary Hollins, a girl he had courted in Montana, to the left and in the center he placed two envelopes. One was addressed to Mr Jack Wells, Deep Well Ranch, Livingston, Montana, and the other to Mrs Annette Janowski.
‘That’s fine,’ he said to himself, ‘just fine.’
Walter straightened his hair and took a drag from his cigarette. Through the smoke he looked in the mirror and admired the sharp creases in his shirt and then took a last look at the room covered in plastic sheeting.
He lifted the gun and pulled back the hammer just as his father had done in 1960. The barrel felt hard against his head. He watched himself in the mirror, oddly detached as he watched the reflection’s actions that would end his life.
A day ago Walter Lesser had gotten the news but it had only begun to sink in last night. The doctor had told him about some tests, but the word ‘terminal’ had been pushed to the back of his brain.
Walter Lesser was not afraid to die because in many ways he had been dead for years, ever since they stole the ranch and he did nothing.
He focused on Mary’s photograph and was overcome with a grief and regret that had
never passed. ‘My poor Mary,’ he whispered. Pushing the memory aside, he readied himself again. His right forefinger squeezed the trigger but he hesitated, dangling between the worlds of here and after.
• • •
He couldn’t stop the pictures flooding into his brain and began to remember happier times. Picnicking with Mary by Crooked Creek, sitting in his father’s study playing chess and his mother fussing over dinner and her blue dishes.
He remembered how free he had been and the remembering was painful. There was that time when the ranch hands gave him his nickname, Smiling Slim.
Folks had always taken to Walt. He had a smile that was inviting, and with his six-foot-three lanky frame and gentle good looks he reminded people of Gary Cooper.
The memories turned ugly. He could see his father, thin and defeated, sitting at his desk, lifting the gun to his head and firing, and then his mother finding the still-life that had been her husband. It had been too much. Two months later, her broken heart just stopped.
The memories were relentless and merciless in their clarity and detail. The picture of James Ringer flashed by, consuming Walt with rage.
James Ringer, a wealthy California developer, had conspired with four county commissioners to get the Lesser property. The idea was to divide the ten thousand-acre ranch into twenty-acre parcels. The development would be called Wild West Estates.
There would be town houses, condominiums and a golf course. The old barn would stay for effect, as would the Lesser family cemetery. ‘These props,’ as Ringer called them, would add an air of ‘Old West’ authenticity.
Ringer was interviewed in San Francisco about questionable development practices that he’d been accused of. ‘I’m an artist,’ he said, ‘and I see the land as my canvas.’
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