by Gish Jen
All of this renders Hattie more or less completely unprepared for Everett’s obstinacy. A horse lost may be better than horses gained, her father used to say—warning her, as he liked to, not to be lulled by apparent reality. One must always be prepared to find oneself unprepared, he taught; and yet Hattie, his slow student, finds herself both unprepared and unprepared to be unprepared for the climb to Everett’s hut.
She has to stop to rest every ten rungs or so—her ankle; Carter, too, shakes his head. It’s true Everett has a good ten or fifteen years on them. Still, only a madman would live atop such a climb; he might as well be living on a fire tower. They unzip their jackets. At the top of the ladder is a makeshift pulley and a platform piled with firewood. The door has a deer antler for a handle.
A Robinson Crusoe charm to it all, anyway.
They knock, perspiring.
Huge as he’s always seemed, Everett appears even huger in his doorway—so huge, Hattie wonders if this is a standard-size doorway he’s got, or a made-up size. Anyhow, he fills it—has to duck a little, in fact, so as not to bump his head.
“Well, well,” he says. “Thought I had me a bear.” Nothing cherubic about him today. He has a stubble you could scrub an oven out with, and his wiry half-gray hair, too, looks like something with a practical application.
“Do you mind?” asks Carter.
“ ’Course not,” says Everett. “Come on in. Don’t mind the mess.”
The hut is lined with foil-backed insulation, and there are frying pans hung up neatly enough on nails along the studs. Below these on the fiberboard floor, though, sit a chair, an unmade camp cot, a folding table, and a camp stove, as well as scattered stuff: Everett’s clothes, his hat, his dishes, a jar of peanut butter, a loaf of bread, some cereal, some water, some coffee, the remains of various casseroles, and numerous bottles of liquor. The place reeks of smoke, since his woodstove will back up, he says, depending on the wind; that’s why he has a window propped open even in the cold. Hattie nods—she knows what a woodstove can be—even as she glances out the other window, which really does look right straight at Ginny’s window shade, sure enough. Carter and Everett chat. It’s late afternoon; a whiskey bottle’s open, but Everett seems sober, if subdued. He is wearing two wool lumberjack shirts—one white-and-black check, one red-and-black—a layered look, with a blue sweatshirt underneath. REX REALTY, reads the sweatshirt, COME SEE THE KING. The I in KING is dotted with a small gold crown.
“Hold it right there,” he says. “You’re telling me you want to pay the damages?”
“I am,” says Carter.
“But you didn’t do nothing.”
“Good point.” Carter’s nod is less cursory than usual, more congenial. “Maybe we should sit down.”
“Be my guest.”
Everett sits on the chair, spilling out over its arms; what with the chair legs so skinny, his legs look to be holding them up rather than the other way around. Carter and Hattie perch on his cot, slipping their jackets off and nesting them around their bums.
“I’m only doing it for a girl,” says Carter.
“Hattie?”
They all laugh.
“Do I look like a girl?” says Hattie.
“I wouldn’t have guessed boy,” says Everett.
More laughter.
“ ’Course, I’ve done a few things for her myself, now,” says Everett. “Shoveled her out every now and then.”
“All the time,” says Hattie. “You shoveled me out all the time.”
“Well, if I’m not an official member of the Hattie Kong fan club, please sign me up,” says Carter. “But the girl I meant is Sophy Chhung.”
“The Cambodian girl?” says Everett.
“Precisely.”
“She need help?”
“She lit the mini-mall fire.”
“No kidding.” Everett looks surprised but not entirely. “What for?”
The wind shifts; the window shuts; ragged sheets of smoke leak out from under the top plate of the woodstove. Hattie rubs her eyes.
“She seems to have gotten the idea that she could pin the crime on her brother and get him locked up in jail,” says Carter. “Where she wanted him, for some reason.” He coughs into his elbow.
“She thought it was God’s plan,” supplies Hattie, starting to hack, too. She can feel a rawness in her nose and throat. “She thought Sarun was ruining things.”
“What things?” Everett props the window back open; the air clears. “Sarun’s her brother?”
Hattie nods and explains about the Chhungs, as well as about Sophy’s conversion, and her relationship to Ginny.
“So Ginny thought, Great. Use the girl to bring me down, what the heck.” Everett nods a bit to himself.
“Exactly,” says Hattie.
“But now what, right?” says Everett. “The girl’s guilty, but you don’t want her charged. You don’t even want Sarun and his friends charged. ’Cause in the course of their getting cleared the truth might sneak out.”
“Exactly,” says Hattie again.
“On the other hand, we’re trying to make sure you get your damages,” says Carter. “Because your site was burned down and you definitely deserve compensation.”
“But Ginny’s the one who owes me.” Everett’s jaw tightens. “Not you. Ginny.”
Carter glances at Hattie. “At some level,” he says, but then stops.
And Hattie, too, hesitates. Should they start explaining how they owe him, too, actually—Carter, especially? On the one hand, they certainly contributed to the situation—hedging as they did, hemming and hawing when they should have been intervening. On the other, Ginny’s sins were sins of a different order—sins of commission. And truth to tell, Hattie feels it, too—that Ginny was wrong, that Ginny should pay. Kept you around when it was convenient but kicked you out when it wasn’t, after all.
“Ginny should pay,” says Everett, as if reading her mind.
“Probably,” allows Carter.
“But you’re hitting for her. What for?”
“Because it’d be hard to prosecute her successfully,” says Carter.
“Much as we wish we could,” says Hattie.
“Why?” demands Everett. “Ain’t she guilty?”
“Because she didn’t actually do anything,” says Carter.
“She was just an influence,” says Hattie.
“An influence,” says Everett.
“And influence is hard to prove,” explains Hattie.
“All we have is Sophy’s word,” agrees Carter. “It’s ‘he said, she said.’ ”
Everett stands and paces as much as a man his size can in such a small space. His head barely clears the ceiling. “Ginny’s getting off.”
“Probably.”
“She’s getting off.”
Carter looks at Hattie, who is already beginning to wish they’d taken a different tack. Because Everett, she can see, is heating up.
“It ain’t right, Ginny getting off.” Everett looms over them, his voice even and low. “It ain’t right.”
“No,” says Carter, looking rueful. “It ain’t, as you say. But there’s no law to nail her with, sadly.”
“Why the hell not? What’s the point of law if people like Ginny are going to get the hell off?”
“You want the law to be just,” says Carter. “But, as my ex-wife used to say, the law doesn’t make things just. It just makes things better.”
“Better than what?”
“Better than if we had no law. Better than if we had corruption, which is what they have in many parts of the world, unfortunately.”
“You’re helping her,” says Everett, glaring. “You’re helping her get off.”
“That might be true,” says Hattie, after a moment. “We might be helping her. But we’re not trying to help her.”
Everett stops.
“Any help she gets is inadvertent. We’re just trying to protect Sophy and get you back on your feet, if that’s possible. E
specially as the situation was complicated.” She plunges on. “Especially as a lot of people who could’ve stepped in, failed to.” She pauses.
But if ever Everett could have heard this, he can’t hear it now.
“Ain’t I on my feet?” he says. “Or is this someone else with my same boots?”
The window claps shut.
“No, no,” says Hattie. “Of course you’re on your feet.”
Smoke spills from the stove. Hattie reaches to prop the window back open with the broken-off stick Everett’s been using—part of a paint stir stick, actually, with some white paint still on it—as Everett starts to pace again.
“I don’t need your help unless it’s to burn Ginny up.” The whole hut shakes as Everett starts to pace again.
“Perhaps you should become a Buddhist,” says Carter.
Hattie kicks him.
“That some kind of a joke?” asks Everett—swaying himself, now, like the hut.
“Actually, no. Actually my ex-wife felt much the way you did and really did become a Buddhist after a while. Before that she was a judge.” Carter stares at the black stove as if at an apparition—Meredith in her robes. “She was mad.”
“Sick of the world,” guesses Everett. “Sick of a world where people like Ginny get off.”
“Precisely.”
“She dump you?” asks Everett, stopping.
“She did.” Carter looks thoughtful.
“Didn’t you just want to kill her?”
“I suppose one part of my brain did, yes,” says Carter. “But other parts, happily, thought better of that plan.”
“Yeah, well, I just want to kill her.” Everett paces.
“Yeah, well, don’t.” Carter gives Everett an El Honcho look, and for a moment Everett seems to heed him. “Let us help you instead,” Carter goes on. “So the world’s unjust. You can still get some projects going.”
“Don’t get hung up, you’re saying.”
“Precisely.”
“I gave her my life.”
“That was generous of you, but perhaps it’s time to take it back,” says Carter, drily.
Hattie kicks him again.
“Take it back!” Everett laughs. “All them years.” He shakes his head. “Maybe you have some way of getting them back, now, being a professor. But the rest of us’ve got to just kiss ’em good-bye, see. Sayonara. Good-bye.”
Hattie looks at him. “ ‘Thirty-seven Years Wasted, You Could Say My Whole Life,’ ” she quotes.
“You got it.” Everett smiles.
“Actually,” Carter starts, but stops when Hattie puts a hand over his mouth. “You loved her,” he says instead, unmuzzling himself.
“Jackass that I was.”
“You loved her,” Carter says again. And slowly, after a moment: “You gave her your life.”
“Wasn’t such a great plan, to be frank.” Everett yawns. “You probably would’ve thought better of that plan.”
“Probably,” agrees Carter.
Everett shifts slightly. “I loved her but, well, now I just want her burned to a crisp, see.” He stretches a little. “Now I’m aiming to send her right to hell.” He hesitates, then wedges himself back into the chair.
“Everett, we want to help.” Hattie sits forward.
“That’s kind of you, Hattie. Generous. I always said you were generous.”
“We’re just trying to help you reach the tacos, if you know what I mean. Pay you back a little for all that snow shoveling you did.”
“I can reach what I need to just fine.”
“You mean, you don’t want help,” says Carter.
“Guess I’ve taken all the help I want to in this life. Guess I don’t need any more, no. No thanks.”
“You’d rather have your pride. Is that it?” asks Hattie.
“My pa lived his whole life with no pride so’s his son could have some,” says Everett.
“You’d rather have your rage,” says Carter.
“Guess I’m planning to have it for breakfast.”
“You plain don’t care for a world where people like Ginny can get off,” says Hattie.
“Guess I don’t.”
“Where nobody sees,” she goes on. “Is that it? Where you can build a big tower and still have nobody see. Where you can talk and talk and still have nobody hear.”
“You got it,” says Everett. “You know what I want?”
Hattie and Carter exchange glances.
“You want Ginny burned to a crisp,” guesses Carter.
“That church,” says Everett, evenly. “I want that whole Christian fucking church burnt up in their own righteous fire.”
“Well, whatever you do, don’t go lighting any matches.” Carter raises his eyebrows and his voice. “You are no doubt uninterested in a professor’s opinion, but I will share mine anyway.”
Everett waits.
“It is inadvisable.”
“That mean it’s dumb?”
Hattie sighs. “Can we come back tomorrow?”
Everett laughs.
“Think of your kids,” she says. “Think of Brian and Betsy.”
He continues to grin.
“Think how they’d feel. Have you talked to them lately?”
He doesn’t answer.
“Do you have a phone?”
He straightens a knee. “There some treetop service I don’t know about around here?”
“We’ll have to do something about that,” she says. “That’s our step one. In the meanwhile, it’s getting late.” She stands, putting on her jacket and nudging Carter.
“We’ll be back tomorrow.” Carter stands, too.
“Is there anything else we can bring you?” asks Hattie. “Besides a phone? Some nice hot bacon and eggs, maybe? Sausage? Hash browns?”
Everett shakes his head again gently, as if he’s turning gnomic, like Carter. He does not stand.
“Anything you want me to tell Ginny? If I see her? If she’s in town?”
“Nah.” He buttons a button.
Cows’ll fly before she sees.
And when they come back the next day with a satellite phone and a hot pack full of food, they find him slumped in his chair. The fire is out; the cabin is cold. His skin is blue, his mouth open, his gaze fixed, his pupils huge.
“Oh my god, no,” says Hattie.
Guess I’ve taken all the help I want to in this life.
Carter opens the window, though the smoke has mostly cleared.
“Smoke inhalation,” he says.
They sink back down on the bed as if to talk to Everett all over again. Then Carter stands back up, closes Everett’s eyes, and puts his hand on Everett’s forehead, fingers fanned.
“May you go to heaven if there is a heaven,” he says. “You didn’t hedge your bets. You gave your whole heart. You were right to be mad.”
He puts Everett’s hat back on his head, resting his open hand a moment on its crown. Then he sits back down with Hattie. They hold hands.
COME SEE THE KING.
Carter keeps waking in the middle of the night.
“Reedie,” he says. “My brother Reedie.”
“I remember Reedie.”
“They found Reedie slumped over like that.” Reedie with his RBIs and his cotton candy and his, in truth, terrible Chinese.
“Poor Reedie,” says Hattie. “Poor, poor Reedie.”
“He did all right in the end. He didn’t think so, but he did.”
She reaches for Carter in the dark, massaging his head. His skull is hard but full of little tensions, she knows, as is hers; he massages hers back. It’s a new routine they’ve developed already, and a pleasure, though Reedie, Reedie, Reedie. She pictures Reedie slumped over like Everett; then Everett himself, slumped over, his eyes open.
Twins.
The room is perfectly black—there’s no moon tonight. She nudges Reveille through the sheet with her foot. What with both dogs sleeping on her side of the bed now, it’s easy to lose territory, and
Reveille’s on top of the covers, her foot below; it’s hard to get his attention. Still, she tries.
“I’ll never get over it.” Carter’s voice is husky.
“None of us will. Are you crying? Oh, Carter. Come.”
She hugs him, their knees knocking in a way hers and Joe’s never did. Or did they? She tries to remember but can’t, though she remembers very well, she thinks, how Joe snored all night—like Cato, except that Cato only snored when he was lying on his back. Joe snored in every position, as does Carter—who does snore more quietly, however, and more musically, with a little whistle.
And unlike Joe, Carter cries—something else he does quietly, with his shoulders hunched up and his chin to his chest. She kisses his wet eyes, his wet cheeks; she can still smell the cabin smoke in what there is of his hair. That smoke. “Carter.” She holds him as she held Joe and Lee toward the end, climbing into their hospital beds to comfort them. Joe. Lee. Everett. Reedie. And Cato—Cato. She’s pained for Carter, pained for them all, though she does not cry herself—having no tears left, it seems. Dá guān—she’s attained some sort of terrible detachment. So that even as she mourns, she’s aware how fleshy he is, how healthy and uncolonized. Never mind his hairs and moles and patches of eczema, it is a strange loveliness to hug someone with back muscles over his ribs.
Carter, at least, has come back to her.
She squeegees his eyes. “Reedie,” she says.
“Reedie.”
“I’m so sorry.”
“It was terrible.”
“You blame yourself.”
“Was there something I could have said. Was there something I could have done. About how he saw the world—about how he saw himself. Of course, to do that, I would have had to see him. And I didn’t see him, did I? You said that once. And now Everett. Was there something we could have done about Everett?”
She holds her tongue, or maybe sleep does. Exhaustion. It’s been a long day. Her body is a dead weight. A steady thing, though, at least. A thing that can be leaned against, snuggled into. Big as he is, Carter nestles into her like a child, crying himself to sleep, only to wake again.