Let Him Go: A Novel

by Larry Watson

  LET HIM GO

  Also by Larry Watson

  American Boy

  In a Dark Time

  Justice

  Laura

  Leaving Dakota

  Montana 1948

  Orchard

  Sundown, Yellow Moon

  White Crosses

  LET HIM GO

  A Novel

  Larry Watson

  milkweed

  editions

  The characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

  © 2013, Text by Larry Watson

  All rights reserved. Except for brief quotations in critical articles or reviews, no part of this book may be reproduced in any manner without prior written permission from the publisher: Milkweed Editions, 1011 Washington Avenue South, Suite 300, Minneapolis, Minnesota 55415.

  (800) 520-6455

  www.milkweed.org

  Published 2013 by Milkweed Editions

  Cover design by Christian Fuenfhausen

  Cover image © Ocean/Corbis

  Author photo by Susan Watson

  13 14 15 16 175 4 3 2 1

  First Edition

  Milkweed Editions, an independent nonprofit publisher, gratefully acknowledges sustaining support from the Bush Foundation; the Patrick and Aimee Butler Foundation; the Dougherty Family Foundation; the Driscoll Foundation; the Jerome Foundation; the Lindquist & Vennum Foundation; the McKnight Foundation; the voters of Minnesota through a Minnesota State Arts Board Operating Support grant, thanks to a legislative appropriation from the arts and cultural heritage fund, and a grant from the Wells Fargo Foundation Minnesota; the National Endowment for the Arts; the Target Foundation; and other generous contributions from foundations, corporations, and individuals. For a full listing of Milkweed Editions supporters, please visit www.milkweed.org.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Watson, Larry, 1947–

  Let him go : a novel / Larry Watson. — First edition.

  pagescm

  ISBN 978-1-57131-890-9 (e-book)

  1. Grandparent and child—Fiction. 2. Parental relocation (Child custody)—Fiction. 3. Visitation rights (Domestic relations)—Fiction. 4. North Dakota—Fiction. 5. Domestic fiction. I. Title.

  PS3573.A853L48 2013

  813'.54—dc23

  2013006976

  Milkweed Editions is committed to ecological stewardship. We strive to align our book production practices with this principle, and to reduce the impact of our operations in the environment. We are a member of the Green Press Initiative, a nonprofit coalition of publishers, manufacturers, and authors working to protect the world’s endangered forests and conserve natural resources. Let Him Go was printed on acid-free 100% postconsumer-waste paper by Friesens Corporation.

  To Susan

  LET HIM GO

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  1.

  September 1951

  THE SIREN ON TOP OF THE DALTON, NORTH DAKOTA, fire station howls, as it does five days a week at this hour. Its wail frightens into flight the starlings that roost on the station roof every day yet never learn how fixed and foreseeable are human lives. The siren tells the town’s working citizens and students what they already know. It’s twelve o’clock, time for you to fly too. Put down your hammer, your pencil; close your books, cover your typewriter. Go home. Your wives and mothers are opening cans of soup and slicing bread and last night’s roast beef for sandwiches. Come back in an hour, ready to put your shoulder to it, to add the figures, parse the sentences, calm the patients, please the customers.

  Most drive to their homes, but a man with the width of the town to travel, from Ott’s Livestock Sales out on Highway 41 to Teton Avenue in the town’s northeast corner, walks. The sun is warm on George Blackledge’s back, and he carries his blanket-lined denim coat over his shoulder. But on his way to work that morning in the predawn dark he followed the plumes of his own breath and passed signs of the season’s first hard freeze. Blankets and rugs covering the late tomatoes and squash. Windshields needing to be scraped. Thin spirals of smoke rising from chimneys. Now only in a house or building’s western shade or in the shadow of a shed or tree does any white remain. Grass blades and weed stalks that earlier were frost-bent and flattened rise again. Ice skins that grew over gutter pools and alley puddles have melted away. When George enters his house, he notices the lingering smell of hot dust and fuel oil, the stale breath of the furnace that came on during the night for the first time in the season.

  But on the kitchen table are not the bowl of tomato soup and the summer sausage sandwich that George has rightly come to expect. Instead on the oilcloth are open cardboard boxes filled with the food that recently has been in their cupboards, bread box, and refrigerator. The house’s windows are closed and the curtains drawn, banishing sunlight and, so it seems, sufficient air to breathe.

  Into the kitchen comes Margaret Blackledge, about whom people invariably say, Still a handsome woman. Her steel-gray hair is plaited and pinned up. Her chambray shirt is tucked into snug-fitting, faded Levi’s. She’s wearing boots that have been patched, resoled, and re-heeled so many times they’d rebel at any foot but hers. Those heels make her taller than most women. Draped over one kitchen chair is her wool mackinaw, and on the spindle of another chair her hat hangs by the leather loop that she used to tighten under her chin when she was ready to mount up and ride.

  George tilts back his own hat. So this is why you wanted the car today.

  You said you didn’t mind the exercise.

  I don’t. But Jesus, Margaret. You really mean to do this?

  I do. Margaret Blackledge’s eyes have not lost their power to startle—large, liquid, deep blue, and set in a face whose planes and angles could be sculpted from marble.

  With me or without me?

  With you or without you. It’s your choice. Margaret thrusts her fingers into the back pockets of her jeans and leans against the cupboard. She’s waiting, but she doesn’t have to say it. She won’t wait long.

  She nods in the direction of their bedroom. I packed a bag for you, she says. Depending on what you decide.

  Nothing fills the silence between them. The Philco on the kitchen counter, which usually squawks livestock prices at this hour, sits mute. The coffeepot whose glass top usually rattles with a percolating fresh brew is emptied, washed, and stored in one of the boxes.

  On his way to the bedroom George passes through the living room and he steps over the blankets Margaret has wrapped and tied into tub
es to serve as bedrolls.

  In the bedroom doorway he pauses, his gaze lingering on both what is there and what is not.

  The white chenille bedspread rises over the mound of one pillow but then slopes down to flatness on the other side. The alarm clock ticks on the bedside table. If he stays he’ll need reminders of hours and obligations, while she’ll be traveling to where time obeys human need and not the other way around. On the top of the bureau the perfume bottle sits, as full as the day she took it out of its gift box. Her brush is gone. So is the framed photograph that often made him pause. His son or his grandson? Did they really look so alike as two-year-olds? Or did they confuse him because they occupied the same space in his heart? Did Margaret even hesitate before she packed the photo? Did she ask herself, Who needs this more, the one who goes or the one who stays?

  His suitcase yawns open on the bed, and he walks over to paw through its contents. Clean socks. A few shirts. Two pair of dungarees. Underwear. That old plaid wool railroader’s vest. A bandanna. The bottom layers are cold-weather wear—a wool scarf and knit cap, gloves. His sheepskin-lined coat. Long underwear. He leaves the suitcase open and turns back toward the kitchen, a distance that suddenly seems more exhausting than the miles he’s already walked today.

  In the kitchen he looks over the contents of the boxes. Canned goods, flour, beans—dry and canned—oatmeal, evaporated milk, sugar, coffee, potatoes, apples, carrots. Two cans of Spam and a box of Velveeta. Cups, bowls, plates, forks, knives, and spoons, and that all these are in pairs tells him that she’s made all the provisions for him to go. And not much left for him if he decides to stay—she’s packed the cast-iron frying pan and the coffeepot, and George Blackledge loves his coffee. A washbasin. Kitchen matches. A can of lard.

  What do you mean to cook on? George asks.

  Margaret shrugs. An open campfire, if need be. I’ve got a few camping things set out back. Including that old wire grill you used to set up on rocks over a fire.

  With this speech her voice quavers but not with emotion. For years Margaret Blackledge has had a tremor that causes her head to nod and her words to wobble. Harmless, a doctor has called it, but it’s unsettling in a woman who seems in every other regard as steady as steel.

  George pushes the kitchen window curtain aside. Yes, she’s backed their car, an old humpbacked Hudson Commodore, out of the garage, and a few more supplies for her journey lie in the grass.

  You pulled out that old tent, George says. You find the poles and stakes too?

  I believe all the pieces are there.

  I could set it up, he says. Let the sun burn some of the mildew smell out of the canvas.

  I’d just as soon get going.

  George walks back over to the chair where her coat and hat wait. He lifts the collar of her mackinaw and rubs the wool between his fingers. I see you’ve got the long underwear packed too. You planning on being gone right through the winter?

  I’m not planning on any length of time. I plan to go, that’s all. And stay gone as long as it takes.

  What if Lorna says no? George asks. Any mother would.

  Margaret says nothing.

  You have money?

  I went to the bank this morning.

  Leave any in there?

  A little. Not much.

  There wasn’t much to begin with.

  Margaret’s suitcase is waiting by the back door. When she glances in its direction, George feels his eyes smart and his throat tighten.

  Think this through, Margaret. What you’re aiming to do—

  I’ll do. You ought to know that by now.

  What finally made up your mind, if you don’t object to my asking?

  Not only can I tell you what but when and right down to the minute. July 27. I know it like it’s marked on the calendar. I was coming out of LaVeer’s Butcher Shop, and I spied Jimmy over across the street right outside the drugstore. With Donnie and Lorna. In the middle of the day. And neither of them on the job, in spite of their promises and good intentions. Anyway. Jimmy was licking away at an ice cream cone like it was a race whether he or the sun would finish it first. Then he must have licked a little too hard because that scoop of ice cream toppled off the cone. He gave out a little yelp. Donnie saw right away what happened, and so quick the ice cream didn’t melt—and this on a day when the sidewalk was hot enough to fry an egg—he reached down and grabbed up that glob of chocolate ice cream. And did he put it back on the cone? He did not. He pushed it right into Jimmy’s face. Wait. It gets worse. Then he laughed. Donnie laughed. By this time Jimmy’s wailing like his little heart is breaking. And what do you suppose Lorna did? Pick him up and wipe his face and his tears like any mother would? She did not. She kept right on walking. And she was wearing a smile, George. A smile. To do a child that way? A child that bears my son’s name? It was all I could do not to cross the street and snatch that little boy and run like hell. But I had my pork chops damn near cooking in my arms, and I suppose I was hearing your cautions so I continued on my way. But I knew, George; I knew. That boy did not belong with those people. So even with all you said—it’s wrong, it’s useless, it might even be against the law—my mind was made up. It wasn’t more than a week later when I got my resolve screwed down tight, and I went to that little basement apartment they’d been renting. But they were gone. Bound for Montana, I learned. And owing three months’ rent. So because I held my tongue on that July day they got a couple months’ head start. But I’m heading out now, George, and you have to choose. Go or stay. But decide. Now.

  I have to piss.

  In the bathroom the matching towels and washcloth are no longer hanging on the rack. Only a threadbare towel is suspended from the bar over the tub—his to use in her absence. This morning’s sliver of soap is no longer stuck to the sink’s porcelain. In the medicine cabinet only George’s shaving supplies still rest on the shelf, but his empty toilet kit waits open-mouthed on the tub for his razor, shaving cream, toothbrush, and aspirin.

  Her things might be packed up but the room’s very air remains hers. The smell of her shampoo, her cold cream. The steam that rose from her bathwater. And then from her as she stepped dripping from the tub. Could he ever stop breathing these, no matter how long she’d been gone?

  He stands over the toilet. If there is a moment, an instant, when George Blackledge isn’t sure what he’ll do, by the time he’s opened his trousers and pulled out his cock, that moment has passed. He sighs, the deep breath and exhalation of a man about to follow someone onto a narrow ledge. Such a man is often cautioned not to look down. He might well be advised not to look forward or backward either.

  Back in the kitchen he asks, Did you call Janie? Does she know about this plan of yours?

  I mailed her a letter this morning.

  You don’t even give your daughter a chance to talk you out of this?

  She has no say in this. None. But I told her you’d let her know if you decide to stay home.

  Did you gas up the car?

  I thought I’d do that on the way out of town.

  Why don’t I do it now? I need to swing by Ott’s and give Barlow the word.

  I don’t suppose he’ll be too happy.

  You can be damn sure of that. I leave now, that’s probably over for good.

  I’m sorry.

  But not sorry enough to cast this goddamn idea of yours aside.

  Margaret reaches under the sink and brings out a can of Ajax. When she shakes its powder into the sink, a chalky ammoniac odor fills the room. If you’re coming with me, George, that’ll have to be the end of it. No dragging your heels. No second-guessing. No what ifs. If you’re with me, you’re with me.

  She turns back to the sink and begins to scour its porcelain. Soon she’s scrubbing so hard even her ass is in motion. Nothing but two hard mounds of muscle and fat bunching under denim faded almost to white. No, there was never any doubt what George would do.

  Should I shut off the water? he asks.

  Might
as well. We don’t want to come home to busted pipes.

  2.

  AROUND THE CORNER FROM THE MOBIL STATION IS Oscar’s Roundup Bar and Lounge, On and Off Sale, a dimly lit establishment barely wide enough for a bar and row of booths. When George enters, the only customer is Elmer Will, sitting at the end of the bar and pulling on a bottle of Schlitz in between spoonfuls of chili. Walking through a single shaft of dusty sunlight, George makes his way down the bar to where Randy Pettig is jamming a towel into a highball glass. At the sight of George Blackledge, Randy smiles, raises his hands, and says, Don’t shoot. I’ll come peaceable.

  You didn’t then, George says. Why would you now? He points toward a row of bottles. A pint of Four Roses.

  Randy drops his hands. Four Roses it is, he says, his voice flattened with disappointment. He finds the bourbon, drops it into a bag, and twists the paper around the bottle’s neck. As he’s ringing up the sale he tries once more. It’s been a while, he says to George.

  And it will be again, George replies.

  ...

  Margaret carries the box of canned goods outside and sets it down next to the driveway, convenient and quick to pack into the car when George returns. Before she can cross the yard and return to the house, however, a plump young woman in a print dress and an apron hurries out of the house next door.

  The woman waves exuberantly to Margaret. Hello, she calls out.

  Good afternoon.

  Having a rummage sale, are you?

  No, says Margaret.

  I seen the boxes and I thought maybe . . . She smiles. An upper tooth is missing, and her lip snags on that open space. Even so, it’s a nice smile, wide and unsullied. She puts her hands in the pockets of her apron and says, Eddie’s got me on a pretty tight allowance so I’m always on the lookout for a bargain.

  Sorry, replies Margaret. Can’t help you.

  Taking a trip, then?

  Could be.

  No boundary markers separate the yards. The sun at its midday height sheds light and heat equally on each side. Nothing distinguishes one property from another, unless it’s grass a fraction of an inch higher on one side or a sweeter green on the other. Yet something keeps a distance between these two women as surely as a fence so tall it would have to be shouted over.