Poor Grandpa; he looks dog-tired. Soot sticks in all the wrinkles that fan out from his eyes, making him look at least ninety. He lifts up the horses’ hooves to check for splits and stones. Ernesto squats next to Donner, checking his feet for burns. I kneel and stroke the ashes out of his fur.
“Watch him,” Ernesto says to me quietly. He lifts an eyebrow in the direction of Grandpa. “He need your strength to come home.”
“Right.” I shake my head. Grandpa splits logs every day with an ax I can't even lift. He can wrestle a two-hundred-pound heifer to the ground. I can barely tip over a sheep with a running start.
“No.” Ernesto turns to me. He lifts up my chin. “Even the strong need help.”
“Okay, okay,” I say, but I see he's not satisfied, so I stand up and say, “I promise I'll watch over him like you watch over these sheep.” I hold out my hand to shake on the promise. He takes my hand in both of his and shakes my arm up and down like a pump handle.
“Sí, now you're talking. ¡Fantástico! You will be a shepherd to him.”
Grandpa is already in the saddle when we walk up. Ernesto gives me a leg up and hands the canteen back to Grandpa. Ginger starts off at a trot, but we are only a quarter mile on our way when he drops her back to a walk. I pull Ike up next to him.
“That was really awesome with the fire, Grandpa. How did you know it would work?”
He just grunts. His left arm hangs limp on the saddle bow.
“Are you okay? Did you hurt your arm?”
He gives a “yes” grunt. “Sore. Hurts.”
“Do you want some aspirin for that, because I probably have some in the—”
“Already took.”
Pretty obvious he doesn't feel like chatting, so I drop back and watch him. The smoke thins to almost nothing as we move from scorched ground to dry sagebrush. The heavy clouds move north and the sun goes below them on the western horizon, blasting me full in the face. I tilt the brim of my hat and Grandpa drops his head low.
“Sing,” he says.
I know what he wants: the old hymns he sang growing up in the Quaker church. We all used to sing them together when I was little, before Mom left. Grandpa led us in two- and three-part harmonies, his own voice deep and true like a big church bell. He doesn't usually ask me to sing. My voice doesn't go as high as it used to or as deep as it should for the men's part. I start off with “Simple Gifts,” and then I sing “For the Beauty of the Earth” and “Amazing Grace.” I'm about to start another when Grandpa falls forward in the saddle and slumps onto the ground.
“Grandpa!” I shout. I jump off Ike and hit my knees in the dirt beside him. Ginger dances away but then comes back and touches Grandpa's shoulder with her nose. She backs up and stands shoulder to shoulder with Ike, watching like people do when there is an accident on the highway.
As gently as I can, I roll Grandpa onto his back. He is groaning, with his right fist pressed over his heart. I search his body for blood or a sticking-out bone. Something I can fix. He grits his teeth together, groaning louder, and then gasps for breath.
“My heart,” he pants. “Crushing me.”
“No,” I whisper. I unbutton his shirt at the top and wipe his face with my bandana. I search the horizon for somebody, anybody. There is no one to call. No help to run for. Only me to watch him.
“I'm here, Grandpa,” I say, pulling off my shirt to pillow his head. “I'm right here.” I remember what Grandpa said at Christmastime about angels being all around us when we need them, and I stand my ground. I set my hand on his chest, and he grabs it. I can feel pain go through his body in waves. He squeezes my hand so hard, I can hear my knuckles pop. His eyes are shut tight, and tears roll down his cheeks.
I should pray. I start the rosary, stroking tears off his face like Dad did for me when I was little and afraid of the dark. I am just getting in the rhythm of shifting from Hail Mary to Glory Be when I remember that Grandpa likes the silent kind of prayer.
I stop and draw a deep breath. “Come, Holy Spirit. We are listening.”
I take another deep breath, and Grandpa does too. I feel his muscles relax by inches.
“Listening, yes,” he whispers.
“Are you all right now?” I whisper back. “Are you getting better?”
He shakes his head a fraction of an inch. “It's too heavy. Too heavy to take where I'm going.”
He looks me in the eye and spreads my hand flat over his heart. I know exactly what he means, and even though I know I should fight it and tell him not to go and promise to save him, I just sit and hold his hand. His death comes to me like a true fact, like the last move in a chess game.
“I love you, Grandpa,” I whisper. “I won't forget all the stuff you taught me to do.”
“You are all good boys. Your dad, your brothers.” He lifts up a last smile. “Sons to ease an old man's heart. And you, Brother, trying so hard to fill your dad's place. You don't have to be like him. You have your own road to follow. You'll know when you're ready.” He coughs and closes his eyes. “You tell my bride, tell Miss Muriel Ann Casey—she is the most—”
And I wait for “beautiful,” but it never comes. In that moment I feel heat and light push out of his body It tingles up through my hand and makes my heart race. All the muscles on Grandpa's face go slack and, for a moment, I can see the young man he used to be. There is a glow around his body, and I feel hugged in by it.
And then it's gone, just like that, and I'm left with my hand over the shell of the body that used to be my grandpa.
I sit for what feels like hours. The sun dips lower and colors up the clouds gold and pink. My sweat dries to a salty crust, and the air gets cold enough to raise a shiver. I can't even believe what I'm feeling. Not angry; not even sad. Amazement, I guess. Honor at being a part of this moment. It's not like losing Pippin or any other animal. Not like it at all. I wait and watch the stars come out—Sirius to the southeast, and the Summer Triangle: Deneb, Altair, and Vega.
I let go of his hand.
By and by Ike walks up. He comes slow, eyeing the body carefully. He sniffs and nudges it with his nose. He nips at the sleeve and then touches his tongue to the hand. At once he understands, and backs up a step.
It occurs to me why they always fade to black after someone dies in the movies. A dead person's body is a serious transportation problem. At least, it is out here. No ambulance; not even a car for miles.
“All right, God,” I say, and I am a little mad because He was here an hour ago and now, just when levitation would be really helpful, He's nowhere in sight.
“Look, I can't leave him,” I say. “There are scavengers out here, and bugs. How will I find him again? What will I say to Grandma if I don't bring him back? That's it. I'm staying until you find a way to get us both out of here, and if I starve to death, it's your fault.”
That's when the miracle happens.
Ike steps up for one last sniff, and then he just lies right down beside Grandpa's body. Unbelievable! I stroke his shoulder and look him in the eye to make sure this means what I think it means. Ike looks straight back at me and I remember. Grandpa was there with Dad the night Ike was born. He raised him from a foal.
I lift Grandpa's body by the shoulders and drape him over the saddle. It takes a lot of pushing and pulling, but I get him stomach-down across Ike's back.
“Good boy” I say patting Ike's neck. “Up now.”
Ike lurches to his feet, and I have to grab Grandpa's body by the knees and give him a good shove to get him balanced.
“Well, all right then, God. Thanks!” I say, too amazed to put more flower on that prayer. I take the reins and walk over to Ginger. She's much shorter and easier to mount, and Ike likes to follow her around. This might actually work.
It's pitch-dark, but I can still pick out west from the stars. A mile or so on and I can see the lights of the fairgrounds about eight miles to the southwest. There is no moon, but I search out the constellations Dad taught me and tell their stories fo
r company. I am maybe a mile out of town when the Herdsman finally clears the horizon, and I think about why Dad and I chose this one, this shepherd of stars, to guide me.
And then, suddenly, I know, and it is exactly as Grandpa said. I've been on the right road the whole time. The secret of what I'm supposed to be is so last-chess-move perfect that I make up my mind not to tell anyone about it until Dad comes home.
AUGUST
I'm not really one for making a flashy entrance. I like to slide in quietly and check things out first. But I bet people are out looking for Grandpa and me. Even though it's almost midnight, I don't think I have much chance of sneaking into the Burns fairgrounds quietly
What am I going to tell Grandma? How can I explain what happened? I can hardly believe it myself, and I was there. Grandpa was fine galloping the horses out to find Ernesto and the sheep. He was fine digging a fire line to save them. It wasn't until all the danger was done that his heart gave out.
Hunger and thirst and fatigue make my head swim. The smell of horse sweat and smoke hangs in the air around me. I turn onto the county road that leads to the fairgrounds. I'm not on it fifty yards when a patrol car passes. It turns around and shines its headlights on me. An officer jumps out.
“Mr. Alderman? Brother? Is that you? Thank God!”
It's Deputy Himmel.
I still don't know what to say. Deputy Himmel runs up to the horses, lifts Grandpa's body by the shoulders to look at his face, and then lowers him gently back onto the saddle.
He turns to me and says, “Are you all right?” I nod, and he says, “Let's walk Mr. Alderman home.”
He drops back and walks beside the horse that's carrying the body, with a hand on Grandpa's shoulder like an honor guard. Tired as I am, I sit up straighter because even though Grandpa has been hours in heaven, his body deserves the respect.
Deputy Himmel must have radioed ahead. When we get to the entrance gate, Grandma is waiting for us, along with all the other families in the valley that evacuated there to escape the wildfire.
It's me Grandma comes to first. I slide down from the saddle and Grandma is right there, hugging me tight and saying “Thank God” over and over again, and I say, “I'm sorry. I'm sorry, Grandma. I just … and then he … and I didn't know what to do.”
“Don't be sorry,” she says, stroking the ashes out of my hair. “He wasn't alone; I didn't want him to be alone. And you're here. You're alive.”
She pulls back enough to look me in the face. “What would I tell your dad if I lost you?”
This I get.
“He found Ernesto and the sheep, and he saved them. He knew exactly what to do. And then, when it was all over …”
“His heart. I know.”
“He said … he just thinks … you're really, really beautiful, Grandma.”
And then she laughs and hugs me again, which is so like her, I feel a thousand pounds lighter.
The neighbors crowd in, kissing Grandma and shaking my hand. Grandma's best friend, Mary Gail, has her cell phone out seconds later and starts making arrangements to bring my brothers down from the mountains and get Pete home from Texas.
Paco and Rosita's whole family swarms us. If you are looking for loud lamenting, a Basque family is the way to go. Mr. Ugarte sobs openly, and all his brothers and sisters do the same. Rosita hugs me and gives me a kiss on the cheek, which isn't nearly as revolting as you might think, and Paco cries out loud, right in public— brave as a lion. The girls from school slip in and take the horses off to the barns. I find an unlocked truck while everyone is still talking, curl up on the seat, and fall asleep in my boots.
Three days later, I'm sitting on the front porch, looking out over some other planet—a planet with no living plants and no Grandpa. Acres of river-bottom grass are nothing but a smudge of soot over bare dirt. The corral is outlined with the charred remains of the fence, and the horses stand inside purely out of habit. Frank is at the store with Mary Gail, getting what we need for the wake and funeral. Jim and John are fixing the pump. Grandma comes out to the porch with a damp dish towel and wipes the soot off the flag. She holds it out against the sky and gives it a critical look. It's only a little bit scorched on the bottom edge, and there are a few pinpricks of light that show through where sparks fell. It's like some extra stars have fallen in with the stripes. Grandma gives it a final shake and leaves it hanging in the still air.
I just sit and look at the charred ground and twisted metal that used to be the barn. There was a cottonwood shading the south side. It had a tire swing, and when I was little, Pete used to push me so high, my feet would reach the crown of the hills. The scorched skeleton of a trunk and one branch are all that remain. A lump of half-melted truck tire lies at the base. It's the tree that brought down the barn.
The house is heat-blistered but still standing, only because Grandpa spent his last hour at home mowing down the dead grass so it wouldn't carry the flames to the walls of the house.
Grandpa hated mowing. “That's what sheep are for,” he would grump at Grandma when she made him trim the lawn for company. But he knew danger. I'm sure somewhere in his journals there is an accounting of every danger this family has faced and Grandpa's plan to fix it.
He knew it was a hazard to keep a tree near a building where a burning branch could fall and light up the roof. There's not even a shrub in reach of the house. But he knew I loved that tree and still rode the swing. I should have outgrown swing-riding years ago. Now there's nothing left of the barn except the concrete floor and a heap of scrap metal still warm to the touch.
Frank, Jim, and John came down from the mountains yesterday when they reopened the road to our place, and Pete just got in from Texas this morning. Before, whenever the boys came home, there'd be a racket of teasing, bickering, and wild stories, and Dad and Grandpa would be right there, making us behave and putting us to work. Now it's tomb quiet, even with all five of us. We've become a house full of men who don't know what to say to each other.
After a while, Pete finds me. He's in his class B uniform for travel, with the light green shirt and the pants with a stripe and the shiny black shoes. I slide over so he can sit by me on the porch step. He's taller than Dad now, and their voices are so much alike I can't tell them apart on the phone.
“I'm going to miss that tree,” Pete says, and tilts his head toward where the barn used to stand. “Grandpa used to push me on that swing sometimes when Mom was busy with the babies.”
I just nod and lean my head on his shoulder because, honestly, I've never thought of what it was like for him to be twelve, like me, and have four little brothers tearing up the place. Loud, I guess.
Pete slides an arm around me and says, “Jeez, Brother, it was lightning. Even God doesn't know where lightning is going to strike. Nobody is mad at you, not about Grandpa or the barn or anything. Besides, we can rebuild it. Dad and Grandma and I have a plan.
“I promised,” I say, and then I have to sniff up a whole glob of snot that suddenly appears in my nose. “I promised to take care of this place for him. I promised to keep it the same.” I've been squeezing that thought in and swallowing it down ever since we got back to the ranch.
Pete must be able to tell, because he just nods and says, “You can throw up if you want. Might be a good time for it.”
The minute he says it, I start gagging like a dog. Pete just sits there, patting me on the back like this is some kind of completely normal behavior.
A bunch of barfs later, Pete says, “Sometimes an empty stomach is better for news.” He hands me his handkerchief to wipe out my mouth. “I just got off the phone with Dad. His plane landed in Germany an hour ago, and he'll be home late tomorrow. Father Ziegler is going to drive him here from Fort Lewis. He'll probably miss most of the wake, but he'll be at the funeral Saturday for sure.”
Home—he's coming home! I never imagined it would be like this.
* * *
We spend hours getting ready for the wake. People and dishes of foo
d arrive steadily. Jim and Frank set up tables in the yard. John and Pete get an extra generator running and string up outdoor lights. By late in the afternoon, cousins, nieces, and nephews roll in from Chicago and Boise and Yakima.
Everyone is quiet at first. They say their bit to Grandma and look at all the pictures of Grandpa, but pretty soon folks loosen up. Mary Gail steers them to the tables, and they get to work on the platters of sandwiches and covered casseroles that are stacked three deep on the kitchen counter. After supper, the stories start flowing. Folks get to laughing, and Grandma is in the thick of it, telling the wildest stories of them all.
Most of the evening, I just sit on the edge of things and take it in. I hear a dozen versions of the Grandpa stories I've known all my life: how he grew up on a dairy farm in Nebraska, how he met Grandma while he was driving an ambulance in World War II, how he faced down a cattle rustler in the fifties without even pulling out a gun, how he writes to Quaker pastors and senators and bishops, and even presidents.
I just float over the top of all this talk, putting in the nods and “ums” where they go. I can't believe Dad is going to come home to this. I've imagined him coming home a thousand times—the parade, the spotless house, the cows and horses healthy and strong, and all the pieces of the operation in working order. Now he'll come home to this—a burned-out ranch that looks no better than a bombed street in Iraq. We've got a house, but no barn. Horses, but nothing to feed them. The pigs pulled through, but all that's left of the chickens are a handful of feathers and coyote prints in the mud by the river. The sheep will be fine with Ernesto, but what on earth are we going to feed the cattle this winter, with all our hay burned up?
The wake goes on, and I'm glad it's getting dark so Dad won't see the worst of it right away. Pete puts some plywood over the burned grass in the front yard, and pretty soon there is dancing and singing.
Dad comes home in the middle of it. I don't even see him at first. I just hear a hundred separate conversations join into one cheer as Father Ziegler drives up the gravel road to the house. Grandma gets to hug Dad first. Apparently, this is something a hundred people can agree on without talking about it, because everyone automatically stands back for her. But then Pete pokes me out in front of him. When Grandma steps aside, I finally get a full look at my dad.
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