Because Pinkey was in his sixties, McKay gave him only gentle horses to ride. “Dog gentle,” Pinkey liked to quip as Eleanor, his favorite mare, ate cookies and drank beer out of his hand.
On roundup, their nights were spent talking about the personalities of animals, what a horse’s mind was like, and no one there ever tired of such talk. And every year, after the dug-in routine of winter, McKay was glad for the long stint on horseback, of living with the herds. Sometimes when he looked out over them he failed to see how anyone could think an animal was stupid or uninteresting. The more years he rode, the more minds he was exposed to, the more it seemed as if there were no fundamental differences between a human and an animal, except that maybe animals were smarter. They rarely staged wars.
By the end of April all the pairs had been moved to spring pasture. The last day McKay wanted to ride the northernmost fence and check the youngest calves. He and Madeleine stopped at the spring where an old tin cup hung from a nail in the tree.
“I’m so stiff I don’t know if I can get off,” Madeleine said, so McKay brought her all the water she wanted. Then he drank too. From there he could see Bobby and Pinkey driving the chuckwagon home and hoped they would stay sober.
They rode up through the breaks where the soil turned sandy and pine trees grew. Their horses moved in unison. The air smelled moist and fresh and the sage smell was sharp under the horses’ feet. McKay stopped a few times to mend the top wire of the fence where deer had broken it down.
They reached Pinkey’s cow camp just before dark. McKay lit the kerosene lamp on the table. After, he helped Madeleine picket the horses. He lit a fire in the stove and Madeleine went through the cupboards for food but found only whiskey. The cabin was always neat but better stocked with booze than food. She took down the bottle of Cobb’s Creek and sat at the table where Pinkey had left a game of solitaire the fall before, and finished his game. McKay dipped a bucket of fresh water from the spring and put a pot of coffee on. He and Madeleine had spent so many summers of their life at this cow camp, they did these small chores without having to say anything.
When the water boiled, McKay dumped in three large spoonfuls of coffee, then poured cold water over the grounds. Madeleine found two old cups in the back of the cupboards and wiped them on her shirt.
“Do you want to play?” Madeleine said.
“No … do you?”
“No …”
Madeleine turned her chair so it faced McKay. She put her elbows on her knees and looked down.
“What?” McKay asked.
“I don’t know … I’ve missed you.”
“But we’ve been working together day and night.”
“I know.”
“You’ve seemed so distracted, though …”
“I guess I have been.”
Madeleine held his hand tightly, then gathered up the other one and held them both and he put his face down so the backs of her hands touched his cheeks. “He’s been gone almost two years.…”
McKay looked away.
“What’s the point?” he asked in a flat voice, and she knew he was bitter.
“There isn’t a point. There’s just right now, that’s all.”
McKay lay facedown on the bed. Madeleine filled the coffee cups and took them over. With one hand she rubbed his back. She was trembling and she had to keep looking outside because she felt herself filling and emptying over and over until the sensations became blurred. The whiskey touched the back of her throat and the warmth of the room softened her. She pulled McKay’s shirt up and touched the skin on his back and realized how rough her hand had become during months of feeding and calving.
“I still love you, you know,” she blurted out.
McKay turned slowly until he was on his back facing her. “Madeleine … I’m seeing someone else.”
Madeleine’s hand stopped moving.
“You know who it is, don’t you?” he asked.
“Yes.” For a long time neither of them spoke or moved.
“It’s just like us to have our timing all off,” Madeleine said at last.
McKay laughed. “It’s all right.…”
“No it isn’t—nothing’s all right,” she said.
McKay put his hand on her leg. “Give me some of that coffee.”
Madeleine passed the cup to him and he sat up to drink. When he was finished she leaned forward and pushed her head into his shoulder.
“I want you,” she said.
McKay stood suddenly and went to the door. He threw his coffee out on the ground and set the empty cup on the table next to the cards. He took off his boots. Madeleine’s eyes moved from McKay’s feet. He unfastened his jeans and shirt and scarf, his underwear. The yellow light of the lamp wavered against his body but he thought it was his mind vacillating. She held her arms out.
“Come here,” she said. Then she undressed too and he lay down beside her.
“This feels strange,” he said.
“Does it?” She put her hand on the small of his back.
“Call me something nice,” he said.
“Sweet pea …”
“No …”
“Lamb chop …”
She raised up on her elbows and looked at him.
“Sweetheart,” she said.
“Yes …”
She put her hand on the back of his neck and held his head to hers. “Closer …”
“I am,” he said.
“Closer …”
He moved over her and she held him back.
“Wait.”
“I can’t,” he said.
“Wait anyway—”
“For a long time?”
“No, not too long. I just want to see you.”
When he lay back his gold hair rose on the pillow like broken waves.
“I can’t stay like this too much longer,” he said.
“I know.…” She pulled him over on her again.
“Hello,” he said, touching her face.
She felt the warmth of the whiskey and his warmth in her body at the same time.
“Just stay like that,” she pleaded. “Don’t move yet—”
“I want to keep looking at you.…”
“I can’t—”
“You can.…”
“Oh, McKay …”
“What?”
Her eyes opened wide.
“Are you all right?” he asked, but she did not answer.
McKay woke once in the night and stoked the fire, and when he slipped back into bed Madeleine was awake and turned to him, and they made love again.
In the morning they dressed quickly and rode to the ranch. The days were just beginning to get long, so they could do a day’s worth of work before lunch and another day’s worth by nightfall. The horses blew hard, sneezing and snorting. Their hooves pounded down like posts being driven into frozen ground. At the corrals they pulled their saddles and broke the ice on the water gap so the horses could drink. Madeleine watched a flock of pine siskins that had overwintered on the ranch swoop and spin and land on the haystack. McKay looked at her.
“I feel rotten,” he said. “About Henry.”
Madeleine looked at the birds again, then at him. “It was my idea.…”
McKay wiped the dust from his face with a blue bandanna.
“Well, this is a hell of a time to feel remorse … goddamn, McKay …”
McKay held the folded bandanna in his hand and turned it over once, then stuffed it into his back pocket. Something made the birds take off and they swooped overhead.
“It’s not all right because of what we didn’t do years ago …,” McKay said.
Madeleine gave a look of surprise. She had waited for McKay to come forward, to make some move, but at the last moment he always ducked out.
“I waited for you,” she said flatly.
“I know.” McKay took the bandanna from his back pocket again and wiped his face, giving the impression that it was hot, though it wasn’t because the sun
had just come up over the ridge and ice spanned the ditches. “I’m sorry,” he said, though Madeleine didn’t know whether he was saying it to her or to Henry or to himself. Then he picked up the two saddles, carried them into the saddle shed, and walked in silence to the house.
Bobby flipped pancakes, listening to the morning farm report, and the ones that weren’t perfectly round he gave to the dogs. When McKay and Madeleine came in he turned, holding the spatula midair, and frowned at McKay, then went back to his work, whistling. On the table were platters of deer liver, fried eggs, pots of jam, and syrup. McKay and Madeleine took off their coats and chaps, then sat down to eat. When Bobby joined them, McKay caught the old man’s eyes. The look on Bobby’s face was pensive, then, as he looked at McKay and Madeleine eating together, he smiled.
“God, he always knows everything,” McKay thought.
The phone rang. It was for Madeleine. She twisted herself in the phone cord and faced down the dark hall to the living room as she listened. Then she hung up and, wheeling, grabbed Bobby and hid her face.
“What? Tell Bobby.…”
When her head lifted, her eyes met McKay’s.
“Oh God … oh God,” she said in a hoarse whisper. “He’s alive!”
McKay pushed his chair from the table.
“There’s a letter at the post office. It’s from a prison camp.”
“Henry?” McKay said in disbelief.
“It’s from a prison camp in Japan.…”
“Henry …,” McKay said again. He held her now. Then she wiggled from him.
After, Bobby filled McKay’s plate again but he only stared at the food.
“You think Henry alive?” Bobby asked.
“Yes I do.”
“Then you better leave Madeleine alone,” he said curtly and took the plates away.
McKay put his foot in the stirrup and swung on the colt. From the road above the grainfield he could see the entire ranch—house, outbuildings, calving sheds, and Bobby bent over in the huge garden. People in town always talk about the bracing, stoical unity a war brings, how it makes a doer of everyone, how it makes for strange bedfellows … but hell, almighty, he had all that before the war. “That’s city-talk,” he thought. That’s nothing a sheepherder doesn’t know. And they say sheepherders are stupid.…”
He rode to the end of the road, then turned back. The spring sky changed every minute or so, but the feel of the horse under him always felt the same, the way home feels the same, even when someone changes the furniture.
The envelope was narrow and long and made of rice paper. Down one side was a string of Japanese characters. The part of the envelope where Henry’s writing showed was wrinkled, though still legible. She opened the top flap carefully. Lidia, the postmaster, pressed herself so close, her breasts touched Madeleine’s elbow, and the others who had come in for the mail slowly formed a circle around her. The lobby was small and after reading the letter through once to herself, she began to read aloud.
I am alive. I was taken prisoner of war in 1942. My health was good when we surrendered and it’s good now. We’ve been growing a garden and we’re getting more to eat now. I keep thinking how tough this has been on you and I’m sorry. I know you’re taking good care of things. You always were a better hand than me. With luck I’ll be home someday when all this is over and we’ll see if I can still rope a steer or ride a bronc. Please say hello to everyone. I love you, Henry.
After, Madeleine held the letter for a long time and let her eyes run over the words. It was his writing, though a little shakier than usual.
“And all this time I thought he was dead,” she thought, “because in that big ocean, how can someone missing in action ever be found?”
She looked up. The throng had thinned, but Lidia met her eyes.
“I wasn’t prepared for good news,” Madeleine explained. “I don’t know what to do.”
Lidia hugged her again, until finally Madeleine pulled away from her soft bulk. “You don’t have to do anything,” Lidia said. Madeleine looked at the date on the letter again: August 16, 1942. Her expression changed.
“This letter is eight months old.… Anything could have happened between then and now.…”
“Don’t think like that,” Lidia admonished.
Madeleine nodded wordlessly and walked out the door.
When Carol Lyman reached the post office, people were still talking about “the miracle.”
“What miracle?” Carol demanded, and Lidia told her. Carol closed her eyes and pursed her lips as if she had just eaten a lemon. “How wonderful,” she said at last in a choked voice. “That’s what I’ve been waiting for.”
“The new list is up,” Lidia reminded her, but Carol did not look at it.
As Carol started her car she felt like exploding. “Willard, your uncle is alive,” she said aloud though there was no one to hear. When she saw Madeleine on the street she wondered whether she should stop and say something. But Madeleine waved her down first.
“I heard the news,” Carol yelled, rolling down the window. “It’s glorious.”
Madeleine leaned against the black coupe, clutching the letter to her chest. “I can’t believe it,” she gasped.
“This calls for a celebration, don’t you think?” Carol said. “Hop in, you’re in no condition to drive.”
Madeleine shrugged. She didn’t want to go home and face McKay. “Where are we going?” she asked, settling back in the seat. She touched Carol’s sunglasses on the dashboard, then put them on. “How do I look?”
“Like a movie star,” Carol quipped as she sped through town. “Is Snuff’s okay? He’ll be so pleased to hear.…”
Madeleine took a deep breath. “Sure.”
Carol drove faster than usual. She wanted the exhilaration of speed. She looked over at Madeleine, whose eyes were closed.
“Is that the letter?” Carol asked.
“Yes,” she said, and slid her finger over the ink on the envelope as if it were Henry’s face. She thought about him—wiry, funny, impulsive. Nothing like the letter. Maybe the camp had broken him and he would come back with a blank look in his eyes, or maybe he was dying of malnutrition and all his hair had fallen out. Either that, or he was raising hell, charming the guards into doing things his way. Hard to know. Maybe he wasn’t even alive anymore.
“Do you want me to read it to you?” Madeleine asked.
“Oh yes, that would be grand.”
Madeleine read slowly: “I am alive,” the letter began. Listening, Carol wished she could get her sunglasses back. She fought tears. “I musn’t let anything show,” she said to herself and tried to concentrate on driving.
Snuff’s parking lot was empty.
“Did you hear?” Carol’s voice rang out as they entered the bar.
Snuff looked up from washing glasses. “I hope it’s good.”
“It is,” Madeleine said softly.
“Oh, I didn’t see you.”
“Henry’s alive …,” Carol said. “He’s a prisoner of war in Japan.”
Snuff extended his hand over the bar to Madeleine.
“Great news.… It must make things a little easier, huh?”
Madeleine nodded.
“Drinks on the house.”
“Have you ever had a Manhattan?” Carol asked. “Why don’t you have one with me?”
Madeleine laughed. “Sure. Why not. What’s in it anyway?”
“You’ll see,” Snuff said, shaking the container.
Snuff set their drinks down and the two women lifted their glasses in unison. After taking a sip, Madeleine whistled.
“Wow. That’s one hell of a drink. It’s not too bad,” she said, making a face at Snuff.
“Here’s to Henry. I wish there was more we could do for him,” Snuff said, raising his glass.
“Henry,” Carol said, relishing the sound of his name.
Madeleine and Carol shared another round.
“Now I won’t have to go to the post office
anymore,” Carol mused. “I’ve been reading the casualty lists everyday, you know.”
“I didn’t realize you had relatives in …,” Madeleine said.
“Oh goodness, I don’t really. I’m quite alone,” she said primly. “But you and I …” She paused and put her finger to her lips. “You and I are … related.”
“What do you mean?”
“It’s really Henry …”
“Henry?”
“And Willard. What I mean is that you are, in a way, Willard’s aunt.”
Madeleine put her glass down.
Clearing her throat, Carol touched her hand to the top wave of her hair. She caught Snuff’s eyes, then looked away.
“Yes,” she said, then took another drink. “I’ve kept it from you …”
“What are you saying?”
“Willard is illegitimate.”
Madeleine felt her face redden. “I can’t believe it.”
“I couldn’t tell anyone … but the war … and now with Henry taken prisoner and whatnot … I thought it best.” Carol looked down at the front of her peach-colored sweater. She had spilled part of her drink on it and with her finger, tried to remove the stain. She knew she had misled Madeleine into thinking that Willard was Henry’s child, not Carter’s, but did nothing to correct that impression.
Madeleine set her drink down and walked out the door.
“What’s wrong with her?” Snuff said, wiping the counter.
Carol looked up but her eyes followed Madeleine.
“Carol?”
When she stood, she staggered a little bit, then smoothed the front of her dress. “Oh dear. I think I’ve overdone it this time,” she said.
22
Rain boiled over the mountains that night and did not let up for two days. Carol Lyman stood out on the front porch of her frame house and smelled the air. A flock of finches swarmed the tree.…
“Willard, come look. Those little birds are back,” she called out.
Willard came to the porch carrying his willow. He ran his hand up and down the bark, feeling the scars and knots. It was the only skin he ever touched except his own.
“Can you hear those birds?” Carol asked.
Willard smiled and held his willow out from under the porch roof. Rivulets of rain ran down the tiny trunk, darkening it, wetting his hand and arm. Then one finch alighted on the top branch, then another and another, until the willow was full of birds. Willard gasped with delight.
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