The Fool's Progress

by Edward Abbey

  He lied to her: Pig season starts in two weeks. I’m going to have to spend at least ten days out at Turkey Creek. Can’t let Lacey and the Hooligan face those pig hunters alone. They’ll kill somebody.

  That’s what you’re worried about?

  The music came to its end, the record player click-clacked to a predetermined stop.

  Yes, he said.

  I’m going with you.

  No you’re not. In your eighth month? Absolutely not. No.

  Yes. It won’t hurt me. We’ll be careful. I want to see that line cabin at the spring, that Oak Springs you call it, the place you say is so beautiful. I want one more wilderness honeymoon with my husband before I become a professional mother. I need one more final vacation, Henry.

  Out of the question, he explained.

  XVII

  Henry and Claire stayed in the ranch house for the first three days of javelina season. While his wife knitted booties and caps and a sweater for a miniature humanoid, Henry guarded the gate. Backed up by the reasonably sober Lacey and the fairly straight Hooligan he faced down the sportsmen, the drunk and the ignorant, the shitfaced the red-eyed the mean. A surly crew, the pig hunters spat on the ground toward Henry’s feet, wrinkled their brows in dense concentration upon his words and spat again. Carbines and rifles cradled in their arms, jeep and truck motors idling behind them, vapors rising in the gelid air. A cold rain fell along Turkey Creek, blackening the sycamore leaves that covered the ground, swelling the fluted columns of the giant saguaro cactus on the bench above. Beyond the cactus forest, over the cliff walls of rosy-red andesite, blue-gray basalt, anyone with eyes could see the gleam of snow at the four-thousand-foot line on the slopes of Flat Top. Winter up there. Late autumn down here.

  The pig hunters came, they growled, grunted, threatened, looked hurt and menacing and went away, tailpipes smoking. Five minutes down the rocky road and the report of handguns, the violent discharge of rifles, echoed through the canyon. The entrance sign at the cattle guard took on the sievelike aspect, more holes than substance, of Swiss cheese or Scholastic metaphysics—as Henry pointed out when the six of them, he and Claire and Hooligan and Lacey and their two young women friends, strolled down the road at evening for relaxation and laughter.

  How big is a javelina? Claire asked, from the depths of the downy hood on her down jacket.

  I’ve seen ’em get up to fifty pounds, Hooligan said.

  That’s the size of a medium-small dog.

  Yeah except that little pig can tear up a Doberman, a pit bull, a Rhodesian ridgeback, any dog there is.

  Do the hunters eat them?

  Oh some eat what there is to eat. Javelina’s mostly hoof and bone, bristle and gristle. Some people like to roast the head, eat the brains. Hooligan grinned. That’s the tastiest part of javelina. I like the tongue myself. There ain’t much else.

  Then why kill them?

  Why? Hooligan paused, looked helplessly at Lacey, at Henry, at the other two girls. Why? Help me, somebody. He opened a round tin from the hip pocket of his jeans and packed a wad of snuff between gum and cheek. Tell her something, Keaton.

  Lacey smiled at Claire. Thirty years old, he had a mane of snowy white hair. He was broad, blue-eyed, square-jawed, handsome as a store-window mannequin. He sucked on the joint of marijuana between his lips, passed it to his girlfriend. For the sport, Claire, what else? The little beasts are fast, hard to find, hard to hit. The pig hunters shoot them for the sport.

  Disgusting, Claire said.

  Lacey looked cross. You wouldn’t understand, he said. Only a hunter can understand hunting.

  It’s a spiritual thing, Henry explained. Le sport.

  I can understand hunting for food, said Claire, but I do not understand hunting for sport. It seems to me there’s a big difference.

  There is and there ain’t, said Hooligan, grinning.

  It’s a thing men do, Lacey growled.

  And you have to be a man to understand men. Is that right, Keaton?

  That’s right.

  Disgusting, said Claire.

  On the third day they were left in peace. No hunters appeared. The rain stopped and the sun came out. The word is getting around, Hooligan said. Unless they’re sneaking in the back way, said Henry, around the mountain and past Oak Springs. Let’s go, Claire said.

  No. The road’s too rough for you now.

  I want to see that place. It might be my last chance for a long time.

  Out of the question, Henry said. Absolutely.

  Claire smiled. Absolutely?

  Absolutely.

  On the morning of the fourth day Henry loaded bedrolls, first-aid kit and a week’s supply of food in the bed of the ranch pickup and headed up Turkey Creek under the leafless sycamores. He forded the winding stream, muddy from the rains, a dozen times in four miles and reached the foot of the steep switchbacks where the road climbed out of the canyon. He got out and locked the front hubs, got back in and shifted into four-wheel drive, low gear low range and started up the staircase of stone ledges that led to the mesa rim above. The engine whined, the cab rocked from side to side, pitching like a boat though he drove as slowly and carefully as he could. Really do need new shocks on this old wreck, he thought, just like Lacey says. He reached the top, opened the wire gate and drove through, stopped and closed the gate. The old gray gelding stood nearby, watching, hoping. Henry drove on for another five miles and turned left at the fork near the windmill. He looked at the pocket watch swinging back and forth on the dashboard: nine miles in forty-five minutes. He drove west and south along the base of Flat Top Mountain, climbing slowly. There were plates of ice on the puddles in the road but the snow was gone at this elevation, sublimated by the sun. He drove on, slowly, carefully, easing over the rocks, ruts, bumps, painfully aware of the passenger at his side. The road traversed a talus slope, loose stone above and below reposing uneasily at an angle of fifty degrees. He rolled a few rocks from the track and drove ahead, cleared the slope, reached a bench of level land overgrown with a pygmy forest of juniper, pinyon pine, agave, manzanita, hackberry. The road wound across the base of the bench, following the contour line, and entered a wide ravine in the next fold of the mountain. They came to the bare sycamores along the little run, then the horse corral and the cabin itself half hidden under the grove of Arizona white oaks. Henry drove the truck to the cabin porch, stopped, shut off the motor. He looked at Claire.

  Are you all right?

  She smiled, though her face seemed tense and white. I’m fine, she said.

  You sure?

  That road is a little rough.

  He checked the time. Almost two hours to get here. We should not have done this, he said. I should not have brought you up here. This was a crazy stupid thing to do.

  It’s beautiful here. I love it. I wouldn’t have missed this for anything.

  You stay here till I get a fire going. Sick with dread, he pushed open the cabin door and kindled a fire in the iron cookstove. Flame rumbled up the pipe. He closed the damper and went outside. Claire had disobeyed him, left the truck and climbed the point of rock above the spring. Golden hair streaming in the wind, she faced the sun and the west, gazing across the olive benchlands and purple canyons toward the valley, the dim outline of the Superstition Range, the poisonous haze of Phoenix a hundred miles away.

  Get down from there. Where’s your coat?

  Beautiful, she said, it’s absolutely splendid here.

  Get down.

  Oh Henry be quiet. I’m not an invalid. I’m not sick. I’m only pregnant for godsake. The most natural thing in the world. Stop fussing over me so much. She gazed about for another minute, smiling with pleasure, and began to climb down from the sandstone slabs, moving heavily, awkwardly. She was wearing one of Henry’s flannel shirts, size extra-large, which hung over her distended abdomen like a smock. Stop staring at me, I’ll be right down.

  She slipped. He sprang forward to catch her but she caught herself before falling, hands a
round the bole of a young oak. On her knees, she looked at him, grinned, pulled herself up, took his extended hand and came down over the damp grass to the cabin.

  Stupid, he muttered, stupid, I should never have brought you here.

  Stop fussing. She clung to his neck, kissed him on nose and grizzled cheek and mouth. I’m hungry. Get out the wine, I’ll get dinner started.

  He glanced at the sun, half concealed behind a shoal of accumulating clouds. A stiff breeze blew from the northwest. Dinner? he said. It’s only about three o’clock.

  What does that have to do with anything? I’m hungry. It’s winter. It’ll be dark soon. I hate to cook in the dark. Hate to eat in the dark. Hate to make love in the dark.

  He led her inside, restoked the fire, lit the kerosene lamp on the table. The cabin did seem small and gloomy with the door shut and windows only on the north and east. He opened two bottles of wine—one red, one white—and carried in the grub box and the bedroll, a bucketful of fresh water from the spring and an armload of split juniper and oak. The fragrance of good wood graced the chill air of the cabin.

  Claire held a pan up to the weak light, looking for mouse droppings, dead silverfish, retired spiders. Satisfied, she put the pan on the stove and began to slice onions. Henry embraced her from behind, burying his face in her hair, kissed her neck, her earlobe. Be back in ten minutes, he whispered. Stay inside or I’ll kill you. She was singing as he left.

  With ax, gloves and fencing pliers he walked the path beyond the cabin to the boundary line. He saw the tread marks of a light motorcycle in the mud. The fence was down. He walked farther to a thicket of scrub oak on the uphill side, cut down a dozen small trees—every third one—and left them lying in a brushy tangle across the trail. He returned to the fenceline, stretched and spliced the four strands of barbed wire. The metal placard hanging from the top strand—WILDLIFE SANCTUARY, NO FIREARMS OR MOTORIZED VEHICLES PERMITTED—was shot full of bullet holes. Like the others. Henry returned to the cabin, the glow of lamplight in the window, the woodsmoke streaming flat out southeastward from the top of the chimney. His ears felt cold. As he opened the door he smelled the welcoming aroma of sautéed onions, steamed brown rice, baked chicken, fried vegetables. Her specialty: his favorite dish.

  Claire was sitting on the near cot, glass of white wine in hand. You need a double bed in this hut, she said; I don’t sleep alone anymore.

  Me neither, he said.

  Did you ever?

  Henry felt the reflexive smirk forming on his face and suppressed it. That was long ago, he said. Long ago and far away. He thought she looked flushed, her eyes cloudy—but that would be from the cooking. Or the wine. He pushed the second cot against the first, both against the wall, unrolled the first-class zip-together sleeping bags and joined them as one.

  Is that what you call a two-man bag, Henry?

  Nope. It’s a Claire-and-Henry bag.

  What are you, a sexist? some kind of homophobe?

  Yep.

  Good. I’m glad. She poured him a glass of the red wine. They touched glasses. Here’s to Junior.

  Here’s to Shorty.

  They drank. He placed a hand on her belly. What are we gonna call this critter anyhow? He put his mouth to her belly. Hey you in there: what’s your name, kid? He put his cold ear down, listening for the answer.

  If it’s a boy we call it Paul after your little brother. Right? And if it’s a girl—? Any new ideas?

  The only girl’s name I can ever think of is Claire.

  Oh you’re such a sappy fellow. And such a liar. All those wenches and witches you used to to know, all those Comforts and Joys and Jills and Valeries and Kathys and Candys and Susans and Serenas and Sibyls and Myrtles and Mary Anns…

  Never heard of them. Supper ready?

  Do you realize we’ve been married for a year and a half now, Henry? Or is it two and a half? You realize that, Henry?

  It’s been a long time.

  And we’re still in love? Do you realize that?

  I know, he said, it’s ridiculous. I can’t understand it myself. And he slipped to his knees before her, wrapped his arms and locked his hands around her hips, shut his eyes and sank his face in her lap. He thought he was going to weep. And she ran her free hand through his thatch of black greasy hair, sipped more wine and stared out the north window at the red light in the sky, the remote and undiscovered mountains, the trees swaying in the wind.

  He heard a little scream. He opened his eyes and heard the wail of wind, the loose sheet of metal rattling on the roof. The room was pitch-dark, the night black and starless beyond the window glass. He heard the scream again, cut short, smothered, and reached toward Claire. The lining of the sleeping bag was wet beneath her, the bottom of her nightshirt soaked with a sticky liquid. He sat up suddenly. She was staring at him, her face pale in the darkness.

  Claire!

  The bag broke.

  What?

  The bag. The water sac. I’m getting contractions.

  He scrambled from the bed, found his flashlight, struck a match and lit the kerosene lamp. Claire was looking wide-eyed at the roof-beams, hands on her belly, knees up, waiting for the next wave of pain. The fire was nearly dead in the stove, the air chilly, but he saw sweat on her forehead. You think it’s coming?

  Feels like it. Oh Henry, oh my God Henry, it feels like it. I think so. What should we do?

  Easy. Take it easy. Let’s be calm. He looked wildly about the cabin, searching for something. What? He didn’t know. Build up the fire, get some water heated? What for? Or get her at once into the truck, head for the ranch headquarters two three hours away in the dark, race for Tucson and the hospital another four or five hours beyond the ranch? Labor, her first baby: how long would it take? No first-aid course he’d ever dozed through had taught him the most elementary of procedures: the home delivery of a child. A premature child? What did that involve?

  He knelt by the bed, wiped her forehead and upper lip with his bandana. She stared upward, eyes wide open, anticipating pain. Look, he said, relax now. Rest between the contractions. I’ll go out and get the truck warmed up.

  It’s too soon, she whispered. Too soon. It’s a month early. The baby will die.

  No it won’t. You’re okay, nothing to worry about. Hang tight there, I’ll be right back. He pulled on his jacket and hustled out into the cold wind. Darkness. He felt sleet or snow stinging his face. He stumbled toward the black bulk of the truck, found the driver’s door, got in, started the engine. He put the transmission in neutral, set the hand throttle, turned on heater and blower, hurried back into the cabin. Claire lay as before, waiting. He put one arm under her shoulders, outside of the sleeping bag, and the other under her legs. He meant to carry her, bag and all, to the truck.

  Wait, she said.

  We better get going.

  No, wait. It’s coming. And she stiffened, groaned, bit her lower lip and reached for Henry’s neck, clinging to him for what seemed like long slow minutes but was probably no more than a few seconds. Should time these things, he knew, but he’d forgotten to bring the watch in from the truck. Then he realized that Claire had a watch on her wrist and that she was checking it.

  Thirty seconds, she said, that one lasted thirty seconds. And it’s four minutes since the last one. Henry, it’s coming now. The baby is coming.

  No, listen, this is your first baby, it’s gotta take at least six hours, ten hours. (I think—he thought.) We better go. We have time to get to a hospital. We could go to Safford. A lot closer than Tucson.

  I’m afraid to ride down that awful road again.

  Honey, my Honeydew, we have to do it.

  Let me see your flashlight. He gave her the light. She switched it on, lifted the cover of the sleeping bag and looked down at the pinkish fluids between her legs. He looked too. The membrane has ruptured, she said. It’s coming.

  Yes, he agreed. (But what membrane is that? he wondered.) Then we better get on the road.

  No Henry, w
ait. She looked at her watch. She seemed calmer now, at least for the moment. She looked at him and he saw thought and planning behind the glaze of fear in her eyes. I don’t want to ride in that truck now. Not over that awful road. I’m afraid something terrible will happen. I’ll have the baby right here. This is better. You can help me.

  They stared at each other, amazed, daring, frightened.

  Damn it Claire, how could I do this to you?

  Don’t talk that way. I wanted to come. I bullied you into it. And stop gaping at me. It’s cold. Build a fire.

  She squeezed shut her eyes, gritted her teeth, began to moan. He wadded his bandana into a tight roll and pushed it between her lips. Bite on this, honey. She took it and reached for him. They clung to each other as the wave of contractions came and passed.

  Sweating again, she opened her eyes and read her wristwatch. Thirty-five seconds.

  All right, he said. Take it easy now. Save your strength. You’re gonna have to do some heavy pushing pretty soon. Gently he disengaged her hands, opened the firebox of the stove, thrust in sticks of kindling on top of the red coals. Heard the pickup’s motor rumbling outside. Can’t let that thing run out of gas. He went out, aware of snow streaming past his eyes, shut off the engine. If only we had radio contact, he thought; we need some Motorolas on this place. But what good would that be in this situation? Have Lacey and Hooligan bring their lady friends up here? What could they do that Henry could not do? Neither was a medic of any kind; Lacey’s girl Christine worked as a go-go dancer—what else?—in some sleaze pit called the Blue Note that Henry himself was not unacquainted with. And the other, Anne, peddled dope for a living. And also danced. Nice girls—but not mothers. Not yet. Not exactly motherly types.

  Into the cabin again. He closed the door against the pressure of the wind, taking care not to slam it. Claire gave him a weak smile. He added fuel to the stove, pulled aside a stove lid and set the dishpan, half filled with clear rinse water, over the flames in the opening. The water bucket was empty. He grabbed bucket and flashlight and rushed out to the spout of water from the log trough below the spring. Filled the bucket as streaks of the old cowardice rose to the surface of his consciousness: What am I doing here? How’d I get in this mess? Me, Henry, Henry Holyoak Lightcap, born to be a raider on horseback from the steppes, a relentless hunter stalking a wounded hairy mammoth through alder jungles under the blue-green wall of a glacier, a professor of existentialist metaphysics illuminating the essence of Being and Nothingness in a lecture hall—SRO—packed with five hundred breathless awestruck adoring students…