In Open Spaces

by Russell Rowland

  Jack continued to stroke Rita’s cheek, and I could see that Rita was moved by this act. Lying there looking up at him, there was a softness in her gaze that was usually reserved for her boys. When a spasm rocked her, she reached out and grabbed Jack’s hand. I felt a pang of jealousy. Jack looked down at her hand, as if it was the first time he’d ever held one. He put it to his chest.

  “Well, somebody’s got to catch those calves that got out,” I said. “Bob, you want to man the gate while I round them up?”

  Bob nodded, starting toward the corral.

  “I’ll give you a ride,” Art told Bob.

  We made a dramatic entrance into the house, with Jack and Art supporting Rita by each arm, and the rest of us explaining in bursts what happened. They led Rita to Mom and Dad’s bedroom, and the accident brought out everyone’s fundamental desire to do the one thing that would be most helpful.

  Gary suggested that his wife Trudy drive to Capitol to get the doctor.

  “No, actually, one of you men should go, otherwise supper won’t get done in time,” Trudy said.

  “If one of us goes, the branding won’t get done,” Dad said. “We can wait to eat if it comes to that, but we got to finish the branding today.”

  “Maybe I should go,” Mom suggested. “Trudy, you’re right in the middle of making your bread. I wouldn’t want to ruin it. You seem to be the only one who can get it right.”

  “No, no, no, Catherine,” Trudy insisted, waving her hand. “You won’t have any problem. A little more kneading, then it has to set for a couple hours. That’s all that’s left to do. I should go.”

  Jenny Glasser, who was so quiet that when she did speak, everyone looked at her as though they’d forgotten she was in the room, made her offering. “Who’s going to watch Rita?”

  “I’ll keep an eye on her,” Muriel said. “I can work on the pies and watch her too.”

  That covered everything, and Trudy left to find Dr. Sorenson while the rest of us went about the business of lunch. As we sat eating, Rita suddenly appeared in the doorway, bracing herself against the wall. Jack was out of his chair in a flash.

  “Sweetheart, what the hell are you doing?”

  “I’m hungry,” she said. “I feel fine.” Sweat covered her forehead, and she had to brace herself against the door frame. She was completely white.

  “We’ll bring you some food. You’ve got to stay in bed until the doctor gets a look at you,” Mom said. She started to rise from her chair, but Jack motioned for her to stay put.

  Jack wrapped his arm around Rita and led her toward the bedroom.

  “I think I’m okay,” Rita was saying. “I think I can go back to riding this afternoon.”

  Jack chuckled. “Oh no you don’t.”

  We could not hear the rest of their conversation, but Jack’s tone was insistent.

  Steve sat shaking his head. “Who’d of thought someone from New Jersey would be the toughest one in this county?”

  Mom prepared a plate for Rita and took it in to her. Mom and Jack came out talking quietly, their heads nearly touching. Mom had her hand in the crook of Jack’s elbow, a show of affection I hadn’t seen her show him in years.

  We didn’t linger over lunch, knowing that we were already behind, and short one hand. We hurried back to the corral, and after a short discussion about who would take which job, we were back at it. One person had to man the gate and also do the tallying, and Jack volunteered. And as often happened, a near-tragedy brought our attention into a much tighter focus. We moved like one collective animal, with even the cattle seemingly in sync. The calves practically stuck their hooves in front of our lassos and lay down on their own. None bolted from the corral all afternoon. And the mothers gathered against the planks, as if they’d conferred and agreed to stay out of our way.

  We hardly spoke. The heat didn’t let up, nor did the mosquitoes, but those were the only nuisances of the afternoon. We not only finished, but we finished early. It was one of those rare, enchanted stretches of time when the world actually seemed like a pretty simple place.

  The women were shocked to see us arrive back at the house, wearing smiles bigger than our faces and clapping each other’s back. Jack looked worried until we found out that Dr. Sorenson had determined that Rita probably had a few cracked ribs, but no internal damage.

  Once Jack heard this, his shoulders relaxed. I felt the same relief, but more privately, of course. Jack started toward the bedroom, but Mom gripped his arm. “She just fell asleep.”

  “All right,” he said. “Of course.”

  We surrounded the table, which was soon covered with a huge beef roast, fried potatoes, fresh garden tomatoes, Trudy’s bread—straight from the oven—and a thick, dark skillet gravy. And for dessert—pies. Apple, mincemeat, and a luscious sour cream—raisin. We ate like demons, leaving hardly a scrap. And we laughed. We laughed at everything, especially after Dad broke out two bottles he’d asked Art to bring along. We rarely had liquor in our home, but this day was obviously charmed, and we filled our glasses generously, as if for this one evening we were invincible even to the effects of alcohol. But I noticed that Jack drained and refilled his glass much more frequently than anyone else did. About halfway through dinner, his eyelids began to droop.

  “Here’s to the best damn neighbors in the county,” Dad said, raising his glass.

  We all seconded the sentiment, draining our drinks with a synchronized tip of the glasses. We moved into the living room after dinner, filled to the brim with food, drink, and the satisfaction of a productive day.

  “Are there any dances this weekend?” Trudy asked.

  “Camp Crook is having one,” Bob answered.

  “Is that Stillwell girl going to be there?” I asked Bob.

  He gave me a hard look, blushed, and looked at his palms. “I wouldn’t know.”

  “The Stillwell girl?” Steve asked, his lazy eye wandering. “You sweet on her, Bob?”

  Bob rubbed his palms against his thighs. “Nah. I’m not sweet on anyone.”

  “She’s pretty,” Jack said, his voice a little too loud.

  “Smart, too,” Muriel added. “She was valedictorian when I was a freshman.”

  “I’m not sweet on her,” Bob said, a little louder. He set his mouth in a straight line.

  “Well, she’s a nice girl anyway,” Mom said. “Are you folks going?” she asked Glassers.

  “Oh, you damn right,” Steve said. “You know I don’t miss a dance.”

  “How about you?” Jack turned to Jenny, deliberately, with a sly grin. “Are you goin’?”

  Jenny lowered her eyes, obviously uncomfortable with being addressed. It was a strange question considering Steve had just said they would be going, and Jack’s leering manner made it even more strange.

  “’Course she’s going,” Steve said. “Jenny loves to dance.” We all knew otherwise, and we chuckled, trying to make light of the situation.

  “Do you really like to dance, Jenny?” Jack leaned forward in his chair, moving a little closer to Jenny. His eyes were nearly closed now.

  Jenny stood up. “I’m going to see how Rita’s doing.” She emphasized Rita’s name, looking directly at Jack. But Jack sank back into his chair, not the least put off, a dreamy grin on his face.

  Steve got up and followed his wife to the bedroom. The rest of us sat in that sort of uncomfortable silence that numbs the brain, the kind that makes you feel as though you never have and never will carry on an intelligent conversation. I sat wishing Jack would disappear, or fall asleep, embarrassed that he would be so insensitive when Rita was lying injured just two rooms away.

  Dad finally brought us out of it. “You get bit today, Art?”

  Art was just then scratching away at his back. “The little bastards made a meal of me, all right,” he said. “Left me just enough blood to keep me propped up in my saddle.”

  “You wearing some kind of perfume?” I asked. “I can’t figure out why they all go for you.”


  “It’s my pretty smile, I guess.” Art showed his half-toothless, no-jaw grin below his drooping mustache.

  “I think that face would kill ’em before it would make ’em want to suck on you,” Jack mumbled, squinting at Art.

  Art smiled and shook his head, making an obvious effort to believe Jack was kidding.

  “Yep, you are a piece of work, Art.” Jack tilted his sleepy-eyed face toward Art, and his cruel tone changed our laughter into nervous chuckles. Art gave him a long look, but didn’t say a word. Steve and Jenny returned, and Jenny made a point of switching seats with Steve, who had been sitting further from Jack. Steve again tried to lighten the mood.

  “Well, Rita’s looking good, getting her color back. That bruise is going to be nasty, though.”

  Just then, Jack stood and left the room. We all breathed easier for a minute, thinking he was going to go look in on his wife. But he came back carrying a big fruit jar. The contents sloshed over the rim, and the smell of alcohol filled the room. And the seconds passed, and the tension built as Jack guzzled the drink, and we wondered whether he was going to do something more obnoxious than he already had, or if he would pass out before he had the opportunity. I gritted my teeth, despising the fact that anyone could take a woman like Rita for granted the way my brother had for so many years. How he could claim to love her and then show such blatant disregard.

  But the fear of provoking Jack kept me in my chair, my teeth clenched but my muscles tense, ready to spring if something unexpected happened. Like most of us in the room, I did not look at Jack, but kept him in the corner of my eye at all times.

  Jack settled back into his seat and drank deeply, looking pleased with himself, and drunkenly unaware that his actions were causing so much discomfort. Mom got up, her face flushed, and went to the kitchen. The sounds of clattering dishes and running water echoed through the house. Jenny followed Mom. Then, as if it was the most natural thing in the world, Jack stood and announced, “I guess I’ll give them a hand in there.”

  It was the one and only time I remember Jack offering to help with the dishes, and I’m sure this occurred to everyone else in the room. I watched the stiff smile disappear from Steve’s face as Jack staggered toward the kitchen.

  We all sat with one ear aimed toward the kitchen, our mouths sealed shut with fear. Dad looked awful tired. We heard a steady drone, Jack’s voice, mingling with the sounds of washing dishes. I finally resorted to the only thing I could think of.

  “Wonder how long this heat’s going to last.”

  The others merely nodded, and more minutes of quiet followed in what I think may be the only time in the history of Montana that even the weather failed as a topic of conversation. Finally, the silence broke. A rising, angry declaration bellowed from the kitchen, punctuated by the crash of a dish shattering against the floor. We jumped up, running to the kitchen.

  Jenny stood with her back against the sink, her hands clenched into tight fists at her waist. Her mouth was pinched, and her face, which was generally white as chicken feathers, was dark red right up to her hairline. Mom stood between her and Jack, with a butcher knife in her hand, aimed right at Jack’s chest. I couldn’t breathe.

  I don’t think Jack even saw the knife. He still had that stupid grin on his face, and he looked right past Mom, at Jenny.

  “Jenny, darling, are you rejecting my invitation?” he asked.

  Dad grabbed Jack from behind.

  “Hey,” Jack muttered, looking truly confused. “What’s the matter?”

  “Let’s take you on home,” Dad said. “Come on. I’ll walk you home.”

  “Oh, no,” Jack said. “I ain’t ready to go home yet.”

  “Yeah, well, I think it’d be a good idea if you did anyway,” Dad insisted, his face straining.

  “Jenny, do you want me to go home?” Jack raised his forehead and smiled at Jenny, trying to look sweet but falling far short of that objective.

  “Shut up,” Mom muttered. “Just shut your mouth, Jack.”

  My guts were tangled up like a tumbleweed as I stood watching my brother make a fool of himself. Part of me wanted to throw him to the floor and pummel some awareness into that murky brain. But he seemed so oblivious to his actions, and to the world around him, that he was almost too pathetic to be angry at. I took a deep breath through my nose.

  “Come on, Jack.” I stepped up and took him by the arm, and Dad and I started to lead him toward the door. “You don’t want to do this.”

  “Jenny, you don’t wanna go to the dance with that cockeyed jokester, do you?”

  That was more than even Steve could tolerate. He started after Jack. Bob and Gary caught him, but Steve strained against their grasp, his veins bulging in his temple and his neck.

  Through his teeth, he muttered, “Jack, I hope to God this is whiskey talk—that you don’t know what you’re saying.” Steve’s eye jumped from side to side as if it was being held back. “Otherwise…otherwise…”

  Jack grinned. “Whiskey don’t talk. This is my mouth sayin’ you’re a cockeye.” Jack fixed a look on Steve that sent a chill through us all. It was a look that told us he was clearly too far gone to have any idea what he was saying. His eyes were apparently looking, in his mind, at something besides people—at some kind of vicious obstacles that stood in the way of getting what he wanted. He clearly hated us all at that moment.

  This awareness seemed to hit each of us at the same time and together as we stared at the wild face, and the desperate, hateful eyes. Because the nervous, pumping energy that had been coursing through the room just minutes before melted away in an instant. Even Steve’s anger abated, and his dad and Bob let go of him. We all stood looking at Jack, then not looking at him. We looked at our feet, because looking at him, or at each other, was too painful.

  “Jesus,” Jack declared, chuckling. “Who died?” He felt like an empty suit in my hands, but he shocked both Dad and me when he suddenly jerked away, lunged forward and ran from the house, slamming the door.

  We were too shocked to respond at first, but when we heard Jack’s truck start up and spit gravel as he roared from the yard, I thought of his condition, and rushed out into the warm summer air. Crickets chirped, and mosquitoes whirred around my ears, but Jack’s truck was already a mile down the road. As irrational as it was, I grabbed a rock and heaved it in that direction. Nate bolted off toward the rock, then stopped and sniffed the ground.

  Back inside, the mood was somber.

  “Steve, Jenny,” Dad said, “I can’t tell you how sorry I am.” His lips pursed.

  “George,” Steve said. “You know we understand. He’s out of his head with the stuff. Nothing you could do. Nothing any of us could.”

  “You couldn’t of stopped him with a firing squad,” Art said.

  “Well, I shouldn’t have even brought the stuff out. I know it gets to him.”

  “Forget it, George,” Mom insisted. “We had a good day. If there was ever a time when it seemed like a good idea, it was tonight.” She laid her hand on Dad’s back, and his body surrendered to her comfort.

  “You want us to drive by the old house, see if he’s out there?” Gary offered.

  “No, no. If he’s out there, he can just sleep it off. Him and the cats,” Mom said.

  This brought a weak, guilty smile to every face.

  I don’t know that a big, wonderful house full of people who love each other could ever be lonelier than ours was that night. After our guests left, we sat in the living room for a few minutes, but I don’t think we could stand the sight of each other looking so sad and tired.

  So we retreated to our rooms, each of us taking with us thoughts of what we might have done to prevent this terrible turn. I lay in my bed, staring out at the black sky, and finding the same darkness in my mind as I tried for the life of me to figure out how a man who was my brother, a man who grew up in the same house, with the same people, could be so different—so unhappy, so full of mistrust. How could he look at the
life we had, the gifts the land had so abundantly showered our little family with, and find anything but good in it? I couldn’t figure it out. And this didn’t even include Rita.

  I decided to check on her. I crept from my bed and tiptoed into Muriel’s room, where they had moved Rita. She slept with a peaceful, calm expression. She knew nothing about what had happened, of course, and I sat wondering how she would feel about this latest escapade. What would it take for her to lose patience with him, I wondered. Muriel slept quietly in the next bed. And the scene took me back for a moment. To the last night I had reason to sit in the girls’ bedroom. The night Katie died. I remembered her knee rising slightly, time after time, and thumping against the mattress. I remembered her face when she’d reached the house, all flushed and soaked with sweat from running all that way.

  And something occurred to me for the first time. I wondered why Katie had been the one who ran home that evening. Why didn’t Jack run back to tell us that they’d found George? He could have covered the ground in half the time, and he knew that Katie had been sick for a week. And a horrifying thought hit me. It had never occurred to me before that night that Jack actually had a motive for killing George. Because he would be the next in line to take over the ranch, Jack actually had a motive. I dropped my head to Rita’s side, resting it on the mattress next to her.

  Her arm rested on top of the blankets, and although I felt funny about it, I reached out and took her hand. And as I closed my eyes, I couldn’t stop myself from sorting through the facts. I realized that this could explain Jack’s disappearances. It could explain his attitude. It could explain a lot, when I really let myself think about it. But still—I couldn’t believe it.

  I heard a noise, a shuffle. And I looked up. Rita hadn’t moved. I looked at Muriel. She hadn’t moved either, and she was still asleep. I heard it again. And I looked over at the doorway. And there stood little George, looking like a tiny version of his father, his eyes wide and moist. I wasn’t sure what to do. I let go of Rita’s hand. George started walking toward me, and I wondered if I should leave. But when he reached my side, he leaned his head against my shoulder. He rested his head on my shoulder and held it there.