But for some reason, people got nostalgic that day, and talked me into taking the mound for a couple of innings. I got up there and took a few warm-up tosses, and I actually felt pretty good for the first couple of batters. I started to feel at home again. It was fun.
We were playing against Capitol, and one young kid hit a nice two-out triple off me that first inning, but I struck out the last guy, breaking off one of my old curveballs on the third strike, and as I trotted off the field, I caught Sophie Roberts Melvin Andrews Carroll smiling at me. I was taken back to the first time I’d seen her look at me this way. And it was a good memory. I had come to realize that things had worked out better than they would have if she had married me. And I had been able to be perfectly civil to her the last few times I’d seen her. I still couldn’t stand Albert, but that’s another story.
The second inning, the first batter hit a grounder to short, which was fielded cleanly. The shortstop threw the guy out by a step, and a big Norwegian guy settled into the batter’s box. His hair was whiter than the baseball, and his arms could have filled a good portion of my pant legs. He had that Norwegian manner, too, of appearing to be disinterested in what was happening. He didn’t look fierce, aside from his size, or mean. Just huge.
But when he swung at my first pitch, a curve that didn’t curve, he hit that thing a ton, and it came right back at me before I had a chance to finish my follow-through. I had been a pretty good fielder in my younger days. I was known for plucking a liner from the air just before it caught me flush in the mouth, or for reaching out and snagging a grounder that would have shot by most fellas. But this thing took me down, glancing off my forehead, just above my left eyebrow. Of course, I didn’t know any of this at the time, as I was out cold for several minutes.
When I woke up, I tasted dirt. My face was pressed against the ground, and in my semiconscious state, I went through one of those frightening moments where I thought I had died. I thought I was dead, and that I’d been buried without a coffin, and that the dirt was directly on my face. But I heard a voice, then another, then a chorus of voices, surrounding me.
As I lay there, my face pressed against the earth, I thought what it must be like to be the land, and what you see every day when you are stuck there, lying immobilized, vulnerable to the winds and shifts in weather, and the inevitable comings and goings of clouds and hooves and wheels and teeth. And as people turned me over, then nursed and pampered and fussed over me, my mind wandered, thinking about how amazing it is that despite what the earth is subjected to, it still goes on. And how it responds to this abuse in remarkable, almost human ways.
I thought about how much we expect from it, and how it can be almost cruel in its stubborn insistence to withhold the things we ask from it. And how just about the time that we think we will never receive any of what we need from our beloved earth, she comes through, touching us with the smallest of gestures—a raindrop on the cheek, or a small sprout of alfalfa peeking through its hard surface. The land is loving, cruel, selfish, stubborn, and sometimes overly generous. It can be unbelievably kind. And incomprehensibly void of compassion.
I turned my face to the side, wanting to feel the earth against my cheek. And for as long as I was lying there, letting my head clear, and feeling the hands of my friends and family wiping the blood from my face, I held my head in that position, enjoying the rough, cool texture of the soil against my skin.
Acknowledgments
Aside from the birth of my son, Fletcher, writing this book was the most joyful experience of my life so far. Because it was loosely based on my grandparents, the research afforded me an opportunity to travel back into their time through the stories of so many wonderful people.
Fletcher was five when I finished this book. He is now seventeen. And there is a very simple reason that the past twelve years have been an incredible journey rather than a study in frustration. These people:
All love and gratitude to my wonderful family—Dad, Mom, Collette, Wade, Andrew, Mack, Flynn, and Ike. And to Fletcher, the only perfect story I’ve ever told.
Thanks to my editor, Yung Kim, who brought this book back to life. Howard Yoon, for his skills as an editor as well as agent. Michael Congdon. And the others at HarperCollins who lent their expertise—Laran Brindle, Elizabeth Pawlson, and Heather Burke.
To all Rowlands; Tanners; Lokens; Sloans; Andersons; Richardsons; Kirkhams; and, of course, Arbuckles, especially Lee Arbuckle for his wealth of information. And to the residents of Carter County for enduring with quiet dignity. To Michael Curtis for his continued encouragement. Lucie Prinz for the same. And Sue Miller for her inspiration and wisdom. James O’Keefe and Margaret Minister; Ted Smykal; Bob Christoph; Michael and Kira Yannetta; Kirk, Jeanette, and Derek Wayland; Sam Geffner; Phyllis Pinkham; Niall McKay; John Brennan; Andrew Lovett; and Tom Stefan for their support. All my friends at Foote, Cone, and Belding. Steve Klingman and Christine Palamedessi for their feedback. Lisa Queen. Doris Cooper. Liz Perle. And last, but definitely not least, friends of Bill W.
About the Author
Born in Bozeman, Russell Rowland is a fourth-generation Montanan. He served in the Navy, and has worked as a teacher, ranch hand, surveyor, lounge singer, and fortune-cookie writer. He lives in San Francisco.
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PRAISE FOR
In Open Spaces
“[An] outstanding debut…. Rowland’s examination of family dynamics is poignant and revealing.
—Publishers Weekly (starred review)
“Charged with dramatic tension—a joy to read.”
—Ha Jin, author of Waiting,
winner of the National Book Award
“In Open Spaces…is sage, humane, and immensely readable.”
—C. Michael Curtis, senior editor, Atlantic Monthly
“As a lifelong reader of books written about the west, particularly those about Montana, Russell Rowland’s In Open Spaces is as good as it gets…. A powerful book.”
—C. J. Box, author of Open Season and Savage Run
“A heartfelt debut…. [An] unpretentious, involving story told with unfaltering authority.”
—Kirkus Reviews
“A beautifully written saga of the Arbuckle clan, full of hurt—and healing—and oh Lordy that Montana landscape.”
—Caroline Leavitt, Boston Globe columnist,
author of Coming Back to Me
“A big and bold story in the great tradition of the American West…. Reminiscent of Larry McMurtry’s Lonesome Dove. To read In Open Spaces is to be impatient for the sequel.”
—Katherine Weber, author of
Objects in the Mirror Are Closer Than They Appear
and The Music Lesson
“A family epic that has a muted elegance…. A gracefully understated novel.
—New York Times Book Review
“Rowland’s superb debut novel sets a new standard for fiction about growing up and ranching life in twentieth-century Montana. It just doesn’t get any better than this.”
—Randall Stickrod, publisher, Readerville Journal
“Like Norman McLean’s A River Runs Through It,…Rowland…brings [Montana’s] unique beauty alive…. Good reading.”
—Denver Post
“Russell Rowland writes about the intricacies of family life and the grandeur/harshness of the Western landscape with equal aplomb…. A masterful debut.”
—Gayle Brandeis, author of Fruitflesh
“Compelling. Cinematic. A fine first novel about the strength of family.”
—San Francisco Weekly
“Reminiscent of two other great Montana family sagas, Norman MacLean’s A River Runs Through It and Jim Harrison’s Legends of the Fall, In Open Spaces is an engrossing literary journey—once started, it’s hard to lift your eyes from the page.”
—David Abrams, January magazine
“Russell Rowland is of that rare group of writers wh
o can tell a beautiful and believable tale as well as he can control and finesse the language.”
—M. J. Rose, author of Flesh Tones and Sheet Music
Copyright
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
IN OPEN SPACES. Copyright © 2002 by Russell Rowland.
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.
EPub Edition © 2002 ISBN: 978-0-06-201344-6
FIRST EDITION
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Rowland, Russell.
In open spaces: a novel / Russell Rowland,
p. cm
ISBN 0-06-008434-0
1. Montana—Fiction. I. Title.
PS3618.088 16 2002
813′.6—dc21
2001051354
02 03 04 05 06 /RRD 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
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