by Chris Offutt
Rodale’s eyes opened. He stared without moving. He compressed his lips but didn’t speak. He closed his eyes and opened them and they appeared to age as if a disease had attacked. His entire body seemed to retreat into itself, a drawing in, as if to present a smaller target.
Virgil wanted Rodale to talk or move, give him a final reason to fire. Every molecule of his body was at war with itself. He had the sensation that the pistol was part of his body, that the bullets it contained were made from his marrow.
The television flickered.
Rodale glanced at the change in light and Virgil squeezed the trigger. Rodale’s head bounced against the cushions. A hole appeared in his face and Virgil continued to fire the pistol until the room filled with the smell of cordite and the hammer was clicking against an empty chamber. The couch glistened with fresh blood. Rodale’s legs were twitching and part of his face was gone.
Virgil didn’t move for a long time. He lowered the gun and moved to turn off the television. In its brief flare of light, the bits of bone and bloody flesh that remained of Rodale’s face burned into his mind. The air became very dark. Silence entered the room like a force, a void that lacked Rodale’s breathing.
Virgil stumbled from the house. He gulped the night air like a drowning man who’d resurfaced, then vomited with great force. It hit the road hard enough to raise dust. The smell rose to his face. He turned to the dark hills that were no longer his.
Slowly and with great effort, he entered the woods and climbed the hill, His car was where he’d parked it. The trees were the same. Nothing had changed.
11
* * *
He drove down the rough road to the blacktop and headed for town, forcing himself to maintain a slow speed. Rushing air rinsed his face. At a railroad crossing he threw the pistol into a hole of water, remembering that he and Boyd had swum there naked as boys. He banished his brother from his mind. The debt was now discharged. He was free.
He followed a state road bearing west, his mind a house he’d battened down for a storm. He could not risk thought. A shower slapped through the trees and was gone. After three hours of winding roads, he parked in the airport’s long-term lot and shifted his gear to the other car—blanket, jacket, possum. A domed garbage can gleamed like the top of a skull. He pushed the metal lap open and hesitated, not wanting to discard his wallet so easily. A car entered the lot and he released the old leather.
He continued north. Stars spattered the night like flung paint. Huge trucks sailed past as if they were ships leaving a wake that rocked his car. He was tired. He felt as if the car were standing still and the road unfurled before him. Near the Wabash River he stopped for a small room that smelled of old smoke. He slept rough, waking several times, after enduring a dream from childhood that filled him with terror. He remained in bed long after light seeped through the curtains, infusing the room with a dreary glow. He no longer had a future or a past. There was only the inescapable now.
He was astonished by the size of the Mississippi River. He left his car and walked along the bank, past beer cans and condoms lying in the weeds. His feet sank in mud. The murky surface rippled like muscle, swirling as if it contained many creeks that twined through its body. He cupped his hands to drink. It tasted bad but he didn’t think a river that big could be poison. In the slanting red light of afternoon the bridge glowed as if the metal had been heated by flame. He returned to his car, placing each step with precision. He felt unbalanced walking such flat terrain, as if he might tip onto his side.
Com in Iowa had been harvested, leaving splintered stalks rising from the earth. Pigs foraged in the fields. Barns sat very near the houses as if to conserve the energy of walking. A flock of dark birds rose from the low remnants of soy, lifting like a blanket to hide the light. Near dusk he reached the Missouri River and stopped at a scenic overlook, curious as to what constituted high elevation on such flat land. A tower rose from a parking lot. He climbed its five open flights to a platform from which he could see Nebraska, a vista that filled him with profound unease. On every horizon lay a tree-line. Abruptly he didn’t know where he was. He began to tremble with such force that he gripped the railing to prevent a fall.
In South Dakota his motel room matched the one in Illinois except for the carpet, which was the color of grass parched by drought. He lay unable to sleep, still feeling the rhythm of the road throbbing in his body. Fragments of Rodale’s death seeped into his mind and he tried to blot them like a stain. He hoped the dog had revived.
After a few hours he woke, confused until memory bludgeoned him and he quickly rose, with no idea of where to go. The empty landscape was flat as tin. He felt like a bug exposed when someone lifted a flat rock. He drove west all day, and in the afternoon, he watched the sun begin its decline. Dusk was short. Kentucky nights began on the ground, in the hollows and the woods, moving upwards to join the sky. Here, the darkness dropped from above.
He made Wyoming by night and slept in a field. In the morning he crossed Dead Horse Creek, a bed of dry grass with no horse in sight. The land was desolate save for oil wells, their steady motion reminding him of chickens pecking for seed. The only shade was in a ditch. A pale blue line etched the horizon, jagged and white, too high for land. He expected a storm until he realized it was the Bighorn Mountains with snow lying along the upper ridges. They rose from the earth like a wall to the west.
He entered Montana through the Crow Reservation. The lack of humidity kept the air clear, making everything appear distinct regardless of distance. The land seemed oddly like a model, as if constructed on miniature scale. Clouds rose in the east while the western sky held the darkness of distant rain. He enjoyed a physical sense of insignificance. The landscape had an inviting quality, seductive but lethal.
A four-door pickup passed him, driven by a young man wearing a western hat. Heavy mudflaps covered the tires. In the rear window hung a lasso with a pair of baby shoes dangling in the center of the coil.
He slept behind a rest stop and rose with the pink dawn, surprised at the lack of grass, dew, and birdsong. The Absaroka Mountains stood in the south, hazed by distance, topped with snow. The hum of silence filled the chilly air. He continued west on I-90, passing a three-tiered stack of hay the size of a house surrounded by a split-rail fence. Though he was driving fast, several cars passed him, and he wondered about Montana’s speed limit. He’d seen no signs.
The land continued to rise. He thought the hill between Bozeman and Livingston was of good heft until he began the long climb to Homestake Pass. At its crest was the Continental Divide, where flat rocks protruded vertically from the earth like plates of stone. He felt bad for the crew who’d built the road, but was deeply envious of the man who’d laid it out. It was the harshest land he’d ever seen.
He began the long descent into Butte, a town sculpted into a mountain, presided over by a giant statue of a woman. He’d left the realm of autumn colors for uniform slopes of conifer trees. The mountains became steep and the valley tight. Several times he crossed the Clark Fork River, shallowed by the season to the size of a creek. Afternoon sun gleamed on great bluffs that rose beyond the water. Logging trails laced the slopes. He arrived in Missoula at dusk, took a room, and slept fourteen hours. After a meal and a short walk, he returned to bed. The next day he slept and ate and slept again.
12
* * *
On the third day Joe Tiller rose early and walked the wide streets of Missoula, his breath visible in the cold air. Many of the low buildings were made of stone, with broad alleys and parking lots behind. There was a spacious quality to the town that was absent in Kentucky. Mist lifted from the mountains to reveal giant white letters made of concrete—an L and an M. He wondered if there were so many mountains that they were coded rather than named. A herd of elk browsed the slopes above the town.
The only open business was the Wolf, its orange sign aglow. Just inside the door was a locked cabinet containing pints of liquor to go, and a long bar wher
e a few men waited for the first drinks of the day. A rifle collection hung from pegs high on the wall. There was no clock. Most of the clientele looked as if they had long ago abandoned a life that revolved around being anywhere at a specific time. Beside the bar, several people were eating breakfast at a low counter. A man slept at a table. A dog slept by the door.
Joe ordered breakfast. As he ate, he dropped a slice of toast, and a grizzled man beside him grinned. “They put stuff on that to make it slippery,” he said. His voice held the jocular camaraderie shared by single men eating public meals alone. In that instant, Joe decided to stay in Missoula.
He looked through the local paper. Work was scarce and the classifieds had a section labeled “For Giveaway” that offered pets and furniture. The cheapest rates were sharing a house, but he knew he couldn’t live with anyone. He shoved the paper away and spilled his coffee, which flowed along the counter toward the man beside him. Joe apologized and the man shrugged.
“I can’t believe how much it costs to live here,” Joe said.
“Movie stars,” the man said. “They’re ruining it for the rest of us.”
He gave Joe a careful look.
“Don’t worry,” Joe said. “I don’t even like movies.”
“This used to be a working man’s town.”
“I’m looking for work, too.”
“I can’t help you there, partner. This is a bad time for it. Maybe in the spring.”
“Shoot, I got to find a place to live first.”
“How fancy you want it?”
“Not too.”
“Used to be, you could rent fishing cabins through the winter up some of these creeks. Might be cold.”
“What creeks?”
“Grant Creek’s out, it’s full of movie stars. Rattlesnake’s crammed with, houses, too. Even little old Lolo Creek’s got million-dollar log cabins on it now. About all that’s left is Rock Creek. Best thing is to drive up there and ask around.”
Joe thanked the man and left the Wolf. At a gas station he stopped behind a convoy that included a six-horse trailer and two pickups. One truck bed was filled with provisions and another held the remains of several elk. Rows of rifles blocked each rear window. The outfit reminded him of a military operation rather than a hunting party, and he thought of men at home emerging from the autumn woods with a rifle in one hand and a gutted deer slung over their shoulders.
He drove east along the river, found Rock Creek, and stopped at a bar. The female bartender told him about a cabin several miles up the road. He entered a hollow and was reminded of Kentucky—a narrow road that separated hillside from creek. The land opened to a wide bottom that offered summer campsites, RV hookups, and tipis you could sleep in for an appalling price.
Just beyond a bend, a man stood in water to his knees. He wore a short vest and rubber boots that ran past his armpits. He didn’t seem to have entered the creek so much as to have grown from it. Suddenly he snapped upright and a fishing rod flashed above his head, trailing a thick luminous line. He pulled the line with his free hand and Joe shook his head at the tangled mess that would surely surround him in the water.
The narrow road twisted with the water’s flow. Half the hollow lay in deep shadow cast by the mountaintop. Rock Creek glittered to Joe’s right, swift and wide, broken by vacant beds of stone. A small green sign announced his passage into Granite County. The road became dirt. He followed a turnoff to a small house beside a stack of firewood bigger than the house itself. The ground was hard and tipped by frost. There had been a light dusting of snow but wind had moved it, leaving patches of white against the earth. Winter lived here while town still held autumn.
A man stepped from the woods, wearing a flannel shirt with sleeves ripped away at each elbow. He carried an ax in a casual manner. Joe was chilly in his jacket, but the man seemed impervious to weather.
“Came about the cabin,” Joe said.
The man led Joe through open woods to a twin-rut road that ended at a small cabin made of log. A stove flue poked from the roof. “Door’s open,” the man said. His voice was low and thick, as if unaccustomed to speech.
The inside air was much cooler than outdoors. The cabin was one large room and a bath with pine walls that soaked up light. The furnishings consisted of a bed, a table, two chairs, a couch, and a bureau. There was a woodstove with a metal thermometer attached to the flue. From the window Joe could hear the rash of water over rocks. Another thermometer was visible through the glass.
Outside, the landlord removed a tube of lip balm, uncapped it, gave his mouth a coat, recapped the tube, and slid it into his pocket. He performed the entire process with one hand.
“Looks good to me,” Joe said. “How warm is it?”
“It’s a summer cabin, insulated with sawdust and newspaper. You’ll need plenty of firewood.”
“Can I get it off you?”
The man shook his head. He gave Joe a scrap of paper with a name and phone number for wood. He told him the rent.
“If I pay in advance, will you lower it?”
“Now you’re talking my language,” the man said. “I’m Ty Skinner.”
He offered his hand and Joe hesitated before taking it. He wanted to get the words right. He should have practiced.
“I’m Joe Tiller.” It sounded hollow and thin.
“Proud to know you. I’ll be your neighbor, but you won’t hear a sound out of me. Nearest phone’s at the tavern by the interstate. You can get your mail there. It’s got the only TV for miles. Only people, too.”
“I’m here for peace and quiet.”
“You’ll fit in, then. But you got to be out by May. Rent triples for tourists.”
“Tourists?”
“This is the best fly-fishing stream in the world. It’s famous. Canyon fills up with boneheads all summer.”
Joe understood that a canyon was the same as a hollow.
“Think I’ll need snow tires?” he said.
“They just mean you travel further before you get stuck. Then you got a longer walk back.”
“I never thought of it that way.”
“Most of you southern boys don’t.”
“How’d you know that?”
“You got an accent. Don’t worry, I like southerners. It’s the Californians I’d like to shoot. They think blue’s the same color everywhere. Out here it’s not.”
Joe nodded. He was confused by Ty’s words, but didn’t want to show any affinity to a Californian.
“Is that them standing in the water back there?”
“No,” Ty said, “They’re locals. Fish all winter. Best thing about Alaska was no Californians.”
“You lived up there?”
“Ten years.”
“Like it?”
“Fucking loved it, man.”
“Then why leave?”
“Got lonely. I came down to Montana for the social life.”
“I heard it’s beautiful up there.”
“You can’t eat the scenery.”
Ty looked at him briefly and walked into the woods. The tall pines took him swift as sudden dusk.
Joe went inside his house. He turned the faucets on and off and tested the shower. He plugged in the refrigerator and listened to the hum. He sat on the couch. He moved to the chair. He lay on the bed, which sagged. He opened each drawer of the bureau and lifted the windows to flush a stale smell. There was nothing on the walls. He went outside and sat on a stump. The cabin was half the size of his trailer, and the mountain rose behind it like a fortress wall He was Joe Tiller and this was where he lived.
He returned to Missoula, where he called the wood man and arranged for a delivery the next day. The treeless mountains surrounded the town in pale green humps that seemed to be set in place rather than rising from the land. Higgins Street ended at a large red sculpture of the letter X repeated four times. Joe wondered why the town emphasized the alphabet.
The midday air warmed him. He thought vaguely of buying a calendar
, but time had ceased to be important. Beside a bar was a pawnshop filled with knives, CD players, leather coats, and guns. The proprietor wore a pistol on his hip and moved with an athlete’s grace. His pale eyes were flat and hard. On a glass display case was a stack of bumper stickers, each of which said FEAR THE GOVERNMENT THAT FEARS YOUR GUN.
Eventually Joe would need a weapon, but he couldn’t yet bear the notion of handling a gun. Instead, he bought a snakeskin belt and a leather buckle imprinted with a royal flush in diamonds.
“I’ll be back for a pistol,” he said.
“You need a Montana driver’s license. Plus there’s a five-day wait. Government sticks its beak in all our business.”
“Why’s that?”
“Can’t take care of its own, I guess.”
“Don’t make much sense.”
“No. They forgot it wasn’t too long back, we used guns out here for protection. I been here four generations. My grandfather killed off wolves that bothered his stock, and now they’re putting wolves back and taking our guns. I’m glad he’s not around to see it. Here, take this.”
He handed Joe a leaflet printed on a single sheet of paper, folded in thirds. On the front panel were the words LIBERTY TEETH and a crudely drawn American flag. Joe opened the paper to a drawing of two crossed rifles and the words “A well-regulated militia being necessary to the security of a free state, the right of the people to keep and bear arms shall not be infringed—UNITED STATES CONSTITUTION.”
The third panel showed a blurry picture of George Washington with a word balloon above his head: “Firearms stand next in importance to the Constitution itself. They are the American people’s liberty teeth and keystone under independence.”
“George Washington,” Joe said. “Think he really said that?”