by Chris Offutt
He circled his cabin through the open woods and headed for Ty’s house. Juniper trees rose from a talus slope patched with snow. Ty’s pickup truck was parked a foot from his door, and Joe knocked but there was no answer. He knocked again, banging until his knuckles were raw. Ty stepped around the corner of the cabin holding a rifle.
“You all right?” he said.
“I don’t know,” Joe shivered in the wind. “Maybe not,”
“Let me let you in.”
Ty opened the door and motioned Joe to a couch. The coffee table was strewn with parts of a dismantled pistol. A gun cleaning kit lay open, its rods and patches neatly ordered. Ty placed his rifle on a wall rack that held four other weapons.
“Been hunting?” Joe said.
“No. I don’t get many visitors.”
“You must be getting jumpy as me.”
“It’s February,” Ty said. “Cabin fever sets in hard. The Crow people have a tradition of not gossiping after the first snow,”
“Why’s that?”
“Too easy to hurt people’s feelings and get somebody killed before the thaw.”
“Well, I didn’t come over to gossip.”
“Would you like tea?” Ty said. “I have chamomile. The Etruscans used it for snakebite.”
“Sure.”
The cabin was bigger than Joe’s, lined with the same pine panels. The stove was new and the room was very warm. Beside an easy chair was a bag containing two long needles and several skeins of yarn. A shortwave radio sat on the other side. A pair of half-rim reading glasses lay on a small table. Scattered about the room were several books, which Joe inspected while he waited. There were treatises on philosophy, history, and religion, manuals for converting semi-automatic weapons to fall auto, and several accounts of armed battle, from the Peloponnesian War to the most recent American conflicts. Four different Bibles were stacked beside the knitting bag.
The walls held contour maps of Rock Creek and the Bitterroot Valley to the west, Joe found the place where they were joined by Skalkaho Pass. Another map traced Rock Creek to its headwaters. In a corner there was a vise and a grinding wheel bolted to a heavy, homemade table. Pieces of metal lay along the surfaces. The cabin smelled of gun oil and cinnamon.
Ty came into the room carrying mugs with spoons protruding like chimneys for the rising steam. He sat in the easy chair with a directional lamp behind him. He was chubbier than Joe remembered. They sipped their tea in silence. It tasted odd, like clay dirt, but the heat calmed Joe.
“Nice place,” Joe said. “You knit?”
“Something I learned in Alaska. You got to have a lot of home projects in winter. How do you think the Swiss got so good at making watches? I’ve tried it all—beadwork, leatherwork, knife-making, even candle-making. You need something that doesn’t take up much space and won’t accumulate. What do you do in your place?”
“Nothing really. Walk. Chop wood. Been playing poker in town some. I sleep a lot.”
“Yeah, most people do. They eat, get fat, get depressed, and eat more. Then before you know it they’re killing their wife and kids. Drinking’s no good either, but a lot pass the winter that way.”
“I’ve seen a bunch of drunks, all right.”
“Try Alaska. People go up there for work, but the best way to get rich in Alaska is to open a saloon. I guess I been stuck in here awhile, the way I’m talking. You don’t notice it until somebody visits, do you?”
“I don’t know. I haven’t had a visitor. You’re the only person I know.”
“It takes a while. People like to see if you’ll last more than one winter. Go two years and you’ll be all right. What do you make of Montana so far?”
“Long winter.”
“People spend half their life fighting weather. In Alaska it’s more like three-quarters.”
“I don’t much care for fighting.” Joe gestured to the weapons around the room. “You look like you might.”
“Not me. I just tinker till spring. I don’t even hunt. Me, I’m what they call a gun enthusiast.”
Ty lifted the teabag with his spoon, wrapped the string around the bag, and used it to squeeze the remaining tea into the mug. There was a delicacy to the act that amused Joe.
“Look,” Ty said. “I know how it is to come here and not know anybody. Same thing happened to me. Hell, I’m from the Bronx.”
“Where’s that at?”
“New York City, man.”
“Never been there.”
“You wouldn’t like it. Surprising how many New Yorkers live in Montana. Thing about the West, anybody can come out here and fit in, because there’s not much to fit in with. Leave people alone and they won’t bother you. Same as New York.”
“Where I’m from’s like that, too.”
“Used to be that way all over the country. Now people are scared, and the laws don’t have anything to do with crime anymore.”
“Like the new gun laws.”
“You got it, brother. Most gun owners are men over thirty. They have a family and they start thinking about how to protect it. That’s only natural.”
“I know many a woman who can shoot pretty good.”
“That’s true, in the South and the West especially. You see, in the city a gun is a threat, but in the country it’s a tool for defense. Back east, they don’t want their criminals to have guns, so they take everyone else’s.”
“Because they got more crime?”
“Tons more. The cities are packed with homeless people, drugs, and crime. D.C.’s a war zone and nobody does anything. Those people pay taxes and don’t even have a senator or a governor. We fought a war to end that and we’re doing the same thing in our own capital.”
“I never been to Washington, either.”
“You wouldn’t like it. People blame guns for crime, but you take away guns and you’d still have the crime.”
“Why can’t they stop it?”
“Politics, my friend, nothing but. Politicians want votes, so they ban guns and put more cops on the street. Prison is a growth industry right now. We’ve got more prisons than all the other countries combined. We’re the freest country in history and we lock up the most people.”
“You know a lot about it, Ty.”
“Everybody should. Our government is robbing us of rights every day.”
“Like what?”
“Let’s see.” Ty set his mug aside and idly fingered the pile of yarn by his chair. He squinted out the window. “You flown in an airplane lately?”
“No,” Joe said. “I’ve never been on one.”
“You wouldn’t like it. You have to show a picture ID to get on a plane. That means a driver’s license. You got one, right?”
“Sure.”
“It’s got your Social Security number on it, right?”
“I asked for a separate number.”
“Good for you. Most people don’t have that much sense. To fly in an airplane, you got to show it to some flunky. It has nothing to do with driving. It’s a passport for domestic travel. You think that’s right?”
“I never thought about it.”
“Exactly. Most people don’t. The same thing happened in Germany during the twenties—they disarmed the citizens and made them carry identification papers. And the citizens let it happen. The poor bastards just stood by and watched, That’s what’s happening here, my friend. Eight now in America,”
“We’re turning into Nazis?”
“Not literally, no. But the same things are happening here that preceded the rise of the Third Reich. The country’s broke. There’s no jobs and people don’t trust the government. The Feds are cracking down on the people. They take away their weapons and their rights and lock them up.”
Joe sipped his tea. In Kentucky, people considered all politicians to be crooked. At work he’d heard plenty of men complain about the government, but it was usually the county or the state, You either liked the current politicians or you didn’t, and it often depended on
the condition of the road by your house. Many people in the hills didn’t have a driver’s license, but the reasons were practical rather than political—they couldn’t be bothered to go into town for something they didn’t use that often.
“Shouldn’t people carry ID in case they get hurt or something?” Joe said.
“Yes, and always wear underwear in case you go to the hospital. A driver’s license has your picture and your number on it. That makes it nothing but a citizen ID card that lets some folks drive. You already have to show it to rent a video.”
“I don’t rent videos.”
“Good, The states are worse than the Feds. In Wisconsin you can lose your driver’s license if you don’t pay library fines, or don’t shovel snow off your sidewalk,”
“Bullshit.”
“Those laws are on the books, Joe. Oregon has a hundred offenses where they suspend your license, but only fifty that have to do with driving. And Kentucky takes away a teenager’s license if they miss school nine times. It’s not about driving anymore.”
Joe stood and walked to the window. The sky was silver with snow. He didn’t want Ty to see his face at the mention of Kentucky. Winters at home were short. Snow came in great storms that turned the woods to chandeliers of light and melted in a week. The temperature rarely dropped below twenty and you didn’t need hobbies that lasted until spring. Joe wanted to know why Ty had come to Montana, but didn’t want to risk having to answer the same question.
“You got a checkerboard?” Joe said.
“No.”
“Deck of cards?”
“No.”
“Maybe you can teach me how to knit, then.”
“It’s tougher than it looks,” Ty said.
“I never had a hobby that was doing something.”
“What do you mean?”
“I collected stuff.”
“Sure,” Ty said. “Old money, comic books.”
“Where I’m from, there’s no new money. I collected what I could find—rocks, bark, feathers.”
“Makes it tough in the winter, huh. A lot of people, they tie flies till spring.”
“I always went to work,” Joe said. “When I was a kid we rode sleds and had snowball fights.”
“Where was that?”
“Texas.”
“You don’t talk like a Texan.”
“I can’t help it.”
“I guess you’re from north Texas.”
“Maybe.”
“Up where they get a lot of snow.”
Joe looked into his mug. Silt swirled at the bottom and he set it on the table. He felt uncomfortable that Ty knew he was lying, but he wasn’t ready to leave.
“It’s not a law to carry ID, is it?” Joe said.
“Not yet, my friend. But last year over four thousand new laws were passed.”
“That’s a lot.”
“Yep, and most are about controlling people.”
“Like what?”
“The seat-belt law,” Ty said.
“That ain’t new.”
“No, but it’s the best example of a bad law.”
“Why? What’s wrong with it?”
“Everything. Only a moron doesn’t wear a seat belt, but being a moron shouldn’t be illegal.”
“I know some people glad of that.”
“You’re missing the point. It’s the same with the motorcycle helmet law. Congress is wasting taxpayers’ money to legislate common sense.”
“A lot of folks don’t have it.”
“That’s right. Our country is the only one that makes it against the law to be stupid. Is that free?”
“Don’t reckon.”
“You’re not from a city, are you?”
Joe shrugged.
“Don’t worry,” Ty said, “I’m not trying to get personal. But the government is naming every little dirt road in the country. No more addresses like Rural Route 4, Box 60-A. Now every dead-end road gets its own private name,”
“Yeah, I know. It’s so an ambulance can get there in an emergency.”
“That’s what they’re telling you. Joe, But ambulance drivers know their territory. They don’t need a street sign at every podunk crossroad. The reason for naming roads is to provide the government with a list of every house in the country, where it is, and who lives in it. That and the national identity card give them a precise record of exactly who lives exactly where. It’s all about privacy, Joe. There is no privacy anymore. And without privacy, there’s no freedom.”
Joe didn’t consider the government an enemy. It was more of an entity to manipulate if you wanted fresh gravel on your road, or a family member out of jail. People at home didn’t worry about the government, they ignored it. Men hunted out of season to feed their children. Families made moonshine for export, and when demand changed they grew marijuana. Laws didn’t have much bearing in the hills, especially when the sheriff was an elected official.
“I got to go,” Joe said. “Getting late.”
“Glad you came over. You’ll have to excuse me for talking so much, but we all get lonely.”
“Think this snow will pass?”
“Tomorrow it’ll be deep and still.”
“What do you mean?”
“Deep as your ass and still snowing.” Ty laughed. “That’s what they say in Alaska.”
“Thanks for the tea.”
“You bet. Remember, spring will come. The main thing is to get through winter without parking one in the brain pan.”
The trees were black against the snow, becoming pale shades of gray farther up the mountain. Clouds opened in cracks that striped the slopes with sunlight, filling the valley with a liquid shine. Sight-lines spread in all directions and snowflakes fell to the ground as if towed by thread. Joe wondered how scientists knew there were no two alike.
Inside his cabin he built a fire and cleaned the mess. It seemed as if someone else had wrecked the place a long time ago. He’d come to Montana to cut himself off from people, but that was impossible for him. He was a small-town person who’d been happiest at work. Ty was right, he had to get through winter. He had food, shelter, and a sleeping bag. When spring arrived, he needed to find a job and a community.
He patted the possum on the head. He decided to bury it at the first thaw.
16
* * *
In March the winter began easing away. Icicles clinging to the slopes ran their water over rock. At night they formed again, making the cliffs appear to bear long talons. Frosty ground thawed to mud. Snowmelt flowed down the mountains to fill Rock Creek. Joe used the old shovel to clear a path to his Jeep.
Montana had none of the pastel budding of eastern woods, no brilliant slashes of forsythia or blossoming fruit trees. Instead there was a quickening to the air, the stirring of life. An enormous energy soared among the mountains. The land appeared fuller, as if each tree held a slight swelling. When the first rain came Joe stood on his porch inhaling deeply, craving the moist air in his lungs. Water encased each surface with a bright prism, transforming the bleakness of winter into living earth. Snow had left the woods.
In April the ice went out of Rock Creek in great crashes that echoed through the valley. Floating chunks scraped the bank, and the stream ran with quiet ferocity. A layer of light lay over the land. Joe slipped the .32 in his jacket pocket, loaded the stuffed possum into his Wagoneer, and threw the old shovel in the back. Its broken handle had been repaired with short nails and frayed tape.
He drove several miles south on the dirt road, turned right, and began climbing Skalkaho Pass. He parked at a wide spot. The air was cold and fresh. He carried the possum and shovel into the woods. The deer trails still held ice, frozen arcs that veered through the woods, bearing the delicate imprint of tracks. Boulders were covered with a velour of moss.
The woods were quiet, as if the animals had fled before his approach. Pine boughs brushed him. He held the possum under his arm and descended to a shallow basin of pink mountain heath that wa
s surrounded by rock bluffs. He moved through a chamber of light and stone, and climbed to a narrow ridge that held no trees. The spot was ideal. He began to dig. The loose soil kept sliding back into the hole. He hit rock just below the surface and realized that there was not enough topsoil for his plan. He placed the stuffed possum in the hole but its head and back protruded above the ground.
He pried large rocks from the earth and stacked them around the possum. The shovel handle broke free of the blade. He ranged farther along the ridge, gathering rocks and mounding them until he had a cairn. When the possum was completely covered, Joe rested. He pulled a nail from the splintered end of the shovel handle, held the blade in his lap, and stared at the blank metal. He wanted to write everything, but it was a mistake to write his name. He scratched his initials into the old metal. He worked the nail back and forth until the letters were etched deep—V.C.
He placed the shovel blade on top of the cairn and sat crosslegged before it. He was beyond praying, although he wished he wasn’t. He spoke for the first time in several days. “Good-bye, Virgil, Now you got a grave and I got somewhere to come to.”
He felt as if he should say more, but he couldn’t think of anything. He lay on his back and stared at the sky. Heaven was up there. It was very blue. His fingers ached from labor. He closed his eyes.
He awoke chilly, the mound of rock before him like a shrine. He rose and walked away, carrying the shovel handle over his shoulder. As he descended the ridge, he smelled sage, a scent that had become familiar. He recognized the contour of the mountain range across the canyon. A speck in the sky became a hawk. He reached the bottom of the slope, where the land opened into a basin of buffalo grass and duckweed. The cry of a bird carried through the air, and he stopped moving to listen. He couldn’t name the bird, but he knew its cry. It was a Montana sound, as was the rustle of pine needles in the wind behind him. He began crossing a meadow of budding heath. A coyote ran straight away from him, its tail streaming like a banner, and he wondered if it was the same one he’d tracked in winter. There was a sharp crack and his left leg went out from under him.