by Toby Olson
It took Richard no more than ten minutes to get there, but that was enough time for the sweat to have risen out of him. What he had thought was a trail had petered out, and he had to struggle through heavy growth that cut at his arms and tore his clothing in places. His gun kept slipping down into his pants at his belt, and he had to stop often to adjust it. Once he tried to put it in his pocket, but his pockets were small slits and he couldn’t get it in. He tried carrying it in his hand, but that was no good either; he needed both hands free to push the brush away before him. Finally, he came to the edge of the cliff.
He was half way over it before he knew he was there. The pines ran right up to it, he was a little dizzy from the pace and work of his movement, and he stepped over the edge. It was only reflex that made him grab at the pines. He went over, but he had a hold on a thick branch, and he jerked himself back from the edge and stood still on the lip, breathing heavily and trying to listen. There were birds singing, and there was the heavy sound of the breakers coming in, and there was no possibility of hearing anything else, so he stood still and waited until his breath could return to normal. The beach was empty. He was standing above a small inlet, and he could not see very far to his left or right. He picked pine needles from his shirt fabric and from his hair and pants. The beach and the sea below him were beautiful in their emptiness and solitude and unconcern, but he was not moved by them. When he had his clothes adjusted, the gun set firm in his belt, he began to work his way to the left along the edge of the cliff.
He had gone no more than thirty yards when the growth around him began to thin out. The cliff sloped down slightly, then up again in the distance, and at the place where it crested the growth got high and heavy. He saw that to his right the escarpment running down to the beach was more gradual in pitch than where he had almost fallen over, and he moved to the edge and stepped over it, getting himself below the lip so that he would have some cover as he moved on to the next crest. He worked his way along below the edge, and when he got to the higher pines, where the cliff steepened sharply again, he came back over the lip. He entered the pines and stopped and listened again. He could hear something quite close to him at the cliff’s edge. He could not identify the sound, but he knew it was Allen. He edged as quietly as he could through the thick stand of pine, and before he got to the edge of the cliff, he saw him.
There was an open place, a kind of sea perch, at the cliff’s edge. It was surrounded by heavy growth, and there was a path at the back of it that headed into the golf course. The area was a rough rectangle, about twenty-five-feet long. Allen was standing at the far end of the rectangle, away from Richard and facing him. The Golden Rams were on the ground in front of him, and he was standing over them with the golf club in his hands. He chipped one ball and then another, hitting them cleanly and with sharp little clicks, sending them in the air, about a foot off the ground, ten feet down the rectangle. Then he went and got the balls, brought them back, and chipped them again.
Richard watched him and began to fear him. The thing he was doing was very odd. It was outside of Richard’s previous experience of what odd might be, and he felt that he wanted to understand what was going on. Was he waiting for him, biding his time in this way with his golf? It didn’t look like it; there was something more serious about the way he hit the balls, something very concentrated, contained, and in no way casual, and there was such obvious skill in it that Richard felt fear in knowing that he had no skill that could be compared to it. Then he began to like the feel of the fear he had, and when Allen walked back after chipping the balls for a third time, Richard stepped out from the pine cover and entered the open space. He did it as quietly, but as quickly, as he could, and Allen heard him and turned around and faced him, dropping the Rams on the ground.
They stood at opposite ends of the enclosed rectangle. They were alone together in a peaceful place, and yet it did not seem so peaceful: the clouds were moving and changing; there was light action in the sky, and the shadows kept altering their shapes between them. They could hear the surf rushing, and they caught glints from the sun hitting into the swells in the corners of their eyes. They both felt a need to speak or do something at least that would join them to the action of sky, ground, and sea, some kind of activity, some committed entrance to the changing world. Had they spoken out, casually, they would have brought up talk that was directed into the fixtures of the past, their time together in that solid place; they would have spoken, sentimentally, about life directions, or shared musical taste, or women, or the touchstones of common events. They knew enough of where they were to know that the talk could not be of the future and felt the hollows in their stomachs in knowing, finally, that it was indeterminate; useless to speak of it, a foolish enterprise. And what of this present, Allen thought, how escape from that?
It was Richard, finally, who found the way to handle it, but it was incidental that it should be him; it could as well have been Allen; there was not much difference. They both shifted a little at their ends of the enclosed space. They did tentative things with their knees, hips, and shoulders. The high brush seemed to push in on the three closed sides.
“This is it, man,” Richard said. “Are you ready?”
“I’m ready,” Allen said, and he adjusted his grip on the shaft of the four-iron.
They both felt the romance of it, and they both liked the feeling. Their brief words seemed to echo in the air, and they felt a strange kind of gratitude that each had spoken the words correctly and with sufficient drama. Each waited for the other to make his move. They felt they stood there for a very long time, looking at each other.
It was Richard who moved first. His hand came across his stomach and groped for the gun grip in his belt. He got it and jerked at the weapon. But the hammer had gotten hooked in his belt loop, and it would not come free. The crotch of his pants pulled up against his groin as he twisted and jerked again. Then Allen was moving. He fell into his stance and started the club head back quickly. When it came to the level of his shoulder, he squeezed the grip in his left hand and began to whip the club down at the swelling Ram. But it came down too quickly, and he knew that the head was gone. It had left the shaft in the force of his backswing, had probably loosened when he had hit the hangglider pilot, and it was flying behind him, spinning in the air into the brush. He saw Richard jerk again at the gun, the bottoms of his pants almost to his knees, the whiteness of his shins ridiculous above his black tennis shoes. He came automatically through the swing, and as his head came up, the tip of the headless shaft passed over the top of the ball, then continuing over his left shoulder. As he brought it down again, he pointed it at Richard as if it were a rapier, ineffectual at this distance, and then he saw the gun come loose as the belt tore free, the pants fly ripping away, and Richard’s hand thrown up from the force over his head with the gun in it. He had an urge to leap for him, but before he could do it the gun came back down, and Richard, with right arm extended, fell into a crouch and brought his left hand to his right wrist, aiming at Allen’s chest. They both stood very still. Then Richard grinned at Allen, and then he pulled the trigger.
There was a sharp pop, like the sound of a child’s cap pistol, and then, for a moment, there was nothing, and then the bullet came. It appeared in the mouth of the barrel, seemed to pause there for a moment, and then it slid out into the air, rose slightly, and when it reached its arc it began to fall. When it hit in the rough grass in the space between them, it disappeared, making no sound. Richard fired again; another bullet came out, arced also, and fell between them. When he pulled the trigger for the third time, nothing happened at all.
They went at each other then as if they were in the same dream. They both felt heavy-footed, and they tried to drop their instruments, but could not release them. Richard stumbled toward the cliff as he threw his arm out, trying to get rid of his gun. His pants were falling, and he reached down with his left hand to get them, but missed, and they came down around his knees. Allen whipped
at him with the headless club shaft, but he did so as Richard reached for his belt, and the shaft sailed over his head, the force of the intended blow spinning Allen around. When he came through his turn again, they had come to the lip and were falling. Allen reached out for Richard, groping for something to hold to at his neck, but there was nothing there. He caught only the edge of his collar, briefly, jerking Richard’s face close to his own. There was a place in which they were embraced and turning, where they could not see land or sky. The sea was empty and without limits, and there were no horizons.
SHE SAT IN THE SHADE ON HER TOWER, LEANING AGAINST the central core. She had thrust the golf bag away from her but had taken the binoculars out of it first. If she went to the notched edge of the parapet, she could let her hair down and he could climb up it and come to her. But her hair was dark and short, and she knew that if she had golden tresses she would cut them also, for only in that way could she be who she knew she was and not some romantic shadow. But it could be the witch who would climb up, who was really some dark wish in the story. She had never been one who was much inclined to wishing, and she could accept her choices and their results. Anyway, the story had been his story, she realized, and she was no more than the end of it, the tail at the end of the tale.
Would it have been better, really, some other way? She felt it might have, but she was not inclined to regrets. Still, she thought, when one is in such a position, one might be allowed the indulgence of sweet dreams of another life. She leaned the back of her head against the central core and closed her eyes in order to conjure up the possibilities of some past. She was not moved by memory, however, and she soon came back to herself.
She spent a few moments in gathering strength and resolve, and then she pushed against the cold stone behind her and struggled up to her feet and crossed slowly and carefully to the notched edge facing the golf course.
She lifted the compact binoculars to her eyes and began scanning the distances around her. They were very fine glasses, powerful but very steady, and they brought the distance to her sharply and in bright delineation, as if things far away were circled in her control and influence. She had always thought of them as an extravagance, but Allen had not.
She pointed the binoculars in the direction of the sea, but she could find nothing to focus on there. It was just pine tips and the sky above them. The sea itself was not within view. She didn’t look down at the fairway below the tower, nor did she train on what she might have seen of the rest of the course from where she stood. She turned slightly to the left, leaning in the notch, and she found that she could see to the highway running down the middle of the Cape. There were some cars moving there, and finding a landmark she remembered she lifted the glasses to where she thought the house was, but there were trees and hills in the way, and she could not see it. Then she brought the glasses back to the highway. She saw the cars again, and then she saw a slight figure, a woman, standing with her thumb out, a suitcase on the ground beside her, hitchhiking in the direction of the mainland.
The woman was at the bottom of a long and gradual descending of the road, and beyond her the highway moved gradually up again, until it disappeared over a western rise in the distance. She was low where she stood; it was getting late in the day, but she was in sunlight, and when Melinda sharpened the focus, she could see the textures of her clothing, the strands of her loose thin hair, and the heavy chain and emblem hanging from her neck. The suitcase on the ground beside her was boxy and cheap; her clothing, while not so cheap, seemed to be a box for her body to hide in: it guarded against definition, and it was only when a breeze pushed at her blouse that Melinda could see that her breasts were small. She was bent over slightly, her posture was poor, but it was familiar, and she had placed one foot slightly in front of the other. Her elevated arm was thin; her thumb, out in the air, was delicate, and she wore a ring on it. The cars were passing her by. The fine glasses were not heavy, and Melinda had adjusted them carefully so that their cups fit comfortably over her eyes.
The car came over the rise in the slow lane. It was moving slowly, and it only had to brake slightly and pull off the highway in order to roll up and stop beside her. It was an old convertible, almost an antique, a 1955 Buick Century, dark blue with shining whitewalls and a white, rolled-down top. It was very well kept but not fanatically so; it looked serviceable, weighty, rounded, and strong. It had a number of chrome porthole circles in the side of its front fender.
There were three women in the car, two in the front seat, one in the back. Their arms were resting in visible places, on shining window sills and over the white roll of the folded-down top. They were smiling, and their arms and faces were brown. They were leaving the Cape after a sweet week in the sun. They had their hair gathered, hooked up with barrettes, combs, and colorful ribbons, in different and careful styles, loosely but held back enough to handle what breeze would come into the open car. They wore bright blouses of natural fabric, just a little flamboyant, but tasteful. The one who was driving the car was about forty; the other two were somewhat younger. The driver lifted her hand up, and the woman beside her reached out and opened the door.
There was a moment in which the slight figure paused in the open doorway. The inside of the door was patterned with blue and white rolled-leather ribbing, chrome handles with clear plastic buttons with little blue flowers in them, and deep pouches. Someone had hung a plastic bag of fresh fruit over one of the handles: dark plums, small oranges, and bright yellow bananas; there were a few walnuts in the bag also. With the door open, the brown legs of the three women were visible. In the front seat, the legs formed a pattern, those of the driver (a little thicker in ankle) a compliment, seen over, between, and behind the fine thinness of those of the passenger. The woman in the backseat had her legs crossed, a brown sandaled foot hanging down in the air. They all wore loose skirts with Paisley and silk-screened designs.
She lifted her head up to their faces, and as her head came up her whole body lifted, pushing its form out against her blouse and skirt. She lifted her arms up and stretched and smiled, and the three women laughed lightly, and they raised their arms also, beckoning for her to enter. She stepped into the backseat, putting her suitcase in the corner, herself beside the woman there.
The woman in the passenger seat in the front pulled the door closed, and as the car moved slowly back on the highway, she turned in her seat and began talking. She moved her hands as she spoke, and she had a way of touching the tip of her thumb against the tip of her middle finger, moving them slightly together and apart from each other while she was making a point or listening to one of the others. The car moved up the gradual westward slope of the highway. The four women were talking and laughing. The breeze began to lift strands of their hair as the car picked up speed. As the car came to the crest, the woman in the backseat handed something to her new companion. The woman took it and looked at it. She nodded her thanks, and then she brought her hands up, arching her body in the seat. She reached back and began to gather and order and hook up her hair. Then the car dipped over the western crest and left the field of the glasses.
Earth Light
AND NOW HAVE I COME TO WALK THIS SOMBER PLAIN AT the final edge of evening. There is earth light under it, of course, but no shine yet. Our small fires mark the perimeter, lit in the faces of governments and the press, and our young boys are loose now behind them, but they keep it quiet. Militant before, they are now awestruck and a little unbelieving. The occupation is all political and a matter of visibility and negotiation. They cannot spill, methodically, our blood yet; they have to sit down and talk some.
It is some cheer to Frank Bumpus (who meets already with them, in the name of Chief Wingfoot) that the talks will include the Chairman, a good buffer for us, though he be injured and limping, to keep things knotted and confused for a good long time. He grieves some for his wound, but more for the purely innocent, the young boy: workmanly pro. The mad products, in their borrowed and tortured uniforms, h
ave laid him low. He was a victim of what his own people (Thoreau and Bradford, no heeded correctives) have, predictably, brought forth.
A worn brown fedora, with a tern feather in its band; a leather vest; a brace of golf bags; an old flying cap; a new Golden Ram; various weapons, clubs, spears, and chains: these are the products of my reconnoitering. I carry Frank’s old wooden golf club as a staff. There is some scarring, but only the traps are deeper wounds, and these have been salved a bit by their filling of sand. The greens, like gentle haircuts, and the careful cutting of the aprons and rough lines do not give us much pain. Theirs was a kind of ritual also, having to do with land, and mostly in respect of it, though in the service of a game. But not for Allen. Soon I will take a cart over and check the stone tower.
It has all been matters of priority, but tempered by being in one place at one time, sane, because one cannot be elsewhere. Thus, they are mostly insane; they find it hard to be where the body is. For Melinda, in her circumstance, it was possible. Being elsewhere was only, properly, a story. And so I tell one for myself and for the two of them.
WHEN I WAS A BOY I HAD A FINE AND SECRET NAME. I liked it, but I had no use for it. I could not speak it outside my family, and my father, who was very conservative as those things went at that time, seemed nervous even when he whispered it to me when he instructed me. This rubbed off, and I avoided its use entirely. I could say it now if I wished. It would be okay to do so, but I have not said it in a long time, and it would come rusty to my mouth, and so I will keep silent on that account.
Now I was a child of great virtue, I thought, and I dreamed about the future and how I would have various successes when I got big enough to have them. I felt I had evidence to predict this. I rode well, was sufficiently easy with people, if a little sharp and arrogant, and women seemed already able to see a man in me, and they did not touch me much when I was with them. In this time I am talking about, we lived just outside Jerome, Arizona, that copper mining town, in a time when the mine was thriving and there seemed to be as many executives around as there were miners. Maybe too many chiefs, as some might say in some circumstances. There were inspectors and a lot of well-dressed people in offices. I used to see them come and go, in white shirts, from where I sat above the post office there. Well, in one summer I did get tired of all that sitting around, and I headed out to the edge of town to the golf course there, to see if I could find something to do.