Solo Faces

by James Salter

  Cabot watched him put the muzzle almost carelessly next to his ear and pull the trigger. There was an empty click.

  “Your turn.”

  “No.”

  Rand said nothing.

  “I can’t,” Cabot said.

  “Have a drink.”

  “I’ve had enough.”

  “You’ve already died,” Rand said.

  “Not quite.”

  “I was with you. We were caught up there. Lightning was hitting the peak. You’re not going to back down now?”

  “I’m not quite drunk enough.”

  “Go ahead,” Rand commanded.

  Cabot stared at the gun. Its darkness was intense. It was radiating power. He picked it up. He put it to his head. The hammer fell on an empty chamber. A sudden rush of happiness, almost bliss, swept over him. Rand reached for the gun.

  “Climbing,” he said. He raised it to his head once more. Another click. “Come on up.”

  The bullet was in one of the remaining chambers. The gun came to his hand like a card in a poker game, Cabot barely looked at it. He was staring at Rand. He had a sense of dizziness as the blunt, heavy muzzle touched near his eye, an eye that would not even, he thought clumsily, have time to blink. His face was wet. His heart was beating wildly. He squeezed the trigger.

  Click.

  “Now we’re getting somewhere,” Rand said.

  “That’s enough.”

  Rand had hold of the barrel,

  “We’ve come this far.” His eyes were burning, his concentration was intense. “One more.”

  He raised the gun. Cabot reached forward to stop him. A glass went over and crashed to the floor. Almost in the wake of it, concealed, the hammer fell.

  Silence. Cabot took the gun.

  “That’s it,” he said.

  “No.”

  They stared at one another.

  “I can’t.”

  “One more.”

  He closed his eyes. The room was spinning.

  “You have to,” he heard.

  The lights of the world would go out, the night devour him, he would be at peace. He was this close to it. His thoughts were tumbling, pouring past. He was clinging to the final moments.

  “Pull.”

  He could not.

  “Pull!”

  His finger tightened.

  “Pull!” a voice said.

  A click.

  He hardly knew what was happening. Rand had leaped to his feet.

  “You did it!” he was shouting. “You did it! Now get up! Get up!” Suddenly he grew quieter. “You can,” he pledged. “You can! Get up!”

  He began to shake the wheelchair. Cabot’s head was bobbing. They were like drunken students breaking furniture. Belief was flooding the room.

  “You can! You can!”

  Across the dark path between the houses, Mrs. Dabney sitting with her bathrobe-clad husband could hear the shouting.

  A violent force was pulling at the wheelchair, tilting it, spilling Cabot to the floor where he sat in a heap, legs bent curiously, and began to laugh.

  “Walk to me!”

  Cabot was laughing.

  “Walk to me! Jack, you did it. You can walk!”

  Cabot tried to catch his breath. The room was spinning around. “Oh, God,” he was pleading helplessly, “please.” It took him a moment to realize he was alone.

  “Vern?”

  He heard nothing. He called, dragging himself toward the door, “Vern.”

  There was a faint sound from the back room. Even if he had never heard it before, it was unmistakable, the sound of cartridges being inserted.

  “Vern!” he called.

  Rand came into the hall, his hand at his side. He seemed strangely calm. “This works now,” he said.

  Cabot’s glance fell for a second to the gun.

  “Look at you. Your chair’s on its side, you’re sitting there. You can’t even get up.”

  “I can get up,” Cabot said.

  “You’re useless. We’re both useless,” he said. “The only question is, who should shoot who?”

  He seemed completely dispirited. Cabot felt a sudden, deep sympathy toward him—he did not know why it was so overwhelming.

  “Jack …,” he heard.

  “Yes?”

  The gun was raised.

  “I’m going to count to ten. If you don’t get up and walk toward me, I’m going to pull the trigger, I swear that before God. Because you’re not a cripple. I know that.”

  “I know what you’re trying to do.”

  “One.”

  “I didn’t know there was no bullet in it,” he said. “You weren’t risking anything, but I was.”

  “Two.”

  “Oh, hell,” Cabot said, abandoning the struggle. He turned his head, not even looking up. He’d had enough of it.

  “Three.”

  Cabot waited stoically.

  “Four.” He was holding the gun in both hands, steadying it.

  “I can’t walk,” Cabot said impatiently.

  “Five.”

  “Jesus Christ, I can’t even piss.”

  “Six.”

  “Shoot,” he said.

  “Seven. Get up, Jack. Please.”

  Cabot raised his eyes. As if the idea were his own, he began to try and stand but couldn’t.

  “Eight. Get up.”

  With the strength of his upper body which was considerable, he was trying—like an animal in the road dragging its hindquarters—he was struggling to somehow get to his feet. His face was wet. The veins stood out in his forehead.

  “Nine.”

  He did not hear it. Everything in him was concentrated on the effort.

  “Ten,” Rand said.

  A deafening explosion. Cabot fell. Another, the sound was stupefying in the closeness of the hall. The second shot, like the first, made a hole in the wall behind Cabot’s head. He was lying, cheek pressed to the floor. Rand fired again.

  Carol came home toward midnight. She’d been at a friend’s. She found her husband on the couch, his shirt dirty, hair disheveled. The wheelchair sat empty.

  “What is it? What’s happened?”

  He was watching the television. The room was a mess.

  “Nothing,” he said. “It’s all over. I thought you were coming home at eleven.”

  “I lost track of the time. What have you been doing?”

  “Nothing, really. Rand fired some shots.”

  “Shots?”

  “Mrs. Dabney got excited and called the police.”

  “He fired shots at what? Where is he?”

  “He’s gone,” Cabot said. “I guess he’ll be back. He borrowed the car.”

  Just then she noticed the bullet strikes.

  “My God,” she said. “What are those?”

  “Those are holes.”

  37

  “LOUISE?”

  “Yes,” a sleepy voice said, “who’s this?”

  “You don’t know?”

  There was a pause.

  “Rand? Is that you?” she said. “Where are you?”

  “I see you haven’t forgotten my voice anyway.”

  “What time is it?”

  “It’s about seven-thirty.”

  “You always did get up early. Where are you? Are you in town?”

  “No.”

  “Where?”

  “Oh, I’m up north here. How’ve you been?”

  “Pretty good. And you?”

  “How’s Lane?”

  “I’ll tell you when I see you. He’s been in trouble.”

  “What kind of trouble?”

  “I’d rather not talk about it on the phone.”

  “That’s too bad. Is he there?”

  “He spent the night at a friend’s. Where, up north?”

  He looked around.

  “Oh, I don’t know,” he said. “I’m in some gas station.”

  “When did you get back?”

  “A few days ago.”
>
  “Well, come on down.”

  “I will,” he said. “I wish I were there right now.”

  “Well, why aren’t you?”

  “I had some things to do.” He’d wanted to talk to her, but now he did not feel like it. There was really nothing to say. “You know those boxes of mine? There’s a good fishing rod in one of them.”

  “A fishing rod?”

  “Lane might like it.”

  “Are you all right?” she asked. “You sound a little strange.”

  “Do I? No, I’m all right.”

  “I got your letter,” she said.

  Farther down the road there was a bridge beneath which a small stream was flowing. He walked down the embankment and washed his face. The sun was coming up behind the hills. There were empty beer cans in the water.

  He drove with a lazy contentment, his thoughts drifting. The invincible country floated past. He was seeing things with a fantastic slowness, faces in windshields, names of towns. He was thinking of his father and going hunting as a boy. They had an old 20-gauge and a handful of shells. The wind was blowing across the fields. Far off they could see the huge, wavering flocks heading south. They had no decoys. A man came along and told them they’d never get any geese that way. They had no license either.

  A whole life seems to pass on the road. The sun shifts from one window to another, houses, cities, farms rise and disappear. In a field near Shandon he saw a dead colt, the mare standing alongside it, motionless, leaning slightly. The colt seemed shrunken as if melting into the earth.

  He remembered when they drove from Indiana with a bag of hard-boiled eggs and nothing else. His dog wouldn’t eat eggs, they had no extra money for food. They parked by a river in Utah in the evening. Clouds of insects rose. The current slid by, green and silver. In Elko they drove up a bumpy road to a kennel next to—he would never forget—the Marvin Motel.

  “We’ll be back for him in a couple of days,” his father told the man.

  The dog was sitting behind the wire fence, his white chest showing, watching them drive away.

  He thought of Cabot. The mountain had been covered with snow when they were coming down. They had abseiled down the ridge. It was cold, especially lower down when they passed through waterfalls. Cabot was strong, stronger than he was by then. They came down as fast as they could, it was riskier than the climb.

  He turned east near Volta and crossed the valley. It was afternoon. He was not, he said to himself, a short-term soldier. The hands on the wheel were veteran’s hands. His heart was a loyal heart. There is a length to things determined by hidden law. To understand this, to accept it, is to acquire the wisdom of beasts. He was a veteran, a leader, but his pack was scattered, gone. Behind him was a California where wave after wave of migrants had come to rest. They had bought houses, worked, run stores. Behind were refineries, suburbs, empty bottles in the streets. Ahead was the final refuge.

  The road was empty, it seemed to drink him, to lead him forth. The late sun was flooding the land. In the rearview mirror it was brilliant, like a shot. One white horse was standing alone, no sky, no earth, like a print.

  He saw himself in the mirror, past the life of which he was the purest exemplar, which he would not spoil. He was suddenly too old. His face was one he once would have scorned. He was facing winter now, without a coat, without a place to rest.

  That evening he came to a town, Lakeville. Dirt sidewalks, frame houses, yards stacked with firewood. The supermarket had its lights on. On a hill was an abandoned church. Enormous trees. Quiet, cool air. Near the outskirts was a corrugated iron warehouse. Kids were playing softball near the trailer park. He sat on an old engine block. The evening was silver and calm. He had meant to drive farther but he could not. Something had gone wrong. He was almost in tears.

  He had gone as far as he could, had climbed as high. He could go no farther. He knew what was happening, his knees were beginning to tremble, he was coming off. At that moment he did not want to slip, still grasping desperately for a hold, but instead to suddenly jump clear, to fall like a saint, arms outstretched, face to the sky.

  He thought of dying. He longed for it. His world had come apart. He wanted to have everything, every animal, insect, the snails on the garden path, girls with their sunburned shoulders, airliners glinting in air, all, to cease their clamor and resume at last the harmony he had the right to expect. He had no fear of dying, there was no such thing, there was only changing form, entering the legend he was already part of.

  He lay all night on the ground, face down, exhausted. Early in the morning he headed north. He was going up into the mountains, the Sierras. There were many stories. A climber was seen alone, high up on Half Dome or camping by himself in the silent meadows above Yosemite. He was seen one summer in Baja California and again at Tahquitz. For several years there was someone resembling him in Morrison, Colorado—tall, elusive, living in a cabin a few miles outside of town. But after a while he, too, moved on.

  Cabot always expected a card or letter. It would be slow in coming, he knew, but eventually he would hear something. For a long time he believed that one way or another Rand would reappear. As the years passed, it became less and less sure.

  They talked of him, however, which was what he had always wanted. The acts themselves are surpassed but the singular figure lives on. The day finally came when they realized they would never know for certain. Rand had somehow succeeded. He had found the great river. He was gone.

  38

  IT WAS A GRAY day. The clouds were low and level as the land. The gulf was flat. Birds were sitting on it. From time to time the surface of the water broke and scattered—jack were feeding beneath. The sign was unlit at Ruth’s. Outside a few cars were parked.

  “Watch it! Watch the run!” Bonney cried. “Ah, hell.”

  “Right up the middle,” the bartender said.

  “They’re killing us. All right, give ’em the field goal.”

  “What is it, thirty yards?”

  They were silent, watching the preparations.

  “Now block it!” Bonney called.

  “The kick is up …it’s …no good! No good, off to the right!” the announcer said. The crowd was roaring.

  “All right!” Bonney cried.

  Ruth’s was on the highway just at the edge of town. It was a Mexican restaurant at night.

  The screen door slammed. Bonney’s brother came in. “Hey, where’ve you been?” Bonney said. “I thought you were going to watch the game.”

  “I fell asleep. You know what happened? Some woman woke me up at eight this morning.”

  “Some woman?”

  “Yeah, she was real sorry, she said. She could tell I was asleep. I said, who is this? You know what she said? It’s your mother, she said. I said, lady, my mother’s been dead for three years.”

  “Who was it?”

  “How should I know? What’s the score?”

  “Twenty to three.”

  “Favor who?”

  “Dallas.”

  “I’m dead! What period?”

  “Third quarter,” Bonney lied. “You already missed most of the game.”

  “The third quarter? Already?” Dale Bonney pulled up a stool and sat down. He was younger than his brother, not yet thirty. He didn’t look like him, he was shorter and his hair was nearly gone. The brothers were inseparable. “Give us a beer,” he said. “You make any bets?”

  “Did you?”

  Dale nodded.

  “How many points did you get?”

  “Six.”

  “Six? Forget it,” Ken Bonney said.

  The blue team was moving now. One of their backs had gone thirteen yards.

  “Who was that? Was that Hearn?” Ken said. “Is that who it was?”

  “I think so,” the bartender said. “No, Brockman.”

  “Brocklin.”

  “Is this really the third quarter?”

  There was another run and a fumble.

  “Oh, for
God’s sake!” Ken cried. The runner was hurt, he was lying on his back. “That’s Hearn!” he said as if he’d suspected it. “Get him out of there! Hearn, you’re through! Put in somebody younger!” The player was being led slowly off the field. Ken turned away from the bar. He made a helpless gesture. “Would you bet on a team like this?” he asked.

  A man was sitting at a table, his legs stretched out in front of him. “Which one?” he said.

  “Hearn—what are they thinking of? They want to lose.”

  There was a pause.

  “Go on,” the man said.

  “I give up, that’s what.”

  “You know a lot about it, eh?” There was something too calm, almost indifferent in the voice.

  A faint warning, the glint of danger, reached Bonney. He was afraid for the moment to look away. The door banged. A woman came in wearing soft crepe slacks and high heels. “Hi, Paula,” he said.

  “Hi, Ken.” She sat down with the man at the table. “Sorry I’m late,” she said.

  “How’s Fraser?” Ken called from the bar.

  “He’s fine. He’s in Atlanta.”

  “What’s he doing there?”

  “He’s living there,” she said. Then, across the table, “Have you been here long?”

  “Forty-two minutes.”

  “God, can’t you be exact? Who’s playing?” she asked.

  “I don’t know. Dallas and somebody,” he said.

  Paula Gerard was a teacher. She was divorced. Actually, she’d never been married, she just took his name.

  She had dark hair and a vivid, carefree smile. She always seemed a little untidy, perhaps it was her clothes. She told outrageous stories, especially when she was drinking. She swore they were true.

  She’d been divorced for almost a year. Fraser was a businessman. He never really worked. He played tennis, drank, and spent his family’s money. He was really very funny, she said. Once they flew to London and on the immigration card under “Sex” he wrote, yes, a lot. But he was spoiled and weak. She’d put up with him for years. She’d done things she never thought she’d do, she said.

  Bonney watched them drive away. “Who was that?”

  “Oh, she’s been going with him for a while.”

  “What is he, a little crazy?”

  “Could be,” the bartender replied.