“What is that?” Eustace asked. “Is that a mockingbird?”
“I don’t know . . .”
Again, the birdsong.
“Whoa,” Eustace said, standing quite still.
“I’ve never heard a mockingbird sing like that,”Mr. Conway said, in a low and intimate voice. “I think it may be a catbird.”
The melody played again—sweet, extended.
“That doesn’t sound like any catbird I’ve ever heard,” Eustace said.
“I have to admit, neither have I. It sounds like a flute, doesn’t it? I don’t know that it could be a mockingbird. I’d swear it was a catbird, but I’ve never heard a catbird sound so . . . harmonic.”
“I’ve heard birds singing like that only in rainforests,” said the son.
“It almost sounds operatic,” said the father.
Quietly, they stood together, heads titled back, gazing up into the dapple of lush foliage from the overgrown dogwood and magnolia. The bird sang as though reading from music, like a soprano warming up for a concert, running through scale after scale. What common North Carolina bird could possibly make such a superb song? They weighed the options. At this season, at this hour, what could it be? The men wore identical expressions of enraptured perplexity as they listened to the bird and heard out each other’s intelligent speculations.
“Can you see it?” Mr. Conway asked.
“You know, Dad, I think it’s coming from around the corner of the house,” Eustace whispered.
“Yes! I think you’re right.”
“Let me go see if I can spot him, figure out what he is.”
“Yes! Go!”
Eustace crept around the corner of his father’s house as the bird sang on. Mr. Conway watched his son with an expression of perfect and relaxed pleasure. His face was all pride and interest. It was a lovely moment.
So I had to ask. “Mr. Conway? Do you think Eustace will find the bird?”
Mr. Conway’s expression of pleasure erased itself swiftly, replaced by a hard and more familiar look—annoyance. The transformation took only an instant, but it was like watching an ugly metal garage door slam down over an attractive storefront. A most unsightly security measure. Clearly, he had forgotten I was there. Had I been eavesdropping? Had I watched the whole scene unfold? And was I now asking him to somehow validate his son?
“No,” Mr. Conway said, firmly. “He won’t find the bird. He’s no good at such things. Now, if one of his brothers was here, he’d find it. Those men have a talent for birds. But not Eustace. He’s hopeless at such things.”
With that, Mr. Conway walked away and into the house. Closed the door behind him. He walked right away from the finest hour of the evening. I was staggered. Would it have been so painful for this man, who was obviously brimming with pleasure, to say a kind word about his son? After all this time? Would it have killed him to yield a single goddamn centimeter once in his life?
Apparently so.
The conclusion of this story, needless to say, is that Eustace Conway did spot that bird. Of course he did. He sneaked up under the bird because he had decided to do so, and because he can do anything he decides to do. He caught it singing and confirmed that it was a catbird, after all—but what a voice! Had ever a catbird sung a prettier song? Eustace confirmed this and then came darting around the corner of the house, bursting with excitement.
“I saw it, Dad!”Little Eustace yelled to Big Eustace, but it was too late.
He glanced around the yard for a moment.
Where was Dad?
Gone.
But why?
Who the hell will ever know?
Eustace had come running around the house with such excitement because he wanted to tell his father what he had seen and learned. He wasn’t doing it for anybody else. But his father wouldn’t hear it, wouldn’t be present to witness it. So Eustace took a breath. Recovered himself. Then he adopted once more the voice of the world’s most sober and weary teacher.
And he told me all about it, instead.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Before him lies a boundless continent, and he urges forward as if time pressed and he was afraid of finding no room for his exertions.
—Alexis de Tocqueville
Eustace owns ten horses at the moment. He’s the first to admit that owning ten horses is absurd and decadent and completely unnecessary for the size of his little farm, but he can’t refuse them when they’re as beautiful as these.
Now, I’ve been around horses. I grew up with people who were magic with horses. My grandfather ran a fine stable, and I’ve worked on a ranch owned by a man who kept his seventy-five horses in line without the least bit of effort, but I have never seen anybody more naturally gifted with horses than Eustace. Horses listen to him. They pay attention. When Eustace walks through his pastures, the horses look up from their grazing to watch him pass, holding still, awaiting word—a devoted harem, a clutch of hopeful brides.
Which is all the more impressive considering that Eustace didn’t grow up with horses and he didn’t own one until ten years ago. He held off for a long time because horses are fussy and take up lots of acreage and money. When you’re living off the land, it’s much easier to feed yourself than it is to feed a horse. But he always knew he would get horses someday. It was part of the master plan. He bought an antique horse-drawn mowing machine, for instance, years before he had either a meadow to mow or a horse to mow it with.
When he’d finally cleared away enough trees to create suitable pastureland up at Turtle Island, he borrowed a big old Percheron mare from a local farmer and used the mare for his campers to ride and for him to practice farming with. The horse was slow and lumbering, but even being around that staid creature got Eustace’s blood going. He wanted more. So he bought himself a solid young draft horse named Bonnie and, with her, learned how to anticipate a horse’s anxiety and intellect, how to make split-second decisions of command, and how to be confident in his orders. Eustace found himself two human teachers, as well—an old hillbilly farmer named Hoy Moretz, who knew everything about breaking livestock in the traditional manner, and a young Mennonite named Johnny Ruhl, who had an intuition for horses that Eustace believed to be unmatched. Eustace would bring his horse over to these men for lessons and then hang around as they worked with their animals, watching and learning. Hoy and Johnny found Eustace to be an ideal student—attentive and talented, and easy to teach, because he seemed to understand intuitively the old country adage about why God gave man two ears and only one mouth: he could shut up and he could listen.
Eustace did a lot of farming and hauling with Bonnie, and she was built for that. She was an ox in horse’s clothing, and he was grateful for her. But he was also fascinated with the idea of taking a horse on the road for some serious distance travel. So every so often he would saddle up his big farm mare and head off into the mountains for a few days at a time, just to get a feel for what it might be like to travel with an animal as a partner. Eustace loved the idea, but Bonnie was definitely not built for such adventures. She was too slow, too thick. Then Eustace began to crave a real riding horse. He wanted a smooth motorcycle instead of the hulking bulldozer that was Bonnie. And so, with the advice and consent of his teachers, in 1994 he bought himself a pure Morgan, a championship endurance racer named Hasty.
Hasty was every bit his name. Moreover, Hasty came to Eustace nicely trained. Where Eustace had had to teach Bonnie how to behave, Hasty now taught Eustace how to behave. Eustace paid close attention and learned quickly, until he and Hasty were equals, able to spend their days teaching each other how to be a pair. Eustace started taking long-distance journeys with Hasty, riding down from the mountains to the North Carolina coast. As he’d expected, he did indeed love the physical challenge of sustaining a fast pace over uncertain terrain with an animal partner and no guarantee of safety. What he hadn’t expected, though, was the intensely heightened level of interaction he was experiencing with regular Americans as he rode through
their lives on horseback. There was something about the presence and romance of a horse that drew people in.
The reaction was extraordinary and universal. One New Year’s Day, when Eustace was riding Hasty toward the coast, he passed through a poverty-stricken neighborhood in rural North Carolina. It was all grim run-down shacks and trailers and yards full of rusted cars. As he rode past one ramshackle home, he noticed a huge commotion in the backyard. Maybe a hundred people, all black and all poor, had gathered for a massive family reunion and feast. The smells of barbecuing meat hovered in the cold January air. The entire humble property was rocking and humming with the buzz of celebration. When the people spotted Eustace—this shady and bearded mountain man, this white dude on a horse with a shotgun across his saddle—they laughed and applauded and called out, “Ride on in!” So Eustace swung his horse right into the yard, right into the center of this big family reunion. Just like that, he was family. He was embraced and welcomed and celebrated like any distant cousin. The family crowded around and took turns asking for horseback rides. They had a million questions. They wanted to know everything about Eustace and his utopian message and his destination. They fed him until he could hardly move, stuffed him to the brim with good ham and pies and collard greens and corn bread and beer, and then let him go on his way, with a cheering delegation running behind, blessing him, then thinning out, then vanishing.
To Eustace, who had spent the better part of his life devising ways to break down walls and enter the consciousness of every kind of American, this was a revelation. It was a spontaneous and satisfying encounter, and he well knew that he would never have been welcomed to such a gathering without the horse as an icebreaker. Eustace had traveled all over America—on foot, by hitchhiking, in boxcars, and on long drives—but nothing had prepared him for the intimacy with the nation that a horse could give him. It was the answer.
Clearly, it was time to plan a horse trip across the continent.
Eustace wanted to ride across America and he wanted to bring his younger brother Judson along. Judson Conway was excellent company, the dream traveling companion for a trip like this. But beyond that, Eustace felt that he and Judson, as brothers, needed some epic sharing experience. He recognized that he still thought of Judson as a little boy, as some soft kid hiding in the bedroom with Star Wars action figures, and he wanted to erase that image. Judson was a man now. Judson was a hunter and a horseman and a seasoned traveler and a working cowboy. Eustace wanted to witness him in all these shapes, while also experiencing a marathon of adventures that would surely draw the two brothers together as equals.
Judson, needless to say, was all over this. Did he want to drop out of modern society and cross America on horseback like an authentic heroic Hollywood high plains drifter? Heck, yeah! Judson was wild for the plan, hungry for the “life on the edge, chance to live large” opportunity. He threw himself into the idea with a swan dive, announcing that he was game to take off at a moment’s notice, hot for the chase. Just point him West and say the word—and watch his dust fly.
And so it was decided. They even agreed on a name for themselves. They’d be the Long Riders. Eustace, naturally, got right on the ball with the organizing. He figured out how many horses they’d need, how much money they should bring, what kind of guns they should take, and how much time it all would require. He collected maps and anecdotes from other long-distance horse travelers, trying to anticipate every possible contingency. Of course it was almost impossible to imagine exactly what they might face out there; the important thing was to have a smart route, good horses, and a strong beginning.
Eustace chose a southern path across the nation. The Long Riders would start out on Jekyll Island, off the coast of Georgia, and head west as fast as they could, tearing through Alabama, Mississippi, Louisiana, Texas,New Mexico, Arizona, and right into California. Eustace’s general scheme was to skirt the major cities and not get arrested or hit by any trucks (his mother made him promise not to let baby Judson be killed)—and that was about as far ahead as he could reasonably plan. It was imperative to concentrate on speed. This was not to be a lazy, contemplative walkabout. He wanted to push himself and his brother and the horses to their absolute limits, to see exactly how smoothly they could consume so many miles while experiencing the harsh tutorial of physical challenge.
And then, quite suddenly, they had another partner.
Judson, in his Judsonian way, had been talking up the journey and he had caught the ear of his friend Susan Klimkowski, a native North Carolinian who had worked with Judson on that ranch in Wyoming. Unassumingly pretty, terrifically shy, and surprisingly tough, twenty-five-year-old Susan had more years of experience on horseback than Judson and Eustace combined. She was one of those people who ride before they walk. She was no thrill seeker and no show-off, and she didn’t pretend to be a child of destiny, but when she heard about the trip across America, it stirred in her an intense resolve. She had to go along.
Judson had worked with Susan in the Rockies long enough to know that she could handle the physical demands of the trip, but he told her she’d have to talk it over with Eustace in person. In a gesture of perfect respect and instinct, Susan asked Eustace Conway whether she could join the Long Riders, not by calling him on the telephone and making a verbal plea, but by riding her horse up the mountain to his home and discussing the matter from the saddle. She presented herself to Eustace, in other words, as she would present herself to the entire challenge—already packed, obviously capable, and asking for nothing but the word “Yes.”
Which Eustace gave her. He was impressed by her presentation and could tell that she knew her way around a horse. If she could keep up, she could come along. And the extra bonus attraction was that Susan came with a nice pickup truck and a handsome new horse trailer, which Eustace thought might be an excellent accompaniment to the journey. He knew that such a trip could be completed without a support vehicle, but he also knew that they were way over their heads already with a serious learning curve, and that a safe portable space in which to store injured horses or extra blankets might take away some of the pressure and danger. It would be a bit of a drag—Eustace and Judson and Susan would have to take turns driving the trailer up ahead on the road every day, then hitch back to the horses to begin the day’s ride. They’d pound leather together to cover the miles up to where the trailer was parked and then leapfrog ahead the next morning. It would be a burden, but worth the trouble.
Fair enough. So now they were three. Three people and four horses and one truck and one trailer and a whole continent unfolding before them. On Christmas Day of 1995, they set off. They were all wearing Santa hats, laughing their heads off, energized and keen. Right off the bat, they found an unopened bottle of Bacardi on the side of the road. “Blessings from God, a gift from nature,” Eustace declared, and they slammed back the rum and commenced their journey.
Eustace was riding Hasty. Susan was riding Mac, a reliable black twelve-year-old Tennessee Walker. Judson was alternating between Spur, a lovely silver Arabian he’d picked up at an auction, and Chief, a horse bought fresh for this adventure, which the Conway boys had named after their legendary grandfather, Chief Johnson.
“Poor Chief,” Judson said, on the day they bought him. “He’s been hanging out in a pasture his whole life and has no idea what he’s about to get into. He’s on his way to learning what being a horse is all about.”
It wasn’t as if any of them, horses or humans, had a clear idea of what they were about to get into. (“We did not know what we were doing,” Eustace would say later. “And that is a fact.”) Eustace was considerably more keyed up and nervous than Susan and Judson, who were still at the point of thinking that the trip would be nothing but nonstop fun. Eustace had enough sense to worry whether they’d even survive. Whatever was to happen, though, Eustace was ready to document it. He brought a small tape recorder with him and eighteen cassette tapes, and he kept an oral journal as they rode. Part of his reason for doing this
was to avoid the slow process of writing down his recollections. And his steady, stream-of-consciousness ramblings on the tapes are, indeed, all the more evocative for the sounds of the birds and traffic and horses’ hooves in the background.
“I’m holding the tape recorder in one hand and the pack horse in the other,” he says on Day Two of the journey. “Saw some beautiful Spanish moss scenery, a little girl in a bright jacket on a huge old pine tree, molasses presses, furnaces, palmettos. Road is fairly littered with trash here, cups, beer cartons, cigarette cartons, bottles, wrappers, cans, bottles, aluminum foil. Amazing, the trash. Twenty to thirty feet away, however, it’s beautiful. Backlit trees, plantation pines. Sort of a mono-culture. Very sandy soil. Right now I’m as free as anyone in America. It’s so satisfying to be here, away from responsibilities, I wish more people had the simple life.”
So he was documenting his experience, but there was also an ethnographer at work within him. Eustace was eager to interview the regular Americans they met along the way. He’d been thinking more and more in recent years about the disappearance of regional dialects due to the pervasive influence of mass media. He could hear it happening in his holler back home, where the old Appalachian folks seemed to speak a language entirely different from their grandchildren’s. The grandparents still had an Elizabethan drawl (they pronounced the word “sword” with a definitive w, for instance) and called tools and animals by ancient words that would soon be extinct, seeing that their younger relatives were all starting to sound like New York City disc jockeys. Eustace relishes authentic and distinctive dialects and is a brilliant mimic, too. He knew this would be his last chance to capture a wide representation of American Southern voices, since the Long Riders often literally rode through people’s backyards. They had an all-access pass and were riding a plumb line right through the center of American life—no barriers, no boundaries, no margins of limitation. It was almost as if they were ghosts, and every wall before them became nonexistent. They could smell and touch and reach the people as they passed through.
The Last American Man Page 18
