The mist had burned off in the highlands, though a ghostly ribbon of clouds still clung to the valley floor below. As he switchbacked his way down the wooded ridge, a weak sunlight was beginning to filter through the canopy, and his thoughts warmed along with his muscles. Though he had nothing to buoy his optimism, Timmon felt it creeping into his step and decided he liked it there. What if it were true, that a decision — as much as any person or event or thing — could change a life, really change it?
Timmon’s path met the Elwha running fast at the head of a wide channel. After the next gap he knew he would descend into Press Valley — a half day of easy traveling. Moving still at a brisk pace, he trained his eyes always upon the rutty trail and its perimeter. It wasn’t until he quit whistling that he heard the first shout and stopped in his tracks. There came another. They seemed to be coming from the northeast, but the echo made it difficult to tell. One thing for certain, the shouts were earnest, though something in their tone could not belie to Timmon’s ears a certain hopelessness.
Proceeding slowly, ears alert, Timmon came upon a blue gym bag hanging from a tree limb on the side of the trail. What sort of dumbfuck packs a gym bag for the backwoods? Timmon yanked the bag down, snapping the limb, and instinctively began the business of unzipping it and rifling through its contents: an ugly sweater, a map, three books of matches, two pairs of filthy socks, and a lot of little Styrofoam crumbles. And lo and behold, in a corner of the bag behind some wet corduroys, bingo — a can of Chunky soup! Timmon could scarcely believe his good fortune.
Even as the ragged pleas continued in the distance, Timmon swung his fancy pack off his back and fumbled around in the pockets for his Swiss Army knife and, squatting on his haunches, opened the can furiously with trembling hands. No sooner had he pried the top loose than he brought the can to his lips like a pint of beer, where he discovered that Chunky soup was too thick to consume in such a manner. He dug into the brown gravy with three fingers, furiously shoveling the mess into his mouth. When the can was scraped clean but for a pair of marooned peas refusing to be dislodged, Timmon nearly tossed it aside but checked himself and stuffed the can in a plastic grocery bag, which he replaced inside the gym bag. That’s when Timmon noticed that the shouting had stopped. A wave of nausea washed over him like a chill. What if his selfishness had cost a life? What if destiny had offered him a choice, a shot at redemption, and he’d chosen Chunky soup?
He listened intently, hopefully, for another shout. When it didn’t come, he called out into the valley:
“Hello?”
“ — ello-ellooo?” came his echo.
He waited a few seconds, and called again. And this time, as his echo reverberated, Timmon’s scalp tightened as he heard a reply from the thick of the woods, perhaps a quarter mile to the north.
“Hold on!” he shouted. “I’m coming for you! Keep shouting! Do you hear me? Keep shouting!”
Stepping lightly, Timmon wended his way intently through the dense undergrowth toward the shouts, traveling several hundred yards, until he was nearly upon the voice. Fighting his way through a tangle of dead thimbleberries, he stepped out in the clearing, and there, on his ass, leaning against the furry bark of a heavily buttressed cedar, looking sheepish with a weak grin and clenched teeth, was Frank Bell.
Franklin hardly recognized Tillman, gaunt and bearded, wild-eyed with hunger and who knew what else. It was his tattoos and his height that finally betrayed him.
“Tillman?”
Timmon narrowed his gaze. “What the fuck are you doing here?”
“Looking for you,” said Franklin, struggling to his feet with a groan.
Tillman’s face darkened.
“No, no, it’s nothing like that.” Straightening up, Franklin groaned again, and his legs nearly gave out.
“What’s wrong with you?”
“Threw out my back tryin’ to shinny up that damn tree.”
“What for?”
“So I could see my bag,” he said, indicating Timmon’s right hand. “I lost sight of it.”
Instinctively, Tillman clutched the straps of the bag a little tighter but then caught himself and loosened his grip. He tossed the bag at Franklin’s feet.
“Here’s your shit.”
“You eat the soup?”
“Hell, yes. You got more?”
Franklin cast his eyes down and shook his head gravely.
“Shit on a stick,” said Timmon. “Well, get up, then. We gotta get out of here before I run out of steam.”
“Er, no can do, I’m afraid,” said Franklin meekly. “My back.”
Timmon had a bitter taste on his tongue. He wished he hadn’t come. He should’ve ignored the shouts and kept moving. This could cost him a lot of time. He didn’t have a lot of time. But looking at the pathetic figure Bell cut, slumped against the tree, Timmon soon chased away his regret and drew a deep breath. “All right,” he said, exhaling. “We gotta think this thing out. We gotta sit down and fig —”
Suddenly, both men were startled by a great thrashing in the nearby underbrush. Timmon put a hand on his holstered buck knife. Franklin sat up stiffly as though bracing himself. Something was charging straight for them through the brush. Before Timmon could even unsheathe his knife, a brown blur leapt out into the clearing, clutching something furry in its jaws
“Rupert!” cried Franklin, wincing in pain.
Rupert dropped the dismembered animal at Franklin’s feet, panting and smiling, wagging his nub.
“What the fuck?” said Timmon.
“Looks like ole Rupe just saved the day,” Franklin said.
The carcass was shaggy and fat, stiff and matted with blood.
“Holy Toledo,” said Franklin, patting Rupert’s square head. “Would you look at the size of that chipmunk!”
“Marmot,” said Tillman.
Damn if it didn’t look like a great big gopher or a chipmunk to Franklin. Looked awful meaty, whatever it was.
“Marmot, huh? Ever cook one?”
“Ask me again in ten minutes.” And with that, Timmon wiggled out from under his fancy pack and unsheathed his knife. “How about starting a fire, Cochise,” he said.
LICKING HIS FINGERS, Bell didn’t seem to mind the taste of marmot — in fact, he seemed to savor it. As far as Timmon was concerned, it tasted like an old fan belt, but at least it was staying down.
“Let me get this straight,” said Timmon. “You’re out here looking for me in Bumfuck, Egypt, not to run me in for skipping town but because you’ve taken some kind of personal interest in me? What kind of boy scout shit is that?”
Gnawing on a leg (or maybe it was an arm), Franklin paused to wipe his mouth with the sleeve of his sweatshirt. “We’ve been through this already, Tillman. You and I, we’re not so different.”
“You’re crazy if you think I’d be out here looking for you or anyone else dumb enough to light out into the sticks with nothing but a gym bag and a can of soup.”
“Well, you’re here right now, ain’t you? You found me.”
“Ain’t’s not a word, remember? What did you think you were dealing with out here, Bell? You think this was some kind of garden tour? You think I’m out here playing leapfrog with deer and feeding corn bread to bears? Is that what you think?”
“Didn’t give it much thought, Tillman, I really didn’t. When you know you gotta do something, you can’t afford to give it much thought.”
“Yeah, well, if I hadn’t happened along to find you, you’re one lost, dead sonofabitch, you know that? Man can die of exposure in this wilderness in a few hours after nightfall, if he’s not careful. And considering you’re walkin’ around out here with a gym bag and a polyester sweater, I’d say you’re not careful. My guess is you’d have probably been dead meat in two days’ time.”
“Maybe. But maybe somebody else hears me calling, if you don’t. Maybe my back stops spasming, and I find my way back to that trail and hike on out of here.”
“Maybe.”
“Maybe I’m old-school, Tillman. That could be. But the way my mama raised me — the way I always felt — was you hate to see another man throw in the towel. Especially not when his life ain’t hardly begun.”
“Don’t fool yourself, Bell. I’m no spring chicken.”
“It ain’t about — damn it, it isn’t about — how old you are. It’s about what you’ve been taught and the tools available to you. Sometimes a man just needs the tools for the job. Who knows — somebody gave your daddy the tools, a lot of things might’ve turned out different.”
“You don’t know squat about my old man.”
“Let’s just say I’ve got a pretty good idea. Point is, sometimes damage gets done and a guy can’t see past it. Sometimes maybe he needs a boost, a pair of shoulders to stand on.”
“You really believe that shit?” said Timmon. “Tools and shoulders, and second chances, and the rest of that garbage? You’re a dope, you know that?”
“Maybe so.”
Timmon threw a bone in the fire and wiped his hands on his filthy jeans. “But I like your style, Bell. You’re upbeat. Seems like you must lead a pretty good life to fill your head with all that Boy Scout stuff and actually believe it.”
Liberating a string of marmot from between bicuspids, Franklin flicked it into the fire with a sizzle. “Depends what you call a good life, Tillman. If you call living behind a bowling alley a good life, well, then, I gotta good life in spades.”
“You bowl?”
“Never,” said Franklin.
“Too bad.”
“Maybe I should start. Anyway, I suppose I got a few things goin’ for me. Got my job, got my music, got my college hoops.”
“That don’t sound too bad. Except for the hoops part.”
“I ain’t complaining. It’s pretty steady, all in all. Ain’t nobody looking out for me at the end of the day, though. ’Cept maybe Rupert here.”
“Not married, huh?”
“Nope.”
“Ever been?”
“Nope.”
“Why not?”
“Got no luck with women, Tillman — worse, I’ve got no skill. I haven’t had a second date in three years.” Franklin shook his head and looked into the fire. “Hmph. Must have that smell of hopelessness about me, or something.”
Timmon waved at the subject. “It’s kinda like you said: if you’ve gotta do something, you don’t think about it. Well, I’m here to tell you that women think about it. And think and think and think. We’re supposed to be the smart ones, but they’re the ones always thinking, trust me. They’ll think themselves right into a corner and start scratching. And in the end, they’ll almost always, always, do the wrong thing. And they’ll even do it knowingly. Contrary — that’s what women are.”
Franklin grimaced suddenly and went rigid.
“What is it?” said Timmon.
“Spasm,” said Franklin breathlessly.
Timmon got to his feet. “Here, hold still.” With one hand on Frank-lin’s shoulder, and the other between his shoulder blades, Timmon eased Franklin back until he was flat on the ground, staring up in wide-eyed agony.
“Okay now,” said Timmon. “Try to relax — take a few deep breaths, think of the Bahamas or whatever. You gotta use your stomach — that’s the problem. Take a little pressure off your spine.”
“How do you know this shit?” grunted Franklin. “I did a lot of readin’ in the joint, remember? Now quit talking and relax.”
Timmon slid Franklin’s sweatshirt up, until his bare belly was exposed. Franklin flinched at Tillman’s touch. “What’re you doin’?”
“Relax — we gotta jump-start those stomach muscles,” said Timmon. “I’m gonna guide you through some crunches.”
Tillman’s touch was gentle and knowing as he guided Franklin through a series of painful contractions while somewhere high in the canopy a thrush whistled its strange song.
a chorus of crinkling
AUGUST 2006
Curtis remembered the Monte Carlo, the smell of it, the film of dust on the heat-cracked dashboard, the half-peeled Bosch sticker in the back window, the soiled and cigarette-burned fake sheepskin seat covers, the one crackly speaker. He kept expecting the Monte Carlo to stall, but it didn’t. He recognized his mother now. He kept expecting her to light a cigarette, but she didn’t. She looked tired and nervous behind the wheel, dressed up, as though for a job interview, in a gray skirt and tights and a ropy blue sweater. She looked pale and pretty and unhappy all at once, brave and determined and out of gas. He wanted to hold her hand and squeeze it. He wanted to undo whatever had been done. He wanted this other presence to leave him. He wanted it so badly that soon he could feel sentences pushing at the inside of his lips, feel the fluidity of his thoughts begin to harden into something familiar. Looking at his mother, Curtis felt his old life settling into his bones. He ran a hand through his hair. He looked down at his beat-up tennis shoes. He flipped down his sun visor and inspected his own image in the tiny mirror — furrowing his brow and scowling until his face seemed to say, what the hell are you looking at? He flipped and mussed his hair disapprovingly. Dimly, he felt the many worlds receding, spiraling like tepid water down a hole in the back of his brain. He felt the tug of himself like a thousand sinewy strings beneath his rib cage, felt it rising like pinpricks up his ankles. And that is when the other left his body. Spotting the red and white sign, Curtis felt his life force squiggle up his spine. Suddenly, his lungs expanded, and his throat opened up of its own, and in a rush of familiarity, he found his voice.
“KFC,” he said.
Stupefied, Rita screeched to a halt in the middle of the intersection, and whipped her head around. Throwing her arms around the boy, she began to laugh and cry at the same time as the Monte Carlo stalled for the first time in weeks.
“Oh, honey,” she gasped.
Never had she yearned to hold on to something so tightly and never let it go. A slow calm spread out like ink inside of her, even as she sobbed, and the car horns began to sound behind them.
“Oh, Curtis, I’m so sorry, honey. Please forgive me.”
He wriggled free of her embrace.
“Okay, I love you already. Just keep driving,”
This caused Meriwether to grin so wide that his skin tags were almost level with his eyes.
A fat guy clutching a burger in a red F-350 slowed as he passed the stalled Monte Carlo, hollering out the window.
“Move your stupid Indian asses!”
Smiling, Meriwether calmly gave him the finger as though it were a peace offering.
Relinquishing her hold, Rita fired up the Monte Carlo, wiped her eyes with the sleeve of her sweater, and guided the car through the intersection, bestowing one final sidelong glance at her son. Eyeing his raggedy sneakers, she felt ashamed. Monday she could cash Krig’s check. They could go to Ross, and Big Five, and the mall. They could do anything they wanted with fifty-seven hundred dollars. Rita turned to look at Meriwether, who nodded his head so that the dome of his big white hat went scritch-scritch on the ceiling fabric.
They took a booth facing the street, and spread out the feast with a chorus of crinkling. Curtis dove directly into his Crispy Strips and honey BBQ sauce while Rita sipped her Diet Coke and watched him lovingly as he gorged himself.
Meriwether bit into a drumstick, chewing thoughtfully many times.
“Is this Original Recipe?” he wondered aloud.
“Fuck if I know,” Curtis said, attacking a Crispy Strip.
Rita never thought she’d be so glad to hear him talk like that. She never thought sitting in some shitty KFC in Port Bonita could ever be so good.
After t
he feast, Rita and Curtis drove Meriwether across town to the clinic and dropped him off at the curb in front of his Escalade.
“Thanks again for everything, Lew,” said Rita. “I hope you’ll take us up on that dinner.”
“As long is it’s not shellfish,” said Meriwether, who doffed his big white cowboy hat, drew his key chain from his pocket, popped his doors with a beep, and climbed up into the Escalade.
Rita whipped a U-turn in front of Sav-On, and she and Curtis began their journey home. Rita gripped the wheel tightly, wishing she still smoked cigarettes. Curtis kept his face to the window, his conscience spinning restless circles as he listened to the thrum of the windshield wipers.
“Mom,” he said. “There’s something you gotta know. About the burns, about how I got them.”
“What is it, honey?”
Curtis was hesitant. He looked out the window, as they passed the Red Lion. “You’ll be mad,” he said.
“Of course, I won’t be. I’m just grateful you’re okay.”
“It’s all right if you’re mad. You should be. It was stupid.”
“I won’t be mad, I promise.”
Curtis turned from the window and looked her in the face. “Well, the thing is, when I was … I don’t know exactly if … When’s the last time you were at Wal-Mart?”
“Last week.”
“And?”
“And I bought a case of Diet Coke. What is this about?”
“So, I mean, Wal-Mart was there?”
“Of course it was there.”
“Everything was okay? It wasn’t, you know, burned to the ground or anything?”
“Curtis, what are you talking about? Honey, just relax. Whatever happened is over now.”
Curtis sank back into his seat, faced the window once more, and fingered the scars running up his arm. They felt cool beneath the surface.
the old men are all dead
AUGUST 2006
The week before school started, Curtis met Coleman in his office. Coleman’s ponytail was even longer than Curtis remembered it, held in place with an agate-studded leather band. Even Coleman’s face seemed to have taken on an Indian roundness. What was it called? Crowder was always going on about it in biology — osmosis?
West of Here Page 43
