by Larry Watson
Table of Contents
Also by Larry Watson
Title Page
Dedication
Chapter 1.
Chapter 2.
Chapter 3.
Chapter 4.
Chapter 5.
Chapter 6.
Chapter 7.
Chapter 8.
Chapter 9.
Chapter 10.
Chapter 11.
Chapter 12.
Chapter 13.
Chapter 14.
Chapter 15.
Chapter 16.
Chapter 17.
Chapter 18.
Chapter 19.
Chapter 20.
Chapter 21.
Acknowledgments
MORE FICTION FROM MILKWEED EDITIONS
Copyright Page
Also by Larry Watson
In a Dark Time
Leaving Dakota
Montana 1948
Justice
White Crosses
Laura
Orchard
Sundown, Yellow Moon
To Susie
I WAS SEVENTEEN YEARS OLD when I first saw a woman’s bare breasts, in itself an unremarkable occurrence. But when you consider that I also saw my first bullet wound on that same body, you have a set of circumstances truly rare. And if the boy standing beside me that day had not already been as close as a brother, the experience would have bound us to each other in a way even blood would find hard to match.
We were exposed to these phenomena in order that we might learn something, but then the lessons we learn are not always those we are taught....
1.
ON THANKSGIVING DAY IN 1962 I was seated at the dining room table with the Dunbar family, father and mother, eight-year-old twins Janet and Julia, and Johnny, who was my age. In fact, there were people in Willow Falls, Minnesota, who believed that the Dunbars had two sets of twins, so inseparable were Johnny and I. That one of us was dark and the other fair, one taller and one slighter, wouldn’t necessarily have dissuaded anyone from that belief; after all, sturdy Janet was blond and waifish Julia brunette. And since I walked in and out of the Dunbar house as I pleased, why wouldn’t someone assume that Johnny and I shared a last name?
But I was a Garth, an outsider, though this was genially ignored by the Dunbars. A few years earlier, when Miss Crane assigned Wuthering Heights to our eighth-grade English class, I was among the few who read the novel with interest. I identified with Heathcliff, not only because his brooding, headstrong character reminded me of my own, but also because I, too, had been welcomed into a prosperous, loving family. In fact, if my waking hours could have been totaled up, they likely would have revealed that I spent more time at the Dunbar house than I did at my own.
Where, incidentally, a holiday meal was not being served. My mother worked as a waitress at Palmer’s Supper Club, and Sam Palmer always remained open on holidays for the few customers who didn’t care to cook for themselves. Before she left for work she’d said she was sorry and offered to cook a turkey another time, just for the two of us, but I waved off her apology. She couldn’t afford to pass up the hours.
Besides, I was right where I wanted to be, sitting at the long mahogany table, candlelit and covered for the occasion with a linen tablecloth, and set with the dishes and silverware that appeared only on holidays. Despite the table’s ample proportions, there was not enough room for all the food Mrs. Dunbar had prepared. On the sideboard waited apple and pumpkin pies, an extra bowl of stuffing, a basket of rolls, and a sweet potato casserole. The meal would be wonderful, of that I was certain. Mrs. Dunbar was an excellent cook, a woman who took more delight in the preparation of food than its consumption.
Dr. Dunbar had just finished carving the turkey—repeating in the process the joke he made every year about how his surgical training finally came in handy—when the doorbell chimed. Calling uninvited on Thanksgiving generally would have been perceived as rude in Willow Falls, but not at the Dunbar home.
A few of the older people in the community still referred to the Dunbars’ grand Victorian mansion on the edge of town as the Gardiner place, after the wealthy merchant who built the house early in the twentieth century. But shortly after moving in, Dr. Dunbar had an addition built onto the house, and it was there that he practiced with George McLaughlin, the doctor who took the young Rex Dunbar into his practice, bringing the Dunbars to Willow Falls. Initially the doctors kept their offices downtown, on the second floor of the building that had Karlsson’s law firm and Burke’s Pharmacy on the first, but once the new addition was completed, they moved into the Dunbars’ house, along with Betty Schaeffer, their nurse-receptionist. Patients who required treatment beyond what doctors Dunbar, McLaughlin, or the four doctors in the Cumberland Clinic could provide had to travel fifty miles to the nearest hospital, which was located in Bellamy, Minnesota. Not until 1976 would Willow Falls have its own hospital, though the project had been proposed and debated for decades.
Because of Dr. McLaughlin’s age, Dr. Dunbar handled the more difficult cases, performed all the surgery, and put in the longest hours. But he did so without complaint, and if someone rang the bell, even on Thanksgiving Day, Dr. Dunbar would never consider not answering the call of duty. It might be Mr. Kolshak, clutching a hand that required stitches because the knife slipped when he was carving the turkey. Or it might be Mrs. Shea, hoping that the doctor could come and take a look at her father, who had hurt his back shoveling the snow that drifted over Willow Falls the previous night. In any case, it was unlikely that someone would intrude on the Dunbars’ holiday for any reason but an emergency.
Nevertheless, after rising to his feet, Dr. Dunbar paused. He lifted his pocket watch from his vest, snapped it open, and gazed at it almost as if he were posing. Dr. Dunbar was a charming, confident man, and an imposing physical specimen. He was movie-star handsome—heavy browed and square jawed—and his wavy black hair was combed back tight to his skull. Amid his large features, his pencil-thin mustache was almost lost. He was six foot three, broad shouldered and barrel chested, and he moved in a way that suggested power and self-assurance. He was an impeccable dresser and he favored three-piece suits, which he purchased in Minneapolis.
Dr. Dunbar placed his watch back into his vest pocket, smiled apologetically at all of us sitting around the table, and excused himself. Because we all knew that there had to be an emergency, and because Dr. Dunbar’s departure inevitably meant that the room lost its energy, we waited in silence for his return.
Alice Dunbar was her husband’s opposite—shy, timid, and tiny. She was, however, his match in looks—a fairhaired, fine-featured beauty. When they were together in public, someone would inevitably remark on what an attractive couple the Dunbars made, and how obvious it was, from the way she gazed up at him, that Alice Dunbar adored her husband. In fact, her need for him was such that even ordinary moments could be difficult for her to manage without his direction and vigor. And so when the doctor left to answer the door, Mrs. Dunbar did nothing to sustain or stimulate the conversation. She just sat there patiently fingering the pearls of her necklace, as if counting them could substitute for counting the minutes of his absence.
He came back wearing a somber expression. “That was Deputy Greiner.” As if he needed to assess each of our ability to endure his forthcoming announcement, the doctor looked around the table. He didn’t pause long when he came to me. He knew I wouldn’t flinch.
“There’s been a shooting,” the doctor went on. “The victim is a young woman by the name of Lindahl. Louisa Lindahl?”
The name was not familiar to any of us, so Dr. Dunbar continued. “According to the deputy, it’s a strange situation. A man has confessed to the shooting and turned himself in, but we don’t have a victim.”
Dr. Dunbar paused again. “Here’s what the deputy told me. Miss Lindahl and her boyfriend—Lester Huston? That name mean anything? No? Anyway, this young couple had a quarrel, and it was heated, so heated that Huston took a shot at Miss Lindahl. He claims he was provoked, that she threw a soup can at him. And here’s the part I’m not clear on: Either Miss Lindahl tried to run away from him and he fired at her as she was fleeing, or he fired at her and then she ran. Whatever the case, she got away, but there is no doubt in Mr. Huston’s mind that he shot her. Deputy Greiner is convinced of this as well, and not only because people don’t turn themselves in for crimes they didn’t commit. He also found corroborating evidence. Huston was living in a shack on this side of Frenchman’s Forest, and when the deputy visited the scene he saw some blood on the ground. Greiner tried to follow the blood trail, but he lost it in the woods. Then he came here. He wanted me to know that Miss Lindahl is likely still out there bleeding from a gunshot wound. Or—and we certainly have to consider this possibility—she might be dead already. And now I need to decide whether to stay put, ready to treat this young woman in case they bring her here, or to join the deputy and the other men he’s rounded up for the search party. That way I could be right there to treat her in the field.”
Once again the doctor surveyed the table, looking steadily at each of us in turn. Dr. Dunbar was not a weak or indecisive man, and it was unlikely that he was actually seeking counsel. As it was, Dr. Dunbar had already gone beyond what most fathers would have done. In that time and place—a small Midwestern town buttoned up tight with the early sixties’ sense of decorum—few fathers would have shared these details with their family, much less asked for advice. A few heads of households might have called their wives aside and apprised them of the situation, but to involve the children was almost unheard of.
Nevertheless, I offered an opinion, which was testimony to my brashness rather than to any wisdom or practical judgment I might have possessed. “You could stay here,” I suggested, “and Johnny and I could try to help find her.”
“Well, there’s an idea. And not a bad one,” Dr. Dunbar said. “Well? Anyone else want to weigh in? Either in favor of Matthew’s proposal or not.”
Since I had volunteered Johnny for duty, I expected that he might speak up.
“No?” the doctor said. Then, to my surprise, he added, “All right then. We have a plan.”
The creases that appeared between Mrs. Dunbar’s eyes led me to believe that she didn’t agree, but she said nothing.
“I know you fellows are hungry,” Dr. Dunbar said, taking in the meal spread before us, “but if you want to join the search party out at Frenchman’s Forest, you’ll have to head out right away. Time is not on the side of someone bleeding from a bullet wound.”
Janet popped up out of her chair and asked, “Can we go, too?” Julia, often willing to allow her more vocal sister to speak for her, eagerly nodded her interest as well. The Dunbar twins were bright, bold little girls whose adventurous spirits made them seem more like their father than their mother.
Dr. Dunbar looked from one daughter to the other as if their request warranted serious consideration. Finally he said, “I don’t doubt that you two have eyes every bit as sharp as the boys’, but that’s just the problem. I’m afraid you might find her. And that means you might see something you wish you hadn’t. No, let’s leave this one to the boys.”
The twins looked both disappointed and relieved.
Johnny and I stood up and left the table in order to prepare for our expedition. While we put on our stocking caps, coats, and overshoes, Mrs. Dunbar assured us that a hot meal would be waiting when we returned. We were almost out the door when Dr. Dunbar called us aside.
“Now, if you do find her,” he said, “don’t try to do anything heroic.” He handed each of us a stack of gauze pads. “A bullet wound is nothing to fool with. If she’s bleeding heavily, use simple compression. No tourniquets or anything extreme.” And then he added with a smile, “And absolutely no field surgery—don’t dig out the bullet with a jackknife or anything along those lines. If you have to touch a wound, use the gauze, not your bare hands. Now go. I’ll set up an emergency room in the clinic.”
As we dressed to go out, Johnny and I were excited, almost giddy, at the prospect of adventure. But when we finally left the house we were solemn and subdued, mindful that the gauze in our pockets was meant to soak up human blood.
2.
IN THE STATE THAT BOASTED OF HAVING ten thousand lakes, Willow Falls was near none of them. Located in the southwestern corner of Minnesota, our town was closer to Sioux Falls, South Dakota, than it was to Minneapolis. We were out on the prairie, the land flat or gently undulating, sparsely populated, and mostly plowed for farming. As for recreation, the grassland was good for upland game, and a few nearby potholes and sloughs attracted wild fowl and the men who hunted them, but we were not a region of cabins on the lake. We did have a river, of course, the Willow, on whose banks the town was built. But it slowed to a trickle in dry years—of which there were many—and its falls, which gave the town its name, were in fact little more than a series of steps the river took as it stumbled over rocks and boulders near the center of town.
And if neither river nor falls merited their names, the same was true of our forest. In that part of Minnesota, only by an occasional stand of cottonwood and bur oak was the prairie interrupted—and then buckthorn, juneberry, and golden currant bushes filled in some open spaces along the river. It was a combination of these that made up Frenchman’s Forest, and without historical incident—in the nineteenth century, a trapper apparently hid in the undergrowth in order to escape a Sioux war party—the area probably never would have been named.
Frenchman’s Forest was on the north edge of town, about a mile from the Dunbars’. We could have walked it, but since time was crucial Johnny drove his father’s black Chrysler Imperial. And once we entered the forest we had no trouble finding Lester Huston’s shack; we just followed the tracks made by other vehicles in the fresh snow.
Deputy Greiner and his search party were back at the site as well, ten men walking in slow, ever-widening circles, searching for any trace of a trail that would lead them to the victim. We climbed out of the Chrysler, but before we could get started, Tiny Goetz drove up in his old Chevy truck and loudly announced from the driver’s seat that footprints, and perhaps blood as well, had been found along the road on the other side of the woods. With that news, the group immediately redirected their search. But Johnny and I declined to join them. We’d already decided to focus on the terrain most familiar to us—the overgrown paths and twisting trails of Frenchman’s Forest.
Before the deputy and his men climbed into their cars, Johnny said, “Wait—shouldn’t you give us a description of the woman?”
Deputy Greiner, a lean, perpetually sour-faced man who wore the same greasy fedora no matter the season, replied caustically: “I’ll tell you what: if you come across a woman and she ain’t been shot—you got the wrong woman.”
Johnny thanked the deputy, but I knew that if Dr. Dunbar had been there, Greiner never would have spoken to him like that.
Also among the searchers was Ed Fields, my fifth-grade Sunday school teacher, and I asked him where the blood had been discovered. He pointed to a break in the woods near a fallen tree, and then he drove off with the deputy and the other men, their vehicles bumping along the snowy ruts of the unpaved road.
Even without Mr. Fields’s direction, Johnny and I could have found the blood simply by going to the spot where the snow was packed down. We stood where the searchers had, looking down at two or three smears, the blood’s crimson diluted in the snow. By then it was apparent that we wouldn’t be able to follow the Lindahl woman’s actual footsteps, because the other searchers had tracked up the snow completely.
Johnny and I entered Frenchman’s Forest slowly, looking not for footprints, but rather another red stain in the snow. In the woods there was less snow but
more debris—fallen branches and leaves and undergrowth—and these made for slow going.
Not having discussed a strategy, we each began to search in our own way. Johnny moved rapidly through the woods, hopping over branches and zigzagging through the brush in an effort to cover as much territory as possible. I kept my head down and determinedly trod through the leaves, deadfall, and thorny stalks of weeds.
Only nineteen days separated Johnny and me in age, but I often felt like his older brother, his worldly, rougheredged older brother. I might have had access to the privileged world of the Dunbars, but at the end of the day I returned to the gloomy little two-bedroom box where I lived with my mother. We weren’t exactly poor, but poverty was always within view. We often ate as well as the Dunbars, but only because my mother brought leftovers home from work. And I seldom sat down to one of our warmed-over meals without wondering about its origins. Had Judge Barron sent that steak back because it was too well done? Was this baked potato originally placed in front of Doris Crum, the wife of Dr. Crum, the dentist? Did George Dummett, owner of Dummett’s Hardware, touch this piece of chicken before pushing his plate aside?
But Johnny Dunbar wasn’t only sheltered by his family’s means; he was like a child in no hurry to grow up. Every initiation, every marker of adulthood that I couldn’t wait for—smoking, drinking, driving, earning money, having sex, being independent—Johnny seemed in no hurry to reach. And what interest he had could often be satisfied vicariously by hearing of my exploits or efforts. If I was occasionally less than forthcoming about what Debbie McCarren and I were doing in her basement, or in the backseat of my mother’s DeSoto, it was because Johnny’s probing questions could be invasive. And if I indulged in a cigar or a six-pack of Hamm’s, I didn’t necessarily want to explain every sensation to him. After Randy Wadnor and I got into a scuffle at a football game, to take one example, I wanted to put the incident behind me as quickly as possible. Johnny, on the other hand, wanted to know every detail of the altercation. We both enjoyed sports, but Johnny was not competitive—he only wanted to play. And we were both good students, but while I studied to improve my future prospects, his success in school was the result of the wide-eyed curiosity he brought to any subject.
