In Open Spaces

by Russell Rowland

  There were several small gasps on the line.

  “You mean Dad?”

  “No. Little George. He drowned…in the reservoir…just a half hour or so ago.”

  Another pause, with some sniffling sounds. “Oh Blake, that’s awful.”

  For the first time that I could remember, I believed without a doubt that Helen was sincere, and that her grief was genuine. For that brief instant, I felt a kinship with her. And I was sorry that things couldn’t be this way all the time.

  “Yes, it is,” I said. “It’s a damn shame.”

  “Oh god,” she said, in a helpless voice I’d never heard from her.

  “Will you tell Bob when he gets back?”

  “Yes. Yes, of course. Thank you for calling, Blake.”

  “Well, I thought you should know.”

  “Thank you. I mean it.”

  I turned from the phone, where Rita stood, staring at me with questioning, tearful eyes. I looked at her, then past her, my mind working, trying to think what needed to be done next. I couldn’t think of anything. I couldn’t think at all, and I looked behind me. The desperation to find something to do overwhelmed me. Then I broke.

  Grief, it seems to me, grows much the same way a child does. To begin with, neither can speak, although both are adept at making their presence known—sometimes subtly, sometimes dramatically. The message may not be clear, but the depth of feeling, the passion, is never in doubt.

  As it grows, and ages, grief develops a voice of its own, a voice that needs an attentive, patient ear to express its message clearly. And if it is ignored, the voice will eventually demand attention, until one day you turn around to find yourself looking it squarely in the face.

  There is no choice in this progression. The progression happens whether you permit it to or not. The choice comes in how you respond. Some, like Jack, will always run from grief. Others bury it so deep that it makes them weak, and they need someone stronger to rely on.

  I think before the day of George’s drowning, I was running in my own way. His death brought me face-to-face with sorrow, and my grief grabbed me by the ears and shook me awake. It forced me to stand still for a moment and notice it, to take it seriously.

  Because practicality can only explain death to a point. If a death puts an end to suffering, as with Katie, or with Art, or as the final chapter of a long, good life, as with Mom, it’s easy to explain it practically and sensibly. But when there’s nothing sensible about a death, such as George’s, it leaves you with nothing to hide behind. The pain is right there. And that day, in a strange way, the pain felt good. It felt right. I didn’t fight it. I didn’t feel like crying. Unlike thirty years before, when my brother died, I wasn’t rebelling against some latent desire to weep. I was sad as hell, but I knew it was right to feel that way. I knew I was supposed to be sad as hell.

  And I think that was the one and only day I knew this absolutely. I took one look at Rita, and for the first time I understood why my people don’t talk much. Because in that single look, I recognized that nothing we said to each other could match the feeling of shared experience. We knew, and we didn’t need to speak. Instead, we fell together, holding each other.

  And for as long as I stood in Rita’s arms, I surrendered to my sorrow, and allowed my heart to twist into whatever shape it chose. And I knew as I hadn’t thirty years earlier that George’s death, my brother’s death, was just as senseless and tragic as this one. And I knew for the first time that it felt damn good to miss people.

  We had to wake up Dad to tell him. He sat forward, and braced himself with one hand on the arm of his chair, tilting his ear toward me as I told him what happened. He looked down, his eyes milky, as if they had been dipped in egg whites. His lips had long ago drawn into his mouth, as if all the words he hadn’t said in his lifetime had pulled them inside. His mouth tightened into a finer, thin line. He said nothing, but his eyes closed, and he simply sank back into his chair.

  And I began to miss him too.

  17

  summer 1945

  The war is over. The county is crowded with fresh-faced young men with stubble for hair, eyes bright with the joy of being home, and being alive. But they are also weary, and wary. And I wonder, like I did with Jack when he returned, what they saw—what deep, unexplainable wounds they’ve suffered. Of course, we all read about the things that happened in this war, horrible things that make our own tragedies seem small, and I am sorry for any of these young men who have to keep such secrets.

  There are also those who do not return. I see their families at social gatherings, eyeing the survivors with longing, and I feel for them too, because now I know about senseless loss, and what it feels like.

  But outside, the fields are ablaze with the green flames of abundance. Everything is more lush than ever, the livestock so fat they seem to smile. As though the earth is celebrating peace in the best possible way—by creating.

  A few weeks ago, I was alone in the barn, trying to doctor the hoof on an old cow, when Bob appeared. A man in a suit followed behind him. Not a western suit, either. He wore a city suit, with one of those hats they wear in cities, with a brim that doesn’t curl up, but dips down in the front and is flat as a flapjack the rest of the way around.

  “Blake, this fella came around asking about Jack. I thought you might be able to tell him more than I can.”

  I took the blade of my knife and lanced the infected spot, right in the split of the hoof. The wound opened, pouring blood onto the straw. The cow flinched and let out a short, surprised “moo,” but her reaction was nothing like the stranger’s. His face suddenly got longer, and a lighter shade. His mouth twisted, and he turned his head to one side. He was determined not to show that he was bothered by this operation, and he kept trying to look back at it. But each time he saw the blood and pus, he turned away, and he finally just walked a few feet toward the other side of the barn. Bob and I exchanged a discreet smile.

  I poured some disinfectant over the wound and lowered her hoof back to the ground, then stood and wiped my hands on my dungarees.

  “Well, I don’t know if I can help you any more than my brother here,” I said. “I don’t know where Jack is. I’m Blake, by the way.”

  I held a hand out to the man. He shook it, trying not to hesitate or look down at what might be on it.

  “Benson,” he said. “Ben Benson.”

  “Really? Ben Benson?”

  He looked puzzled, as if there was nothing unusual about that.

  “Well, urn…like I said, I don’t know much.” I paused. “You interested in some lunch? I’m just about to go in and eat.”

  He thought about it, glancing once more at my hand, then at his watch. “All right.”

  “I’m going to get back to what I was doin’,” Bob said.

  I nodded.

  “Thank you, Bob,” Benson said.

  Ben Benson and I sat munching sandwiches and baked beans.

  “When was the last time you saw Jack?” Benson asked.

  I swallowed a bite and wiped the corner of my mouth. “Sorry to ask, Mr. Benson, but who is it that you work for?”

  “Oh, I didn’t mention that? Yes. I’m with the AIS,” Benson answered. When he saw that I had no idea what this was, he spelled it out. “Army Investigative Services.”

  “Oh.” I nodded, wondering what the army would want with Jack. “No uniform?”

  “I’m not actually in the army,” Benson said. “I just work for them.”

  “I see.” I took another bite of my sandwich and chewed it up good before addressing his question. “Well, Mr. Benson, Jack disappeared the day his son George drowned in the reservoir out in the north pasture, in the fall of last year…September.”

  “And you haven’t seen or heard anything from him since?”

  “That’s right,” I said.

  “That seems to be a pattern with him,” he said.

  I was surprised to find that I took offense to this statement, not because it
wasn’t true, but because of his condescending tone. “What do you mean?” I asked.

  “Well, the reason I’m looking for him is because he deserted.”

  “Deserted?” I shook my head, thinking it was odd that they would be looking for him thirty years later, and wondering how it would possibly take them this long to find him. “When?”

  “Back in ’39, about the time the war started.” Benson took a big swig of lemonade and wiped his mouth with a napkin. “The reason it took us so long to track him down is that he enlisted under a false name.”

  I took a minute to absorb this information. I must have looked shocked, because Benson sort of chuckled, shaking his head.

  “You didn’t know any of this?”

  “Hell no,” I said. “I didn’t even know he’d reenlisted. He was in the army in the first war, but we didn’t know where he was during the thirties.” I looked down at my plate and shook my head. “I’ll be damned.”

  “He was in from ’34 until he deserted,” Benson said, wiping his mouth again, very thoroughly.

  “I’ll be damned,” I said again. “The goddam army.”

  “Bob’s wife said that Jack was something of a scoundrel,” Benson said.

  The hair on my neck rose a little at the mention of Helen, but I tried not to show it. “Well…she’s got her own way of seeing things,” I said.

  Benson studied me, thinking as he scooped a forkful of beans into his mouth. Then he took a small notepad and pencil from his jacket and set the notebook down on the table. He flipped it open and began writing. “Well, Blake, I might be out again soon, to do a more thorough investigation. But it may not be necessary. It doesn’t appear that any of you know much. Bob took me out to the house where Jack lived, and we didn’t find anything out there. And I talked to Rita, but she didn’t seem to know much either. Your brother seems to have kept a lot of secrets from you folks.” He tore the sheet from his pad and handed it to me. “But here’s the number where I’ll be for the next few days. That’s my home address. If you think of anything that might help us, or if you hear from Jack, please let me know.”

  I took the paper and set it to the side. I sensed that he didn’t trust me, and this offended me. Benson thanked me for lunch, then headed for the door. I got up to see him out.

  “Good luck, Mr. Benson,” I said.

  “Pleasure to meet you. Don’t hesitate to contact me.”

  He left and was halfway down the walk when a question occurred to me, and I called to him.

  “Hey, Benson, what name did he use?”

  He stopped and turned. “Westford. David Westford,” he said. “Guy in St. Louis. When I first saw this guy, I knew it wasn’t your brother. Nobody that fat could ever get into the army.” He looked down, as if considering whether he should go on; then he walked back toward me, stopping a few feet away. “This Westford fella, when we first found him, claimed he didn’t know any Jack Arbuckle, that the guy must have picked his name at random. We didn’t have any reason to doubt him, but of course we followed up on it. It turns out the two of them had a little scam going. Your brother was a supply officer, in charge of distributing parts and supplies to different units. He was smuggling stuff—nothing big, but a lot of it—parts and small equipment, out to this Westford fella, who has a heavy equipment and parts business out there in St. Louis.” Benson eyed me, gauging whether any of this information seemed to set anything off with me, probably looking for some sign of guilt.

  “You never met this Westford character?” he asked.

  I thought about telling him the truth, or telling him that I met Westford on the train to Omaha some twenty years back, but I finally decided I didn’t want this guy snooping around any more than he had to. I shook my head.

  He nodded, pushing his lips up toward his nose.

  “Well, I’ll be on my way.” He waved.

  “So long.”

  When he stepped out of the yard, Pup ran up to him, trying to get him to play. The dog raised up and kicked his front paws through the air, as if he was swimming. Benson danced backward, holding his hands out in front of him, holding Pup away, then moved toward his car.

  Mutt was back out in a pasture somewhere, with her own kind. During feeding that previous winter, after we’d tried to get her to be a sheep, we’d find Mutt standing off to one side of the flock, as if she was guarding them. We tried to run her back into the flock, but she would charge them, just as Pup had taught her. It took a couple of months, but she must have gotten lonely enough to join them, probably thinking that she’d have to settle for their company, even though she was a dog.

  Benson was almost to his car when he stopped one more time. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I just have to ask one more thing, out of curiosity.”

  I walked into the yard, so he didn’t have to shout. “Okay.”

  “Mrs. Arbuckle there…Rita…”

  “Yeah? What about her?”

  “I was very confused talking to her. I didn’t want to ask, though, didn’t want to offend her. Is she your wife, or Jack’s?”

  I smiled. “Neither,” I said.

  Epilogue

  summer 1946

  If I had sat down a few years ago and imagined how I wanted my life to look, it’s hard to imagine that it could have worked out any better than it has. And yet I planned none of it. Jack’s latest disappearance cemented what was already assumed—that I will take over the ranch. Jack’s absence also opened the door, finally, for the first tentative steps toward a romance with the only woman I have ever fallen in love with. It started early one evening, when I swallowed the lump in my throat and stood on Rita’s doorstep, asking her in a shaky voice whether she wanted to take a walk. She looked confused.

  “Is something wrong?” she asked.

  “No, no, nothing’s wrong,” I muttered. “Nothing’s wrong.”

  Rita frowned, her eyes darting from side to side as she thought.

  “It’s just such a beautiful night out,” I said, fully aware that there was little or nothing remarkable about it.

  Rita studied me, then seemed to understand. A shy smile came to her face, and for the first time that I could ever remember, she blushed.

  “Let me get my shawl,” she said.

  You would never have guessed that the two people strolling along the dusty path that evening had known each other for almost twenty years. We were both as tongue-tied as a couple of pimply teenagers. We were able to laugh about it later, after a few more walks, and a couple of candlelight dinners. It has been an odd courtship, with the two of us knowing each other so well. For one thing, neither of us had much experience with this type of thing to begin with. Rita and Jack had only dated for a few weeks before she agreed to marry him, and he was her first beau. So it was awkward by nature, but made even more so by our history.

  The interesting thing about these developments was that I had absolutely none of the sense of triumph, or even satisfaction, that I might have imagined as a younger man. What I might have once seen as an arrival felt much more like a departure, a beginning. The sense that filled me was one of responsibility, thinking of the people who relied on the ranch, and in turn on me.

  When I realized how much pressure I felt from this responsibility, with conditions being as good as they were, and with fewer mouths to feed, my respect and admiration for my parents compounded. It had always been hard for me to understand why my father seemed to have so little interest in anything that was happening outside of work. I had often wondered whether he cared about his family. But for the first time, it occurred to me that perhaps after six days a week in the fields, he didn’t have energy to put into anything besides work. Perhaps he instinctively knew that the best thing he could do for all of us was to hold the ranch together. And seeing what that entailed now, I also saw how that put the responsibility for everything else on my mother. It was no wonder she was irritable, I decided. She had a lot to be irritated about.

  These were not the only areas where my perspect
ive had shifted. Oddly enough, it was Jack’s last disappearance that convinced me that he didn’t kill George. It’s impossible to know for sure, of course. But the more I think about it, the more I believe that what drove Jack away from the ranch, and from us, was much more simple. It was the loneliness. It was the open space. It was the silent hours of grueling labor with nothing but your thoughts to keep you company. Your thoughts and memories. In Jack’s case, difficult memories. Fishing his son from the reservoir he built. Finding George’s body. And the consequences of that evening. His inability to respond, and Katie’s death as a result. I’m sure that the talk behind his back didn’t help, either. Despite his demeanor, Jack did care what people thought.

  Seeing Jack fold at the site of his son’s death helped convince me that he simply wasn’t equipped somehow to handle situations like that. It was this that was perhaps hardest for him to come to terms with while he was here.

  And I think in his own strange way, Jack knew this. I think that the reason he stayed away may have been because he was trying to protect us from the worst of him. Maybe I’m giving him too much credit, but I’d like to believe that he knew he wasn’t good here.

  All of which makes the other side of Jack’s personality more compelling to me. The side that brought him back. The side that really did care about Rita, and the rest of us, enough that he tried one last time to adapt. There is something about this place that sets up its own little corner in your heart and lives there, I think. And it was strong in Jack.

  And what this says in the end is a surprise to me. Because as much as I would like to believe otherwise, I think my brother and I are a lot more alike than we are different.

  Just the other day, at the Pioneer Days in Albion, I let some of my old friends talk me into pitching again. I hadn’t done it for a few years, for several reasons. For one thing, it hurt my arm if I threw for too long. It was also frustrating to go out there and try to do the same things I used to do and have my body not cooperate. But mainly I just wanted to give the young kids a chance. There were some pretty good pitchers around the county, and of course all of them wanted to pitch the whole game on the rare occasions that we had a chance to play.