All of Us (23 page)

The girl minding the store.

She stands at the window

picking a piece of pork

from her teeth. Idly

watching the men in serge suits,

waistcoats, and ties,

dapping for trout on Lough Gill,

near the Isle of Innisfree.

The remains of her midday meal

congealing on the sill.

The air is still and warm.

A cuckoo calls.

Close in, a man in a boat,

wearing a hat, looks

toward shore, the little store,

and the girl. He looks, whips

his line, and looks some more.

She leans closer to the glass.

Goes out then to the lakeside.

But it’s the cuckoo in the bush

that has her attention.

The man strikes a fish,

all business now.

The girl goes on working

at the sinew in her teeth.

But she watches this well-dressed

man reaching out

to slip a net under his fish.

In a minute, shyly, he floats near.

Holds up his catch for the girl’s pleasure.

Doffs his hat. She stirs and smiles

a little. Raises her hand.

A gesture which starts the bird

in flight, toward Innisfree.

The man casts and casts again.

His line cuts the air. His fly

touches the water, and waits.

But what does this man

really care for trout?

What he’ll take

from this day is the memory of

a girl working her finger

inside her mouth as their glances

meet, and a bird flies up.

They look at each other and smile.

In the still afternoon.

With not a word lost between them.

Left off the highway and

down the hill. At the

bottom, hang another left.

Keep bearing left. The road

will make a Y. Left again.

There’s a creek on the left.

Keep going. Just before

the road ends, there’ll be

another road. Take it

and no other. Otherwise,

your life will be ruined

forever. There’s a log house

with a shake roof, on the left.

It’s not that house. It’s

the next house, just over

a rise. The house

where trees are laden with

fruit. Where phlox, forsythia,

and marigold grow. It’s

the house where the woman

stands in the doorway

wearing sun in her hair. The one

who’s been waiting

all this time.

The woman who loves you.

The one who can say,

“What’s kept you?”

This morning I’m torn

between responsibility to myself, duty

to my publisher, and the pull

I feel toward the river

below my house. The winter-

run steelhead are in,

is the problem. It’s

nearly dawn, the tide

is high. Even as

this little dilemma

occurs, and the debate

goes on, fish

are starting into the river.

Hey, I’ll live, and be happy,

whatever I decide.

The man who took 38 steelhead out

of this little river

last winter (his name is Bill Zitter,

“last name in the directory”)

told me the river’s changed its course

dramatically, he would even say

radically
, since he first moved here,

he and his wife. It used to flow

“yonder, where those houses are.”

When salmon crossed that shoal at night,

they made a noise like water boiling

in a cauldron, a noise like you were

scrubbing something on a washboard.

“It could wake you up from a deep sleep.”

Now, there’s no more salmon run.

And he won’t fish for steelhead

this winter, because Mrs Zitter’s

eaten up with cancer. He’s needed

at home. The doctors expect

she’ll pass away before the New Year.

“Right where you’re living,” he goes on,

“that used to be a motorcycle run.

They’d come from all over the county

to race their bikes. They’d tear up

that hill and then go down

the other side. But they were

just having fun. Young guys. Not

like those gangs today, those bad apples.”

I wished him luck. Shook his hand.

And went home to my house, the place

they used to race motorcycles.

Later, at the table in my room, looking

out over the water, I give some thought

to just what it is I’m doing here.

What it is I’m after in this life.

It doesn’t seem like much,

in the end. I remembered what he’d said

about the young men

and their motorcycles.

Those young men who must be old men

now. Zitter’s age, or else

my age. Old enough, in either case.

And for a moment I imagine

the roar of the engines as they surge

up this hill, the laughter and

shouting as they spill, swear, get up,

shake themselves off, and walk

their bikes to the top.

Where they slap each other on the back

and reach in the burlap bag for a beer.

Now and then one of them gunning it

for all it’s worth, forcing his way

to the top, and then going lickety-

split down the other side!

Disappearing in a roar, in a cloud of dust.

Right outside my window is where

all this happened. We vanish soon enough.

Soon enough, eaten up.

September, and somewhere the last

of the sycamore leaves

have returned to earth.

Wind clears the sky of clouds.

What’s left here? Grouse, silver salmon,

and the struck pine not far from the house.

A tree hit by lightning. But even now

beginning to live again. A few shoots

miraculously appearing.

Stephen Foster’s “Maggie by My Side”

plays on the radio.

I listen with my eyes far away.

Woke up feeling anxious and bone-lonely.

Unable to give my attention to anything

beyond coffee and cigarettes. Of course,

the best antidote for this is work.

“What is your duty? What each day requires,”

said Goethe, or someone like him.

But I didn’t have any sense of duty.

I didn’t feel like doing anything.

I felt as if I’d lost my will, and my memory.

And I had. If someone had come along

at that minute, as I was slurping coffee, and said,

“Where were you when I needed you?

How have you spent your life? What’d you do

even two days ago?” What could I have said?

I’d only have gawped. Then I tried.

Remembered back a couple of days.

Driving to the end of that road with Morris.

Taking our fishing gear from the jeep.

Strapping on snowshoes, and walking across the white field

toward the river. Every so often

turning around to look at the strange tracks

we’d left. Feeling glad enough to be alive

as we kicked up rabbits, and ducks passed over.

Then to come upon Indians standing in the river

in chest-high waders! Dragging a net for steelhead

through the pool we planned to fish.

The hole just above the river’s mouth.

Them working in relentless silence. Cigarettes

hanging from their lips. Not once

looking up or otherwise acknowledging

our existence.

“Christ almighty,” Morris said.

“This is for the birds.” And we snowshoed back

across the field, cursing our luck, cursing Indians.

The day in all other respects unremarkable.

Except when I was driving the jeep

and Morris showed me the three-inch scar

across the back of his hand from the hot stove

he’d fallen against in elk camp.

But this happened the day before yesterday.

It’s yesterday that got away, that slipped through

the net and back to sea.

Yet hearing those distant voices down the road just now,

I seem to recall everything. And I understand

that yesterday had its own relentless logic.

Just like today, and all the other days in my life.

I wade through wheat up to my belly,

cradling a shotgun in my arms.

Tess is asleep back at the ranch house.

The moon pales. Then loses face completely

as the sun spears up over the mountains.

Why do I pick this moment

to remember my aunt taking me aside that time

and saying,
What I am going to tell you now

you will remember every day of your life?

But that’s all I can remember.

I’ve never been able to trust memory. My own

or anyone else’s. I’d like to know what on earth

I’m doing here in this strange regalia.

It’s my friend’s wheat—this much is true.

And right now, his dog is on point.

Tess is opposed to killing for sport,

or any other reason. Yet not long ago she

threatened to kill me. The dog inches forward.

I stop moving. I can’t see or hear

my breath any longer.

Step by tiny step, the day advances. Suddenly,

the air explodes with birds.

Tess sleeps through it. When she wakes,

October will be over. Guns and talk

of shooting behind us.

A storm blew in last night and knocked out

the electricity. When I looked

through the window, the trees were translucent.

Bent and covered with rime. A vast calm

lay over the countryside.

I knew better. But at that moment

I felt I’d never in my life made any

false promises, nor committed

so much as one indecent act. My thoughts

were virtuous. Later on that morning,

of course, electricity was restored.

The sun moved from behind the clouds,

melting the hoarfrost.

And things stood as they had before.

Begin nude, looking for the socks

worn yesterday and maybe

the day before, etc. They’re not

on your feet, but they can’t

have gone far. They’re under the bed!

You take them up and give them

a good shaking to free the dust.

Shaking’s no more than they deserve.

Now run your hand down the limp,

shapeless things. These blue,

brown, black, green, or grey socks.

You feel you could put your arm into one

and it wouldn’t make a particle

of difference. So why not do this

one thing you’re inclined to do?

You draw them on over your fingers

and work them up to the elbow.

You close and open your fists. Then

close them again, and keep them that way.

Now your hands are like heels

that could stamp

on things. Anything.

You’re heading for the door

when a draft of air hits your ankles

and you’re reminded of those wild swans

at Coole, and the wild swans at places

you’ve never heard of, let alone

visited. You understand now

just how far away you are from all that

as you fumble with the closed door.

Then the door opens! You wanted it

to be morning, as expected

after a night’s uneasy sleep.

But stars are overhead, and the moon

reels above dark trees.

You raise your arms and gesture.

A man with socks over his hands

under the night sky.

It’s like, but not like, a dream.

She slumps in the booth, weeping

into the phone. Asking a question

or two, and weeping some more.

Her companion, an old fellow in jeans

and denim shirt, stands waiting

his turn to talk, and weep.

She hands him the phone.

For a minute they are together

in the tiny booth, his tears

dropping alongside hers. Then

she goes to lean against the fender

of their sedan. And listens

to him talk about arrangements.

I watch all this from my car.

I don’t have a phone at home, either.

I sit behind the wheel,

smoking, waiting to make

my own arrangements. Pretty soon

he hangs up. Comes out and wipes his face.

They get in the car and sit

with the windows rolled up.

The glass grows steamy as she

leans into him, as he puts

his arm around her shoulders.

The workings of comfort in that cramped, public place.

I take my small change over

to the booth, and step inside.

But leaving the door open, it’s

so close in there. The phone still warm to the touch.

I hate to use a phone

that’s just brought news of death.

But I have to, it being the only phone

for miles, and one that might

listen without taking sides.

I put in coins and wait.

Those people in the car wait too.

He starts the engine then kills it.

Where to? None of us able

to figure it. Not knowing

where the next blow might fall,

or why. The ringing at the other end

stops when she picks it up.

Before I can say two words, the phone

begins to shout, “I told you it’s over!

Finished! You can go

to hell as far as I’m concerned!”