Black River (32 page)

At a quarter past noon, Wes stood up. His coat was downstairs on the rack beside the front door, so he put the revolver inside the waistband of his jeans, against the small of his back, and untucked his shirt so it hid the grip. Felt a little like a two-bit gangster in a movie, but Farmer was still waiting downstairs. Wes descended the staircase as quickly as he could without seeming to hurry, and when Farmer looked up from the kitchen table and asked where he was going, Wes said, “Out.” Like he was Dennis as a teenager, sullenly monosyllabic. Dennis or Scott.

It was cold enough the truck didn't want to start, and Wes had to turn the key three times before the engine turned over. He rubbed his right hand with his left while he waited for the rumbling to steady and for the defroster to make headway against the lattice of ice hugging the windshield. As the ice began its retreat, he saw Farmer's truck parked ahead, and Wes stepped out of his own truck and went to Farmer's and sank the blade of his pocketknife deep into both driver's side tires. It hurt him, but he used his right hand and spared the left. He spotted the telephone line snaking from beneath the eave of the house down the clapboard to the foundation, and he ran his blade through that, too.

He got back in his truck and put it into gear and was almost to the woods when Farmer slapped the hood and put himself in front of the truck. Wes shifted into neutral but didn't kill the engine. He began to roll down the window, but it was stiff with ice and stopped after a few inches, so when Farmer came up beside it he couldn't put his elbows on the sill and lean into the cab the way Wes knew he wanted to.

“Wesley,” Farmer said, and his breath was a little weak. “Don't do this.”

The air from outside was the sharp sort of cold, and Wes felt it on one side of his face while the other was hot with the air blowing from the dash vents. “How far are you gonna go to keep me here, Farmer? You willing to lay hands on me and use whatever strength you got to stop me? 'Cause I'm warning you now, it won't take no less.”

Farmer hesitated only a moment, and then he hauled open the driver's side door and moved toward Wes and then he stopped because he saw the revolver. It was resting on Wes's thigh, almost casual-like, except Wes had gone to the trouble of working his finger through the trigger guard and the end of the barrel was staring right out at Farmer. Wes said nothing and Farmer said nothing and after a minute Farmer took one step back and hooked his arm over the open door. Something shifted in his face, and Wes couldn't have said what changed, exactly, the eyes or the mouth or something else, but his expression closed. “Well,” Farmer said, “I guess now we know where we both stand.”

Wes waited, but Farmer said nothing else. After a minute Wes took his hand off the steering wheel and reached for the door handle, and Farmer stepped back and took his arm off the door, and Wes pulled it shut and shifted gears and drove into the woods, and he didn't look in the rearview, not even once.

 

The bus station was just a single wooden bench, thickly coated with blue paint and set against the outside wall of the gas station, and the empty gravel lot beside the pumps, bare save for a scattering of hardy weeds and, for ten minutes twice a day, a lumbering Greyhound bus that didn't even stop long enough to halt its engines' shuddering. The old prison occupied the opposite side of the street, the top of the red cellblock just visible above the gray wall. Bobby Williams was looking at it when Wes pulled into the lot at a quarter to one. He sat alone on the bench, a large paper bag beside him, its top rolled shut. He wore a new blue shirt and dark dungarees, the fabric so stiff it looked liable to crease and split like cardboard if he moved.

Wes had the revolver back in his coat pocket, and he put his hand in with it, settled the grip against his palm and found the trigger guard with his crooked index finger. It was a heavy coat, the canvas rough even after years of washing, and no one would be able to say for sure whether there was anything but his hands in the pockets. He glanced outside. One truck at the pumps. Its owner inside, talking to the kid behind the register. Wes set his face and held it, then got out of his truck before he could decide it wasn't a good idea. He took three steps toward the gas station and stopped. Waited.

Williams watched him for several seconds before rising. He left the paper bag on the bench and crossed the gravel slow, walking like someone still learning how, each step a hair shorter or longer than the one before. He stopped a couple yards away, hooked his thumbs into his belt loops. “I been inside so long I don't hardly know what to do without lines on the floor and COs telling me what to do,” he said. “I don't even know how close I ought to stand to you.”

“You're plenty close,” Wes said, and Williams looked over Wes's shoulder and let one side of his mouth pull into a brief smile. Wes saw now that Williams wasn't really bigger than he remembered, as he'd thought at the hearing, but merely filled out, healthy flesh gentling bones that had been more pronounced twenty years ago. He still exhibited hints of the nerviness and restlessness Wes remembered, looked at Wes only in flickering glances: a few seconds on his face, away; a moment meeting his eyes, away.

“I guess all inmates think about the day they get out,” Williams said. The first snowflakes had begun to fall between them, singly, each somehow shameful in its solitude, like a note mistakenly played before the beat. “I always thought it'd be sunny when my day came.”

“Things don't always turn out the way we think they ought.”

Williams turned his gaze on him outright then, and inside his pocket Wes let his finger slide inside the trigger guard. “I didn't know you were a fiddler,” Williams told him. “When we were in the control room.”

“Would it've made a difference if you had?”

Williams didn't hesitate. “I'd have skipped the cigarettes and the shank and gone for your hands right off.”

Wes held his features where he'd put them. “That's about how I figured it,” he said. He thought Williams might try to tell him it'd be different now, that he was real sorry for what he'd done, but he didn't. Just let his eyes drift away from Wes's face and into the air, following one flake and then another in its descent toward the ground.

The man with the truck came out of the gas station and put the pump back in its cradle but forgot to close the gas door before getting back into the cab. He drove away with the gas door standing open, the flap of metal jouncing with each jolt of the tires over the potholed gravel.

“I should say it was you that led me to Christ.” It seemed to Wes that Williams was standing closer now, but he hadn't heard him move, and he'd taken his eyes off him for only an instant. “You said this gorgeous prayer during the riot, you remember that? I guess I didn't think much of it at the time, but I kept hearing it in my head afterward. Those things you said. The way you said them. I don't expect you to be much concerned by the fact, but I didn't know any kind of churching or, or, spiritual sort of matters in my upbringing. Your prayer was the first time I ever been witness to faith of that kind. And it changed my life; it truly did. So I thank you for that.”

For a long moment Wes stood silent, heart warring between incredulity and fury, and finally he had to do something and that revolver was ready in his hand but he kept it still and laughed instead. A bitter sound even to his ears. “Lord,” he said, “if that ain't a load of bull you just spouted off, you got it so wrong I don't hardly know where to start. Yeah, I remember what I said; I remember every second of that riot and will till the day I die. And what you heard wasn't
faith,
Williams. You heard terror. Desperation. Maybe a little bit of yearning. But you didn't hear faith.” A snowflake alighted on Wes's eye, and he blinked it away. Williams watched him impassively, only the slightest, almost imperceptible shake of his head suggesting he'd even heard Wes's words. “Hell, you say
you
remember this so well,” Wes said, his voice rising more than he meant to let it. “You remember the part where the only reason I was praying at all was you put a goddamned blade to my throat and told me you thought I
should?
”

Williams looked Wes in the eye again, and what Wes saw there wasn't exactly the familiar malice but was still sharper than he'd expected. “Wesley,” he said, “did you ever think maybe that blade made the things you said to God more true, not less?”

Wes knew then he could do it. He could take his father's revolver out of his coat pocket and he could aim it and let it loose its bullets to taste flesh for the first time. He would watch the blood bloom on this man's chest and he would watch him fall, and then he would let the consequences come as they may. He could do it. He wanted to. “I came here because I thought talking to you would clear some things up,” Wes said, his voice low but even. “I don't got to tell you what happened in there,” he jerked his head in the direction of the old prison, “so I also don't got to tell you why I was sort of taken aback to hear you supposedly found Jesus and all. It's been bothering me something fierce, wondering whether that was possible for you, of all people. What it means if you're lying, and what it means if you ain't. You and me, I guess in our own way we know each other pretty well. So I thought if I came today and talked to you, just the two of us like it was back then, I'd know for sure one way or another whether you really were a changed man or born-again or however you want to say it. That's all I really wanted, to know for sure. But now I'm here and I've talked to you and I know I don't like you and I wish more than anything you were still locked up, but I don't know a whole lot more than that. All I got's your word that you are what you say you are.”

Williams watched Wes steadily, but if there was something to see in those eyes, some truth there for him to read, Wes couldn't find it. Slowly Williams's gaze slid toward Wes's coat pocket, and a downward twitch at the corner of his mouth gave Wes his first hint that Williams might know what waited for him there. “So,” Williams said, glancing back up at Wes's face. “What are you going to do?”

Wes gave himself one moment more to imagine the satisfaction that would come with blood. Then he took a deep breath. Closed his eyes. And let the revolver slip from his wounded grip. “I'm going to believe you.”

 

Wes sent the truck hard down the gravel drive, the wipers scraping starbursts of melted snowflakes from the windshield. Trees reached for him as he steered sharply around the curves, branches grazing metal more than once. Then he was parked outside the house and Dennis was sitting on the porch steps, holding Rio's lead in one hand. His head was bowed and the black horse's muzzle rested almost in his hair. Wes got out of the truck and walked toward the porch. He was aware of moving too fast, and he forced himself to slow, loitered there below the first step. The horse flicked one ear toward him, but Dennis didn't lift his head. After a minute Wes lowered himself onto the top step beside him. Kept his face out of the snow, but flakes dusted the toes of his boots.

“Arthur seems to think you might've done something stupid,” Dennis said finally.

“Yeah?” Wes took the revolver out of his pocket, set it carefully on the warp of the wooden boards between them. “What do you think?”

Dennis glanced at it, but his expression didn't change. “I think there's still six rounds in that gun.”

Wes's hands stung with the cold, the burn of his skin joining with the ache of his joints, but he didn't put them in his pockets. Hard to look at Dennis—not ready to meet his eyes—so he stared toward the river, squinting against the snow. It was falling harder now, the mountains ghosted outlines only.

“I got the vet coming in a couple hours,” Dennis said. “Rio can't handle another winter and it wouldn't be right to ask him to try.” He touched the revolver with the very tips of his fingers. “I had an idea I might do it myself, but it seems I don't have it in me.”

Wes wanted to lay a comforting hand on Dennis, but he couldn't say how the man would react. He ran his palm over Rio's mane instead; the white flakes that had caught in the hairs melted beneath his touch and left glittering wet beads behind. “I could be there with you,” Wes offered. “When the vet comes. If you want.”

Dennis didn't say
Yes
or
Thanks
or even
Hell
no,
didn't even seem to have heard. Wes thought it was good that he'd offered anyway.

They sat silent for a time. That winter quiet Wes knew so well had come down on the canyon. The noises of man—the trains, the interstate—were muted, and the sounds of the land, almost too subtle to hear—the descent of the snow, the journeying river, the breath of animals—had woven together in a gentle hush. Wes had come here without much thought. He knew there were things to say, about Williams and Claire and his fiddle and most of all about him and Dennis, the past and the future, but those words escaped him now, and that was all right. The silence would lift. It was early yet, a melt still ahead, warmer days before winter truly settled.

“I know I shouldn't be so torn up over this,” Dennis said. He laid his palm on Rio's face, gingerly, as though the horse might already be gone. Mirage. “Especially not after everything that's happened. He's just a horse,” he said. “An old horse. But . . .”

Wes looked out across the land. Mountains gone. White from heaven to earth. “Tell me,” he said.

And Dennis spoke, the words tumbling from his lips, each as fragile and hushed as a snowflake. They came unsteadily at first, then stronger, and they built upon each other, settling and burying what lay between father and son.

Wes listened.

I am grateful to the Wisconsin Institute for Creative Writing for their generous support during the writing of this book. Thanks also to the faculty, staff and graduate students whose time at the University of Oregon Creative Writing Program overlapped mine; I am especially appreciative of David Bradley, Laurie Lynn Drummond, Cai Emmons and Ehud Havazelet.