Etta and Otto and Russell and James (12 page)

10

E
tta was taking the low, longer, easier routes, and Russell was grateful. Almost like she was making accommodations for him, even. He followed her tracks, a half heel in rock dust here, the outside roll of a foot out of a stream there, carefully measured as they became darker and deeper, closer and closer. He whisper-measured seconds and meters like the beats between lightning and thunder, closing the distance between them in both space and time. When the numbers got small enough he took off his shoes and socks, tied them together, and slung them over his neck. He might not be graceful or fast, but Russell knew how to be quiet. He placed his feet in Etta’s steps exactly, measuring and counting, stepping and listening, until, in a sweep of white spruce trees where everything smelled like deep, wet, green, after stepping and counting and measuring and listening for just over two hours, Russell looked up from the treads at his feet, through a hundred and fifty meters of white spruce and spiderwebs and sun through the canopy of needles like mirror-ball traces at a dance, and saw, as natural as the trees, the spiders, the sun, Etta. Tiny next to the pack on her back and the trees all around and the land stretching out in front of her. Her hair was out and down like it never was at home. The wind blew it back in waves and Russell imagined
it was his hand, not the wind, running through it and down, through and down. He was so close now.

He kept a distance behind, only just close enough to watch and follow, while he decided what to do next. Wait until dusk. Until she stopped for the night. For four hours they moved in an extended tandem, and, then, Etta stopped. She huddled down to take off her pack. Russell ducked behind some trees and took the long, covered, way to her.

When he stepped through from behind the larches, her back was to him. Etta, he said. Etta, it’s Russell. I’ve come to see how you are.

For a second she didn’t move. Frozen. Then, slowly, she turned around. She had a long gun, Otto’s rifle, in her hands. Up, pointed. Get back, she said. Get away.

There was a coyote, smallish but snarling, at her ankles. It limped.

Etta, Etta, said Russell. It’s just me. Russell. It’s Russell.

Russell? Ha! Of course not, said Etta. Of! Course! Not! You’re old, you’re much too old.

But, said Russell, we’re the same age.

Oh no, said Etta. Oh no, no, no, we’re not. You must be eighty, ninety, maybe. I’m sorry. She lowered the gun right down, so the muzzle was pointing at the ground. She took the hand Russell had outstretched. You must be tired. It’s rough out here for someone like you, I’m sure. Why don’t you stay and have dinner with us?

Russell flexed his hand in hers. Both their fingers tough and thickened with decades outside. Okay, he said. Okay then. The coyote looked up at him warily as it settled against a nearby rock, licking its leg.

Etta left them there, Russell and the coyote, while she went hunting. She came back with two squirrels. There aren’t so many
gophers here, she said. She laid the animals on the coyote’s rock and carefully felt around the bullet holes in their bodies. Need to get the shot out so he doesn’t choke, she said. You can help if you want.

They washed the blood off their hands with water Russell offered from one of his bottles and ate their dinner of Russell’s peanuts and crackers and bananas while the coyote ate his. Etta offered her chocolate, but Russell wouldn’t take it, so she put it back. They made camp on their coats under needled trees, Etta with the coyote, and Russell one tree over. They could hear a thunderstorm a little ways off, over the lake. You shouldn’t stay under a tree if a storm comes, said Russell.

I know that, said Etta. Of course I know that. I’m not looking to get killed.

Russell dreamt of lightning and of electrified wire hair. You don’t want to touch that, he said to his barber, just leave it. There’s just nothing we can do about it.

J
ames woke first, and went off to try walking a bit. Etta was next, rolling out from under the branches to see Russell under his own tree, still asleep, on his good side, with his plaid fleece over him like a blanket. The same plaid fleece he wore every day, out watching for deer. Russell? she said. Russell Palmer?

He opened one eye, barely, barely. Good morning, Etta, he said. It’s really good to see you. I’ve come to take you home.

Well, that’s silly, said Etta. And a lie.

It’s not, said Russell, sitting up, brushing needles from his arm.

It is. I’m not going home, Russell. Not yet. And you know it.

It’s not safe, Etta. It’s not wise. We can walk at home, we can walk every day if you want.

I don’t want to walk with you. And I certainly don’t want to walk at home. I’m walking here, alone.

You, said Russell, you’re not . . . Etta, you know that you—

I always remember to eat and drink and walk. I remember which way is east and how to shoot straight. She sat down next to him. Anyway, Russell, you don’t worry about that, about me, because, like I said, you’re not actually here to fetch me.

Russell looked sideways at her. At the deep lines sunk across where her dimples had been; they were the deepest lines on her face.

You’re here, continued Etta, because it’s your turn, finally. It’s sad that you felt you needed my permission for that, but, oh well. Go, Russell, go do whatever, wherever. Go do it alone, and now, because you want to and you’re allowed to and you can. You always could have if you wanted to enough.

Russell sighed. He put his hands on Etta’s sides, against her arms. You’re sure you won’t come with me?

Of course not.

He leaned into her and kissed the dimple line on each cheek.
Then he hesitated, just long enough for her to inhale, and then he kissed her mouth. She let him. Shifted her weight toward the same red and black plaid fleece. Their lips thin and tight and together.

And they held like that

and held

and held

and then,

You and Otto both, said Russell, as he pulled away.

Yes I know, said Etta.

So much and so different. So so much.

Yes, said Etta.

I’m going to trade my truck for a horse and ride north, said Russell. I’m going to find migrating caribou and follow them.

And I’ll meet you back home, after.

And I’ll meet you back home, after.

O
tto was watching Oats. It was between three and four a.m. and she was awake and chewing on the side of her box. Sometimes Otto would cough and she would stop and look at him, then run to the other side of her box and chew there instead. Back and forth. Otto was awake with a fast heart again. His fifth night up with Oats. She chewed and he drank milk and little bits of rye.

On the sixth night, his cough had eased a little, so Otto carefully and slowly reached into the mandarin box and took Oats in his hand. Hello, he said. Good evening, Oats.

Her body shook like crazy, but she didn’t try to get away. She looked up at Otto, then past him to the microwave, then at him, then the microwave. Her eyes were all pupil. Otto turned around to see what she was seeing. There, in the microwave’s dark glass door, were their reflections. Oats stared at hers intently. Otto put her down on the counter in front of it, and she walked as close to the microwave door as she could, nose to nose with her reflection, and stared. Just stared. Otto tried to ease her back into his hand, but Oats wouldn’t go. She pressed her small claws into the counter and tensed her legs and body and kept staring. So Otto bent down to her level and stared too. The impure glass blurred his features and softened them. He looked younger. I should take a picture for Etta, he thought. Meanwhile, Oats had adjusted herself and was now licking the door. Otto had to put on his gardening gloves to get her back in her box without scratches. I know, I know, he said.

On the seventh night, his heart going and going and going, Otto woke up with an idea. He put on his robe and went to the kitchen. Hello, Oats, he said. Good evening. She was digging in her newspaper, kicking down through it to the box’s bottom and then moving to another spot and starting again. Otto got out a mixing bowl and filled it with half a
Canadian Nationa
l
’s worth of
paper strips, then got another and filled it with flour and water. I understand, he said, that I’m not always company enough. So I’m going to try and make you some more.

The layers of papier-mâché dried quickly out on the front steps. Once he had layered enough, in roughly the right shape, Otto found some nonpoisonous animal-marking paint in the shed and drew two dark eyes, a nose, and a mouth. It wasn’t an exact likeness, but it wasn’t too bad. Better than he’d expected. When the paint was dry and didn’t smell anymore, he put the papier-mâché guinea pig in Oats’s box, nestled into a corner. There, he said. I hope that helps. Oats stared at the new thing, nose twitching, then walked over and licked the side of its face.

The next day, Otto soaked and washed the large and medium mixing bowls and the collection of spoons that were all still crusted with dried flour paste. He toweled them with a soft cloth and put them away, back in the cupboards and drawers. Outside the sun was white-yellow, and reflected off the backs of the spoons he stacked curve-side up. Oats was sleeping next to papier-mâché-Oats. Otto would leave them in peace, go check the corn, the potatoes, the zucchini. It had been too hot, too dry these days. Everything needing water always. He put on his gardening gloves and went out. He forgot his hat.

After weeding and watering and inspecting leaves for pests and blight, Otto headed across the field to check on Russell’s house.

It was fine. It was exactly as it always was, key under the orange kettle at the front door, things and dust in piles inside. Otto sunk into Russell’s front-room armchair and fell asleep.

When he woke it was almost dusk. Shadows longer and in different places. Otto checked himself; he hadn’t woken from coughing, or from his heart, or from his bladder, it was something
else. The tension of movement, of other living things somewhere close. He held his breath and scanned the dark and crowded places in the room. But the motion wasn’t in the room, it was outside, just outside the two front windows. There were two deer, right there in Russell’s front garden. Eating, standing. Oh, oh. Otto moved slowly so as not to startle them, crawling on his hands and knees over to the windows. He put his head to the bit of window where the glass was lifted and the only barrier was screen-mesh.

You’ve come, he said. After all that.

The deer did not respond.

He’s been waiting for you for ages, you know, for years, he said, a bit louder.

The first deer jerked, alert. It looked at him and blinked.

Do you know if he’s okay?

The second deer turned now too. Twitching ears. They both looked at him. Both blinked. Once, twice.

When he got home he took the fresh-cleaned bowls back out of the cupboard and poured more flour into them, and then more water. Then he took three newspapers, shredded them, and set about meticulously crafting two full-size, life-size, deer. For Russell.

My Dear Etta,

These days, we march and march
and march and march and march. Only, always. But we sing as we do it, which
reminds me of your class, which I like. Boots over new soil, under new trees,
guns rubbing against the bare skin of our hips, at odds with our feet warm in
socks knit by nuns.

So far all of this seems to be
about moving. Trains, boats, feet. As long as we keep moving, were making
progress. Who-ever stops moving first loses.

Two days ago a man with a dog
dragging a rope leash ran from a burnt-shell house as we were passing, right up
to me, me specificly, and begged me for carrots. Please, please, he said, I know
you have them, I know you do, please, please, just one or two, or the tops,
even, please. Please! I had a little chocolate in my pocket, and cigerettes, but
he didn’t want them. Please! he said. Please! Thats all she needs! Just one!
Please! But I didn’t have any carrots, and we had to march on. Once we were far
enogh away I asked Gérald, my marching partner, What was that? and he said, I
think thats only just the beginning.

Tell me about home, please.
Tell me about the weather. About the heat or dust or still-ness. Anything. And
tell me about you. I keep your photo in the pocket on the side without the gun.
For balance.

Truly,

Otto.

The letters would arrive in no particular order.
Sometimes a disarray of chronology, sometimes nothing for ages and then three
together, all stuffed into one army-issue envelope.

Dear Etta K.,

It’s been two months since
your last letter. I hope you’re okay, you’re not upset, and that you will keep
writing me. It does mean a lot. It does.

O.

Dear E,

Don’t get me wrong, there are
people everywhere here. We sleep and eat and march side by side by side. We
breathe each others’ breath and sleep each others’ sleep. Its like home like
that. But, still, Etta, there is a sort of connectedness that I don’t know I
need until it’s gone. Until the months go by without any letters. A certain
layer of loneliness.

I’m sorry to be so earnest, so
honest. I hope you understand, forgive me, and write soon.

Yours,

Otto.

Dear Etta,

Nevermind. I recieved your
letters, all of them, this morning. Post-marked one a week, like clockwork.
Thank you, Etta.

Otto.