Let Him Go: A Novel (2 page)

With this speech her voice quavers but not with emotion. For years Margaret Blackledge has had a tremor that causes her head to nod and her words to wobble. Harmless, a doctor has called it, but it’s unsettling in a woman who seems in every other regard as steady as steel.

George pushes the kitchen window curtain aside. Yes, she’s backed their car, an old humpbacked Hudson
Commodore, out of the garage, and a few more supplies for her journey lie in the grass.

You pulled out that old tent, George says. You find the poles and stakes too?

I believe all the pieces are there.

I could set it up, he says. Let the sun burn some of the mildew smell out of the canvas.

I’d just as soon get going.

George walks back over to the chair where her coat and hat wait. He lifts the collar of her mackinaw and rubs the wool between his fingers. I see you’ve got the long underwear packed too. You planning on being gone right through the winter?

I’m not planning on any length of time. I plan to go, that’s all. And stay gone as long as it takes.

What if Lorna says no? George asks. Any mother would.

Margaret says nothing.

You have money?

I went to the bank this morning.

Leave any in there?

A little. Not much.

There wasn’t much to begin with.

Margaret’s suitcase is waiting by the back door. When she glances in its direction, George feels his eyes smart and his throat tighten.

Think this through, Margaret. What you’re aiming to do—

I’ll
do.
You ought to know that by now.

What finally made up your mind, if you don’t object to my asking?

Not only can I tell you what but when and right down
to the minute. July 27. I know it like it’s marked on the calendar. I was coming out of LaVeer’s Butcher Shop, and I spied Jimmy over across the street right outside the drugstore. With Donnie and Lorna. In the middle of the day. And neither of them on the job, in spite of their promises and good intentions. Anyway. Jimmy was licking away at an ice cream cone like it was a race whether he or the sun would finish it first. Then he must have licked a little too hard because that scoop of ice cream toppled off the cone. He gave out a little yelp. Donnie saw right away what happened, and so quick the ice cream didn’t melt—and this on a day when the sidewalk was hot enough to fry an egg—he reached down and grabbed up that glob of chocolate ice cream. And did he put it back on the cone? He did not. He pushed it right into Jimmy’s face. Wait. It gets worse. Then he laughed. Donnie
laughed
. By this time Jimmy’s wailing like his little heart is breaking. And what do you suppose Lorna did? Pick him up and wipe his face and his tears like any mother would? She did not. She kept right on walking. And she was wearing a smile, George. A
smile
. To do a child that way? A child that bears my son’s name? It was all I could do not to cross the street and snatch that little boy and run like hell. But I had my pork chops damn near cooking in my arms, and I suppose I was hearing your cautions so I continued on my way. But I knew, George; I
knew
.
That boy did not belong with those people.
So even with all you said—it’s wrong, it’s useless, it might even be against the law—my mind was made up. It wasn’t more than a week later when I got my resolve screwed down tight, and I went to that little basement apartment they’d been renting. But they were gone. Bound for Montana, I learned. And owing three months’ rent. So because I held
my tongue on that July day they got a couple months’ head start. But I’m heading out now, George, and you have to choose. Go or stay. But decide. Now.

I have to piss.

In the bathroom the matching towels and washcloth are no longer hanging on the rack. Only a threadbare towel is suspended from the bar over the tub—his to use in her absence. This morning’s sliver of soap is no longer stuck to the sink’s porcelain. In the medicine cabinet only George’s shaving supplies still rest on the shelf, but his empty toilet kit waits open-mouthed on the tub for his razor, shaving cream, toothbrush, and aspirin.

Her things might be packed up but the room’s very air remains hers. The smell of her shampoo, her cold cream. The steam that rose from her bathwater. And then from her as she stepped dripping from the tub. Could he ever stop breathing these, no matter how long she’d been gone?

He stands over the toilet. If there is a moment, an instant, when George Blackledge isn’t sure what he’ll do, by the time he’s opened his trousers and pulled out his cock, that moment has passed. He sighs, the deep breath and exhalation of a man about to follow someone onto a narrow ledge. Such a man is often cautioned not to look down. He might well be advised not to look forward or backward either.

Back in the kitchen he asks, Did you call Janie? Does she know about this plan of yours?

I mailed her a letter this morning.

You don’t even give your daughter a chance to talk you out of this?

She has no say in this. None. But I told her you’d let her know if you decide to stay home.

Did you gas up the car?

I thought I’d do that on the way out of town.

Why don’t I do it now? I need to swing by Ott’s and give Barlow the word.

I don’t suppose he’ll be too happy.

You can be damn sure of that. I leave now, that’s probably over for good.

I’m sorry.

But not sorry enough to cast this goddamn idea of yours aside.

Margaret reaches under the sink and brings out a can of Ajax. When she shakes its powder into the sink, a chalky ammoniac odor fills the room. If you’re coming with me, George, that’ll have to be the end of it. No dragging your heels. No second-guessing. No what ifs. If you’re with me, you’re with me.

She turns back to the sink and begins to scour its porcelain. Soon she’s scrubbing so hard even her ass is in motion. Nothing but two hard mounds of muscle and fat bunching under denim faded almost to white. No, there was never any doubt what George would do.

Should I shut off the water? he asks.

Might as well. We don’t want to come home to busted pipes.

A
ROUND THE CORNER FROM THE
M
OBIL STATION IS
Oscar’s Roundup Bar and Lounge, On and Off Sale, a dimly lit establishment barely wide enough for a bar and row of booths. When George enters, the only customer is Elmer Will, sitting at the end of the bar and pulling on a bottle of Schlitz in between spoonfuls of chili. Walking through a single shaft of dusty sunlight, George makes his way down the bar to where Randy Pettig is jamming a towel into a highball glass. At the sight of George Blackledge, Randy smiles, raises his hands, and says, Don’t shoot. I’ll come peaceable.

You didn’t then, George says. Why would you now? He points toward a row of bottles. A pint of Four Roses.

Randy drops his hands. Four Roses it is, he says, his voice flattened with disappointment. He finds the bourbon, drops it into a bag, and twists the paper around the bottle’s neck. As he’s ringing up the sale he tries once more. It’s been a while, he says to George.

And it will be again, George replies.

.
   
.
   
.

Margaret carries the box of canned goods outside and sets it down next to the driveway, convenient and quick to pack into the car when George returns. Before she can cross
the yard and return to the house, however, a plump young woman in a print dress and an apron hurries out of the house next door.

The woman waves exuberantly to Margaret. Hello, she calls out.

Good afternoon.

Having a rummage sale, are you?

No, says Margaret.

I seen the boxes and I thought maybe . . . She smiles. An upper tooth is missing, and her lip snags on that open space. Even so, it’s a nice smile, wide and unsullied. She puts her hands in the pockets of her apron and says, Eddie’s got me on a pretty tight allowance so I’m always on the lookout for a bargain.

Sorry, replies Margaret. Can’t help you.

Taking a trip, then?

Could be.

No boundary markers separate the yards. The sun at its midday height sheds light and heat equally on each side. Nothing distinguishes one property from another, unless it’s grass a fraction of an inch higher on one side or a sweeter green on the other. Yet something keeps a distance between these two women as surely as a fence so tall it would have to be shouted over.

You want us to keep an eye on things? the young woman asks. Bring in your mail or your paper?

Won’t be necessary, Margaret says. If you’ll excuse me now . . .

The plump young woman remains in place, her hands kneading the interiors of her apron pockets. Can I ask you something?

Margaret stops but she’s one of those people whose body can convey impatience even in repose.

When my husband comes home, the young woman says, he’ll ask me what I did today. And I’ll tell him I talked to the lady next door. After all these years, Eddie will say, And she’s still the lady next door? What’s her
name,
Mary?

Margaret has to know what the woman wants but instead she says, Three years. Not all that many. And Margaret continues on her way. Before she reaches her back door, however, she turns back to her neighbor. Margaret Blackledge. Perhaps because she has pronounced that name so many times over the years, she can say it without her voice’s usual warble.

Mary Bremmer, the young woman says, then adds, Pleased to meet you, but Margaret’s door has already closed behind her.

Mary Bremmer has barely had time to shut her own door—to shut her door and bite off a few squares of a Hershey bar—when the front doorbell chimes. Mary hurries to answer it.

Standing on the porch is the woman who now has a name. Margaret Blackledge thrusts out her tanned, rough hand. In case some chocolate might be on her fingers, Mary Bremmer wipes her hand quickly on her apron before taking Margaret’s hand.

I want to do this proper, says Margaret. And that means walking right up to your front door and apologizing for my bad manners. For my
years
of bad manners.

That’s all right, Mary says, chocolate melting between her tongue and the roof of her mouth.

No. No, it’s not all right. I’ve been a poor excuse for a
neighbor. And I don’t have a single good reason for my behavior. I just thought . . . I’m not sure what I thought. That we wouldn’t be here in Dalton all that long so it would be best not to form attachments.

But now, Mary says, you’re going, and she pulls her hand free from Margaret’s.

That I am, says Margaret. So this is the day I finally say pleased to meet you and good-bye.

Good-bye.

And as Margaret Blackledge backs away, Mary Bremmer gives her neighbor a tiny wave before closing her door. Her hand hovers in the air as if she’s about to throw the bolt, but then she stops. The middle of the day—why would anyone need to lock a door?

.
   
.
   
.

The bourbon’s fumes scald his nostrils but its burn is a comfort in his chest and belly. He could have used that heat as he walked to work this morning. He shudders and screws the cap back on. He says softly, Enough, a man more comfortable making promises to himself than to others. When he reaches under the front seat of the Hudson to hide the bottle, his hand lands on another package, something wrapped in one of the terry cloth towels that hung in the bathroom this morning. The shape and heft of this parcel, its location—what else could it be? But George brings it out and unwraps it anyway. Yes. What else could it be. The .45 automatic that the United States Army issued to George Blackledge during the First World War. He ejects the clip. Empty. He works the pistol’s action to make sure a
round isn’t chambered. He wraps it up again and drops its unmistakable weight on the passenger seat.

He feels again under the seat and finds a box of cartridges.

.
   
.
   
.

Margaret replaces the lid on the garbage can, and at the sound of the Hudson’s tires on the gravel driveway she stops and waits for George, one hand on her hip and the other shading her eyes as though she’s watching him approach from a distance.

If she notices that he’s getting out of the car with her blue terry cloth towel wadded in his hand, she doesn’t mention it. She smiles and asks, Do you want those leftover potatoes or should I throw them out?

For answer George grabs her above the elbow, but he’s not just squeezing her arm, he’s pushing too, guiding her across the grass and toward the back door. It’s a day for firsts. The first frost of the season. The first drink he’s taken in eleven years. The first time he’s laid a hand on his wife in anger, much less touched her with a weapon in his other hand.

In the kitchen he lets her go as roughly as he grabbed her, then drops the towel-wrapped gun on the table. Its muffled thud is like nothing ever heard within these walls.

What the hell, Margaret. What the
hell.

She has backed up across the kitchen. Her upper chest and throat are blotchy, and the blood keeps rising, up past the hard, sharp angle of her jaw to those sculpted cheekbones and across that high forehead. Because Margaret
Blackledge doesn’t embarrass easily, that color can only be the color of anger, and soon her suntanned face is the shade of cinnamon.