Let Him Go: A Novel (20 page)

Bring me my pants.

Now, if I did that, you’d likely walk out of here.

That’s the idea.

The doctor isn’t ready to cut you loose.

Waiting to see if my fingers will grow back, is he?

She smiles at him, exposing a few gold-backed teeth in the process, but the effort seems to cost her. I heard you try out that line on Mr. Reese. I know your kind, Mr. Blackledge. You’re so damn good at accepting the harsh realities that you use it to bully other folks. But doctor’s orders or no, I might be tempted to bring you your trousers if I thought you’d pull them on and then you and your missus head right back to North Dakota. What say you? Any chance of that?

Can I tell you a little story, Mrs. Witt?

Adeline. But fire away.

This was shortly after I was sworn in as sheriff. I’d been hearing about a young fellow name of Norman Rugda. Now, Norman grew up on a dirt-poor farm in the southeast corner of the county, and maybe because of that, when he moved to Dalton he couldn’t keep his hands off other people’s goods. Never anything we could prove, however. Then one day someone charged into my office shouting that Norman had just stolen his shotgun, stole it from this fellow’s car, and in broad daylight. Just as I was walking out of the office to investigate, I saw Norman drive past in his old truck. Well, I climbed into the squad car and gave chase, as they say. Once Norman knew I was behind him, he took off into the hills west of Dalton. This was a regular high-speed pursuit, my first, and on a steep dirt road I watched Norman almost lose control when his old truck hit a washout at the bottom of the hill. Quick as you please, I did the adding and subtracting: no shotgun was worth my life. Or Norman’s. Especially since Norman was almost certain to return to Dalton within a week at most. Which is exactly what he did, and he came back boasting that he had outrun the sheriff. When I caught wind of that, I grabbed myself a tire iron and walked up behind Norman Rugda in the Roundup Bar, where he was holding forth, and walloped him across the back of his knees. He folded like a broken sunflower stalk. Later, when Norman was serving his sentence in the county jail, he’d call me to his cell periodically so I could witness the changing colors of the bruises on the back of his legs.

George raises himself in the hospital bed, a maneuver
he has now become adept at performing. He holds up his good hand. Now, he says, before you think I’m nothing but another old mossback who can’t stop talking about his buckaroo days, let me get to the point. When I was following Bill Weboy out to the ranch, it felt a little like I was racing after Norman Rugda. But when I did the arithmetic this time, I came up with a different sum. The law be damned and caution go to hell. That was Margaret Blackledge in the car ahead of me. I was ready to drive off the end of the earth if need be.

Is that the point you were getting to, Mr. Blackledge? Or are you just going the long way around to persuade me to bring you your trousers?

What I’m saying is, my wife’s alone out there in a world full of Weboys. I’d like to be by her side, whether she wants to head back home or try to visit her grandson again.

For a long moment Adeline Witt stares down at George Blackledge, who, for all his white-whiskered pallor, his missing fingers, and muscles rusting from age and disuse, still has eyes that burn with a wild, blue desperation.

The nurse bends over, lifts his bandaged hand, and examines the underside of his arm. The doctor’s concerned about sepsis, she says. Blood poisoning, to you. So no pants for you, Mr. Blackledge. Not for another day or two. Anything else you need?

In that case, you could fetch me a bottle of whiskey. And pull the cork for me.

O
N THE NARROW FRONT PORCH THE TWO WOMEN SIT
. Coffee cups steam near at hand. The porch light is off and no illumination from the house finds its way out here. Only a streetlamp breaks up the darkness, and its glow is hemmed in by the leaves of the maples and elms that spread out over this city street. The end of September, yet the women’s arms are bare.

You haven’t had a frost yet? asks Margaret.

You should ask Homer, says Adeline. Since he had to quit both the filling station and the volunteer fire department, he’s got nothing better to do than keep records of such things. Working nights, I sometimes even lose track of the seasons.

Crickets. The reason I asked. You don’t generally hear crickets after a frost.

Adeline cocks her head. You don’t say. Well, they’re chirping away now, aren’t they.

The night before we left, says Margaret, we had a hard freeze. I knew it was coming but I didn’t bother covering anything up. We were leaving—well, I knew
I
was leaving—and I wasn’t sure when I’d be back so the hell with it, I said. Why bother? And you know, it felt damn good. Now I’m
not sure if I’ll ever bother covering a tomato plant or my asters or mums again.

You mean to say you didn’t know he’d follow you? I find that hard to believe.

When the women shift in their chairs, the wicker under them creaks and harmonizes with the crickets’ song.

I suppose I knew, Margaret says.

I’ve been around the man for less than a day and I could have made that prediction.

Yes, I knew. I knew.

They drink their coffee. Somewhere on the block a car grumbles along in a low gear. A screen door slams. Those crickets. Summer sounds, out of season.

Margaret crosses her arms, then brings her hand up to provide a steadying brace for her chin. You saw what we’d packed in the car—I’d loaded up damn near everything in the house. Everything we’d need to live out of the car for months, if need be. And that was the vision I had—George and me on the road, chasing Donnie, Lorna, and Jimmy, traipsing all over the West. We’d have ourselves a real adventure. By the time we caught up to them we’d have
earned
Jimmy, as if there is such a thing . . . Yes, I figured they’d run and run. What could I have been thinking? People go home. Simple as that. Hard times come or they need a helping hand, they go home. It’s what George and I did after we were married. No, that’s not exactly right. We didn’t
go
back. We never left. We stayed on the ranch, helping out at first. Then running the outfit when Dad got too old to climb on a horse. By that time the place was all but ours. And then when my mother passed away, it was. Ours, I mean. Title and deed. So why didn’t I figure right with
Donnie? We found him the second place we looked, and that first wrong turn wasn’t that far off . . . and now here we are. A hell of an adventure! No, when George bought himself a pint of bourbon before we left town, it wasn’t so he could deal with all those days and weeks on the road. He bought it so he could abide all the stubborn, foolish decisions his wife was making. Making for both of us . . .

Well hell, I might as well come out with it, Adeline says, clapping her hand against her thigh. I might be adding to the problem. I bought a bottle of whiskey and took it in to your husband.

Margaret finally lifts her trembling chin from her palm. Well, you’re the nurse.

And I poured him a glass. Then I put the cap back on and put the bottle away. But when you pack him up to go, be sure to check in the drawer of the little cabinet next to the bed.

You’re the nurse, Margaret says again. You wouldn’t have done it if you didn’t think it would do him some good.

Hell, I don’t think it does anybody any
good
. But I suppose I thought it wouldn’t do him any great harm. Unless I misjudged the man, I’m guessing he knows how to keep it under control. Like my Homer in there. Who’s in and out of his bottle all day long. But he’s never more than a little drunk. Of course he’s never more than a little sober, either.

Well, it got away from George for a while. He scared himself bad enough that he swore off it altogether.

Was this when you lost your son?

Before. George handled James’s death the way he’d handle a sickness. Wrapped up tight inside himself and waited for the misery to pass. Margaret pauses and clears
her throat. No, his drinking got out of hand a few years earlier. And you’re right: he was like your husband. A little drunk twenty-four hours a day. He was sheriff then, and I said to him, What do you suppose happens when someone smells whiskey on your breath? Don’t you imagine that’s one less vote? And he’d say what he always said about elections: They’re free to vote for who they like. God, getting that man to court a vote was like pulling hens’ teeth. So he kept drinking. I had the feeling he was trying to shut something off that wouldn’t stop any other way, some memory or feeling. Or maybe something he saw on the job. Whatever it was—if there even was an it—he wouldn’t talk to me about it. And then he up and quit drinking. I didn’t notice right away, which I suppose was a good sign. When I finally said something to him on the subject, he said, Oh, I quit that a couple months back. Just like he didn’t tell me he started up again.

The best I can get out of Homer, says Adeline, is that he likes the taste.

Which I have trouble believing.

Margaret rises and walks to the porch railing, grips it tight, then pushes and pulls herself back and forth a few times. But I could never get him to understand what it was about Jimmy and me, either. George said to me, You have to let him go someday. What does it matter whether it’s now or a few years from now? That’s what we raise them for, to go. And I couldn’t argue with him. I knew he was right. I knew. And the knowing didn’t make a damn bit of difference.

It’s not the same, says Adeline, with women and men. That’s what she says, but in her voice is more politeness than conviction.

Thank you, says Margaret. Thank you for that.

Though I have to say, Adeline continues, I’m with your husband on this one. The letting-go business. Of course, I never had a child taken from me before I was ready to say good-bye. Hell, I worry they’re going to come back. And stay.

The day Lorna took Jimmy away I was scurrying around the house. Trying to find all his toys and things to pack up. I suppose someone might have believed I was eager for him to go. But keeping busy is my way when I can’t. . . when it’s . . .

Am I remembering right? Adeline asks. You had twins? One of each? How about your daughter? What’s her situation?

Living in Minneapolis. Working for a company that provides some kind of financial service for farmers, though as near as George and I can tell, nobody in the company ever sets foot on a farm. Janie’s given up on us ever understanding what she does for a living. But that’s not what you’re asking, is it? No, she doesn’t have a husband. Or kids.

Not that one child can ever replace another.

Not that they ever can . . . but the ways they resemble each other . . . Did you ever notice, I’m sure you did, how different it feels to pick up and hold different children? Apart from their size, I mean? There wasn’t more than an ounce or two’s difference in the twins’ weight when they were born, and they stayed close until they were nine or ten. But when I picked up James, it was like his weight was distributed differently or something. He’d come up so easily and then arrange himself just right in your arms. I could have hauled him around all day. But Janie—my God. It was
like she found a way to turn heavier as soon as you tried to lift her. And she’d squirm and buck in your arms. Then, when Jimmy was born, one of the first things I noticed was how effortlessly he came up into my arms. Like feathers. Like his father . . .

Margaret pivots sharply back to the street. And your children? she asks. Six of them, did you say? She looks up and down the street as if Adeline’s children could emerge from the warm haze of this autumn night. But none live here, you said?

Missoula’s the closest. And in his case, that’s plenty close enough.

The women fall silent again. But the crickets keep on chirping a tune as if they were waiting for the singers to resume. Then Margaret turns to face her friend again, though she keeps her hold on the porch rail. Before long Margaret speaks, and as she does the true source of her voice’s tremolo seems finally revealed, the quaver a result of holding too tightly to these words and for too long a time.

Oh hell, she says, I might as well get this out. George has got it in his head I was unfaithful to him.

There are too many questions Adeline could ask, but probably none would be the right one, so she says nothing and waits for Margaret to continue.

This was—my God, closing in on thirty years ago. We were living on the ranch, and the twins weren’t much older than Jimmy is now. George was in his first term and one night he saw something—or thought he saw something—that gave him a notion he’s carried with him ever since.

We had a little creek running through our place.
Alphabet Creek, we called it, and it watered our stock, and the neighbors’ too, specifically the Hildebrands’. They had a son, Robert, and Robert and I practically grew up together. Our mothers bathed us in the same galvanized tub, and when it was time to start school the two of us trekked off to Winship School, a one-room country school, first grade through eighth, about a mile from our ranch. During the winter we’d walk to and from school by following a fence-line, and when I say
following
I mean there were a few blizzards when one of us had to keep a hand on the wire every step of the way. High school, we saddled up and rode horseback to Dalton—the cowboy and the cowgirl, some of the town boys called us.