Montana 1948 (17 page)

“Marie?”

My father nodded grimly. “Don’t ask how.”

She pressed her hand over her mouth, to hold back a curse or because she was gagging on what my father told her. Or on what he wouldn’t tell her and what her imagination filled in.

“Do you see?” asked my father. “I can’t let him loose. Not and live with myself.”

My parents’ usual roles had neatly reversed themselves. My mother now represented practicality and expediency; my father stood for moral absolutism. Yet when I looked at my father his expression was so anguished that it didn’t seem possible that he was arguing on principle.

“We understand, Wesley,” my mother said gently, but I knew her words would do nothing to diminish his suffering.

“David,” my mother said clearly and calmly, a different voice for a different world. “We don’t have anything to eat. Why don’t you run down to Butler’s and get some of those frankfurters, and I’ll boil them. That’ll be quick.”

She wanted me out of the house. That I knew. But she tried to soften that banishment with a little gift. The food I loved more than any other was the frankfurters from Butler’s Butcher Shop. She gave me five dollars. “And when you go by Cox’s, if you see one of those lemon cakes in the window, why don’t you get one. Or anything else that looks good to you.”

Before I left the house I turned back to look at my parents. They had not collapsed into each other’s arms as I thought they might. They were simply standing in the kitchen. My father had his arms folded and stared blankly at the floor again. But my mother was looking at him, the expression in her eyes tender and loving and frightened, the same look she lowered on me when I was sick.

I suddenly felt a great distance between us, as if, at that moment, each of us stood on our own little square of flooring with open space surrounding us. Too far apart to jump to anyone else’s island, we could only stare at each other the way my mother stared at my father.

That night the jars began to break.

I woke around 1:00 a.m., startled but unsure of what had roused me. Then I heard it, a distant
pop
and a faint clinking. I searched the dark, not because I thought the sound was in my room, but because I felt, in my sleepy groping, that activating any of my other senses might help my hearing.

There it was again—that ringing-tinkling—plainly glass breaking. But where? What was happening?

I got out of bed to look out my window but before I got there I knew the noise wasn’t coming from outside. No, this was in the house. It was coming from the basement! From Uncle Frank!

I ran to my parents’ room. Their door was open and the light was on, so I had no reluctance about walking right in.

They weren’t there. Their pillows still held the indentations of their heads, and the blanket and sheet formed an inverted V in the middle of the bed, suggesting that they had both thrown away the covers from their own side of the bed. I ran out of the room and to the head of the stairs.

I stood there waiting, listening.

Another faint shatter of glass.

Was it a window? Was Uncle Frank breaking one of the windows, hoping he could crawl out the high, narrow opening and escape through one of the window wells? Had my parents gone to stop him?

No, there was no possible way he could squeeze through one of those windows.

Another crash.

At the bottom of the stairs the darkness lost some of its thickness and strength—a light was on somewhere downstairs. Was it my parents? Uncle Frank? Someone come again to break him out, someone who broke our windows to get in?

I ran downstairs, hitting each step as hard and loud as I could, hoping to embolden myself as much as to frighten off whoever might be there.

My father and mother, in their pajamas, were sitting on the couch. They were not touching each other, and they looked frightened and tired, like children who have been awakened during the night for an emergency.

“Dad,” I said, “I heard—”

“I know,” he interrupted. “The canning jars.”

“He’s smashing them,” my mother needlessly added.

“He’s got into the root cellar,” said my father. “He must be breaking every jar in there.”

“All my jars of tomatoes and rutabagas. The pickles. The plum jelly. The applesauce. That corn relish you like so much.”

Another jar popped below us, and now that I knew what the noise was from I could make some distinctions among the sounds. The higher-pitched pops were the small jelly jars—tightly packed and sealed tight with wax. The bass-note crashes were the large pickle jars, full of liquid and screwed tight with canning lids.

My mother pressed her fist to her face. “When I think of the work I did. And Marie did. And Daisy....”

“I’m not going down there,” my father explained to me. “That’s just what he wants. No, let him get it out of his system. He’ll run out of jars eventually.”

Another one crashed.

“He’s throwing them,” said my mother. “I can tell. He’s not just dropping them on the floor, he’s
throwing
them as hard as he can.”

My father patted her arm.

“Who’s going to clean up that mess?” she asked.

“You can go back to bed, David,” said my father. “I’m going to sit up until things calm down.”

Another one. Was he spacing them at exact intervals?

“Get some sleep,” my mother advised. “It’s been such a long day.”

My father stood and approached me. He put his hand on my shoulder. That gesture, along with an occasional back rub, was the only sign of physical affection he bestowed on me. My mother, on the other hand, still kissed and hugged me frequently. I knew and had known since I was very young that this difference between them had absolutely nothing to do with unequal qualities of love but only with their abilities to demonstrate it. Nevertheless, I wished at that moment that I could stay there, stay and feel the reassuring pressure of my father’s hand upon my shoulder.

“One more night, David,” my father said. “Just one more night and he’ll be out of here. Things will be back to normal.”

He was walking me toward the stairs, his hand no longer simply resting on my shoulder but gently pushing, giving me direction. “Sleep late,” he said when we got to the stairs. “Sleep as late as you can, and when you wake up the worst of this will all be over.”

But I didn’t sleep late. I couldn’t. I fell asleep listening for the crash of the jars and I woke the same way, straining to hear breaking glass.

Was it silence that finally woke me? At around six o’clock I came awake. The morning was overcast, dim, so there was no sunlight flooding my room. Birds do not sing at a gray sky with the same vigor as at a blue one, so their songs were not shaking me awake. From the basement there was no sound of Uncle Frank shattering jars. What else could it have been but silence?

I got up quickly and quietly, crept past my parents’ closed bedroom door, and went downstairs. I was so happy to have our house’s stillness restored that I wanted to enjoy it.

But I was startled when I entered the kitchen. My father was already up (or hadn’t he gone back to bed?), sitting at the kitchen table. He was wearing a sleeveless T-shirt and the trousers to his light gray suit. He was barefoot, but his heavy black brogans were under the table. There was a copy of
Argosy
next to him, but it was unopened. He jerked his head up when I came into the room.

“David. You’re up early.”

“I didn’t know anyone else was awake.”

“I’m waiting until I hear him stirring down there. Then I’m going to hustle him out and across the street.”

“And put him in jail.”

“And put him in jail. That’s right.”

Perhaps because he was tired and I could see it—his hair uncombed, his beard unshaven, his eyes ringed with dark circles, his shoulders slumped—I finally realized what this day meant to my father: This was the day he would put his only brother in jail. There would never be another day like it in his life.

I wanted to say something to indicate that I understood and sympathized. And I did sympathize. But understand? I could not; no one could. The best consolation I could manage was, “Not a very happy day, I guess.”

He shrugged, a gesture full of resignation and fatigue. “David, I believe that in this world people must pay for their crimes. It doesn’t matter who you are or who your relations are; if you do wrong, you pay. I believe that. I have to.” He pushed himself up stiffly from the table. “But that doesn’t mean the sun’s going to shine.”

He began to make coffee, trying to be as quiet as possible while he filled the percolator with water and carefully spooned in the grounds. “It’s funny, the story I keep thinking about this morning. I don’t know if I ever told it to you. Can’t even remember how old I was at the time. Nine or ten maybe, and Frank twelve or thirteen. We’d already moved into town, and Dad was sheriff. Anyway. A friend of mine—could that have been Cordell Wettering? I believe so—and I were playing out by the golf course one fall day. Back then that course wasn’t much. Still isn’t. But then it was really sad. It had sand greens and barely a tree on it. Except on the seventh hole where the fairway runs right along that old slough.

“Cordell and I were on our way somewhere, or back from somewhere, and we cut through the slough. I guess things were dried out just enough or matted down from a few freezes, but we started finding golf balls in the brush, dozens of them. I don’t know why that was such a big deal for us—neither of us had ever golfed in our lives—but you know how it is. We couldn’t have been more excited if it was gold nuggets we found in that slough. When we came up out of there we were just dripping golf balls. Our pockets were stuffed and we were trying to carry more than we could hold.

“But when we climbed out, there were the Highdog boys, three Blackfoot brothers who were widely known as bad customers. The oldest brother must have been about fourteen; the youngest, he was a skinny little runt about our age but mean as a snake when he was with his big brothers. Over the years every one of them was in and out of trouble with the law, but the little one got life in the state pen for carving up a cowboy with a broken bottle over in Havre.

“Anyway, the Highdog brothers said the golf balls we were carrying were theirs. Said that slough was part of the territory they watched over—those were the words they used—so anything we found was their property.

“Now, Cordell and I were plenty scared—we’d heard our share of stories about those brothers—but neither one of us wanted to give up our golf balls.

“We took off, running as fast as we could, dropping golf balls as we ran. Those golf balls helped us keep a lead on them. Every one we dropped, they stopped to pick up.

“But they were gaining on us, and just when it looked as though they were going to catch us—over by the clubhouse, such as it was—we ran into your uncle Frank.

“He and some of his friends were hanging out in the parking lot of the golf course. They were with an older boy, Charley McLaughlin, who was rolling cigarettes for Frank and the others.

“Cordell and I weren’t dumb. We ran over to Frank and the others and told them the Highdog brothers were on our tails. That was all they needed to hear. This was an excuse to get those Indians who had bullied so many kids. Now it was the Highdogs turn to run—with my brother right after them.

“Well, they didn’t catch them but that was all right. The important thing was, they saved our bacon.

“When Frank heard we almost got ourselves scalped over golf balls, he couldn’t stop laughing. For years afterward, he’d tease me about that day. ‘Look out!’ he’d say. ‘Here come the Highdogs! Hide your golf balls!’ I didn’t care. I was so grateful to him just for being there that day—I mean, I felt it was a kind of miracle. My brother. Being in the one place in the world I needed him most. . . .”

When he finished his story my father was staring out the same window through which my mother had fired the shotgun.

“Would they really have scalped you?” I asked.

“Oh, no. No. I don’t mean that literally. They were bad business but not. . . . They’d have worked us over, though. That’s sure. Funny. I found out years later that they had a reason for wanting those golf balls. They were selling them back to the golf course. Those Highdogs. . . . I mentioned the little one ended up in the pen? The oldest Highdog was killed when he lay down on the railroad tracks just outside town. Drunk, trying to walk home. I remember Dad coming home after investigating the accident. He said it was the worst he ever saw.”