OLIVIA WATCHED HER SILENT husband eat his food so quickly he could not have said what he had eaten. Then, without a word, he left the table and continued his isolation in his study. He pulled an atlas from a shelf. A map of Korea, of Vietnam. Wars, wars, wars. One inch equals one hundred miles. One inch equals ten miles. The scales were always different. Nothing was ever the same as it was before. He fixed himself a vodka Collins, sat down at the desk with his atlas, and switched on the radio. For reasons he could never explain to himself or anyone else, Daniel had been a fan of Truck Schultz’s since the early days. Daniel listened.
In the study, a leather couch, an oak desk and chair, maple bookcases filled with unread books and dog-eared atlases. Daniel loved maps. He would study them for hours, dreaming of places he had never been. Daniel replaced the Southeast Asia atlas on the shelf and pulled down a Montana state map. He studied Montana as he listened to Truck talk about the Indian Killer. For a brief moment, Daniel wondered if John could be capable of such violence. Then he dismissed the thought and worried about John’s safety. If people thought some crazy Indian was committing the crimes, then John would be a likely target for revenge. Daniel, unaware that Olivia was eavesdropping outside the study, sipped at his vodka.
Olivia Smith hated Truck. Right now, she hated her husband for listening to Truck. And her hatred for Truck was growing rapidly. He was talking about Indians as if they were animals. It had been weeks since John had quit his job and disappeared.
“Daniel!” said Olivia and walked into his study. “Did you hear that? Nobody knows if an Indian is doing this killing. This is just evil.”
“Calm down,” said Daniel. “I’m just listening. Besides, he isn’t serious.”
“I’m tired of you apologizing for that man. He’s going to get somebody hurt. Maybe John.”
“Look, it’s just Truck.”
“But what about John?”
“He’ll be all right,” Daniel said and turned off the radio.
He leaned over his map of Montana. Billings, Bozeman, Butte. Poplar, Wolf Point, Glendive. There were so many places to go. Olivia watched her husband ignore her and immerse himself in the Montana map. He silently read his way across the whole state. Missoula, Harlem, Crow Agency. Little Bighorn, Yellowstone, Glacier Park. He tried not to think of his son, who could be dead, or lost, without a map, a legend.
“Daniel,” Olivia said softly, knowing he would pretend not to hear. If she said his name louder, he would look up with feigned surprise. If she touched his shoulder, he would jump in his seat, turn on her with anger. He hated to be scared. She thought of her options and left the room.
Olivia walked into John’s old bedroom. It was decorated with photographs of brightly lit fancydancers. R. C. Gorman’s and T. C. Cannon’s prints. A Laguna pot, a miniature totem pole, a Navajo rug stapled to the wall. A gigantic dreamcatcher, which was supposed to entrap nightmares, was suspended over the bed.
Olivia thought back to John’s nightmares. How the child often screamed himself awake. Night terrors, the doctor said, he’ll grow out of them. Olivia became an insomniac, unable to sleep for more than a few minutes at a time because she constantly waited for those screams. When she rushed to John’s bedside, he would be sitting upright, eyes and mouth open wide. John, she would say, it’s okay, it’s okay, it’s Mom. But he could not be comforted. Some nights he did not even recognize Olivia. His eyes would be locked on some distant, invisible object: a monster, a raging river, flames. He would punch and kick Olivia when she tried to hug him. This happened a few times a week from the time John was a toddler until he was twelve years old.
Still, during waking hours, John was a bright and happy boy, if somewhat quiet. He was affectionate, laughed easily, smiled more often than not. The doctor who measured the spaces between his bones said that John had so much room to grow. He was going to be tall and handsome.
The change in John happened quickly. Or perhaps the change was happening all along and Olivia had simply failed to notice. Perhaps it was so subtle as to create an illusion of speed. However it happened, John had changed.
Olivia stood in John’s old bedroom and prayed. She had watched her son, a stranger when he was first put into her arms, become a stranger again. Now, she listened for the sounds of her husband in his study. It was quiet. She could hear cars passing by their house. One, then two close together, then a long pause before another, and a fourth not long after. She could hear the dull hum of the refrigerator and the slow ticking of the grandfather clock. Neither worked well. She left the bedroom and quietly walked into Daniel’s study. He was asleep at the desk, his face pressed against a map of Alaska, the last frontier. She wondered how many vodkas he had finished. His face was damp. She touched his cheek, briefly wondered if he had been crying. Perhaps. Probably. Daniel Smith was a decent man. He worked hard for his family, brought home more than enough money, and loved his wife and son.
Olivia stared at her husband as he slept at his desk. She thought about waking him and taking him to their bed. But she did not want to talk to him. She thought about John, all alone in the world. Then she made a decision. Olivia slipped on a jacket and a pair of tennis shoes, found her car keys, locked the front door behind her, and stepped away from the house.