When I went to St. Louis a third time, Carl was out of the hospital. It was pleasant weather—brisk and sunny—and he met me at the station with a borrowed car—a ’51 Plymouth station wagon.
There was vigor in his face, freshness in his actions. He had a crew haircut, and was sunburned. Standing at the train gate, his collar turned up, legs spread apart, hands thrust in his pockets, he looked boyish and strong.
(It wasn’t until after I had left him, when I was on my way back to Indianapolis, that I realized he had said nothing about what he was doing, where he was living, what his plans were—so completely was he taken up with the present moment—so thoroughly did he capture my assurances . . .
We headed west on U.S. 40, out of the city. I recalled Carl’s driving from childhood—from the first time he massacred the cornfield on a tractor. No less erratic now, he talked volubly, gestured with one hand and the other, moved his feet restlessly over the pedals—glanced only occasionally at the road, appropriating it as he wished.
He told me that U.S. 40 follows old animal and Indian trails, westward migration trails. It was known for a time as the Boone’s Lick Trail, for the salt lick developed by Daniel Boone and his sons. Carl told me—bouncing his broad rump, spreading his arms as he talked—how Boone had moved out here because he wanted more elbow room, Kentucky had become too crowded . . .
(Melville: “You must have plenty of searoom to tell the Truth in . . .”
There was the stage driver in 1840, Carl mentioned, who, when the road became too muddy and full of ruts, drove out on the prairie, made a new road . . .
Reaching St. Charles, we turned off the highway, headed southwest over back roads, along the Missouri River. We came into rich farming country, with fine old brick houses: long, sloping shingled roofs, and generous porches. Carl mellowed as we rambled, became less talkative, and warmer, his chest expanding with the rolling orchards and fields of corn, timothy, alfalfa, and oats.
The midday sun warmed us, and we got out of the car, walked down a deep creek valley to the river’s edge. Carl had brought along some cooked pork chops and a loaf of honest German bread . . . I had a bottle of redeye that I’d brought from home . . . we sat on the grass, near a patch of willows, and ate and drank, soaked in the sun that would be warm only through the broad noon hours . . .
We talked of Indiana, of Mother and Father, of the old days, and of ourselves. With Yankee and rebel blood in us—joining and hanging on in the prairie—we wanted to know the difference between north and south . . . we recalled that whenever Mother thought about something, she “allowed” it was so, whereas Father “kalklated” it . . . we thought of rivers and small streams—“brooks” in the North and “branches” in the South—and of the pioneer landing on the southern coast, following the main streams inland, or perhaps turning off on a branch while the northern pioneer found the rivers—the Merrimac, the Connecticut, the Hudson, the Delaware—coming out of the North and therefore heading in no useful direction: to be crossed, rather than followed . . .
. . . the rivers therefore becoming allies to the southerners, and, to the Yankees, obstacles, to be out-smarted and overwhelmed—as the North eventually outsmarted and overwhelmed the South. To the one, nature was objective, to be studied: the bird and flower books were written in the north, and Carl recalled the president of Indiana University, back in the last century, who must have been a Yankee: claiming that prayer could be used to arrest the laws of nature . . . the other, the southerner, was in and of nature, immersed in her . . . the likes of Daniel Boone . . .
Going barefoot, rolling up his trousers, Carl stepped into the chill, muddy water. The river, charged with fresh rains, was swift and treacherous . . . he held his hand out to me, and I stripped off shoes and socks, followed him in. Steadying each other, we walked out to our knees . . . we could see around a bend upstream, where the water was eating out the bank, undermining some poplars . . . now and then a stump or a full tree swept past us . . . leaning toward me, clutching my hand, shouting above the rush of the waters, Carl asked how I’d like to pole a keelboat, fully loaded, upstream to KayCee or St. Joe . . .
He became restless, turning his head one way and another . . . the sunlight sparkled on the water, and our legs were all but frozen, so that we were amputated at the knees, the joints set in ice . . .
Back on shore, we shivered, dried ourselves. The sun was past the meridian, the air was already cool. Carl offered me wine, and I drank. Upending the bottle, he finished it in one swallow . . . and, with all his strength, hurled it upstream. Standing together—his hand on my shoulder—we watched it, bobbing in the muddy, choppy waters, floating past us, downstream . . .
We climbed back to the car, and wandered for a while among back roads, circling, until we hit U.S. 40 again, and headed back to St. Louis. Carl was much quieter, his attention abstracted, his face almost morose. He seemed to look—and to drive—without seeing . . .
Reaching St. Charles, we stopped once more, by the river. Carl was stone-faced, immobile, facing upstream . . . when he began to speak, it was in mumbles—to himself, or to no one . . . I knew he was quoting, but I didn’t at first know what . . .
“Rained the fore part of the day I determined to go as far as St. Charles a french Village 7 Leags. up the Missourie, and wait at that place untill Capt. Lewis could finish the business in which he was obliged to attend to at St. Louis and join me by Land from that place 24 miles
“I Set out at 4 oClock P.M. in the presence of many of the neighboring inhabitants, and proceeded on under a jentle breese up the Missouri to the upper Point of the 1st Island 4 Miles and camped on the Island which is Situated Close on the right (or Starboard) Side, and opposit the mouth of a Small Creek called Cold water,
a heavy rain this afternoon
“at 9 oClock Set out and proceeded on 9 miles passed two Islands & incamped on the Starbd. Side at a Mr. Pipers Landing opposet an island, the Boat run on Logs three times to day, owing her being too heavyly loaded a Sturn,
a fair after noon, I saw a number of Goslings to day on the Shore, the water excessively rapid, & Banks falling in.”
. . . his voice becoming clearer . . .
“pass a remarkable Coal Hill on the Larboard Side, Called by the French Carbonere, this hill appear to Contain great quantity of Coal from this hill the Village of St. Charles may be Seen at 7 miles distance. we arrived at St. Charles at 12 oClock a number Spectators french & Indians flocked to the bank to See the party. This Village is about one mile in length, Situated on the north Side of the Missourie at the foot of a hill from which it takes its name Peetiete Coete or the Little hill This Village Contns. about 100 houses, the most of them small and indefferent and about 450 inhabitants Chiefly French, those people appear Pore, polite & harmonious.”
. . . the opening, the very beginning, of the JOURNALS OF LEWIS AND CLARK . . .
We got into the car, and drove to St. Louis.
Coming back to Indianapolis on the train, I reached to an inner coat pocket for my ticket, and brought out a newspaper clipping. Carl must have put it there, but I have no idea how or when, or by what sleight of hand.
It was an obituary:
“Mills, Maria de la Concepcion—Resident of St. Louis, died in a private hospital, after a brief illness. Survivors include the husband, Carl Austin Mills, of this city, and a brother, Rico de Castro, with the British Royal Air Force, stationed in China.”
Holding the clipping before me—the conductor waiting for my ticket—I was several moments in recalling that a common nickname for Maria de la Concepcion was Concha . . .
On the edge of the clipping, Carl had scribbled a pencil note:
“Cancer—in the gut—brutal—”