The Montana sky opened up and gave me snow. Snow to numb my wounds. Snow to cover my footprints. Snow to cushion the echo of the rifle as I fired it repeatedly.
Eventually, my target became shredded and my pocket empty of bullets. I gathered my debris and sat on my tailgate. I watched the patient conifers gather white snowflakes. I was alone except for lodgepole pine and grand fir. I knew that if I lay down underneath the branches, the green needles would hide my body. If I curled up there, I would soon freeze. Scavengers would eat my flesh. But the trees would remain, untouched. Because my survival meant nothing. I would always be a wild thing crouching. Jubilant only for brief moments during times of plenty. Comfort was ephemeral. Passion short-lived.
On the bench seat of my rusty white Ford was a .40-caliber handgun and a letter with ancient creases. I propped the rifle against the dashboard and climbed in next to the handgun and piece of paper. I tapped the snow from my boots and slammed the door. I had to crank the engine twice before it rumbled to life. At first the heater blew out cold air but soon the snow from my wool gloves melted onto the paper. I reread the words I had already memorized. The frantic pencil lines were faded and smudged. But they stood out plainly in the reflected light from winter snow:
Vera Violet (my fighter),
I’m staying here for a while, and I’m giving you this handgun (with 16 in the magazine). I have my sharpened, stainless steel blades, a compound hunting bow, graphite arrows, and a leather quiver. I have a cellar filled with these things (in a cabin on Granny’s property). I’ll save my pencils and notebooks. I’ll repeat my words and weigh them. I’ll lace my boots and visit the gravel pit to sight the rifles in and oil the barrels.
I’m staying here to hunt. I’ll fish and gather berries and roots. There will be no disconnection between my body and the bodies of others. Between my food and the deer running. Between my pen and my ancestors or my boots and the dirt.
I’ll fix my old truck and hope for the best. But I’ll prepare for the worst (when the credit runs out and someone has to start making payments). I know the time will come (it always does). I know it when the ocean tides ebb, and Oakland Bay looks weary. That’s when I see how the rats and coyotes and raccoons prepare themselves. They gather to feast. They get ready for the great selling-out (the going back on agreements . . . when everybody’s soft belly shows).
I think the worst will come when the silver jets take off for the last time. That’s when the false fronts crumble and the past will reappear. I imagine those dead men and women rising, Hypochaeris and Scotch broom blossoming, the sun burning and maddening. That’s when the plastic melts and bubbles, cities burn to the ground, and the soft-handed men look back to see what is left.
Only then, when their suits are torn to rags (when dirty fingernails dig in barren soil blindly). Only then, will they see us. Entire families. Like cockroaches. Like we always were. Each man, woman, and child with two feet planted in the too-real soil. Guarding our little piece. Fingers on our triggers. Smiling.
I know it’s hard. I know you’re sad. But I also know these things will happen. Go find Mother. I’ll be there soon. Just keep your weapon near you (with 16 in the magazine).
—Dad
I finished reading and refolded the paper. I put it back into the glove box with the unloaded handgun and full magazine.
One thousand miles away, the O’Neel family swampland gathered water. Fifth-wheel trailers slid down hillsides. Cabins sunk deeper into the soft, wet soil. My father struggled up a brambly hillside in the rain. He was hurried and anxious—desperately following the sloppy trail of a buck in a death-run who stumbled while bleeding. It was growing dark in Western Washington. Mosquitoes whined in the wet shadows that spread. A mountain lion smelled the fresh blood and screamed.
I got out of the truck and crouched on the frozen ground in Montana. I took out my buck knife and slashed lines into the cold earth at my feet. The lines turned into letters, and when I finally turned my back to leave, a message was temporarily carved into the icy soil: It has been very hard to love you.
Within minutes the sound of my engine died away. The words carved into the bitter ground were seen only by a hesitant bobcat who sniffed warily. Snow soon covered my tire tracks, and the sentence was lost forever.