CHAPTER

28

THERE’S AN ODD SORT of comfort to be found in the way the stripes of the highway slowly approach, then rush past. The roads had been fairly clear all the way to Cheyenne. David sat before a large window that overlooked the runways. Sixbury had understood. She’d said, “Even in the best of times you’ve got to find some relief from this place.” She had offered these words to abate his guilt. He had been seated behind the wheel when she’d said it, looking through the window at the blue down parka that swallowed her, avoiding her eyes. Butch had been silent, beside and slightly behind her. When he’d glanced back through the mirror as he pulled off, there was the child, stepping away and waving.

They called for the passengers to board. The plane would stop in Chicago and he would have to change in Atlanta. From there, on to Savannah, where his sister would be waiting. He planned to visit for a week, not knowing if he’d like spending Christmas with Jill and her husband. It wasn’t clear to him that he wanted to see them at all. But they were an excuse. He needed some distance from the ranch. Especially with winter coming. And he did feel, or thought he felt, some need to connect again with family.

He boarded and took a window seat. A young woman came and sat beside him. He buckled his belt and smiled at her.

“Howdy,” said the girl. She was thin, pretty. She had icy blue eyes and blonde hair that fell past her shoulders and down between her back and the seat. “You going to Chicago?”

“No, I’m going through to Atlanta,” said David.

“Really? I’m just going to Chicago. I’ve got an uncle who lives there.”

“Do you like Chicago?”

“I don’t know.” Then she made a confession. “I’ve never been out of Wyoming.”

“Where are you from?”

“Near Casper. You know it’s a hundred dollars less to fly out of Cheyenne?’’

“I know.”

The plane began to taxi out to the runway. The girl paid close attention to the stewardess’s explanation of the emergency equipment. David looked out over the wing. They didn’t speak until after takeoff.

“W^rhere are you from?” she asked him.

“Originally?”

“Yes.”

“Savannah, Georgia.”

“I thought you were from Wyoming.”

“I am now. I live near Slut’s Hole.”

“I’ve been there. Rather, through there.”

David nodded. He felt wonderful that she had taken him to be from Wyoming. “I’m David Larson.”

“Katy Stinson.” She put out her hand.

As they shook, David felt the strength in her thin fingers and studied her smile. Her face sparkled with an innocence that didn’t make her seem naïve, but instead just good.

“How come you don’t have an accent? You must have left Georgia a long time ago.”

“A very long time ago.”

A stewardess came by offering nuts and drinks. Katy took a cola. David had coffee.

“I must seem silly,” she said.

David looked at her.

“Getting so worked up, I mean.”

“I think it’s charming.”

“I can’t wait to get there. All those people in one place. Have you ever been there?”

“No.”

“I guess Atlanta is like it.”

“I suppose it is.”

“I’m a little scared.”

In Chicago, Katy gave David’s hand a firm squeeze and said goodbye. He wished her well and felt genuinely excited for her. In a way, he didn’t want to see her go. He wanted to say, “Hey, let’s go back to Wyoming and have a couple beers.” Another young woman came and took Katy’s seat, but he didn’t talk to her. She didn’t speak to him.

The airport in Atlanta was frightening. Miles of concourse led herds of people in all directions. There were moving sidewalks and shuttle trains, but David chose to walk. A recorded female voice spilled monotone instructions for travelers making connections. He tried not to listen. He felt closed in, cramped. He had no idea which way he might go to find immediate exit. He made it to his plane.

Jill and her husband were waiting at the gate in Savannah. David hugged his sister—it was a distant, routine hug—and shook Rodney’s hand.

“How was your flight?” asked Jill.

“A little long.”

There was something in the air between them, as though they had been immediately pigeonholed—David as right, Jill and Rodney as wrong. David sensed this. It was in the way his sister and her husband stepped away to allow him room. He felt large.

“Well, let’s get your bags,” said Jill.

“I’ve only got one,” David said, as they started toward the baggage claim.

“So tell me,” she said, “how do you like it out there?”

“Very much.”

“I drove through Wyoming once,” said Rodney. “It’s really beautiful.”

“Yes, it is,” David said. He grabbed his canvas bag as it was conveyed by. “This is all.”

They walked out and across the parking lot to a tan Volvo. David sat in the front with Rodney. Jill was in the rear.

“Nice car,” David said.

“It gets from point A to point B,” said Rodney. A buzzer sounded as he turned the key. “Gotta buckle up.”

David fastened his belt. “So what do you do, Rodney?”

“I work for Legal Services. I’m a lawyer.”

“It’s like public defense,” said Jill.

“Pretty interesting?” David rolled his window down and let the evening air flow in.

“Yes,” Rodney said. “Sometimes frustrating. Sometimes satisfying.”

“Is that too much air?” David asked his sister.

“No.” She sat forward, her head poked between the front seats. “Are you still doing ranch work?”

“I live on a ranch. I work at a rest area.”

“Oh, I guess I misunderstood,” she said. “I’ve been telling people you’re a ranch hand.” After a pause, “Do you remember Elaine Wooster?”

“I remember Elaine.”

“Her last name is Coggs now. She asked about you.”

“How is she?” David asked.

“She’s divorced.”

“Well, I’m glad to hear she’s doing well.”

“So what do you do out there for fun?” asked Rodney.

“I do a good bit of riding. Plenty of time to read.”

“Sounds lovely,” Jill said. She studied her brother’s face while no one spoke. “What’s on your mind?”

“Nothing.” David pulled out a cigarette and pushed in the car lighter. “Sometimes I go into Casper or down to Laramie to hear a little music.” He lit up. “That’s always a hoot.”

The house was a modest split-level located in a suburban area, on a street lined with similar houses. A globed lamp stood near the curb in front of each home.

David stood with his bag just inside the door. “Where should I put this?”

“You have a choice,” said Jill. “You may sleep either in the living room or in the office. It’s supposed to be a second bedroom, but we use it for AFV.”

“Action for Vets,” said Rodney.

“Wherever you want to put me,” David said.

“There’s a cot in the office,” Jill said.

“That’ll be fine.”

“Which one?”

“The cot.”

“Fine,” said Jill.

“Hungry?” asked Rodney.

“I had a little something on the plane.”

Rodney frowned. “Airline food.”

“I’ve put together a salad and there’s some cold cuts,” said Jill.

David nodded. “Sounds good.”

“I’ll show you the office first.” She led him down the hall. “Bathroom’s right there,” she said as she passed an open door. “Here we are.”

David dropped his bag and tossed his jacket onto the cot. He looked across the room at the large roll-top desk. It had been their father’s. He walked over to it and dragged his finger along the scarred oak surface. “Did you keep much of the furniture?” he asked.

“A few pieces. This desk and some bedroom stuff. There really isn’t much room in this house.”

“I suppose not.”

“Do you think about them often?” she asked. “Do you miss them?”

“Not really. You know, it was so sudden and I was so far away. I guess it’s never really registered. You?”

“I miss them.”

“So, how’re you doing?”

“I’m good.”

“You look good.”

“So do you. You’ve put on weight. You’re huskier or something.”

“I guess. Sixbury’s a great cook. Chloë Sixbury owns the ranch that I live on. Everyone calls her Sixbury.”

Rodney pushed his head into the room. “Excuse me. Jill, where’s the wine?”

“In the refrigerator.”

“I looked there.”

“It’s in there,” Jill said. “On the door.” She turned to David. “Let’s eat.”

The kitchen did not go with the house. It was country: gingham curtains, natural-wood cabinets, a table with attached benches instead of chairs. A salad and sandwich sat in front of David. He looked about the room without saying much. Jill poured herself more wine and rested her chin in her palm, her elbow on the table.

“So you really like it out there,” she said.

“Is that a question or a report?”

“How are the people?” asked Rodney. “I mean, being way out there, are they a little out of it?” “Out of it?”

“Narrow. They’re so removed from things, current events and issues.”

“Hmmmm.” David took a bite out of his sandwich.

Rodney looked at Jill, sighed, picked up a slice of cucumber from his salad bowl, and popped it into his mouth.

David drank some wine, then rubbed his eyes. He didn’t want to argue, but he had to speak. “I suppose you might say that they’re removed. As much as you are. They have different concerns. What can you tell me about the BLM or about farm loans?”

“Well, not much, but there are other important things,” said Rodney. “Central things. Such as this present administration.”

David waited until he’d finished chewing. “Maybe. Maybe not.”

Rodney chuckled to himself. “Nixon doesn’t frighten you?” he asked.

“I don’t know Nixon.” David paused, took a deep breath, and stretched a little. “Maybe you’re right.” He got up and stepped toward the door, stopped. “Of course, a man can be right and still not be worth a damn.”

David felt bad for having dropped such a line on Rodney. It was okay, though; they’d just chalk it up to the war and postconflict adjustment. He imagined they talked like this. He stood out in the yard in just his shirtsleeves, a fine breeze pushing around him. He recalled nights such as this one—evening walks with his father along the old mill race down the hill back of the house. Tomorrow he would borrow Jill’s car and drive by the old place.

He didn’t want to go to bed. A strange feeling. He knew he could sleep if he tried, and there was nothing he particularly needed or wanted to do, but he didn’t want to undress and go to bed. He wanted to sit up all night. Read a little. Pace. Sit and stare into space. But not sleep.

Before turning in, Jill said goodnight to her brother, kissed him on the cheek while Rodney offered a confused look from across the room. David sat in the living room and thumbed through back issues of U.S. News and World Report. He paced awhile, then went into the office. He sat on the floor and leaned his back against the wall. He sang softly to himself:

If you want to get to heaven,

I’ll tell you what to do.

Gotta stick your feet in mutton stew.

Slip on out of the devil’s hand

And over to the promised land.

Take it easy—go greasy.

He smiled and that turned into a yawn. He tilted his head back and rubbed his eyes.