Jack
Patterat made two promises to his wife and kept one. Because
he traveled so much in his work, he promised that one day they would travel
together. He also promised her that he would bury her wherever she wished. He
had kept the most important of those promises and he felt good about that. His
old Chevy wagon was piled from half the front seat to the ceiling and all the
way to the back hatch with everything Jack owned. The car rode low on old
shocks and answered anything from the steering wheel with comic wobbles. Jack
had big sideview mirrors, though, so he was always aware of what was going on
behind him. It was an old rule and he liked it. Much
of the front seat held food in paper bags, and a small cooler full of ice and
orange juice and milk. Toward the back was Jack’s clothing, laundromat-fresh
and folded. There were blankets on one side as well, along with a blue plastic
tarp, a tent, and an air mattress. In
the past year he had put 150,000 miles on the old car. 2 One
time, near San Francisco, Jack told a hitchhiker: “I was not in favor of losing
my wife’s bones. They were secure where they were because they were with me and
I was everywhere, driving hard to research loss and find something worthy in
it.” He
told the man more than he should have, but the nice thing about talking to
strangers, he knew, was that they didn’t have to listen. Pretending was polite
enough. “Occasionally,”
Jack went on, “I talked to them—her bones. Occasionally, I didn’t. Behind me,
in that stable flotsam packed with care and an eye toward usefulness, there is
a small niche where she rests. The funeral boys would have sold me an urn of
gold, of platinum, if I’d wanted, even cast concrete. I chose plaster, two of
them—one for good, one for everyday. In the glove box is a nice canvas bag,
neatly folded, with a zipper top. I use it to carry Galena—that’s my
wife—whenever I leave the car for a period of time; mostly, just those
occasions when I check into a motel for a night or two.” The
hitchhiker, an old man of seventy, said he understood completely. The
trip back east, then, had begun with an explanation, a common beginning for
many a journey. His listener seemed more relaxed as they shared a pint of
whiskey, amenable to thoughts Jack had to share. His
daughter, he said, a grown woman, had snooped into her mother’s diary, a passage
jumping out that required attention; no, action: If
you could choose between fish and worms, which would you choose? See to my
scattering, loved ones, but you know I’ve never even seen an ocean. “That
latter phrase was code, intended for me. She wanted her ashes dumped in the
lake where we’d spent our honeymoon, a big lake in St. Louis County, Minnesota,
called Vermilion. The lake often has a reddish hue because it is iron ore
country up there. We went to an island on that lake owned by my uncle. He was
dead. I think that made us feel pretty free because we spent a lot of our
honeymoon naked. “It
was all I could imagine of heaven, my uncle’s island. Achingly blue skies in a
chilly August. Pines and firs, cedar, birch, the loons, and I think we saw eagles—maybe
they were hawks. Certainly we had bears, a whole family on Ely Island some
hundred yards away. Jesus, it all comes back: blueberries; tiny bays paved
completely with lilypads; an old woodstove and an even older bed that slammed
us into the center where I thought we should be anyway. “The
paradise of a young man’s dream is often wilderness, but one of the risks in a
young marriage lies in finding out the dreams you share and those you don’t. My
dream was north, hers was south. Mine was a family place with no brochure, and
no waiters, piano bars, fresh towels, or toilets that flushed. Years later,
Galena told me she’d been embarrassed to tell her friends we were not going to
Nassau or St. Thomas or Grand Cayman or Bermuda.” The
old man smiled as Jack concluded, “She even caught a cold.” 3 Their
first honeymoon meal had cooked up gray and had tasted gray, had tasted like
cardboard and burnt milk. Although Jack and Galena had traded each other their
virginities in high school, they had never lived together. It was, thus, the
first meal she’d ever cooked for him. He’d
bought beer, however. They chilled the beer in the lake and got drunk on two
cans apiece. The aborted meal finally began to seem funny, began to seem less
like some bad decision they’d both made that would itch and annoy for the rest
of their lives. “Let’s—”
Galena began. Jack remembered neither of them had had to finish the sentence. The
sauna was built up on rocks and had a deck that hung right over the lake. They
made love in the early evening, on blankets, a pillow, and a down comforter.
The western sun painted them orange, another reflection gave them an accent of
purple. Color, lots of color, seemed important early in a marriage. A
faraway loon cried its mournful cry. Its grief, however, was lost on Jack and
Galena, the two of them chilled with each other’s sweat and laughing. When
they were done and it was dark, they climbed over the deck railing and stood
there for a moment. They each turned quickly then—the instincts sound—to hold
the other, then leaped into the blackness. The lake, in its knifing chill, was
breathtaking, the night cut by Galena’s light whimper, all she could manage of
a scream as she struggled to gain back the breath the icy lake had punched out
of her. Taller, barely one toe on a shoreside rock, Jack held her arm as she
treaded water, his own gut feeling hammered, the shock slowly bringing laughter
as they held each other again and swam and sank and rolled over and around each
other, moved farther out and away from the lichen-covered rocks, the shore, the
island—away from safety and silly meals and into all the times and all the
meals that would follow. “There
must be swimming early in a marriage,” Jack told her, aware that he had not
quite lost the pomposity of the wedding vows. “Why
is that?” Galena asked. “I
don’t know.” 4 Three
days after leaving San Francisco Jack drove the Chevy up the steep hill toward
the lake. Early that morning he’d dropped the old man off in Mankato in
southern Minnesota. He was Lakota, he’d told Jack, a man abandoned by his
children. In one of those screwy twists of family life, however, his
grandchildren had invited him to come live with them. He thought it might work
out. The
road was dusty red, curving. At the top of the hill, Jack could see an equal
distance down to the shoreline and the curving queue of boathouses, workmen’s
boathouses still, as they had been then: tin shanties built on thick wood
frames that could easily hold a boat winched out of the water in wintertime. Jeannie,
Jack’s daughter, was already at the boathouse. She’d spent the night in a motel
in Tower just down the road. She
had the keys to the boathouse and the island cabin, she told Jack. They had
been mailed to her by Jack’s aunt, a woman Jeannie had never met who, it was
said, weighed over four-hundred pounds. “I had the boat and motor checked out,”
the aunt had written, “but the cabin will be dusty. There is kerosene out there
for the lamps. There should be plenty of firewood. I would like to meet you but
I am dying right now.” Jack
wondered if he’d remember exactly where the island was since it was at least a
mile from the boathouse and there were many islands in the lake. One hand,
however, was in the past and he let it steer the outboard. It
was an easy trip. The hand remembered. 5 After
tying the boat to the small dock, Jack started a fire in the woodstove and made
coffee. He pulled the frozen hamburger patties from his satchel, the burgers
still chilled, nearly thawed. There were buns in the bag, too, and a can of
baked beans. For dessert, he’d bought Pop Tarts—little cardboard packets of
jelly, he’d always joked. Jeannie preferred them untoasted. “Let
me see if I’ve guessed right,” he said, taking Jeannie’s purse from the table
near the door. “May I?” “Sure,”
she said. “No condoms, birth control pills, drugs. It’s a good daughter’s
purse.” “You
sound regretful,” he said. “I
have a life-threatening illness. Sin is out of the question.” “Not
work, I’ll bet. Not you. What are you doing?” “I’m
an assistant editor at a literary journal in Chicago now,” Jeannie said. “It’s
called Footnotes/Toes, Too. The editor has won a Pulitzer Prize along with lots
of grants. She has the name to pull it off so we do O.K.. Weekends and other
times I’m an assistant for a magician. Her name—it’s her real name—is
Industrial Words. She likes my not having a right hand. There’s a whole range
of things we do with that.” “How’s
your foot?” Jack asked her. “All
right. It’s going to happen. They’ve told me that. Indy’s already giving it
some thought.” “Indy?” “Working
it into her act.” “Oh.” Jack
pulled a thin, tubular device from Jeannie’s purse and said, “Pepper spray?” “It’s
not for your eggs or fried potatoes.” “Didn’t
bring those.” Digging further, he finally said, “I knew it.” “What?” He
held up a handful of plastic packets of mustard and ketchup. There were similar
packets of soy sauce and vinegar. He left those in the purse. “Dad?” “Yes?” “Your
honeymoon. Here?” “It
was all we could afford. It was free. We could afford free, especially with a
borrowed car.” 6 In
the morning fog Jeannie stood on the end of the dock, cold in her swimsuit
(two-piece, thin fabric), a whiteness almost lantern-like against the steel
mist. Jack checked the boat, his daughter a distraction, an intrusion of beauty
into his life. He wanted to tell her she was knock ’em dead magnificent but the
occasion was too solemn. He
looked hard, though, a squint to his eyes. She was muscular across her
shoulders, a coil of strength rising up from calves and thighs shaped by a
runner’s addiction—nice slap at a bad fate, Jack thought. Good for her. “Do
you still run?” he asked. “Hurts
too much.” Her
face, hidden from him for the moment, was squarish, thin, an angular chin and
jaw, prettiness kissed many times—had to be. Beneath that, however—reverence
clashing with memory—like a ghost creeping out of a machine, beneath a perfect
nose and a neck just right: her mother’s body, her mother’s chest—Galena saying
one time, “my thoracic theater.” Years ago, he’d received man-to-man
compliments on Galena’s chest, scores registering, Jack a player. Many times,
on Sunday mornings or wasted afternoons, Jack had stared, unaroused—many times,
not every time—at Galena’s body, that un-shy totality, and discussed life insurance,
car repairs, the downside of an upturn on his 401(k)—sometimes the hazards of
recurrent gangrene in a child’s hand. Galena said one evening, “There’s so much
we don’t know about God,” but then she’d said, turning the whole world away
from Jeannie and toward herself, “Do you know what’s involved in an
angioplasty?” He
wished he’d said to her, “Sometimes death.” Maybe she’d known that. 7 Jeannie
was in the water less than thirty seconds when she was bitten by the fish, most
likely a northern pike, Jack thought. It was only a scratch on her ankle but it
did bleed. She
began to swim—the plan, this burial plan, was hers, not Jack’s—a lazy crawl
with her good arm, the other arm clutching the urn to her chest. Jack followed
in the boat, rowing—no motor. I’ll know when it’s time, she had told him. That
had been three laps ago, maybe four. He was glad the island was small. Jack’s
shoulders ached and he wanted to start the motor, but he knew she was
concentrating and the motor would break her concentration. Still, a fire sat
quietly across his shoulders, and a vertebra clicked each time he pulled back
on the oars. “Does
your ankle bother you?” he asked once. He wondered if the fish had bit into the
leg that was going bad. “It
itches,” she said. “Even
in the water?” She
was too far ahead of him to hear anything else. Jack was afraid she might
disappear into the fog if he didn’t pay attention. 8 Jack
saw, actually saw, the bullet. He thought it must have been the fog and heavy
air that did it but there was no doubt. Faster than screaming Jesus—Jeannie’s
old compliment to an athlete she admired. His
estimate was that it missed her by a foot. She had heard, had felt nothing. He
didn’t know which one shattered the urn, but additional bullets followed, none
visible, then silence. The shooting had stopped by the time Jack could position
the boat between the firing and Jeannie. Later, putting things together, she
saw the little maneuver as a heroic act and told him so. “I’m
not a hero,” Jack said. “I’m your father.” He
said no more. 9 Jack
heard water lapping, felt something cut into his fluid territory. It was a
rowboat, the same model as his aunt’s, the same outboard mounted on the rear.
Two women were in it, staring hard into the fog, startled when Jack suddenly
appeared just sitting there. “It
was the fog, you see,” one of them said. “We couldn’t see well in the fog. It’s
a darned fog, hey?” “So
you shot anyway?” Jack asked. “We
could see to shoot. We could see something.” Jack
thought the younger one, the one without the gun, looked like Jeannie. So many
women either did or didn’t that it had become a standard of sorts. My daughter,
the only link to this earth I still have, is not here. You can be here, but
only if you look like Jeannie. Jack
decided that if most cars worked the way thought worked, highways could be
smaller and shorter. “But
not clearly?” Jack asked. “Clear
enough. I did shoot. I’m pretty sure I did.” “Several
times.” “Yes,
sir.” It
was the older woman answering him, Jack positive that in her wispy hair, a
roundness to her eyes, he could see Galena. He was sure that if he could see
them both naked, certain things would confirm themselves. “At
my daughter.” “We
did not know that. Had she not been your daughter, she might have been a deer.” “But
you could see me? You could see I was a boat?” “You’re
a boat?” “You
could see the boat.” “We
didn’t see you at all, being as how you were high and all. Looking low, though,
I mean bending over the boat—that was the target. Jesus, is she all right?” “She’s
all right. She’s not hurt. I’m not all right and I’m not all right a lot.” “Sorry.” “Sorry—yes.” “What’s
with her hand?” “Her
hand?” “It’s
missing.” “I
know,” said Jack. “I’ve known for a long time.” “What
happened?” “To
her hand?” “Yes.
The stumpy one, not the good one.” “I
believe you shot it,” Jack said. “I do believe so.” “No.” Jack
watched as the two women disappeared into the fog. 10 Jack
imagined himself having a conversation with his lawyer, the one who kept track
of his money. “I
think she was shot in her ashes,” Jack said. “Was
there damage?” his lawyer asked. His name was Munice Gentry. “Her
ashes were in my daughter’s arms.” “Was
your daughter shot?” “No,
only her mother’s ashes.” “Not
exactly—” “What?” “—desecration
of a corpse. Excuse the indelicacy.” “That’s
all we had, all that was left of her.” “I
understand.” “The
insult, sir, being shot in your bones .” “I
know, I know.” “Do
you? I think a piece of her was plucked from the sky by a loon.” “Really?” “Could
be. Things—she—flew all over.” “But
your daughter?” “A
half dozen shots. Sprayed parts of her mother all over her.” “But
she’s O.K.? That’s my question.” “I’m
not. That’s my answer.” The
conversation, however, would not be necessary, since he had lied to his
daughter. 12 They
would leave soon, tagging each other south in cars they had both chosen, hers
bought without his advice at all. The great woods would eventually thin into
farmland, and they would be on the interstate again. She would find Chicago and
her job involving feet and toes and the eternal healing of magic. She had
Jack’s cellphone number so that she could call when it was time for something
to be amputated. She
had said it in a funny way: “You don’t have to come. I’ll just want you to know
that there’s now a little less of me.” Less
indeed, Jack had thought. There was a quantity to her that seemed beyond
measuring, certainly beyond loss. He loved her a great deal, he decided, and
only wished that he could see her more often. 13 Now
he was alone and the old Chevy held all the hard goods he possessed, a small
hollow in some clothes and blankets near the back holding the real Galena, the
one he could not let his daughter have. Jack
said one time: “There is a point at which the claims of children cease. Parents
know that, but they lie to their children anyway. Discovering those lies is the
secret to maturity. The urn she’d had, the one that was shot right out of her
incomplete arm, was filled with dirt and stones and some bones from a Kentucky
Fried Chicken meal I once had. Fragments. It’s all we remember of anyone
anyway.” The
miles seemed suddenly empty. He knew he needed to apologize to Galena for what
he’d done, to remind her of the times when he’d talked to her, one eye in the
rearview mirror where he could see her. She was what she was—not a ghost, not
an imaginary plaything—and he accepted that. She’d been for a long time now an
affable companion, a good friend. There was nothing of dementia in chewing the
fat with your wife’s bones. I
wanted— She
never answered, never talked back to him—an assurance of health on his part. —to
have your bones stripped, your skeleton put back together with wires, not
unlike something you might find in a classroom. I would have put you in the
bedroom with the west window because you always liked to watch the storms
rolling in, the big snows and the threats of tornadoes. What
could possibly be wrong with that? I
think I would have liked your bones. I liked everything else about you. A
secret place, a secret secret. No one would ever know how simple it was. They’d
find me dead on the floor one day—natural causes—and you upstairs. Realtors
would want certain facts suppressed. Others would wonder what to do with you,
would wonder who you even were. “Is
it plastic? From a mail-order house? Was he an anatomist? A teacher?” Perhaps
someone would think me a murderer. “We’re
having it tested. We know it was female.” As
did we all. We certainly did. Jack
thought for a moment: I have no idea what to do with you, Galena. I honestly
don’t. Time to get some gas, though. Mauston, the sign says. A big truck stop.
They say Wisconsin gas is pretty good. “I’m
hungry, too. Just starving. How about you?”
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