corn. Our shadows puddled to the south at midday and lengthened over the furrows as the spring sun made its transit into the northwest. I hummed almost tunelessly. Melissa always ribbed me for the unconscious near melody I repeated day after day when I worked. Always the same non-song. The comfort. I made a little trough for the beans, sprinkled them along it, covered them firmly. Dirt from shoveling furred the hairs on my arm and smudged my face when I rubbed my nose with the back of a fist. From the dammed-up pond in the creek, I siphoned into the shallow ditch at the head of the garden and broke it in four places with the tip of the spade to run water into the furrows. The silver runnels in the turned earth went ruddy and molten with the low sun. Staining the dirt to either side. By the middle of the night the whole planting would be wet.
I was tired. Tomorrow I’d plant the rest, the tomatoes and corn. The next day if the weather was good Jasper and I would take the sled, and this time the fly rod, and go up to the mountains for a spring buck.
The deer wandered the plains but they knew somehow to stay away from the airport and I hadn’t had much luck stalking them on the open prairie. I was a mountain hunter and anyway I wanted to go up there before the creeks got too high.
Bangley sometimes set up on the second floor of his house with a sandbag in an open window and made sport long-shooting what he could. He killed two gray wolves at great distance but then they too steered clear. He sewed the fur of a ruff onto the hood of his winter fatigue coat and wore it like a trophy.
I stood back of the new garden watching the sun touch the mountains and ruddle the turned dirt and the threads of water and I can say there was something moving inside that resembled a kind of happiness.
I would never have named it. Not then. For fear. But I name it now.
C’mon, Jasp.
I speared the spade into the loose earth for tomorrow and turned for the hangar and heard the muffled clapping as Jasper shook himself and came trotting behind me.
Couple days, I said. Maybe three.
I pushed two gallon Ziplocs of Jasper’s jerky into the bottom of my pack. Long since over the nausea. My Uncle Pete told me, You can get used to stepping over a dead goat on the doorstep. How about a dead person?
Why three? Bangley said.
I stuffed in my down sweater, the bulky stained brown one I had ordered from Cabela’s in my late twenties and taken with me to the woods every trip since. On top of it I lay the bags of my own jerky, the venison, and the folded nylon tarp I used for shelter, and a roll of parachute cord.
Why a couple, three? Plenty snow Hig. The deer should be down low.
I couldn’t think of a reason so I said: That last trip in November I saw elk sign. I swear. I know you think it’s crazy talk but I saw it. Tracks of a big cow. I want to look some more. Christ, if we could get an elk.
I didn’t look at him. Silence.
We were like a married couple unable anymore to speak the truth about the most important things. I had never lied to Melissa about anything except the conviction that she would pull through the flu. She knew it was a lie and did not hold it against me. She was too sick anyway to worry about whether she might survive. She had dysentery-like nausea and diarrhea and her lungs were filling up like pneumonia which was terrifying. In the end she just wanted it to be over. Pillow, she whispered to me. Her eyes were glassy and unfocused, her hair wet with sweat, her hand terribly light, almost desiccated on mine. And cold. Pillow. I’d been crying. I tried with every ounce not to, not to weep as I saw my world, everything in it of any importance, vanishing from my grip. In almost a panic, I can say now, I adjusted her one pillow behind her head on the cot, not sure what she wanted adjusted, so that it bunched a little and raised her head.
No, she breathed. Barely breathed. Her hand scratched the back of mine like a claw, like she was trying to grasp it and couldn’t.
Use it.
I stared at her.
Hig. Two, three breaths short, unable to get enough oxygen. Please.
Her eyes glassy, still blue gray, I always thought like a clear sea on a cloudy day, now deepening in color, struggling to focus on mine.
Please.
Please.
I looked around the hall filled with cots for a doctor or orderly, in some desperate hope to forestall, but they were almost all sick anyway, or starting to throw up and cough, this was like some ring of hell, there was no one. A stench, the clamor of coughing and sickness.
Her hand scratched at mine her eyes would not leave my face.
I gently lifted the back of her head off the pillow and laid it back down on the stained sheet and brought the pillow around and said I love you. More than anything in God’s universe. And her eyes were on mine and she didn’t say a word and I covered her face and used it. On my own wife.
She heaved twice, struggled, clawed lightly, went still. The clamor in the hall did not stop the moans and coughing. Did not stop.
I loved her.
This is what I live with.
Bangley said, What’s wrong with you Hig? You look kind of fucked up.
I shook myself. The way Jasper does.
Nothing.
Maybe you need a vacation Hig. You been working too hard in the garden. Men weren’t meant to be farmers the way I see it. Beginning of everything fucked up.
He meant take a vacation lying in the hammock I strung in the shade of the house. Between two ornamental trees, a Norway spruce and an aspen that always looked to me a little lost down here, and like they were shaking their limbs longingly at the mountains where they belonged.
I breathed. Yeah, maybe you’re right. But listen I want to go up there. If there are elk. Jesus. We’d be like kings.
We are like kings Hig. It took the end of the world.
He began to laugh. Gravelly, a little like a cough. Unpleasant.
Took the end of the world to make us kings for a day. Huh Hig? Captains of our fate. Ha!
Then he really did cough. A short fit. When he came out of it he said, Well you go up there. Do a little fishing.
He smiled straight across, stared at me with his eyes that sparked like gravel in a streambed.
Not more than three days. I mean it. Every day you’re gone fucking around we are vulnerable.
I cocked my head and looked at him. It was the very first time he had admitted to my usefulness.
I don’t sleep that good he said. To tell the truth.
He coughed once more and spat out the hangar door. Well, good luck, he said, and walked off.
He didn’t sleep well when I was gone. Like a wife. Fucking Bangley. Just when I thought I wished him really gone.
We would leave the next morning in the dark. I could cover the eight miles under cold stars and make the trees with the air getting gray and grainy. I packed the pack for three days though I thought if we got on an elk it could be longer. Bangley would have to deal. I could tie the pack into the sled and drag it, but I kept it light and I preferred it on my body with the sled almost weightless behind on the way out. I knew the creeks and I moved from
