“No,” he says impassively, “we don’t have anything like that here.” I remain calm. I do not think Arthur knows enough about Jimmy’s situation to act fast enough, and Paul’s still a kid. I am on my own.
“Well, is there a park ranger or something? Somebody who can do something?”
“Yeah,” he says, “we have a ranger. I’ll go get him.” I follow the waiter about halfway to the middle of the dining room. He takes off running. I am standing there. I cannot find my way to follow him, and I cannot find my way back to the table. Finally, the waiter returns with the park ranger. I explain the situation. Jimmy is hardly breathing.
“There’s a station a ways out,” he says, “where we can get what you need. But it’s going to be tricky getting there.”
I gather everyone. We rush into the ranger’s truck. The night is black. It is as if the trees and the mountains are conspiring against us. This ranger, he is not joking around. He is skilled in the art of emergencies. His truck bounces violently along trails that were not meant to be driven on. This is a new kind of danger. We make it to the outpost, though as we enter, I feel what I think are tent flaps. “My God,” I think. Jimmy is taking the thinnest, most desperate breaths. A shot is administered. His lungs open up like a balloon.
The following day nobody mentions the episode.
I say that in the spring we should take a drive down to see the Kentucky Derby. Arthur says he’ll be free; he’ll be doing a movie in Paris that starts afterward.
“Who’s directing that?” I ask.
“Volker Schlöndorff.”
“Schlöndorff? No kidding! Volk’s doing that?” I say. Of course, I don’t know Volk.
We enter Montana. We are listening to Copland. The hills are softer, lower, browner. Then we listen to a Gregorian chant. Paul is in a dead sleep. He is wearing an orange Baltimore Orioles shirt. “Can you feel the archaic quality to the harmonies?” Arthur wants to know. Jimmy tells me to sing it. “I don’t know this tune,” I say. But I do it anyway. Jimmy wants Paul to sing. He wakes him up. Paul gives Jimmy the finger. At the same time, Arthur is saying, “That’s what the nature of music is.”
Alongside the rise of a mountain, Arthur asks, “Who do we know who’s had a peaceful, fulfilling latter part of life? Milton, perhaps.”
“You can’t really take Milton seriously,” I say. “He was blind.”
“Well, that’s true,” Arthur says. “Rousseau was one. Though he became disenchanted. He spent the last ten years of his life on a lake in Switzerland. As a botanist.”
Artie is alone in life. He doesn’t have a mate, but this is only partly true. When Paul was born, I knew very little about being a father, but what I did know was that I wanted my children to see beauty in this world. Arthur, more than I, more than Sue, would be able to provide that. He became a second father to my children. That evening we enjoy the Sabbath dinner. I want the boys to know that they can do this anywhere—being away from home does not mean the Sabbath does not matter. They still need to separate the secular from the sacred. I cannot find challah where we are, so instead I get some rolls and lay napkins over them. I get some wine. We order room service. Jimmy wants to know if Arthur reads dictionaries. “Sometimes,” he says. “I take them into the bathroom with me. When your mind is in a place to find a dictionary interesting, you’re in a very good place mentally.”
At 1,988 miles outside of Los Angeles, I ask if there is a television around here. Arthur says no, not in these places. We are in the corner of America. We might as well be off the map.
Great Falls, Montana. Farther north—Glacier Lake. We listen to Vaughan Williams’s “The Lark Ascending” as we ourselves rise. “It only gets prettier,” Arthur says. A giant rock formation, like an isosceles triangle, rises up to the west; its peak is flattened out. A washed-out lake appears at the side of the road. Its bed looks like pudding. Blond trees stand before it.
We take a small road down level with the lake. Large old cabins line the small street. “We’re here, because we’re here, because we’re here,” Arthur says. We stay at a large inn called the War Bonnet. It looks like a ski lodge, very rustic. In front of the inn, water laps against the rocks on the shore. Then a blunt mountain, its shadow falling over the lake. It is real country.
I take the boys on a hike. We circle half of Glacier Lake and enter the park. A sign reads: “Beware of Bears.” We go in anyhow. It is dead quiet. I can hear pine needles falling. Mist crawls between the upper layers of the trees, as if it is watching us. The boys understand the solemnity of the moment. We do not see any bears. But they might have seen us.
We are at Logan Pass. The Continental Divide. Elevation: 2,033 meters. We are up against the mountainside. Clouds come up like out of a steaming pot. We cannot see twenty yards in front of us. Jimmy says it looks as if we are at the edge of the earth. We get out of the car. There is a thin stream curving across the floor of a valley. Arthur and I stand next to each other. We are at Bird Woman Falls. Mist comes out of our mouths.
We stay a few days in Montana and fly to San Francisco. On our descent, we are all glued to the
