In Wilderness (25 page)

“It’s almost finished, I’ll just be a minute.” Fingers worming in among the skinny threads as if she hasn’t heard. And all while the soft, pearly dawn light’s turning to harsh morning sun.

“I said don’t you turn your back on me.”

“I’m almost through.” Her fingers fly too fast to see. She still won’t turn around.

“Goddammit, fuck this shit!”

He lurches toward her, pulls back his arm to hit her. Bitch sees it coming, jerks away. Danny’s fist slams into the wall just inches from her face. How close he came, the sharp crack of it, how much it might have hurt her, scares him till he wants to puke. But it doesn’t scare him half as bad as how she cringes into a much smaller Dead Lady with such wide-open, frightened eyes.

Dumb fucking whore. Made him do it. Wouldn’t turn around. And now she acts so damn frightened and pitiful. Let her fuck her fucking weavings. That’ll teach her. He, Danny, is out the door and gone.

Hasn’t got his jacket, but who gives a shit? Just keep moving and you won’t get cold’s what Pawpaw used to say. Just keep moving and nothing can stick to you’s what Danny says. Words to live by. Keep moving all your goddamn life.

He runs up the mountain out of sight. Doesn’t turn back to look till he scuttles under his overhanging rock, where he watched her in the springtime, summertime, good times. Can’t see her now. No one outside, door’s shut tight. If she had run after him, called his name, he might have turned around, gone back. Made up with her. But she didn’t. Or didn’t run far enough, didn’t holler loud enough for him to see or hear—a phony act with no meat in it.

Whatever. It’s warm under his rock and he’s comfortable out of the wind. Ought to have some jerky in his pockets, canteen full of water on his belt. Ought to have some reefer. Which he hasn’t thought about in months. But he’s good. Yeah, he knows how to watch and wait.

When the sun’s slanting toward two o’clock she comes out, heads down to the woodshed. His heart quickens like it used to, like she’s some kind of hard-to-bring-down prey. Oh, he could watch her all his days. How she moves now, rolls her hips. So different from when he first saw her. Yeah, now anyone with sense to look can see some man’s been with her, turned her into a real Class A woman. Kind of man that satisfies her soul yet keeps her hungry for it night and day. Kind of man that’s Danny.

If she’ll just look up at the mountain like she gives a flying fuck,
he’ll climb back down and go to her right now. But no, bitch keeps her nose pointed straight ahead. Won’t give an inch. Makes his insides squirm in some bad way. Like the song says, no direction home.

Yeah, him up here and her so far below not looking for him feels like right after he comes. Like he’s spinning out into a void, an astronaut that’s popped his tether. It’s got so Danny hates to come. Hates even the incredible first part where it’s like all the universe, even the dark behind the Milky Way, is balanced on the tip end of his dick, and he is part of everything that was or is or ever will be. Hates it because it’s just God’s shitty trick to make him do it in the first place. Make him do it so he’ll get to where the universe packs up its atoms and goes home, leaves him flapping there in empty space. No comfort from the Dead Lady in those times. Might as well be a cold marble statue, even when she’s warm and holding him. Stupid whore’s got no idea.

The bad part wasn’t bad at first. It’s grown worse over time, till now he puts it off long as he can. In fact almost never comes, no matter how she begs him. In a weird way it’s working pretty well. Him happy riding on the brink of things and her there squirming like a frenzied cat—oh-please-oh-please-oh-please​please​please. Oh, yeah, he doesn’t want for more. And when she comes it’s like he’s coming, too. He wants to stop time, keep her there, a part of him forever. If Heaven’s just one single moment God lets you live for all eternity, yeah, he’ll take that one.

The air is cold and still and Danny leaves his refuge and climbs higher. How good his house looks up ahead surprises him all fresh again. Whole and perfect. Close up and inside, though, it’s a different story. The leaks are worse, the rotting books stink, and something—a raccoon?—has nested in his mattress, clawed holes through the moldy ticking. What he gets for being gone so long.

Poor old neglected house. He goes after his bedroom floor with the sanding block he left behind till both arms ache. Feels so good he might just stay up here, let things go back to how they used to be. She won’t come after him—even if she can still find the path, she’ll be too scared to climb it.

Last time he picked up a piece of sandpaper, clamped it in the sanding block, it was June, July, and he was spending all his time with
her and her not even knowing, all his days and nights running together. No more reading Gatsby’s books by then. No, it was her bent over her little garden beds like she was petting baby chicks. Or whispering her breaths to him all through the night, his arms hugging the cabin’s stones. Him so delirious just to be that close to her he didn’t want for more, not even when she beckoned to him in his Long Dream. Now things he dared not even dream are real. Back in the city, before she took sick, she could’ve had anyone she wanted, her with her goddamn office in the sky. Now she wants only him. For always.

Weird how he got that day in town after chasing off that dumb Atlanta shit. Loved her so much he couldn’t help himself. Dragged her off into an alley, made her come in front of God and everybody. When they got home, fucked her like he wasn’t human. Did it and did it, shot off every time. Like the sun was never going to rise again.

H
E GETS BACK TO
the cabin a couple minutes before dark. She’s at her loom and turns when he comes through the door, then doesn’t turn away. Instead, she goes to stir the pot that’s bubbling on the stove and when she passes close he sees her eyes are red.

“Don’t ever do that again,” she tells him. She does not say please.

And, oh, he won’t do it again. He won’t.

D
ANNY HUNKERS FAR BACK
in his rock cave to keep out of the wind, pulls a pack of rolling papers from his pocket, peels one off, folds it and sprinkles reefer in its gutter. He licks one edge and rolls a perfect jay, lights it with a book match from the Elkmont Diner, “Home of the Bottomless Coffee Cup.” A couple seeds crackle and spark as he draws a lungful of the pungent smoke. Who said you can’t get no satisfaction?

Yeah, by now Danny’s got the thing worked out. What it comes down to, most days he just needs to get away a little, go back to what’s his. You can grow so used to having someone in your sight you get to thinking if they go away there’s nothing left but empty. You’ll do anything to keep them there.

Yeah, well, that’s not the deal.

Deal is, you get the fuck out before they do. That way you get to say two things about it: how far and how long. You push them both up to the outer limits you can stand. Then and only then you go back home. If you left pissed off in the first place, then so much the better. Bitch’ll know it’s all her fault. You come back through that door, she’ll love on you like you been gone for years. Just ask old Stanley Kowalski, he knew what to do. Danny’d never read a play. Not easy, but this one was worth his while. Sometimes you learn shit in weird places, even from plays.

The reefer helps. Instead of flailing unhinged out in empty space, he floats now, unafraid. That’s what he does these days. Climbs up here soon as it gets light, changes into his old, ragged camo he keeps stashed under his rock. Doesn’t read much now. Tokes up and waits for her to come outside, trip down the privy path, bring back some wood, poke around for that dried grass and stuff she threads into her weavings. Maybe a little side trip to the garden, dig up a beet or such. Two weeks ago he went to town, bought her a rocker at the Goodwill. No end to how she loves that thing. Sits in it every time she sits. A prime investment, is that rocker. Now she just loves old Danny’s ass, all the home fires burning bright.

But, Lord, how he still craves to watch her from up here. The way she moves. Anymore, it’s like she grew out of the goddamn ground, knows everywhere she walks and everything she sees or touches. She’s like him when they sent him out to kill. Alive to everything around her. Watching her, that brings it all back. He wishes he could be like that again. Like he was over there. Or wishes he could be like her, be her. Not till she’s gone back in and he’s sure she’s not coming out again does he climb up to his house and get to work.

Right now it’s mostly patch-up stuff. Keep the rain and raccoons out. Steal some boards from someplace, nail them someplace else. He carted in a hammer and a saw from town, more sandpaper, a miter box. Lord, please let him live years enough to need a miter box for something in this house. Then he’d be down to finish work. No, he bought the miter box for something else. He’s making her a loom.

And it’s the best, most beautiful work he’s ever done. A loom
that’s like a table, so she’ll never need to turn away from him again. Nails all around the edges. Like what’s on the wall except no wall. To go with it, a wooden chair the perfect height, and with a back for her to lean against. Cherry. Prettiest wood in the whole world. Glows like it’s got a steady fire inside. Same as she does. Set it in the center of the room so he can walk all the way around it, see her face. Tore out the two dining room mantels to make them. Dining room’s wrecked anyhow, rain always pouring in. If that mantel wood had sense, it’d crave to be a loom.

Today, same as always, Danny gets down on his knees before starting to work on it. He always means to pray to God, but ends up praying to the Old Man. Old Man who carpentered the Dead Lady’s, Katherine’s, cabin, their cabin now. And to Pawpaw. “Show me how to do it right, whichever part I got to do today. Help me do my very best. For her.”

When the sun slinks down behind the tall pines and his high’s thinned out and his mind is flashing once again on empty outer space, he scuttles down to his rock cave, tokes up one last time. Changes out of his old camo, heads for home.

She’s waiting for him, missed him, and they climb up to the loft. Stoned, he can do everything, even come. And then she holds him. Afterwards, he stokes the hearth fire, lights the lamps, eats supper while she smiles at him across the table.

And it’s a good day, all of it, clear through.

S
HARP LIGHT SILHOUETTES THE LEAFLESS TREES AGAINST THE SKY
and morning frost glistens. Crows caw at the garden’s edge, their sounds carrying in the clear air. By afternoon, working feverishly, she and Danny have piled their table with the last summer vegetables and filled the dugout underneath the porch with pumpkins, butternuts, parsnips, potatoes. They make a good team. She picks, he carries; she digs, he stores. They meet on the path from house to garden with quick embraces, breathless smiles. In their shared, frenetic labor she finds calm and reassurance. This is the true Danny, not the one who would have struck her. A small core of resistance she has built up unawares crumbles—he is indeed as she has always thought him.

Each day comes slightly colder now. She takes a surprising, atavistic joy that in the kitchen stand rows of mason jars, their contents colored like the autumn leaves; that they have done this thing together, she and Danny. That they have made a home. On the morning
of the first hard freeze, the bright sun glitters. She hears him in the kitchen, dresses quickly, sees him out the door for town.

“Bring yarn. Colors you like.”

She had expected some objection, not enough room in the cart. But he nods, smiles, is gone. The house is hers now. Strange how since they’ve been together she has come to hoard her time alone, to treasure it—another gift he’s given her. She moves quickly through her daily chores, mindful always of the loom’s pull. Danny’s absence creates a peace for her to work inside, as if it’s another room he’s built onto the cabin. She never tires of him. He’s like the forest: There is always more to know. They talk little, only of what’s important at the time. She is coming to believe that people living in close physical proximity and with enough intensity of feeling will communicate without words as a matter of routine. Thus the unsaid doesn’t matter, indeed may not exist.

They are so close in this way that sometimes she is brought up short by the strangeness of their pairing. On the face of it, they’re not alike in any sense. Had they both lived in the city, they would not have known the same people, shopped in the same stores, driven the same roads. Had they passed each other on the street, they would not likely have looked into each other’s faces. Had they stood close, on a downtown corner waiting for a light to change or in a grocery line, they almost certainly would not have spoken. Sometimes this realization chills her even now.

When he is gone she misses him, the essence of him—the feel of his skin, the smell of his hair, the sounds of his breathing—so much more than any conversation they might have. Their life together is itself one wordless, never-ending dialogue. He will come back today a different person, from the things he’s done and seen without her. She will lie close to him and know those things, will feel no need to ask.

She loops a braid of dried pond grass through the loom’s warp, lays a length of dry-grass-colored yarn above it. She does not see pictures of the city in her mind’s eye anymore, only what is here around her—the huge, gnarled chestnut oak by the meadow, their winter wood stacked in the shed, Danny’s face with moonlight on it in the darkness—as if none of her life that came before had ever been.

That man in Elkmont, she can’t recall his name, only her shock that she had ever known him. If Danny hadn’t come to rescue her, who’s to say what she’d have done. Run, most likely. Hidden herself in a little copse of trees out near the edge of town. Where Danny would have found her.

Her weavings since that day are far better than anything she did before. They have a wildness in them, exhilarating and unsettling. A wildness beyond anything in that bought weaving she once hung so proudly on her office wall. Yet it’s all done in his absence, the good work. She weaves very little when he’s here. When he comes into the room her body grows more supple, moves more freely, turning her weaving into a performance, something done for him, not for the work itself. Too soon he reaches for her, pulls her down onto the hearth quilts, and her weaving is forgotten.