Etta and Otto and Russell and James (10 page)

S
ixty-six years earlier, all the Vogels lined up at the nearest train station—the one that had brought them Russell—in a line from smallest to tallest. Otto shook their hands and kissed their cheeks. He whispered one thing to each, one secret each. Some whispered back, some didn’t.
Thank you
, said Ellie.
I know, I know
, said Amos.
I will
, said Russell.
Please?
said his mother.
Soon enough
, said Winnie.

The train to Regina took no time at all. Otto stayed standing to feel the movement under his feet, moving without moving, one hand on a suitcase borrowed from Russell, unused since the day he arrived, and one hand braced on the window, running over everything they passed.

Dear Miss Kinnick,
*

First, thankyou for letting me write to you. I hope it is not too intruesive. I will try to keep it short. Just long enouf to practice all the letters and a fair few words. Ready? Ok.

When they sayed I was going to Regina, they lied. This camp is not in Regina, it is near Regina, in a field. A bunch of low flat buldings droped in-to a field. Every-thing square. There are about 75 of us here, now, from all over Sask. We eat to-gether, sleep to-gether, and train to-gether, which I’m glad for. Its like home. Eccept here were all about the same age, and all boys.

They have allready given me a gun. A real gun. I know how to open it and shut it and clean it and dis-arm it and fire it, but not how to carry it confortably, like Im not carrying a gun. Its the same for most. So theyre having us practice. Have us walk all the way a-round the perifary with the guns on our belts, eat dinner with the guns on our laps, play cards with the guns tucked into our socks, sleep with the guns beside us. Once we can dance with the guns and run with the guns and embrace each other with the guns well be ready to go, on a bigger train, east, to Charlotte-town or Halifax. It wont be long, I think. Some have allready gone.

Have you been out there, ever?

I hope every-thing is well at home. That the winds arent to big and the students are behaving them-selves and learnning and singging. And that your well. What happens if the teacher isnot well? Please write back soon. You can write about any-thing at all, I dont mind. About the sun or the dust or your own self. You can mail it back here, and if I have moved East theyll forwerd it, so dont worry.

Please send love to all the Vogels and to Russell.

Sinceerly,

Otto.

*
This is my first letter. That means it will be the werst, in terms of spelling, neat-ness and all that. It will get better from here.

E
tta read the letter on her front step, her legs stretched down the wooden stairs to let the sun catch them. The post date was two and a half weeks ago. Once she got to the end, she put a rock on top of the two sheets of army-issue faded green so they wouldn’t blow away, and went inside for pens and paper. When she came back, legs back out, down, she corrected all Otto’s errors with her red pen before switching to the black one and starting on her reply.

She’d do the same with the next letter, and the next and the next. Legs stretched down the teacher house’s three front steps. She now kept her pens and paper in the mailbox, ready.

Dear Otto,

Thank you for your last letter. They’re getting better, they really are. Especially the contractions.

You’ve been out there, out east, for some time now. I bet you’re becoming an excellent swimmer. And eating a lot of fish. What else are they teaching you? What else do you need to know before they let you go all the way over?

As I’m sure you’re aware, we said goodbye to Walter and Wiley this week. They stood up in front of the class and sang “I’ll Be Seeing You” for us before they went. They even did harmony. I imagine they’re in Regina (or just outside it) now, but wouldn’t it be nice if you all were together in Halifax? I am hoping, for you.

The weather here is hot. Hot and dry. My Teacher’s Daily Diary says it’s fall, but I’ll believe that when I see it. The school’s been back open for weeks and still nothing like a frost. Still sunburns at lunch-hour.

You said it was just your birthday, a day or so before the last letter was sent. It was just my birthday too, a few days before that. Which means we’re the same age. Almost exactly. Russell and I, I’ve discovered, were born in the same year, but you and I are even closer. So, I was thinking, because of this, and because you’re not in school anymore, I’d like you to stop calling me Miss Kinnick, and start calling me Etta. Okay? I have told Russell that outside of school, in town or at dances, he’s to do the same.

Yours sincerely,

Etta

S
o, what about the women?

Etta was teaching the class a Brief History of War, at the request of Winnie. They had been acting out Troy. Now most of them were pretend-killed on the schoolroom floor, and it was time for questions.

Women, Winnie? What about them?

Winnie sat up, brushed the chalk and boot-dust off the back of her head. What did they do, to fight, to help? Where were they?

Well, we know about Helen . . .

She doesn’t count. Queens don’t count. What about the normal ones? What about the sisters of the Greeks?

I bet some of them helped. I bet some were spies.

Like Mata Hari?

Exactly.

But not fighters?

Not fighters.

That’s stupid.

There are nurses . . .

In Troy?

Now.

So, women can only be nurses or spies?

Nurses and spies.

9

R
ussell stopped at the O-K-Kenora Pitstop ’n Shop. He bought more peanuts, water, chocolate, bananas, Ritz crackers, socks, and a newspaper. The cashier was wearing headphones and rocked slowly back and forth while counting out Russell’s change. Thank you, said Russell, taking the coins.

The cashier nodded in time with her dance, smiled.

And, also, sorry . . .

She stopped swaying. Tilted her head to one side.

I was wondering if you’d seen . . .

She held up one finger, pointing at the foam circle on one of her ears.

Oh, said Russell. He paused. The cashier swayed. His wallet was still on the counter between them. He picked it up and carefully pulled the photo out from the billfold—Etta and Otto, years ago. He pointed at Etta.

The cashier looked down, at it . . . squinting. Then her eyes opened a bit wider and she nodded. Yes, said her lips, even though no sound came out. Yes, yes. She reached over the counter and pulled the newspaper out from under Russell’s arm, excited. She opened it to the fourth page, flipped it around so it was facing him, and pointed. There
was Etta, in some tall grass, jack pines in the background, not wearing boots at all; wearing a newish pair of running shoes.

Different treads, different tracks.

What shoes are these? Russell pointed at Etta’s feet in the picture. Shoes?

The cashier stepped back and pointed at her own feet. Russell leaned forward to see them. The shoes were a different color, and a smaller size, but had the same logo as Etta’s. The cashier took one off, handed it across to Russell. She was wearing red socks. Russell took the shoe—it was so light, he expected such a technical thing to be heavy—and turned it over to examine the treads. Rubber. He ran his fingers over them, memorizing. The cashier swayed, smiled. Russell turned the shoe back over. On the inside tongue someone had written
DIANE
in blue marker. He handed it back.

Thank you, Diane, he mouthed.

Diane smiled, shrugged, one shoe on, the other in her hand.

I
t wouldn’t take him any time at all to find the tracks, now Russell knew what he was looking for. No time, no time at all. A few hours, maybe before sunset even.

I
told you there would be more rocks here.

Yes, you did. And?

And, well, I think you’re maybe struggling, now, with that.

James was on top of a low, jagged cliff. Etta was slowly zig-zagging her way up. Across, up, across, up. She was breathing hard.

No, I’m not. Struggling.

James had just jumped. Two jumps, up and up.

Okay, well, if you’re going to be a while, I think I’ll go smell around this place a bit. Just yell when you get to the top.

I will whistle.

Okay,
James said and trotted off, nose to the ground.

There were a lot of these cliffs. A lot of slow zig-zagging for Etta and jumping and smelling for James. After making her way scrupulously up the fifth one that day, Etta whistled, but James did not run up from out of the brush as he usually did. She whistled again, but still no coyote. She sighed and put two fingers in her mouth and whistled shriekingly loud, like calling a lost horse. But no horses came, and no James either. Etta sat down on the plateau. Tired. Her new shoes were all gray-brown with mud and dust. It was very quiet here, when she wasn’t whistling. No birds sang in the middle of the day.

You’re crazy, she said to herself. You’re going crazy. You made him up.

No. I’m not. No, I didn’t; I’m just old.

It’s the same thing.

It’s not.

It is.

She drew a line with the toe of her shoe across the chalky-rock ground, white. That’s real, she told herself. I did that, that’s real. She ran a fingernail across the skin of her arm, raised white, then red. That’s real.

You’re confused, you should sleep.

I’m not tired.

You are. You always are, now.

I’m not. I am not.

She stood up. I can walk.

It was almost twenty minutes later, almost a mile, when the quietness of midday gave way to a sound, a new sound, a sound like the wind had made sixty-some years ago through the cracks in her teacher’s cottage. But there was no wind here. Etta followed it, the sound of wind with no wind, off her path, through barnyard grass and hogweed and nodding thistle. Seeds and burrs stuck to her legs. She followed the sound down to a curtain of bent leaves, and, under it, a matted bunch of fur and thistle and blood. James. His right front leg in a trap. Making the sound like the wind with each breath.

I was trying to call you, but getting tired.

Goddammit, said Etta.

I did hear your whistle
, said James.
That was a good, loud whistle.

I thought you weren’t real, said Etta. I thought I had made you up.

You could have.

But I didn’t, did I?

Etta, it could be everything, it could be nothing, what you’re making up. You shouldn’t let that bother you.

No?

No.

Etta crouched down to James’s level and pulled a thistle off his coat. Its needles stuck in her fingers a bit. There, that’s real. I feel that.

It’s going to hurt you, your leg, she said. When I get you out.

It’s okay. Coyotes don’t feel pain much, it’s okay.

Still, close your eyes.

James closed his eyes, and, before forcing open the trap with a
thick branch like she and Alma used to do for the neighborhood cats, Etta stroked his head once, twice, along the fur line, like a dog. Rough, thick fur.

J
ames’s leg was busted, broke. The blood crept out of it undramatically, barely noticeable, dropping off in congealed clumps every now and then. Etta set it as best she could with a sock.

Try not to use it, try not to put any weight on it at all.

But for a coyote, always balancing in fours, that was impossible. He would forget, hit a stride, hit the leg, the front-right, and collapse into it, yelping.

Okay, fine, said Etta. How much do you weigh?

James was sitting, licking.
More than a rabbit but less than a horse . . . maybe forty pounds.

Get in my bag. Don’t squish the chocolate.

She wore him across her back, her canvas bag stretching but accepting the weight across her shoulder. Since she couldn’t carry the rifle on her back in this configuration, she carried it in front, using it alternatively as a walking stick and as a gun, to kill gophers for James, as he couldn’t hunt now, injured. They took the long way around cliffs and large rocks.

You know, said Etta, I’m surprised you don’t speak French.

Like the fish skulls,
said James, his head bobbing gently against her neck.

Yes, exactly.

I could say the same thing of you.

But I’m not a fish.

But you’re not a coyote either.

True, true.