In Open Spaces (3 page)

In our country, there is a quietness, a silence that surrounds you and fills you up, beating inside like blood until it becomes a part of you. The prairie is quiet even during the day, except for the sounds of work—the snort of horses, the clang of a plow’s blade against rock, and the rhythm of hooves pounding the ground. But these sounds
drift off into the air, finding nothing to contain them. No echoes.

It’s quieter still at night, when you can sit for hours at a stretch and hear nothing except the crickets, or the occasional cluck of a chicken. At night, the darkness seems to add to the silence, making it heavier, somehow more imposing. It is a silence that can be too much for some, especially people who aren’t fond of their own company. And it seems that living in such silence makes you think twice before speaking, or laughing, or crying. Because when sounds are that scarce, they carry more weight.

So like most people I know, we Arbuckles don’t say much, especially in times of tragedy, when no one knows what to say anyway. When something leaves us wondering, we mostly sit and stare off across the prairie, as if somebody might come along and explain a few things. This stoic silence does not come naturally to some people. In those early homestead days, it led to frequent cases of the loneliness, or suicide. And although most of us talked about these afflictions as if they only happened to newcomers, we all knew better. We all lived with a constant awareness of how vulnerable we were. All of us. It didn’t take a genius to notice that some of the sturdiest have been broken down by the pervasive weight of unpredictable weather, and uncooperative livestock, and more than anything, the silent wondering about all these by-products of life on the prairie.

There was only one person in our family who did not possess this stoic nature, and it was George Jr. George took on the silence from a completely different angle, challenging it by doing all he could to fill it up. He talked all the time, but not in a nervous, chattering way. He talked slowly, softly, in a rhythmic, expressive stream, almost like a song. He would pause, chuckle, shake his head, then start again—telling stories, discussing the articles he’d read in the latest newspaper, or plucking a random topic from the air and sorting through the various thoughts he had, moving easily from one side of a debate to the other. I always found the running monologue soothing, and entertaining.
But it sometimes got on people’s nerves, especially Jack, who would often tell George to shut up, and give us a little peace. To which George usually responded with a smile and a shake of his head. Then, after honoring Jack’s request for a minute or two, he would start in again. He couldn’t help himself.

Although I didn’t see it then, I assume now that there was something of a nervous energy behind this habit. And I wonder whether the silence did get to George, and that he just hid it better than others. From what I learned later, I eventually had to question how he felt about living out here.

That morning, the quiet was magnified by his absence. With my brother less than twenty-four hours gone, the river seemed louder than usual. It wasn’t, of course. I just noticed it more. I noticed how beautiful and soothing the gentle rush of water sounded, and I was struck by the deception of that sound. I wondered where George had gone down.

I was always amazed when anyone drowned in the Little Missouri River, which was only twenty-five or thirty feet across, not even big enough to rate a name of its own. It just didn’t seem possible that someone, especially an adult, could not find a way to crawl out once they fell in. But every couple of years, some unfortunate soul would plunge into its muddy flow and not emerge until their lungs filled with water.

After about twenty minutes, we could see the soft glow of a blaze along the row of buttes. It was near dawn, and the darkness had just begun to fade along the horizon, as if the fire was leaking into the sky.

I was surprised how wide awake I was, and I wondered how long I’d slept. I wrapped myself tightly in my wool coat, pushing my stiff hands deep into my pockets. Down in the corner of one pocket, I felt a lump. I pulled out a piece of chalk, and realized I must have stuck it there without thinking after I read the telegram. Finally, we reached the base of the buttes, where Dad reined in the team and we hopped from
the wagon. Dad, Jack, and I unloaded the barrels, then lugged them up the steep incline, a forty-foot climb. It took us nearly half an hour to carry our awkward cargo one at a time to the top.

“I’m tired, Mom,” I heard Bob say behind us.

“Quiet, son. We’re all tired.”

The buttes cross Carter County like the spine of a bull, sprouting more trees than the flatlands. Spruce and pine stand in rows along the table-like tops like sentries in a watchtower. The fire burned among the dry grass and leaves along the floor, inching its way up an occasional tree. The yellow-orange-red blanket spread slowly but steadily, and it smelled too much like a campfire to feel very dangerous. But from the way people were shouting and racing around, it was clear that the fire posed a real threat, that it could spread further, down into the meadows below, where the grass was dry enough that it would ignite like paper. After the soothing quiet of the prairie on our way to these buttes, the shift to this shouting, rushing activity was a bit startling.

But once we positioned our barrels, I found myself inspired by the spirit of battle. Months of sitting in a classroom had me restless, and I was excited about being back at work again. I grabbed a burlap bag from the pile, dunked it into a barrel, and ran toward the flames.

“Over here, Blake,” someone yelled. “Upwind. You’ll get smoke on that side.”

I rounded the outer edge, beating the ground with the wet burlap, stomping the embers when the flame was gone. My folks and my brothers worked around me, waving their sacks, which sizzled against the fire.

The blaze covered nearly three acres, and about twenty of us surrounded it, with a few shouting directions, pointing, and arguing strategy. It was invigorating to be doing something with my muscles again. I fought hard, thinking I’d be able to maintain the same pace until it
was over. The ache in my chest was gone, and in my youthful view of the world, I was convinced that it had disappeared for good, just as I was sure a few hours earlier that it would never go away.

I batted down flames until my gunnysack was dry and useless, then I rushed back and dunked it again—back and forth, back and forth, probably ten or twelve times before my back started to clench. And I felt the heat through my leather soles. Blisters tickled the bottoms of my feet. Soon my body struggled to keep up with my enthusiasm. And then I couldn’t.

As the adults fought to keep the flames under control, I sat with a guilty conscience and watched for a few minutes. The fire showed a maddening persistence as the crew beat it down, only to have it flare up again. But a routine had evolved, and the team moved from battle to post with the efficient pattern of an ant colony, one column going one way, one column the other.

Art Walters found a tree with a jagged black streak running from its tip to its roots.

“Looks like this is where she started,” he announced, pointing. “Lightning, I’d say.”

He got no arguments. For one thing, his discovery was obvious. But also, we all knew Art well enough to see that his real objective was not finding the source but taking a little break. We knew what to expect, and Art delivered. He took some more time to talk about the tree, then he studied it again, came up with a few more theories, and talked about those. Everybody ignored him, and Art took on a meditative expression, as if the job required someone with that quality.

I always found Art baffling. For one thing, nobody in the county ever questioned his devotion to work, or his dependability. There were few people among us who were more willing and eager to help out someone in need than Art Walters. But it seemed that he was so uncomfortable with the notion of resting, so driven, that he couldn’t feel guilty about it alone. He had to make sure everybody noticed.

“This tree wasn’t already like this, was it, Gary?” he asked Gary Glasser.

Gary didn’t answer, but Art didn’t even notice.

“I wonder if this tree was already like this,” he muttered.

I finally got up, gave my gunnysack a good soaking, and rejoined the fight. But it became hard to breathe. The hot air seemed to gather at my lips—thick, like cotton, thick enough to be bitten, and chewed. The sack slipped from my stiff, dry fingers. The heat slowed others, and many of us stood panting, pulling hard, labored breaths, our sacks hanging limp. Some leaned against trees, hands on their thighs.

A wind came up, and the fire began to creep east, pushing the tired, diminished circle away from its core. Weary eyes grew bigger as the finger of flame spread toward Glassers’ grazing land. We ran clumsily in that direction.

And as the fear of losing the battle increased, we all found strength that moments before seemed impossible. Our bodies rose and fell, like wheat bending in the wind. The flames receded, then progressed, receded, progressed. Our effort was punctuated verbally, with groans and shouting, as we did all we could to drown out our screaming muscles. Finally, after a couple of hours, we had tightened the circle to a manageable size.

Little had been said all morning. The danger had focused all of our energy. Other than instructions, talk was not productive. A few people mentioned George, just enough to convey their condolences. Even if we hadn’t been fighting a fire, they would not have asked too many questions. But as the danger passed, I found myself wanting more. I found myself wondering whether people missed George, whether they felt his absence as much as I did.

In our country, most of the work is done alone, in solitary, wide-open expanses of dirt. And although there is a certain pleasure that you get from this kind of work, the opportunity to accomplish something with
a group is a welcome break from this routine. When there was little left but smoldering black grass, and a tiny flame here and there, the jokes started flying, and smiles spread beneath the soot that coated everyone’s faces.

“Hey, how come you’re not serving breakfast here, Gary?” Art complained. “We come out here and work our tails off and there’s nothing to eat?”

Gary, who was as serious as any man I’ve known, even made a stiff attempt at a joke. “Tell you what, I’ll let you all be my friends for another year.”

I staggered amid the collective sense of proud accomplishment, feet dragging, to one of the barrels. I held on to opposite sides of the rim and lowered myself headfirst. Water surrounded my boiling skull, then moved up my shoulders and chest. It felt as though the heat eased up from my feet, through my legs, my torso, and then poured from the top of my head into the barrel. I held my breath and stayed under for as long as my lungs would allow. The water’s soothing cool began to seep back up through me just as the heat had departed. But as I started to pull myself out, someone grabbed my legs and jerked me with such force that my chin caught the barrel’s rim. I shouted as I fell to the ground, and I rolled over and jumped to my feet, ready to take a swing at the practical joker. But instead I stood facing my mother, who reached up and took a firm hold of my raised fist.

“Don’t fool around with water at a time like this.” Her eyes were wide and scared, and her head quivered a little, her frizzy red hair shuddering.

I frowned, not sure what she meant by “a time like this,” but then I realized, and nodded. And Mom squeezed my upper arm, conveying her forgiveness, and returned to the fire. I lay on my back and leaned my head against the barrel’s rough planks. I wiped my chin and studied the streak of blood across my palm. But I was too tired to care about a little blood, wondering whether I’d ever be able to stand. I didn’t
want to fall asleep in front of the whole community. So I raised myself up to my elbows, shook the water from my hair, and struggled to my feet. I propped myself against the barrel, supporting my tired legs with my tired arms. Water trickled into my clothes, which felt good.

I turned, checking the fire. Five people stamped the last of the flames, kicking the ground to kill any stray embers. My folks were among them. Mom looked as if she could do the whole thing again, then chop down a tree for good measure. She was built, it seemed, for the life of perpetual labor. Thick, with broad shoulders. Most of her children, myself included, inherited her squat, solid torso, and her bowed legs. George Jr. and Jack were the only ones built more like Dad—lithe, sinewy bodies that were strong in their own right but much less durable.

So Dad trudged forward, matching Mom’s resolve. But his stride was not as steady. Most of the crew stretched out on damp burlap, quietly resting. Wisps of smoke drifted along the ground, like fog, its smell saturating our clothes and hair.

I finally tried walking, tilting from one side to another, like a baby, tottering slowly down the slope. My legs held me from memory, my arms dangling at my side. I fell once, rolling headfirst back onto my feet in a fluid motion that felt unremarkable, even practiced, as if that was how one goes down a hill. I crawled into the wagon bed, rolling my burlap bag into a pillow.

But to my surprise, I could not fall asleep. I was so tired my eyelids twitched. Images raced around behind my lids like moths in a jar, bumping together and circling each other. I clenched my eyes tight, trying to stop the flickering pictures, but it did no good.

I remembered George’s last birthday, just months before. Katie, the eight-year-old, had just learned about surprise birthday parties, and she insisted on throwing one for George. The only problem was that she didn’t quite grasp the surprise aspect of a surprise party. So she did all the planning, folding little paper hats out of pages from a Sears catalogue,
inviting everyone we happened to see, regardless of whether George was around or not. We all watched with amusement while she pursued this plan, and none of us was more amused than the guest of honor. George smiled, his blue eyes twinkling, while Katie made a chocolate birthday cake the evening before, and arranged all the chairs in the house.