Northern Lights (30 page)

Everything was beautiful. The old man was right. Harvey was right. And it was easy. He felt fine. He skied along on the white strip of sleep through the woods.

The road went on in gentle turns. It was beautiful and fine and easy.

His skis whooshed on the powdered snow.

The moon crept even higher. It was three-quarters full. He was lightheaded and seeing clearly. Even without his glasses, he saw the white winter light of the moon.

Later, as the night went on, his skis made biting sounds on the snow. The powder became brittle. A yellow light sparkled ahead, and when he came to it he saw it was another twisting arrow and he went faster. He was cleareyed and clearheaded and
he could see to the end of the road, and he pushed with his poles and skated, feeling the wind, feeling raw and clearheaded and light as helium. He skied fast. He leaned forward, crouched low, banked along the arrow-pointed curve, went down, pushed with the poles.

Another shining road sign went by, another arrow and another downwards curve of the road, and he crouched low and spiraled down. All the fat was gone. He could fly, and he gained speed and curved along the white sleepribbon. He coasted down. When the road flattened and turned up again, he could no longer ski. He slowed and slowed, the fine lightness leaving him, turning to gravity, and he slowed and slowed to a stop, standing still with his head down.

Finally, he removed his skis and speared them into a drift beside the road.

He removed his rucksack and dropped it under the skis.

He sat on the rucksack, looked up the road and waited for Harvey. It was a long black wait. He was in a grove of some sort. The trees hung over the road, darkening the road and snow. The forest grew up to the edge of the road.

Still waiting for Harvey, he got up and began gathering scrap wood. He was alone.

He piled the wood in the center of the road.

Using the last of the paper in his rucksack, he took care, piling the wood into a pyramid, finally striking the fire. As the fire caught, everything else stopped. He stopped thinking and he stopped being tired. He watched the fire and forgot everything else.

Harvey skied up without making noise.

He stopped and stood over the fire in his skis. Then still without removing the skis, he sat down. The tips of the skis were in the fire. He sat with his face red and wet, watching the fire lick
at the skis. They both sat and watched. The tips of the skis glowed. At last Perry got up and unbuckled them from Harvey’s boots, lifted them and speared the glowing tips into the snow.

He zipped their bags together. He helped Harvey in, then he added wood to the fire, then he climbed into the bag. He lay back and stared straight up at the white moon and the rest of the sky.

He lay still a long time. At last he said, “We’ll eat tomorrow.”

Harvey was asleep.

“We’ll eat tomorrow,” Perry said.

Then he lay still and looked at the sky and felt the warmth in the bag and listened to Harvey breathing. The bag was hot. He could not see his brother. He could feel him and sense the warmth and smell his body.

Later he heard Harvey moaning or sobbing, something in between.

Later still he heard the sound of air flowing through an open window, a July afternoon, Grace in the garden, young girls playing games in the yard.

He slept then and heard himself breathing.

Later he awoke. He thought about the carcass of the deer. He wished they had eaten it.

He listened to Harvey’s breathing, listened to his own breathing, and soon he was warm and sleeping again and not listening or thinking.

H
arvey’s cough got worse. The fever had him bad. The sun cleared the eastern pines and the day became white and almost warm, and there was nothing to do but wait at the fire and wait. The cough came in a rhythm. Prefaced by wheezing, then the deep fluid sound in his lungs, then the cough, then more wheezing as Harvey leaned forward and strained into the cough as though pushing against a locked door. His hands were wet and cold and his forehead was wet and hot, sweat dribbled into his beard. There was nothing to do but wait. Neither of them spoke. Perry kept water boiling, dipping a rag into the water and wringing it and spreading it over Harvey’s nose and mouth, regularly changing the rag to keep it steaming. The morning went slow. Perry was restless. Stretching ahead in open invitation, the road enticed him and he was eager to move. He found it hard to pity his brother. He thought about finding food, and finding shelter, and finding the end of the road. The sun was brilliant white. There was no wind. With the hot rag on
his face, Harvey had the look of a strange old man, abandoned in a corner of a sickroom and caught up in some grand and final suffering. He was perfectly still as in a kind of summer repose. He only moved when the coughing grabbed him and shook him and jolted him upright. Otherwise he was calm and quiet, his eyes almost smiling in secret wisdom. The bad eye sometimes seemed unfocused and other times appeared to have clear hold of a great faraway vision.

“We can’t sit all day,” Perry finally said. He waited another half hour, letting the fire die naturally. Then he said again:

“We can’t wait.”

He rolled up the sleeping bags.

One of the ski poles was missing and he spent a long time searching for it, groping on hands and knees through the snow. When he found it Harvey was asleep. The lid of his dead eye was half-open and the eye itself was focused and bright and awake.

“We’re going,” Perry said.

“You don’t remember me getting that rifle?” said Harvey. “I can’t … That, I can’t understand. Thought sure you remembered it. You were laughing at me. You saw how scared I was. The old man … he never saw it. You saw it. You remember? And I … don’t you remember? I went upstairs and put the rifle under my bed. I was scared to take the bullets out. Don’t know why. You remember now? That damn rifle. You came up and saw me lying on the bed. You started laughing. You asked to see my new rifle. You don’t remember?” He grinned and began to laugh and the laugh choked, broke and sobbed, and he was coughing, and Perry got him to his feet and leaned him over and clapped his back, then got him into his skis. “I don’t … I asked what was so funny and you just laughed and asked to see my new rifle. You don’t remember that? I’m sick. You don’t remember? You had all those shiny bullets lined up in a row on the floor. Then father
came in and told you you hadn’t finished the dishes, and he gave you a swat and sent you down to finish them, then he sat down and showed me how to oil the rifle and how to keep it on safe, and I sat there scared, and he never knew it. You don’t remember that? It was just at Christmas. Just the day after Christmas. I don’t remember what you got. You … You ought to remember that. I thought sure you remembered it. Ever after that, I thought you remembered it whenever you looked at me. You …” He coughed and wheezed, and Perry pulled up the zipper on Harvey’s parka, put the ski poles into his hands. “It was the same. Jesus, I’m sick. I’m hot. Can I take.… No. I can’t. Even after I was sure you remembered. Every time something happened, I was sure you remembered that. You don’t remember? You don’t? I don’t believe you. That Christmas. Not that Christmas, but the Christmas when I went off to boot camp and you drove me into town, and you were so quiet and I was so quiet, and I know you were remembering it, thinking I’d go off and get killed … I know you were remembering it and thinking I’d get killed … I’m sick … And, I know, you were sad. You tried not to be, you pretended and I pretended, but I know you were thinking I’d get myself killed. I was scared. The bloody things we always remember. You don’t? You always stood up to the old man. He liked it and I could never stand up and say what I thought. Jesus. Do you know how sick I am? I’m going to die, you know. You’re pretending I’m not. I’m pretending, too. We’re pretending, aren’t we? I’m sick. I’ve got it and it’s got me good. Jesus. I’m hot. You remember all the times I got sick? You never got sick. The old man left you alone and he liked it when you said you weren’t going to listen to him preach anymore. You just told him. You told him and he never said a word. I remember you telling him. He asked if you were sick, and you said nope. You never did get sick, did you? I can’t understand why it was always
me that got sick. But you said nope, you weren’t sick, and you just said you decided not to go listen to him preach anymore. And that was that. I remember. You looked down to eat, calm as could be. You remember? Jesus. And he smiled. Did you see him smile and wink at you? Then he winked at me. I felt … I’m hot. I’m taking this coat off. Don’t move so fast, I can’t … I felt like bloody rotten crap, that’s what. Hold up. I’m sick. Do you remember all that stuff? I been thinking about it. Wait up and I’ll tell you more.”

The trail was a road, and the road was flat, and the country was all pines and sky and snow and sunlight. Perry remembered. He’d planned it. Frightened, a way to strike back, settle the score against both of them.
I decided, that’s why. No, I’m not sick. I decided, that’s all. I’m not going to hear you preach anymore
. The version of the same story, remembered a hundred different ways: himself, Harvey, the old man in the cold of Sunday mornings, coming into his room, thinking he was asleep, reading in the chair by his bed, reading, his slipper dangling from a hooked toe. He felt himself grinning. He touched his face with a mitten. He had a beard. Grace would make him shave it off. Addie would tease about it. He wished he had a mirror. He would take a good long look at it and admire it, then maybe, if Grace was nice and Addie didn’t tease, then maybe he’d go ahead and shave it off. Maybe he’d keep it. Maybe he’d move to Minneapolis and find a new job. Maybe he’d move to Chicago. He’d never been to Chicago. He’d been to Ames and Iowa City and Kansas City. Maybe he’d move to Kansas City. The trail was a road, tar beneath the snow, and he followed it and listened to Harvey skiing behind him, still trying to talk. He would have to find them food. He was still grinning. He could feel it under his beard, that great wide grin.
I’m just not going, that’s all. I decided, that’s why. No, I’m not sick. I decided, that’s all. I’m not going to hear you preach anymore. I’m not listening anymore
to your preaching
. He grinned and thought about finding them food. Grace would hate the beard. She’d puff up and pout, tell him to take a long bath and shave it off and come to supper, all is well. Maybe he’d shave it for her. Maybe not. Maybe he’d leave it on. He could tell everyone in the drugstore about the adventures, he had a lot to tell, and they’d all listen and admire his new beard. He was lightheaded and cleareyed. He’d keep the beard and not buy new glasses.
You aren’t sick?
the old man had said. His face had been ruddy, his hair curly and speckled black and white, and he’d left the table silently, and Perry remembered feeling sad and wanting to take the old man’s head in his arms and curl around it and warm it and him and them all.
No, I’m not sick. I’ve decided, that’s all
. Perry skied and grinned, thinking backward and forward, thinking he would have to find them something to eat.

The road twisted once, and Perry slowed and followed the curve, and on both sides of the road the forest was pushed back to form a pine glen. Beside the road, in the shadowed center of the glen, there was a shed.

There was a shed. Its roof sagged. The slats were gray, and the whole sad structure trembled as he tried the door. The latch held tight. Perry stepped out of his skis, grabbed the handle with both hands, pulled, and the latch gave way.

He unbuckled Harvey’s skis.

“You don’t remember that blasted rifle?” said Harvey clearly.

Perry took him inside.

It was a timberman’s shanty. There were no windows. It smelled no different from the rest of the forest. Wood, a drifting sense of silence and cold. He helped Harvey sit down, then he braced the door open and inspected the shed, moving quietly from corner to corner. There was a stove. There were
four chairs, four bunks, a pine table, a trunk, a pile of yellow newspapers, shelves holding tins of coffee and flour and tea and salt and cornmeal, a Bible, more shelves holding a coffee pot and two iron kettles and a rusted ladle and a blue-smoked jar of matches, a red and black flannel jacket hanging from a wall, a spider web over the door. He circled the shanty again and found an axe and four saw blades and a screwdriver. The shed was dark and clean. Leisurely, he opened the jar of flour and saw it had molded and turned green. The crawled with small insects. The cornmeal had a strange smell but he put it on the table, then he helped Harvey into a bunk, then he rested, sitting with his back against the cold stove, watching the walls, realizing that under his breath he was still counting.

He rested there until noticing that the rising moon was framed in the open door.

Then he went outside. He gathered wood and built a small fire in the stove. He found a candle, lit it and placed it on the table.

Harvey slept soundly, sometimes mumbling and turning, sometimes just breathing with the heavy fluid sound. Perry covered him with a sleeping bag.

Sheltered, he stood by the stove, arms folded across his chest. He thought about Grace, then about Pliney’s Pond, then for a long long time about Grace.

The water boiled to a froth. The bubbles steamed from the kettle, broke open, scattered, then bubbled up again.

He dipped a rag in the boiling water, wrang it out, and draped it over the coffeepot, holding it firm with one hand.

He scooped coffee grounds on to the cloth.

Then with his free hand he ladled boiling water into the coffee.

The grounds blossomed and broke open and water bubbled up against his hand and burned it, but he held it steady and watched the brown-stained water trickle through the cloth and into the pot.

Still holding the cloth, he put his nose down and smelled the exploding coffee.

He rinsed out two mugs and filled them with drink.

He opened the jar of cornmeal and sprinkled some into each cup, then he woke Harvey and fed the brew to him, clucking gently and smiling and watching Harvey’s throat bob.