Outer Banks (37 page)

How, indeed? I thought sarcastically. Yes, how? Oh bitter disappointment! Oh solitude! Oh inevitable betrayal! Oh silence, exile and cunning!

“You there?”

Oh lost and by the wind grieved point of view!

“Are you still there?”

Oh deep-wounding reason! Oh overreaching Apollonian perspective!

“Hello? Operator? Anyone there? I think I've been cut off. Operator? I think I've been cut off. I think the connection's broken. Operator? Is anyone there?”

T
HERE WAS NOTHING
left for me to do but return to A.'s home in the town of B., locate the man, seek him out and face him there, and gather from that confrontation the evidence and information, the data, that would let me rest easily with my having at last rejected C.'s point of view. I was extremely distressed, perhaps even desperate. Everything was either falling apart or else was about to come together. I felt that if I stayed at home this bleak morning and continued to write my novel, for instance, or cooked a ham or read a bit of Livy, by nightfall everything indeed would have fallen apart. If, on the other hand, I drove
myself across the center of the state to the town of B. and scrupulously searched A.'s house and adjacent grounds, I just might be able to discover a clue to where he was, and then I could follow the clue to where he was and meet with him there, my mind racked by dread and paradox, and the meeting would somehow set me at ease again.

Surely, I thought as I lay there in my bed and slowly put the receiver back on the telephone base next to me, surely, this is the final test of my faith. Never again will I ask myself to question the very sanity of my hero, and thus my own sanity as well. Never again, I swore, would I permit myself to be so torn, so divided, so alone. By the end of this day, I would have committed myself to following and, to the best of my abilities, emulating the man, or else I would have purged myself of him forever, would have freed myself at last from the glittering beauty of his image.

Thus my desperation and dread and fatigue were mixed with a certain gladness, for I knew that after today, one way or the other, my agony of self-division would be ended. For a second I wondered if the whole thing had been engineered by A. himself, as a final test of my loyalty and spiritual insight. But I quickly shoved that thought away. After today I would no longer be asked to plague myself with such fearful speculation, and knowing that, I also knew that any speculation today was pointless, was but the idle habit of my deeply troubled mind. Once a divided mind foresees resolution as inevitable, it no longer has sufficient cause to be divided.

I bounded from my bed and got dressed quickly in a woolen shirt and heavy flannel trousers—after having first glanced out the window at the cold, overcast day. It hadn't yet started to snow, but clearly it was about to. Neglecting to shave or even to brush my teeth, I hurried downstairs to the kitchen, where I sat down and laced on my boots, pulled on my overcoat, cap, and driving gloves, and walked quickly, briskly, to the garage.

By eight-fifteen I was in Concord, headed west toward
the town of B. As I skirted the downtown area and began the gradual climb away from the Merrimack Valley to the Suncook just beyond, the snow started falling, scattered flakes, hard and wind-blown. They came like bits of ash at first, tiny, dry flakes, isolate, drifting slowly to the ground as if settling to the bottom of a motionless sea. Soon, though, the snow was falling in swirls and waves that blew from the roadside in powdery sprays and fantails as the car, winding downhill from the ridge west of Concord, reached the Suncook River and brushed along the road that followed the river north and west toward the narrow uplifted head of the valley, where, near the horizon, I could make out the dark gray hump of Blue Job Mountain. Here the river, where it meandered, broadened, and then slowed, was frozen from bank to bank. The ice was invisible beneath the thick blanket of old snow. Sledges, sleds, snowmobiles and people afoot had left trails, paths and tracks across the smooth white skin of the river, scribbles and doodles that, from the road, looked random and pointless. Doubtless, when they were first laid down, the tracks and trails had followed a deliberate pattern, had logically sought a goal—just as had the black, curling ribbon on the road itself, which, seen from a map, would also look random, pointless, dropped from the sky to lie however it fell, as if only accidentally tying together two distant, named points on that grid. But, in fact the road had not been randomly drawn. It had been laid down atop the still narrower, unpaved, wagon route that nineteenth-century Yankee traders had built to carry granite and lumber from the mountains to the sea, and that road in turn had been laid down atop the old market road built by eighteenth-century farmers in the valley, who, in their turn, had been following the still older footpaths that the earliest settlers had worn smooth, their paths laid atop the Indian paths, which had followed the migratory movements of the animals, the deer and moose, the bear, and even, before these, the bison. And the animals had been following the river, this very river before me
now, its smooth white surface crisscrossed and scribbled over, like a used sheet of paper, with the tracks, trails and footpaths following the invisible rivers, valleys and ridges of the makers' whims and impulses.

Far out at the center of the river, where beneath the ice the water ran deepest and coldest, there were several clusters of tiny windowless huts. Inside each hut, a fisherman sat hunkered over a head-size hole cut in the ice, drinking whiskey and warming his red hands over an oil heater, each man closed into his own kerosene-lit world, as shut off from the others by the cold and the wind as planets in separate solar systems. And though their huts were clustered together in the same galaxy, the fishermen were together for no reason of comfort or sociability, but only because here, in this region, the river ran deepest and coldest and the fish would take the bait.

A little farther on there is a place, where the river is at its broadest and makes a long, slow sweep around a gently rounded plain, that has been marked by a plaque placed by the state historical society beside the road as it curves along the arm of the river. The plaque tells the traveler that there, in the spring of 1703, the first party of settlers in the town of B. spent their first night in the valley. There, on this slight swell of land, they made camp, and the next morning, as dawn broke and the mist lifted from the river and the trees turned gold in the hazy sunlight, the settlers were surprised by a war party of Abenooki Indians and in the ensuing battle lost one of the original incorporators, a man named Lemuel Stark.

By the time I reached the outskirts of the village, where the river narrows to rapids and the mills were built, the gristmill, the sawmill, and later, in the nineteenth century, the shoe factory, now a storehouse for a local well-drilling company, the snow had started to fall densely, in semitransparent curtains down and across my field of vision like veils dropping away first to reveal a face and then to cover it.

At the Parade, the large common square of ground at the center of the town, as I approached the Congregational church and the turnoff to Blue Job Road, I saw the police chief's car, Chub Blount's Plymouth station wagon with its blue glass bubble on top, come out of Blue Job Road, turn onto the main road, and pass swiftly by me, heading in the direction I had just come from. The snow was falling too heavily now for me to have seen his face as he passed, but I recognized his white Stetson hat and saw that he was alone. A few seconds later, I was passed by another car with a blue glass bubble on the roof, this one driven by the chief's assistant, Calvin Clark. I assumed that the two had come directly from A.'s house, and I responded to the fact that they both were alone with a peculiar mixture of relief and disappointment—relief that they apparently had not found A., or if they had, that they had not arrested him; and disappointment because, if
they
had failed to locate him at his house, then how could I expect to succeed? Of course, it was also possible that they
had
found him after all, had found his body, that is, and thus had no reason not to be alone as they drove back to town. But then, I reasoned, I would have seen only one of the two police officers, for surely Chub would have left Calvin back at the house to watch over A.'s body and to make sure no one tampered with or accidentally disturbed the evidence.

But evidence of what? I asked myself. How do I know a crime's been committed? Maybe nothing unusual or disastrous had happened to
anyone
—not to Dora, not to A., not to Chub Blount, not even to
me
—and maybe the chief and his assistant had not even been at A.'s house in the first place but had been out on Blue Job Road this snowy morning on some other and wholly unrelated police business. Quickly, I ran down the bits of evidence—the three bulletholes in the car window, the strange circumstances of the car's presence and A.'s absence, with all the doors of the house locked, the gate closed, and even though yesterday had been a Sunday, week's end, the absence of any
freshly tossed out trash at the edge of the field in front. Yes, it's true, I thought. It's true. The evidence points with equal force to numerous conclusions, and many of the conclusions do not constitute crimes or disaster or even anything especially unusual whether in A.'s life or Dora's or Chub's, or my own. As I slowed the car to make the turn at the church onto Blue Job Road, I finally admitted to myself that, yes, I may have made the whole thing up. I may have imagined everything.

But then, as soon as I was on Blue Job Road, I started to laugh at myself, not out loud, but with a low, ironic giggle. An hour before I had been wondering seriously if the whole thing, this very thing I was now afraid I had imagined, had been engineered by A. I felt light-headed, almost giddy. This was self-mockery taken to the edge of hysteria.

By then the snow had covered the road sufficiently to obliterate any trace of its surface, and I was only able to keep to it by following the high banks of old, ice-hard snow on either side. The windshield wipers clacked back and forth, cutting a pair of half-moons for me to peer through. In a few seconds I entered the short stretch of the road where the conifers grow to the very edge of the road, their branches interlacing between them and across the road above me, making a rough, dark tunnel and it seemed suddenly that it was no longer snowing and a great arching space had opened around me. The woods here, most Scotch pine and dark spruce, grew scruffily into the shaggy wall of an outdoor cathedral, and I remembered then that it was there, just yesterday afternoon, that I had looked hopefully for the figure of Rochelle, as if she were a sister or daughter whose recent death I still mourned and had not yet accepted as real, whose familiar form and hair and green, hooded loden coat my eyes still habitually searched for.

Then, as quickly, I was out of the wood and into the snowstorm again, peering anxiously through half-moons, aiming the car rather than driving it, for the road was slightly slippery under
my tires. I passed several battered house trailers and tarpaper-covered shacks, the homes of A.'s neighbors, barely glimpsing them through the falling snow, noticing only that, covered with the layer of fresh snow, the buildings and the cluttered yards looked cleaner, more orderly, as if the snow could tend to them more capably, more energetically, than could the inhabitants.

A few seconds more, and I slowed the car and turned onto the lane that led to A.'s house. I glanced over at the large, hummocky field in front of the house and saw that it, too, had been transformed by the fastidious care of the falling snow, had been made over to look more like a natural, cleared meadow in winter than an open dump, a private trash receptacle.

When I drew up to the gate and prepared to stop so that I could get out and open it, I saw, with surprise, that the gate was wide open already. Hadn't I remembered to close it the day before? It was enough of a habit that I didn't have to think consciously of it in order to close it after passing through, therefore I couldn't be sure. Was this “evidence” of anything—that the gate, normally closed, was now invitingly wide open? I looked up the long driveway to the house and garage. Everything was as I had seen it yesterday afternoon—A.'s Chrysler parked facing the closed garage door, the house darkened and apparently empty, the large expanse of smooth, freshly whitened yard encircling the house from the fence down in front to the woods in back, and beyond those woods, the rising shape of the mountain. No, except for the new pelt of snow and the open gate, everything was the same. Everything.

Very slowly, the snow creaking under my tires, I drove up to A.'s car and parked directly behind it. Then I got out of my car and walked around to the window at the driver's side of the Chrysler. There they were, the three bulletholes connected by a network of tiny cracks, like spider webs. I touched each of the holes with my finger. One of them unexpectedly crumbled at the edges from the pressure, and my finger poked into the cold
interior space of the car, startling me. Frightened by something nameless, I quickly withdrew my finger and nervously yanked on my gloves.

It was totally silent, windless, the snow falling straight down, as if being drawn to the ground by the ground itself in some guilty need to hide itself. I left the car and checked the garage door, which was locked. Then I crossed the yard to the front door, determined that it was locked, went up to the side porch and yanked on that door too. Leaning close to the glass to block out my reflection with my shadow, I peered into the kitchen. It was dark inside, but when my eyes had grown used to the darkness, I could see the outlines of the stove, sink, refrigerator, and the small, wooden table and single stool A. had built to replace the Formica-topped table and chairs he had once owned with Dora and that now lay beneath a foot or more of old snow in the field in front, the chromium legs rusting, padding from the seats spilling from rips torn one afternoon last April by high-powered rifle slugs. I could see the calendar on the wall near the telephone. Below the four-color photograph of an oil burner was the sheet for the month of February, for the year 1975—just as it should be. Yet somehow I was surprised. Somehow I had expected to see some other year, some other month. The house seemed to have been deserted long, long ago.

Slowly, I stepped down from the porch and took a few steps into the yard. The only sound was the constant rattle of my own voice inside my own head. The snow was still softly falling, and I couldn't see clearly more than a few feet in front of me. There was nothing left for me to check, I thought, except the footprints, and that was quite impossible now. Everything was buried under several inches of soft, fresh snow, so that the only footprints I could see were my own. They dribbled along behind me, tiny, crumbling craters slowly filling with new snow. I knew that in a few minutes even these, my own tracks, would disappear. And that would be the end of the “evidence.” Any further
pursuit of A. would have to be based solely on abstract reasoning, speculation, empty theory. Or else I simply would have to
guess
at his whereabouts, randomly placing him here and there, then rushing to seek him here and there, and if he was not to be found at either place, to guess again. I did not want that. No man wants to believe that his life has finally gotten so out of his control that he either must theorize about it or else be forced to
guess
at its nature. He'd rather believe in magic, fetish objects, totems, dreams. This is how a real life becomes a fiction, I thought, dismayed.