Read The Ploughmen: A Novel Online
Authors: Kim Zupan
The Ploughmen: A Novel
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.
To Bill and Virginia Zupan.
And to Janet.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
My deep and lasting thanks to Dan Conaway, agent and friend; to Aaron Schlechter, for his intestinal fortitude; to Sarah Bowlin and her fine and talented colleagues at Holt. My gratitude extends miles in all directions for support and encouragement in the face of logic to Neil McMahon, Bill Kittredge, and friends and family who never stopped asking. I am grateful to my children for their sacrifice over the many years of my work. Thanks to Chuck Schuyler for legal insight and Jolanta Benal for her keen eye.
Special thanks to Mike Jaraczeski, ATF senior special agent, retired, for the many late-night, gin-fueled conversations that planted the seed.
And of course this book would not have happened without the enduring support, sensitive editing and beautiful poetic squint of my wife, Janet. It just flat wouldn’t have.
CONTENTS
For we are strangers before thee, and sojourners, as were all our fathers: our days on the earth are as a shadow, and there is none abiding.
—1 CHRONICLES 29:15
PROLOGUE
The boy got off the bus at the end of the dry lane in the fall of the year, the shelterbelt as he shuffled past shirring with the sound of grasshoppers that wheeled crazily out of the weeds and dusty pale leaves of the Russian olives, blundering into his pants legs, careening off his shirtfront. One day a month he and his schoolmates were released early and encouraged to use the time to perform Corporal Works of Mercy. Val was a serious boy. He shifted his books from hand to hand as he walked toward the far house and began to list them: visit the sick, clothe the naked, bury the dead. What others? The neighbor’s black cattle from the bluff looked down, their shapes swimming and wandering eerily in the heat haze. Visit those in prison, that was one. Give drink to those who thirst. To the west he could see his father on the Minneapolis-Moline circling the Schmidt field in a cirrus of dust below the bluff.
* * *
His mother’s handwriting was a lustrous script perfected under the scowls and flailing yardsticks of the same forbidding Sisters of Providence who now taught him—the notes left in his lunch box or in the margins of a birthday card or, on the rare occasions she and his father went out, he found on his pillow—keepsakes to be hoarded. There was care in the rendering of the loop and slant of her letters as if, like words chiseled in a temple frieze, they were meant to last a thousand years. On this September day the note stood upright between salt and pepper shakers in the shape of smiling pigs.
Darling—Come alone to the shed.
He went into his younger sister’s room and she lay sleeping under rumpled sheets with her thumb in her mouth. He took an apple from a bowl by the sink and stood at the counter eating it. Through the window across the gravelly lot he could see the shed door standing open. A meadowlark lit atop the lone yardlight pole, warbled, flew. He stood staring after it. In a month it would be gone.
In the yard, dust rose beneath his feet and the day was bright. In town, his friends were playing tag on the green boulevards but his place, he knew, was here. The door to the shed swayed on its hinges groaning and what he could see of the interior was only darkness. A single cloud in the brilliant firmament towed its image across the ground miles away. She would have stopped to watch it go.
For years they’d kept chickens in the metal pole barn, an enterprise she had said was a losing battle, as those that did not simply freeze to death fell victim to fox or skunk and if she was going to be in the business of feeding every predator in the country she’d just go ahead and buy dog food and be done with it. The chickens had been gone a long while, yet when the wind blew and the building shuddered under it, feathers still drifted down from the purlins and collar ties all but invisible high above in the murk of shadow. Now as he stood inside, arms around a rough post, one such filthy snowflake fell in random drift and he could see in the gloom overhead the rope looped twice and tied.
Later he remembered the smell of the chickens there and he imagined them in the dim recesses bobbing their scabrous heads and clawing the gravel with their horrible feet. He remembered these things and that her hand when he finally touched it felt like the wood of the post he gripped so tightly, watching in the dusty fug the slow slow metronomic swaying of her body.
He righted the ladder from where it had fallen, ascended the steps as she had and sawed at the rope for a long time with his pocketknife. With a bespattered grain tarp he covered her where she fell, dust rising from its folds in the stifling air like a sprite, and he touched her leg once to assure himself that she was wooden now, was not his mother but some other thing left in her place.
He stepped into the brilliant doorway, turned briefly. His outsized shadow lay across the floor and across the tarp and leaned aslant on the wall in a scarecrow parody of himself. He considered his work and it was not right. He went once more across the ranchyard to the house, rummaged in a closet in her room. He checked on his sister, swept back a damp curl from her face, laid a hand on her narrow back to feel the timorous swelling of life there and went out again across the gravel to the shed carrying the box. He pulled back the tarp and stood looking down at the naked feet.
Afterward he rearranged the tarp, tucking it carefully. He leaned the ladder against the wall and smoothed the dirt with his foot where he had knelt and then had walked across the shorn fields and summerfallow toward the cloud of dust with his father inside it. He stopped once to look back at what his life had been and then kept walking.
* * *
“It was a mistake,” his father said. “That note was for me.” If theirs had been a different marriage it might have been an invitation to a tryst but he would have known. He would have known it was not. “She forgot you’d get home early. It was all just an awful goddamn mistake.”
The boy didn’t hear or didn’t believe and he stood staring at the dirty toes of his school shoes. He had been summoned. In the sensuous cursive of his mother’s hand he had been given responsibility. He would not relinquish it.
“I don’t understand.” His father could not stop shaking his head. He made a strangled sound. He hadn’t touched her. He hadn’t touched the boy. “She hated those slippers.” He looked at the boy and the boy looked away. The boy thought, How do you not understand? It was simple: it was for me to do. I was her Valentine.
“It don’t make sense,” his father said. “She never wore them once.”
ONE
As if to fend off a blow he threw up his arms in front of his face and the first bullet went through his thin forearm and through the top half of his right ear and went whirring into the evening like a maddened wasp. The next as he turned to run took him high in the back of the neck and he fell headlong and did not move. The old man went to him and examined the wound critically. He turned the boy over. The bullet had come out below his nose and the old man considered its work, while the boy batted his eyes and took in the sky beyond the killer’s bland and placid face—gray clouds of failing winter, a small black leaf, a black kite, at last an enormous wheel of March’s starlings, descending with the mere sound of breath.
* * *
From where he sat, the old man could see the river, the whitecaps and the pitching gulls indistinguishable, and he could see the tallest buildings of the old smelterworks beyond the coulee’s steep flanks and in the east the shadowed Missouri Breaks raggedly diminishing into the hazy blue gloaming of coming spring. He could feel the last of winter in the wind, see it in the color of the river, gray and churning like molten lead.
The soil there was poor and sandy and the grass on those slopes grew sporadically and reminded him of pigs’ hair. There were yucca and prickly pear and he could hear like a faint voice in his ear the hiss of blowing soil at the ridge crest. Still a farmer, he thought. He sifted the dirt through his fingers. The slope below was nearly bare and troughed by the melt-off of ten thousand springtimes. Still a goddamn farmer. Seed put down here would most likely just wash away. Scattered about lay cobbles of sandstone, spalls of shale like medieval roof tiles randomly shingling the slanted ground. A gull came near enough that above the wind and the sea-spray hiss he could hear its thin woman-cry. He looked up briefly, then called to the young man below him in the coulee bottom. “Deeper,” he said. “You got to make it deeper.”
The man looked up and leaned on his shovel handle briefly and then continued to dig.
“Hear me?” he said.
“I hear you.” The younger man was sweating and had thrown aside his jacket, its arms twisted among the brittle weeds.
He watched the digger assail the dirt ineffectually, then raised his eyes to the broken landscape below him. He liked this place. He had used it before and that comforted him. It was like a warehouse he knew well and that was there when he needed it, quiet and close to town. The dirt was poor but there were few rocks and the digging was easy. Boys came to this side of the river in the early fall to sight in their rifles for hunting season. The sound of gunfire was not unusual. At the head end of nearly every coulee lay boxes with targets taped to them, and brass shell casings lay about everywhere as though a series of battles had raged down the ravines and over the low divides and sere hills.
Shortly the other man laid aside his shovel and waited and then the two of them rolled the body in and they began covering it over, one with the shovel, the other, the farmer, because he still held the blunt pistol, pushing in the soil with the side of his foot.
The wind swept momentarily down into the raw gulch and the hair on the older man’s balding pate stood straight up. The gull circled, calling into the pale blue sky where immane banks of cloud raced toward low mountains in the south, bound to the stratosphere by filaments of distant rain. The older man, whose name was John Gload, stooped to pick up a grain sack which held in its bottom the severed hands and head of the young man whose body they’d just consigned to the thin and unproductive soil of the Missouri River Breaks. Anonymous bones now, among others—John Gload’s dark signature on the landscape of the world.
Two hundred years earlier, the wayfarers under Lewis and Clark had portaged over this very ground, trundling their boats in the heat around the impassable falls. Gload, never voluble when he was at work, remembered that bears had once lived here and the thought made him smile.
“Bears,” he said. “Grizzly bears, right here.”
The younger man looked at him uncomprehendingly.
“Don’t give me that look,” Gload said. “I’m trying to teach you something. Used to run around here like gophers. Hundred fifty years ago they would of had this asshole dug up and ate before we got over the hill.” The older man pointed up the slope where dun cheatgrass sawed about under the March wind, imagined there old silvertips a-totter on their hind legs like lethal storybook ogres, sorting out the scent of them. “Course they might of got us, too.” He held the small pistol flat in his palm and considered it. “This goddamn thing wouldn’t do nothing but put a little spring in their step while they ripped your head off.” Gload surveyed the country round, imagining the hills alive with such beasts. He ran his eyes up and down his thin partner appraisingly. “You wouldn’t make more than a bitty turd-pile.”
