44
From where he stood at the western-facing window, Grant saw the horses splash abreast into the winter wheat, blackbirds flushing before them, parallel seams chasing behind. The girl sat her horse erect and easy, her
ponytail in a matching swing with the mare’s, while his son clung to his horse with his knees, his arms and shoulders all out of compliance with the gait. He watched to see if they would turn to look back but neither did, and he watched them come out of the pasture and he watched their shapes grow fitful and watery in some distorting effect of distance and light before they vanished altogether into the tree line, boy and girl lost to sight, and he turned from the window and looked about in confusion at the empty and
foreign room.
WHEN THEY GAINED THE tree line she took the lead and they rode single file up the trail, the boy’s mount passively following hers so that he had little to do but watch the rainfall of broken light through which she and her horse passed. The air full of the smell of pine pitch and no sounds but horse sounds: the creaking saddles, the stepping hooves, the champing and blowing.
He held the reins loosely and followed as he had followed another girl long ago, up and up, and for an unfocusing moment he saw her again, moving up the blacktop pale and lean and light, the pink alternating flash of sneaker tread—until the trail crested onto level ground and he rocked back in the saddle and they stopped.
Before them lay a broad glade of aspens, white and spare; the pinewood rising beyond, and in the far distance above the highest pines stood the snowy crags of the Rockies, fantastic in scale and burning in the light of their own immensity. He sat the horse, his gloved hands on the saddle horn. The cowboy at rest, he thought. The Marlboro man himself. He was reaching for his cigarettes when the other horse stepped on, and his horse did the same; side by side into the glade, punching their hooves into the plate of snow where smaller, lighter creatures had recently tread.
The horses diverged as the trees demanded, and they’d not gone far into the glade when, angling back toward Carmen, the boy’s mare abruptly balked, tossing her head and whinnying. He gave her rein to step around the trouble and looked down on it as they passed—the welter of bloody paw prints and the torn bag of hide and bone which no longer resembled any animal he knew.
He saw the cabin through the last of the aspens: a solid and unnatural dark geometry ahead, unexpected and improbable. For a troubling instant he thought he knew it—all of it, all that they would find inside. But this was not that place, this was not that place, he understood that as they crossed the small clearing where the trees had long ago been axed to build the cabin itself and where nothing had grown up in their place.
The horses halted perhaps twenty yards from the cabin.
“Is it Emmet’s?” he said.
“No. This isn’t his land.”
The cabin’s doorjamb looked built for a smaller race of human. There was no longer a door in the jamb and nothing but darkness visible within. The roof was a caved rib cage of lodgepoles, clinging at their high point to the stone chimney.
“The horses don’t like to get too close,” Carmen said.
“Why not?”
“I don’t know.”
They sat the horses, watching the cabin.
“What’s inside?”
“I don’t know. I’ve never looked.”
THEY LEFT THE HORSES and walked to the cabin. The boy’s knee had gone rigid in the stirrup and each step was like a sprung trap seizing on the bones. Carmen saw his face set blankly against it, and walked on. She passed under the lintel and the boy, stooping, followed. A window had been cut into the far wall and as they stepped into the room an animal went scrabbling out, long-bodied and black.
They stood looking around, like potential renters. There was just the one room, and they found in it no identifiable trace of former occupancy, not even the expected litter of beer cans left by passing hunters or teens hunting for privacy. On the stone floor of the firebox, nothing but soot and the same gray coat of grit that lay over the dirt floor, the floor itself hard as stone and bowled smoothly toward its center as though by some tireless human milling. They each moved unknowingly to this depression and stood back to back, their breaths coming thick and white.
“Someone once lived here,” she said.
“Maybe,” he said. “Might’ve just been for hunting.”
She shivered and crossed her arms. “I think somebody lived here.” She looked around and sniffed the air. Then she turned toward the boy, and in the bleak light he looked less like the boy she remembered from school and more like some older, rougher brother, and her heart dipped strangely, and she turned away and stepped back outside.
He did not follow but stood there alone, trying to imagine a man building the cabin. Swinging the ax to clear the land tree by tree. Peeling and mortising the logs and mating them at the corners and carving out the openings. Long nights rocking in his chair before the flames, smoking his pipe while the wind howled. Did he dream of company? Did he dream of women?
Outside, Carmen had found a stump and cleared away its mushroom cap of snow and sat with her legs straight before her. He stepped from the cabin and she swept the snow from a second stump and he sat down. The mares raised their heads to look at them.
“I never touched a horse until these ones here,” he said.
“You could’ve picked worse ones,” she said. “Emmet told me one time that when he bought these mares the man wanted to sell him just one of them and one other horse. He said it wasn’t good to have two sisters together. Said they never learned any sense of independence or were hard to train or something. But Emmet saw how these two moved, how they stayed close to each other, and he said that was all he needed to see. He said that if one just stuck with the other, then he wouldn’t ever have to worry about the other running off wild with his wife on its back when they went out riding.”
She stopped and found the boy looking at her.
“What?”
“Nothing,” he said. He got out his cigarettes and lit one.
She watched him and he said, holding up the cigarette, “Does it bother you?”
She shook her head. “I don’t like it but I like the smell of it.” Her nostrils widened very slightly and she turned to watch the horses. “My father was a smoker, maybe that’s why. I haven’t seen him since I was seven,” she said.
“Where is he?”
“I don’t know.”
“You don’t care to see him again?”
“Why would I want to see a man who doesn’t want to see me?”
He tipped the ash from his cigarette. He said that he hadn’t seen his mother in over a year and he knew exactly where she was.
“Why haven’t you?”
He shrugged. He uncrossed his ankles and crossed them the other way and the movement set off the pain in his knee again—wires of outrage from the deep nerveball where bone met bone.
After a while Carmen stood and went to the mares. “Know what I saw, one time?”
“What.”
“I saw that dog, Lola, walk under these horses and just stand there, for the shade.”
She turned and stared at him, waiting for him to understand what she was saying. Which was that she knew it wasn’t one of the mares that had cracked the old dog’s ribs.
THEY RODE BACK NOT as they’d come but along what remained of a backwoods road in a deep seam of pines where the boughs forced the mares to walk with their hindquarters bumping, the stirrups clacking together, his left and her right. The sun was well into the west and they rode slowly where there were no tracks other than those of mule deer and the snowed-in hooftracks of the horses themselves from the last time she’d ridden here. They rode and she talked about the colleges she’d applied to, speaking soberly of their virtues and shortcomings, of what she reasonably expected to hear from them, but also of what she hoped to hear. They’d ridden perhaps a mile along the path when the mare the boy rode snorted and began to step more briskly. He attempted to rein her back but she only slung her head petulantly and trekked on. The other mare sped up and when the animals were abreast again the boy said, “She’s just plain ignoring me.”
“Smell of the barn.”
“What?”
“She’s drunk on the smell of the barn. Don’t take it personally.”
“Don’t take it personally she says,” he said to the horse. “After all the apples you’ve eaten right out of this hand.”
“If you turned her around she’d behave herself again. Of course you’d have to get her turned around.”
“I might do that.”
“Show her who’s boss?”
“That’s right.”
“Let’s see it, cowboy.”
The boy glanced about him. “This is no place to turn a horse around.”
“You ever been to the rodeo?”
“No. Why?”
“A horse can wrap around a barrel like a snake.”
“Some other horse. Not this horse.”
“It’s a poor carpenter blames his tools.”
He looked at her. “Where’d you hear that?”
“I heard a man say it once.”
“What man?”