Sometimes a Great Notion

  "What do you think, Viv?"

  The slight pressing of fingers against her throat resumes. "Think about what?" She continues to stare thoughtfully into the fire, acting as though she is still drawn into the mood the old man has created.

  "About this lemming instinct in certain animals. Why would a fox want to try to drown himself?"

  "I didn't say they wanted to drown theirselfs," Henry remarked without turning around. He spoke in the direction of the barking dogs. "If it was just drownin' they was after they coulda done that in any pee hole or puddle. But they wasn't just drowning; they was swimming."

  "Swimming to certain death," Lee reminded him.

  "Might be. But that ain't drownin'."

  "What else could it be? Even a human being has the intelligence to know that when he sets out deliberately swimming away--from the shore--that it is his obvious inten--" He stopped in midword. Viv feels the hand go bloodless and numb against her neck; startled, she turns to look at his face. There is no expression at all. For a moment he is gone from his face, as though he had fallen somewhere inward, away from her and the old man and the fire, into a remote pool of himself (However, as the evening turned out, everything worked for the best, and I gleaned from the experience a nice bagful of beneficial data which proved quite useful to me in experiences to come . . .) until Henry interrupted him.

  "It is his obvious what?"

  "What? His obvious intention to not return . . . to the shore." (. . . the first bit of data concerned myself . . .) "So he, whatever he is, fox, deer, or despondent wino, must be intent on drowning himself."

  "Might be, but look here: It's okay for the wino, but what's a old fox got to be so despondent about that he decides to cash it in?"

  "The same thing! the same thing! (. . . and the witless depth into which I had allowed myself to be lulled since leaving the East . . .) "Don't you think a poor dumb beast has the ability to recognize the same cruel world as the drunk? Don't you think that fox down there has just as many demons to escape as the wino? I mean listen to that fox's demons. . . ."

  Henry looked down at his son, puzzled. "That don't mean he's gotta drown himself, though. He could turn an' fight 'em."

  "All of them? Isn't that just as certain as drowning? And more painful?"

  "Might be," Henry answered slowly, deciding that, in as he couldn't figure the boy's goofy ways anyhow, he might as leave be amused by them. "Yes, might be. Like I said, you got the education. You're the sharpie, they tell me. But then too--" and with a nimble movement goosed Lee in the ribs with the cane--"that's what they allus told me about the fox! Yee haw . . ." He folded back to his seat on the sack, bawling his pleasure with Lee's violent reaction to the cane. "Yee haw haw haw! See him come outa his sull with a little prod there, Viv honey? See him hump up? Oh me: 'That's what they tell me about the fox.' Yee haw haw haw haw!"

  . . . Alone, under a needlepoint sky held up by the massive pillars of pine and fir, the dog Molly splashed through a narrow wash beginning to ice at the edge with a lacy frill. She scrabbled up the bank and thrust her muzzle into the fern and bushmonkey leaves, dashing frantically to and fro after the lost scent; MOUSE MOUSE DEER COON? MOUSE then bay-OOR BAYOOHR . . . ! In his room Lee wonders how to include all the history that Peters will need to make any sense of the situation.

  So very much . . . And I would apologize for my delay in writing were I not convinced you would enjoy, much more than an apology, my quaint explanation for this letter and the events that led up to it. First, there was a great fox hunt during which I attempted to establish contact with my brother's wife (you will understand why later, if you aren't already guessing) and this chore left me somewhat unnerved. . . .

  And Viv, unnerved somewhat herself as she sits against her sack of decoys with Lee's hand coming once more to life, wonders how to stop the secret caressing without the old man's noticing, wonders if she wants to stop it--

  "Say by golly, y'know?" Henry rolled his shoulders and watched the braiding flames between the slits of his eyelids. "This brings to mind, talkin' about fox hunts, a time some years back when Hank was about ten or eleven or thereabouts an' Ben an' me took him with us over to Lane County on a hunt that turned into a real doozer. Y'see, there was this ol' boy over there we knowed that claimed he had one outstandin' sharpie of a fox that he hadn't been able to poison or trap or shoot, an' he would pay us five dollars cash to get shut of the devil so's his pore poultry could get some rest nights . . ."

  --now she feels the hand slide further around beneath her hair to cup her throat, fingers thin and soft beneath the new shell of calluses, and Lee leans forward so his whispering is near her cheek: "That first day I met you, you remember? you had been crying--" "Shhh!" "--and I still hear you cry at night sometimes . . ." Oh! he can feel that little vein there--

  "Now then, y'see, as I recollect it, little Hank, he'd raised from a pup this young bluetick bitch--oh, about six or eight months old, a nice little dog--an' Hank just thought the world of her. He'd took her huntin' on his own a time 'r two, but never out with the whole pack to show what she could really do. An' he thought this outstandin' fox was just the ticket . . ."

  --he must be able to feel how it throbs; why doesn't he stop? "Shh, Lee; Henry will notice. Besides, I hear you cry at night sometimes, too." Now the sparks race up to the dark! Like little fiery nightbirds--"You do? maybe I should explain . . ."--up and up and up and then gone, like little nightbirds--

  "But the things is, at just the time this ol' boy wanted us to come hunt down his fox, this bluetick bitch of Hank's she was right in the middle of heat an' havin' to be kept in the barn so's every mutt in the country wouldn't be after her. Hank, he still wanted to bring her along, sayin' that as soon's the hunt got goin' none the other dogs would pay any attention to her condition. But Ben, he says, 'Dammit, boy, don't try to tell your Uncle Ben about what a animal will frigging pay attention to and what he won't: those dogs would leave a whole treeful of foxes to mount that bitch of yours . . . I mean I know about these sorta things. . . .' an' Hank, he says that we didn't have to worry about his dog gettin' mounted, that she could outrun anything on four legs he didn't care what kind of attention it were payin' her . . ."

  --Henry is a nighthawk from behind, perched against the flames. "Shh, Lee." "Don't worry about him, Viv--" Doesn't he care if Henry hears? "--he can't hear us; he's too wrapped up in his story." Or doesn't he care to leave me alone so we can just watch the sparks, or listen to that faraway belling of that one lone dog (scrabbling up loose dirt, sliding, leaning to corner a stump, a log up! Molly soars over the deadfall in her path without breaking stride, forepaws folded back against her scratched and bleeding breastbone, ears spreading for the jump like nicked wings; at the peak of her jump, across weightless expanse of brush, she saw him for the first time since he had broken through the pack--a round wobbling black ball flecked with the glisten of moonlight, boring ahead through the wet fern: bay-OO-OO-OOHRR!--then stretched forth her paws to catch the jar of earth running again) that one baying dog so far away and so beautiful . . . doesn't he care? "Viv, listen to me, please." "Shh, I'm listening to Henry's story."

  "But Ben he says, 'Henry, I don't know as I'd let that boy bring that Jezebel along an' that's the truth--we'd be watchin' a rape instead of a hunt.' But Hank he says we just gotta let him bring her 'cause there won't be another hunt or another fox like this for her to learn on in years!"

  --the hand presses, slight desperate pressure: "But I have to talk to you--to somebody . . . please. And I might not have another chance." But doesn't he feel that pounding there? "No, Lee, don't . . ."

  "Well, we fussed and fussed about it for a spell and anyhow what happened is Hank talked Ben into lettin' him bring her along just for the trip, just so's she could watch the hunt, not even run in it--an' Ben says all right. 'But listen here,' Ben says, 'you keep that whore up front in the cab with us on the trip over--sit her in your lap or something, just don't put her in back with all the other hounds
; they'd be so rundown with screwing her that by the time we got across the hills to the hunt they wouldn't be able to see nothing but tail, or trail nothing but cunt! Assuming they had the strength left to run a trail at all. . . . ' "

  --she tries to stop her ears against the words at her cheek-- "I must tell you something. Viv. About Hank, what I was planning to do. And why"--against the needle-sharp hook of pain she senses lurking beneath the words, tugging at her flesh; "It all started a long time ago . . ." But in spite of her efforts to stop the words she can feel some of the need getting through: he doesn't need me that much, he couldn't--

  "So Hank's bitch rode up front all the way over, sitting in his lap. We got there an' it was just comin' daylight, I recall, sun was just comin' up. An' there was another fella there an' he had him six or seven dogs. An' when they saw how we's all favorin' Hank's bluetick--I mean had her up in his arms by god--they wanted to know what kinda damned animal we had that had to be treated so special. Hank says, 'The best goddamned animal of its kind in the state.' This feller with the other dogs, he winks at me an' says, 'Why, we'll just see about that!' An' goes into his pocket for his wallet and lays a ten-dollar bill on the car fender an' says, 'Right, here we go, sport. Ten to one. Ten dollars to your buck, my old brake-legged beat-up mongrel here finds that fox before your pedigree.' An' points over at his dog, about the finest-lookin' walker I ever see in my life with three or four these Kennel Club badges from field trials on his collar. Hank starts to eat pie about then an' say he can't let his dog run because of a game leg or some such an' this guy gives him the horse laugh an' brings out another ten-dollar bill an' plunks it down an' says, 'All right, twenty to one an' I'll hold my flea-farm back the count of fifty.' Hank, he looks up there at me an' I just shrug on account it's Ben's pick-up an' Ben's hunt, an' Hank's about to have him another slice of humble pie when Ben comes over an' puts a buck on the fender an' says, 'You're on, old buddy.' An' this fella like to dropped his teeth out. I mean a fifty-count lead! Lordymercy, that's way out yonder for a dog even if she is in heat an' inexperienced! So this ol' boy has talked himself into a bind. He swallers a time or two but he ain't about to eat some of his own cookin', so he gives Ben a hard look an' says all right . . ."

  --and as this need grows more intense so does a sensation of movement, speed to come, impending declaration--"The past is funny, Viv; it never seems to let things lie, finished. It never seems to stay in place as it should"--until she feels that she is beginning to run down an ever steepening hill and she must stop before the hill gets too steep and she gets going too fast to stop: Oh. Look! A bit of the moon; how pretty--

  "So we go on over through this fence to the other ol' boy's, the farmer's, barn, an' he says we can drive most the way up this gully if the fox runs that way, which he's like to do. An' he says we ought'n' have no trouble picking up his trail 'cause he's all around the henhouse every night. So Hank takes his dog on over to the fence and sics her onto the scent 'n' off she goes sure enough at a real smart clip, too. This fellow, he goes over there to the fence with his dog and fires him up while Hank counts. Then off he goes! and a little bit after that we let all the rest of 'em loose just to be shut of 'em. So this fellow got in the pick-up with us an' we took out up this road and I swear we run them dogs for hours in this little bitty ole canyon not much bigger'n our own front porch. Over an' around an' back an' forth. I told Ben, I says, 'That by god is about the smartest fox I ever seen. How that bastard can keep ahead o' them dogs this long without treein'--in a little bitty place like this--hell, I bet they wasn't a rod o' area--little bitty stream--an' he just kept goin'!"

  --She lets her eyes unfocus. Look. That stick of spruce has feathers of flame, spanning. "And some things out of the past kept troubling the present, my present . . . so much so that I felt I had to eliminate the past, to destroy it. That's one reason for my tears in the night." But crying isn't really so different from singing. Sure. Or from that dog's baying. (Molly clawed spraddle-legged up the face of the rock toward the sucking black hole where the bear had gone. She fell, unable to grasp the lip of the cavern as the bear had. She bayed and leaped again, but this time skittered off sideways down between a boulder and the rock wall, into a narrow stone slot squirming with dark. She wrenched free, still baying, and ran to leap again. But felt a sudden, searing weight at her hip hauling her back, jerking her back from the rock like a red-hot leash driven into her hipbone) And crying doesn't always mean need--

  "Well, just like we was scared he'd do, the fox finally made a dash for it. We was up to one end of the canyon when we heard the dogs turn an' double back past us toward the farm. We swung the pick-up around an' headed after 'em, Ben at the wheel just apourin' it to her. We knew we had to keep purty good track after they passed the mouth of the canyon where the farm was, 'cause out past that was a lotta rivers an' roads an' stuff where they might run for days. So when we get to the farm at the mouth of the canyon we wheel up to the fence an' that ol' farmer that owns the place, he's standin' there lookin' after that pack of animals where they're foggin' it up the road to beat thunder. . . ." But, oh, I wish he would please leave me alone. . . . "And soon's we stop ol' Ben jumps out an' hollers an' asts the farmer, 'Say! was that them come right past here jest now?' And this old boy, this farmer says, 'It shore was.' And Ben jumps back into the pick-up, about to head on out after 'em, when just then Hank--it seems like he was in the back; must of been in the back, I guess, that other fellow we'd made the bet with was up in the cab with Ben an' me--when Hank says wait and hollers, 'Where was my dog runnin'? My bluetick? ' The farmer, he kinda grins and says, 'The young bitch? Why, she was runnin' out in front, naturally.' An' this gets a rise outa the other old boy--him and his fifty bucks he stands to lose--an' he says, 'Did you see what position my walker was runnin'?' An' the farmer nods an' says, 'Why yessir, I did. Your dog was runnin' a good close third, just about neck-and-neck with the fox!' With the fox! Yee haw haw . . ." The old man reared back and beat again at the fire with his stick. "Yee haw haw haw . . . neck-and-neck with the boogin' fox, y'see? Ben'd been right: hounds, fox an' all had all been so interested in a little nooky they'd the whole bunch of 'em been the livelong night runnin' the tail offn that pore little bluetick! Yee haw! Ben teased Hank about it for months, sayin' she'd probably whelp a litter of blueticks with big red fox bushtails! Oh me . . . oh haw haw haw!"

  The old man shook his head, then pushed himself standing with the cane. Still chortling at his anecdote, he walked to the edge of the firelight; when Lee heard him peeing into the dry vetch he went on with his furtive whispering.

  "So do you see, Viv? It's been like that all my life. Smothered. Until I finally could see no reason to--to keep trying to breathe. Not that he was entirely to blame by any means, but I felt that unless I was just once able to have something over him, to beat him out of something, that I could never breathe. And that's when I decided--"

  Lee ceased abruptly. He saw that she was not even listening--maybe had never been listening!--but was staring off into the dark as though in a trance.--what's happened? Does he really need? Oh, it's the dog (. . . Molly opened her mouth to bay but her tongue stuck hot to her teeth, and she fell back again); she's stopped--Not listening at all! She hadn't heard a word! In anger and humiliation he jerked his hand from her throat where she--where he had thought she had encouraged him by allowing the fingers to slip far into the neck of the shirt . . . just to let him make a fool of himself!

  Startled by the abruptness of his action, Viv turned toward him questioningly, just as old Henry came back into the ring of firelight.

  "Listen: that Molly dog, you notice? She's hushed. I ain't heard her call in a good while now." He was quiet a moment to let them listen, not quite trusting his own ears. (The bear's shiny black eyes appeared in the moonlight over the rock, his face quizzical, almost regretful as he watched the dog. Fired by a thirst near to panic, she fled back down the ridge, seeking the

  wash she remembered.) Convinced that they were he
aring nothing he wasn't, Henry cast an expert's eye down the slope and decided, "That bear, he either lost her or he run her off, one of the two." He pulled his watch from his pocket, tipped it toward the fire, and made believe he could read it. "Well, that's the show as far as this nigger is concerned. I ain't about to sit up here and listen to them other dirteaters carry on about a little ol' fox. Sounds like they just about got him, anyhow. I'm gonna head on back is what. You kids suppose you'll come or stay a while?"

  "We'll stay a while longer," Lee supposed for both of them, and added, "To wait for Hank and Joe Ben."

  "Suit yourself." He took up his cane. "But they're liable to be a good stretch yet an' then some. G'night." He faded from the light, stiff and weaving, like an old ghost of a tree haunting the midnight forest in search of his stump.

  Watching him leave, Lee chewed nervously at his glasses--good; now there would be no more reason for this spy-movie dialogue; they could just talk . . . God, when he's gone, I'll have to talk!--and waited for the sounds of his departure to cease.

  ... Molly half ran, half rolled back down the ridge. By the time she found the wash again her hide was haired in flame, her tongue melting--HOT HOT MOON HOT--and the thing hooked to her hind leg as big as leg itself now. Bigger. Bigger than her whole burning body.--As soon as the old man's crashing and cursing disappears down the dark hillside, Viv turns back to Lee, still with that startled, uncomprehending expression, waiting for an explanation of his violent withdrawal. And an explanation for the touch in the first place. His face is rigid. He has stopped chewing on the eyeglasses and he's taken a twig from the fire and is blowing on the end of it. His face. The cupping shield of his hand hides a glowing ember, but still . . . each time he blows his features are lighted from within by something a whole lot hotter than a spark on a twig. Like something inside there burning to get out, something burning, it needs so bad to get out. "What is it?" She reaches to touch his arm; he gives a short, bitter laugh and tosses the twig back into the fire.