And at this Adeline must sit down, herself. Is it Mrs. Blackledge? she asks. Has something happened to Margaret Blackledge?
Lorna’s story rushes out of her but it’s barely a story at all. It’s more like a child’s recitation of an incompletely memorized poem, the words and images neither connecting nor cohering.
Gradually, however, a receptive listener, one who isn’t intent on trying to winnow truth from falsehood or fact from interpretation, hears an account of what has happened out at the Weboy place, confused and disjointed though that account may be.
She’d decided to leave her husband so Mr. Blackledge . . . Donnie . . . she’s married to Donnie Weboy? She and her son lived at the Weboy place . . . but he’s not a Weboy, Jimmy, he’s a Blackledge . . . and his grandfather came to take her back to Dalton, North Dakota . . . and somehow a fire started . . . at the Weboys’ . . . a fire . . . in the house . . . she doesn’t know . . . maybe . . . somebody shot a gun . . . maybe . . . but Mr. Blackledge said come here.
So I came, Lorna says and only now seems to draw a breath.
And in that abrupt silence, the listeners—Adeline Witt and Carl Skeller and Doris Rollag, another night nurse—finally hear what needs to be heard: a fire at the Weboys!
Calls are immediately made, sleepers awakened, alarms sounded . . . but by then none of the night’s events could be altered any more than the approaching dawn can be hurried or delayed by a single minute.
42.
MARGARET BLACKLEDGE IS WAITING . . .
She and Alton Dragswolf agreed they’d leave the valley together, the path being too steep, rocky, and rutted for a climber to navigate safely alone.
Once they reached the top, however, Alton Dragswolf returned to his shack and left Margaret to try to hitch a ride into Gladstone alone, a driver being more likely to stop for a solitary woman than for two hitchhikers, especially when one of them is an Indian.
And alongside the road is where Margaret waits now, dressed in her mackinaw and dungarees, her cut and bruised feet jammed into her boots, and another pair of boots—George’s—slung on a string around her neck like a yoke she must carry through this life. The fog that clung close to the valley floor has thinned to nothing but mist at this height and because of the highway’s light-colored concrete and broken yellow center line, Margaret can see down the road for a ways in both directions. To either side of the road, however, darkness has claimed the distances for its own, and this country that so often seems to promise walkers or riders that they can travel as far and as freely as they wish is now as blank and uninviting as a wall or a precipice.
At least ten minutes pass before a car comes along and it does not slow. As it rushes past, droplets of mist rise and swirl in the air like snowflakes. The next car is traveling in the wrong direction but when its headlights find Margaret waving her arms the driver eases off the accelerator . . . but only for an instant and then the car resumes its speed.
The temptation to start walking in the direction of Gladstone is strong—George is out there, somewhere, the agent or victim of who knows what acts?—but Alton has assured her that eventually someone will come along, someone whose sense of mercy or, hell, maybe curiosity will not allow him to pass a woman standing alone out on the prairie in the middle of the night. An old woman. Alton didn’t say the word, but he didn’t need to.
Then an old Ford truck pulling a horse trailer drives past her, but fifty yards ahead its brake lights blink. The driver makes no attempt to pull over to the side of the road but is obviously waiting for Margaret.
She runs down the highway and when she’s almost at the truck, its passenger door pops open. She climbs in, and as she does she hears the horse behind her, its stamping hooves echoing inside the trailer as if the creature would prefer to keep traveling.
Run into some trouble out here, did you? asks the young cowboy behind the wheel. He’s wearing a sweat-stained hat but his torso is bare.
Are you going to Gladstone?
I ain’t. But I can. He scratches his stomach as if that’s an explanation for being shirtless.
My husband’s there. He’s hurt.
You don’t say. The cowboy’s drunk. He’s still leaning toward the passenger side and when he tries to sit up straighter he goes too far the other way. The truck’s interior has the smoky-sweet smell of whiskey breath and cigarettes hand-rolled from pipe tobacco. One of those droops from the cowboy’s lips. But you, he says to Margaret, you ain’t. Just nervous, are you? Shook up?
I need to get to Gladstone.
The brim of his hat has been pulled low as if the young man needed to keep his identity secret. He pushes it back now and says, Gladstone it is. He tosses his cigarette out the window.
But the truck doesn’t move. Having unexpectedly stopped in the middle of the highway, the cowboy can’t seem to find the sequence of actions necessary to resume his journey.
Then let’s get rolling, says Margaret.
Her command works. He muscles the truck into gear, lets out the clutch smoothly, and they’re on their way.
He has some difficulty remaining in his own lane but Margaret remains quiet until his front tires touch the gravel shoulder and he jerks too hard, bringing the truck back on course.
Easy, she says. You’re going to make me and your horse sick. You don’t want that.
He grips the steering wheel tighter and leans forward and does a better job of aiming truck and trailer.
You ain’t asked me where I’m headed, he says.
I know. Not to Gladstone.
Wyoming. My buddy Petey French is working on a ranch out there and he says he can get me hired on.
A man with his own horse and a willingness to work can generally do all right for himself in this part of the world.
Me and my old man had words, the young cowboy says.
Did you. Margaret gestures to keep him from drifting over the center line and he takes the correction nicely.
He don’t want to give me my due. So I finally had enough of his bullshit and told him to go to hell and walked off. He knew if he let me go I’d be gone for good but did he give a damn? He did not.
Your story, says Margaret, almost reaching for the steering wheel but then relaxing back into her seat, reminds me of my husband’s. He had a falling out with his father. And it came to more than words. Before George walked away, he knocked his father to the ground.
Good for him, I say. A man’s got his pride. Don’t tell me I didn’t want to do the same. But if I had I’d be watching for the goddamn law every step. This way I’m getting away clean. No looking back.
Did you leave tonight?
This morning, the cowboy says and flashes a quick smile in Margaret’s direction. I sort of made a few stops before I got up a head of steam.
And you’re trying to make it to Wyoming by . . . when?
I’ll get there when I get there. Right now I’m just feeling good being out from under.
The truck veers dangerously close to the center line and this time Margaret limits her correction to a hand signal, five fingers thrust straight out. The cowboy steers them gently back into their lane.
Are you from around here? Margaret asks.
My folks’ place is just outside Wibaux.
Margaret sinks back into her seat again. I know where Wibaux is.
Me too. Behind me. And that’s where it’s going to stay.
She leans forward and peers through the windshield as though she’s trying to see beyond the reach of the headlights. I had a boy not much older than you.
The young man hazards a glance in Margaret’s direction. Had, you say?
Thrown from a horse. Broke his neck.
The hell. New to the saddle, was he?
He could stay on a horse. And he could keep his shirt on.
The cowboy claps his hand on his bare chest. Ooh! You got me!
And as long as I’m talking to you like your mother . . . that home you’re putting behind you? You just might want to
go back someday. No matter how far you go.
Is that your boy’s story?
The intervening silence lasts so long the cowboy could be forgiven for thinking that Margaret hasn’t heard him. Then, with the lights of Gladstone finally in view, she says, James? No, James always stayed close . . .
Apart from the directions Margaret provides once they enter the city limits, neither she nor the young cowboy says much more. When the truck and trailer stop in front of Homer and Adeline Witt’s house, Margaret thanks the young cowboy and quickly climbs out of the truck with her husband’s boots in hand. When her door slams, the horse nickers a quiet question: Are we there?
But Margaret doesn’t walk away, not immediately. She leans back in the open window to ask the young cowboy a question. You know where Dalton, North Dakota, is?
Yes, ma’am.
You ever find yourself in Dalton, you look the Blackledges up in the phone book and give us a call. I have some shirts I believe will fit you.
43.
AFTER THE CALL ABOUT THE FIRE AT THE WEBOY PLACE wakens him, Sheriff Munson dresses and drives out to the ranch. When he arrives, the rural fire department is already there, though it’s too late for them to do anything but shake their heads at the devastation and make sure no sparks have found their way to the barn.
Anybody make it out of there? Sheriff Munson asks one of the volunteer firemen.
Just the young gal back in town.
Did Blanche . . ., the sheriff says but then stops short of the question to which he has already been given the answer.
He walks back to his car and uses his two-way radio to contact the deputy on duty at the jail. Go on over to the hospital, Sheriff Munson tells Clark Rohr. Hand over the news. It’s every last one of them.
...
Margaret’s hammering on the Witts’ front door brings Homer on the run, and when he opens the door and sees her standing there with her husband’s boots held close to her chest, he says, You’ll want to talk to Adeline.
For the second time inside an hour, Margaret Blackledge climbs into a truck, this time with Homer Witt at the wheel. During the ride to the hospital, Homer says not a word to her, and she soon stops asking him questions. When a man in this part of the world finds a reason to tuck himself inside a silence, nothing is likely to coax him out until he’s good and ready.
The Hudson! It’s here! Parked in the hospital lot in a neat row with the other dusty cars that delivered their owners here in the middle of the night. Homer has barely stopped the truck when Margaret jumps out and heads for the hospital’s well-lit entrance.
As if the darkened corridors are marked with special directions for her to follow, Margaret Blackledge proceeds unerringly to the room where Adeline must be. Outside the door she hears the murmur of many voices, triply hushed by the hour, the place, and the occasion. And when she enters, even the murmuring stops. There are faces here she doesn’t recognize—Nurse Rollag’s, Carl Skeller’s, the doctor’s—as well as those familiar to Margaret—Lorna’s, Jimmy’s—but it is Adeline Witt’s eye that Margaret seeks. There will be time, too much time, really, for the explanation of all that has happened outside of Margaret’s ken, but for now Adeline merely shakes her head.
It’s enough. For the moment, it’s enough, and Margaret gasps as if someone had laid an icy hand on her bare flesh.
Although no commands to move have been given, the people in the room reposition themselves in a series of intricate steps that allows the two tall women to stand alone in their midst and for Adeline to convey to Margaret Blackledge precisely the same message that the nurse delivered to Lorna within the hour: your husband has perished in the fire that burned the Weboy house to the ground.
Those who know Margaret Blackledge know that when her head nods at Mrs. Witt’s words, it’s due to her affliction. It’s not, as a stranger might believe, that she is nodding in assent—yes, yes, I knew where George was going—or in acquiescence to the inevitable—yes, yes, autumn will end and winter will follow, yes, yes, there’s nothing to be done . . . But of what she whispers there is no question. Oh, George. For me? For me, George? Then, as if by instinct, Margaret reaches for her grandson.
He leans eagerly into her embrace. Margaret walks a few paces off with her back to the small congregation, bouncing Jimmy in her arms all the while. She is carrying his thirty pounds, yet it is this little boy who has the real burden. He must now rescue two women from grief.
...
The next day Homer Witt learns from a friend at the fire department that Sheriff Munson plans to conduct an investigation at the Weboy ranch. Homer drives out to the site himself and arrives just as Sheriff Munson is about to walk through the charred wreckage. Though there is so little house left even a good memory would have trouble putting it back together, the sheriff still enters where the front door once was. Much of his inspection will have to take place in the cellar of the Weboy house since everything aboveground burned and then fell into the hole dug for the foundation.
The sheriff asks, Come out here to help me, did you, Homer?
Just spectating. You know us old firehouse dogs can’t stay away from the smell of smoke.
Within minutes it becomes apparent the sheriff has lost whatever enthusiasm he might have had for this inquiry. Has he never before walked through a fire’s ruins? Homer, of course, has had experience with conflagrations and their aftermath. He can see, as any fireman could, that this was a fire that blazed fast and hot and either turned everything into its own fuel or twisted it into an unrecognizable shape in the attempt. But Homer Witt says nothing to help Sheriff Munson. Homer doesn’t, for example, caution the sheriff about how only a foot away from ash as cold as snow there can be embers waiting for a little air to blaze up again. Neither does Homer advise the sheriff that when he’s kicking through the cinders and the fire-blackened lumps, he might have to rely on sound to tell him what an object is. Metal rings dully even through its layers of soot and ash. Porcelain thuds. Glass pings. Bone on a bed of ash makes no sound at all. And Homer keeps quiet about what firefighters do when they’re in the presence of burned bodies. They smear Mentholatum under their noses as a defense against that odor that is a mix of sulfur, musk, seared meat, and melted copper, a smell that, once in your nostrils, will never leave.
The sheriff walks out of the ruins near where the back door was. His work is done, and why not? No matter what he might or might not find, the people who perished here won’t be any less dead. Did the Weboys die in their beds? Since their beds have burned along with the floors they rested on, it can’t be known. And even if he had cause to do so, Sheriff Munson has no desire to probe fire-withered corpses to see whether a charred skull or breastbone has a hole in it that could have been made by a .44 caliber bullet. Could the coroner discover something among the ashes? Perhaps, but Sheriff Munson won’t call his colleague in on this one. Six people dead . . . why risk adding complication to heartbreak?
...
Arrangements are made. That is the phrase. In the wake of calamity arrangements are made, though everyone knows these will be for lives that do not want to be set in order or brought into line.
Adeline loans Lorna a dress and though the garment is too big in the shoulders and hangs far below her knees, it’ll have to do until Lorna gets back to Dalton, where she and Margaret can try to put together a semblance of a wardrobe. For Jimmy there’s nothing to be done but purchase new clothes at Sears.
Homer accepts Margaret’s offer of George’s boots. They’re at least three sizes too large but they’re good boots, better than Homer’s, so he stuffs them with rags and wears them, adding a wobble to his bowlegged walk.
He’s wearing those boots when he drives out to Alton Dragswolf’s shack to retrieve George and Margaret’s suitcases and a few of the supplies that had been unloaded from the Hudson. The food Alton is welcome to, payment for his hospitality and the loss of the revolver that George carried off. Homer doesn’t bring George’s hat back, because Alton
hid it. He’s already made it his own and he’s been wearing it every day, peering out from its wide brim as he watches the edge of the butte for the Hudson to appear and once again make its careful way down the trail to his home.
The coffin that will be shipped back to Dalton is plainly too short for a man of George Blackledge’s height, but that’s a matter that will pass without remark. No one wants to risk hearing mortician Dugan’s explanation that its length will suffice for what’s left to be buried.
44.
WHILE THE FINAL PROVISIONS ARE MADE FOR THIS LIFE unforeseen, Margaret, Lorna, and Jimmy stay at the Witts’. Lorna and her son are given the spare bedroom and Margaret sleeps on the davenport. It’s only two nights but they are nights to be added to Margaret’s count of those spent in a bed not her own.
At two thirty in the morning of the day they are to depart, Jimmy wakes crying, and this is not a child’s sleepy whimper but a full-throated, terrified wail. A closet door has been left ajar in the room where he and his mother have been sleeping, and Jimmy points to the closet’s interior—a deeper darkness in the room’s dark.
Jimmy’s mother is right next to him but she’s slow to rouse to her son’s distress. She’s confused, as sleepers sometimes are when they wake in strange surroundings. She looks in the wrong direction, toward the bedroom door and not toward her crying child.
By the time Lorna orients herself and turns to Jimmy to comfort him, the silhouettes of two tall women are framed in the doorway.
Once his eyes adjust to the dark and he’s able to see what’s there—or what isn’t—Jimmy quiets.
Ssh, his mother says. Ssh. It’s all right.
Lorna turns to Adeline and Margaret and offers them the same reassurance. It’s all right, she says. He had a bad dream. It’s all right. I have him.
...
The two women don’t return to their beds but go to the kitchen. They sit in the dark and Adeline lights a cigarette from the open pack left on the table.