“Why didn’t you wear your gun tonight?” She knew he usually carried one on duty, but she also knew that he made an effort not to let her see it. Before he met her someplace or entered their home, he left it in the car or in his office. For all Gail knew, he had it under the seat right now.
“So I could shoot Gordon off his bar stool?”
“So you could—I don’t know—make him move along without . . . without what happened.” She hated coming to this point in an argument with Wesley. She had allowed him to get her off the path she wanted to be on—a lawyer’s trick, she was sure.
Wesley was quick to say, “He’s going to be all right. We made sure of that before we sent him on his way. Gordon’s got a hard head.” He seemed to say this in admiration.
Gail was ready to give up. He didn’t even understand what was bothering her. He thought she was upset about what had happened to Gordon LaChapelle when at bottom she didn’t care what happened to him, in spite of the impression she was willing to give. What she did care about—what she had discovered that very night—was the fact that her husband could sneak up behind a man and pull him off his bar stool.
From that night on she kept careful watch on her husband, wondering what other recesses of his nature had been hidden from her. She saw nothing. In every respect he was the quiet, gentle, thoughtful man she had married. During her pregnancy, he became even more solicitous, so much so it was difficult to believe that the same hands that nightly massaged her aching ankles and calves had grabbed a man by the hair. And that was only what she had seen—what else had he kept from her? She could not relax around her own husband, so convinced was she that this man would reveal something else that would make her wonder again who and what he was. But for all her careful observation she didn’t see anything until the baby was born.
Wesley would not hold the baby.
In the hospital, Daisy McAuley, Enid Hayden, Carol Clifton—they all took turns holding the baby. But not Wesley.
When they brought David home, Wesley still showed no interest in picking him up. Oh, he would stand over the bassinet, beaming as if a light had gone on inside him, and gaze down at David. And when Gail held the baby, Wesley would crowd in close, moon-eyed with love for both of them.
Yet he would not take that baby in his arms. On one occasion Gail wrapped David snugly in his blankets—a package so tight and unmoving it could have come through the mail—and laid him on his father’s lap. Wesley looked so panic-stricken that Gail immediately picked David up, mostly to relieve Wesley of his discomfort.
That was the reason Gail decided to return to North Dakota for a visit. To allow her parents to see their first grandchild, yes, but also to stop counting days, wondering if this was the one when Wesley would hold his son.
The wind rattled the window in its frame, and Gail reacted instinctively, huddling deeper under the blankets. When she was a child, that north wind meant the long walk to school would be even colder. She tried to think—when David started school, which route would he walk? Which street would offer him the most protection from the winter wind? Gail realized that she was moving in her mind though the streets of Bentrock, Montana. Of course, that was her son’s home, his birthplace, where his father and his paternal grandparents lived.
Now that she thought of it, Wesley’s father was the only man who had held David. When they brought the baby home from the hospital, Wesley’s parents were waiting for them. They had brought gifts—baby clothes and a blanket and a rattle shaped like a dumbbell, and a new rocking chair with a cane seat (“for Gail when she has to get up for those 2:00 A.M. feedings”).
Enid Hayden carefully folded the blanket away from David, exposing his red, wrinkled face. Julian Hayden practically grabbed David from Gail’s arms. He lifted the baby high above his head. Gail was sure she saw David’s eyes widen in alarm, and she thought she heard Wesley gasp. But neither of them said a word while Julian continued to hold their son aloft. “How does it feel to be home, boy?” Julian asked his grandson. “How does it feel to breathe this air?”
Gail had been in North Dakota for almost three days, and her own father had not yet held David. What was the matter with these men—did they think a baby was so fragile that it could be crushed or broken in their arms? Did they think their hands were unsuited for holding a child? That their hands were soiled with dirt and misdeeds and therefore unfit to touch the clean, the innocent? My God, what did they think human hands were for?
The wind gusted even harder, and Gail heard another familiar sound, like handfuls of sand being thrown against the glass. She knew what that meant: the wind had brought snow, fine-grained and icy, down from the north. This time Gail did not burrow deeper under the quilt. She threw the blankets off and went to the bassinet to make certain David hadn’t wriggled loose from his blankets.
To her astonishment, the baby was already awake. He was struggling to lift his head as if he was desperate to see above and beyond the white wicker walls of his bassinet. His fingers clenched and unclenched, and his legs kicked determinedly as if they could find purchase in the thin cold morning air.
His mouth worked and contorted with the effort to suckle or cry or both, but for the moment Gail just watched him. As soon as he made a sound, as soon as he found a voice, she would pick him up. But not before.
Born in 1947 in Rugby, North Dakota, and raised in Bismarck, Larry Watson received his B.A. and M.A. in English from the University of North Dakota and received his Ph.D. in creative writing from the University of Utah. He’s the recipient of fellowships from the National Endowment for the Arts, a grant from the Wisconsin Arts Board, among other distinctions. Watson is the author of several award-winning novels, including American Boy, Montana 1948, White Crosses, In a Dark Time, Laura, Orchard, and Sundown, Yellow Moon, as well as the collection of poetry, Leaving Dakota. His books have received the Milkweed National Fiction Prize, the Mountains and Plains Independent Booksellers Association Fiction Award, the New York Public Library Fiction Award, and the High Plains Book Award, among others.
Watson teaches writing and literature at Marquette University. He and his wife, Susan, live in Milwaukee, Wisconsin.
I would like to thank my editor, Emilie Buchwald, for her keen and intelligent eye and her thoughtful suggestions. Working with the people at Milkweed Editions has been a salutary experience. A special thanks to Arlinda, Beryl, Diane, Ellen, Fiona, Scott, and Teresa for their enthusiasm and good will.
My agent, Sharon Friedman, deserves thanks for the encouragement and friendship she has provided.
My mother, Ruth Watson, has helped keep my plains heritage alive. Her memories and her stories have offered inspiration, and, from the earliest, her love and understanding have given me confidence. I can never thank her enough.
My daughters, Elly and Amy, have enriched my life beyond measure.
My wife, Susan, first reader and best friend, provided the challenge and impetus that made these words possible. Thank you and more.
Also available in paperback, from your local bookseller
or www.milkweed.org.
“As universal in its themes as it is original in its peculiarities, Montana 1948 is a significant and elegant addition to the fiction of the American West, and to contemporary American fiction in general.”
—Washington Post Book World
“It is, first and foremost, a good story.... It’s a brilliant evocation of time and place. And it is the story of this country, of power and racism.”
—Detroit Free Press
“Wonderful ... Fast-moving plot, terse language, uncompromising characterization, and insights into life.”
—Baltimore Sun
“Montana 1948 stands out as a work of art.”
—San Francisco Chronicle
“A superbly rendered novel . . . riveting.”
—Houston Chronicle
“From the summer of my twelfth year I carry a series of images more vivid and lasting than any others of my boyhood and
indelible beyond all attempts the years make to erase or fade them. . . .”
So begins David Hayden’s story of the cataclysmic summer of 1948, when the charges of a young Sioux woman force David’s father, the sheriff of their small town, to confront his older brother, a charming war hero and respected doctor. As the small town takes sides, David witnesses the unraveling of his family brought on by the revelation of this simple truth. In this tale of love and courage, David learns what it means to weigh the terrible choice between family loyalty and justice.
New fiction from Larry Watson—available from your local bookseller or www.milkweed.org.
The shooting of a young woman on Thanksgiving Day in 1962 sets off a chain of unsettling events in small-town Willow Falls, Minnesota. Young Matthew Garth first sees Louisa Lindahl in Dr. Dunbar’s home office, and at the time her bullet wound makes nearly as strong an impression as her unclothed body. Fueled over the following weeks by his feverish desire for this mysterious woman and a deep longing for the comfort and affluence that appears to surround the Dunbars, Matthew finds himself drawn into a vortex of greed, manipulation, and ultimately betrayal.
Immersive, heart-breaking, and richly evocative of a time and place, this long-awaited novel marks a stunning achievement from a great American storyteller.
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Milkweed Editions, a nonprofit publisher, gratefully acknowledges sustaining support from Amazon.com; Emilie and Henry Buchwald; the Bush Foundation; the Patrick and Aimee Butler Foundation; Timothy and Tara Clark; the Dougherty Family Foundation; Friesens; the General Mills Foundation; John and Joanne Gordon; Ellen Grace; William and Jeanne Grandy; the Jerome Foundation; the Lerner Foundation; Sanders and Tasha Marvin; the McKnight Foundation; Mid-Continent Engineering; the Minnesota State Arts Board, through an appropriation by the Minnesota State Legislature and a grant from the National Endowment for the Arts; Kelly Morrison and John Willoughby; the National Endowment for the Arts; the Navarre Corporation; Ann and Doug Ness; Jörg and Angie Pierach; the Carl and Eloise Pohlad Family Foundation; the RBC Foundation USA; the Target Foundation; the Travelers Foundation; Moira and John Turner; and Edward and Jenny Wahl.
Interior design by Don Leeper
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The characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.
© 1995, Text by Larry Watson
All rights reserved. Except for brief quotations in critical articles or reviews,
no part of this book may be reproduced in any manner without
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eISBN : 978-1-571-31847-3
Please turn to the back of this book for a list of the sustaining funders of Milkweed Editions.
Watson, Larry.
Justice / Larry Watson.
p. cm.
1. Sherrifs—Montana—Fiction. 2. Family—Montana—Fiction.
I. Title
PS3573.A853J87 1995
813’.54—dc20
94-34080
CIP
This book is printed on acid-free paper.
Larry Watson, Justice
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