grass near him. He is as impressed with his own physical stamina and prowess as he would be watching a horse or a tractor at work.
He thinks about the land, how it shouldn’t be bought or sold for money, but possessed, as in pioneer days, by those best able to work it. His father, thinks John—and he, too—should have lived back then, before dairy co-ops, sixty-thousand-dollar tractors, milk inspectors, grain monopolies, double-digit interest rates, major land developers. He feels his anger slowly boiling, as it hasn’t for years. More chronic than acute, it is directed at everything, but at nothing specific. Even after all these years, he isn’t astute enough to know for sure if losing the farm was the fault of his father’s reckless spending, the bank’s greed, the economy’s collapse, or cursed luck landing like an incubus on the Moon family.
The loss of the land. His birthright. Every misfortune or failure, every hurt and tragedy, John sees as being born of that deprivation: his father’s death—never mind the doctor’s talk about cancer and metastasizing tumors—and, four years later, his mother’s, whose heart just quit in the middle of dinner one night; his own hermetic existence, living like Cecil Nobie’s serf on an acre and a half of mountain, forced to pilfer and poach from the land that should be his; his abandonment by his wife and son. In this roundabout way, his errant, self-pitying anger meanders and slowly comes back to its fuse, that black, impenetrable spot in his mind that he wishes were a dream.
The same questions over and over. Could he, an experienced hunter, have prevented her death? Could he haveforeseen it? In some unconscious way, even wished for it? In his mind he has already separated the money from the tragedy that begat it. Much has been taken from him in his life and very little returned. He sees the money not as a road to a more exorbitant life but as the way back to his wife and son. Maybe he could even buy a large parcel of land—start his own farm, off this mountain—for the three of them. Then he thinks again of Waylon. Had he already returned to the quarry, or might he have been on his way there when John saw him? And what has John left behind that might lead Waylon to him?
He chops until he has produced half a cord of firewood, and, at his back, the descending sun is a huge, fiery ball. His naked torso is a knotted, slick muscle. Now he is aware again of the pain in his shoulder. He takes off the blood-damp bandage, dabs at the open wound with his T-shirt, then, deciding to let the cut air, sits down on the grass near the cooler. He eats three more aspirins, washing them down with beer.
He thinks of the deer carcass sitting with his 12-gauge slug in it at the bottom of Hollenbachs’ pond. And the dead girl in the cave. If Waylon finds her, wonders John, how long will it take him to figure out some local hunter had killed her and stolen his money?
Only the stars and Nobies’ houselights, filtering up through the trees, illuminate the mountain. The temperature has dropped fifteen degrees. John’s slick sweat has dried, penetrated his skin, and turned rank. Where it has sat for three hours on the back-yard grass, his rear is stiff and sore. Theempties from two six-packs form a roofless, four-sided building between his feet. Somewhere back on the hill, a coyote yips. Nocturnal birds and animals fly and scurry through the woods to his right. From the spring-fed pond below the trailer comes a cacophony of peeps and croaks.
John takes off his shoes, then shakily stands up, pulls off his jeans and underwear, and walks naked into the trailer. He gets a rattlesnake strip steak from the refrigerator, fillets it, cooks it for five minutes beneath the broiler, then rolls it in olive oil and cornmeal, and leaves it to slowly panfry on the stove while he showers, dresses his wound, and puts on clean clothes.
Before leaving the bedroom, he takes from the closet, then carefully
He thinks about the land, how it shouldn’t be bought or sold for money, but possessed, as in pioneer days, by those best able to work it. His father, thinks John—and he, too—should have lived back then, before dairy co-ops, sixty-thousand-dollar tractors, milk inspectors, grain monopolies, double-digit interest rates, major land developers. He feels his anger slowly boiling, as it hasn’t for years. More chronic than acute, it is directed at everything, but at nothing specific. Even after all these years, he isn’t astute enough to know for sure if losing the farm was the fault of his father’s reckless spending, the bank’s greed, the economy’s collapse, or cursed luck landing like an incubus on the Moon family.
The loss of the land. His birthright. Every misfortune or failure, every hurt and tragedy, John sees as being born of that deprivation: his father’s death—never mind the doctor’s talk about cancer and metastasizing tumors—and, four years later, his mother’s, whose heart just quit in the middle of dinner one night; his own hermetic existence, living like Cecil Nobie’s serf on an acre and a half of mountain, forced to pilfer and poach from the land that should be his; his abandonment by his wife and son. In this roundabout way, his errant, self-pitying anger meanders and slowly comes back to its fuse, that black, impenetrable spot in his mind that he wishes were a dream.
The same questions over and over. Could he, an experienced hunter, have prevented her death? Could he haveforeseen it? In some unconscious way, even wished for it? In his mind he has already separated the money from the tragedy that begat it. Much has been taken from him in his life and very little returned. He sees the money not as a road to a more exorbitant life but as the way back to his wife and son. Maybe he could even buy a large parcel of land—start his own farm, off this mountain—for the three of them. Then he thinks again of Waylon. Had he already returned to the quarry, or might he have been on his way there when John saw him? And what has John left behind that might lead Waylon to him?
He chops until he has produced half a cord of firewood, and, at his back, the descending sun is a huge, fiery ball. His naked torso is a knotted, slick muscle. Now he is aware again of the pain in his shoulder. He takes off the blood-damp bandage, dabs at the open wound with his T-shirt, then, deciding to let the cut air, sits down on the grass near the cooler. He eats three more aspirins, washing them down with beer.
He thinks of the deer carcass sitting with his 12-gauge slug in it at the bottom of Hollenbachs’ pond. And the dead girl in the cave. If Waylon finds her, wonders John, how long will it take him to figure out some local hunter had killed her and stolen his money?
Only the stars and Nobies’ houselights, filtering up through the trees, illuminate the mountain. The temperature has dropped fifteen degrees. John’s slick sweat has dried, penetrated his skin, and turned rank. Where it has sat for three hours on the back-yard grass, his rear is stiff and sore. Theempties from two six-packs form a roofless, four-sided building between his feet. Somewhere back on the hill, a coyote yips. Nocturnal birds and animals fly and scurry through the woods to his right. From the spring-fed pond below the trailer comes a cacophony of peeps and croaks.
John takes off his shoes, then shakily stands up, pulls off his jeans and underwear, and walks naked into the trailer. He gets a rattlesnake strip steak from the refrigerator, fillets it, cooks it for five minutes beneath the broiler, then rolls it in olive oil and cornmeal, and leaves it to slowly panfry on the stove while he showers, dresses his wound, and puts on clean clothes.
Before leaving the bedroom, he takes from the closet, then carefully
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