Etta would sing along with him sometimes, and sometimes she would just listen. Mostly he sang cowboy songs. Sometimes he also sang hymns or radio songs that he’d learned from dogs, but mostly not, mostly it was cowboy songs:
O bury me not on the lone prairie
Where coyotes howl and the wind blows free
In a narrow grave just six by three—
O bury me not on the lone prairie
Etta was humming along, they were taking small steps, the kind of steps they took in the late afternoon, tired, but directed. The days were getting longer and hotter, the sun now up before five-thirty in the morning and out long past nine at night. Etta kicked a rock. There were more rocks now. They were pulling toward Ontario; Jamesrecognized the smells each time he stopped singing momentarily for a breath. The next time he did, after O! , Etta interrupted his song,
Do you think Amos will mind if we don’t show up until morning? she said, stopping suddenly, I’m really tired.
James, who was trotting ahead of Etta, slowed so he was at her side. I’m sure he won’t mind , he said. Let’s stop now, continue in the morning .
After Etta had fallen asleep but before he curled into a tight ball himself, James dug into her bag and pulled out a piece of paper, careful not to leave deep teeth marks.
You:
it said.
You:
Etta Gloria Kinnick of Deerdale farm. 83 years old in August.
Family:
Marta Gloria Kinnick. Mother. Housewife. (Deceased)
Raymond Peter Kinnick. Father. Editor. (Deceased)
Alma Gabrielle Kinnick. Sister. Nun. (Deceased)
James Peter Kinnick. Nephew. Child. (Never lived)
Otto Vogel. Husband. Soldier/Farmer. (Living)
James tucked the paper, as best he could, under Etta’s arm, for her to find when they woke up again, around five-thirty the next morning.
F our months earlier, Otto woke up because he ran out of air. Dreaming of water. He sat up and pushed the blankets away like the tide, kicked his feet out. It was still dark, and cold. He felt his way to his robe—warm around him, it hung too long off his arms, too long over his feet, like a bridal gown—and slipped out to the kitchen. He took ginger cookies from a jar in the freezer and sat at the red and starry table pulling himself out of the drowning of his sleep. The huge water and moving sky.
O tto woke when Etta left the bed. Without her the cold got in, almost immediately, as soon as he inhaled. He listened with eyes closed as she struggled with the fabric of his robe and opened and closed the door. He waited for the sound of water from the bathroom, for her return. He counted to two hundred and fifty, listened, and did it again. Then he got up too.
E tta was at the kitchen table, in his robe. Etta, said Otto, Etta.
Etta? said Etta. She put down the cookie she had been lifting toward her mouth. She looked at her husband like a ghost, like a mirror.
S o what shall we do? Otto said the next morning at breakfast, cinnamon buns, oranges.
Maybe I should go away, said Etta. A place for people who forget themselves.
But I remember, said Otto. If I remember and you forget, we canbalance, surely.
Maybe I should go away, said Etta, again. Her hair was white and undone. The piece of it that fell toward her mouth reminded Otto of baby geese. A return to down.
I could hurt someone, she said. The cinnamon bun on her plate a perfect spiral, tucking into itself, away and down. Perfect.
You won’t.
You know I won’t?
I know you won’t.
They ate, for a while, and then Etta said, What will you do today?
Go to Palmer’s, I think. Help out there a bit.
Wear a hat. The sun.
Of course. And you?
Etta had one hand on the table, her left, she spread the fingers flat. Pickles, she said, carrots and garlic and cucumber.
It’s a long time till winter.
But it never really is.
No, I guess it never really is.
R ussell drove and drove. The dark roads were very quiet. He only saw three other vehicles before Last Mountain Lake, and he didn’t recognize any of them. The windows to
O bury me not on the lone prairie
Where coyotes howl and the wind blows free
In a narrow grave just six by three—
O bury me not on the lone prairie
Etta was humming along, they were taking small steps, the kind of steps they took in the late afternoon, tired, but directed. The days were getting longer and hotter, the sun now up before five-thirty in the morning and out long past nine at night. Etta kicked a rock. There were more rocks now. They were pulling toward Ontario; Jamesrecognized the smells each time he stopped singing momentarily for a breath. The next time he did, after O! , Etta interrupted his song,
Do you think Amos will mind if we don’t show up until morning? she said, stopping suddenly, I’m really tired.
James, who was trotting ahead of Etta, slowed so he was at her side. I’m sure he won’t mind , he said. Let’s stop now, continue in the morning .
After Etta had fallen asleep but before he curled into a tight ball himself, James dug into her bag and pulled out a piece of paper, careful not to leave deep teeth marks.
You:
it said.
You:
Etta Gloria Kinnick of Deerdale farm. 83 years old in August.
Family:
Marta Gloria Kinnick. Mother. Housewife. (Deceased)
Raymond Peter Kinnick. Father. Editor. (Deceased)
Alma Gabrielle Kinnick. Sister. Nun. (Deceased)
James Peter Kinnick. Nephew. Child. (Never lived)
Otto Vogel. Husband. Soldier/Farmer. (Living)
James tucked the paper, as best he could, under Etta’s arm, for her to find when they woke up again, around five-thirty the next morning.
F our months earlier, Otto woke up because he ran out of air. Dreaming of water. He sat up and pushed the blankets away like the tide, kicked his feet out. It was still dark, and cold. He felt his way to his robe—warm around him, it hung too long off his arms, too long over his feet, like a bridal gown—and slipped out to the kitchen. He took ginger cookies from a jar in the freezer and sat at the red and starry table pulling himself out of the drowning of his sleep. The huge water and moving sky.
O tto woke when Etta left the bed. Without her the cold got in, almost immediately, as soon as he inhaled. He listened with eyes closed as she struggled with the fabric of his robe and opened and closed the door. He waited for the sound of water from the bathroom, for her return. He counted to two hundred and fifty, listened, and did it again. Then he got up too.
E tta was at the kitchen table, in his robe. Etta, said Otto, Etta.
Etta? said Etta. She put down the cookie she had been lifting toward her mouth. She looked at her husband like a ghost, like a mirror.
S o what shall we do? Otto said the next morning at breakfast, cinnamon buns, oranges.
Maybe I should go away, said Etta. A place for people who forget themselves.
But I remember, said Otto. If I remember and you forget, we canbalance, surely.
Maybe I should go away, said Etta, again. Her hair was white and undone. The piece of it that fell toward her mouth reminded Otto of baby geese. A return to down.
I could hurt someone, she said. The cinnamon bun on her plate a perfect spiral, tucking into itself, away and down. Perfect.
You won’t.
You know I won’t?
I know you won’t.
They ate, for a while, and then Etta said, What will you do today?
Go to Palmer’s, I think. Help out there a bit.
Wear a hat. The sun.
Of course. And you?
Etta had one hand on the table, her left, she spread the fingers flat. Pickles, she said, carrots and garlic and cucumber.
It’s a long time till winter.
But it never really is.
No, I guess it never really is.
R ussell drove and drove. The dark roads were very quiet. He only saw three other vehicles before Last Mountain Lake, and he didn’t recognize any of them. The windows to
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