silence, I ran. I ran and probably made it fifty feet before I stopped and found my cool and steadied my breathing and returned to my father, slowly.
“This is bad,” he said. He was wearing a John Deere cap and he removed it now and put his hand into its hollow as if seeking an explanation there. “This is a hell of a thing.” He looked like a man who has woken from a nap and cannot find his bearings.
I took my cell phone from my pocket. No surprise: there was no service here, far from any tower. “If we drive to the top of the canyon,” I said. “If we get a little higher, I might be able to get a signal. It’s worth a try anyway.”
“No.” My father put his hat back on and straightened it.
“Excuse me?”
“No,” he said again. “What’s the rush?” He lifted his hand and let it fall and slap his thigh. “I tell you something: he’s in no rush.”
I understood this completely and not at all. “Dad?” I said. “No.”
There was concern on his face, but I genuinely believe this had more to do with having to abandon our campsite than with the dead man sprawled across it. He put a hand on my shoulder and squeezed just hard enough so I knew he meant business. “Justin,” he said.
“What?”
“Look. It turned out to be a beautiful day, didn’t it?” And he was right—it was—the kind of bright blue day that bleached everything of its color. “How about let’s enjoy it?” He regarded the dead man and I noticed his cheek bulge, his tongue probing the side of his mouth. “Tomorrow we’ll drive to John Day and tell the police. But not today.”
Boo crept toward the dead man, his muscles tense, his body low, as if certain the blackened pile of bones and sinew would leap up at any moment and attack . When it didn’t, his movements loosened and he panted happily and waded into the spring to drink.
“Okay, Justin?”
I looked at my feet—something I do when gathering my thoughts—and there discovered a weather-beaten pack of Marlboros, the cigarettes that could not kill the dead man quick enough. “Okay,” I said in a voice I hardly recognized as my own. “Fine.”
From faraway came the sound of a diesel horn, a logging truck rocketing along a distant highway, reminding me that no matter how much this felt like the middle of nowhere, it wasn’t.
We made our camp twenty yards upstream from the dead man. While Boo splashed along the banks, chasing the silvery flashes of fish, I set to work digging a new firepit and my father unloaded from the Bronco our rifles and fishing poles and cooler and duffel bags and his old army-issue canvas tent. It leaked and smelled like mothballs and mildew and every night I had ever spent in it, I woke up swollen and sneezing.
That Christmas I had bought him a new tent from REI—one of those fancy waterproof, windproof four-man deals with a lifetime guarantee and a screened-in moonroof.
“Dad?” I said, and he said, “What?”
“What happened to the new tent I bought you?”
“This has been a good tent for us.” He patted it fondly. “I like this tent.” He did not look at me, but set to work unfolding the canvas and planting the stakes.
“You’ve got to be kidding me.” My voice went high and I tried to control it. “That tent cost me nearly three hundred fucking dollars and you’re just going to let it rot in the attic?”
He finished hammering a stake into the ground and stood up and straightened his posture to accentuate his six-foot frame. Beneath his stare I felt as if I had shrunk a good five inches, as if my chest hair and muscles had receded—and I became seventeen all over again.
That was the year Mom and I bought him a bicycle for his birthday, an eighteen-speed Trek. “Boy,” he had said when he ran his hands along it. “Wow.” That night he stripped off every gear except the hardest and from then on rode it all up and down the country highways with a terrible grimace on his face.
A grimace similar to the one he
“This is bad,” he said. He was wearing a John Deere cap and he removed it now and put his hand into its hollow as if seeking an explanation there. “This is a hell of a thing.” He looked like a man who has woken from a nap and cannot find his bearings.
I took my cell phone from my pocket. No surprise: there was no service here, far from any tower. “If we drive to the top of the canyon,” I said. “If we get a little higher, I might be able to get a signal. It’s worth a try anyway.”
“No.” My father put his hat back on and straightened it.
“Excuse me?”
“No,” he said again. “What’s the rush?” He lifted his hand and let it fall and slap his thigh. “I tell you something: he’s in no rush.”
I understood this completely and not at all. “Dad?” I said. “No.”
There was concern on his face, but I genuinely believe this had more to do with having to abandon our campsite than with the dead man sprawled across it. He put a hand on my shoulder and squeezed just hard enough so I knew he meant business. “Justin,” he said.
“What?”
“Look. It turned out to be a beautiful day, didn’t it?” And he was right—it was—the kind of bright blue day that bleached everything of its color. “How about let’s enjoy it?” He regarded the dead man and I noticed his cheek bulge, his tongue probing the side of his mouth. “Tomorrow we’ll drive to John Day and tell the police. But not today.”
Boo crept toward the dead man, his muscles tense, his body low, as if certain the blackened pile of bones and sinew would leap up at any moment and attack . When it didn’t, his movements loosened and he panted happily and waded into the spring to drink.
“Okay, Justin?”
I looked at my feet—something I do when gathering my thoughts—and there discovered a weather-beaten pack of Marlboros, the cigarettes that could not kill the dead man quick enough. “Okay,” I said in a voice I hardly recognized as my own. “Fine.”
From faraway came the sound of a diesel horn, a logging truck rocketing along a distant highway, reminding me that no matter how much this felt like the middle of nowhere, it wasn’t.
We made our camp twenty yards upstream from the dead man. While Boo splashed along the banks, chasing the silvery flashes of fish, I set to work digging a new firepit and my father unloaded from the Bronco our rifles and fishing poles and cooler and duffel bags and his old army-issue canvas tent. It leaked and smelled like mothballs and mildew and every night I had ever spent in it, I woke up swollen and sneezing.
That Christmas I had bought him a new tent from REI—one of those fancy waterproof, windproof four-man deals with a lifetime guarantee and a screened-in moonroof.
“Dad?” I said, and he said, “What?”
“What happened to the new tent I bought you?”
“This has been a good tent for us.” He patted it fondly. “I like this tent.” He did not look at me, but set to work unfolding the canvas and planting the stakes.
“You’ve got to be kidding me.” My voice went high and I tried to control it. “That tent cost me nearly three hundred fucking dollars and you’re just going to let it rot in the attic?”
He finished hammering a stake into the ground and stood up and straightened his posture to accentuate his six-foot frame. Beneath his stare I felt as if I had shrunk a good five inches, as if my chest hair and muscles had receded—and I became seventeen all over again.
That was the year Mom and I bought him a bicycle for his birthday, an eighteen-speed Trek. “Boy,” he had said when he ran his hands along it. “Wow.” That night he stripped off every gear except the hardest and from then on rode it all up and down the country highways with a terrible grimace on his face.
A grimace similar to the one he
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