The Drowned Life by Jeffrey Ford Page A

came around at the insistence of the snapping twig, they were cordial and seemed pleased with their experiences. Moses even gave us a ten-dollar tip for dropping him into the truck. Becca told us that she’d spoken to her mother, whom she’d missed terribly since the woman’s death two years earlier. Even though they’d been blind drunk the night before, amazingly none of them appeared to be hungover,and each walked away with a perceptible spring in his or her step, even Moses, though he was still slightly bent at the waist by the arthritis.
    Witzer said, “Knock on wood, of course, but this is the easiest year I can remember. The year your daddy won, we had to ride around for four solid hours before we found him out by the swamp.” We found Ron White only a short piece up the road from where we’d found the cluster of four, and he was an easy job, too. I didn’t get him to land on his back, however. He fell face-first—not a desirable drop—but he came to none the worse for wear. After Ron, we had to search for quite a while, ultimately heading out toward the swamp. I knew the only two left were Pete Hesiant and Henry Grass, and the thought of Henry started to make me nervous again. I was reluctant to show my fear, not wanting the old man to lose faith in me, but as we drove slowly along, I finally told Witzer about my recurring dream.
    When I was done recounting what I thought was a premonition, Witzer sat in silence for a few moments and then said, “I’m glad you told me.”
    â€œI’ll bet it’s really nothing,” I said.
    â€œHenry’s a big fellow,” he said. “Why should you have all the fun? I’ll drop him.” And with this, the matter was settled. I realized I should have told him weeks ago when I first started having the dreams.
    â€œEasy, boy,” said Witzer with a wheeze and waved his hand as if wiping away my cares. “You’ve got years of this to go. You can’t manage everything on the first Harvest.”
    We searched everywhere for Pete and Henry—all along the road to the swamp, on the trails that ran through the woods, out along the meadow by the shot tower and Henry’s own trailer. With the dilapidated wooden structure of the tower still in sight, we finally found Henry.
    â€œThar she blows,” said Witzer, and he stopped the truck.
    â€œWhere?” I said, getting out of the truck, and the old man pointed straight up.
    Over our heads, in a tall pine, Henry lay facedown, his arms and legs spread so that they kept him up while the rest of his body was suspended over nothing. His head hung down as if in shame or utter defeat. He looked, in a way, like he was crucified, and I didn’t like the look of that at all.
    â€œGet me the twenty,” said Witzer, “and then pull the truck up.”
    I undid the prods from the roof, laid the other two on the ground by the side of the path, and ran the twenty over to the old man. By the time I got back to the truck, started it up, and turned it toward the drop spot, Witzer had the long pole in two hands and was sizing up the situation. As I pulled closer, he let the pole down and then waved me forward while eyeing, back and forth, Henry and the bed. He directed me to cut the wheel this way and that, reverse two feet, and then he gave me the thumbs-up. I turned off the truck and got out.
    â€œOkay,” he said. “This is gonna be a tricky one.” He lifted the prod up and up and rested the soft end against Henry’s chest. “You’re gonna have to help me here. We’re gonna push straight up on his chest so that his arms flop down and clear the branches, and then as we let him down we’re gonna slide the pole, catch him at the belt buckle, and give him a good nudge there to flip him as he falls.”
    I looked up at where Henry was, and then I just stared at Witzer.
    â€œWake up, boy!” he shouted.
    I came to and