The Good Brother

11

He drove down the rough road to the blacktop and headed for town, forcing himself to maintain a slow speed. Rushing air rinsed his face. At a railroad crossing he threw the pistol into a hole of water, remembering that he and Boyd had swum there naked as boys. He banished his brother from his mind. The debt was now discharged. He was free.

He followed a state road bearing west, his mind a house he’d battened down for a storm. He could not risk thought. A shower slapped through the trees and was gone. After three hours of winding roads, he parked in the airport’s long-term lot and shifted his gear to the other car — blanket, jacket, possum. A domed garbage can gleamed like the top of a skull. He pushed the metal lap open and hesitated, not wanting to discard his wallet so easily. A car entered the lot and he released the old leather.

He continued north. Stars spattered the night like flung paint. Huge trucks sailed past as if they were ships leaving a wake that rocked his car. He was tired. He felt as if the car were standing still and the road unfurled before him. Near the Wabash River he stopped for a small room that smelled of old smoke. He slept rough, waking several times, after enduring a dream from childhood that filled him with terror. He remained in bed long after light seeped through the curtains, infusing the room with a dreary glow. He no longer had a future or a past. There was only the inescapable now.

He was astonished by the size of the Mississippi River. He left his car and walked along the bank, past beer cans and condoms lying in the weeds. His feet sank in mud. The murky surface rippled like muscle, swirling as if it contained many creeks that twined through its body. He cupped his hands to drink. It tasted bad but he didn’t think a river that big could be poison. In the slanting red light of afternoon the bridge glowed as if the metal had been heated by flame. He returned to his car, placing each step with precision. He felt unbalanced walking such flat terrain, as if he might tip onto his side.

Com in Iowa had been harvested, leaving splintered stalks rising from the earth. Pigs foraged in the fields. Barns sat very near the houses as if to conserve the energy of walking. A flock of dark birds rose from the low remnants of soy, lifting like a blanket to hide the light. Near dusk he reached the Missouri River and stopped at a scenic overlook, curious as to what constituted high elevation on such flat land. A tower rose from a parking lot. He climbed its five open flights to a platform from which he could see Nebraska, a vista that filled him with profound unease. On every horizon lay a tree-line. Abruptly he didn’t know where he was. He began to tremble with such force that he gripped the railing to prevent a fall.

In South Dakota his motel room matched the one in Illinois except for the carpet, which was the color of grass parched by drought. He lay unable to sleep, still feeling the rhythm of the road throbbing in his body. Fragments of Rodale’s death seeped into his mind and he tried to blot them like a stain. He hoped the dog had revived.

After a few hours he woke, confused until memory bludgeoned him and he quickly rose, with no idea of where to go. The empty landscape was flat as tin. He felt like a bug exposed when someone lifted a flat rock. He drove west all day, and in the afternoon, he watched the sun begin its decline. Dusk was short. Kentucky nights began on the ground, in the hollows and the woods, moving upwards to join the sky. Here, the darkness dropped from above.

He made Wyoming by night and slept in a field. In the morning he crossed Dead Horse Creek, a bed of dry grass with no horse in sight. The land was desolate save for oil wells, their steady motion reminding him of chickens pecking for seed. The only shade was in a ditch. A pale blue line etched the horizon, jagged and white, too high for land. He expected a storm until he realized it was the Bighorn Mountains with snow lying along the upper ridges. They rose from the earth like a wall to the west.

He entered Montana through the Crow Reservation. The lack of humidity kept the air clear, making everything appear distinct regardless of distance. The land seemed oddly like a model, as if constructed on miniature scale. Clouds rose in the east while the western sky held the darkness of distant rain. He enjoyed a physical sense of insignificance. The landscape had an inviting quality, seductive but lethal.

A four-door pickup passed him, driven by a young man wearing a western hat. Heavy mudflaps covered the tires. In the rear window hung a lasso with a pair of baby shoes dangling in the center of the coil.

He slept behind a rest stop and rose with the pink dawn, surprised at the lack of grass, dew, and birdsong. The Absaroka Mountains stood in the south, hazed by distance, topped with snow. The hum of silence filled the chilly air. He continued west on I-90, passing a three-tiered stack of hay the size of a house surrounded by a split-rail fence. Though he was driving fast, several cars passed him, and he wondered about Montana’s speed limit. He’d seen no signs.

The land continued to rise. He thought the hill between Bozeman and Livingston was of good heft until he began the long climb to Homestake Pass. At its crest was the Continental Divide, where flat rocks protruded vertically from the earth like plates of stone. He felt bad for the crew who’d built the road, but was deeply envious of the man who’d laid it out. It was the harshest land he’d ever seen.

He began the long descent into Butte, a town sculpted into a mountain, presided over by a giant statue of a woman. He’d left the realm of autumn colors for uniform slopes of conifer trees. The mountains became steep and the valley tight. Several times he crossed the Clark Fork River, shallowed by the season to the size of a creek. Afternoon sun gleamed on great bluffs that rose beyond the water. Logging trails laced the slopes. He arrived in Missoula at dusk, took a room, and slept fourteen hours. After a meal and a short walk, he returned to bed. The next day he slept and ate and slept again.