The Good Brother

15

Darkness and snow formed the borders of Joe’s life. He ceased to shave or bathe. He began a dozen books but never read past the first chapter. Many days he stayed in bed. One side of the canyon was always shade, with the sun arriving at midmorning and leaving by midafternoon. Great snow drifts muffled the land. At night the snowlight glowed.

As a child he had watched his father chop wood for the fire each day. He and his brother gathered kindling in a box. He remembered his father saying that wood made you warm twice — first when you split it and second in the fire. Now Joe split wood until his ax was dull and he had enough kindling to last for years. He reorganized the woodpile to make a separate place for the kindling, arranged according to size, then changed his mind and restacked it again.

He spent hours listening to static on the radio, turning the dial slowly to catch each tenth of every number. Occasionally he’d hear a scrap of music, the distant echo of a voice. When he tried to imagine what might be coming over the airwaves, his mind always returned to the advertising jingles of his childhood. He sang one again and again;

There is a reason why

everybody wants to buy

at Glasser Supply

in Rocksalt—

McCulloch Chainsaw!

This was followed by the sound of a chainsaw’s whine, which Joe duplicated with his voice. He walked around the house as if holding a chainsaw, cutting the walls and destroying the furniture. He pretended to lop the possum’s head off, then felt guilty and apologized. The possum continued its blank-eyed stare. Joe combed its tawny fur with his fingers.

“Wouldn’t it be something,” he said, “if there was a million dollars stuffed inside you. Even a thousand dollars. But don’t you worry, I won’t cut you open. Not on your life. I’ll never hurt you. Never.”

A crackling sound outside stopped him. He walked slowly to his bureau for his pistol and eased the safety off. He peered out each window but saw only snow, sky, and the dark wall of trees. His heart was beating fast. He heard the sound again. It came from the front of the cabin. He jerked the door open and stayed behind it, peeking through the crack between door and jamb. The sound came again. Very quickly, he stepped around the door, leading with the pistol. A squirrel stood immobile on the woodpile. It stared at Joe for a long time before biting into a pine cone.

Joe’s hands were trembling, and sweat soaked into his long underwear. He turned from the door, placed the gun on the refrigerator, and kicked the stove until its door caved in. He flipped the kitchen table on its side. He hurled his few dishes across the room, and knocked his canned goods to the floor. He emptied the drawers and ran through the house with a saucepan, beating the walls and doors. He threw his sleeping bag to the floor and stomped it until he tripped himself. In the bathroom, he stared at the mirror briefly before smashing his forehead against it. When he pulled his head away, a shard fell to the sink.

He ran outside without his coat and kept running to stay warm. His breath turned to ice on his beard. He leaned against a tree and heard his ragged breathing, his lungs aching in the cold. He followed coyote tracks along the frozen lane of a gully that fed Rock Creek. Twice his foot broke through the ice. The coyote had its own troubles, visible in the occasional wild scrapes and slides in the snow. There was a sudden spotting of estrus, and Joe recalled Rodale’s dark blood glistening in the night.

The tracks veered left and Joe rested beneath a tall pine. Brown needles covered the ground like sand. None of the pine trees in Kentucky were this big. He had no purpose in the woods, served no function. The coyote hunted game while deer ate bark. Geese had a flock. The ram he’d seen had a mate somewhere on the mountain. He was sick of himself. Terror rippled through him. For the first time in his life, his thoughts scared him. He could not be alone any longer.

He circled his cabin through the open woods and headed for Ty’s house. Juniper trees rose from a talus slope patched with snow. Ty’s pickup truck was parked a foot from his door, and Joe knocked but there was no answer. He knocked again, banging until his knuckles were raw. Ty stepped around the corner of the cabin holding a rifle.

“You all right?” he said.

“I don’t know,” Joe shivered in the wind. “Maybe not,”

“Let me let you in.”

Ty opened the door and motioned Joe to a couch. The coffee table was strewn with parts of a dismantled pistol. A gun cleaning kit lay open, its rods and patches neatly ordered. Ty placed his rifle on a wall rack that held four other weapons.

“Been hunting?” Joe said.

“No. I don’t get many visitors.”

“You must be getting jumpy as me.”

“It’s February,” Ty said. “Cabin fever sets in hard. The Crow people have a tradition of not gossiping after the first snow,”

“Why’s that?”

“Too easy to hurt people’s feelings and get somebody killed before the thaw.”

“Well, I didn’t come over to gossip.”

“Would you like tea?” Ty said. “I have chamomile. The Etruscans used it for snakebite.”

“Sure.”

The cabin was bigger than Joe’s, lined with the same pine panels. The stove was new and the room was very warm. Beside an easy chair was a bag containing two long needles and several skeins of yarn. A shortwave radio sat on the other side. A pair of half-rim reading glasses lay on a small table. Scattered about the room were several books, which Joe inspected while he waited. There were treatises on philosophy, history, and religion, manuals for converting semi-automatic weapons to fall auto, and several accounts of armed battle, from the Peloponnesian War to the most recent American conflicts. Four different Bibles were stacked beside the knitting bag.

The walls held contour maps of Rock Creek and the Bitterroot Valley to the west, Joe found the place where they were joined by Skalkaho Pass. Another map traced Rock Creek to its headwaters. In a corner there was a vise and a grinding wheel bolted to a heavy, homemade table. Pieces of metal lay along the surfaces. The cabin smelled of gun oil and cinnamon.

Ty came into the room carrying mugs with spoons protruding like chimneys for the rising steam. He sat in the easy chair with a directional lamp behind him. He was chubbier than Joe remembered. They sipped their tea in silence. It tasted odd, like clay dirt, but the heat calmed Joe.

“Nice place,” Joe said. “You knit?”

“Something I learned in Alaska. You got to have a lot of home projects in winter. How do you think the Swiss got so good at making watches? I’ve tried it all — beadwork, leatherwork, knife-making, even candle-making. You need something that doesn’t take up much space and won’t accumulate. What do you do in your place?”

“Nothing really. Walk. Chop wood. Been playing poker in town some. I sleep a lot.”

“Yeah, most people do. They eat, get fat, get depressed, and eat more. Then before you know it they’re killing their wife and kids. Drinking’s no good either, but a lot pass the winter that way.”

“I’ve seen a bunch of drunks, all right.”

“Try Alaska. People go up there for work, but the best way to get rich in Alaska is to open a saloon. I guess I been stuck in here awhile, the way I’m talking. You don’t notice it until somebody visits, do you?”

“I don’t know. I haven’t had a visitor. You’re the only person I know.”

“It takes a while. People like to see if you’ll last more than one winter. Go two years and you’ll be all right. What do you make of Montana so far?”

“Long winter.”

“People spend half their life fighting weather. In Alaska it’s more like three-quarters.”

“I don’t much care for fighting.” Joe gestured to the weapons around the room. “You look like you might.”

“Not me. I just tinker till spring. I don’t even hunt. Me, I’m what they call a gun enthusiast.”

Ty lifted the teabag with his spoon, wrapped the string around the bag, and used it to squeeze the remaining tea into the mug. There was a delicacy to the act that amused Joe.

“Look,” Ty said. “I know how it is to come here and not know anybody. Same thing happened to me. Hell, I’m from the Bronx.”

“Where’s that at?”

“New York City, man.”

“Never been there.”

“You wouldn’t like it. Surprising how many New Yorkers live in Montana. Thing about the West, anybody can come out here and fit in, because there’s not much to fit in with. Leave people alone and they won’t bother you. Same as New York.”

“Where I’m from’s like that, too.”

“Used to be that way all over the country. Now people are scared, and the laws don’t have anything to do with crime anymore.”

“Like the new gun laws.”

“You got it, brother. Most gun owners are men over thirty. They have a family and they start thinking about how to protect it. That’s only natural.”

“I know many a woman who can shoot pretty good.”

“That’s true, in the South and the West especially. You see, in the city a gun is a threat, but in the country it’s a tool for defense. Back east, they don’t want their criminals to have guns, so they take everyone else’s.”

“Because they got more crime?”

“Tons more. The cities are packed with homeless people, drugs, and crime. D.C.’s a war zone and nobody does anything. Those people pay taxes and don’t even have a senator or a governor. We fought a war to end that and we’re doing the same thing in our own capital.”

“I never been to Washington, either.”

“You wouldn’t like it. People blame guns for crime, but you take away guns and you’d still have the crime.”

“Why can’t they stop it?”

“Politics, my friend, nothing but. Politicians want votes, so they ban guns and put more cops on the street. Prison is a growth industry right now. We’ve got more prisons than all the other countries combined. We’re the freest country in history and we lock up the most people.”

“You know a lot about it, Ty.”

“Everybody should. Our government is robbing us of rights every day.”

“Like what?”

“Let’s see.” Ty set his mug aside and idly fingered the pile of yarn by his chair. He squinted out the window. “You flown in an airplane lately?”

“No,” Joe said. “I’ve never been on one.”

“You wouldn’t like it. You have to show a picture ID to get on a plane. That means a driver’s license. You got one, right?”

“Sure.”

“It’s got your Social Security number on it, right?”

“I asked for a separate number.”

“Good for you. Most people don’t have that much sense. To fly in an airplane, you got to show it to some flunky. It has nothing to do with driving. It’s a passport for domestic travel. You think that’s right?”

“I never thought about it.”

“Exactly. Most people don’t. The same thing happened in Germany during the twenties — they disarmed the citizens and made them carry identification papers. And the citizens let it happen. The poor bastards just stood by and watched, That’s what’s happening here, my friend. Eight now in America,”

“We’re turning into Nazis?”

“Not literally, no. But the same things are happening here that preceded the rise of the Third Reich. The country’s broke. There’s no jobs and people don’t trust the government. The Feds are cracking down on the people. They take away their weapons and their rights and lock them up.”

Joe sipped his tea. In Kentucky, people considered all politicians to be crooked. At work he’d heard plenty of men complain about the government, but it was usually the county or the state, You either liked the current politicians or you didn’t, and it often depended on the condition of the road by your house. Many people in the hills didn’t have a driver’s license, but the reasons were practical rather than political — they couldn’t be bothered to go into town for something they didn’t use that often.

“Shouldn’t people carry ID in case they get hurt or something?” Joe said.

“Yes, and always wear underwear in case you go to the hospital. A driver’s license has your picture and your number on it. That makes it nothing but a citizen ID card that lets some folks drive. You already have to show it to rent a video.”

“I don’t rent videos.”

“Good, The states are worse than the Feds. In Wisconsin you can lose your driver’s license if you don’t pay library fines, or don’t shovel snow off your sidewalk,”

“Bullshit.”

“Those laws are on the books, Joe. Oregon has a hundred offenses where they suspend your license, but only fifty that have to do with driving. And Kentucky takes away a teenager’s license if they miss school nine times. It’s not about driving anymore.”

Joe stood and walked to the window. The sky was silver with snow. He didn’t want Ty to see his face at the mention of Kentucky. Winters at home were short. Snow came in great storms that turned the woods to chandeliers of light and melted in a week. The temperature rarely dropped below twenty and you didn’t need hobbies that lasted until spring. Joe wanted to know why Ty had come to Montana, but didn’t want to risk having to answer the same question.

“You got a checkerboard?” Joe said.

“No.”

“Deck of cards?”

“No.”

“Maybe you can teach me how to knit, then.”

“It’s tougher than it looks,” Ty said.

“I never had a hobby that was doing something.”

“What do you mean?”

“I collected stuff.”

“Sure,” Ty said. “Old money, comic books.”

“Where I’m from, there’s no new money. I collected what I could find — rocks, bark, feathers.”

“Makes it tough in the winter, huh. A lot of people, they tie flies till spring.”

“I always went to work,” Joe said. “When I was a kid we rode sleds and had snowball fights.”

“Where was that?”

“Texas.”

“You don’t talk like a Texan.”

“I can’t help it.”

“I guess you’re from north Texas.”

“Maybe.”

“Up where they get a lot of snow.”

Joe looked into his mug. Silt swirled at the bottom and he set it on the table. He felt uncomfortable that Ty knew he was lying, but he wasn’t ready to leave.

“It’s not a law to carry ID, is it?” Joe said.

“Not yet, my friend. But last year over four thousand new laws were passed.”

“That’s a lot.”

“Yep, and most are about controlling people.”

“Like what?”

“The seat-belt law,” Ty said.

“That ain’t new.”

“No, but it’s the best example of a bad law.”

“Why? What’s wrong with it?”

“Everything. Only a moron doesn’t wear a seat belt, but being a moron shouldn’t be illegal.”

“I know some people glad of that.”

“You’re missing the point. It’s the same with the motorcycle helmet law. Congress is wasting taxpayers’ money to legislate common sense.”

“A lot of folks don’t have it.”

“That’s right. Our country is the only one that makes it against the law to be stupid. Is that free?”

“Don’t reckon.”

“You’re not from a city, are you?”

Joe shrugged.

“Don’t worry,” Ty said, “I’m not trying to get personal. But the government is naming every little dirt road in the country. No more addresses like Rural Route 4, Box 60-A. Now every dead-end road gets its own private name,”

“Yeah, I know. It’s so an ambulance can get there in an emergency.”

“That’s what they’re telling you. Joe, But ambulance drivers know their territory. They don’t need a street sign at every podunk crossroad. The reason for naming roads is to provide the government with a list of every house in the country, where it is, and who lives in it. That and the national identity card give them a precise record of exactly who lives exactly where. It’s all about privacy, Joe. There is no privacy anymore. And without privacy, there’s no freedom.”

Joe didn’t consider the government an enemy. It was more of an entity to manipulate if you wanted fresh gravel on your road, or a family member out of jail. People at home didn’t worry about the government, they ignored it. Men hunted out of season to feed their children. Families made moonshine for export, and when demand changed they grew marijuana. Laws didn’t have much bearing in the hills, especially when the sheriff was an elected official.

“I got to go,” Joe said. “Getting late.”

“Glad you came over. You’ll have to excuse me for talking so much, but we all get lonely.”

“Think this snow will pass?”

“Tomorrow it’ll be deep and still.”

“What do you mean?”

“Deep as your ass and still snowing.” Ty laughed. “That’s what they say in Alaska.”

“Thanks for the tea.”

“You bet. Remember, spring will come. The main thing is to get through winter without parking one in the brain pan.”

The trees were black against the snow, becoming pale shades of gray farther up the mountain. Clouds opened in cracks that striped the slopes with sunlight, filling the valley with a liquid shine. Sight-lines spread in all directions and snowflakes fell to the ground as if towed by thread. Joe wondered how scientists knew there were no two alike.

Inside his cabin he built a fire and cleaned the mess. It seemed as if someone else had wrecked the place a long time ago. He’d come to Montana to cut himself off from people, but that was impossible for him. He was a small-town person who’d been happiest at work. Ty was right, he had to get through winter. He had food, shelter, and a sleeping bag. When spring arrived, he needed to find a job and a community.

He patted the possum on the head. He decided to bury it at the first thaw.