Postcards. Annie Proulx

on the Army Dinner Saturday night, the big beef stew dinner in the cafeteria style, Army style. I was expectin’ you to take me down to the church on Saturday mornin’. You can stay for that. Billy’s one of the ones that wears the chefs hats and ladles out the food. She has to stay for that.’

      ‘It’s on Billy’s account we got to go tonight. There’s certain reasons. No good to talk about it. I’m goin’.’ He leaned wildly at them, the black hair curling at the opening of his shirt where the blue-white skin showed.

      ‘Well Jesus Christ, I see the whole thing. You knocked her up. She wants to clear out so nobody don’t know. There’s a word to describe a fella like you lets himself get backed into a rutty corner where he can’t turn around,’ the voice squeezed along, ‘but I won’t say it in front of your mother and sister.’

      ‘Hey, you leave, Loyal,’ said Dub, ‘you’re finishin’ off this farm.’

      ‘Well I knew this was goin’ to be like takin’ a bath in boiled shit, but I didn’t know it was goin’ to be this bad. Can’t you understand nothin’? I’m goin’.’

      He ran up to the slant-ceilinged room he shared with Dub, leaving the ham on his plate, leaving his chair turned away from the table, leaving the fly-spotted mirror reflecting Mernelle’s face. He hauled out the old valise, opened it and threw it onto the bed. And stood a long minute with the shirts bunched up in his hands, the valise gaping like a shout. Down there Mink was firing up, bellowing now, something smashing and rattling – door to the pantry. Loyal dropped the shirts into the valise, and afterwards believed that was the moment when everything shifted, when the route of his life veered away from the main line, not when Billy dumped beneath his blind rutting, but as the shirts collapsed in their cotton limpness.

      He found Dub’s bottle in a boot in the closet, tightened the cap and tossed it in, working the stiff strap through the valise buckle as he came down the stairs double-stride, hearing Mink hammering now, seeing the son of a bitch nailing the kitchen door shut. So he couldn’t get out.

      He was across the room in a few seconds. He kicked out the window and stepped over the raking glass onto the porch, leaving it all, the trapline, the rough little Jerseys, the two Holsteins with their heavy flesh-colored udders. Dub’s oily rags, and the smell of old iron in the back of the barn, the wall up by the woods. That part of things was over. It was over in a rush.

      Down on the town road he thought it was a sour joke how things had turned out. Billy, always yapping about moving away, getting out, making a new start, was staying on the farm. He, who’d never thought beyond the farm, never wanted anything but the farm, was on his way. Clenching the steering wheel.

      Something was sticking in his backside, and he felt around, grasped Mernelle’s ocarina, the swirled novelty pattern of the Bakelite scarred from kicking around the floor. On the sides were decals of donkeys carrying panniers of cactus. He started to crank down the window to throw it out, but the window slipped off the rail again when it was only a crack open, and he threw the ocarina into the backseat.

      It was almost dusk, but at the low place where the meadows swept the trees off to the sides he pulled over to take a last look. But jammed the spurting flashes of what had happened. Had happened and was done.

      The place was as fixed as a picture on a postcard, the house and barn like black ships in an ocean of fields, the sky a membrane holding the final light, and there were the blurred kitchen windows, and up behind the buildings the field, the rich twenty-acre field propped open toward the south like a Bible, the crease of the water vein almost exactly in the center of the ten-acre pages. He fished in the valise and got Dub’s bottle, swallowed the cold whiskey. Beautiful pasture, four or five years of his work to bring that field up, none of Mink’s labor, his, draining the boggy place, liming and seeding to clover, plowing under the clover three years running to build up the soil, get the sourness out, then planting alfalfa and keeping it going, look at it, sweet good stuff, nutty, full of nourishment. That’s what made those cows give the butterfat, nothing Mink did, but him. Loyal, the best pasture in the county. That was why he had wanted to go up above the junipers, even though Billy didn’t care about the field and couldn’t tell good fields from bad, not to do what she thought he wanted, but to look at his pasture from above.

      ‘I heard it all, now,’ she said. ‘Looks like any stupid old field to me.’ She shook her head. ‘I don’t know if I can make something out of you or not. Loyal.’

      The field looked like black-green fur in the dull light.

      ‘That’s your last look,’ he said, laid Dub’s bottle in the glove compartment and threw the car into first. Out of the corner of his eye he half-marked a white dot up in the field. Too big for a fox, wrong shape for a deer. And no stumps in that field.

      But he was fourteen miles away from home and half across the bridge, stepping gingerly on the brake to keep from hitting a burrcovered stray, before he figured it out. The dog. The dog was up in the field right where he’d told him to sit. Still waiting. Jesus Christ.

       2 Mink’s Revenge

      MINK, PANTING IN unsatisfied rage, limped through the house throwing down Loyal’s things, a model airplane impaled on a nail in the front hall, school photos in warped folders edged with gold – Loyal the only one in his class with wavy hair, handsome – standing in a crowd of frames and button boxes on the piecrust cherry table in the front room. The 4-H ribbons, red, white and blue for calves, pasted on a piece of propped cardboard, the high school diploma with its black pointed letters proving Loyal had completed courses in Agriculture and Agronomy and Manual Training, the Dairy Management book from his single year at the agricultural school, dark blue and heavy, the certificate for pasture improvement, a newspaper clipping with a photo of Mr. Fuller, the County Agent, handing the certificate to Loyal, all these things he threw on the floor.

      He crammed Loyal’s barn coat into the kitchen stove, scraped the untouched food on his plate in after it. Smoke swelled out of a hundred stove cracks and eddied along the ceiling before curling into the stream of warm air pouring out through the smashed window. Dub fumbled behind the pantry door for cardboard to tack over the window and Jewell, her face red and her eyes narrowed to slits, juggled the stove damper. A roaring came from the stovepipe as the creosote in the bend of the elbow caught and heated the stinking metal to a dull red.

      ‘Christ, Ma, you’re workin’ on a chimbley fire, damper the goddamn thing down,’ shouted Dub.

      Here came Mink, cool now, but with vicious eyes, coming downstairs with Loyal’s .30–.30, limping through the kitchen, leaving the door open. Dub guessed the old man would throw it in the pond. Later he could drag through the mud with a potato fork and maybe get lucky. Probably take a day of cleaning and oiling to get it back in shape, but it was a good rifle and worth the trouble. Laid across the windowsill of the hayloft he could shoot it, get his deer like anybody else. He pieced and tacked cardboard boxes, all dots and creases, to the window frame, holding the cardboard in place with his left knee while he hammered.

      ‘I’ll cut some glass, put it in tomorrow if somebody’ll give me a hand puttin’ in the points.’ But he was pale.

      Jewell swept up the curving slivers, putty chunks and dust, stoutly bending over, her print dress riding up, exposing the ribbed cotton stockings, the flesh-pink dip from Montgomery Ward.

      ‘There’s glass in the food, Ma, there’s glass all over the table,’ said Mernelle. ‘There’s big pieces on the porch, too.’

      ‘You can start by scrapin’ the plates, and don’t put it in the pig pail. Have to take it out and heave it. I don’t know about the hens, if they’d pick up the glass, but I suppose they would. Heave it out back of the garden.’

      There was the slamming sound of a shot from the barn, then another, and, after a long interval,