Postcards. Annie Proulx

him. He didn’t think they’d ever be after him. That wall was built good, he thought. If the foxes didn’t dig in under. If nobody went up there. Who in hell would go up there? Nobody would go up there.

      The roads had hardened in the autumn cold and there wasn’t much traffic. Good hunting weather. A few cars, a log truck coming out of the dark woods, leaving a double-curve of cleated mud where it turned onto the hardtop. Must of gotten stuck in some soft spot. He had forty-seven dollars, enough to take him some distance. If the car would hold up. It was in pretty good shape, a ’36 Chevy Coach, except for the back of the seat that had broke and had to be braced from behind with a wooden crosspiece. The heater only put out a trickle, less warmth than a bat’s breath, but the defroster did well enough. The battery was old, and the Coach was a bitch to start on a cold morning, about as simple as getting port wine out of a cow’s left hind teat. The tires still had tread. He’d nurse them along. If it broke down bad he could get work. Walk onto any farm and get work. What bothered him was the gas stamps. He only had enough for twenty gallons. That could just get him across New York state. He’d have to get it any way he could.

      He didn’t think where he was going, just heading out. It seemed to him there didn’t have to be a direction, just a random traveling away from the farm. It wasn’t the idea that he could go anywhere, but the idea that he had to go somewhere, and it didn’t make any difference where. No spark had ever ignited his mind for the study of spiders or rocks, for the meshing of watch gears, or the shudder of paper pouring out of the black presses, for mapping the high arctic or singing tenor. The farm had had answers for any question, but no questions had ever come up.

      West, that was the direction. That was where Billy thought there was something. Not another farm. She wanted a place with madhouses, some kind of War work, good money in the factories if she could find a job that didn’t bust her nails, save some dough for a start, go out Saturday night, hair curled, parted in the middle and pulled back by two red barrettes set with rhinestones. She wanted to sing. She sang pretty good when she got the chance. Go up to the Club 52 packed with guys from the base. Like Anita O’Day, cool, smart, standing there in front of the microphone, holding it with one hand, a red chiffon scarf dripping down from her hand, her voice running through the room like water over rock. Clear, but a little sarcastic.

      He was supposed to get a job. The money was good, she said, dollar an hour and better. Guys were pulling down fifty, sixty bucks a week in the aircraft plants. He’d drive west, but keep to the border. Those cities she’d named, South Bend, Detroit, Gary, Chicago, those were the places. What Billy would have wanted, but his mind kept jumping away from whatever had happened. The gas would be a problem.

      The road ran along the railroad tracks up near the lake. That was another way; he could ride the rails. He’d never done it, but plenty had. Dub had, even dumb Dub had bummed around, riding the boxcars in the times he went off his nut and drifted out and away. He’d come back a mess, stinking, lugging an old feed sack of trash, his hair stiff with dirt.

      ‘Presents. Got you a present, Ma,’ he’d say, pulling out the junk. Once it was about thirty pie pans, the edges gummed with baked-on apple and cherry syrup. Once five little bales of cotton about six inches high, the tags saying ‘A Gift from New Orleans, Cotton Capital of the World.’ Another time the best he could do was half a BURMA SHAVE sign. All it said was BURMA. He tried to tell them it came from the real Burma. And the time he brought back about fifty pounds of red dirt from somewhere down south, he didn’t even know where.

      ‘It’s all like this, all red dirt down there. Red as blood. Red roads, the wind blows red, bottom of the houses red, gardens, farms red. But the taters and turnips is the same color as ours. I don’t get it. Because there is red taters in this world. But not in the land of the red dirt.’ He dumped the soil in one of Jewell’s flower beds where he could look at it now and then and be reminded of the place it came from.

      A light appeared and reappeared in the darkness behind him, gradually growing larger in the rearview. Loyal heard the whistle blow for a crossing, somewhere behind him, he thought, but when he steered around the long corner before the bridge, the train was there, its light sweeping along the rails, the iron shuddering past a few feet from him.

      The worst was the time Dub had come back honed down to his bones, the scabs on his face like black islands and his left arm amputated except for a stub like a seal’s flipper. Mink and Jewell, all stiff in their best clothes driving down to get him, first time Mink had ever been out of the state. Dub called it that, ‘my flipper,’ trying to make a joke but sounding loony and sick. ‘Could of been worse,’ he said, tipping a crazy wink at Loyal. He’d only gone off once since then, no farther than Providence, Rhode Island, and hitching on the road, not riding the rods. There was a kind of school in Rhode Island he said, a place to learn tricks of getting things done with half your parts missing. They could fix you up with artificial arms and hands and legs made out of pulleys and aluminum. A new kind of plastic fingers that worked so good you could play the one-man band with them. But when he came back he was the same. Didn’t want to talk about it. Some VA place for servicemen, farmers had to get along the best they could. It was just a question anyway of how far you got before you were crippled up one way or another. A lot of people didn’t make it past the time they were kids. Look at Mink, pitchfork tines through his thigh when he was five years old, two car wrecks, the tractor rollover, the time the brood sow got him down and half tore off his ear, but he was still there, gimping around, strong as a log chain, getting the work done. Tuf Nut. The old son of a bitch.

      Miles into New York state he pulled the car into a field behind a row of chokecherry trees. The broken seat back could come in handy, he thought, pulling out the brace and letting it flop down into a kind of narrow bed. But as he twisted near deep his chest seized up again, a blunt stake slammed into a place under his larynx, and with it a choking breathlessness. He sat up, dozing and waking in starts, the rest of the night.

      No station came in clearly on the radio, not even the jabber of French and accordions, riding along the edges of the Adirondack conifer forests, spruce and miles of skeletal larch like grey woods static, sometimes a tangle of deer legs and phosphorescent eyes in the road ahead of him, far enough ahead that he had time to tap the brakes while he laid on the horn and watched them go, worrying about the brake lines, the worn drums. He passed houses not much bigger than toolsheds, threads of smoke floating out of the cobblestone chimneys, passed boarded-up log cabins, signposts saying ‘Crow’s Nest,’ ‘Camp Idle-Our’, ‘The Retreat,’ ‘Skeeter Gulch,’ ‘Dun Roamin.’ Bridges, water racing away, the gravel road punched with potholes, all the roads nothing more than notches through the tight-packed trees, roads that took their curves and twists from the St. Lawrence River thirty miles to the north. The strangeness of the country, its emptiness, steadied his breathing. There was nothing here of him, no weight of event or duty or family. Somber land, wet as the inside of a bucket in the rain. The gas gauge needle tipped down and he kept his eye out for a gas pump. The farther away he got the better it seemed he could breathe.

      Late in the morning he pulled up to a tourist trap, BIG PINETREE, lying in wait in the trees beyond a long bend. He was half sick with hunger. Four or five old cars and trucks, standing so long their tires had gone flat. A row of sheds covered with signs: ‘Little Indian Moccasins,’ ‘Peanut Bride,’ ‘Balsom Pilows,’ ‘Lether Work,’ ‘Groceries,’ ‘Sovenirs,’ ‘Tire Change Wihle U Wait,’ ‘Lunchroom,’ ‘Botomless Cup of Coffee 5c,’ ‘Rest Room,’ ‘Gifts & Noveltys,’ ‘Auto Repears,’ ‘Worm & Bait,’ ‘Torist Cabin.’ There was a half-closed look to the place but the light was on in the pump’s round head, the glow shining through the red-painted Tydol Flying A gasoline. The parking lot as rough as a cob, full of mud sinks and washboard ripples. There was a garage bay with a hinge-sprung door that left a scraped semicircle in the gravel. Somebody had dumped a load of cordwood near the main building.

      He went in. A wood lunch counter with a few stools home upholstered in red oilcloth, three booths varnished the color of orange peel. He could smell cigarette smoke. The radio was going, somewhere. ‘What a dart you placed in my heart the day that we parted.’ Beyond the counter were islands and aides of moccasins, pincushions, colored feather dusters with handles carved in the shape of a spruce tree, canvas water bags