Wade parked his car next to the log house, and Jacob offered to help carry Olivia. “I’ve got her,” said Wade, and placed her on the front seat of Jacob’s jeep.
“I’ll bring it back before daylight,” Wade said.
“I’m not going anywhere today,” said Jacob. “Bring it back in the evening. And you better order a new windshield for your car, and a headlight.”
After Wade and Olivia were back on the highway, they met a squad car, then another.
“Should we pick up the sawed-off?” asked Wade.
“Not on your life.”
On Highway 87 they stopped at a roadblock.
“We’re looking for a green or light blue car,” said the patrolman, pointing his flashlight in the jeep’s open window, past Wade and straight into Olivia’s face. “Wonder if you folks have seen or heard anything.”
“Nothing dangerous, I hope,” said Olivia, touching her face with both hands and opening her mouth into an oval shape.
“Dangerous enough, lady. Keep your eyes and ears open. Let us know if you see something.”
“We will, officer,” said Olivia.
He waved them on.
“It’s a good thing he didn’t look at the other side of your face,” said Olivia. “Your eye is almost swelled shut. He would have wondered about that.”
In the casino parking lot, Wade put Olivia’s wheelchair in the back of the jeep.
They drove through town.
Wade asked if she would like something to drink.
“I’ve had quite enough fluids passing through me, thank you.”
“How about something to eat?”
“I don’t have any money. I lost everything at the casino.”
“I have money,” said Wade.
“I guess that would be all right.”
“What would you like?”
“I don’t know,” said Olivia. No one outside her family had ever asked her what she wanted to eat, and the astounding novelty of this seemingly ordinary question had a strange attraction. “How about a sandwich?”
“Damn good choice,” said Wade. He pulled into a convenience store and rushed inside. When he returned he had two refrigerated turkey sandwiches, with lettuce and tomato, in shrink- wrap, and potato chips. They ate in the parking lot and continued eating as they drove toward Olivia’s home in Words.
“My name is Wade.”
“I’m Olivia.”
Several miles passed.
“Excuse me, Ma’am, but I really want to thank you. I mean I don’t think we’d be here without, well, you. I mean I don’t think I’d be here. You’re real smart. And, well, this might sound stupid, and it probably is, but this has really been a good night for me. I feel very good about tonight. Very good.”
“Remember to take good care of this car,” said Olivia. “Nothing
can happen to it, do you understand? Nothing. Not a scratch or a dent or a blemish of any kind.”
“I understand, but it’s already kind of beat up.”
“There’s my house—the one with all the lights on.”
“You know,” said Wade, pulling over and stopping momentarily, “I’d like to, I mean, damn, Ma’am, I would like to see you again, if you’d consider it. You’re really cute. Would it be all right for us to go out together?”
At first Olivia wondered how the eye closest to her could see anything at all. Then she smiled and tried to think while the undiluted meaning of what had just been said began dissolving all her rational thoughts. She fought against his words and what they were doing to her, gave up and felt alive, good, and important. Her lungs, she noticed, were breathing in more air than usual. “What exactly did you have in mind?”
“I don’t know. What would
you
like to do?”
“I don’t do much of anything, I’m afraid,” said Olivia. “My life is one of almost complete inertia.”
“Then maybe you could come with me to a dogfight.”
“A what?”
“I went to a couple and they’re very, well, they’re just very damn cool. They train these dogs to fight. They’re special, fighting dogs. You bet on which ones will win. The owners and breeders meet in barns and other places—never the same place. I mean it teaches you something about human nature.”
“You mean it teaches you what human nature
could be.
”
“Yeah, something like that, but I’d really like it if you’d go with me. I never have anyone to go places with.”
“That settles it,” said Olivia. “We’ll go together.”
He parked in front of her house. Fourteen people and three cats came onto the porch and watched as Olivia and the youth in the jeep finished eating the potato chips in the bag. Then Wade took the wheelchair out of the back, set Olivia in it, and pushed her up the ramp.
“This is my new friend,” she said. “Tell them your name.”
“Wade Armbuster. Glad to meet you.”
The crowd parted and Wade pushed her inside. Then he came back outside, climbed into the jeep that looked just like the one belonging to the owner of the Words Repair Shop, and drove away.
Olivia rolled into her bedroom.
After Violet had sent all her neighbors and friends away and called the police to tell them that her missing sister had been found, she followed her.
“What’s going on here, Olivia?” she demanded. “We’ve been worried sick about you, just sick we’ve been worried.”
“I’m afraid I’ve had a little accident,” said Olivia. “I need a bath and some clean clothes.”
“Land sakes, your dress is soaked! Where have you been? It’s four-thirty in the morning!”
“It’s a long story, and not an entirely pleasant one. You should prepare yourself, Vio. I’m afraid we’re homeless.”
MEASURING UP
F
INDING HIS CHILDREN IN THE SNOW HAD A PROFOUND EFFECT on Grahm Shotwell. Closed ski runs opened in his mind, and down them rushed convivial thoughts, eager to evaluate his circumstances. They insisted that something new and significant had occurred the moment he let go of the rope and followed Cora into the blinding snow. He had taken a leap of faith, with a giant emphasis on the leaping part, because when the rope fell from his hands, he remembered with perfect clarity, he had had faith in nothing. He had simply stepped forward.
Yet that decision, lacking assurances and convictions of any kind, had been cause for the most important action of his life. The fact that his children were now alive seemed too big to contemplate. And even if he and Cora had failed, the ineluctable principle upon which they had acted would have remained unblemished. The still, small voice had to be obeyed, even when it was so small and still as to be unintelligible.
The implications of this seemed both monumental and vague, and his brain—on fire—sought to understand what had happened to him. It could mean that some unknowable Spirit ruled the world and directed his actions, or perhaps that he had simply been lucky. Or it could mean that when he was confronted with life- threatening situations he should cast reason aside and depend on his unassisted instincts. Or that the deep connection between him and his wife and children in some way determined how things turned out. Or it meant that the avoidance motive—fear—should be ignored in all-important matters.
The Room of Vital Wisdom may be empty, he thought, but that should not prevent us from going inside.
Weeks later, Grahm still remained exhilarated, as if he had come
downstairs in the middle of the night and found the game of life arranged like chess pieces on the kitchen table, with his color enjoying a clear advantage.
Nothing seemed impossible now.
He would prove to himself and to anyone else paying close attention that he was worthy of Cora, whose unwavering courage had allowed her to step into the blizzard without a safety line first. Compared to hers, his role had been that of a mere disciple, a follower. Something was needed—some action to show that they could stand side by side.
He found July Montgomery in the field behind his house, forking manure out of his New Holland spreader in the middle of the afternoon.
“Chain break?” he asked.
“Frozen apron. It always happens when they’re full,” said July, breathing heavily.
“Here, let me help. Your age is showing.”
“You must want something,” said July.
“I do,” said Grahm, taking the pronged implement and jabbing it into the remaining manure and straw in the spreader, lifting it onto the steaming pile on the ground. “I want you to come with me to American Milk’s annual meeting.”
“I thought you were organic now and weren’t shipping to them.”
“I’m not. That’s why I need you to go with me—so I can get into the meeting. And I think you know more about these things than I do.”
“What things?”
“Annual meetings.”
“Does this have something to do with the letter you wrote to the newspaper a while ago?”
“I guess it does, but my wife wrote it.”
“You won’t be listened to,” said July. “Nothing controversial gets into annual meetings. Co-op employees and dignitaries outnumber farmers four to one. Everyone dresses up. They turn up the heat and serve a heavy meal—with alcohol—so everyone is half asleep before the meeting begins. All the real business is done in executive sessions.
Even the financial report, if there is one, is not discussed. There’ll be over five hundred people inside the building and the farmers who come will mostly be those sitting on the board, or who used to sit on the board, or are related to board people—old gents who own farms but never get their own hands dirty. The rest come for the food. It’s like any large corporation—the big boys know if they can’t control the annual meeting, they can’t control the company. Their lawyers set the rules accordingly. It’s worked for thousands of years: those with power keep it.”
“I have a copy of the bylaws and it says every annual meeting must have a time open to the membership. It’s in the charter.”
“Of course it says that, but it doesn’t work that way.”
“Will you go with me?”
“It’s a bad idea. You won’t be listened to. Spring will be here soon and there’s a lot of work ahead. It’s a long ways up there.”
“Please. I can’t go alone.”
“Yes, I’ll go. Now give me back that fork,” said July. “You’re doing it the wrong way.”
“Thanks,” said Grahm and turned around to walk away.
“Wait,” said July. “Do you remember a long time ago—when you were very young, maybe twelve or thirteen—you were clearing brush on the piece of ground your father bought. Do you remember? You were hardly big enough to lift the chain saw and were cutting sumac along the road. It was getting dark and you had almost half an acre of stalks lying on the ground.”
“I remember you stopped,” said Grahm. “I’d never seen you before. We stacked up the dead wood and made a fire.”
“Yes. And the sparks rose into the sky like nothing either of us had ever seen before.”
“I remember,” said Grahm.
“I just wondered if you did,” said July.
THE MEANING OF TRUTH
T
HURSDAY AFTERNOON AT THE CASINO, BRIAN LEASTHORSE CARRIED a briefcase of invoices into his office and set it next to the computer. He took off his jacket, loosened his tie, unbuttoned his cuffs, sipped from a half- empty cup of coffee, and looked out the window at the construction site at the other end of the parking lot. He added the last of the coffee from the smudged glass pot, hoping to raise the combined liquid temperature to an acceptable level. He took another sip, thought about making a fresh pot, and resigned himself to the lukewarm, bitter beverage. With a last look at the clock on the wall, he sat at the computer, opened the briefcase, and began entering numbers into a spreadsheet.
As he began to flow into his work, successfully ignoring the reality of three or four hours before he could go home, the telephone rang. It was Security. Someone wanted to see “the manager.”
“Call Personnel,” said Brian.
“They don’t answer. Clarence says they’re at a convention or a seminar or something.”
“Get Stover.”
“Stover’s in the Cities with the Cartbuckle lawyers.”
“I don’t have time for this.”
“Somebody’s got to talk to her. She’s making a lot of noise.”
“Where’s Shirley?”
“Shirley didn’t come in today.”
“Fine. Send her up.”
Brian took a long, terrible drink of coffee. He stood up, stretched to relieve the pain in his lower back, put on his jacket, and passed his hands lightly over his glossy black hair. He didn’t like dealing with customers. Well, that wasn’t exactly true. Years ago, when he worked
in Security—his first position with the casino—he’d enjoyed it. Back then, hours had passed with loitering, amiable ease.
Through his office door he saw a woman step out of the elevator at the end of the hall. She looked ordinary enough—thirties, as slender as a heron with a bright yellow blouse and dark, nearly floor-length skirt, perhaps wool. A column of autumn brown hair, very long and very straight, fell behind her shoulders, even lower than the handbag hanging from her right shoulder.
After leaving the elevator she hesitated, took several steps, and steadied herself by momentarily touching the wall. Then she assumed a new posture. Her neck and head rose out of her yellow collar perfectly erect. She straightened her shoulders, drew her arms to her sides, turned, and marched toward him with an almost militant resolve, her long skirt flapping around her thin legs.
Her physical features were soon eclipsed by her expression, as though she was possessed by a single grand idea. Her face had “that look,” and without knocking she walked through the doorway and stood before his desk.
“Can I help you?”
“That is my sincere hope.”
“I’m Brian Leasthorse,” he said. “Would you like a chair?”
“No thank you,” said Winnie.
“How can I help you?”
“By returning the money one of my people lost here a short time ago—all of it, please.”
“ ‘My people?’ ” said Brian, smiling broadly.