with their red lights flashing in the fog and a few minutes later a fellow in a sheepskin coat driving a pickup with a horse trailer behind it. Now the horses shied and tried to get away, and the man with the horse trailer swore and tried to get a rope around the neck of one horse.
“Don’t hurt it!” Nancy said.
We went back in the house and stood behind the window and watched the deputies and the rancher work on getting the horses rounded up.
“I’m going to make some coffee,” I said. “Would you like some coffee, Nancy?”
“I’ll tell you what I’d like,” she said. “I feel high, Dan. I feel like I’m loaded. I feel like, I don’t know, but I like the way I’m feeling. You put on some coffee and I’ll find us some music to listen to on the radio and then you can build up the fire again. I’m too excited to sleep.”
So we sat in front of the fire and drank coffee and listened to an all-night radio station from Eureka and talked about the horses and then talked about Richard, and Nancy’s mother. We danced. We didn’t talk about the present situation at all. The fog hung outside the window and we talked and were kind with one another. Toward daylight I turned off the radio and we went to bed and made love.
The next afternoon, after her arrangements were made and her suitcases packed, I drove her to the little airport where she would catch a flight to Portland and then transfer to another airline that would put her in Pasco late that night.
“Tell your mother I said hello. Give Richard a hug for me and tell him I miss him,” I said. “Tell him I send love.”
“He loves you too,” she said. “You know that. In any case, you’ll see him in the fall, I’m sure.”
I nodded.
“Good-bye,” she said and reached for me. We held each other. “I’m glad for last night,” she said. “Those horses. Our talk. Everything. It helps. We won’t forget that,” she said. She began to cry.
“Write me, will you?” I said. “I didn’t think it would happen to us,” I said. “All those years. I never thought so for a minute. Not us.”
“I’ll write,” she said. “Some big letters. The biggest you’ve ever seen since I used to send you letters in high school.”
“I’ll be looking for them,” I said.
Then she looked at me again and touched my face. She turned and moved across the tarmac toward the plane.
Go, dearest one, and God be with you
.
She boarded the plane and I stayed around until its jet engines started, and in a minute the plane began to taxi down the runway. It lifted off over Humboldt Bay and soon became a speck on the horizon.
I drove back to the house and parked in the driveway and looked at the hoofprints of the horses from last night. There were deep impressions in the grass, and gashes, and there were piles of dung. Then I went into the house and, without even taking off my coat, went to the telephone and dialed Susan’s number.
FIVE ESSAYS AND A MEDITATION
My Father’s Life
My dad’s name was Clevie Raymond Carver. His family called him Raymond and friends called him C. R. I was named Raymond Clevie Carver Jr. I hated the “Junior” part. When I was little my dad called me Frog, which was okay. But later, like everybody else in the family, he began calling me Junior. He went on calling me this until I was thirteen or fourteen and announced that I wouldn’t answer to that name any longer. So he began calling me Doc. From then until his death, on June 17, 1967, he called me Doc, or else Son.
When he died, my mother telephoned my wife with the news. I was away from my family at the time, between lives, trying to enroll in the School of Library Science at the University of Iowa. When my wife answered the phone, my mother blurted out, “Raymond’s dead!” For a moment, my wife thought my mother was telling her that I was dead. Then my mother made it clear
which
Raymond she was talking about and my wife said, “Thank God. I thought you
“Don’t hurt it!” Nancy said.
We went back in the house and stood behind the window and watched the deputies and the rancher work on getting the horses rounded up.
“I’m going to make some coffee,” I said. “Would you like some coffee, Nancy?”
“I’ll tell you what I’d like,” she said. “I feel high, Dan. I feel like I’m loaded. I feel like, I don’t know, but I like the way I’m feeling. You put on some coffee and I’ll find us some music to listen to on the radio and then you can build up the fire again. I’m too excited to sleep.”
So we sat in front of the fire and drank coffee and listened to an all-night radio station from Eureka and talked about the horses and then talked about Richard, and Nancy’s mother. We danced. We didn’t talk about the present situation at all. The fog hung outside the window and we talked and were kind with one another. Toward daylight I turned off the radio and we went to bed and made love.
The next afternoon, after her arrangements were made and her suitcases packed, I drove her to the little airport where she would catch a flight to Portland and then transfer to another airline that would put her in Pasco late that night.
“Tell your mother I said hello. Give Richard a hug for me and tell him I miss him,” I said. “Tell him I send love.”
“He loves you too,” she said. “You know that. In any case, you’ll see him in the fall, I’m sure.”
I nodded.
“Good-bye,” she said and reached for me. We held each other. “I’m glad for last night,” she said. “Those horses. Our talk. Everything. It helps. We won’t forget that,” she said. She began to cry.
“Write me, will you?” I said. “I didn’t think it would happen to us,” I said. “All those years. I never thought so for a minute. Not us.”
“I’ll write,” she said. “Some big letters. The biggest you’ve ever seen since I used to send you letters in high school.”
“I’ll be looking for them,” I said.
Then she looked at me again and touched my face. She turned and moved across the tarmac toward the plane.
Go, dearest one, and God be with you
.
She boarded the plane and I stayed around until its jet engines started, and in a minute the plane began to taxi down the runway. It lifted off over Humboldt Bay and soon became a speck on the horizon.
I drove back to the house and parked in the driveway and looked at the hoofprints of the horses from last night. There were deep impressions in the grass, and gashes, and there were piles of dung. Then I went into the house and, without even taking off my coat, went to the telephone and dialed Susan’s number.
FIVE ESSAYS AND A MEDITATION
My Father’s Life
My dad’s name was Clevie Raymond Carver. His family called him Raymond and friends called him C. R. I was named Raymond Clevie Carver Jr. I hated the “Junior” part. When I was little my dad called me Frog, which was okay. But later, like everybody else in the family, he began calling me Junior. He went on calling me this until I was thirteen or fourteen and announced that I wouldn’t answer to that name any longer. So he began calling me Doc. From then until his death, on June 17, 1967, he called me Doc, or else Son.
When he died, my mother telephoned my wife with the news. I was away from my family at the time, between lives, trying to enroll in the School of Library Science at the University of Iowa. When my wife answered the phone, my mother blurted out, “Raymond’s dead!” For a moment, my wife thought my mother was telling her that I was dead. Then my mother made it clear
which
Raymond she was talking about and my wife said, “Thank God. I thought you
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