of beans he would be set up fine, if it should happen to get sleety or wet.
After a lengthy nap Shorty got restless and decided to investigate the rocks just off the edge of the hill, where a family of ground squirrels burrowed. Shorty considered the ground squirrels intruders, and the ground squirrels considered Shorty abothersome pest. One of the squirrels would sit on top of a boulder and scold Shorty roundly, chattering in indignation.
“Live and let live, Shorty,” Duane said. “Those squirrels got here first.”
Gradually, as the morning wore on and the dark clouds to the northwest edged closer, a thought with equally stormy implications began to edge into Duane’s mind. When he walked off that morning at three-fifteen he had assumed he would take a long walk, perhaps spend most of the day at his cabin, and then walk back in and eat dinner with his family. That would be his new pattern: alone, exploring the country during the day, and a meal with his family at night. He made himself a can of tomato soup for lunch, and, while he was eating it, realized that he didn’t want to go back and have dinner with his family. He didn’t want to go back and spend the night in his home in Thalia. He didn’t want to go to his office and see what checks or bills might have come in the morning’s mail. The change he felt in himself was more profound than he had first supposed it to be. His larder was undersupplied—it consisted of three more cans of soup, a can of English peas, and some coffee. He was going to have to walk in and buy food and some toiletries at some point. He kept a toothbrush at the cabin but no razor. The stormy thought that came to him was simple enough: he didn’t want to live at the big house with his family anymore. He wanted to live in his cabin, alone except for Shorty. The process of change that began when he had locked his pickup and put the keys in the old chipped coffee cup was more serious than he had supposed. He hadn’t been just walking for amusement: he had been walking away from his life.
When the conviction struck him that he wasn’t going back, he felt again the feeling of relief that had come to him that morning when he first stepped out of his house. He had walked away from his life—and it seemed to him that he had waited until the last possible minute to do it, too. He didn’t know why he felt that way, but he did feel that way. Any later, even a few weeks, and he might not have been able to do it. He might have stayed trapped in the same strong fishnet of routine and habit that had bored him for at least the last twenty years, if not longer. As he felt himselfflooded with relief for the second time that day it seemed to Duane that his legs had simply taken independent action. While he had been sitting calmly at the dinner table, explaining to his grandchildren that walking was just healthy exercise, his legs and feet had been preparing for revolutionary action, and now they had taken it. Karla, in her shock that he would leave the house on foot at three-fifteen in the morning, had been right, her instincts sound. It wasn’t just a momentary restlessness that had carried him out the door and out of town. Without exactly knowing it he had reached a point in his life where he had to live differently if he was to live at all, and his feet and legs, somehow recognizing that fact before he had been able to face it consciously, had hurried him away and saved him.
Although geographically he had only gone six miles—in fact he could look out of the south window of the cabin and see not only the town of Thalia but the very roof of the house where he had slept last night—he knew that in emotional terms he might already be in Egypt or India. It had never before struck him so forcibly that distance was not really a matter of miles. His family, most of them probably just about to begin their normal day of television and fights and trips to Wichita Falls, had no idea yet that he had
After a lengthy nap Shorty got restless and decided to investigate the rocks just off the edge of the hill, where a family of ground squirrels burrowed. Shorty considered the ground squirrels intruders, and the ground squirrels considered Shorty abothersome pest. One of the squirrels would sit on top of a boulder and scold Shorty roundly, chattering in indignation.
“Live and let live, Shorty,” Duane said. “Those squirrels got here first.”
Gradually, as the morning wore on and the dark clouds to the northwest edged closer, a thought with equally stormy implications began to edge into Duane’s mind. When he walked off that morning at three-fifteen he had assumed he would take a long walk, perhaps spend most of the day at his cabin, and then walk back in and eat dinner with his family. That would be his new pattern: alone, exploring the country during the day, and a meal with his family at night. He made himself a can of tomato soup for lunch, and, while he was eating it, realized that he didn’t want to go back and have dinner with his family. He didn’t want to go back and spend the night in his home in Thalia. He didn’t want to go to his office and see what checks or bills might have come in the morning’s mail. The change he felt in himself was more profound than he had first supposed it to be. His larder was undersupplied—it consisted of three more cans of soup, a can of English peas, and some coffee. He was going to have to walk in and buy food and some toiletries at some point. He kept a toothbrush at the cabin but no razor. The stormy thought that came to him was simple enough: he didn’t want to live at the big house with his family anymore. He wanted to live in his cabin, alone except for Shorty. The process of change that began when he had locked his pickup and put the keys in the old chipped coffee cup was more serious than he had supposed. He hadn’t been just walking for amusement: he had been walking away from his life.
When the conviction struck him that he wasn’t going back, he felt again the feeling of relief that had come to him that morning when he first stepped out of his house. He had walked away from his life—and it seemed to him that he had waited until the last possible minute to do it, too. He didn’t know why he felt that way, but he did feel that way. Any later, even a few weeks, and he might not have been able to do it. He might have stayed trapped in the same strong fishnet of routine and habit that had bored him for at least the last twenty years, if not longer. As he felt himselfflooded with relief for the second time that day it seemed to Duane that his legs had simply taken independent action. While he had been sitting calmly at the dinner table, explaining to his grandchildren that walking was just healthy exercise, his legs and feet had been preparing for revolutionary action, and now they had taken it. Karla, in her shock that he would leave the house on foot at three-fifteen in the morning, had been right, her instincts sound. It wasn’t just a momentary restlessness that had carried him out the door and out of town. Without exactly knowing it he had reached a point in his life where he had to live differently if he was to live at all, and his feet and legs, somehow recognizing that fact before he had been able to face it consciously, had hurried him away and saved him.
Although geographically he had only gone six miles—in fact he could look out of the south window of the cabin and see not only the town of Thalia but the very roof of the house where he had slept last night—he knew that in emotional terms he might already be in Egypt or India. It had never before struck him so forcibly that distance was not really a matter of miles. His family, most of them probably just about to begin their normal day of television and fights and trips to Wichita Falls, had no idea yet that he had
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