same boots.
Now, however, Russell couldn’t find their tracks. He crossed all the way up across the swatch of land that she’d almost certainly have to have crossed, between two lakes, along the same corridor as Cordelia and Monty’s café, eyes to the ground, checking carefully, and then back again. There were many other tracks, some human, farmers or hikers probably, and some animal, mice, deer, dogs, coyotes, butno Etta. No Etta as he knew her, at least. It had taken him two days. He’d eaten most of his peanuts. He walked back to his truck. He could track and trace, yes, but Russell knew that he couldn’t keep up with Etta walking. He couldn’t keep up with anyone. He swung his legs into the cab, bad then good, and set off east again, on small and smaller roads, as the trees became dense. He would stop for supplies and, hopefully, clues, at the next bit of civilization. He thought he should be sad, or at least frustrated, but Russell wasn’t. He was in Ontario. The windows were rolled down to the new air, and he breathed it through his mouth, like a dog, alive and moving.
T he phone rang. It took Otto four rings to find it, past all the letters and recipes. By the time he got to it, it was too late, the ringing had stopped. He pulled a chair from its place at the table and sat beside it, puzzling over who there was out there who had its number. Did Russell have it? He tried to remember if Russell had ever phoned. He knocked, he shouted, he left notes, but phoning? No, no. Otto was fairly sure he didn’t even have a phone. But Etta would know it, surely, her own phone number, of course she would. For most things she would write, had always written, but for an emergency she might try to phone. It must have been Etta. In an emergency. He stayed there, right there by the phone, for eleven minutes, watching it, thinking,
E tta is out of food and money. She is thin, her clothes and her flesh both worn down to near-transparency. It has been three days since her last letter. Three days without eating. She has resorted to chewing grass and drinking dandelion milk, the skin around her lips turned green. Finally, on the outskirts of somewhere—Laclu?—she finds a phone box and digs down to her last quarter, dialing the only number she knows, and listening to it ring and ring and ring and ring and ring and ring and then cut off. No answer. No quarters left, she slumps into the corner of the booth, crumpled, already more ghost than not.
O r,
E tta is walking, striding east with ease, confidence, strong and alert, singing, in an Ontario forest. Just out of sight, off to her right, something else is moving east, along with her, around the trees, the sound of its movement hidden under Etta’s footfalls and song. They continue like this for hours, until the darkness between the trees blurs into one, and Etta stops for the night, laying a bed of clothes in the cavern of a balsam fir’s low branches. The cougar waits until she is asleep, regular breathing, then slips in beside her, always noiseless, and lays one heavy paw on her neck. Etta wakes before the claws have a chance to extend, pushing herself backward, away, into the tree’s base.
No!
The cougar springs forward, catching some fur in the low needles, back onto Etta’s chest.
Yes. You’ve had a good life, Etta. You’re old now. I need this. I need to survive too. The claws tear an even quadruple track down her coat, there is blood.
Not yet, I’m almost there. Not yet. Etta kicks out, into the animal’s beautifully soft belly, a female, she realizes, a mother. She rolls left, toward her things, her bag, and beside it Otto’s rifle. The cougar catches a leg with its mouth, just below the knee, bites down. The pain bursts through Etta like caffeine, she can reach the gun, she swings it round, firing once, missing, draws back the bolt, automatic, like she’s done a thousand times in the yard, with cans or gophers, and fires again, and the cat makes a noise
Now, however, Russell couldn’t find their tracks. He crossed all the way up across the swatch of land that she’d almost certainly have to have crossed, between two lakes, along the same corridor as Cordelia and Monty’s café, eyes to the ground, checking carefully, and then back again. There were many other tracks, some human, farmers or hikers probably, and some animal, mice, deer, dogs, coyotes, butno Etta. No Etta as he knew her, at least. It had taken him two days. He’d eaten most of his peanuts. He walked back to his truck. He could track and trace, yes, but Russell knew that he couldn’t keep up with Etta walking. He couldn’t keep up with anyone. He swung his legs into the cab, bad then good, and set off east again, on small and smaller roads, as the trees became dense. He would stop for supplies and, hopefully, clues, at the next bit of civilization. He thought he should be sad, or at least frustrated, but Russell wasn’t. He was in Ontario. The windows were rolled down to the new air, and he breathed it through his mouth, like a dog, alive and moving.
T he phone rang. It took Otto four rings to find it, past all the letters and recipes. By the time he got to it, it was too late, the ringing had stopped. He pulled a chair from its place at the table and sat beside it, puzzling over who there was out there who had its number. Did Russell have it? He tried to remember if Russell had ever phoned. He knocked, he shouted, he left notes, but phoning? No, no. Otto was fairly sure he didn’t even have a phone. But Etta would know it, surely, her own phone number, of course she would. For most things she would write, had always written, but for an emergency she might try to phone. It must have been Etta. In an emergency. He stayed there, right there by the phone, for eleven minutes, watching it, thinking,
E tta is out of food and money. She is thin, her clothes and her flesh both worn down to near-transparency. It has been three days since her last letter. Three days without eating. She has resorted to chewing grass and drinking dandelion milk, the skin around her lips turned green. Finally, on the outskirts of somewhere—Laclu?—she finds a phone box and digs down to her last quarter, dialing the only number she knows, and listening to it ring and ring and ring and ring and ring and ring and then cut off. No answer. No quarters left, she slumps into the corner of the booth, crumpled, already more ghost than not.
O r,
E tta is walking, striding east with ease, confidence, strong and alert, singing, in an Ontario forest. Just out of sight, off to her right, something else is moving east, along with her, around the trees, the sound of its movement hidden under Etta’s footfalls and song. They continue like this for hours, until the darkness between the trees blurs into one, and Etta stops for the night, laying a bed of clothes in the cavern of a balsam fir’s low branches. The cougar waits until she is asleep, regular breathing, then slips in beside her, always noiseless, and lays one heavy paw on her neck. Etta wakes before the claws have a chance to extend, pushing herself backward, away, into the tree’s base.
No!
The cougar springs forward, catching some fur in the low needles, back onto Etta’s chest.
Yes. You’ve had a good life, Etta. You’re old now. I need this. I need to survive too. The claws tear an even quadruple track down her coat, there is blood.
Not yet, I’m almost there. Not yet. Etta kicks out, into the animal’s beautifully soft belly, a female, she realizes, a mother. She rolls left, toward her things, her bag, and beside it Otto’s rifle. The cougar catches a leg with its mouth, just below the knee, bites down. The pain bursts through Etta like caffeine, she can reach the gun, she swings it round, firing once, missing, draws back the bolt, automatic, like she’s done a thousand times in the yard, with cans or gophers, and fires again, and the cat makes a noise
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