move, don’t move, and there, still just right where he was before, is the boy in the blue fleece hood. He is crying.
Don’t cry, says Etta.
Sorry, says the boy. I know I shouldn’t.
Your friends are gone.
I know. I should go.
But he doesn’t go. He just stays there, just right where he was before.
I bet I could carry you, he says. I have a little brother, I can carry him.
Etta thinks about her back, the rifle. No, she says, you don’t need to do that.
I need to do something.
Do you have a phone?
Yes, from my mom, for emergencies.
Maybe we could use that?
Okay.
Thank you . . .
James.
James. Thank you, James.
O r,
E tta has forgotten. She stands in a field, somewhere, stopped. She sits down in the yellow. Spreads her fingers against the sun into her eyes. Russell and Winnie and Amos and the others will be done their chores soon and they’ll all meet and walk home together. She sits and waits and watches grasshoppers bound toward her and away. Whenthe sun starts to set she stretches out, puts her hands under her head. She falls asleep thinking,
Any minute now.
When the farmer, a woman, broad and strong and tan with always squinting eyes, finds her two days later, Etta is still like that, smiling, with her hands behind her head. What a beautiful way to go, thinks the farmer. She strokes bits of dust and seed from Etta’s hair. She reaches through the old woman’s tattered bag, arranging items neatly in piles beside the body, like a shrine, until she finds the bit of paper that says
Home:
and then a phone number.
T he phone rang again. Otto jumped. Fumbled, grabbed at it. Hello? he said, Yes? Hello?
A moment of silence on the other end, the audible fuzz of distance, and then, Otto? Is that Otto? This is William, your nephew, Harriet’s son. Did you know Etta’s in the paper?
William. The accountant. Brandon, Manitoba. He was still talking,
She looks good; a little crazy, maybe, but good, as in, healthy. There’s a picture, in color. Want me to describe it? Here, I’ll describe it: She’s walking. She’s in a field of grass, it looks like wild grass, like, not a lawn, but tall grass, the kind that sometimes has stripes. And there are trees in the background, big firs or pines. Coniferous for sure. Her hair is longer than I remember. And straighter. It’s all out behind her in the wind . . .
And on and on, talking.
William, Otto interrupted, which paper is this?
Oh, um, here, it’s the National . The Canadian National . It says in the corner, down at the bottom of the article, that it first appeared in the Kenora Chatter , but now, this, this is the National .
And she’s alive and not hurt?
No, no, I mean yes. Yes, she’s alive, and, no, she doesn’t seem to be hurt. Here, it says, Moments of fumbling confusion contrasted with moments of startling clarity . A striking presence, it says. No mention of injury. She looks good, healthy. You know, I thought it was a bit odd, a while back I got letters here addressed to her—I sent them back to you, did you get them?—but it makes sense now, I guess, if she was passing through. Though I didn’t see her. I bet she was south of us. Walking . . . do you think it’s okay, her doing this walking? I mean, she looks healthy, so I suppose it’s fine, but, there are animals and things, right? And people, there are more people out that way, Ontario, Quebec. I could see about getting some time off work, maybe following in the van? Or get one of the kids to do it, Stephen needs a job . . . though Lydia’s the better driver . . .
No, said Otto, interrupting again. No thank you, William. She’s okay. There’s a plan. She’ll be okay.
Okay then. Okay. I’m sure you know best, Otto. . . . Hey, I wish Mom could see her, eh? She’d have loved to see that.
Yes, she would have.
Mom would have loved it.
You miss her?
Yes, oh yes.
Me, too.
O nce off the phone, Otto got in his truck and drove to the Co-op. He bought eggs,
Don’t cry, says Etta.
Sorry, says the boy. I know I shouldn’t.
Your friends are gone.
I know. I should go.
But he doesn’t go. He just stays there, just right where he was before.
I bet I could carry you, he says. I have a little brother, I can carry him.
Etta thinks about her back, the rifle. No, she says, you don’t need to do that.
I need to do something.
Do you have a phone?
Yes, from my mom, for emergencies.
Maybe we could use that?
Okay.
Thank you . . .
James.
James. Thank you, James.
O r,
E tta has forgotten. She stands in a field, somewhere, stopped. She sits down in the yellow. Spreads her fingers against the sun into her eyes. Russell and Winnie and Amos and the others will be done their chores soon and they’ll all meet and walk home together. She sits and waits and watches grasshoppers bound toward her and away. Whenthe sun starts to set she stretches out, puts her hands under her head. She falls asleep thinking,
Any minute now.
When the farmer, a woman, broad and strong and tan with always squinting eyes, finds her two days later, Etta is still like that, smiling, with her hands behind her head. What a beautiful way to go, thinks the farmer. She strokes bits of dust and seed from Etta’s hair. She reaches through the old woman’s tattered bag, arranging items neatly in piles beside the body, like a shrine, until she finds the bit of paper that says
Home:
and then a phone number.
T he phone rang again. Otto jumped. Fumbled, grabbed at it. Hello? he said, Yes? Hello?
A moment of silence on the other end, the audible fuzz of distance, and then, Otto? Is that Otto? This is William, your nephew, Harriet’s son. Did you know Etta’s in the paper?
William. The accountant. Brandon, Manitoba. He was still talking,
She looks good; a little crazy, maybe, but good, as in, healthy. There’s a picture, in color. Want me to describe it? Here, I’ll describe it: She’s walking. She’s in a field of grass, it looks like wild grass, like, not a lawn, but tall grass, the kind that sometimes has stripes. And there are trees in the background, big firs or pines. Coniferous for sure. Her hair is longer than I remember. And straighter. It’s all out behind her in the wind . . .
And on and on, talking.
William, Otto interrupted, which paper is this?
Oh, um, here, it’s the National . The Canadian National . It says in the corner, down at the bottom of the article, that it first appeared in the Kenora Chatter , but now, this, this is the National .
And she’s alive and not hurt?
No, no, I mean yes. Yes, she’s alive, and, no, she doesn’t seem to be hurt. Here, it says, Moments of fumbling confusion contrasted with moments of startling clarity . A striking presence, it says. No mention of injury. She looks good, healthy. You know, I thought it was a bit odd, a while back I got letters here addressed to her—I sent them back to you, did you get them?—but it makes sense now, I guess, if she was passing through. Though I didn’t see her. I bet she was south of us. Walking . . . do you think it’s okay, her doing this walking? I mean, she looks healthy, so I suppose it’s fine, but, there are animals and things, right? And people, there are more people out that way, Ontario, Quebec. I could see about getting some time off work, maybe following in the van? Or get one of the kids to do it, Stephen needs a job . . . though Lydia’s the better driver . . .
No, said Otto, interrupting again. No thank you, William. She’s okay. There’s a plan. She’ll be okay.
Okay then. Okay. I’m sure you know best, Otto. . . . Hey, I wish Mom could see her, eh? She’d have loved to see that.
Yes, she would have.
Mom would have loved it.
You miss her?
Yes, oh yes.
Me, too.
O nce off the phone, Otto got in his truck and drove to the Co-op. He bought eggs,
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