to her little yellow car and drove away. Left him, just like that.
Weird how he’d quit thinking she might do it. Quit thinking about her dying, even. Like she was going to be right there in her little cabin for the whole rest of his life. He takes the roach out of his shirt pocket, cups his hands and lights it one last time, sucks frantically. A red ash falls into his beard. He swipes at it in a panic—burning hair smells like a lot of shit from over there. Worries a thorn in his big toe with a thumbnail. Fuck. The roach has burned a blister on his lip. Her gone, it’ll be just like before. Endless string of days stretched out ahead of him, each one no different from the rest.
He grinds out the last of the jay on a rock, scatters it on the ground. He is a ghost, is Danny. Leaves no sign. Stands up, the thorn still in his toe, and sets out running back the way he came. Just like with the fox cub, just like with the she-bear, just like with the panther, squirrel, blue jay, fat-ass woodpecker bigger than a goddamn hawk. Except this time she isn’t there.
He got used to it, is all. Used to his mind’s eye seeing her inside the Old Man’s cabin, cooking her little meals, eating them at Danny’s picnic table, sitting on the extra bench he made just like he knew she was coming, knew she was already on her way, just like some kind of prophecy. Bench for him, bench for her. Surely she won’t leave him.
Daisy did. Left that Gatsby fucker flat. Him and his whole house full of goddamn shirts, yard full of people, vault somewhere full of money, too, most likely. Bitch just up and split. Who’s to say this one here hasn’t done the same?
Got to know. Got to know
right now
.
He skitters, wolfish, to the cabin, hiding first behind the pointed rock, then behind the two-trunk chestnut oak, then flat on his belly in a dry wash. Finally, the heart-pounding run across the clearing at a place where she can’t see.
Presses his hot face against the mortar chink in the cold stonesbeside her bed and listens. Nothing. No Dead Lady breathing. No Dead Lady feet pad-padding through the house. No sound of any Dead Lady at the table, clinking her spoon against her bowl, setting down her cup. No sound. Safe to go in, take a look-see. Find out where the hell she’s gone. But first, one major, unavoidable precaution—reefer stinks up your clothes. He sheds his shirt and pants, kicks them beneath the porch, stands naked in the dappled light. Climbs onto the porch the Old Man made, but even this can’t soothe him.
He gets past the shiny brass door lock with a few flicks from the sharp point of his trusty utility knife—“leave no mark”—shuts the door softly behind him, stands still, breathes deep.
He can smell her everywhere, same as if she was here beside him. The acrid odors she came in with that first day are gone. In their place are smells of air and sunshine, clean-scrubbed wood. Memaw’s smells. He knows now the real reason he left his reefer clothes outside. Stays there a long time, eyes closed. Not till he’s got her scent all through his blood does he open them, start moving through the house. “Fuck you to hell, Dead Lady.” He presses his thumb and forefinger in the wet corners of his eyes. He is Odysseus, Natty Bumppo, Jake Barnes. He is
in control
.
The midmorning sun shows everything inside the cabin. The Dead Lady left a lot of shit behind. Tin plate and cup on the table, book about weeds, one of those little notebooks secretaries use. Shirt and jeans folded just so on a shelf. Everything so neat and orderly his heart hurts from it. Sleeping bag unrolled in its corner, something, a nightgown, folded, laying there on top. White with blue flowers no bigger than his pinkie nail. Its bright afterimage lingers.
Her pots and stuff take just one kitchen shelf. The rest are bare, except for two near-empty paper sacks. One holds half a handful of beans, the other about the same amount of rice. Enough for a day, maybe.
Weird how he’d quit thinking she might do it. Quit thinking about her dying, even. Like she was going to be right there in her little cabin for the whole rest of his life. He takes the roach out of his shirt pocket, cups his hands and lights it one last time, sucks frantically. A red ash falls into his beard. He swipes at it in a panic—burning hair smells like a lot of shit from over there. Worries a thorn in his big toe with a thumbnail. Fuck. The roach has burned a blister on his lip. Her gone, it’ll be just like before. Endless string of days stretched out ahead of him, each one no different from the rest.
He grinds out the last of the jay on a rock, scatters it on the ground. He is a ghost, is Danny. Leaves no sign. Stands up, the thorn still in his toe, and sets out running back the way he came. Just like with the fox cub, just like with the she-bear, just like with the panther, squirrel, blue jay, fat-ass woodpecker bigger than a goddamn hawk. Except this time she isn’t there.
He got used to it, is all. Used to his mind’s eye seeing her inside the Old Man’s cabin, cooking her little meals, eating them at Danny’s picnic table, sitting on the extra bench he made just like he knew she was coming, knew she was already on her way, just like some kind of prophecy. Bench for him, bench for her. Surely she won’t leave him.
Daisy did. Left that Gatsby fucker flat. Him and his whole house full of goddamn shirts, yard full of people, vault somewhere full of money, too, most likely. Bitch just up and split. Who’s to say this one here hasn’t done the same?
Got to know. Got to know
right now
.
He skitters, wolfish, to the cabin, hiding first behind the pointed rock, then behind the two-trunk chestnut oak, then flat on his belly in a dry wash. Finally, the heart-pounding run across the clearing at a place where she can’t see.
Presses his hot face against the mortar chink in the cold stonesbeside her bed and listens. Nothing. No Dead Lady breathing. No Dead Lady feet pad-padding through the house. No sound of any Dead Lady at the table, clinking her spoon against her bowl, setting down her cup. No sound. Safe to go in, take a look-see. Find out where the hell she’s gone. But first, one major, unavoidable precaution—reefer stinks up your clothes. He sheds his shirt and pants, kicks them beneath the porch, stands naked in the dappled light. Climbs onto the porch the Old Man made, but even this can’t soothe him.
He gets past the shiny brass door lock with a few flicks from the sharp point of his trusty utility knife—“leave no mark”—shuts the door softly behind him, stands still, breathes deep.
He can smell her everywhere, same as if she was here beside him. The acrid odors she came in with that first day are gone. In their place are smells of air and sunshine, clean-scrubbed wood. Memaw’s smells. He knows now the real reason he left his reefer clothes outside. Stays there a long time, eyes closed. Not till he’s got her scent all through his blood does he open them, start moving through the house. “Fuck you to hell, Dead Lady.” He presses his thumb and forefinger in the wet corners of his eyes. He is Odysseus, Natty Bumppo, Jake Barnes. He is
in control
.
The midmorning sun shows everything inside the cabin. The Dead Lady left a lot of shit behind. Tin plate and cup on the table, book about weeds, one of those little notebooks secretaries use. Shirt and jeans folded just so on a shelf. Everything so neat and orderly his heart hurts from it. Sleeping bag unrolled in its corner, something, a nightgown, folded, laying there on top. White with blue flowers no bigger than his pinkie nail. Its bright afterimage lingers.
Her pots and stuff take just one kitchen shelf. The rest are bare, except for two near-empty paper sacks. One holds half a handful of beans, the other about the same amount of rice. Enough for a day, maybe.
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