Let Him Go: A Novel by Larry Watson Page B

dark curly hair that grows low on their foreheads and close to their skulls like sheep’s wool.
    How’s that Hudson running? Bill Weboy asks. I bet those boys would be willing to take a look under the hood for you. Tap a little here, tighten a screw there, they could probably get you a few more horses.
    George Blackledge ignores this question and instead slowly stands and asks, Where’s the boy? Where’s Jimmy?
    Blanche leans back and looks at him a long moment. Why, he’s not here. He’s with his daddy.
    Margaret can’t hold back. His father—!
    George quiets her with nothing more than a hand raised a few inches from the tabletop. We came here to see our grandson. On George’s cheeks white spots show as if, with anger, the skin had tightened and become thin enough for bone to show through.
    Blanche laughs and looks to her brother-in-law. You mean they didn’t come here to eat my pork chops?
    As if following the newly-established convention that no one will be addressed directly, Bill Weboy speaks to Margaret. If you can calm that husband of yours, we can enjoy the evening. And you can still see your grandson.
    When night comes on in a room lit by kerosene, anyflicker of the flame can give the sense that darkness is about to triumph. George sits back down and says, If you brought us out here for the sake of a joke . . .
    Blanche Weboy’s wide smile remains, but her eyes narrow warily. Your grandson’s with my Donnie, she says matter-of-factly. He took Jimmy along to go pick up the boy’s mother.
    Now it is Margaret who looks to Bill Weboy for clarification. Lorna . . . ?
    She’s working at Monkey Ward, Bill says.
    In Gladstone?
    You didn’t tell them? asks Blanche.
    Bill shrugs. I thought maybe they’d be back by now.
    We could’ve seen Lorna and Jimmy in Gladstone ?
    Blanche waggles her finger at Margaret. Now I’m feeling insulted. You really don’t give a damn about my cooking, do you?
    I just meant . . .
    Maybe you’re a Jew. Maybe you can’t eat pork chops.
    George interlaces his fingers once again. Neither he nor his wife say anything, and after a long silent moment in which the only movement is the shifting cloud of Bill Weboy’s cigar smoke, Blanche laughs. Oh, breathe easy. Anyone who knows me knows I can’t be insulted. Eat my pork chops or don’t.
    We’d certainly hoped, Margaret says, to meet Donnie’s family someday.
    Did you. Well, I thought we should meet too. Bill, as long as you’re standing there you could pour me another glass of wine. Blanche points at George and Margaret. You sure?
    I’m not much of a wine drinker, George says.
    Something stronger, maybe?
    He shakes his head.
    How about you? Blanche asks Margaret. You a teetotaler?
    Oh no, says Margaret. I take a drink of whiskey every year or two.
    Bill Weboy sets a full jelly glass of elderberry wine in front of Blanche and then resumes his post leaning against the icebox.
    Blanche says, A special-occasion drinker, eh? And this doesn’t qualify? She raises her glass and sips delicately. The truth is, I thought we should meet and have a talk. Donnie thinks maybe the two of you don’t approve of him. With her ability to smile and scowl at the same time, Blanche Weboy looks from Margaret to George and back to Margaret again.
    George raises his head slowly and levels his gaze at Blanche. Donnie gives a damn what we think? I’m surprised to hear that.
    Blanche slips a cigarette from the pack of Pall Malls on the table. By the time the cigarette arrives at her lips, Bill Weboy has stepped forward with a lit match.
    I wonder, Blanche says, if you ain’t been comparing Donnie to your son. And that’s never fair to the living. They can’t ever measure up to the dead.
    Is Donnie working? Margaret asks.
    He’s not as mechanically inclined as Marv or Elton but Donnie puts in his time out in the barn. Blanche blows a stream of smoke Margaret’s way. Not that Donnie needs to answer to you.
    No, he certainly doesn’t. And I don’t