chooses, he could decide to ignore the insistent little beep and flash. The tiny blinkingred dot. At any moment, he could shut off the device. At any mile in the two thousand miles so far, he could have turned the wheel, changed course, headed the car toward the gorgeous simplicities of Southern California, continued their lives.
But he cannot. And if it were even slightly possible at the outset to abandon his plan, it is unthinkable now. The insistent little red dot is like a heartbeat. Hypnotic. Not just an electronic pulse—it is somehow
his
pulse. He cannot abandon it, because he would be abandoning himself.
He could stop this chase anytime. Except that he can’t.
A seventy-two-year-old man who has lived several lives already, who has balanced on the ledge of life, who has been curled into the heart of the planet’s fiercest mid-twentieth-century insanities, doesn’t have that much to give up, it seems to him. A few dinners. A few conventional family celebrations and milestones. An endless stream of the morning paper, one day’s edition largely indistinguishable from the next. A few cycles of seasons, which come at him now with such demoralizing speed, it might be easier giving those up anyway. But he has to keep in mind that she doesn’t understand this. He has to make allowances. His perspective may be skewed. On the other hand, she has to understand that the willingness to risk was how he has gotten anywhere. How they have any of this. That in a way, risk is all he knows. He will try to rein it in. Out of deference to her. He will not let her lie awake unnecessarily. What would that accomplish? But he can make no guarantees.
Seventy-two. How much more is there?
He has lived his life. No one is more thankful for that than he. But now, after all, he has had that life. And here is a last opportunity. When he thought he was done with opportunity, in the land of opportunity, here’s another. How can he pass it by?
G reat Falls, Montana. A sea of sky. An ocean of land. Elemental and raw and open. A stunning inverse of the way he arrived here—amid endless water that still haunts him in only distant, fractured memories of his passage. The close gray sky that hung above the crowded, creaking, groaning steel vessel. The vast blue sky now above the steel craft that floats over the waves of the road in soft, plush American-car style. The slap of water against the hull, the whistle of Western wind against the car windows. There is in him a sense of coming full circle. But still, making a crossing.
He pushes the buttons of the GPS display once more. They’re within a few hundred miles of where the signal settled a day or so ago. Stopped its movement.
Great Falls. He pulls the Ford off at a scenic overlook. They get out and stretch. The snowcapped mountains are so distant, so out of scale, they seem to exist in another dimension, to be lit by a different light. One feels, staring at them, a sense of personal glory and yet of inconsequence. He listens. There is a kind of sacred silence here. He has noticed this silence, growing in tone, enlarging somehow, as they travel west. A silence that is sacred, but common and natural, too. A grand quiet that is repeated on a human level in the acutely limited exchange of words that is the local style—in diners,at rest stops, in convenience stores, at motel registration desks. He was always more comfortable not speaking. Silence is far preferable. Maybe this is where he always belonged. Maybe he was meant to be a Westerner. He feels an affinity for it. He smiles.
Great Falls, Montana. This is a land he could have been happy in, he senses. Here is his chance to look in on other lives, lives not lived.
He checks them into a bed-and-breakfast. It is much less quaint than their previous B and Bs, sparer and plainer. Thin white towels, simple bureau, simple bed, no embroidered curtains, just a single pull shade. He tries on a cowboy hat in the shop next door, likes it, buys it.
But he cannot. And if it were even slightly possible at the outset to abandon his plan, it is unthinkable now. The insistent little red dot is like a heartbeat. Hypnotic. Not just an electronic pulse—it is somehow
his
pulse. He cannot abandon it, because he would be abandoning himself.
He could stop this chase anytime. Except that he can’t.
A seventy-two-year-old man who has lived several lives already, who has balanced on the ledge of life, who has been curled into the heart of the planet’s fiercest mid-twentieth-century insanities, doesn’t have that much to give up, it seems to him. A few dinners. A few conventional family celebrations and milestones. An endless stream of the morning paper, one day’s edition largely indistinguishable from the next. A few cycles of seasons, which come at him now with such demoralizing speed, it might be easier giving those up anyway. But he has to keep in mind that she doesn’t understand this. He has to make allowances. His perspective may be skewed. On the other hand, she has to understand that the willingness to risk was how he has gotten anywhere. How they have any of this. That in a way, risk is all he knows. He will try to rein it in. Out of deference to her. He will not let her lie awake unnecessarily. What would that accomplish? But he can make no guarantees.
Seventy-two. How much more is there?
He has lived his life. No one is more thankful for that than he. But now, after all, he has had that life. And here is a last opportunity. When he thought he was done with opportunity, in the land of opportunity, here’s another. How can he pass it by?
G reat Falls, Montana. A sea of sky. An ocean of land. Elemental and raw and open. A stunning inverse of the way he arrived here—amid endless water that still haunts him in only distant, fractured memories of his passage. The close gray sky that hung above the crowded, creaking, groaning steel vessel. The vast blue sky now above the steel craft that floats over the waves of the road in soft, plush American-car style. The slap of water against the hull, the whistle of Western wind against the car windows. There is in him a sense of coming full circle. But still, making a crossing.
He pushes the buttons of the GPS display once more. They’re within a few hundred miles of where the signal settled a day or so ago. Stopped its movement.
Great Falls. He pulls the Ford off at a scenic overlook. They get out and stretch. The snowcapped mountains are so distant, so out of scale, they seem to exist in another dimension, to be lit by a different light. One feels, staring at them, a sense of personal glory and yet of inconsequence. He listens. There is a kind of sacred silence here. He has noticed this silence, growing in tone, enlarging somehow, as they travel west. A silence that is sacred, but common and natural, too. A grand quiet that is repeated on a human level in the acutely limited exchange of words that is the local style—in diners,at rest stops, in convenience stores, at motel registration desks. He was always more comfortable not speaking. Silence is far preferable. Maybe this is where he always belonged. Maybe he was meant to be a Westerner. He feels an affinity for it. He smiles.
Great Falls, Montana. This is a land he could have been happy in, he senses. Here is his chance to look in on other lives, lives not lived.
He checks them into a bed-and-breakfast. It is much less quaint than their previous B and Bs, sparer and plainer. Thin white towels, simple bureau, simple bed, no embroidered curtains, just a single pull shade. He tries on a cowboy hat in the shop next door, likes it, buys it.
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