drilling wheat to get him for supper so he wouldn't have to drive the Case back She waited for him at the end of the round, the tractor rolling toward her, chased by its slow cloud of dust. It reached the fence line, and the drill heaved out of the ground on its hydraulic rams. Charles parked it, walked over to the pickup, knocking dust out of his clothes with his palms, climbed in.
"Is it going OK?" she asked.
"Nothing broke."
"That's good."
"Unusual."
Marie put her hand on the gearshift and moved it back and forth without engaging it.
"Your son bought a horse today," she said.
"I didn't figure he was pulling that horse trailer around the county for the fun of it."
She looked at her fingers wrapped around the gearshift. The way the light came through the windshield and whitened her knuckles. The diamond on her finger, its brilliance. The dry skin on the back of her hands.
"It's important to him, Charles," she said.
"He skipped school. Took the pickup and trailer without asking."
"I know."
"So you want me to tell him what a nice horse he got?"
She shrugged, tried to smile him out of his mood. He looked away from her, at the land uncoiling to the horizon, the gray shapes of the Badlands against the far sky.
"He did."
"Did what?"
"Get a nice horse."
She smiled at him again, and when he met her gaze he couldn't quite sustain his anger.
"Christ!" he said, trying to inoculate himself against her lightheartedness.
She put the pickup into gear. They bounced over the ruts of the field toward the road. A covey of quail leapt from the fence line grass, torpedoed away, disappeared into the ground. They might have burrowed right through it so sharply did they descend, so suddenly disappear.
"It's a waste of his money, Marie. He should be saving money. Thinking about college. He's not too young."
"I know. It's just..."
"Just what?"
She waited until she'd pulled onto the road, shifted into high.
"He's so proud of it," she said.
Charles watched a jet lay a contrail in the blue. He watched it for a long time, until it was directly above the pickup and he couldn't see it. Marie glanced over at him. She reached out her hand, touched him on the shirt sleeve, so lightly he didn't notice. Then she put her hand back on the steering wheel. When Charles looked back down, she was just driving.
"Proud of it," he said. "Well, fine."
Then, a half-mile later, he said: "I been going back and forth in that field all day. Neither one've 'em ever even thought've comin to relieve me."
AS IT TURNED OUT , cigarettes did cause Ves Fielding's death, but not in any way that his daughter-in-law had imagined or warned against, their role in that death being so momentary that, to all but Carson, who had seen it, they seemed less cause than coincidence, and Marie would come to say, with humor and affection, that Ves Fielding had died of sheer orneriness. And that, too, would be true. Ves's death became a memory that pinned Carson to a moment, to a spot of time and land, to snowfall, to blue morning light strained and crystalline, so that for years afterwards, even in the heat of summer, just before he woke he would believe he was standing in a bluegray place streaked with lines of white, and when he woke he would find himself confused by the square and stationary edges of his room.
He and his grandfather took up training horses together. Carson would come to remember standing by the corral, waiting, and his grandfather coming out of the old house morning after morning, a stub of cigarette between his yellowed fingers, his breath in the winter indistinguishable from the smoke he exhaled, his words of greeting made of cloud, and he would saddle up a horse with creaking leather and swing a leg over. But he refused to accept his age—the ornery part—refused to cede to his grandson the raw horses, so that on a snowy November morning in his eighty-fifth year and Carson's sixteenth, the old man's leg didn't swing quite high enough, and the
"Is it going OK?" she asked.
"Nothing broke."
"That's good."
"Unusual."
Marie put her hand on the gearshift and moved it back and forth without engaging it.
"Your son bought a horse today," she said.
"I didn't figure he was pulling that horse trailer around the county for the fun of it."
She looked at her fingers wrapped around the gearshift. The way the light came through the windshield and whitened her knuckles. The diamond on her finger, its brilliance. The dry skin on the back of her hands.
"It's important to him, Charles," she said.
"He skipped school. Took the pickup and trailer without asking."
"I know."
"So you want me to tell him what a nice horse he got?"
She shrugged, tried to smile him out of his mood. He looked away from her, at the land uncoiling to the horizon, the gray shapes of the Badlands against the far sky.
"He did."
"Did what?"
"Get a nice horse."
She smiled at him again, and when he met her gaze he couldn't quite sustain his anger.
"Christ!" he said, trying to inoculate himself against her lightheartedness.
She put the pickup into gear. They bounced over the ruts of the field toward the road. A covey of quail leapt from the fence line grass, torpedoed away, disappeared into the ground. They might have burrowed right through it so sharply did they descend, so suddenly disappear.
"It's a waste of his money, Marie. He should be saving money. Thinking about college. He's not too young."
"I know. It's just..."
"Just what?"
She waited until she'd pulled onto the road, shifted into high.
"He's so proud of it," she said.
Charles watched a jet lay a contrail in the blue. He watched it for a long time, until it was directly above the pickup and he couldn't see it. Marie glanced over at him. She reached out her hand, touched him on the shirt sleeve, so lightly he didn't notice. Then she put her hand back on the steering wheel. When Charles looked back down, she was just driving.
"Proud of it," he said. "Well, fine."
Then, a half-mile later, he said: "I been going back and forth in that field all day. Neither one've 'em ever even thought've comin to relieve me."
AS IT TURNED OUT , cigarettes did cause Ves Fielding's death, but not in any way that his daughter-in-law had imagined or warned against, their role in that death being so momentary that, to all but Carson, who had seen it, they seemed less cause than coincidence, and Marie would come to say, with humor and affection, that Ves Fielding had died of sheer orneriness. And that, too, would be true. Ves's death became a memory that pinned Carson to a moment, to a spot of time and land, to snowfall, to blue morning light strained and crystalline, so that for years afterwards, even in the heat of summer, just before he woke he would believe he was standing in a bluegray place streaked with lines of white, and when he woke he would find himself confused by the square and stationary edges of his room.
He and his grandfather took up training horses together. Carson would come to remember standing by the corral, waiting, and his grandfather coming out of the old house morning after morning, a stub of cigarette between his yellowed fingers, his breath in the winter indistinguishable from the smoke he exhaled, his words of greeting made of cloud, and he would saddle up a horse with creaking leather and swing a leg over. But he refused to accept his age—the ornery part—refused to cede to his grandson the raw horses, so that on a snowy November morning in his eighty-fifth year and Carson's sixteenth, the old man's leg didn't swing quite high enough, and the
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