The Fugitives (5 page)

A vehicle was out of the question. I have a new truck, a Japanese make that’s regarded with faint suspicion by my more elderly neighbors—native Michiganders, after all—although the younger residents have plenty of German sedans and Swedish station wagons among them, an armada of rebuke against the retirees up from Kalamazoo and Ypsilanti, Flint and Hamtramck. Whatever its sins against nativism, my buried truck was out, both as a matter of practicality and in spirit. I’d have a walk-in freezer. A pantry the size of a restaurant’s. A Kalashnikov (what would the Boyds say?). I dressed decorously: long underwear, woolen socks, BDU pants, a T-shirt, a turtleneck, a fleece pullover. My boots, glistening with synthetic mink oil, gloves, a cashmere watch cap, and over everything my down parka with its faux-fur-trimmed hood, “designed to withstand elements mirroring those found at the South Pole,” in the words of the absurdly thick User’s Manual that had come with it. As I fondled the coat admiringly, even affectionately, I found myself standing in the doorway of the rear bedroom I use as a study, gazing with annoyance at my desk my chair my printer my computer. All calling to me with nothing to say: story of my life. Saying something was always up to me. I had answered the call unfailingly since I was twenty-five years old; followed every line to its conclusion. There may have been people waiting—so Dylan told me, so Monte told me—but it wasn’t their call that I’d responded to, ever. Last man on earth: would he still write novels? was the question. I wondered if it was a kind of knowledge I was acquiring, this ability to ignore the call. Or maybe it was just Susannah I’d acquired.

TUESDAYS AND THURSDAYS.
Eleven a.m. I set out through the snow in my polar-survivor outfit. SUVs and pickups trundled by occasionally. Down Locust Street I heard the whine of a snowblower, saw a man astride it, meticulously reinscribing the shape of the sidewalk before a house, not one superfluous inch cleared on either side: his neighbors were on their own. The man had a fixed look of concentration, as if he had spent his life either operating machinery or dreaming of operating machinery. My kids wear that look when they’re deep in the landscape of invented games. The goal is total immersion. A world is at stake. And what look does a novelist wear when writing?

I trudged along, my boots disappearing into snow that was up to my knees. I kept my arms raised a little, held out at my sides, for balance; lifted my feet from the holes they’d just made and put them down again, making new holes, each step a complicated procedure. I worried, pleasurably, about nothing but the next step. The act of walking in the deep snow became the purest thing in life. If I chose I could turn around and see all the steps I’d taken, the accumulation of holes, a line of them stretching back to my porch, and they’d add up to nothing if I didn’t take the next step successfully. I knew that there was an objective at the end, but it was each tricky individual step that needed to be attended to, and that was what pleased me. Don’t fall. Don’t lose a shoe. But near the next corner I misjudged the invisible border separating the sidewalk from the road, tripped, and crumpled, harmlessly, onto my side. The event seemed to take place in slow motion, and when it was over I lay there, on the deserted street, warm and comfortable except for a vague creeping sense of ridiculousness, lying there in the gutter like a drunk. I got up then and brushed the snow off my clothes, looking at the small white crater I’d made. I felt myself beginning to think again.

I arrived at the library half-expecting to find it locked and dark, an apologetic handwritten sign on the door, but the parking lot was plowed, salted, and half-filled with vehicles. Two boys climbed the snow piled high at the margins of the lot, finding tremendous amusement in picking up enormous chunks of the stuff and throwing it at each other, grinding it into each other’s jacket and hat, kicking it in arcing eruptions that brightly veiled the air between them and then spattered like sleet upon hitting the ground. A woman stood in the center of the lot talking on a cell phone, the device mashed up against her face, an index finger plugging her other ear. She twisted and bobbed, a curious little dance, I thought, until I realized that she was trying to hang on to clear reception. It was a problem here, I’d discovered, not unhappily. The woman moved toward the edge of the lot where the boys were, hunching both shoulders now, her hands still pressed to the sides of her head. When the ice and snow from the boys’ play skittered close to her feet she turned and jogged quickly away: a mistake. The chunky wooden heels of her boots had zero traction even on the salted asphalt and her legs shot out from under her. She landed hard on her side, and remained there, a look of perplexity on her face, as if she were trying to interpret the foreign language of pain. Her phone lay some feet away.

The boys—I’d thought one or both of them might be hers—ignored her. I stood frozen and indecisive, then lurched forward, a gloved hand out.

“I’m OK.” Leaning back on her elbows, she planted both feet on the ground and hoisted herself up. I bent to pick up the phone and held it out to her. She was about five-seven in those treacherous heels, shoulder-length very dark brown hair, an attractive, somewhat flat face, high cheekbones, a considerable underbite, almond-shaped dark brown eyes, and a dark complexion. Definitely Asian or part Asian, I figured. Clothes that were, in the present locale, jarringly stylish.

“You sure?”

“Oh, yeah. My butt absorbed most of the impact.” She took the phone. “Thanks. Shoot. All morning I’ve been looking for a signal in this freaking place.”

“Not from around these parts? Hear tell there’s a pay phone at the dry goods store.”

“No offense.”

“Oh, I wasn’t touting the local cell reception. I’m not the chamber of commerce. This country needs more backwaters as far as I’m concerned. Welcome to Kaczynski, Michigan. Digital nothing. Streets named after trees, and schools named after presidents and trailblazers. And points on the compass. It’s good to get back to the essence of things and I can’t think of anything more straightforwardly essential than one of the four cardinal directions. The slogan of this town should be ‘Welcome, and Get Lost.’ That’s what I did.”

She nodded, vaguely. “Thanks again,” she said. I’d been living too long at the outskirts of things to flirt coherently. Having delivered this somewhat loony monologue, I turned and entered the library.

It was 10:58 when I slipped into the Youth Services Department, opting to sit on one of the little chairs with most of the other adults who had remained behind to listen, or to watch their children listen. One woman had a baby balanced on her lap, the fine hairs on the back of its head whorled delicately, like a fingerprint. Most of the kids sat on the carpet near the bronze bear. As always, one or two of them sat on the bear itself, which was posed on all fours, one forepaw extended as if it were batting at something or taking a step, its face cast in the sort of expression that, in the higher mammals, reminds us of how truly inscrutable animals really are. (I have encountered exactly one bear out here, coming across it unexpectedly as I was walking from my truck down an unpaved road toward a rocky stretch of shoreline known locally as 669 Beach, after the county highway that comes to an end there. As I backed away I thought about how impossible it was to know what was in its mind.)

Another reason I like Salteau: the complete sense of routine—not of self-celebration but of
working
. At a reading in New York the introductions always make you feel as if Thomas Mann, or even Gandhi, is about to take the podium. At such events we’re always assured that literature is in good hands. Salteau’s introduction consisted of a murky announcement over the PA system, as if canned peaches had just gone on sale in Aisle 5. Beginning in five minutes in the Youth Services Department. And caregivers please do not lose sight of your children. Salteau entered the room, then transformed himself from commuter to shaman, removing his baseball cap, his fleece-lined jacket, his scarf. He took off his glasses and polished them carefully.

SALTEAU

O
NE
day, Nanabozho, the trickster, was taking a walk across a grassy field when he saw Buzzard flying high above. He was captivated as he watched Buzzard sweep gracefully across the face of the sky, in gliding arcs that seemed to bring him closer and closer to the sun, and he decided that he wanted to see the world from Buzzard’s point of view. He began to wave and to call out, and Buzzard saw him immediately with his excellent eyesight and swooped down so that he was circling directly above Nanabozho. “What can I do for you, Nanabozho?” he asked. Nanabozho answered, “Look at you, soaring up there, seeing for miles in every direction, while I’m down here. I’m envious. Why don’t you let me get on your back so that I can see what the world looks like from up there?” “How do I know you don’t have some trick planned for me?” said Buzzard. “I don’t,” said Nanabozho honestly, and something in his tone convinced Buzzard to land directly before him. “Very well,” he said. “Climb onto my back and I’ll take you for a ride.” Now, Buzzard, himself not the kindest or most trustworthy of creatures, had a very mean trick of his own in mind. But Nanabozho was blinded by his eagerness to see the world as Buzzard saw it, and he climbed onto the bird’s back, saying only, “I worry about falling, Buzzard. Promise me you’ll take care up there.” Buzzard promised him that he would be careful, although he really did intend to drop Nanabozho if he got the chance. In an instant they were soaring through the air, and Nanabozho soon got over his nervousness as he took in the magnificent view, barely noticing that Buzzard was taking tighter and tighter turns as he circled higher and higher in the sky. Suddenly, the bird deliberately changed direction and Nanabozho lost his grip and fell like a stone. Nanabozho was knocked unconscious when he hit the ground, and he opened his eyes to discover that the impact had doubled him back upon himself, so that he was staring at his own rear end. He slowly untangled himself and carefully got to his feet, wondering what had gone wrong, when suddenly he heard Buzzard laughing at him from above. “You deceitful creature,” he yelled, shaking his fist. “I’ll pay you back for this.” “Oh, no you won’t,” said Buzzard. “Oh, yes I will,” said Nanabozho. “I’ll pay you back for this if I have to wait a hundred years.” “I’ll be fine,” said Buzzard to himself, “I’ll just keep my eye on him from up here.”

Now, a buzzard really can’t think about something for very long except for where his next meal is coming from, and that gave Nanabozho an idea. He transformed himself into a dead deer, which is exactly what a buzzard likes to eat, lying in plain view in a clearing. Soon enough Buzzard took notice of the big, juicy meal laid out below him, and he landed nearby and hurried over, eager to be the first to eat his fill. He picked away at the carcass, eventually making a hole big enough for him to place his entire head inside it, where he could easily feast away on the meat and fat. All at once Nanabozho leaped to his feet and squeezed shut the hole Buzzard had made, trapping his head and neck. “Now I’ve got you, you foul creature,” said Nanabozho. “What are you going to do to me?” said the terrified bird, although his voice, coming from inside the carcass, was muffled. “Not a thing. I’m going to let you try to remove your head from the hole you tore into my body. Go ahead.” So Buzzard pulled and yanked and strained and heaved and finally he freed himself, except that all of his feathers had been stripped from his head and neck, and his neck had been stretched to a ridiculous length, and all of the exposed flesh was red and raw. “There,” said Nanabozho. “Ugly is as ugly does. You and your descendants will live your lives without feathers on your heads, and with ridiculous long necks, and you’ll smell like what you eat.” And that is why to this day a buzzard has a bare head and a long, raw-looking neck, and smells like a carcass that has been left to lie in the sun.