Philipp Meyer - The Son

“Things are changing.”

“It may appear that way, but when the war is over, the men will come back, and it will go back to the way it has always been.”

“I guess we’ll see,” she repeated.

“This place,” said her grandmother. She waved her hand, dismissing not only Jeannie but everything else, the house, the land, their good name. “I’m a member of the wealthiest family in four counties, but they still give me dirty looks when I vote.”

It was quiet. It occurred to Jeannie that for years she had wanted nothing more than this — for her grandmother to treat her like a confidante, a real person — but now she wanted nothing of the sort. She guessed she ought to feel privileged; instead she was embarrassed. Embarrassed that her grandmother was bullied by her own son, embarrassed that she would complain about her sex; what should have been sympathy somehow turned to anger, her grandmother ought to be out among the right people, solving the social problem, for if not her, then who? It was weakness, the entire family, and she felt a lifetime of fear and respect burn off as quickly as it had for her father. She sat up straight, smoothed her dress, she would be alone in life, that was clear, but right now she did not mind.

“You are not going to find a husband here who understands that we are halfway through the twentieth century. Do you understand?”

“I’ll end up like you, you mean.”

“That’s exactly what I mean. Married to men like your father or your grandfather or your brothers. To the sort of men who would choose to live out here, you will just be a place to get warm.”

“That’s not going to happen.”

“You won’t have a choice, Jeannie.”

Yesterday Pancho Villa crossed the border into New Mexico, killing twenty. Today, hardly a white man to be seen without a pistol or slung rifle, even to buy groceries.

The Germans have promised to reinforce Mexican troops with German infantry should they choose to cross the border. Whole town in a frenzy; we are only ten miles from the river.

I do not point out there is little likelihood of the Kaiser sending troops to McCullough Springs when he is losing them ten thousand a day in France. I do not point out that the number of Americans killed in Columbus is the same as the number of Tejanos shot in bar ditches on any given night in South Texas. I do not point these things out because everyone seems happy with the news of this new threat; neighbors who didn’t speak are suddenly friendly, wives have new reasons to make love with their husbands, disobedient children do their schoolwork and come home early for dinner.

FOUR MEXICANS FOUND shot outside town, all teenagers. No one is sure who they are or who killed them. The vaqueros think they are fuereños, men from the interior of Mexico, though how they can deduce this from a bloated corpse is beyond me. Incident not mentioned in newspaper. If it were four dead mules, there would have been an investigation, but there is nothing except general grumbling about the burial costs.

MARCH 14, 1916

Yet more blood on our hands and Charles has been taken to Carrizo. He was in town buying supplies when he ran into Dutch Hollis. Though it was only noon, Dutch was quite drunk and in front of a lunchtime crowd of onlookers accused our family of various crimes (of which we are certainly guilty), including engineering the death of the Garcias to gain their land.

After a short struggle Dutch got the better of him; Charles went to the truck and returned with his pistol. Dutch may or may not have reached for his knife (a folding jackknife in a pouch, same as all the men here carry). Charles shot him in the face.

Our caporal Garza arrived in time to see the final act: Madonna, you should have seen it, his hand did not even tremble. He related this expecting I would be proud.

Shortly after getting home, Charles saddled his horse and rode for Mexico. The Colonel and I caught him a few miles short of the river and convinced him to come back.

“It’ll be all right,” I said to him, as we returned.

He shrugged.

“We’ll muddle through.” He did not say anything. I felt the old impotence rising within me — what was the point of my even existing — or so everyone else seems to think.

“He had it coming,” said Charles. “He’s been talking like that all over town.”

“With his brother dying…”

“His brother? How about my brother?” He kicked his horse and caught up to the Colonel, who was riding ahead of us. They nodded to each other, did not speak, some wordless understanding, the same as my father and Phineas. My skin began to tingle… it occurred to me that I was the one who ought to be fleeing to Mexico….

Was he right? He and Sally seem to think the same way… is a near death equal to a death?

When we returned to the house, Sheriff Graham was waiting. Charles, bluffing over, turned white. Graham told us there was no hurry. He was thirsty.

The four of us spent the rest of the evening on the gallery drinking whiskey and watching the sunset, the three of them sitting together and chatting easily about how to best handle the incident, the sky going its typical blood red, which to me alone seemed symbolic, as I was sitting off a small distance from the others.

To listen to the three of them talk about the death of Dutch Hollis, you might have thought there had been some accident, a lightning strike, flash flood, the hand of God. Not my son’s. Had to do it, acted on instinct, the sheriff just nodding away, sipping our whiskey, my father refilling his glass.

Considered interrupting them to note that the entire history of humanity is marked by a single inexorable movement — from animal instinct toward rational thought, from inborn behavior toward acquired knowledge. A half-grown panther abandoned in the wilderness will grow up to be a perfectly normal panther. But a half-grown child similarly abandoned will grow up into an unrecognizable savage, unfit for normal society. Yet there are those who insist the opposite: that we are creatures of instinct, like wolves.

Once darkness had fallen and all were convinced of my son’s righteousness, Graham drove Charles back to Carrizo, all agreeing it was best if Charles spent a night in jail for appearance’s sake. Glenn meanwhile has been keeping his distance. He is confused by Charlie’s actions, to say the least.

MARCH 15, 1916

Went to see Dutch Hollis’s body before they bury him. He was lying in Graham’s back shed with several blocks of ice. He was unshaven, had not been washed; his face and clothes were filthy and clotted with blood and, like all the dead, he had lost control of his waste. Not long ago, twenty years maybe, he was a child reaching for his mother… a boy becoming a man… I had a sudden memory of him playing the fiddle, together with his brother, at the Midkiffs’ house. I peered into the dark spot, just at the edge of his eyebrow, an intricate machine, broken forever; there had been words and music… we had put a stop to that.

There was something shiny inside his shirt, a woman’s locket… I lifted it but could not quite make it out in the dimness. I broke the chain, jerking his head in the process. Then I left the room quickly and walked back into the light.

When I got home (heart racing the entire time, as if I’d committed some great felony, as if the crime was not killing him but taking his locket), there was no picture, no message, no piece of hair: the locket was empty. I took it to the Garcias’ and buried it there, along with our other victims, the whole time expecting I was being followed, the criminal feeling lingering. There are those born to hunt and those born to be hunted… I have always known I was the latter.