Thomas McGuane - Driving on the Rim

Less pleasantly, my thoughts turned to Womack and his broken leg — that is, to the leg first and then to Womack, who was undoubtedly suffering in his brush shelter. I supposed that Jocelyn had been in to visit him, bring him things, and that soon I would hear from her. But I hoped I would also hear from her in some context other than the health and well-being of Womack, who, despite his somewhat stark affect, I had some trouble picturing in other than the select occasions we had shared. I tried to imagine an ordinary Womack day and failed. If I had turned on reruns of the Grand Ole Opry and there was Womack in a spangled cowboy suit I wouldn’t have been surprised. He had a little Porter Waggoner to his rubber-lipped but skinny I-see-right-through-you gaze. And cruel eyes that stood out, unflinching predator eyes. It was mostly what you saw. It abruptly occurred to me that he was certainly not an airplane mechanic. I was a little slow in reaching this conclusion, even though Lieutenant Crosby had let me glimpse the rap sheet. Someone more alert than I at that moment would have had a hard time connecting its details to his purported profession.

I had not seen Jocelyn in a while, though she was so often in my thoughts that encountering her corporeal self might have been beside the point. Her absence was acutely on my mind for the most irrational of reasons: it was daylight savings, time to adjust my clock. I went through my customary confusion over the spring-forward-fall-back business, something I could never quite understand — which gave rise to a reflection, based first on the non-sighting of Jocelyn, on the tyranny of time, feeling it as a sort of bully pushing me down a corridor where family members, acquaintances, and companions were regularly picked off into rooms along the way, never to be seen again. At the moment I could not think of a single instance in which time was my friend. My temporary inability to sort out the spring-forward-fall-back business seemed to emphasize that the rules were made elsewhere.

Furthermore, my infatuation, which had formerly produced a nice demarcation between Jocelyn and her circumstances, including the persistence of Womack, had begun to sag. Something so unexpectedly disturbing had come along that I seemed to have lost focus, if losing focus on an obsession is technically possible.

Jinx and I went on one of our nature walks, well, more than that because we had made a foray of several miles into the hills before we took our surroundings seriously: Jinx was on a mission. I didn’t bring my field glasses and so we shared her nice old Leitz binoculars. It was one of the first genuine spring days; some of the earliest wildflowers, the ground-hugging phlox and violets that seemed to creep right in behind the receding snow, were already appearing in the sagebrush openings amid the bunchgrass and needle grass stands. We were high above the Yellowstone River, and in its broad valley the new warmth had raised a sun-shot fog. I had suppressed an impulse to ask Jinx where we were going simply because it was more interesting to tag along and guess.

By following a game trail in a small grove of junipers, we found ourselves on an elevated wooded point that looked out on a small valley between the ridges. I was increasingly cautioned to be quiet, to walk softly, to slow down — and finally to sit in a horseshoe of stacked stones, which I recognized as a hunting blind built by Indians. This gave us a protected view of the small valley and would have been an ideal place for its builders to launch an arrow at animals grazing toward them. We sat here for a long time; at first I thought I was supposed to stay silent, and after a while I was disinclined to talk at all. I wondered if this was meant to be some exercise in meditation, but whatever it was, I seemed quite happy to sit next to Jinx on a sunny spring day and to, in effect, enjoy her breathing. I even had a brief erotic impulse flit past like some bird, which caused me to smile. Jinx was quite resolute in scanning with her binoculars, and I found myself waiting for the steady sweep to come to a stop. When finally it did, she put a hand on my knee and handed me the glasses. She whispered, “Look right above the rock outcrop.”

At first I could not find the outcrop at all and even once I did, it was another moment before I saw the wolf. I went through the same experience shared by everyone else who sees a wolf: surprise that a wolf doesn’t look like anything else on earth.

She seemed to stare right at us from across the grass and sage, then elevated her nose in the beginning of a long and luxurious stretch, after which she looked carefully around the basin, then disappeared behind the rock, to emerge moments later carrying a pup by the scruff of its neck. She carried it a good distance and deposited it amid the sagebrush. Then she went back for another, squirming and dangling in her teeth, and placed it in a new place. After six were hidden here and there, she rested on the rock, lying on her belly with forelegs dangling. Jinx let me have the binoculars more than my share of the time: this was not her first visit to the wolves. We spent the entire morning in the old Indian blind watching as the wolf went from one hidden baby to another, nursing each. It was almost high noon before the wind came up behind us and the wolf knew of our presence. In an instant, she simply was no longer there. She seemed to evaporate.

On our way back to the trailhead where we had left Jinx’s car, she no more than responded to my various questions. I found her indifferent even to my excitement at what we had seen. At her car, she mentioned that she was leaving town to practice elsewhere. She rather tossed that off, but I didn’t take it well. She was the only real friend I had. She had hinted at it before, but now it seemed like a plan. Where would I go?

I made several trips to Jocelyn’s old homeplace and found nothing. The airplane was gone and in fact the runway looked unused. Because word had gotten out that I was available for basic medical services — and was cheap! — I found myself with several patients a day who simply showed up. I had no one to manage appointments, and no inclination to turn anyone away if I could treat them without special equipment. Several who needed other kinds of help I hustled over to the clinic, recommending whichever of my old colleagues best fit the case. Therefore, it was nightfall before I could turn my thoughts first to Jocelyn and my seemingly abiding love of her, and then to Jinx, whose move threatened to leave me friendless. It was not easy to see why these two appeared in my imagination roughly at the same time. Jinx and I were not lovers; our compatibility had gotten in the way. How weird was that? The very sight of Jinx filled me with delight, and our forays in the outdoors were perfect little idylls. I thought she was pretty, even physically attractive, for crying out loud. But we were friends! We loved each other, in some way. And we found in the earth, the land of our beautiful West, what others had found in religion or some world elsewhere. The land and its wildlife were our miracles, and our gratitude did not extend to prying questions about how these came to be: they were enough. And we both liked patching people up! There was some connection between being useful and loving the place where we lived that made a nice circle for us. Why, then, were the forces driving me toward Jocelyn so irresistible?

As would be, I was seeing an old gent, Carl Tate, for his rheumatoid arthritis, which had been caught too late because of Carl’s stoicism, with the result that cartilage damage and bone erosion could no longer be averted by some anti-rheumatoid strategies, though I was still following them to lesser effect while averting pain with the usual stuff — when Wilmot appeared, and said with some mystification, “Still seeing patients?” And I had Ellen Coopersmith waiting for me in the parlor. I was determined to finish what I was doing.