David Vann - Legend of a Suicide

Well, his father said, that should be good for a few boards at least.

They stripped the branches and put them in a pile to go through later for kindling and, Roy thought to himself, a possible bow and arrows. They got at each end then to carry it back to the cabin, but it was much heavier than either of them had expected, so they sawed it into sections then and there, most at about two feet but two longer sections for longer boards, for the sides of the smoker especially. Then they carried the pieces to the back of the cabin and stood around afterward looking at them.

We don’t have the right tools.

No, Roy said. We’ll have to just use the ax or saw or something. What do you usually use to make boards?

I don’t know. Some kind of tool we don’t have. I think we can stand them up on end and saw, though.

So they tried a piece like that, stood it on end and placed the saw across at about an inch from the edge and worked it through slowly, trying to keep straight.

The pieces are all going to be different sizes, Roy said.

Yep.

It turned out that it took a long time and didn’t work well and was more of a one-person job since they had only one saw, so Roy went in for the fishing gear and put their poles together on the porch. He tied a Pixie on each line, with a swivel about three feet above it, then walked around back. His father was still working on the first board.

His father didn’t look up but kept at his work. His breath was puffing out in the cold and his face looked gaunt like a bird’s — small sunken eyes, thin lips, a nose that looked almost hooked right now, and a light fringe of hair that seemed no more than a ruffle.

I have the poles ready, Roy said.

Catch us a big one, his father said and looked up for a moment. And then get your sawing hand ready. I see now this job is going to take us about the next four months.

Roy smiled. All right. I’ll be back.

The point was windier. Roy stood at the edge where the wind waves were up to two or three feet slapping into the shore and he could see whitecaps out there. He hadn’t realized how sheltered their little cove was. He walked up and down the shoreline for a few minutes, gazing at the white polished rocks and into the tree line behind that was up on a ruff of grass and dirt and root that skirted the beach everywhere and everywhere was exposed. He didn’t know how the dirt stayed there, but when he studied it up close, he saw that it was mostly moss and root. He thought of bears and looked around and saw no sign but walked back to the point, within view of the cabin, and threw his lure out across the mouth of their cove to catch the salmon tumbling in or slipping out.

He couldn’t see his lure or any fish at all, but he remembered times in the coves around Ketchikan of standing on the bow of his father’s boat and seeing the fish everywhere beneath him. They would have that here in later months, but still he hoped today he might catch an early one.

When something did hit, it was a small Dolly Varden, a white flash and tug. He pulled it up easily onto the smooth rocks, where it gasped and bled and he removed the hook and smashed its head and it died. It had been a little while since he’d caught a fish, almost a year. He bent down to look at it and watch its colors fade.

You were spawned on rocks like these, and to these rocks dost thou return, he spoke and grinned. Thou hast becometh lunch.

He built up some rocks around it to keep the eagle away, and he thought of his last English class and the plays they had done and how he wouldn’t have any of that this year. He didn’t have his friends, either, and there were no girls here.

As he trundled his lure back across the mouth again and again, he was thinking of girls in school and then of a particular girl and kissing her on the way home. He got an erection thinking about it and looked toward the cabin, then pulled in his line and went back into the trees, where he leaned against one tree with his pants open and masturbated and imagined kissing her and came. He had figured out how to masturbate less than a year before and he did it usually three or four times a day, but he hadn’t been able to since he’d arrived because his father was always there.

He sat down by another tree and felt lonely and thought of all his missed opportunity.

Then, bored, he fished again, caught another the same size, and returned to his father. The afternoon was getting later by now, the light richer and the view of the mountain as he walked back very beautiful.

His father was still sawing when he came up.

There you are, his father said. Hey, looks like dinner. Dolly Varden, both of them?

Yeah.

Great. And he started singing what sounded like a sea chantey. Oh, the Dolly Varden came swimming, and up he grabbed his rod. And caught two or three and brought them back, and ate them with his grog.

His father smiled, pleased with himself. Better than radio?

Definitely, Roy said. This was an odd father he was seeing out here. I can cook them while you finish up. How’s it going?

His father pointed at his pile. Looks like ten or fifteen of the finest shingles anywhere, I’d say. And all very uniform. We know about quality control here on the ranch.

The ranch, Roy said. Looks like a pretty small spread.

The herds are farther back on the island.

Yeah, Roy said. I’ll fix some dinner. He cleaned the fish out front at the water’s edge and watched the guts just under the water, caught on the rocks and streaming back and forth with the small waves that came in. They looked like aliens. One had what looked like eyes.

He started the fire in the stove, then put the fish in a pan with butter and pepper and went back out to the porch feeling like a pioneer, feeling so good he walked around back to his father and watched him and talked until he figured the fire was hot enough and he went back in and rearranged the coals and fried up the fish.

They had the Varden out on the porch with sourdough bread and some lettuce and dressing.

Enjoy the lettuce, his father said. It won’t last more than a week, and then we’re down to canned veggies only.

Are we gonna grow anything?

We could, his father said. We’d need seeds, though. I didn’t think of that. We can have Tom bring some next time he flies in.

You’ll order by radio?

His father nodded. We should try it out, anyway. The evening’s the best time, so maybe we can set it up after dinner.

They watched the sun getting lower. It was so slow they couldn’t see it dropping, but they could see the light changing on the water and on the trees, the shadow behind every leaf and ripple in the sideways light making the world three-dimensional, as if they were seeing trees through a viewfinder.

They put their plates in the sink and brought the radio gear into the main room, in the far corner. His father plugged it into two large batteries and then remembered the antenna.

We need to put this on the roof, he said. So they went out and looked and decided it was too big a project and decided to wait for the next day.

That night, late, his father wept again. He talked to himself in small whispers that sounded like whining as he cried and Roy couldn’t make out what he said or fathom what his father’s pain was or where it came from. The things his father said to himself only made him weep harder, as if he were driving himself on. He would grow quiet and then tell himself another thing and whine and sob again. Roy didn’t want to hear it. It frightened and disabled him and he had no way of acknowledging it, now or during the day. He couldn’t sleep until after his father had ceased and fallen away himself.

In the morning, Roy remembered the crying, and it seemed to him that this was exactly what he was not supposed to do. By some agreement he had never been witness to, he was supposed to hear it at night and then by day not only forget but somehow make it not have happened. He began to dread their nights together, though they had had only two.