David Vann - Legend of a Suicide

By now it had been at least half an hour, so he hiked back up to try to find the base of the cliff. That was hard to find, too, and when he found it he wasn’t sure it was the right one, but he searched below and he found, finally, a recently broken branch. He worked his way down from this to more branches and then a spot in the nettles and flowers and moss that had been crushed. A few feet farther on, he found his father.

His father wasn’t moving or making any sound. He was curled on his side with an arm flung out behind, and the eye Roy could see was shut. He came up slowly and knelt down and leaned in close, not wanting to, and listened for breathing or anything, and he did think he heard something but he couldn’t separate it from his own breath and told himself it might be just because he wanted to find something. But then he leaned in closer and put his ear to his father’s mouth and did feel and hear breath and he said, Dad, and then he was shouting it and trying to make his father wake up. He wanted to shake him but he didn’t know whether he should. So he just sat there and tried to talk his father awake.

You fell off the cliff, he said. You fell down here and you hurt yourself but you’re all right. Now wake up.

His father’s face was swollen and turning purplish already with red streaks where he’d been scraped. His hand was cut up and bloody.

Oh God, Roy said, and he wished he knew what to do or that there could at least be someone else around to help him. His father wasn’t waking, and finally he couldn’t think of what to do except grab his father under the armpits and start dragging him down the hill to the cabin. There was no trail, but they didn’t have to go across anything else and there were no more cliffs that he could remember. So he pulled him down through the undergrowth, trying not to trip but tripping and falling backward occasionally anyway and trying not to drop his father or move him too much but dropping him anyway, dropping his head and seeing it bounce and loll around in the spongy moss, and still his father didn’t wake or say anything to him but still he was breathing. And then the sun went down and it was darker but not completely dark when they cleared the last stand of hemlocks. He dragged his father over the grass, past the outhouse and down to the porch of the cabin, where he had to rest after each porch step before pulling his father up onto the next, and finally he had him inside the cabin.

He laid him in the main room on a blanket and put the other blankets and sleeping bags over him. He propped his head up on a pillow and he got wood for the fire. It was still fairly wet and it smoked too much but finally dried itself out in the stove after repeated lightings and then they had some warmth at least.

His father looked very pale. Roy put his hand next to his father’s cheek to see the difference in their color. He was breathing, but only shallowly. Roy wanted to give his father some water but didn’t know if he should. He wanted to put an ice pack on his head but there was no ice and he didn’t know if that was the right idea anyway. He didn’t know anything. He just sat back against the wall with his jacket over him and waited and watched for any changes as the light disappeared outside and the cabin grew smaller. The wind came up and the cabin creaked and let out a low howl occasionally and still his father lay there like a wax figure pale with his mouth open and red streaks on his face that didn’t look real, as if he’d been painted. Even the hair didn’t look right, and then the lamp went out and Roy was somehow too afraid to get up and find the paraffin in the dark so he only waited there seeing nothing, listening for hours until finally he fell asleep.

Waking in daylight he didn’t know what had happened, couldn’t make sense of his father lying in front of him like that, then he remembered. He went over to feel his father’s face and his skin was still warm and he was breathing.

Wake up, Roy said. Come on. I’ll fix pancakes. Cream-of-mushroom soup. Come on. Wake up.

Not a twitch from his father. Roy got the fire going again and the cabin slowly warmed. He stood in the doorway and looked out at the water, where there was no one, not a single boat. He came back in and shut the door, refilled the lamp and waited. Still his father hadn’t moved. He wondered if a body could be dead and still breathing, and this thought was so creepy that he got up to fix breakfast.

Hotcakes coming right up, he called back over his shoulder as he mixed up the Krusteaz with water. He put some of the powdered milk in the mix as a special treat, got the pan hot and oiled and started making pancakes with an intense concentration on the bubbles as they formed, worrying constantly about whether they were cooking too much on the underside, afraid also that he might flip too early before they had browned. He took his time with each one and waited until he had a perfect stack before he turned around and saw his father lying there with his eyes open watching him.

Roy yelled and dropped the plate. His father’s head moved slightly, the eyes on him. Dad, he said then, and he rushed over and his father said, in a whisper he could barely hear, Water.

Roy brought him water and helped him drink some of it, held the cup to his lips. His father threw up the water and then drank again.

Sorry, his father said, and then he closed his eyes and slept the rest of the day, Roy fearing all the time that he might fall back into a sleep that he wouldn’t wake from. He wondered whether he should run out to the point with flares and try to signal someone, but he was afraid to leave his father for that long, and he didn’t know, anyway, whether his father wanted him to set off the flares. He whispered it twice, Should I go set off the flares, Dad? But there was no response.

When his father woke again, it was near sunset and Roy had been on the verge of falling asleep but had opened his eyes for just a second and saw his father looking at him.

You’re awake, he said. How are you doing?

His father didn’t answer for a long time. Okay, he finally said. Some food. Water.

What kind of food?

His father considered for a while. Soup. Do we have?

You can’t breathe, can you? Roy said. You can’t say anything. Maybe I should go set off the flares, all right? I’ll try and get some help.

No, his father said. No. Soup.

So Roy heated up the cream-of-mushroom he had planned for the pancakes. It was one of the last cans of anything because of the bear. He brought it to his father and fed him slowly with a spoon.

His father could eat only a few bites before he said, Enough for now.

What about the cuts and stuff? Roy asked. I didn’t know what to do.

It’s okay.

Roy brought him more water, lit the lamp and stoked the stove, and they waited together, not saying anything, until his father called for more soup and then more water and then rested and then fell asleep again.

In the morning, when Roy awoke, his father had pulled his arms from beneath the blankets to rest them on top. Only one was cut up, and it had scabbed over by now.

I should go light the flares, Roy said. You still can’t get up. You might have something really wrong.

Listen, his father said. If we leave now, we won’t come back. And I don’t want to give this up yet. You have to give me another chance. I won’t let anything stupid like that happen again. I promise.

I thought you were going to die, Roy said.

I know. I’m sorry. You don’t have to worry about it anymore.

It looked like you just stepped off.

I got too close to the edge. It’s all right.

So they waited. Roy fed him soup and water again, and then his father had to go to the bathroom.

I have to go, he said. And I can’t get up by myself. Grab some TP and come help me up.