David Vann - Legend of a Suicide

They played cards again late in the evening, and his father won every hand.

My luck’s a-changing, he said. I am a new man grown out of the ashes. My wings are of the eagle and I shall fly far above.

God, Roy said.

His father laughed. Okay, that was a bit much.

They continued to explore more of the island by snowshoe, only on clear days at first but then on overcast and even snowy days as well. They traveled farther and farther until one afternoon they lost all visibility and were still at least four or five hours’ hike from the cabin.

Huh, his father said. He was standing only a few feet from Roy and still it was hard for Roy to see his father’s jacket and hood and the scarf wrapped around his face. He seemed a shadow that could be there but might not be there. His father said something else, but Roy couldn’t hear it clearly over the wind. He yelled to his father that he couldn’t hear.

I said I think I screwed up, his father yelled.

Great, Roy said, but only loud enough for himself to hear.

His father came closer, leaning against him. We can do several things. Can you hear me?

Yeah.

We can hike back and try to find it and try to make it before dark, but we might not and we might get tired and cold and get stuck. Or we can use what’s left of daylight and our energy and build a snow cave and hope it’s better tomorrow. We won’t have much to eat that way, but we might be safer.

The snow cave sounds fun, Roy yelled.

This isn’t about fun, his father said.

I know, Roy yelled.

Oh. Sorry. And his father turned away then and Roy had to follow close not to lose him. They went to a stand of cedars, and up against a bank behind the trees where the snow was thick they began tunneling into the side of it. They were out of the wind already, and now Roy could hear his father’s hard breathing.

What if it collapses? Roy asked.

Let’s hope it doesn’t. I’ve never dug one of these before, but I know people do use them from time to time.

They dug until they hit ground and then they continued enlarging from inside, but the angles were all wrong.

We’ll never be able to sleep in here, his father said.

So they moved over a bit and dug a smaller entrance down lower and his father went in on his stomach to dig out from the inside until the roof collapsed on him and only his feet stuck out. Roy threw himself on the pile and dug wildly at it to un-bury his father until his father finally backed out and stood up and said, Damnit.

They stood there like that, breathing hard, listening to the wind and feeling it get colder.

Got any ideas? his father asked.

You don’t know how to make one?

That’s why I’m asking.

Maybe we need deeper snow, Roy said. Maybe we can’t dig a snow cave with what we have here.

His father thought about that for a while. You know, he finally said, you might be right. I guess we’re hiking back to the cabin. As much as that’s a stupid idea, I can’t think of anything else. Can you?

No.

So they set off up the ridge, exposed again to the wind. Roy fought to keep up, to not lose his father. He knew that if he lost sight of him even for a minute, his father would never hear him yell and he’d be lost and never find his way back. Watching the dark shadow moving before him, it seemed as if this were what he had felt for a long time, that his father was something insubstantial before him and that if he were to look away for an instant or forget or not follow fast enough and will him to be there, he might vanish, as if it were only Roy’s will that kept him there. Roy became more and more afraid, and tired, with a sense that he could not continue on, and he began to feel sorry for himself, telling himself, It’s too much for me to have to do.

When his father stopped, finally, Roy bumped into his back.

We’re over the ridge now. I think we go along this and have one more before the cabin. I wish I knew what time it was. It seems like it’s still daylight, but it’s impossible to tell how much of it is left.

They stood and rested a moment and then his father asked, Are you doing all right?

I’m tired, Roy said, and I’m starting to shiver.

His father unwrapped his scarf and Roy thought he was going to give it to him, but he only tied it around Roy’s arm and then to his own. That’s hypothermia, his father said. We have to keep moving. You can’t give in to the tiredness and you can’t sleep. We have to keep moving.

So they hiked on, and Roy’s footsteps became softer and it seemed a longer time between them. He remembered riding in the back of his father’s Suburban from Fairbanks to Anchorage, the sleeping bags piled in there and the road lolling him back and forth. His sister had been back there in a sleeping bag, too, and they had stopped at a log cabin that had giant hamburgers and pancakes bigger than any Roy had seen.

Roy was dimly aware of darkness and later of day and hitting hard and waking and then the rocking again and then, when he awoke, he was in their cabin in a sleeping bag in the dark and his father was behind him and he could tell they were both naked, could feel the hair from his father’s chest and legs on the back of him. He was afraid to move but he got up and found a flashlight and shone it on his father, who lay curled on his side in the bag, the end of his nose dark, something wrong with the skin. Roy put on some dry clothes fast because it was so cold. He put more wood in the stove, got it going, and pushed the sleeping bag closer around his father, then found his own bag and got into it and rubbed his hands and feet together until he was warm enough and fell asleep again.

When he woke next it was light and it was warm from the stove and his father was sitting up in a chair watching him.

How do you feel? he asked.

I’m thirsty and really hungry, Roy said.

It’s been two days, his father said.

What?

Two days. We didn’t get back here until the next day, and then we slept through last night, too. I have food hot for you on the stove.

It was soup, split pea, and Roy could eat only a small bowl of it with a few crackers before he felt full, though he knew he was still hungry.

Your appetite will come back, his father said. Just wait a little while.

What happened to your face?

Just a little frostbite, I guess. It got a little burned. The end of my nose doesn’t feel much.

Roy thought that over for a while, wondering whether his father’s face would get completely better but afraid to ask, and finally he said, We came close to not making it, huh?

That’s right, his father said. I cut it way too close. I almost got us both killed.

Roy didn’t say anything more and neither did his father. They went through the day eating and stoking the stove and reading. They both went to bed early, and as Roy waited for sleep, he felt none of the elation he had always imagined people felt when they came close to death and narrowly escaped. He felt only very tired and a little sad, as if they had lost something out there.

In the morning, his father spent over an hour at the radio before he was finally able to place a telephone call to Rhoda, but what he got was only an answering machine.

Oh, he said into the mike. I was hoping I would get to talk with you. This is going to sound stupid into a machine, but I’m just thinking that maybe I’ve changed some out here and maybe I could be better now. That’s all. I wanted to talk with you. I’ll try again some other time.

When he turned the radio off, Roy asked, If you talked with her and she wanted you to, would you leave here right away to go be with her?

His father shook his head. I don’t know. I don’t know what I’m doing. I’m just missing her.

They spent another day in the cabin reading and eating and staying warm and not talking much. Finally they played hearts with a dummy hand, which didn’t work well.