Sherman Alexie - Blasphemy - New and Selected Stories

“I’m sorry, Dad, I’m so sorry.”

After a while, Emery recovered and did the only thing a simple man could do in such a situation.

“We have to take care of the donkeys,” he said.

Deuce understood what his father wanted. So he climbed back into the truck, unbolted the rifle from its rack, pulled the box of bullets from the glove compartment, and carried it back to his father. Emery looked at the rifle and bullets.

“You do the first one,” he said. “I’m not ready for it yet.”

But loading the rifle, Deuce wasn’t sure that he could shoot the mortally wounded and suffering donkeys. He realized for the first time that perhaps he did love the animals. Or at least, he loved how much his father loved the donkeys.

“I’ll take care of everybody,” Deuce said.

“No,” Emery said. “Just let me catch my breath. I’ll help.”

“Half,” Deuce said. “We’ll each do half.”

“Okay, okay,” Emery said, and got to his feet.

Such are the compromises of grief.

Carrying the rifle, Deuce walked over to Billy Cunningham, desperately trying to walk on mutilated forelegs. Deuce could see white bone shining through red viscera in both. Billy was a dumb animal but was probably the most affectionate of the herd. Even in great pain, he leaned his head against Deuce’s chest.

“I’m sorry, Billy,” Deuce said, then stepped back, pressed the rifle against the donkey’s skull, and pulled the trigger.

Emery cried out at the gunshot, fell back to his knees, and buried his face in the dirt like a mourning pilgrim. Deuce knew then he’d have to do the entire killing. It was mercy, he guessed, but is there really such a thing as mercy with a bullet?

Connie Hawkins, quite intelligent and aware of what a gunshot meant, tried to run away. And she was moving pretty quickly for an animal whose lower jaw was broken in two and whose ribs were visible through a massive gash in her flank. Deuce, weeping hard again and gasping for breath, had to jog to catch up with Connie. And poor, smart Connie tried to defend herself. She weakly reared up and tried to head-butt Deuce but only tripped herself and fell heavily to the dirt. Deuce stood over Connie, who looked up at him with anger and fear. Deuce wanted to lean over and hug the animal but he knew that Connie might find the strength to hurt him. So Deuce aimed, held his breath, and shot Connie in the head.

Dr. J and Bob Cousy were still trapped in the ruined trailer. A piece of metal had pierced Dr. J’s chest, missing her heart, but had likely torn her lungs. She was coughing blood. Deuce could barely see through his tears as he shot the animal.

Deuce went to his knees again and tossed the rifle aside. He knew he couldn’t shoot another one of his animals, even though Bob Cousy was screaming beneath a pile of twisted metal. Deuce scuttled his way through the mess and lay down beside the dying donkey. As soon as Deuce held the donkey’s face in his hands, Bob Cousy stopped screaming.

Man and donkey had known each other for fifteen years. And they stared into each other’s eyes with a man’s regret and a donkey’s primal pain. But Deuce could see that Bob Cousy wanted to live. Considering how slow and clueless Bob had been as a basketball player, it was surprising to see such strength in him now.

“Just let go, Bob,” Deuce said. “Let go. It’s okay. Let go. It’s okay to let go.”

And so Bob took two deep breaths, shuddered, and died.

In that silence, Deuce could hear only his father’s quiet weeping. The son had no idea how long he listened to his father. But eventually, he crawled out of the trailer and walked over to his father, lying facedown in the dirt. Deuce rolled his wailing father over and saw that his face was covered with dirt turned to mud from tears.

“Dad, are you hurt? Do you feel anything broken inside you?”

“Where’s George Mikan?” Emery asked. “Go find George.”

“I will, I will, but are you going to be okay? Are you bleeding inside?”

“I’m okay, I’m okay. Just find George.”

But Deuce couldn’t leave his father looking that way. So he pulled off his shirt and wiped his father’s face clean and pulled off his T-shirt and wrapped that around his father’s bloody arm. Then Deuce pulled out his cell phone, but there was no signal.

“Dad, I’m going to have to walk to get us help.”

“No, find George.”

Deuce scanned the dark horizon. He could see lights out on the plains. Farmhouses, he supposed. Deuce thought he could easily walk close to one of those lights but that it probably wasn’t wise for a shirtless, bloody man to knock on a rural Montana door in the middle of the night. He had to walk into Cut Bank.

“Dad, we can find George in the daylight. I have to go get help for you now.”

“Goddamn you, goddamn you,” Emery said. He weakly punched and kicked at his son. “You do what I say. If it’s the last goddamn time, you do what I say. I’m your goddamn father and you’re going to obey me. Obey me, you little fucker. Obey me.”

Deuce again weathered his father’s blows. And then he handed the phone to Emery.

“Dad, keep trying to call for help. I’ll go look for George.”

Deuce was terrified to leave his father alone.

“Go get George,” Emery said. “I’ve got Bill Laimbeer. He’ll take care of me.”

Deuce couldn’t believe that Bill wasn’t as injured as the other donkeys, and that gave him hope that George Mikan was also okay.

“All right, Bill,” Deuce said to the donkey. “You watch Dad. I’m going for George.”

And so Deuce walked out into the dark. He tried to think like a donkey, like George Mikan, who always trotted for the rim, the goal. So Deuce picked the brightest light in the distance. He figured that George would be traveling toward that light. That light was the hoop and that wheat field was the court.

“Okay, George,” Deuce said. “Let’s win this game.”

He’d walked maybe ten yards when he realized that George might be terribly injured. Deuce understood that he might have to shoot their best donkey. He might have to end that beautiful animal’s misery. But he’d been unable to shoot Bob, so how could he shoot George?

And yet, he knew it was his duty. He knew he had to find the strength and grace. The violent kindness. So he walked back to the trailer, picked up the rifle, and then headed again toward the bright light.

Traveling through the dark with his rifle, Deuce realized that he was now some other kind of soldier. This damn donkey business had started at the end of one war and was now dying in the middle of another one.

After half an hour, Deuce had slowed considerably. The adrenaline had dissipated, so that he could feel his sprained ankles and knees, and the hundred different bruises, and the probably broken collarbone. He knew that George had to be injured, too. He understood that George must have been slowing down.

After another half hour, Deuce had to stop. His ribs felt like they were scraping against his lungs. Maybe a busted rib had pierced his lungs. Deuce wondered if he was dying. He wanted to lie down in the cool dirt and rest. Just close his eyes for a few minutes. And then he’d get up and resume the hunt.

Deuce wanted to surrender.

But then he saw George, illuminated by moonlight, standing atop a rise fifty feet away. Soaked with blood and sweat, trembling and ruined, George couldn’t possibly survive his injuries.

Deuce thought of his father, lying back there in the dark. Deuce knew that he’d mortally wounded his father’s soul.

Deuce knew he was a bad man. But he hoped that he could become a good soldier.

On the rise, George staggered and nearly fell. He brayed and brayed, and it sounded like a prayer, like a plea to be released. Deuce wanted to walk up the rise, stand next to his friend, and end his pain. But he didn’t have the strength. Even as he tried to remain standing, Deuce lost his balance and fell again on his knees. Jesus, he thought, give me some strength. But he didn’t think he’d ever have strength enough to crawl to George.