Richard Ford: Wildlife

This was at a time, I believe, when she was living in Portland, Oregon, and was hoping to find a job. Her letters had ‘The Davenport Hotel’ letterhead on them, although for some reason I did not think she was staying there. I did not know very much about her at all during that time and actually thought of her as lost to us, forever.

It is possible, and I have thought this over the years since then, that my father must’ve felt that all forward motion in his life had come to a stop that night at Warren Miller’s house, and that Warren was right — that my father wished Warren would come out and shoot him right there. And that was why he didn’t run away. When things in your life turn against you and do it all at once, as it happened to my father, there must be a strong desire to end it for yourself, to give life back and let other, stronger people — people like Warren Miller — carry it on to wherever it will go. Or at least there is a desire to become a smaller part of something larger in life, something that will take charge of you as though you were a child. My mother may have felt the same way about things.

I wondered, in the days that followed, when my mother was moving to the Helen Apartments and then out of there in a hurry, and out of town, if I would ever see the world as I had seen it before then, when I did not even know I saw it. Or if you just got used to parting with things, and because you were young you parted with them faster; or if in fact none of that thinking was important at all, and things stayed mostly the same in spite of small changes, so that when you faced the worst and went past it what you found there was nothing. Nothing has its own badness, but it does not last forever. And what there is to learn from almost any human experience is that your own interests do not usually come first where other people are concerned — even the people who love you — and that is all right. It can be lived with.

The fire my father had left home to fight did not die out easily, but lasted a long time — not the way anyone would think, that a fire is just a thing that can be put out. It did not threaten towns, but it smoldered all winter, and then in the spring it blew up again in a smaller way and smoke we could feel in our eyes was in the air, though my father did not go out to fight it.

In the spring when I was back in school, I tried to throw the javelin, but I was no good at it and did not throw it far. Not far enough. So I quit. My father said that he and I would start to golf again when the weather improved, and in time we did, and in general I felt that my life was like other boys’ lives. I did not have friends. I had met a girl I liked but I did not know what to do where she was concerned, did not know a place to go with her, and didn’t have a car to take her anywhere. In truth, I did not have a life except for the life at home with my father. But that did not seem unusual to me then, or even now.

In early March, Warren Miller died. I read about it in the newspaper. The story said a ‘lengthy illness’ was the cause and did not go on further, except that he died at home. I realized he must’ve thought he was sick and dying when he knew my mother. And I wondered if she had known that, or if she had ever seen him again after that night in our house. I decided that she had — maybe in Portland, where she was, or some other town. I tried to imagine what they talked about and decided it was only what all of us already knew. I think she loved him. She certainly said she did, and I think she loved my father too. There is an old saying that when you have two you really have none. And that is what I finally thought about my mother, wherever she was, in whatever city, doing whatever she was doing alone. She had none, and I was sorry for her for that to be so.

My father did not seem unhappy to me. I do not think he heard from my mother, even though I received letters at home. I think he believed she was not making a new start in life but was continuing something onward, and that he should do the same thing. He found a job selling insurance for a while in the winter, and when that did not go well enough he took a job at a sporting goods store in the middle of town and sold golf clubs and tennis rackets and baseball mitts. For a time in the spring he had two wire cages behind our house, cages he’d built himself, and kept a rabbit and a pheasant and a small speckled partridge he actually found in the street. And life went on for us on a different scale from how it had gone on. On a smaller human scale. There is no doubting that. But it went on. We survived it.

And then at the end of March, in 1961, just as it was beginning to be spring, my mother came back from wherever she had been. In a while she and my father found a way to settle the difficulties that had been between them. And though they may both have felt that something had died between them, something they may not even have been aware of until it was gone and disappeared from their lives forever, they must’ve felt — both of them — that there was something of themselves, something important, that could not live at all in any other way but by their being together, much as they had been before. I do not know exactly what that something was. But that is how our life resumed after then, for the little time that I was at home. And for many years after that. They lived together — that was their life — and alone. Though God knows there is still much to it that I myself, their only son, cannot fully claim to understand.

Richard Ford was born in Jackson, Mississippi, in 1944. He has published six novels and three collections of stories, including The Sportswriter, Independence Day, Wildlife, A Multitude of Sins and most recently The Lay of the Land. Independence Day was awarded the Pulitzer Prize and the PEN/Faulkner Award for Fiction.