William Gass - In the Heart of the Heart of the Country

That was damn fool, Hans said.

He lost his footing. Jesus, I ain’t the horse.

I don’t know. Simon’s a turd binder, Hans said.

Pa took a careful drink.

Go round and lead him out.

Jorge is on the outside.

Go round and lead him out.

You. You go round. You led him in.

Go round and lead him out.

Sometimes the snow seemed as blue as the sky. I don’t know which seemed colder.

Oh god I’ll go, I said. I’m on the outside.

Your old man’s on the outside, Hans said.

I guess I know where I am, Pa said. I guess I know where I’m staying.

Can’t you let up, for christ’s sake? I’m going, I said.

I threw off the blanket and stood up but I was awful stiff. The snow dazzle struck me and the pain of the space around us. Getting out I rammed my ankle against the sideboard’s iron brace. The pain shot up my leg and shook me like an ax handle will when you strike wrong. I cursed, taking my time jumping off. The snow looked as stiff and hard as cement and I could only think of the jar.

You’ve known where that brace was for ten years, Pa said.

The snow went to my crotch. The gun bit. I waded round the hole trying to keep on tiptoe and the snow away from my crotch but it wasn’t any use.

You practicing to be a bird? Hans said.

I got hold of Horse Simon and tried to coax him out. Pa swore at me from his seat. Simon kicked and thrashed and lunged ahead. The front right runner dug in. The sleigh swung around on it and the left side hit Simon’s back legs hard behind the knees. Simon reared and kicked a piece out of the side of the sleigh and then pulled straight ahead tangling the reins. The sleigh swung back again and the right runner pulled loose with a jerk. Pa’s bottle rolled. From where I sat in the snow I saw him grab for it. Simon went on ahead. The sleigh slid sideways into Simon’s hole and the left runner went clear of the snow. Simon pulled up short though Pa had lost the reins and was holding on and yelling about his bottle. I had snow in my eyes and down my neck.

Simon didn’t have no call to do that, Hans said, mimicking Pa.

Where’s my bottle? Pa said, looking over the side of the sleigh at the torn snow. Jorge, go find my bottle. It fell in the snow here somewheres.

I tried to brush the snow off without getting more in my pockets and up my sleeves and down my neck.

You get out and find it. It’s your bottle.

Pa leaned way over.

If you hadn’t been so god damn dumb it wouldn’t have fell out. Where’d you learn to lead a horse? You never learned that dumb trick from me. Of all the god damn dumb tricks I never seen any dumber.

Pa waved his arm in a circle.

That bottle fell out about here. It couldn’t have got far. It was corked, thank god. I won’t lose none.

Snow was slipping down the hollow of my back. The forty-five had slipped through my belt. I was afraid it would go off like Big Hans said. I kept my right forearm pressed against it. I didn’t want it slipping off down my pants. I didn’t like it. Pa shouted directions.

You hid it, I said. You’re such a hand at hiding. You find it then. I ain’t good at finding. You said so yourself.

Jorge, you know I got to have that bottle.

Then get off your ass and find it.

You know I got to have it.

Then get off.

If I get down off here, it ain’t the bottle I’m coming after. I’ll hold you under till you drown, you little smart-talking snot.

I started kicking around in the snow.

Hans giggled.

There’s a trace broke, he said.

What’s so damn funny?

I told you that trace was worn.

I kicked about. Pa followed my feet.

Hell. Not that way. He pointed. You know about everything there is, Hans, I guess, he said, still watching me. First little thing you figure out you tell somebody about. Then somebody else knows. So then they can do what needs to be done, and you don’t have to — jesus, not there, there . Don’t it, Hans? don’t it always let you out? You ain’t going deep enough. I never figured that out. How come somebody else’s knowing always lets you out? You’re just a pimp for jobs, I guess. You ain’t going deep enough, I said.

It ain’t my job to fix traces.

Hey, get your hands in it, your hands . It’s clean. You always was that way about manure. Why ain’t it your job? Too busy screwing sheep? Try over there. You ought to have hit it. No, there , not there.

I never fixed traces.

Christ, they never needed fixing while you been here hardly. Jorge, will you stop nursing that fool gun with your cock and use both hands.

I’m cold, Pa.

So’m I. That’s why you got to find that bottle.

If I find it do I get a drink?

Ain’t you growed up — a man — since yesterday!

I’ve had a few, Pa.

Ha. Of what, hey? Hear that, Hans? He’s had a few. For medicine maybe, like your ma says. The spirits, the spirits, Jorgen Segren… ha. He’s had a few he says. He’s had a few.

Pa.

He’s had a few. He’s had a few. He’s had a few.

Pa. I’m cold, Pa.

Maybe. Only look, for god’s sake, don’t just thrash about like a fool chicken.

Well, we’re finished anyway, Hans said.

We’re finished if we don’t find that bottle.

You’re finished, maybe. You’re the only one who needs that bottle. Jorge and I don’t need it, but there you are, old man, eh? Lost in the snow.

My gloves were wet. Snow had jammed under my sleeves. It was working down into my boots. I stopped to pick some out with a finger if I could.

Maybe some of ma’s coffee is still hot, I said.

Say. Yeah. Maybe. But that’s my coffee, boy. I never got none. I ain’t even had breakfast. What are you stopping for? Come on. Hell, Jorge, it’s cold.

I know that better than you. You’re sitting there all nice and dry, bossing; but I’m doing all the work and getting the snow inside me.

Say. Yeah. That’s right.

Pa leaned back and grinned. He clutched the blanket to him and Hans pulled it back.

It’s easier to keep warm moving around, anybody knows that. Ain’t that right, Hans? It’s easier to keep warm moving, ain’t it?

Yeah, Hans said. If you ain’t got a blanket.

See there, Jorge, hey? You just keep good and warm… stirring. It’d be a pity if your pee should freeze. And moving around good prevents calluses on the bottom. Don’t it, Hans?

Yeah.

Hans here knows. He’s nothing but calluses.

You’ll wear out your mouth.

I can’t find it, Pa. Maybe some of ma’s coffee is still warm.

You damn snivel — you ain’t looking. Get tramping proper like I told you and find it. Find it fast, you hear. You ain’t getting back up on this sleigh until you do.

I started jumping up and down, not too fast, and Pa blew his nose with his fingers.

Cold makes the snot run, he says, real wise.

If I found the bottle I’d kick it deep under the snow. I’d kick it and keep kicking it until it sank under a drift. Pa wouldn’t know where it was. I wouldn’t come back to the sleigh either. They weren’t going anywhere anyway. I’d go home though it was a long walk. Looking back I could see our tracks in the trough of the road. They came together before I lost them. It would be warm at home and worth the walk. It was frightening — the endless white space. I’d have to keep my head down. Winded slopes and rises all around me. I’d never wanted to go to Pedersen’s. That was Hans’s fight, and Pa’s. I was just cold… cold… and scared and sick of snow. That’s what I’d do if I found it — kick it under a drift. Then later, a lot later in the spring one day I’d come out here and find the old bottle sticking out of the rotting snow and stuck in the mud like dough, and I’d hide it back of the barn and have a drink whenever I wanted. I’d get some real cigarettes, maybe a carton, and hide them too. Then someday I’d come in and Pa’d smell whiskey on me and think I’d found one of his hiding places. He’d be mad as hell and not know what to say. It’d be spring and he’d think he’d taken them all in like he always did, harvesting the crop like he said.