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

They were digging a tunnel. They didn’t hear me come up. They were really digging a tunnel.

Hans was digging in the great drift. It ran from the grove in a high curve against the barn. It met the roof where it went lowest and flowed onto it like there wasn’t a barn underneath. It seemed like the whole snow of winter was gathered there. If the drift hadn’t ended in the grove it would have been swell for sledding. You could put a ladder on the edge of the roof and go off from there. The crust looked hard enough.

Hans and Pa had put about a ten-foot hole in the bank. Hans dug and Pa put what Hans dug in small piles behind him. I figured it was near a hundred feet to the barn. If we’d been home and not so cold, it would have been fun. But it would take all day. They were great damn fools.

I been thinking, I started out, and Hans stopped in the tunnel with a shovel of snow in the air.

Pa didn’t turn around or stop.

You can help dig, he said.

I been thinking, I said, and Hans dropped the shovel, spilling the snow, and came out. I been thinking, I said, that you’re digging in the wrong place.

Hans pointed to the shovel. Get digging.

We need something to carry snow with, Pa said. It’s getting too damn far.

Pa kicked at the snow and flailed with his arms. He was sweating and so was Hans. It was terrible foolish.

I said you was digging in the wrong place.

Tell Hans. It’s his idea. He’s the hot digger.

You thought it was a good idea, Hans said.

I never did.

Well, I said, it ain’t likely you’ll find him clear in there.

Pa chuckled. He ain’t going to find us neither.

He ain’t going to find anybody if he’s where I think.

Oh yeah— think . Hans moved nearer. Where?

As far as he got. It really didn’t make much difference to me what Hans did. He could come as close as he liked. In the snow near that horse.

Hans started but Pa chewed on his lip and shook his head.

Probably Schmidt or Carlson, I said.

Probably Schmidt or Carlson, shit, Pa said.

Of course, Hans shouted.

Hans scooped up the shovel, furious, and carried it by me like an ax.

Hans has been working like a thrasher, Pa said.

You’ll never finish it.

No.

It’s higher than it needs to be.

Sure.

Why are you digging it then?

Hans. Hans wants to.

Why, for christ’s sake?

So we can get to the barn without being seen.

Why not cross behind the drift?

Hans. Hans says no. Hans says that from an upstairs window he could see over the bank.

What the hell.

He’s got a rifle.

But who knows he’s upstairs?

Nobody. We don’t know he’s even there. But that horse is.

He’s back where I said.

No he ain’t. You only wish he was. So does Hans, hey? But he ain’t. What did the kid see if he is — his ghost?

I walked into the tunnel to the end. Everything seemed blue. The air was dead and wet. It could have been fun, snow over me, hard and grainy, the excitement of a tunnel, the games. The face of a mine, everything muffled, the marks of the blade in the snow. Well I knew how Hans felt. It would have been wonderful to burrow down, disappear under the snow, sleep out of the wind in soft sheets, safe. I backed out. We went to get Hans and go home. Pa gave me the gun with a smile.

We heard the shovel cutting the crust and Hans puffing. He was using the shovel like a fork. He’d cut up the snow in clods around the horse. He grunted when he drove the shovel in. Next he began to beat the shovel against the snow, packing it down, then ripping the crust with the side of the blade.

Hans. It ain’t no use, Pa said.

But Hans went right on pounding with the shovel, spearing and pounding, striking out here and there like he was trying to kill a snake.

You’re just wasting your time. It ain’t no use, Hans. Jorge was wrong. He ain’t by the horse.

But Hans went right on, faster and faster.

Hans. Pa had to make his voice hard and loud.

The shovel speared through the snow. It struck a stone and rang. Hans went to his knees and pawed at the snow with his hands. When he saw the stone he stopped. On his knees in the snow he simply stared at it.

Hans.

The bastard. I’d have killed him.

He ain’t here, Hans. How could he be? The kid didn’t see him here, he saw him in the kitchen.

Hans didn’t seem to be listening.

Jorge was wrong. He ain’t here at all. He sure ain’t here. He couldn’t be.

Hans grabbed up the shovel like he was going to swing it and jumped up. He looked at me so awful I forgot how indifferent I was.

We got to think of what to do, Pa said. The tunnel won’t work.

Hans didn’t look at Pa. He would only look at me.

We can go home, Pa said. We can go home or we can chance crossing behind the bank.

Hans slowly put the shovel down. He started dragging up the narrow track to the barn.

Let’s go home, Hans, I said. Come on, let’s go home.

I can’t go home, he said in a low flat voice as he passed us.

Pa sighed and I felt like I was dead.

Part Three

I

Pedersen’s horse was in the barn. Pa kept her quiet. He rubbed his hand along her flank. He laid his head upon her neck and whispered in her ear. She shook herself and nickered. Big Hans opened the door a crack and peeked out. He motioned to Pa to hush the horse but Pa was in the stall. I asked Hans if he saw anything and Hans shook his head. I warned Pa about the bucket. He had the horse settled down. There was something that looked like sponges in the bucket. If they was sponges, they was hard. Hans turned from the door to rub his eyes. He leaned back against the wall.

Then Pa came and looked out the crack.

Don’t look like anybody’s to home.

Big Hans had the hiccups. Under his breath he swore and hiccuped.

Pa grunted.

Now the horse was quiet and we were breathing careful and if the wind had picked up we couldn’t hear it or any snow it drove. It was warmer in the barn and the little light there was was soft on hay and wood. We were safe from the sun and it felt good to use the eyes on quiet tools and leather. I leaned like Hans against the wall and put my gun in my belt. It felt good to have emptied that hand. My face burned and I was very drowsy. I could dig a hole in the hay. Even if there were rats, I would sleep with them in it. Everything was still in the barn. Tools and harness hung from the walls, and pails and bags and burlap rested on the floor. Nothing shifted in the straw or moved in hay. The horse stood easy. And Hans and I rested up against the wall, Hans sucking in his breath and holding it, and we waited for Pa, who didn’t make a sound. Only the line of sun that snuck under him and lay along the floor and came up white and dangerous to the pail seemed a living thing.

Don’t look like it, Pa said finally. Never can tell.

Now who will go, I thought. It isn’t far. Then it’ll be over. It’s just across the yard. It isn’t any farther than the walk behind the drift. There’s only windows watching. If he’s been, he’s gone, and nothing’s there to hurt.

He’s gone.

Maybe, Jorge. But if he came on that brown horse you stumbled on, why didn’t he take this mare of Pedersen’s when he left?

Jesus, Hans whispered. He’s here.

Could be in the barn, we’d never see him.

Hans hiccuped. Pa laughed softly.

Damn you, said Big Hans.

Thought I’d rid you of them hics.

Let me look, I said.

He must be gone, I thought. It’s such a little way. He must be gone. He never came. It isn’t far but who will go across? I saw the house by squinting hard. The nearer part, the dining room, came toward us. The porch was on the left and farther off. You could cross to the nearer wall and under the windows edge around. He might see you from the porch window. But he’d gone. Yet I didn’t want to go across that little winded space of snow to find it out.