Bentley Little - The Walking

He asked William. "Where are we headed?"

"South."

"I mean, where in particular?"

"Where were you headed when we met?"

Jeb shrugged. "No place."

William nodded. 'l'hat is the trouble with our kind, isn't it? We're never heading to something, we're always heading away from something."

"We have no choice. That's the way things are." William was silent for a moment. "There are other persecuted people," he said finally.

"People who have made a fresh start here in the West, who have built their own communities, away from everyone else, where no one bothers them. I've been thinking for some time that we could do the same. This is a land of opportunity because it is new and " open, ready to be molded into whatever shape its settlers choose. It is not bound by the models of the past. It does

' " not have to conform to any preexisting notion of what society should be. And it is big enough to support all."

Jeb suddenly understood what he was getting at. "A... town?" he said incredulously. "You're talking about a town of witches?"

"Why not? There is going to be an entire Mormon Territory Why not at least a town for us?" Smiling, he sidled next to his horse and withdrew from the saddlebag a letter, imprinted with the seal of the government of the United

States. 'Tve already written to Washington, and Fenton

Barnes, the man to whom I wrote, has talked to the president about my idea." "The president? Of the country?"

'The government is worried that the violence out here will scare people away, worried that Mexico will be able to exploit this country's divisions to its advantage. A lot of that violence is directed at us, at the Mormons, at those who are. different, and if they can keep us separated from the rest of the population by giving us our own lands, and thus retain at least the appearance of national unity..." He shrugged. "Well, they think it's worth it."

"So what does that mean? They're going to give us land in order to start our own town?"

William nodded. "Yes. Our own town, with our own local government and local laws. We'll be a recognized community, sanctioned by the federal government, segregated and protected by presidential order from the type of persecution we have faced in the past." He smiled, passed Jeb the letter. 'here is the authorization for me to take possession of the land in the name of our people."

"Where is it?" Jeb asked. "Where is this place?"

William looked at him. "In Arizona Territory. A place i called Wolf Canyon

He didn't realize until he woke up on Christmas morning that he had forgotten to even buy a tree.

Miles walked out to the kitchen, made coffee. All of the decorations were still in the garage, and he had not bothered to put up lights either. He was tempted to pretend this was just an ordinary day, that there was no Christmas this year, but when he turned on the TV and saw carolers singing in the New York snow as part of a prerecorded Today show celebration, he knew he would not be able to do that.

He had bought his father some presents, and though he had not yet wrapped them, he did so now. Being such a serious Christian, he'd expected Audra to take the day off, but the nurse had promised to come in, informing him that she would merely arrive a few hours later than usual. He'd bought Audra a present, too. Two presents, actually. One from him and one from his father. He wrapped those as well, inexpertly attempting to cover an awkwardly shaped wicker basket filled with various teas and an un boxed faux crystal vase with what was left of last year's festive snowman paper.

Leaving the nurse's gifts on the coffee table, Miles car fled his father's presents back to his room, filling his voice with a false Christmas cheer that was the furthest thing away from what he actually felt: "Merry Christmas, Dad!"

Bob awoke with a blink of his eyes but virtually no movement of his body. He tried to smile, but it looked more like a painful grimace, and when he attempted to adjust himself

and use his one good arm to push himself into a sitting position, the effort only served to list him to the left.

Miles placed the packages at the foot of the bed, then helped shift his father back into position. He placed the bed controls in Bob's good hand and waited while the top haft of the bed rose into an upright position.

"I hate this shit," his father said in the slurred whisper that was now his permanent voice, and the annoyance in his words was so pure that Miles could not help but smile. Whatever else the stroke had done, it had not affected his dad's personality.

"Merry Christmas," Miles said again.

"I don't know how merry it is."

"But it's Christmas, and, look, I've come bearing gifts!" He picked up the first package and placed it on his father's chest, letting him look at it for a moment before picking it up once more and carefully unwrapping it. "What do we have here, huh?" He opened the box, let his father watch. "Boots, Dad. Cowboy boots. You know those ones you saw last summer but were too cheap to buy?"

Bob said nothing, but Miles saw the glint of a tear in his eye, and he suddenly felt a little choked up himself. He quickly moved on to the next present.

"Hey, what's this?" He unwrapped the gift. "A Louis L'Amour book!"

He felt a hand grab his wrist. His father's hand, surprisingly strong.

He looked over at Bob's face and saw tears rolling freely down his cheeks. 'Thank you," his father whispered.

Miles suddenly realized that his dad had not expected them to be celebrating Christmas this year. He probably hadn't expected to even be here for Christmas, and Miles understood how much this meant to him.

He was glad that he'd bought the presents and wished that he'd made an effort to decorate the house. He should have thought more

about his father's feelings and tried to make this year just like every other. "You're a good son," Bob said, relaxing his grip. "I want you to know that. Just because I don't say it all the time doesn't mean I don't think it."

The lump in his throat returned, and Miles' eyes were watering with the threat of tears. "Thanks, Dad." He swallowed hard, maintained his smile and picked up another package. "Let's see what we have here."

There were two more presents to go, far less than they usually had, but a decent number under the circumstances. After Miles cleared the wrapping paper off the covers and scrunched it in the trash, his dad waved him back over.

"Look under the bed," Bob whispered. "I had Audra buy me something for you."

This was a complete surprise, and Miles crouched down, felt under the bed, and brought forth a rather large and heavy gift whose careful wrapping betrayed a female hand.

"Open it," his father said.

Miles ripped the red and green paper to reveal a boxed turntable.

"I found it several months ago and had Audrago get it for me. I know you have a lot old records you can't play because your stereo just has a CD. So I thought you might like this."

It was the best present his father had ever given him, not only because it was something he really wanted and would use but because of the thought put into it and the effort required to get it. His dad's presents usually consisted of items from Sears that he himself wanted, and Miles was impressed that he'd actually been thinking about the turntable for some time, that he'd noticed it and remembered it.

"Thanks," he said. 'this is great."

"Merry Christmas, boy." Bob pressed a button, lowering

the bed, apparently tired already, and Miles decided to let him alone for a while.

"I'll go heat up the coffee," he said.

Bob closed his eyes. "That sounds good."

He was snoring even before Miles left the room.

That, Miles thought, was one of the most disconcerting aftereffects of the stroke: the abrupt changes, the immediate shift from happy to sad, from wide awake to tired, with no cooling-down period, no time allotted for any gradations in between: