Pilgrims Read online

  leave me alone.”

  At this, Carl said, with no malice or heat, “You’ll want to get

  home now, Art.” He said it the way Roy’s doctor a year before

  had said, “You’ll want to stop eating salt soon.” He said it the

  way Roy’s wife used to tell Emma, “You’ll want to have a warm

  coat with you this morning.” A quiet command.

  And Artie did leave, as if admonished by his own father,

  swearing under his breath but obedient.

  Carl knelt by Pete and said, “He’ll be okay. Just a bad bump

  is all.”

  “I’m really sorry,” Alice repeated, and then she asked, “Could

  we take him somewhere, do you think?”

  “We’ll go to my house,” Roy said. When he got up, he was

  surprised to find that his legs were shaking so much that he had

  to lean against the bar for a few moments before he could walk.

  The three of them lifted Pete and half-carried him out the door,

  down the steps, to Roy’s car.

  “Put him in the back seat,” Roy instructed, and Alice said,

  “His nose, though. He’ll get blood everywhere.”

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  p i l g r i m s

  “That’s okay.”

  As they slid Pete into the car, he opened his eyes for a

  moment, focused with difficulty on Alice’s face, and said, “Mom

  told me —”

  “Shut up, Pete. Will you please just shut your mouth?” Alice

  interrupted, and Roy thought that she might start crying, but

  she didn’t.

  “Got more than you bargained for, Roy.” Carl laughed.

  “I can’t tell you how sorry I am about all this,” Alice said

  again, but Roy only walked her to the passenger side and helped

  her into the car, as he had helped Pete.

  They drove. West, out of Verona, the sun had just finished

  setting without ceremony, without color or effort. It was dusk,

  and still hot. Alice apologized again, and Roy told her that it

  wasn’t her fault.

  “All my brothers are idiots, all of them. My mom said I’m the

  only one in the family who could think my way out of a used

  tissue.”

  “How many brothers do you have?” Roy asked. The question

  sounded inane to him, considering the circumstances, but she

  answered immediately.

  “Five,” she said. “Steven, Lenny, Judd, Pete, Eddie.”

  “And you.”

  “And me. All of them are in the army but Pete and Eddie,

  who are too young. Eddie’s only six. My brothers can’t do a

  thing right.”

  They drove in silence through the sunflower fields. Roy

  thought to tell Alice that sunflowers always face east in the

  morning, west at dusk. He thought it might interest her, or even

  help her out, should she ever happen to get lost in North

  Dakota. She didn’t seem to want to talk, though, so he kept it to

  himself. They passed the white truck, parked in a ditch, without

  commenting, and Alice spoke again.

  “My littlest brother, Eddie, almost died last year,” she said.

  46 ✦

  Alice to the East

  “He almost died. He was staying at our neighbor’s house and it

  caught on fire. Everyone got out of the house but him, and

  when the fireman came into his room, Eddie hid under the bed.

  He got a glimpse of that oxygen mask and figured a monster

  was coming after him.”

  “That’s too bad.”

  “It turned out fine. They found him and everything, and he

  was okay. But when they told me what happened, the first thing

  I thought was what a stupid kid my brother was, already. He’s

  only six, I know, but to hide from a fireman in the middle of a

  fire . . . The thing is, if he’d died, I wouldn’t’ve thought that he

  was stupid. I just would’ve missed him. There’s a big difference,

  I guess, between almost dying and really dying.”

  Roy nearly said, At your age you would think that, but it

  sounded bitter even to him, so he didn’t answer.

  As he drove the familiar road, Roy thought about the empty,

  ruined homes of people he’d grown up with, people who were

  now gone: dead, or almost dead. Which Roy thought might

  very well be the same thing. Verona itself was almost dead,

  as well as countless other towns he’d known just like it. He

  thought about his wife, who had almost died twice before the

  final heart attack killed her. “I’m cold,” his wife had said, having

  walked without shoes or a coat through the January snow to the

  garage, where Roy was refinishing their dining room table. “I’m

  cold,” she said, and then she died, not almost, but really. Now

  Roy, with the bruised shoulder, with an unconscious boy in the

  back seat of the car he’d purchased for his wife, with a girl

  beside him half the age of his daughter, Roy felt as if he, too,

  were very close to death, almost dead.

  As if she had been following his thoughts all along, Alice slid

  across the front seat and placed her hand over his. Her touch

  was at once that of a mother, a lover, a daughter, and it was so

  long since he’d known any of these things that Roy sighed,

  allowed his head to fall forward. He shut his eyes. Alice reached

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  p i l g r i m s

  for the steering wheel, and he let her take it, knowing that the

  road was straight and safe, and that, for now, it would be better

  to let her steer.

  “It’s okay,” she said, and reached under the wheel and turned

  on the headlights. It was not yet dark, but the lights would help

  them be seen by anyone driving east, or by anyone who might

  be watching their progress as they crossed the empty plains of

  North Dakota.

  48 ✦

  Bird Shot

  ✦

  ✦

  ✦

  Gashouse johnson came for Tanner Rogers just be-

  fore noon. He knocked on the Rogerses’ door and then

  waited, pacing the porch and examining the carpentry.

  His dog, Snipe, followed, limping like a man with a bullet in his

  spine. Tanner’s mother, Diane, came to the door. She had all her

  pretty blond hair pulled back away from her face.

  “Diane,” he said.

  “Gashouse.”

  “I want to take Tanner with me to the pigeon shoot today.”

  Diane raised her eyebrows. Gashouse waited for an answer,

  but she didn’t give one.

  “I think he’d like that,” Gashouse said. “I think he’d like to

  see a pigeon shoot.”

  “He doesn’t go,” Diane said.

  “I’d sure like to take him, though. On account of his father.”

  “He never went. Not with his father, either.”

  “What is that, Diane? A rule of your house or something?”

  “It might be.”

  “Come on, Diane.”

  “I think it’s a sick thing. I really do. I think pigeon shoots are

  sicker than hell.”

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  p i l g r i m s

  “You used to love it.”

  “I never loved it. I never once loved it.”

  “You used to go.”

  “I did used to go. But I
never loved it.”

  “Ed loved it.”

  “Tanner doesn’t go,” Diane said again. “He’s not even inter -

  ested in it.”

  “There are people up there who love Ed. A boy should meet

  the people who love his father. It’s healthy for a boy to meet

  people like that.”

  Diane said nothing.

  “I’m shooting for Ed today,” Gashouse said. “Until they find

  someone else who can replace him permanently. Or until he

  gets better, I mean.”

  “That’s very nice of you.”

  “I’m a good shot, Diane. I used to be a hell of a good shot

  when we were kids.”

  “Good.”

  “Of course, I’m no Ed.”

  “How many pigeons you plan on killing today?”

  “Many.” Gashouse smiled. “I’m going to kill so many god-

  damn pigeons. I’ll see to it that Tanner kills a ton of pigeons,

  too.”

  Diane nodded, tired.

  “Hell, I’ll kill enough pigeons to make you a coat,” he said,

  and then Diane did smile. Gashouse Johnson’s smile widened.

  “How about it, Diane? Let me take your son up there and we’ll

  bring you back a hell of a nice pigeon-fur coat.”

  Diane looked past Gashouse Johnson to Snipe, who was

  trying to lie down. “What happened to your dog?” she asked.

  “He got old.”

  “He looks like hell. He looks like he got run over.”

  “He just got old.”

  50 ✦

  Bird Shot

  “It’s no place for dogs up there,” Diane said. “Not for dogs or

  kids, either. Dogs get shot up there.”

  “No. Pigeons get shot up there. Nobody never shot a dog or a

  kid yet.”

  “Ed shot a dog up there once for chasing dropped birds.”

  “I don’t know anything about that.” Gashouse took out his

  handkerchief and blew his nose.

  “Gashouse,” she said, “do you want to come inside?”

  “No, I won’t bother you.”

  Snipe was lying down by a pair of boots near the porch steps,

  chewing on his tail. His head was thick and brown as a boot

  itself, and while he chewed, he watched Diane. His dog face

  was void.

  “How old is he?” Diane asked.

  “Eleven.”

  “Just the same age as my Tanner.”

  “I hope your boy is holding up a little better than my dog.”

  Diane smiled again. They looked at each other. After a

  moment, she asked, “Did you go see Ed in the hospital?”

  “This morning.”

  “Did he tell you to come here and check on me? Is that it?”

  “No.”

  “Did he tell you to spend some time with Tanner?”

  “No.”

  “What’d he say?”

  “Ed? He said, ‘You think the first cigarette of the day

  tastes good? Wait ’til you try the first cigarette after a triple

  bypass.’”

  This time Diane did not smile. “He told me that joke, too,”

  she said. “Except that I don’t smoke.”

  “Me neither. I chew.”

  “Well,” Diane said, “I drink.”

  Gashouse looked down at his hands. Took a long look at his

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  p i l g r i m s

  thumbnail. Diane said, “You’ve got something on your beard. A

  crumb or something.”

  He wiped it off. He said, “Could’ve been toast.”

  “It looked like a piece of fluff.”

  “What’s Tanner doing right now, Diane? Come on, Diane.

  Why don’t you go ask your son if he wants to come along on a

  real live pigeon shoot?”

  “You are an optimistic man, Gashouse. That’s what you are.”

  “Come on, Diane. What’s he doing right now?”

  “Hiding from you.”

  “He’ll love it,” Gashouse said. “Unless he gets shot . . .”

  “He might not even want to go, ” Diane said, and Gashouse

  replied, “Ask him. Just go ask him.”

  Later, Tanner Rogers and Gashouse Johnson drove through

  town in Gashouse’s truck. The boy was dressed in a heavy

  winter coat, a red hunting cap, lace-up boots. He was shy, and it

  took him some time to ask Gashouse the question he had been

  privately nursing.

  “Isn’t it against the law? To shoot pigeons?”

  “Nah,” Gashouse said. “Shooting pigeons is not against the

  law. Betting on people who shoot pigeons is against the law.”

  “What about my dad?”

  “Your dad? Why, he doesn’t bet. He just shoots the pigeons.

  Everyone bets on the shooters. You see? Everyone bets on your

  father, to guess how many pigeons he can shoot. Your dad don’t

  need to bet.”

  “What about you?”

  “I bet like a son of a bitch. What about you?”

  Tanner shrugged.

  “How much money do you have on you, son?”

  Tanner took a handful of linty change from his pocket. “Dol -

  lar eighteen.”

  “Bet it all,” Gashouse said. Then he laughed and yelled,

  52 ✦

  Bird Shot

  “Double it!” He slammed his hand on the steering wheel.

  “Double it! Triple it! Ha!”

  Snipe barked once, a hound’s low woof. Gashouse spun his

  head and looked at Tanner, suddenly serious. “You say some-

  thing, boy?”

  “No,” Tanner said, “that was your dog.”

  Gashouse leaned forward and wiped the inside of the wind-

  shield with his sleeve. “Son,” he said, “I was just kidding with

  you there. That was my dog barking. I knew that.”

  “Sure,” Tanner said. “Me too.”

  “Good boy. We all had a little joke, right?”

  “Sure,” Tanner said. “Okay.”

  On their way out of town, Gashouse stopped at Miles Spi-

  vak’s grocery store to buy shotgun shells. Miles himself was

  behind the counter, looking wintry and old. He found the shells

  that Gashouse asked for.

  “Miles!” Gashouse shouted. “I’m shooting for Ed Rogers

  today. You should come on up there for once. You might have a

  good time, Miles! You might see some hell of a good shooting

  from me.”

  Miles took a slow look around his store, as if expecting to see

  another person appear behind him. “Damn it, Gashouse. You

  know I’m the only one here. You know I can’t go.”

  “But I’m shooting today, Miles! Worth closing early for. I

  used to be a hell of a good shot.”

  Miles considered this.

  “You know Ed’s boy?” Gashouse put a big hand on Tanner’s

  head.

  “Have five boys myself. Just had the last one two months

  ago. By cesarean. You ever seen one of those?” Miles asked

  Tanner.

  “For Christ sake, Miles,” Gashouse said. “He’s just a kid.”

  “Tied her tubes right there. So we won’t have another kid.

  Now that’s something to see, to see your own wife laid open like

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  p i l g r i m s

  that. Women got some pretty tiny equipment inside. Ever seen

  those little things? Ever seen those little tubes?”

  “Jesus Christ, Miles,” Gashouse said. “Wouldn’t you be sur-

  pri
sed if the kid said yes?”

  “Damnedest things,” Miles said. “Tiniest, damnedest things

  you ever saw.”

  “Let’s get out of here, Tanner,” Gashouse said. “We got a

  crazy man!” As they walked to the door, Miles called after them,

  “She’s a wonderful woman, my wife!”

  “I’ll tell you something about that one,” Gashouse said when

  they were outside. “He’s too dumb to bat both his eyes at the

  same time.”

  When they were back in the truck, Gashouse took the box of

  shotgun shells from his pocket and read the label carefully.

  “Hell,” he said, “I don’t know.” He turned the box over and read

  it again.

  Tanner waited, then asked, “What kind of gun do you have?”

  “Twelve gauge.” He looked over. “Does that mean anything

  to you?”

  “My dad has a double-barreled eighteen gauge.”

  “Sixteen gauge,” Gashouse corrected, putting the shell box

  back in his pocket. “Ed’s got a double-barreled sixteen gauge.

  It’s been a long time, son. I’ll tell you that right up front. It’s

  been a hell of a long time since I shot a gun.”

  Gashouse sighed, then slammed the steering wheel again.

  “Hey! But come on! It’s not even my gun! It’s Dick Clay’s

  gun! Ha!”

  Snipe woofed again from the floor.

  “I didn’t say anything,” Tanner said.

  “Ha!” Gashouse slapped his own knee. “Ha! You got the joke,

  son! You got it!”

  Gashouse started up the truck and pulled out of the parking

  space. He said, “Good thing you like a joke, because we’re on

  54 ✦

  Bird Shot

  the road to big fun today, that’s for sure. Any questions up there,

  you just ask me.”

  “Why do they call you Gashouse?” Tanner asked.

  “Farts,” he answered without hesitation. “Some real wood-

  chippers, too. Real ice-breakers. I’m better now, though, than I

  used to be. No more dairy.”

  “Does my dad call you that?”

  “Yes.”

  “Does my mom call you that?”

  “Tanner,” Gashouse said, “it was kind of a consensus. You

  know what a consensus is?”

  “No.”

  “Well,” Gashouse said, “that’s what it was.”

  At the next stop sign, Gashouse rolled down his window and

  yelled to a red-haired woman on the sidewalk, “Hey there! Hey

  there, you little stack of pancakes!”

  She smiled and tossed out a wave as if it were a candy

  wrapper.

  “Hey there! Hey there, you little side of fries! Hey there, you