The rising sun is veiled with desert haze, rose-redstreaks
extending north and south against a royal blue that
onlygradually turns mauve. A high cirrus cloud glows
brilliantly pinkfor a short time, vanishes; the haze
dances a morning ritual, risingand falling, then it
vanishes also, and finally there is only the sun,not
visible as a thing in itself, but rather as if the sky,
haze, cloudsare being rent apart to reveal an intolerable
brilliance. Sunlightflares on snow-topped mountains, the
Wallowas, Blue Mountains,Steens, and closer, on the
Strawberry Mountains; it is castback by the obsidian on
Glass Butte, windows placed by giantsuntaught in human
architecture. It shines on dawn-still needlesof juniper
trees, on motionless sage and bitter grasses, and
castspreternaturally elongated shadows as black as
openings into theabyss.
On the southern flank of Lookout Mountain, sunlight,
likean Aztec signal on a shard of a mirror, is blindingly
bright, butno human is on Lookout Mountain to be blinded
that early inthe morning. It falls on a hand that is
shades darker than theground on which it has come to rest,
is reflected for an instantin three fingernails; the
little finger and the thumb are in shadow.The rest of the
man's body lies hidden beneath the wreckage ofa van. Only
the hand and part of the lower arm are exposed.
Two coyotes lift their heads simultaneously as if
joined toeach other, sniffing the air, sniffing the scent
of gasoline, of motoroil, of raw metal. The scent of man,
of blood, of death. Thescent comes from above them, on the
side of the steep, rockymountainwith scant undergrowth.
They hesitate, but the smellof gasoline is too strong.
They turn and trot away together.
The sunbeams light up the redwood deck of the Jessup
house,the grill, chairs, and tables that gleam as if
covered with ice.Sunlight races across the deck to enter
the living room throughwide windows where the drapes were
left open the night before.A lamp pales and casts no light
of its own, overwhelmed bysunlight. Light falls on the red-
blond hair of a woman; her hairis curly and short.
Although her face is sunburned, with a scatteringof
freckles, it has the delicacy and the sculpted beauty
ofMichelangelo's Pietà. Fine hairs on her arm gleam like
gold. Shestirs and turns away from the glare. In sleep she
looks youngerthan her years; she is thirty-three.
Stirring, she uncovers her feet,and she moves again, still
sleeping, to adjust a gold and greenthrow that is too
short to be used as a blanket. Now the sunlightfalls on
her eyelids, and she moves restlessly, as if unwilling
toleave a dream.
Then abruptly she is awake, so suddenly that she can't
movefor a moment, as if her mind and body are obeying
differentsignals.
For Lara Jessup, awakening is the beginning of a
nightmare.
She jumped up and rubbed her eyes; then, barefooted, she
hurriedto the study door and looked inside. She looked
into theguest room next to the study; Vinny's bed was neat
and untouched.She ran now, down the stairs to the lower
level of thehouse, to look inside the garage, just to be
certain, but she knew.Vinny had not come home last night.
She raced through the house, looked inside every
room,looked in her son, Nathan's, room, where he was sound
asleep;then she ran to the kitchen phone and hit the
automatic dialerfor Manny Truewater.
She knew she was incoherent, but she couldn't control
hervoice or her words, and dimly, as if he were underwater
speakingto her, she heard Manny telling her to put on
coffee, he wouldbe there as soon as possible.
"I should have stopped him," she said to Manny Truewater
fifteenminutes later. "I could have stopped him, or gone
with him.Something!"
"Lara! Sit down. What happened? Where was he heading?"
Manny was from the Warm Springs tribe, short and
thick,thick in the chest, with a broad face, black hair
cut short, hisskin the color of old mahogany. In his
fifties, ten or twelve yearsyounger than Vinny, he was
Vinny's best friend.
She sat down hard on one of the kitchen chairs, and he
placedcoffee in front of her. Her hands were shaking too
hard to liftthe cup, although she had been so steady
minutes earlier that shehad felt almost somnolent.
"We had fish out on the deck. With the Cornings. And
Vinnyremembered that he had told Judge McReady that he
would givehim some documents. He said he would take them
over, and heleft."
"When did he leave?"
"Nearly ten. They left, the Cornings, and he got the
paperstogether, and then he left. I wanted him to mail
them or waituntil this morning, or something. I should
have driven over withhim."
"Okay. You go get dressed, and I'll call the sheriff
and gethim to send a car out. Vinny might be sleeping on
the mountain,maybe ran out of gas and didn't want to walk
home in the dark.Take it easy, Lara. Just get dressed now."
"You know how he's been these past months.... I
didn'twant him to go. I was afraid.... He said it was a
perfect goldenday. Yesterday."
"Lara! Go get some clothes on. I'll talk to the
sheriff."
She stood up, as obedient as a child, stilled by the
harshnessthat had entered his voice. For a moment his gaze
met hers, andshe saw the same fear that had seized
her. "It's my fault," shesaid in a low voice. "I could
have stopped him."
She turned and left the kitchen. She didn't remember
puttingon her robe, but she was wearing one, huddled
inside it, freezing,her feet like ice on the bare hardwood
floor.
At first they said it had been an accident: Vinny's van
had rolledover the side of the mountain; he had lost
control on that badcurve just before the driveway to the
Lynch house.
"Lara, they'll have to investigate," Manny told
her. "You understandthat, don't you? They'll want to ask
you some questions.You don't have to talk to them now,
today, if you're notup to it."
"I have to go to the hospital," she said vaguely. "I'm
on today."
"Lara, pull yourself together. Listen to me. I'll call
Norm andtell him what happened. You don't have to go
anywhere. Thesheriff will want to know what happened last
night, who washere, what Vinny said he had to do. That's
all you have to tellhim, just what you told me. That's all
he'll be interested in. Canyou do that now, or would you
rather wait a day or two?"
"I have to call Alene and Roger...." They were Vinny's
adultchildren, both of them older than she was.
The nightmare persisted, a waking nightmare; first she
washere, then there, with no recollection of moving.
Sitting on thecouch with Manny, then in her bedroom lying
down, in thekitchen trying to drink some of the broth that
Manny's wife hadplaced before her, gazing at Norm
Oglespeak, her boss at thehospital, where she was a nurse.
She had seen many people inshock and could deal with them
gently and effectively; she didnot recognize shock in
herself.
Then the sheriff suggested suicide. Alene and Roger were
boththere, red-eyed and grieving; Nathan, her twelve-year-
old son,was red-eyed and silent. Manny was with them. The
sheriff saidmaybe Nathan could go out on the deck so they
could talk, andwithout a word Nathan left. He had said
almost nothing sinceManny told him about Vinny's death.
"Mrs. Jessup," the sheriff started after Nathan had
gone out,"was Vinny disturbed about anything? Upset?"
She shook her head. A lie. She found it too difficult
to sayany of the things racing through her head without
letup. Whata beautiful sight you are! Rising like a water
nymph, shaking offdiamonds. This is one of those rare and
wonderful perfect goldendays. You should have a special
place in your head to store suchdays so that you can open
the door and walk back into themlater. You've given me so
many perfect golden days. I am verygrateful.
"Was he worried about his checkup? Norm tells me he
wasoverdue to check in at the hospital."
You know what I fell in love with? Your hands. You get
toknow the hands that tend you in a hospital. Hard and
efficient,or careless and even indifferent, some so soft
and fluttery theyseem to take twice as long to do what
needs doing as they should,but your hands were soft and
gentle and swift. You hands knewthis old body didn't want
much handling, and they got the jobdone as fast as
possible without hurting. Your hands never hurtme.
"When you've had cancer," she said in a very low
voice,"you're always concerned about the next checkup.
It's impossiblenot to be concerned."
"But no more than usual?"
She shook her head.
"What's this all about?" Roger demanded then.
He was sitting on one side of Lara on the couch; Alene
wason her other side, as if Lara needed protection. They
had notstarted out on friendly terms; their hostility to
her, to their father'sunseemly marriage to a woman younger
than his ownchildren, had been open and vocal. Then Vinny
had taken themout somewhere, and when they all arrived
home that night,Alene had held Lara and wept. Lara never
had learned what hesaid to them.
"Well, Roger," the sheriff said, "it's this note that
turned up.Here's a photocopy; we'll have to keep the
original for a while."
He handed a sheet of paper to Roger, who read it and
turnedvery pale. "It's a lie!"
Alene reached across Lara and took the paper from him,
thenshe and Lara read the typewritten words together.
I'm sorry about this. But it's best this way. Forgive
me, Lara.Manny knows what to do with the practice. It was
unsigned.
Lara looked up to find the sheriff regarding her with
an unblinkinggaze; he looked cold and hard. She had met
him, SylvesterGouin, going on sixty, going to fat, but he
had been genialand smiling before. The town children
called him Silly Gooey.
"It's a lie," she said. "It's a fake." Her voice was a
hoarsewhisper.
Manny yanked the note from Alene's hand and read it,
thentossed it down on the coffee table. "Where'd you get
that?"
"In his shirt pocket. They found it when they peeled
off hisclothes. Mrs. Jessup, is there a typewriter in the
house?"
"No. A computer and printer. In his study."
He stood up and motioned to a deputy leaning against
thedoorframe. "Maybe we can have a look."
Afterward they padlocked the study. "You folks have a
bitof trouble?" the sheriff asked at the door of the guest
room.Inside, a few folders and loose papers were on a
bedside table.
"No," Lara said. "Vinny had the flu back in the
winter, andhe had a persistent cough. He wanted a room
where he wouldn'tdisturb me."
They padlocked the guest-room door also. She wished
Vinnyhad taken him out for a talk, that he had taken them
all out fora talk, the whole town, all the old men who
looked at her likethat, all of them speculating on the May
and December marriage,wondering what a "girl like her" was
doing with an old man likehim. She had heard a whisper,
had been meant to hear it: "A girllike her, she's out for
money. What else?" Honey, they're sojealous, they see you
and jerk off before they even get home totheir wives. And
know what? I don't blame them.
Then, nightmarelike, the sheriff was gone and she was
sittingwith Alene, Roger, and Manny. Roger was furious.
"That note's a fake, and even that dimwit should see
throughit!"
"Maybe he does, maybe not," Manny said. "McReady
saysVinny never showed up that night. McReady, his wife,
and herfolks waited up for him until nearly eleven, then
they went onto bed. No papers turned up in the wreckage on
the mountain.So the question is, What happened to them?
And another questionis, What was in them? They're going to
do an autopsy. Allwe can do is sit tight and wait it out.
After the funeral, some ofus will go over all of Vinny's
files. The sheriff will get a courtorder to allow a court-
appointed attorney to oversee the wholething, and try to
spot those missing papers, just in case Vinnychanged his
mind and went back to the office or put them in hisfiles
here."
Manny was executor of the estate, and now he said that
Vinnyhad given him instructions about what to do if the
hospital decidedto keep him awhile. "You know, when he
went in yearsago, it was four months before he got back
home. He knew thatcould happen again. So I have
instructions." Vinny had knownthat many of his clients
would refuse to have a Native Americanattorney, although
he and Manny had worked together manytimes in the past.
Manny would get in touch with those peoplewhose legal
business had anything to do with Indian affairs, hesaid
that day, and Robert Sheffield would get in touch with
therest of the clients and offer his services. "It's all
going to taketime," he said soberly. "And the insurance
isn't going to comethrough until the case is settled one
way or the other. Lara, howare you fixed for money? Your
joint accounts and your safe-depositbox will both be
frozen pending the outcome of theinvestigation."
She moistened her lips. "When I started working, he
said Ishould have my own account."
Lara, that's your money. I went broke years back, but
we'renot broke now. Keep it for Nathan's education. You
don't supposeCurtis is likely to help out with that, do
you? His eyes hadbeen knowing. Curtis begrudged every
penny he had to pay insupport for his son. Let's talk just
a bit about money. I could say"if anything happens to me,"
but I won't. No euphemisms. WhenI die, you'll get the
insurance. That's what I got it for, to takecare of my
wife if the day came that I couldn't do it myself.
It'syours, or will be. Just wanted you to know that. But
his wife haddied first, and then he had fallen in love
with gentle, capablehands. I nearly let it lapse, but !
kept thinking of the nurse withthe magic hands, and I kept
up my premiums. If you'd said no,I would have chucked it
and spent the money on booze or videopoker, or down in
Vegas.
She was blinking back tears again.
The next time the sheriff came back, he had several other
menwith him; he was grimmer than ever, and he had a court
orderto search the house.
"We got the autopsy report," Sheriff Gouin said
curtly."Vinny died of a gunshot wound in the head."
Lara and Alene huddled on the couch while the sheriff
andhis detectives searched; Roger stayed with the
officers. Whenthey were done, he told Lara about it. "They
were looking forweapons, guns and ammunition, and drugs,"
he said. "The autopsyturned up narcotics—codeine—in his
system. And theytook the tape from the answering machine."
Lara groaned. Late the night before, Curtis had called
and leftan ugly message. "Pick up the phone, damn you! I
know you'rethere. Now that old moneybags fart is gone, get
your ass backhere where you belong."
They released Vinny's body, and the funeral was
scheduled.Roger's wife and Alene's husband arrived with
their children.Alene wept when Lara said Vinny should be
buried next to hisfirst wife. They had been married a long
time; their children andtheir grandchildren should come
first. Then even that was donewith, and a stillness
settled over Lara and her house.
Sometimes during the night she imagined she could hear
thecreak of a wheelchair, an old-fashioned chair, not a
modern motorizedone. She could imagine Marilyn, Vinny's
first wife,wheeling herself through the silent house,
looking for something,always looking for something.
Marilyn never was really alive after Lewis vanished. A
nervousbreakdown, prescription drugs that turned her into
a zombie,then the strokes started. It was never her house.
I doubt sheever really saw it or knew where she was. It's
your choice, Lara.If you want to move to a different
house, we will.
It had never bothered her. She knew that Marilyn
couldn'thave gone up and down the different levels, that
the house heldno ghosts, no memories of a creaking
wheelchair, but now andthen she strained to identify what
she imagined she heard.
In a few days school would be over for the year, and
Nathanwould go to Portland to stay with his father for a
month, andfor the first time in her life, she would be
alone. Alone in a townwhere the residents whispered about
her and stared openly ather, where rumors about Vinny's
death circulated and becamemore and more vicious. Alone in
a house where she would hearthe wheelchair creaking and
groaning.
She yearned for the door to open into one of the
perfectgolden days, but behind every door there was only
more of thenightmare.
Over and over, as if acting under an irresistible
compulsion, sherelived that last day and night. They had
come home in theCorning van, Nathan and Tod Corning
sunburned and ripe withfish smells and mud, and very
happy. They grilled fish on thedeck, and then as they were
all clearing dishes, carrying utensilsback inside the
house, Vinny uttered a soft curse. "I forgot something,"he
said. "Excuse me a minute." She heard him on thetelephone,
heard his call to Harris McReady, heard him
say, "I'llbring them over at ten. I don't want to come in;
just meet me atten down by the road."
"Tonight! For heaven's sake, let it go until morning.
You'retoo tired now." He was too tired; everything he did
exhaustedhim. She was nearly shrill in her protest.
"Can't let it go. They plan to be out of here first
thing in themorning. It won't take long. Don't fret."
The Cornings had looked embarrassed, perhaps sensing
anargument; everyone seemed to expect to see them arguing,
eventheir friends. Lara didn't press the point then.
Later, after theCorning family was gone, she brought it up
again.
"You can put things off only so long before time runs
out onyou," Vinny said. "I've put this off long enough,
more than longenough. Take a bath—use some of that nice
bath oil, the lemonykind—relax, and go on to bed. You're
sunburned. Be sure to putsome lotion on your nose and
cheeks, or you'll peel. A nursewith a peeling nose is the
last thing a patient needs to see."
Then he touched her cheek gently and smiled at
her. "Ah,Lara. Lara. Don't wait up for me. I have a few
things to do inthe study when I get back."
"Vinny—"
"Hush, now. Go take your bath." He picked up his
briefcaseand walked down the steps to the lower-level
garage, and shewent to the deck and watched him back out
of the drive, thenturn toward Lookout Road.
Without thought, without volition, without wanting to
do it,she followed minutes later. At first all she could
think was thatsomething was terribly wrong, something
fearful, big, important.Not just his health; she knew he
was ill again. Somethingelse, something worse than that,
and nothing could be worsethan that.
Then her fear of the road took precedence. She had
been upLookout Mountain only one other time, and that had
been on asunny afternoon. The road was hardly wide enough
for two cars,and it climbed the mountain in switchbacks,
perilously close tothe precipice one second, skirting the
basalt cliff the next. Theroad was red lava rock that
looked black in her headlights, likedried blood.
Suddenly she was seized with a rush of shame. This was
whatCurtis had done to her, followed her, always checking
up onher. He called her supervisor at the hospital to make
sure shewas on duty; he tailed after her to the library,
even to the grocerystore a time or two. And she was doing
the same thing, tailingher husband.... And now she could
not even be certain he hadcome up here. She had seen no
car lights, no house lights, justthe bloodred road and the
blackness of the chasm on one sideand the black cliff on
the other.
There was no place to turn around; she had to keep
driving,up higher and higher, knowing she had missed the
Lynch driveway,uncertain where there was another one.
Everything was tooblack, featureless.
Finally she saw two reflectors that indicated a
driveway, andshe drove onto it cautiously; then, clenching
the steering wheelhard, she backed out, made her turn, and
started retracing thetortuous track, this time on the
outside of the road all the way.Minutes later, edging
around a switchback, she saw headlightssweep across the
chasm below, and she realized a car was comingup the
mountain. The lights vanished. Another curve, then
suddenlythere was the narrow turnout, the lookout where
they hadstopped before when they went all the way up, with
Vinny drivingthat day.
The turnout was no more than a widening of the road,
withno guardrails, no boulders to mark the edge. She
pulled onto itparallel to the road, afraid to head in, too
uncertain where herwheels would be, and then she turned
off the headlights andrested her forehead on the steering
wheel to wait for the oncomingcar to reach this point and
pass. Of course there would beother cars on the road;
people lived on the mountain; they droveup and down all
the time. She was shaking.
When the approaching car drew near, she ducked down
outof sight. She knew people talked about her and Vinny,
and this,discovering her out on the mountain spying on
him ... No onewould ask her about it, but there would be
talk, and eventuallysomeone would mention it ever so
casually to Vinny. She drewin a deep breath when the
blackness was complete again and theother car noise was no
longer audible, then she continued todrive on down the
mountain.
Now, lying in bed in a house at once too quiet and
unquietwith the imagined sounds of a wheelchair that she
found herselfstraining to hear, she faced again the
awareness that if she hadnot been so ashamed, so cowardly
that night, she would havewaited at the turnoff; Vinny
would have seen her there andstopped, and she would have
followed him home to talk.
She had not told anyone. At first she had not thought
of telling,then she had been too ashamed, and finally, not
having told,she had been afraid to tell.
On Saturday she took Nathan to Bend, fifteen miles down
thehighway, to put him on the express bus to Portland. He
had notwanted to go this year.
"Mom, you aren't going to sell the house or move or
anything,are you?" He was watching the highway, as if
looking forthe bus, but really to avoid her gaze. He had
been avoiding hergaze ever since Vinny's death. They had
their meals together,but they didn't talk. They sat before
the television together andwatched films or the news, or
something, but they didn't talkthen, either. And he
avoided looking at her.
He was as tall as she was, with her coloring, freckled
fair skinsunburned most of the summer, the same red-blond
hair, but hewas going to be a large man, like his father.
She desperatelymissed the little boy she had been able to
hug and rock and playsilly games with, the boy she could
always talk things over with.She wanted to put her arms
around him there at the bus station,but he had drawn
himself into a place she couldn't enter, he wasavoiding
her, and there was an unnatural stillness like an
auraabout him that she couldn't penetrate. Her few
attempts to reestablishsomething of their past closeness
had been met with ablank look and an unresponsiveness that
she had found forbidding.