Legend of a Suicide (4 page)

This woman kept no pictures of anyone on display, so it was hard to tell whether she had a family. In the only other bedroom, the wallpaper was a print of bamboo thatching that covered even the ceiling. In the corner was a fish tank with the light turned off and a poster listing 250 species of shark. The shark poster and the small pairs of white Fruit of the Loom underwear strewn about the floor suggested that a boy or several boys lived in this room. The single pair of hiking boots in the closet, as well as the single pair of soccer cleats, narrowed it to one boy. The guns in his closet—a Browning .22-caliber rifle, a .30-.30 Winchester carbine, a .300 Winchester Magnum with scope, a Winchester Model 25 .12-gauge pump shotgun, a Sheridan “Blue-Streak” pellet rifle, and a Ruger .44 Magnum handgun—were difficult to explain. Where had he gotten them all?

The buildup of carbon in the chamber of the .300 Magnum indicated that the gun had been used frequently, perhaps even recently. The block of wood under his bed, shot full of holes that didn’t go all the way through, suggested that he not only had fired the .22 but may even have fired it inside the house. The box full of
Playboy
s
, Penthouse
s
, Hustler
s, and trash novels with “Adults Only” on the cover suggested that this boy was some kind of pervert, and why he kept so many pictures of his father in this same box but not on his desk or on his walls didn’t make much sense.

Right around that time, after looking through that box, I loaded my father’s .12-gauge and blew out most of our windows and doors. It was a fairly extreme thing to do, I realized after
ward. I went through two and a half boxes of shells before I was done; the front doors, especially, took a lot of rounds—one for each hinge, plus two more to knock them over. The sliding glass door in our family room was by far the most beautiful. I blew one small hole through its middle, about the size of a half dollar. Everything was absolutely still for a moment, then the glass began to tremble. It rippled and shook its entire length, the glass bending in waves, then it shattered into a billion fibers.

John Laine was the only man to reappear in our lives. As I sat on our front porch and waited for the patrol cars to arrive, I hoped he might be in one of them, and he was. He and his partner arrived in the fourth car. They screeched up onto our sidewalk, threw open their doors, and pointed their pistols at me, just as the others had done. I was unarmed and willing to cooperate, but I wasn’t sure what to do. No one told me anything at first. I was expecting a bullhorn, but they only stared at me.

I waved my hand in the air. “John,” I said. Here he was, delivered practically to my doorstep.

PART ONE

I HAD A
Morris Mini with your mom. It was a tiny car, like an amusement-park car, and one of the windshield wipers was busted, so I always had my arm out the window working the wipers. Your mom was wild about mustard fields then, always wanted to drive past them on sunny days, all around Davis. There were more fields then, less people. That was true everywhere in the world. And here we begin home schooling. The world was originally a great field, and the earth flat. And every beast roamed upon the field and had no name, and every bigger thing ate every smaller thing, and no one felt bad about it. Then man came, and he hunched up around the edges of the world hairy and stupid and weak, and he multiplied and grew so numerous and twisted and murderous with waiting that the edges of the world began to warp. The edges bent and curved down slowly, man and woman and child all scrambling over each other to stay on the world and clawing the fur off each other’s backs with the climbing until finally all of man was bare
and naked and cold and murderous and clinging to the edge of the world.

His father paused, and Roy said, Then what.

Over time, the edges finally hit. They curled down and all came together and formed the globe, and the weight of this happening set the world spinning and man and beast stopped falling off. Then man looked at man, and since we were all so ugly with no fur and our babies looking like potato bugs, man scattered and went slaughtering and wearing the more decent hides of beasts.

Ha, Roy said. But then what.

Everything after that gets too complicated to tell. Somewhere in there was guilt, and divorce, and money, and the IRS, and it all went to hell.

You think it all went to hell when you married Mom?

His father looked at him in a way that made it clear Roy had gone too far. No, it went to hell sometime before that, I think. But it’s hard to say when.

They were new to the place and to the way of living and to each other. Roy was thirteen, the summer after seventh grade, and had come from his mother in Santa Rosa, California, where he’d had trombone lessons and soccer and movies and gone to school downtown. His father had been a dentist in Fairbanks. The place they were moving into was a small cedar A-frame, steeply pitched. It was tucked inside a fjord, a small finger inlet in southeastern Alaska off Tlevak Strait, northwest of the South Prince of Wales Wilderness and about fifty miles from Ketchikan. The only access was from the water, by seaplane or boat. There were
no neighbors. A two-thousand-foot mountain rose directly behind them in a great mound and was connected by low saddles to others at the mouth of the inlet and beyond. The island they were on, Sukkwan Island, stretched several miles behind them, but they were miles of thick rain forest and no road or trail, a rich growth of fern, hemlock, spruce, cedar, fungus, and wild-flower, moss and rotting wood, home of bear, moose, deer, Dall sheep, mountain goat, and wolverine. A place like Ketchikan, where Roy had lived until age five, but wilder, and fearsome now that he was unaccustomed.

As they flew in, Roy watched the yellow plane’s reflection darting across larger reflections of green-black mountain and blue sky. He saw the trees coming closer on either side, and then they hit and the spray flew up. Roy’s father stuck his head out the side window, grinning, excited. Roy felt for a moment as if he were coming into an enchanted land, a place that couldn’t be real.

And then the work began. They had as much gear as the plane could carry. His father inflated the Zodiac with the foot pump down on one pontoon, and Roy helped the pilot lower the Johnson six-horse outboard over the transom, where it dangled, waiting, until the boat was fully inflated. Then they attached it, lowered the gas can and the extra jerry cans, and that was the first trip. His father went in alone, Roy waiting anxiously inside the plane while the pilot couldn’t stop talking.

Up near Haines, that was where I tried.

I haven’t been there, Roy said.

Well, like I was saying, you got your salmon and your fresh bear and a lot of things other people will never have, but then that’s all you got, including no other people.

Roy didn’t answer.

It’s peculiar, is all. Most don’t bring their kids with them. And most bring some food.

They had brought food, at least for the first week or two, and then the staples they wouldn’t want to do without: flour and beans, salt and sugar, brown sugar for smoking. Some canned fruit. But mostly they were going to eat off the land. That was the plan. They would have fresh salmon, Dolly Varden, clams, crab, and whatever they hunted: deer, bear, sheep, goat, moose. They had brought two rifles and a shotgun and a pistol.

You’ll be all right, the pilot said.

Yeah, Roy said.

And I’ll come and check on you now and again.

When Roy’s father returned, he was grinning and trying not to grin, not looking directly at Roy as they loaded the radio equipment in a watertight box, then the guns in waterproof cases and the fishing gear and tools, the first of the canned goods in cases. Then it was listening to the pilot again as his father curved away, leaving a small wake behind him that was white just behind the transom but smoothed out into dark ridges, as if they could disrupt only this small part and at the edge this place would swallow itself again in moments. The water was very clear but deep enough even just this far out that Roy couldn’t see bottom. In close along shore, though, at the edges of reflection, he could make out the glassy shapes beneath of wood and rock.

His father wore a red flannel hunting shirt and gray pants. He wasn’t wearing a hat, though the air was cooler than Roy had imagined. The sun was bright on his father’s head, shining in his thin hair even from a distance. His father squinted against the
morning glare, but still one side of his mouth was turned up in his grin. Roy wanted to join him, to get to land and their new home, but there were two more trips before he could go. They had packs filled with clothing in garbage bags and rain gear and boots, blankets, two lamps, more food, and books. Roy had a box of books just for school. It would be a year of home schooling: math, English, geography, social studies, history, grammar, and eighth grade science, which he didn’t know how they’d do since it had experiments and they didn’t have any of the equipment. His mother had asked his father about this, and his father had not given a clear answer. Roy missed his mother and sister suddenly and his eyes teared up, but then he saw his father pushing off the gravel beach and returning again and he made himself stop.

When he finally crawled into the boat and let go of the pontoon, the starkness hit him. It was nothing they had now, and as he watched the plane behind them taxi in a tight circle, then grind up loud and take off spraying over the water, he felt how long time might be, as if it could be made of air and could press in and stop itself.

Welcome to your new home, his father said, and put his hand on top of Roy’s head, then his shoulder.

By the time the plane was out of earshot, they had bumped the dark, rocky beach and Roy’s father was out in his hip boots pulling at the bow. Roy got out and reached back for a box.

Leave that for now, his father said. Let’s just tie off and take a look around.

Nothing will get into the boxes?

No. Come here.

They walked through shin-high grass, bright green in the sun, and up a path through a small stand of cedars to the cabin. It was weathered and gray but not very old. Its roof was steeply peaked to keep off the snow and the entire cabin and its front porch were raised six feet off the ground. It had only a narrow door and two small windows. Roy looked at the stovepipe jutting out and hoped that it was a fireplace, too.

His father didn’t take him into the cabin but skirted it on a small trail that continued farther up the hill.

The outhouse, his father said.

It was the size of a closet and raised up, with steps. It was less than a hundred feet from the cabin, but they would be using it in the cold, in winter snow. His father continued on.

There’s a nice view up here, he said.

They came to a rise through nettles and berry, the earth breaking beneath their feet, grown over since it had last been traveled. His father had come here four months earlier to see it once before buying it. Then he’d convinced Roy and Roy’s mother and the school. He’d sold his practice and his house, made his plans, and bought their gear.

The top of the hillock was overgrown to the point that Roy wasn’t tall enough for a clear view on all sides, but he could see the inlet like a shiny tooth sprung out of the rougher water outside and the extension beyond to another distant island or shore and the horizon, the air very clear and bright and the distances impossible to know. He could see the top of their roof close below him, and around the inlet the grass and lowland extending no more than a hundred feet at any point, the steepness of the mountain behind them disappearing at its very top in cloud.

No one else for miles around, his father said. Our closest neighbor as far as I know is about twenty miles from here, a small group of three cabins on a similar inlet. But they’re on a different island, and I can’t remember right now which one it is.

Roy didn’t know what to say so he didn’t say anything. He didn’t know how anything would be.

They hiked back down to the cabin then, through a sweet and bitter smell coming from one of the plants, a smell that reminded Roy of his childhood in Ketchikan. In California he had thought all the time of Ketchikan and rain forest and had formed an image in his imaginings and in his boastings to his friends of a wild and mysterious place. But put back into it, the air was colder and the plants were lush but still only plants and he wondered how they would pass the time. Everything was sharply itself and nothing else.

They clunked up onto the porch in their boots. His father opened the lock on the door, swung it wide for Roy to step in first. Roy when he went in smelled cedar and wetness and dirt and smoke and it took a few minutes for his eyes to adjust properly to see more than the windows and begin to see the beams above and how high the ceiling went and the rough look of the planks for the walls and floor with their sawed-through knot-holes but the smooth feel of them nonetheless.

It all seems new, Roy said.

It’s a well-built cabin, his father said. The wind won’t come through these walls. We’ll be comfortable enough as long as we keep wood for the stove. We have all summer to prepare things like that. We’ll put away dried and smoked salmon, too, and
make some jam and salt deer. You’re not going to believe all the things we’re going to do.

They started that day by cleaning the cabin. They swept and dusted, then his father took Roy down a path with a bucket to where a small stream fed into the inlet. It ran deep through the short meadow, making three or four S-cuts in the grass before feeding out through the gravel and dumping a small fan of lighter stuff, sand and dirt and debris, into the saltwater. There were waterbugs on its surface, and mosquitoes.

Time for the bug dope, his father said.

They’re all over the place, Roy said.

All the fresh water we could ever want, his father said proudly, as if he had put the stream there himself. We’ll be drinking well.

They put repellent on their faces, wrists, and the backs of their necks, then set to wiping down everything in the cabin with bleach and water to kill all the mildew. Then they dried it with rags and began bringing in their gear.

The cabin had a front room with the windows and the stove, and it had a back or really side room with no windows and a large closet.

We’ll be sleeping out here, his father said, in the main room by the fire. We’ll put our stuff back there.

So they carried in the equipment and put it in the closet, the stuff that was most precious and most needed to stay dry. They packed in the supplies, the canned goods along the wall, the dry goods in plastic in the middle, their clothes and bedding near the door. Then they went to gather wood.

We need dead stuff, Roy’s father said. And none of it will be dry, so maybe actually we should just gather a little to take inside
and then we should start building something off the back wall of the cabin.

They had brought tools, but it sounded to Roy as if his father were discovering some of this as he went along. The idea that dry wood was not something his father had thought of ahead of time frightened Roy.

They brought in a twisted pile of odd branches, stacked it near the stove, then went around back and discovered a piece of the wall that jutted out into a kind of box and was in fact for firewood.

Well, Roy’s father said, I didn’t know about that. But that’s good. We’ll need more, though. This is just for a little summer trip or a weekend of hunting. We’ll need something all along this wall. And Roy wondered then about boards, about lumber, about nails. He hadn’t seen any lumber.

We’ll need shingles, his father said. They stood side by side, both with their arms folded, and stared at the wall. Mosquitoes buzzed around them. It was cold here in the shade even though the sun was high. They might have been having a discussion about some kind of trouble Roy was in, they were so removed from what they were looking at.

We can use poles or saplings or something for the supports, his father said. But we need some kind of roof, and it has to come out a ways for when the rain or snow is blowing sideways.

It seemed impossible. All of it seemed impossible to Roy, and they seemed terribly unprepared. Any old boards lying around? he asked.

I don’t know, his father said. Why don’t you take a look up around the outhouse and I’ll poke around here.

Roy felt there was a kind of leveling. Neither knew what to do and both would have to learn. He hiked the short distance to the outhouse and could see the plants already ground down by their passing. They would wear paths in everything, everywhere they went. He circled the outhouse and stepped on one small board that had been overgrown. He pulled it out, scraped the dirt and grass and bugs off it and saw that it was rotten. He tore it apart in his hands. Inside the outhouse was a roll of toilet paper with water stains at the edges and a seat nailed onto the wooden bench and a smell different than a portable toilet because it didn’t smell like chemicals or hot plastic. It smelled like old shit and old wood and mildew and old urine and smoke. It was grimy and damp and there were cobwebs in the corners. He saw two pieces of board about two or three feet long, stacked behind the toilet, but he didn’t want to pick them up because he couldn’t see well in the shadows and he didn’t know what they had been used for or whether they had black widows on them. One of the daughters of his father’s neighbors in Fairbanks had been bitten by a whole family of black widows when she’d put her foot into an old shoe in the attic. They had all bitten her, six or seven of them, but she hadn’t died. She’d been sick for over a month. Or maybe this was just a story. But Roy had to leave suddenly. He jumped back fast, let the door on its spring slam itself shut, and wiped his hands on the thighs of his jeans as he backed away.