We Begin at the End(28)

He pushed back in his seat, aching bones, tremoring hands. That morning he’d lain so helpless he worried it wouldn’t pass, that the girl would have to fetch help. He thought back to the start, a pain in his shoulder, just a pain in his shoulder.

“I worry I won’t remember Cape Haven.” She spoke to the views they passed.

“I can write you. I can send photos.”

“It’s not home now. Where we’re going, that’s not home either. He took it all.”

“It’ll be …” He stopped himself, the words catching.

She turned and watched Dearman till it smoked to nothing, then closed her eyes to Walk and the changing world.



An hour off the hottest part of the day, heat rose in calling waves while both children slept. Duchess, her eyes sunken, swollen from the strain because she didn’t cry. She wore shorts. He saw grazed knees and pale thighs.

For a hundred miles the land had pitched and fallen, the arid now lush, the thirst quenched by westerlies that blew relief from the water. Montana arrived with little fanfare, just a sign, a blue, red and yellow welcome. Walk rubbed his neck and yawned, then itched at the stubble on his cheeks. He had not eaten much since. He had dropped five pounds.

Another hour and he turned by the Missouri River. Helena behind, the sky a canvas so big not even God’s work could distract from the blues that afternoon. The roads and a track, the farm appeared like it belonged, painted into the landscape with delicate strokes, mud red barns white topped, three in total, and two silos that nested with cedars. The house was wide, the porch wrapped it with seats and a swing and timber that was gnarled and beautiful. Walk saw her watching now, wanting to ask but keeping her mouth tight.

“That’s it,” he offered.

“Is there people anywhere?”

“Copper Falls, only a few miles. They have a movie theater.” He’d checked it all the night before.

Gum trees tangled from both sides and shaded them, white picket needed painting. He followed the curve and saw Hal, standing still and watching, no smile or wave or anything at all.

Duchess craned, her head over Walk’s shoulder as she slipped her belt off.

When they stopped Walk climbed out and Duchess did not.

“Hal,” he said, walked over and extended a hand.

Hal shook it firmly, his tough and calloused. He had blue eyes that shone with more than age but no smile, not till his granddaughter emerged from the cruiser and stood just as still, a vision of her mother.

Walk watched the two, eyeing each other, exchanging judgment. He tried to beckon her but Hal shook his head once. She’ll come when she’s ready.

“Long drive. Robin is sleeping, I didn’t know whether to wake him.”

“He’ll be up early enough tomorrow. The farm has its hours.”

Walk followed Hal up to the house.

The old man was tall, muscled, unforgiveness in every step. He walked with his head high, chin up a little; this is my land.

Behind, Duchess wandered, looking at the long stretch of world, a new life already growing old. She bent and touched the grass, made her way to a barn and peered into cool dark. The smell was strong, animals and shit but she did not turn away.

Hal brought beer so cold Walk didn’t turn it down. He wore his uniform and they settled onto hard wooden chairs.

“It’s been a long time,” Walk said.

“It has.”

Montana, portrait to landscape, the kind of open that was almost too much to breathe in.

“What a mess,” Hal said. He wore a plaid shirt, sleeves rolled over muscled forearms.

Mess was the wrong word, but as close a fit as any.

“Did she see?”

Walk looked at Hal but the old man kept his gaze on the acres. “I think so. After. She ran at the cops and made it into the living room.”

Hal cracked a knuckle, scarred hands, grizzled voice. “The boy?”

“No. Maybe he heard something, screams, gunshot, he won’t speak about it. He was locked in his bedroom. He’s seen someone a couple times, a doctor. He’ll have to see someone here, I can put you in touch, he needs it. Maybe he’ll remember, maybe it’s best he doesn’t.”

Hal drank, half the bottle in one sip. He wore a simple watch on a thick wrist, tan from years working beneath the open sky. “I haven’t seen them, Duchess … she was a baby, when I last saw my daughter. And then Robin …” He trailed away.

“They’re both good kids.” The words sounded trite, empty when they were not, like there was another kind of child in the world.

“I wanted to come, for the burial. But I made a promise.” Hal offered no further explanation.

“It happened fast. As soon as they released the … as soon as they released Star. Small service at Little Brook. Beside her sister.” Duchess had held her brother’s hand. She did not cry, just watched the coffin like the great equalizer it was.

They watched as Duchess came out of the barn, a chicken trailed her. She glanced back, as if it were following her.

“She looks like her mother.”

“Yes.”

“I made up a room. They’ll share. The boy, he like baseball?”

Walk smiled but did not know.

“I bought a ball and glove.”

They saw Duchess peer into the cruiser, check on Robin and then head back toward the barn, still eyeing the chicken.