The Things They Carried. Tim O’Brien

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СКАЧАТЬ – and now I was off on the margins of exile, leaving my country forever, and it seemed so impossible and terrible and sad.

      I’m not sure how I made it through those six days. Most of it I can’t remember. On two or three afternoons, to pass some time, I helped Elroy get the place ready for winter, sweeping down the cabins and hauling in the boats, little chores that kept my body moving. The days were cool and bright. The nights were very dark. One morning the old man showed me how to split and stack firewood, and for several hours we just worked in silence out behind his house. At one point, I remember, Elroy put down his maul and looked at me for a long time, his lips drawn as if framing a difficult question, but then he shook his head and went back to work. The man’s self-control was amazing. He never pried. He never put me in a position that required lies or denials. To an extent, I suppose, his reticence was typical of that part of Minnesota, where privacy still held value, and even if I’d been walking around with some horrible deformity – four arms and three heads – I’m sure the old man would’ve talked about everything except those extra arms and heads. Simple politeness was part of it. But even more than that, I think, the man understood that words were insufficient. The problem had gone beyond discussion. During that long summer I’d been over and over the various arguments, all the pros and cons, and it was no longer a question that could be decided by an act of pure reason. Intellect had come up against emotion. My conscience told me to run, but some irrational and powerful force was resisting, like a weight pushing me toward the war. What it came down to, stupidly, was a sense of shame. I did not want people to think badly of me. Not my parents, not my brother and sister, not even the folks down at the Gobbler Cafe. I was ashamed to be there at the Tip Top Lodge. I was ashamed of my conscience, ashamed to be doing the right thing.

      Some of this Elroy must’ve understood. Not the details, of course, but the plain fact of crisis.

      Although the old man never confronted me about it, there was one occasion when he came close to forcing the whole thing out into the open. It was early evening, and we’d just finished supper, and over coffee and dessert I asked him about my bill, how much I owed so far. For a long while the old man squinted down at the tablecloth.

      ‘Well, the basic rate,’ he said, ‘is fifty bucks a night. Not counting meals. This makes four nights, right?’

      I nodded. I had three hundred and twelve dollars in my wallet.

      Elroy kept his eyes on the tablecloth. ‘Now that’s an on-season price. To be fair, I suppose we should knock it down a peg or two.’ He leaned back in his chair. ‘What’s a reasonable number, you figure?’

      ‘I don’t know,’ I said. ‘Forty?’

      ‘Forty’s good. Forty a night. Then we tack on food – say another hundred? Two hundred sixty total?’

      ‘I guess.’

      He raised his eyebrows. ‘Too much?’

      ‘No, that’s fair. It’s fine. Tomorrow, though…I think I’d better take off tomorrow.’

      Elroy shrugged and began clearing the table. For a time he fussed with the dishes, whistling to himself as if the subject had been settled. After a second he slapped his hands together.

      ‘You know what we forgot?’ he said. ‘We forgot wages. Those odd jobs you done. What we have to do, we have to figure out what your time’s worth. Your last job – how much did you pull in an hour?’

      ‘Not enough,’ I said.

      ‘A bad one?’

      ‘Yes. Pretty bad.’

      Slowly then, without intending any long sermon, I told him about my days at the pig plant. It began as a straight recitation of the facts, but before I could stop myself I was talking about the blood clots and the water gun and how the smell had soaked into my skin and how I couldn’t wash it away. I went on for a long time. I told him about wild hogs squealing in my dreams, the sounds of butchery, slaughterhouse sounds, and how I’d sometimes wake up with that greasy pig-stink in my throat.

      When I was finished, Elroy nodded at me.

      ‘Well, to be honest,’ he said, ‘when you first showed up here, I wondered about all that. The aroma, I mean. Smelled like you was awful damned fond of pork chops.’ The old man almost smiled. He made a snuffling sound, then sat down with a pencil and a piece of paper. ‘So what’d this crud job pay? Ten bucks an hour? Fifteen?’

      ‘Less.’

      Elroy shook his head. ‘Let’s make it fifteen. You put in twenty-five hours here, easy. That’s three hundred seventy-five bucks total wages. We subtract the two hundred sixty for food and lodging, I still owe you a hundred and fifteen.’

      He took four fifties out of his shirt pocket and laid them on the table.

      ‘Call it even,’ he said.

      ‘No.’

      ‘Pick it up. Get yourself a haircut.’

      The money lay on the table for the rest of the evening. It was still there when I went back to my cabin. In the morning, though, I found an envelope tacked to my door. Inside were the four fifties and a two-word note that said EMERGENCY FUND.

      The man knew.

      

      Looking back after twenty years, I sometimes wonder if the events of that summer didn’t happen in some other dimension, a place where your life exists before you’ve lived it, and where it goes afterward. None of it ever seemed real. During my time at the Tip Top Lodge I had the feeling that I’d slipped out of my own skin, hovering a few feet away while some poor yo-yo with my name and face tried to make his way toward a future he didn’t understand and didn’t want. Even now I can see myself as I was then. It’s like watching an old home movie: I’m young and tan and fit. I’ve got hair – lots of it. I don’t smoke or drink. I’m wearing faded blue jeans and a white polo shirt. I can see myself sitting on Elroy Berdahl’s dock near dusk one evening, the sky a bright shimmering pink, and I’m finishing up a letter to my parents that tells what I’m about to do and why I’m doing it and how sorry I am that I’d never found the courage to talk to them about it. I ask them not to be angry. I try to explain some of my feelings, but there aren’t enough words, and so I just say that it’s a thing that has to be done. At the end of the letter I talk about the vacations we used to take up in this north country, at a place called Whitefish Lake, and how the scenery here reminds me of those good times. I tell them I’m fine. I tell them I’ll write again from Winnipeg or Montreal or wherever I end up.

      On my last full day, the sixth day, the old man took me out fishing on the Rainy River. The afternoon was sunny and cold. A stiff breeze came in from the north, and I remember how the little fourteen-foot boat made sharp rocking motions as we pushed off from the dock. The current was fast. All around us, I remember, there was a vastness to the world, an unpeopled rawness, just the trees and the sky and the water reaching out toward nowhere. The air had the brittle scent of October.

      For ten or fifteen minutes Elroy held a course upstream, the river choppy and silver-gray, then he turned straight north and put the engine on full throttle. I felt the bow lift beneath me. I remember the wind in my ears, the sound of the old outboard Evinrude. For a time I didn’t pay attention to anything, just feeling the cold spray against my face, but then it occurred to me that at some point we must’ve passed into Canadian waters, across that dotted line between two different worlds, and I remember a sudden tightness in my chest СКАЧАТЬ