“I wouldn’t know,” he said. “I’m just talking. You and I could always talk.”
“We could,” she said. And she was thinking that: We could talk. But it was a flat and hard surprise to her that this person before her, whom she had meant to offer shelter for a few days as he changed lives, was still that same seventeen-year-old, part of him. He’d been so confident and assertive yet never part of the mainstream in high school. He viewed it all from a distance, and the distance bothered her. Maybe he could see something. She was dressed for Stewart—and for part of herself; she wanted this life or the illusion of it. She liked being held, petted, in her good clothes, while he held her in his office and ran his hand up inside her jacket. She liked his dry aftershave, how lean he was, the clean office space. It was a rush, she knew, but a good rush, the rush she wanted. It gave the day a drive she wanted. And now here was Mason, from high school, telling her to be careful.
She picked up her purse and turned to go. She saw him examining her face. He said: “You have everything.” It infuriated her. Outside, Wyoming spread brown and yellow to the west in the new sunshine, lines of chimney smoke drawing north over the old town.
“And who is taking inventory? You? The attorney from Colorado.”
“I’m sorry,” he said. He stood holding the box before him. “Something’s happening to me, Marci. Honest to god, don’t listen to me. I’m up here, and I climb right in, don’t I? Something’s got a hold of me, and something has tricked me into thinking it’s all still here for me, that I fit in, that I know anything at all about this town, because I grew up here.” He backed and pushed open the glass door onto the entry deck. They heard a concussion and saw Craig close the hood of the van and wave up for Mason to come along.
They went down the redwood steps, and Mason laid the packet into the backseat. He held her car door and said, “Really. Marci. I’m sorry. I’m here because I finally know that I don’t know a thing. It is real good to see you all again and to be here. That’s all I meant. It’s your life, not mine. I used mine up.”
She looked at him. “Come down to the show,” she said. “I’m proud of all of it. You haven’t seen the museum. The opening’s tomorrow. Bend down now and kiss me on the cheek and go to work.” He did as instructed and went around to the van. If she hadn’t said the last, he would have thought his notions about her were all wrong.
FOUR
1969
On a sunny Saturday afternoon in October 1969, Frank Gunderson, one of Oakpine High School’s best halfbacks, swung right on a strong side sweep on a critical third down. He collected the football that floated out his way in the gentle lateral pitch from the quarterback, tucked the ball up under his folded arms, and sprinted, digging hard for the corner. It was the second game of a promising season for Oakpine, and the stands were crowded. They were full for every game. Football Saturdays always closed the town down. The play took a while to form, bellying back and gathering blockers. Craig Ralston, exactly two hundred pounds that year, pulled from his guard position and sprinted parallel to scrimmage. He loved these days, playing full out, throwing himself into football, literally, just throwing himself. He liked this wide play, the Single Sweep, because he got to run, lead the play if he could, and block downfield. They also had the Fake Sweep, where he started to pull and then blocked back as the quarterback faked the pitch and came back to his side on the draw. But now Frank had the ball tucked away and was coming from the backfield, swinging for the sideline, trying to beat the traffic, make the turn. He was going to graduate in May and go into the Marines and to Vietnam. He had a plan. When he got back, he’d join the sheriff’s office. The turmoil of the war and its protest had not rattled Oakpine very much, and Frank thought of enlisting not as a good thing or a bad thing, though he resented the little he heard about the protesters. He simply thought of it as something he was going to do. The military had been a real and useful thing for his father and some of his older friends. He didn’t want to go down to Laramie to college like so many kids did, and he didn’t want to stay on and try to get into the oil fields, where his dad worked. He liked being a senior finally and having some sway. He had no steady girl, but he could see having one from the group of friends that was forming in the new school year. He was thinking about joining the band that Jimmy Brand was putting together. He and Craig Ralston and Matt Brand were going hunting tomorrow morning early; his truck was packed with camping gear and beer. Antelope season started at dawn. The sunlight now on the people in the bleachers and the smell of the turf as he ran made Frank exult. He had the ball and he had two and now three blockers, and they leaned forward together, his hand on Craig’s back as they crossed the line of scrimmage. What he didn’t see was the safety for Sheridan, who was among the fastest high school football players in the state and who would set a state track record that spring in the 220 and the 440, streaming down upon them all. This kid came across the front of Craig like a car racing a train and, diving, he met Frank Gunderson exactly in the left knee, way low, folding that leg out and under with a pop that they all, even as other bodies rained and tumbled around them, clearly heard.