Read Online Medicine Walk by Richard Wagamese - Free Book Online

don’t want around.”
    “Well, whisky keeps things away that some people don’t want around neither. Like dreams, recollections, wishes, other people sometimes.” The old man turned on the stooland set the milk pail down on the floor between his feet. “Things get busted sometimes. When they happen in the world you can fix ’em most times. But when they happen inside a person they’re harder to mend. Eldon got broke up pretty bad inside,” he said.
    The old man shook his head and wiped at his face with one hand. “It’s a tough thing. Hard to watch. Hard to hear. But folks need hearing out sometimes, Frank. That’s why I let him come here.”
    “He seems sad.”
    “Pretty much. Sad’s not a bad thing unless it gets a hold of you and won’t let go.”
    “He sleeps funny,” the kid said.
    “Chasin’ varmints, I suppose,” the old man said.
    He was gone by the time they finished the chores. All that remained was the smell of old booze, stale tobacco smoke, and a sheaf of bills in a glass jar on the stove. The old man stood in the doorway staring at it, rubbing at his chin whiskers.
    It was almost a year before he saw him again. He was herding cows back from the open range beyond the ridge. When they broke through the trees at the field’s edge there was a dull blur of orange at the head of the lane. The closer he got the more the blur took on the shape of an old pickup. The cows took to the scent of home and trotted toward the barn. The lot of them aimed for the open gate that led to the back paddock. He rode in slow and walked the horse past the truck.
    She was a weather-beaten old Merc that was a few thousand miles beyond her better days. She was slung low on her springs and the windshield was starred with cracks. The frontbumper was wired on. There was a rag stuffed in where the gas cap should have been. When the kid rode by he saw a clutter of tools flung into the bed: a rusted chainsaw, pry bars, falling wedges, a bow saw, several axes and mauls, and a scattered heap of shovels. A pair of fuzzy dice dangled from the rear-view mirror.
    After he’d stabled the horse he walked through the house. There wasn’t anyone there. There was a whisky bottle and a single glass on the kitchen table. Tobacco stench hung in the air. He went to the barn and walked the fence line around it. He found the tracks near the gate that opened out onto the tractor path leading to the woodlot where the old man chopped and stored their winter fuel. It was less than a quarter-mile and he heard no sounds of sawing or cutting. As he walked he listened and halfway there he could hear shouting.
    “Stubborn old son of a bitch!” It was Eldon’s voice.
    “Shut up! Just shut the hell up!” The old man’s voice, harder and louder than he’d ever heard.
    When he cleared the last bend he saw them. They were sat apart from each other, leaning on stacked cords of wood. Both of them were heaving for breath. The kid could tell by the spill of the earth at their feet that there had been a scuffle, maybe even a full-on fight. There was a spot of blood at the corner of Eldon’s mouth, and the old man looked winded and half spent. When they saw him they both put their heads down and stared at the ground. The kid walked silently to a round of fir they used for a chopping block and sat down on it, not saying a word. He looked back and forth at them and it took a minute before they raised their heads to look back at him.
    “Tell him,” Eldon said.
    “Not my place to tell him. It’s yours,” the old man said.
    “I don’t know that I got it in me.”
    “You come here all full of beans for it.”
    “Yeah, well.”
    “Yeah, well, nothin’. He’s here now.”
    The kid was puzzled and there was a spear of anxiety in him at their words. Eldon put his hands on his knees and let out a breath. He hadn’t shaved. He looked as broke down as the truck. He took something metal from his pocket, screwed the top off, and drank. He swiped the back