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Authors: Stephen Harrigan
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seat.
“You suppose I could see that drawing you did?”
Gil took the sketch out of his pocket and handed it to him. Ernest steered with one hand as he studied it, lifting his eyes back and forth to the mostly empty road.
“Well, that’s Ben all right,” he said.
“It’s only a preliminary likeness.”
“I know, but it’s still him.”
He gave the sketch back and drove on, not speaking but clearly working something over in his mind. Gil glanced back at Maureen, who sat quietly in the backseat, staring out at the countryside with the borrowed duster buttoned to her throat. The frail magic of the landscape could not stand up to the hard glare of midmorning. It was tangled and dusty again, a spreading rangeland with no tantalizing shadows or contours, just the foundational blankness of the earth itself.
“It’s strange,” Ernest finally said to Gil, “to think about lookin’ at a statue of Ben. Like he was the president or something.”
“It won’t be so imposing as that. That’s my hope, anyway. I want it to feel natural.”
“Well, I hope it’ll cheer the old man up. He’s been pretty daunsey since Ben died. We all have, I reckon.”
“What can you tell us about Ben?” Gil asked him. Maureen, hearing this question, leaned forward in her seat to listen.
“Oh, I don’t know,” Ernest said. “It’s hard to know where to start talkin’ about somebody you knowed all his life. I still think of him mostly as a little boy. I was just gettin’ used to him bein’ grown.”
He lifted his hand off the steering wheel to wave to the driver of a car heading in the opposite direction.
“Ben was an intelligent boy. Even when he was a little kid, there weren’t no way to outsmart him. He was always ahead of what you were thinkin’. He looks a bit like his daddy but I think he come by his nature, the better part of it anyway, through Mrs. Clayton. She was a kind lady. She had a quiet way that drew people in. Kept her thoughts to herself mostly but saw everything that went on around her. Ben had that quality too. When he was pretty young, twelve or so, he’d be out nighthawkin’ with us on the roundups. You could surely trust that boy to watch those cows at night.”
Ernest shifted his eyes to Gil. “If what you were askin’ was how he ought to look in the statue, I guess that’s what I’d say: quiet.”
Gil nodded, glad to have the vague impressions of Ben Clayton he had been forming confirmed to at least some degree, and glad to know that the attitude of calm he had proposed for the statue was on the mark.
“What is this we heard,” Maureen asked, pitching her voice above the motor noise, “about Mr. Clayton living with the Indians?”
They could both see that the question surprised Ernest. He didn’t answer for a moment, taking advantage of a low-water crossing to pretend his full attention was needed in working the reverse pedal to slow the car. When he finally spoke again, his loquaciousness had deserted him.
“Mr. Clayton don’t like to talk about that much,” he said.
“SOMETHING’S NOT RIGHT,” Gil said to his daughter in the dining car that afternoon. They had changed trains in Fort Worth and were now on the long home stretch to San Antonio.
Maureen sprinkled a meager teaspoonful of sugar into her coffee.
“What’s not right?”
“You’d think the boy would have written home. There were no letters, only a few postcards.”
“Maybe Mr. Clayton burned them. Out of grief. People do that.”
“Yes, I’m sure they do, but I don’t think that’s the case here. There’s just a natural scarcity of information. I don’t like the sense of there being something missing. I’m not a detective.”
“You don’t have to be, Daddy. You have enough to go on.”
“Maybe,” he said.
Gil folded his napkin and set it beside his empty plate, contemplating the pleasing sway of the dishes and utensils on the table as the train rattled south out of Fort Worth.
“I think I
“You suppose I could see that drawing you did?”
Gil took the sketch out of his pocket and handed it to him. Ernest steered with one hand as he studied it, lifting his eyes back and forth to the mostly empty road.
“Well, that’s Ben all right,” he said.
“It’s only a preliminary likeness.”
“I know, but it’s still him.”
He gave the sketch back and drove on, not speaking but clearly working something over in his mind. Gil glanced back at Maureen, who sat quietly in the backseat, staring out at the countryside with the borrowed duster buttoned to her throat. The frail magic of the landscape could not stand up to the hard glare of midmorning. It was tangled and dusty again, a spreading rangeland with no tantalizing shadows or contours, just the foundational blankness of the earth itself.
“It’s strange,” Ernest finally said to Gil, “to think about lookin’ at a statue of Ben. Like he was the president or something.”
“It won’t be so imposing as that. That’s my hope, anyway. I want it to feel natural.”
“Well, I hope it’ll cheer the old man up. He’s been pretty daunsey since Ben died. We all have, I reckon.”
“What can you tell us about Ben?” Gil asked him. Maureen, hearing this question, leaned forward in her seat to listen.
“Oh, I don’t know,” Ernest said. “It’s hard to know where to start talkin’ about somebody you knowed all his life. I still think of him mostly as a little boy. I was just gettin’ used to him bein’ grown.”
He lifted his hand off the steering wheel to wave to the driver of a car heading in the opposite direction.
“Ben was an intelligent boy. Even when he was a little kid, there weren’t no way to outsmart him. He was always ahead of what you were thinkin’. He looks a bit like his daddy but I think he come by his nature, the better part of it anyway, through Mrs. Clayton. She was a kind lady. She had a quiet way that drew people in. Kept her thoughts to herself mostly but saw everything that went on around her. Ben had that quality too. When he was pretty young, twelve or so, he’d be out nighthawkin’ with us on the roundups. You could surely trust that boy to watch those cows at night.”
Ernest shifted his eyes to Gil. “If what you were askin’ was how he ought to look in the statue, I guess that’s what I’d say: quiet.”
Gil nodded, glad to have the vague impressions of Ben Clayton he had been forming confirmed to at least some degree, and glad to know that the attitude of calm he had proposed for the statue was on the mark.
“What is this we heard,” Maureen asked, pitching her voice above the motor noise, “about Mr. Clayton living with the Indians?”
They could both see that the question surprised Ernest. He didn’t answer for a moment, taking advantage of a low-water crossing to pretend his full attention was needed in working the reverse pedal to slow the car. When he finally spoke again, his loquaciousness had deserted him.
“Mr. Clayton don’t like to talk about that much,” he said.
“SOMETHING’S NOT RIGHT,” Gil said to his daughter in the dining car that afternoon. They had changed trains in Fort Worth and were now on the long home stretch to San Antonio.
Maureen sprinkled a meager teaspoonful of sugar into her coffee.
“What’s not right?”
“You’d think the boy would have written home. There were no letters, only a few postcards.”
“Maybe Mr. Clayton burned them. Out of grief. People do that.”
“Yes, I’m sure they do, but I don’t think that’s the case here. There’s just a natural scarcity of information. I don’t like the sense of there being something missing. I’m not a detective.”
“You don’t have to be, Daddy. You have enough to go on.”
“Maybe,” he said.
Gil folded his napkin and set it beside his empty plate, contemplating the pleasing sway of the dishes and utensils on the table as the train rattled south out of Fort Worth.
“I think I
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