me as the Jeep's engine cooled. My night, apparently, for conversations on porches.
"Waded is more like it."
"And it looks like you brought about half the mountain with you."
Eldon took off his shoes, stomped his feet hard against the porch floor, and we went inside. I motioned for the shoes and, when he handed them over, tossed them in the sink. Poured a shot for me from the bottle there on the counter, looked up at him. He nodded, so I got another glass. I heard a moan, starting low and rising in pitch, and glanced outside to see tree limbs on the move: Wind was building again.
"How are things at the camp?" I asked.
"Could have been worse. Minor injuries, some broken windows. About half the storage building got taken out by a tree. Lot of the stores, bulk flour and so on, are likely ruined."
"But everyone's okay."
"They're a tough bunch up there. Take more than a storm to throw them."
I hauled myself bodily out of my thoughts, how I'd got to know the group, what they'd already been through both individually and collectively, to ask: "Been waiting around long?"
"Not too long. Easy to lose track of time here. Few hours, I guess."
"Then you have to be hungry."
I pulled bread, sliced ham, pickles, mustard, and horseradish out of the refrigerator, put together a couple of sandwiches for us. Eldon had his down in about three bites. Then he grabbed the bottle off the counter and poured for us.
"I came here—"
"I know."
He looked at me, utterly calm and not unduly surprised, but wondering.
"No other reason you'd be here."
He nodded. "I can't go back, John. My mind tells me I should, I know that's the smart thing to do, the only real solution. But something inside me, something as strong as all that logic and good sense, screams No! at the very notion."
It struck me again, as it had so often in my time as a therapist and in years since, how few of us actually make choices in our lives, how few of us have choices to make. So much is mapped out: in our DNA, our class and temperaments, the way we're raised, the influence of those we meet. And so much of the rest is sheer chance—where the currents take us. However much we believe or feign to believe that we're free agents, however we dress it up with debates on nature, nurture, socialization or destiny, that's what it comes down to.
"Where will you go?" I asked.
"Hey, the invisible man, right? Dans la nuit tous les chats and all that."
"Or as Chandler said, 'Be missing.'"
"Exactly."
"It won't be easy."
"Not as easy as it used to be, for sure. Too many electronic fingers in too many pots now. But I've been half off the grid my whole life. This is just about pushing it a little further—a matter of degree."
"They won't stop looking."
"For the most part, they already have. The documents are out there—warrants, arrest record, and all that. They'll stay. But only as history, and just as immaterial."
"You'll be out there as well, Eldon. A ghost. Nothing you can hold on to."
"I know." He smiled. "I feel lighter already."
"You should at least talk to—"
"Isaiah, yes. I had the same thought. Get the advice of an expert on the cracks and crawlspaces of society."
"And?"
"We talked. I've been well advised. He's a remarkable person, John. They all are." I had fetched a couple of blankets from the closet and thrown them to him; he'd settled under them on the couch. "As, my friend, are you." He peered out, Kilroy-like. "There is no way I can ever say how much your friendship has meant to me."
"There's no way you'd ever need to."
When I got up the next morning, Eldon and bike were gone. The banjo case lay on the kitchen table. Eldon had scribbled a note on the back of a magazine I'd been intending to read for about a year now: She always said that instruments dont belong to people, we just borrow them for a while. I sat over coffee, thinking about when Eldon and I first met, about that time in the roadhouse out on State Road 41 when he'd refused to fight the drunk
"Waded is more like it."
"And it looks like you brought about half the mountain with you."
Eldon took off his shoes, stomped his feet hard against the porch floor, and we went inside. I motioned for the shoes and, when he handed them over, tossed them in the sink. Poured a shot for me from the bottle there on the counter, looked up at him. He nodded, so I got another glass. I heard a moan, starting low and rising in pitch, and glanced outside to see tree limbs on the move: Wind was building again.
"How are things at the camp?" I asked.
"Could have been worse. Minor injuries, some broken windows. About half the storage building got taken out by a tree. Lot of the stores, bulk flour and so on, are likely ruined."
"But everyone's okay."
"They're a tough bunch up there. Take more than a storm to throw them."
I hauled myself bodily out of my thoughts, how I'd got to know the group, what they'd already been through both individually and collectively, to ask: "Been waiting around long?"
"Not too long. Easy to lose track of time here. Few hours, I guess."
"Then you have to be hungry."
I pulled bread, sliced ham, pickles, mustard, and horseradish out of the refrigerator, put together a couple of sandwiches for us. Eldon had his down in about three bites. Then he grabbed the bottle off the counter and poured for us.
"I came here—"
"I know."
He looked at me, utterly calm and not unduly surprised, but wondering.
"No other reason you'd be here."
He nodded. "I can't go back, John. My mind tells me I should, I know that's the smart thing to do, the only real solution. But something inside me, something as strong as all that logic and good sense, screams No! at the very notion."
It struck me again, as it had so often in my time as a therapist and in years since, how few of us actually make choices in our lives, how few of us have choices to make. So much is mapped out: in our DNA, our class and temperaments, the way we're raised, the influence of those we meet. And so much of the rest is sheer chance—where the currents take us. However much we believe or feign to believe that we're free agents, however we dress it up with debates on nature, nurture, socialization or destiny, that's what it comes down to.
"Where will you go?" I asked.
"Hey, the invisible man, right? Dans la nuit tous les chats and all that."
"Or as Chandler said, 'Be missing.'"
"Exactly."
"It won't be easy."
"Not as easy as it used to be, for sure. Too many electronic fingers in too many pots now. But I've been half off the grid my whole life. This is just about pushing it a little further—a matter of degree."
"They won't stop looking."
"For the most part, they already have. The documents are out there—warrants, arrest record, and all that. They'll stay. But only as history, and just as immaterial."
"You'll be out there as well, Eldon. A ghost. Nothing you can hold on to."
"I know." He smiled. "I feel lighter already."
"You should at least talk to—"
"Isaiah, yes. I had the same thought. Get the advice of an expert on the cracks and crawlspaces of society."
"And?"
"We talked. I've been well advised. He's a remarkable person, John. They all are." I had fetched a couple of blankets from the closet and thrown them to him; he'd settled under them on the couch. "As, my friend, are you." He peered out, Kilroy-like. "There is no way I can ever say how much your friendship has meant to me."
"There's no way you'd ever need to."
When I got up the next morning, Eldon and bike were gone. The banjo case lay on the kitchen table. Eldon had scribbled a note on the back of a magazine I'd been intending to read for about a year now: She always said that instruments dont belong to people, we just borrow them for a while. I sat over coffee, thinking about when Eldon and I first met, about that time in the roadhouse out on State Road 41 when he'd refused to fight the drunk
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