Having Everything Right by Robert Michael; Kim; Pyle Stafford Read Free Book Online Page A

had learned—too long before to be true. There was kind applause, and draining of the last wine. At the end, at midnight in the twenty-third floor conference suite, among the swirl of my smart companions, good people of my tribe holding their drinks in clear cups that tingled with the buzz and din of talk—at the end I saw the crowd divide when lightning began to play over the city below us. Some drew back against the wall. “Should we really be up here? Is the basement safer now? The stairwell . . .?”
    But some set down their champagne cups to press outward against tall windows, as lightning came faster toward us over the grid of streets, the jagged light that started fires that night all over Montana. I stepped toward the bright hot ribbons hanging down, and the din of our talk was hushed. One light on every thing: antenna, automobile, hilarious newspaper debris rolling through the streets below, the dark distant hills. In a flash our party’s reflection in the window eclipsed—the ribbons hanging down, and a girl’s voice telling the story, the burnt ozone scent of change come through sage to meet me.
    Still, I am afraid. A man of my own tribe trusted me with the story of the ribbons, and I trust you with the beads. He may have been wrong, and I may be wrong. I would let the place alone, but it will not let me alone.
    They say in Japan stands a building filled with national cultural treasures so valuable no steel door, no lock is strong enough to protect them from thieves. Instead of such a door, the state has hired an old man towatch the building in case of fire. He slowly walks about the building, then rests in the shade. Tied by thread to the simple door-latch, a note from the Emperor explains the supreme value of the treasury inside. There is no other lock.
    I would make such a note for a square yard of ground in Montana, a few miles west of Wisdom.

T HE S TORY T HAT S AVED L IFE

    Memory is made as a quilt is made. From the whole cloth of time, frayed scraps of sensation are pulled apart, and then pieced back together in a pattern with a name: Grandmother’s Garden, Drunkard’s Path to Dublin, Double Wedding Ring. Call this, The Story That Saved Life.
    On the way into Wallowa County in northeastern Oregon, just at the edge of the quilt, the hem of the story, you come over a rise. The wheat and hayloft blocks of the farms look about the same, the hill-patch pines and long seam of the road dashing on into a swale. But there are signs. One sign warns that no potatoes, hay, or wheat are to be carried into the County. The place is disease-free. The ground is pure. Take a deep breath, and listen.

    There is a town called Elgin. They say one night the door of the doctor’s office jangled open. There was a woman full in her form, expecting. Behind her stood a thin rail of husband with a hard glint to his eye.
    â€œGood evening. What can I do for you?” The doctor rose up from the rocking chair.
    â€œWe’re ready for the baby.” The husband stepped around his woman. He wasn’t from town. Mud stiffened his pants to the knees.
    The doctor turned to the woman. “How long have you been in labor?”
    â€œI’m not.” She bobbed and rolled before him, trying to curtsy. “Not yet, sir.”
    â€œBut we’re ready for the baby.” The husband moved behind her and nudged her forward, his boots nipping her heels.
    The doctor stepped back. He should have turned on more light, but it had been almost time to close. The woman was a dim silhouette against the evening snowlight of the window.
    â€œIf you’re not in labor yet, there’s not much I can do. Can you stay with friends in town?” The doctor looked at her. Then from behind the woman a knife glittered in the husband’s hand.
    â€œI said we’re ready, now.” The husband came around his woman again and faced the doctor, the canopy of light from the desk lamp coming up