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

only as far as his hand and its hunting knife. There was grease under his fingernails. “I got to leave for a while—elk season. Don’t want none of this happening while I’m gone.” The woman whispered a long breath.
    â€œOkay,” said the doctor. “If it’s that way, let me get my bag.” Staying in the pool of light, he turned and snapped open the black case on the table beside. His hand went inside. When it came out, there was a pistol—not exactly aimed anywhere, but part of his gesture.
    â€œYou folks are just going to have to wait. Now go on home, or somewhere. Let me know when it’s really time. I’ll be glad to help you then.”

    Old Joseph was born before anyone wanted to raise hay in the Wallowa Valley. When the first whites came, Old Joseph planted a row of poles along the divide where the signs about pure seed potatoes now stand. The poles were not a fence, but a mark of understanding. But only the Nez Perce understood what that boundary meant.
    After the Nez Perce were driven away, Old Joseph’s grave at Wallowa Forks happened to coincide with a gravel quarry. The Indians came back, loaded his bones in a buckboard, and carried them south to Wallowa Lake. A bronze plaque there tells about it. At the lake is a mound of stone. At the Forks, where the bands used to gather, there is only the damp pit of the quarry.
    Past Elgin, along the Minam Canyon rim is a place where people scan the far slope for elk. Some do strange things in elk season. Some do strange things all the time. The mountains let you be that way. Beyond the Minam Canyon into the canyon of the Wallowa, every curve in the river road has a story, and every straight run is the pause before a story. Story, story, story, the map-quilt gets made, gets folded for the pocket of the mind: that house with the three little cabins strung out behind, where the Civil War colonel, fled from Louisiana to Oregon, planted his slaves. Story. That road out Bear Creek where a logger stole a cement highway bridge from the U.S. government, loaded it on his truck somehow, and disappeared. Story. That single grave of the Indian girl. Story. School children heard the story and built her grave a picket fence, painted it white. In the bluff over town a cave is carved with children’s names. Dusk erased them. The cave is a stone telescope, and Wallowa glimmers far away. Measure that distance in years.
    How many generations to work a story down to size, to rub away the burrs and sawdust of its making? You have to forget 90 percent of whathappens if you want to tell the story right. So said Wilma, substitute teacher in residence at Wallowa School. She was a teacher by story, story alone. Something about the way her dress, softened by a lifetime of washings, hung down. Something about the spark her eyes kindled. Something about her hands held up to shape a face that’s been long buried but burns in the air:
    â€œMy uncles, they all had handsome faces, but Earl was the darling—dark hair, chin like a pretty little axe, but he could talk blue. Those eyes. Had to leave West Virginia in a big hurry. We never did know why. But he made the best white lightning you ever dreamed. Kept a Mason jar full in the refrigerator. Liked his cold.
    â€œWell, he comes home pretty looped one night, along in the spring, shouting about the cabbage maggots. We hear him slam the car door and shout, ‘Damn you, maggots! I’ll fix you!’
    â€œWe hear him fumbling around in the hall, stumbling around. I remember I figured he was just trying to make it to his bedroom. But no. I hear the snap of his shotgun action getting loaded.
    â€œâ€˜You think just because you’re little, you’re safe!’ That line wakes everybody up. I can hear Mama call out, ‘Earl! I want you calm!’ But then he starts for the back door, and I sit up in bed. It’s just starting to get light. I pull the curtains back when I