In the Lake of the Woods by Tim O’Brien Read Free Book Online Page B

another century, and now she had only the vaguest memory of those last miserable weeks on the road. All through August and early September, after the newspapers broke things wide open, it was a matter of waiting for the end to come exactly as it had to come. No hope. No pretense of hope. Over the final week they'd worked a string of towns up on the Iron Range, going through the motions, waving at crowds that weren't crowds anymore. Accusing eyes, perfunctory applause. A freak show. On primary day they'd made the short flight back to Minneapolis, arriving just before dark, and even now, in memory, the whole scene had the feel of a dreary Hollywood script—the steady rain, the threadbare little crowd gathered under umbrellas at the airport. She remem
bered John moving off to shake hands along a chain fence, his face rigid in the gray drizzle. At one point, as he stepped back, a lone voice rose up from the crowd—a woman's voice—not loud but extraordinarily pure and clear, like a small well-made bell. "Not true!" the woman cried, and for an instant the planes of John's face seemed to slacken. He didn't speak. He didn't turn or acknowledge her. There was a short quiet before he glanced up at the clouds and smiled. The haggard look in his eyes was gone; a kind of rapture burned there. "Not true!" the woman yelled again, and this time John raised his shoulders, a kind of plea, or maybe an apology, a gesture vague enough to be denied yet emphatic enough to carry secret meaning.
    In the hotel that night she found the courage to ask about it. The early returns had come in, all dismal, and she remembered John's eyes locked tight to the television.
    "Is
what
true?"
    "The things they're saying. About you."
    "Things?"
    "You know."
    He switched channels with the remote, clasped his hands behind his head. Even then he wouldn't look at her. "Everything's true. Everything's not true."
    "I'm your wife."
    "Right," he said.
    "So?"
    "So nothing." His voice was quiet, a monotone. He turned up the volume on the TV. "It's history, Kath. If you want to trot out the skeletons, let's talk about your dentist."
    She remembered staring down at the remote control.
    "Am I right?" he said.
    She nodded.
    "Fine," he said, "I'm right."
    A moment later the phone rang. John picked it up and smiled at her. Later that evening, in the hotel's ballroom, he delivered a witty concession speech. Afterward, they held hands and waved at people and pretended not to know the things they knew.
    All that pretending, she thought.
    The teakettle made a sharp whistling sound. She watched John push to his feet, lift the teakettle off the stove, and move down the hallway toward the bedroom. After a second she nudged the screen door open and stepped inside. A foamy nausea had risen up inside her. She glanced over at the kitchen counter, where the telephone should have been. For a while she stood motionless, considering the possibilities.
    The gas burner was still on. She turned it off and went into the living room. At that point a wire snapped inside her. The smell, perhaps. The dead plants, the puddle of water spreading out across the floorboards.
    Right then, maybe, she walked away into the night.
    Or maybe not.
    Maybe instead, partly curious, partly something else, she moved down the hallway to the bedroom. At the doorway she paused briefly, not sure about the formations before her—the steam, the dark, John crouched at the side of the bed as if tending a small garden. He didn't turn or look up. He seemed to be touring other worlds. Quietly, almost as a question, Kathy said his name and then watched as he leaned across the bed and raised up the teakettle. There was the scent of wet wool. A hissing sound. He was chuckling to himself, saying, "Well, well," and in that instant she must have realized that remedies were beyond her and always had been.
    The rest had to follow.
    She would've turned away fast. Not afraid now, thinking only of disease, she would've