Legend of a Suicide by David Vann Read Free Book Online Page A

the edges and a seat nailed onto the wooden bench and a smell different than a portable toilet because it didn’t smell like chemicals or hot plastic. It smelled like old shit and old wood and mildew and old urine and smoke. It was grimy and damp and there were cobwebs in the corners. He saw two pieces of board about two or three feet long, stacked behind the toilet, but he didn’t want to pick them up because he couldn’t see well in the shadows and he didn’t know what they had been used for or whether they had black widows on them. One of the daughters of his father’s neighbors in Fairbanks had been bitten by a whole family of black widows when she’d put her foot into an old shoe in the attic. They had all bitten her, six or seven of them, but she hadn’t died. She’d been sick for over a month. Or maybe this was just a story. But Roy had to leave suddenly. He jumped back fast, let the door on its spring slam itself shut, and wiped his hands on the thighs of his jeans as he backed away.
    Find anything up there? his father called.
    No, he shouted, turning back down toward the cabin. Just two small boards maybe, but I’m not sure what they’re being used for.
    How’s the outhouse? His father was grinning when Roy got to him. Is it going to be something to look forward to? The big event?
    No way. It gives me the creeps in there.
    Wait till you have your butt hanging out over the void.
    God, Roy said.
    I found a few boards under the cabin, his father said. Not in great shape, but usable. It still looks like we’re going to have to make a few boards. Ever made boards before?
    No.
    I’ve heard it can be done.
    Great. He could see his father grinning.
    The first bit of home schooling, his father said. Board-Making 101.
    So they cut up what they had and looked out in the forest for support poles and a log or tree big enough and fresh enough for boards. The forest was dimly lit and very quiet except for dripping and the sounds of their own boots and breath. Some wind in the leaves above, but not steady. Moss grew thickly at the bases of the trees and over their roots, and strange flowers that Roy remembered now from Ketchikan appeared suddenly in odd places, behind trees and under ferns and then right in the middle of a small game path, red and deep purple in stalks thick as roots, waxy-looking. And fallen wood everywhere but all of it rotten, coming apart in dark reds and browns as they touched it. He remembered nettles in time not to touch the hair that looked like silk and he remembered what they had called conks on the trees, though that word seemed strange now. He rememberedknocking them off with rocks and taking them home to engrave on their smooth white faces. What he remembered most was the constant sense of being watched.
    He stayed close by his father on this initial trip. He was alarmed that neither of them was carrying a gun. He was looking for bear sign, half hoping for it. He had to remind himself constantly that he was supposed to be looking for wood.
    We’re going to have to cut fresh, his father said. Nothing here will be new enough. The wood rot sets in too fast. Is any of this coming back to you? Are you remembering Ketchikan?
    Yeah.
    It’s not like Fairbanks here. Everything has a different feel. I think maybe I’ve been in the wrong place for too long. I’d forgotten how much I like being by the water, and how much I like the mountains coming right up like this and the smell of the forest. Fairbanks is all dry, and the mountains are only hills and every tree is the same as every other tree. It’s all paper birch and spruce, pretty much, endless. I used to look out my window and wish I could see some other kind of tree. I don’t know what it is, but I haven’t felt at home for years, haven’t felt a part of any place I’ve been. Something’s been missing, but I have a feeling that being here, with you, is going to fix all that. Do you know what I mean?
    His father looked at him and Roy