The Same River Twice by Chris Offutt Page B

amused at our miserable condition. I turned off the dishwashing machine and told him it was broken.
    â€œWhat’s the matter, hillfuck?” he said. “Even Meskins know how to crank this sucker on.”
    As he pushed the mechanized button, I opened the metal trapdoor that housed the soap jets. Jackie Jr. screeched like a kicked cat. Suds and water ruined his splendid clothes. I stepped past him and out the back door, where my pack waited beside a dumpster surrounded by skunks and ravens. Willie followed me. I turned with my arms spread and low, unsure what to expect. His face was lined as a washboard. He eyed the backpack strapped to my shoulders, opened his wallet, and handed me two twenty-dollar bills.
    â€œGo while you can, kid. I’ll slow him down some.”
    â€œI don’t need your money, Willie.”
    â€œDon’t be a fool, kid. You’re too puny to back it up.” He shook his head, chuckling. “I was a goddam drifter once.”
    He waited till I took the money, then stepped into the kitchen. I tried to imagine white-haired Willie being young. It was easier than seeing myself as old. I’d begun traveling with the vague belief that I sought something tangible. Now I wondered if I was actually running away, not toward. The legendary West, with its vast and empty spaces, had boiled down to just that—vast and empty, filled with people trying desperately to plug the gap with labor.
    I carried my backpack to the single road that led away from the canyon’s south rim. In another era, Bill might have been a Texas Ranger fighting the Comanche, or a mountain man scouting the Rockies. People of the West suffer from a historical malady similar to that of Appalachians. They are deprived of the old outlets, but stuck with the need to live up to their heritage.
    While waiting for a ride out of the park, I resolved to live in the West—settle rather than pass through—but not yet. I was still an outrider of the self. If I stayed, I knew that I’d become a feral hermit, climbing like the end of a species to higher ground. I didn’t want my bones discovered on a rocky ledge at thin altitude. There was still California to explore, the edge of the continent.

S ummer has faded deep into autumn, the days collapsing into darkness at either end. Beneath the changing leaves, I split firewood and gather kindling. Rita’s hair is lustrous, her nails strong. My winter beard is growing in. Come spring, I will shed it for another six months. Yesterday I watched a blue jay tamping weeds over a supply of acorns, hopping as if to flatten the earth above a grave. Today a squirrel has found the cache. The river is afloat with geese possessing the obstinacy of bison aiming their bodies into wind. Cattle die doing that.
    I have read every pregnancy book in the library, all of which are naturally geared toward women. The most progressive include a short chapter on the man’s role at the end of the book. There is invariably a photo of a virile-looking man with a mustache who is changing a diaper. A woman smiles in the background.
    The mother bear will fight to the death for her cubs while her mate wanders the mountain. The female eagle is larger than the male, and in her passion can accidentally kill him during copulation. A buck deer thinks nothing of sending his harem forward as a decoy to ensure the safety of his travel. All this sounds good to me, but Rita and I are evolved. She is not a gatherer. I no longer hunt. The fact is, I’m home all the time, deep in my private cave, blowing red ochre onto blank pages.
    Expectant fathers are encouraged to clean the house, cook meals, and tell their wives how lovely they look while carrying forty extra pounds. One book admonishes me not to rush Rita into sex after delivery. Another suggests that I refuse to sleep through the night until the baby does, a period that might last a year. This is to help me bond with my kid, implying