Let Him Go: A Novel Read Free Page A

pistol’s action to make sure around isn’t chambered. He wraps it up again and drops its unmistakable weight on the passenger seat.
    He feels again under the seat and finds a box of cartridges.
    .     .     .
    Margaret replaces the lid on the garbage can, and at the sound of the Hudson’s tires on the gravel driveway she stops and waits for George, one hand on her hip and the other shading her eyes as though she’s watching him approach from a distance.
    If she notices that he’s getting out of the car with her blue terry cloth towel wadded in his hand, she doesn’t mention it. She smiles and asks, Do you want those leftover potatoes or should I throw them out?
    For answer George grabs her above the elbow, but he’s not just squeezing her arm, he’s pushing too, guiding her across the grass and toward the back door. It’s a day for firsts. The first frost of the season. The first drink he’s taken in eleven years. The first time he’s laid a hand on his wife in anger, much less touched her with a weapon in his other hand.
    In the kitchen he lets her go as roughly as he grabbed her, then drops the towel-wrapped gun on the table. Its muffled thud is like nothing ever heard within these walls.
    What the hell, Margaret. What the hell.
    She has backed up across the kitchen. Her upper chest and throat are blotchy, and the blood keeps rising, up past the hard, sharp angle of her jaw to those sculpted cheekbones and across that high forehead. Because MargaretBlackledge doesn’t embarrass easily, that color can only be the color of anger, and soon her suntanned face is the shade of cinnamon.
    That wasn’t for you to find, she says. I put that there before I knew you’d be coming with me.
    But you thought you’d need it?
    I didn’t want to find I did and then not have it.
    Jesus, Margaret.
    You’ve heard the stories about Donnie.
    Talk. Just talk. And you know what that counts for. George flips back a corner of the towel, exposing an inch of blue-black barrel. Was this going to be part of your argument?
    You don’t know me any better than to ask that?
    And you bought a box of cartridges?
    She says nothing but stares hard at her husband. She presses a palm to her jaw, though any attempt to stop the vibration is useless. Put it back, George. Put it back. And then you stay. You’ve got no heart for any of this, anyway.
    He takes a deep breath, exhales, then tilts his head back and breathes again as though the oxygen he needs were at a height he can’t quite reach. Closed up like this the house can’t take in the sun’s heat, and whiskey won’t help with the chill of an empty house. George refolds the towel, then picks up the bundle.
    I’ll pack the tent, he says. Mildew smell and all.

3.
    B EFORE G EORGE HAS EVEN TURNED OFF THE IGNITION , Barlow Ott has exited the trailer that serves as the temporary office for Ott’s Livestock Sales. The car’s engine shudders, clunks to silence, and George opens his door to greet Barlow as he lugs his heavy-gutted body toward the Hudson.
    Margaret leans across the seat to advise her husband, Don’t let him shame you.
    Peering into the back window, Barlow sees the boxes of supplies stacked in the backseat. Well, hell. Of course you’re not coming back to work this afternoon if you’re moving. Sell your house over the noon hour, did you?
    George steps out of the car. We’ve got family business that needs attending to, Barlow.
    Ott grooms the wings of his thick moustache with the knuckle of his index finger, bends down, then touches the brim of his hat. Howdy, Margaret. Running off with one of my best hands, are you?
    Hello, Barlow. I’ll bring him back to you good as new.
    Ott stands stiffly. At his nod, George follows him toward the trailer, its white aluminum siding glaring in the afternoon sunlight.
    Barlow asks, Is this because you’re not working with the horses?
    Family business. Like I said.
    It’s no reflection, Ott says. I put a man where I need