The Man Who Fell from the Sky Read Free

a body shop in Lander, found Robert’s body.” She lifted her shoulders and dropped them in a defeated shrug. “The moccasin telegraph must’ve gotten the news before I did. Before I knew it, all kinds of people were at my door.”
    Mostly related to Robert, Vicky was thinking. A few distant relatives of Ruth’s, but everyone close to her had died or moved away years ago. And now—a new thought breaking through—with Robert gone, Ruth would be almost as alone as she was.
    â€œAll the women brought food,” Ruth was saying. “It’s like they make a lot of food and wait for something terrible to happen.” Shedabbed the wadded handkerchief at her eyes again. “The worst part is what they’re saying.”
    â€œWhat do you mean?” Vicky said.
    â€œIf they aren’t saying it, they’re thinking it.” A stream of tears and black mascara ran down the woman’s cheeks. She pulled at the handkerchief in her hands without making an effort to wipe away the moisture. “Stories go around faster than lightning.”
    â€œWhat stories, Ruth?” John O’Malley leaned toward her. “Tell us.”
    â€œThe fed started it, asking stupid questions. Made me sick to my stomach.” John O’Malley was quiet. Patient, Vicky thought, unbelievably patient. He had once told her he had learned patience from the Arapahos, learned to sit and wait while people ordered their thoughts and decided whether he was trustworthy enough to give their thoughts to him. She, on the other hand, had learned impatience from years in the white world, college, law school, the years in a big law firm followed by her own small firm. Learned to jump up, be quick, be alert, never let down her guard. Pace the floor to order her own thoughts; rise in the courtroom:
Objection!
    Ruth unfolded her legs, wiggled her feet into the flip-flops, and shifted forward on her chair, pulling at the handkerchief in her hands. A pair of reddish curls hung loosely along her neck. She was struggling to say something, lips forming and reforming the words. Finally she said, “The fed wanted to know if Robert was depressed. Did he ever talk about taking his life? Had he ever tried to take his life? If he did decide to take his life, how do I think he might have gone about it? What was he saying? Robert walked into the lake, laid down, and died?”
    She squeezed her eyes shut, as if she might squeeze out more tears. Then she tossed her head toward the pasture. “He had theranch. Meant the world to him. Maybe it’s a nothing ranch, but we had meat on the table and Robert picked up jobs with the highway department every summer, and I got my job at the dental office. The Creator never saw fit to give us children, but Robert said we’d be okay, just the two of us.” She was staring out at the pasture. The breeze riffled the manes of the horses. “I’d say, anybody depressed around here, it was me. Same old, same old every day. No way out. Nothing ever changing. But I never thought he’d leave me like this.”
    Vicky caught John O’Malley’s eye for a second. All she knew about Robert’s death had come over the moccasin telegraph. First, to Annie, her secretary. Then Annie had brought it to her. But maybe there was more, facts the telegraph hadn’t yet picked up. She could read the same thought in John’s face.
    He took one of Ruth’s hands in his own and waited until she turned back to him. “Nobody knows yet what happened.”
    â€œThe coroner will order an autopsy and issue a report.” Vicky tried to match John O’Malley’s calm, assuring tone. “We’ll know the truth then.” She was thinking the report could take several weeks.
    â€œThat’s not all the questions the fed asked. Robert have any enemies? Altercations with friends or strangers? Anybody like to see him dead?”
    â€œThe fed has to look