Narrow
Road to the Deep North
I am
walking down a narrow hallway. A phone rings. I come to an open door at the end
of a hallway. The phone rings again. I stand at the threshold, convinced, as I
often am, that the room I am poised to enter is, for a reason or reasons
unknown or unclear to me, a room I should not enter. My mother appears. She
glances at me in a distracted, ready to answer the phone way, then answers the
phone. The house shifts slightly in the hot August wind.
My
mother’s face changes. She is recovering from surgery, so my first thought is
that the wound is hurting, but then she says the name of my aunt, her sister,
her only sister, Nada, gone now, too-- a strange name perhaps for
hispanophones, but she was christened so by Ted and Clara Nestegard, who spoke
only English and Norwegian, and however strange her name might be, it is
appropriate to this ominous and attenuated moment. My mother says “Nada” once,
twice, three times. My aunt and uncle are due in town, coming up for a visit
from Jackson, in southwestern Minnesota, where they farm a great many acres of
corn and soybeans. When they return from this visit, the purpose of which is to
cheer my mother, preparations for the harvest will begin.
But here
is the news: my uncle will not participate in this harvest. He has been shot.
He is dead.
I have told this story a number of times.
The reaction is almost always one of disbelief. Because I appear to be telling
the truth, listeners want to believe me, but for reasons I do not fully
understand-- perhaps they do not either-- they want not to believe me, too.
Murder in Lake Wobegon? There can be no murder in Lake Wobegon; it is not
possible. Anything that disturbing must be absorbed by sly humor and
transformed into pleasant melancholy, the deeper pools of which are fenced off
by simple common sense. One cannot even tell the story of a murder there: the
words fly up from the teller’s mouth as if caught in a tornado.
Which is not the worst way to live, but it
is a narrow discipline and tends to make a certain sort of person feel
unwelcome: me, for instance, at least in the way I saw myself then, a tiny male
figure, neither man nor boy, on his back in a vast and neglected meadow of
foxtail barley and timothy, under a boiling, luminous silver- and-green sky,
telling a story that can be heard only as a roaring, seen only as a black cloud
funneling from his mouth.
I told the story to a psychiatrist once. I
was being bad in ways I do not want to recall, was depressed, had been
identified as a candidate for a course in grief management and spiritual
renewal-- and, more importantly, had begun to see the blackness of the
whirlwind as composed of equal parts self-indulgence (fear of my own sudden
death, fear of my own sudden murderousness) and shame over the uses to which I
was putting or knew I would soon put the story. I told the story sensationally,
for its shock value; I told it so that people might feel as sorry for me as I
did for myself, told it so that I might be seen as having heroically withstood horror,
told it knowing I would write about it and, while the rest of my family simply
grieved, profit from it. As Barry Hannah’s narrator says in the story
“Carriba”: “Murder is not interesting, friends. Murder is vomit. You may attach
a story to it but you are already dishonest to the faces of the dead. . . . I
knew I had no place arranging this misery into entertainment, a little Hamlet for busybodies and ghouls. . . .
My whole professional life reared up in my mind. I was a hag and a parasite. I
was to be grave and eloquent over their story. . . . They were to get nothing.
I was to get fame and good bucks, provided I was interesting. A great sick came
on me.”
Such was the tenor of my conversation with
the psychiatrist. His response was remarkable. I realized only after I had fled
his office that he had simply chosen not to believe me. I gave him the murder
in précis, with a suggestion of the emotional discord I claimed to be
experiencing, and he said, “That’s interesting.” I waited a good long while for
him to continue. He was a kind of Kilroy behind his desk, getting smaller and
smaller by the second. Just when he was about to vanish entirely, he said, “I
make a special study of stories like the one you’ve just told me, but I don’t
recall reading or hearing about this one. Where did you say it happened? And
when? I’d like to check the papers. Your uncle’s name is. . . .?”
I said that his name had been, when he was
alive, Art Storm. It struck us both, I think, as sounding made up, the name of
a character in a bad novel (if you punch up art
storm on the Lexis Nexis newspaper searching service, you get thirty
stories on Robert Mapplethorpe and one on my uncle), so I said, “Arthur William
Storm, Jr.” I then described where
pretty convincingly but was shaky on when,
which bolstered, I guess, my inquisitor’s sense that I was making it up, in a
play, I guess, for sympathy. He wrote a prescription for Prozac and sent me on
my way.
That was the last time we chatted. Now that
I have gotten my facts straight, I want to share them. But I find I cannot
recall the name of this psychiatrist, nor when I saw him, nor, precisely,
where. The building was located in a downtown St. Paul backwater; the program
was part of that city’s social service safety net; and the decor of the waiting
room was dominated by fiery orange shag carpeting and dark imitation-wood
paneling. My fellow clients either spoke in harsh whispers to themselves (“Not
now, you fool, not here!”), turned in very small circles before the magazine
rack-- which had dizzied and deflected me, too-- or stared, stonily or
stonedly, into midair. They were both a fright and a comfort to me. Then there
was the doctor-- elusive, peeping. I took the Prozac for a month; it, too, was
both a fright and a comfort. I imagined I felt clear-minded, but predatory. I
felt as if the number of rods in my retinas-- those receptors responsive to
faint light-- had multiplied rather demonically. I could see in the dark and
had lots of energy for the hunt but missed both the peace of deepening twilight
and the nervous dread of a sleepless dawn. I failed to make my next
appointment, failed to have the prescription refilled, failed to balance my
chemicals.
A violent act in a violent culture: what of
it? Violence can be both fun and rewarding, if you watch the right movies. And
I do not mean only those on television or in theaters; I mean the ones we film
day after weary day, loops of resentment and frustration and greed and fear and
ignorance in which we get the last word, beat senseless those who have annoyed
us, and sometimes even kill them, if the annoyance is grievously deep and can
be shown to be the cause of a chronic social ill.
Arnold and Sly and Clint simply make
entertainingly explicit the features and character of the man many of us
daydream about being: a good man-- i.e., one who knows how to fight but appears
to be reluctant to do so, one who is cool under psychological and moral
pressure but can explode like a volcano when he needs to, a man not prone to
doubt or confusion, a man of deeds not words, a man of action who can gather
and manage the collective rage of the savagely annoyed and perfectly righteous
people who have defined and approved his goodness, a man who can marshal the
virtues and skills his employers say are pertinent and conducive to good public
relations. I am talking about a man who can dodge bullets. What better man
could we possibly hope for! A man who can see it coming, who can turn aside
just in time, engage bad violence with good violence, use the flabby weight of
the enemy’s badness judo-like against him and hurl him into the never-never
land of soulless, heartless, mindless evildoers, a man who can perform the
Alchemy of the Good Man: make the lead of superior violence into the moral gold
of justice. Above all, I am dreaming about a man who can remain alive and in control, no matter what, forever.
My uncle’s a murderer, a Green Beret from
what is always termed the “tough” Eighty-second Airborne, honorably discharged
after the invasion of Grenada-- in which he saw action of an undisclosed sort--
and sophomore English major at Iowa State in Ames, knew all about this massive
fraud. “Thank you,” his suicide letter read, “for keeping me alive so long.”
The hero, hoodwinked and helpless. “Thank you for keeping me alive so long.” He
was twenty-four.
I turned eighteen in 1974 and thus was
spared the Vietnam that had troubled me so. Neither sincerely “born again” in
Jesus Christ (I did walk down the aisle in answer to that call but really only
to get the autograph of a Minnesota Twins pitcher-- either Jim Kaat or Al
Worthington, cannot remember which now) nor apostate, I sometimes felt a
Lutheran call to be obedient to the prince, to serve my country, and sometimes
felt a Christian pacifism welling up in me. But I was also a fan of Heroic
Violence. I even had a specialty: I was something, I fancied, of an
after-dinner speaker, a guy who could mouth off while trading blows with
pinheads.
For instance, the episode that precipitated
me into the lair of the shrinking Kilroy: I fought a man on a highway. He had
rammed my car from behind, enraged by the way I had gotten in line ahead of
him, or “merged,” if you will. My first thought was to get his license plate
number, and I tried to read it in the rearview mirror-- difficult even if he
had not been hanging on my bumper. Then I decided I would get behind him. He
took the next exit, but I was in a rather taut-handling little German thing and
whipped in after him. Still, my only conscious desire was to get his number.
Which I got, and began to calm down. But then we came to a red light. I pulled
up behind him and then thought, I cannot
pretend this has not happened. I will seek an explanation. So we tumbled
out of our jars of formaldehyde, this sales rep and I, and before I knew what
hit me, he hit me. “Is that the best you can do, Chumley?” I demanded to know,
but before he could answer, I saw the famous red haze. I began to choke him
with one hand, forcing him back to his car and wedging him between the open
door and the frame. His arms snugly pinned, his face darkening, I drew back my
free fist, in hopes of pounding his insolent face all bloody and askew. But I
came to my senses and saw only the natural colors of a cloudy spring day in
Minnesota. I released the man’s throat and stepped back. I was about to lecture
him, but he came flying out at me and landed a good one right in my mouth. The
light had changed, and traffic was approaching. I grabbed hold of him and threw
him directly in the path of a big orange utilities maintenance truck.
The driver of the truck managed to avoid
running over and killing my fallen foe, but the feeling that he had almost not,
that the sales rep was dead and that I was responsible-- that has stayed with
me. It is a perplexing feeling, not so much because it is not true, or because
I am filled with shame, but because it is a good
feeling.
It was one of the first times I had acted
on an angry feeling, rather than stewing in my own bitter juices. While getting
out of the car, approaching the other-- right up to that moment when I started
smashing my fists against his window-- I was calm. I felt I was “in the right”
and was merely going to “redress the wrong” that had been done to me; I was
going to be forthright and reasonable. I had already noted the license plate
number and was planning on only an assertion of righteousness, acceptance of
which on the part of the sales rep would have short-circuited my decision to
tell on him, as talking to the cops has always been the last thing I want to
do. But the next thing I knew, he was sprawled on the road, and a huge truck
was describing a screeching salient around him.
I acknowledged, privately, the shamefulness
of my actions, noted the “mistakes in judgment,” and worked out the causes and
effects, but I could not help but interpret it positively. I had appealed to no
authority, handed off no responsibility, called out to no one for help or
confirmation of what I believed was right and what I believed was wrong. This
all seemed perfectly proper to me, even heroic. I had had a bone to pick with
an asshole and had nearly killed him. I had understood, in a flash of violently
heroic insight, that he was a bad guy, and I was a good guy, and neither of us
was going to brook recourse to armed bureaucrats. And I nearly killed him.
What if he had had a gun?
What if I had had a gun?
I had wanted one for a long time. I knew
some fellows who owned guns, and I liked them. I went to sporting goods stores
and priced them, listened to salesmen describe them, picked them up and hefted
them. I began saving money toward the purchase of one.
Television, computer, automobile, handgun:
they were all the same to me, tools of American cultural welfare. When they
were managed properly, nobody died. My adversaries would be only persuaded--
just as they would be by the rigors of any other religion-- and corrected.
My uncle’s killer did have a gun, a Ruger
Security Six (a .357 Magnum revolver, serial number 156-52069) loaded with
Peters .38 Special copper-jacketed hollow-points. It was his father’s gun, but
having been a commando, he was no stranger to sidearms. I do not know if he
killed anybody in Grenada, but I do know that he was said to have “come back
changed” and that he had tried to kill himself once before. “The last time he
attempted suicide he went to Missouri,” his father was quoted as saying in an
Iowa newspaper. “There is no doubt in my mind he went to Minnesota to commit
suicide.” The implication is that he could not, for some reason, bring himself
to do the deed in Iowa, his home state-- an inability I found curious. Were I
planning to do myself in, I would most certainly get the hell out of
California, which I have designated as the last place I want to die, and go
home. But home, of course, is precisely where they keep you alive so long.
The next question is, why Minnesota? “It’s
strange,” said Eric Hagen’s mother, “but if you follow Highway 169 from here”
(“here” being the towns of Ogden and Perry in central Iowa), “Jackson is almost
straight north.” Put a ruler on the map, and fill the tank with gas. When you
run out, you kill yourself.
Jackson is about fifteen miles north of the
Iowa border and seventy east of South Dakota: coteau des prairies, the first step up of the great high plains
from the Mississippi valley toward the Rockies-- the “true prairie” as it was
sometimes called, the tallgrass prairie, grass as high as a horse’s back and
occasionally even higher, up to twelve feet. It is often described as oceanic,
a vast swelling sea into which despairing pioneer women cast themselves and
drowned. But of that ocean nothing remains, as if ten million years have
elapsed from the time my great-grandparents appeared on its shore-- geologic
time, time enough for an ocean to vanish, exposing a bed infamously flat, across
which, in pesticide dispersal grids, immense machines move.
For several years after his father’s death,
my cousin, who farmed in partnership with him (and who found him on the porch),
would sit high atop one of those machines in a little air-conditioned cube and
listen to self-help tapes while he plowed or sowed or cultivated or harvested.
Once in a while he would suffer what they call a “false heart attack” (which
seems as “true” as the other kind to me). He would become suddenly overwhelmed
by panic, feeling that his loss, his terror, was not in the past but was steady
and continual and happening right now,
and he would be rushed off to the hospital, where, after a while, the present
would expand enough to give his heart, again, the space to beat.
The Des Moines River runs roughly north and
south through the country, originating about forty miles to the northwest and
emptying into the Mississippi at Keokuk, Iowa. The land for no more than a mile
on either bank of the river is folded into hills, giving some parts of town a
little elevation and a view, and altering the character of some of the farms
along the river: basically, more livestock, less corn.
It was on one of these river farms that my
aunt and my mother grew up and that I was born. When I think of farms, this
one, and the one on which my father was born and raised (in northeastern Iowa),
are the ones I think of: hill farms, polyculture, cattle, hogs, chickens, corn
and wheat and alfalfa and sorghum, norghum and flax and beans, wagons and tractors
tipping over on steep hillsides-- “Just roll with it,” my grandfather
instructed my mother. There was no running water on the farm, no indoor
plumbing. There were bedpans and buckets and pitchers and basins, an outhouse
and a well. My mother carried water from this well every day of her life until
she left for college. My life on the farm lasted only a month, but what a
month! From there it was on to the unspeakable luxuries of Minneapolis: running
water, central heating (the farmhouse had a single big woodstove, with a grate
in the ceiling to heat the upstairs bedrooms), refrigerators, toasters-- luxury
upon luxury, to the point where I now do not think twice about jetting to
Europe or filling a large plastic bag every week with trash.
Rural America was pretty well electrified
by the time my mother was born, which meant, for her, two or three lightbulbs
and a radio. There was also a telephone. My mother speaks of her childhood as a
kind of idyll of clean and happy poverty-- and the orange and the pencil that
she got as Christmas gifts, the wood she chopped and the water she carried, do
indeed seem integral to paradise. I grew up in the suburbs but can hardly bear
to drive through them now. I do not even like reading novels set in the
suburbs. My father, who left farm life eagerly at eighteen, saw, with his BBA
and CPA diplomas, his income rise sharply the first eighteen years of my life,
allowing him to present me with a profoundly different world upon graduation
from high school than the one he and my mother had known. My brother and I had
already been to California, to Florida (and if I now know a more desperate and
corrupt Miami, I will never forget the way the palm trees rattled that first
night in the hot, muggy wind), to Jamaica and the Bahamas! I had fished for,
and caught, a barracuda. I had already known the impatience Liz Taylor was said
to have known in the Joan Rivers joke about slow microwave ovens. I had already
experienced the wave of hatred a motorist whose skills I judged to be subpar
could excite. There was more money. Our standard of living was very high. You
may have heard about this; sociologists and investment fund managers alike have
been advertising the phenomenon for years: rising
expectations.
I think rising expectations are what killed
my uncle, actually. How, I cannot say, but I began to think of the .38 Special
hollow-points emerging in the bright smoke of the muzzle flash as merely the
exploding fragments of the grotesquely ignorant and self-righteous sense of
expectation and entitlement that-- I began to think-- characterized American
culture.
I knew nothing of the killer. I knew he
felt strongly enough about what he had done to kill himself (“Justice will be
done by me,” wrote the hero), but what I wanted desperately to understand, was
how, step by step, he had come to my uncle’s farmhouse porch and shot him in
the head. This is perhaps the way in which the story became a black whirlwind:
uneven breathing in which inquiry became panic slowly rotating clockwise around
a void, the void slowly sinking from brain to heart. The killer disappeared. I
looked to his country and lo, it was murderous. Each inhalation took in more
and more of the cultural atmosphere, each exhalation grew blacker and blacker.
Everything about the United States seemed designed to encourage or induce
murder: capitalism, technology, the law itself-- all nothing more than
oppressive religions. I repudiated them, just as I had Christianity and the
Lutheran Church that has aided-- not frightened-- and comforted many of the
people closest to me, my mother and my father particularly, whose devotion is
genuine and whose freethinking returns them again and again to the bosom of the
Savior. And as I went about perfecting the terrible beauty of the black tale--
the writer of fiction assuming the pompous posture of truth-teller and coming
more completely undone by the duplicity of it than he would have, had he simply
told lies-- the little farmhouse on the prairie came to seem a psychic refuge.
By the time I began to think seriously about the place, it had been abandoned
for decades. I dreamed of inhabiting it like a character in a Beckett story, or
like a Timon of the Great Plains, spitting and howling malediction.
It was not just that my uncle had been
murdered, but that my uncle had been murdered and I could not make a living. My gifts were being rejected or
ignored. My wife had left me once already and was drifting toward a second
departure, and I felt sorry for myself: nasty
country, run by knaves for fools, or vice versa, I do not know which. I
closed my ears to the drip and hiss of agrochemicals, to the to the firm, quiet
phrasings of agribusiness executives, and told myself that if I were not the
lazy man of letters that-- at best-- I am, I would be working in a field
somewhere , walking neat rows of beans like my grandfathers did. I walked
around the farmhouse in my mind, saw the fireflies in the twilight, heard the
grossly articulate speech of cattle and hogs-- the grunt, the bellow, the
squeal, the moan-- and the black tale became a murmur and a plume of cigar
smoke. Then, in that fairyland of peace and sociologically verifiable
contentment, the phone would ring. The farmhouse disappears as suddenly and
violently as if a nuclear wind had blasted it. I can see it up there in the
tornado swirling down upon me, just like Dorothy’s house in Kansas.
The violent act in a violent culture: every
one of us is familiar with the ethos of murder. As Freud pointed out, where
there is a grave taboo there must also be a powerful desire. The most popular
question in the story of my uncle’s killing quickly centered on the randomness
of it: why would a Green Beret turned English major quit his job as a hired
hand on a farm, drive one hundred and sixty-eight miles north, choose a farm
out of the blue (the green, rather, a million acres of it), and shoot to death
the first man he saw there?
It sounds like a joke: to get to the other
side?
“We felt, I guess, all along that this
looked like a random deal,” Jackson County Sheriff Pete Eggiman said at the
time. The random deal of the rising expectation: the quintessence of our time
and place. Randomness is all the rage, because cause and effect degenerate so
quickly into name-calling and scapegoating. But insofar as randomness is a special
effect or a magazine cover or a business fad, it is a useless idea, a
fraudulent one, a dead end—because, after all the cool graphics and
inspirational speeches, it is about precisely what it says it is not: control
and manipulation. I used to write videoscripts for business seminars and was
amazed to see so many people, day after day, equate excellence and chaos and huge profits. Mid- and upper-level
managers taking a day or three off at a convention have a very different
understanding of chaos than the guy who appears one fine morning on the loading
dock, armed to the teeth and “disgruntled”: I
want my job back, I want to feel needed, I know I”m weird, I know I lack people
skills, but I am a human being anyway, after all, oh it’s too late, it’s too
fucking late, I’ve killed someone. Chaos cannot be measured along a
spectrum: there are six billion varieties of chaos alone, and the only taxonomy
of importance concerns the ways in which these forms disguise and display their
essence, the celestial matter at the bottom of the deep well (this is a line
from Neruda to which I came via an epigraph in a book by Gina Berriault) into
which artists are forever falling.
I am a novelist (proud to say so, and
equally proud to admit that only one-tenth of one novel has seen the light of a
bookstore) and operate under the belief that novels and people are ideally
suited to each other. Reading a novel is all about the immersion of oneself in
the comfortingly familiar incomprehensibility of life and living, in observant
incomprehension, in the disorder and beauty of the houses and languages and
minds build, in the disordered architecture of language itself. And of all the
thoughts I have had of the murdering soldier and his short life, the most
compelling is that he was a frustrated writer, that if he had so much as been
able to begin to think about a novel of the invasion of Grenada, about a Green
Beret who had “never wanted to be strong” (I am quoting his suicide letter
again), all would have been well. He would have returned to Ames and Iowa
State, continued to read, study literature, write. My uncle would still be
farming. His friends would never have had to say things to reporters like, “He
was gentle and affable, the nicest guy you could hope to meet.” My aunt too, I
believe, would still be alive (only in my mind did she die of causes related to
my uncle’s death; everyone else chalks it up to the tumor on her colon that was
to be removed—prognosis for recovery, excellent—and the sudden heart
attack—“sudden” in that she was not in any of the risk categories and was only
sixty-four), and my mother would not feel quite so lonely, would not wake up
every morning to memories of her sister, would not feel the need to wear my
aunt’s sweater, trying to reconstruct the warmth of her hug. I would be hard at
work on an unpublishable novel, not cashing in on private grief and the public
taste for mayhem, Or maybe reviewing Eric Charles Hagen’s novel, listening to
him on a panel with Tim O’Brien and David Rabe, though he was not that good a
writer; although, on the other hand, the only work of his I have read was
written at a time of profound emotional distress, and he had really only just
begun.
Why? For what? Everyone has tried to help. I love mom and dad and Sandy and Mike and
Jer and Julie and Tami—all those that tried their best. But I saw this coming
in a walking dream, seems like years ago. I have to be so much alone, though I
love the animals. I realize now I won’t leave this town. I’m not going
anywhere.
Thank you
for keeping me alive so long. There were beautiful times. I only wish I could
come back.
I’m no
criminal, just scared and falling.
Directed
inward or outward—pain is still pain.
Sandy—I
wish I could meet you again. Stay strong, your strength held me together for so
long, I love you forever.
Not only
couldn’t I change the world, I couldn’t even keep it still. There is such a
surcharge of violence in me that is not safely directed at anything in this
spectacular mystery of a world, though the violence may die, I will not survive
as a piece of dust, a fallen leaf, tranquil, unawake, forever a part of this
world, forever more at peace. No one should blame themselves for what I have
done save me, and justice will be done by me.
I never
wanted to be strong.
It is
strange that the future can be foreseen, but not averted.
I am
allergic to love, a fatal allergy, and in the end I have discovered courage, it
is a calm (my first) and it is facing the world face to face, and only seeing
the mirror.
Finis
end
of game
no
more
will
I quench this thirst
the
drink is too ugly
the
love lost
is
too great
these
are terrible times
sometimes
we
danced
we
laughed
those
memories
I
bring to the wind
the
lightning storms
were
beautiful
on
the front porch
and
the purrs and
wagging
tail
knowing
that then
I
was home
I
miss you
I
miss the simple sanity
But those
friends cannot die.
I’m not
sure what I have done but I have a horrible feeling, win the battle to lose the
war.
I wish I
could explain
I wish
there were words to express the love I never showed
I’m
hearing voices, like, the whispers of last fall but stronger, all too clear
I am
barely here.
The letter was written sometime in the late
afternoon or evening of Friday, August 21, 1987, after the death of my uncle,
in a room at the Danish Inn Motel in Tyler, Minnesota, a town a little less
than a hundred miles northwest of Jackson. The motel was not open for business,
but the owner sometimes rented rooms anyway. Hagen paid for his room with a
fifty-dollar bill, which turned out to be quite important in knowing who killed
my uncle. Once he had rented the room, he went for a walk. Passing Mrs. Bruce
Meyer, he noted her pregnant condition and greeted her. “You’re pregnant,” he
said, smiling and friendly. “You could probably use some money.” He tried to
give her two fifty-dollar bills, which she declined to accept. Hagen carefully
placed the bills on the sidewalk, weighting them with a chip of concrete. This
was about 9:30 P.M., right around the time I had gone to my friend’s house with
the idea of borrowing one of his hunting rifles, thinking, sooner or later I’ll be close enough to “this guy” (Hagen), and I’ll
kill him. By eleven o’clock my “murderous rage” had passed, and Hagen had
written his letter, crawled into bed, drawn up the covers, and killed himself.
“We knew Jackson was missing four
fifty-dollar bills,” the Lincoln County sheriff said, illuminating the
foundation of what we mean when we talk about closure. There was also
“bloodstained clothing in the room not related to the suicide.” The state
Bureau of Criminal Apprehension ran ballistics and blood tests, checked Hagen’s
fingertips, and found they matched prints on a red disposable lighter found
between the porch (the porch!) of my uncle’s house and the driveway—it was
spotted first by my cousin, who, according to deputy Leonard Rowe, shouted “Watch out for that lighter!” as if it
were an exploded bomb.
And that was that. Special Agent Dennis
Sigafoos put it this way in Item Seven of his “Report of Investigation”: “The
homicide of Arthur William Storm, Jr., has been cleared. The perpetrator of the
crime Eric Charles Hagen committed suicide ending this investigation."
Once upon a time, a young man who had been
working on a farm in Iowa took his father’s car—a white Volkswagen with a black
tail fin—and his father’s gun and drove north for three hours. A few miles west
of the town of Jackson, Minnesota, he saw a remote and prosperous looking farm.
He went to the door of the farmhouse. The farmer who lived there was in the
kitchen making lunch. He heard a noise on his front porch and went to see who
or what it could be. No one knows if words passed between the two men when they
met. Some people believe that a struggle ensued, for life or death, for life
and death, but a man who professed to know said that the few minor bruises he
found on the two bodies did not indicate any such thing. Silently or not,
struggling or not, the younger man shot the farmer four times, twice in the
head and twice in the upper torso. There was a large and bloody hole in the
farmer’s back, and smaller bloody holes in the back of his head, the hair of
which was well known for its tendency to rooster-tail. When the sheriff’s
deputy arrived, he noted that “it was real obvious the party had expired.” An
investigation revealed the absence of four fifty-dollar bills from the farmer’s
billfold, money he had just taken that morning at a coffee shop in town as a
down payment for a truck he was selling. A cry went up that a vagrant, a
drifter, a madman had appeared, had robbed and murdered, had fled, and was at
large. But the truth was that by the time most people heard the story, the
killer was dead.
Fifteen hundred people filed past the open
casket at the wake. The farmer’s nephew, at the end of the line, was seen to
thump his uncle’s hollow chest and cry out. At the funeral the next day, the
church was filled with the sound of people sobbing loudly, people who made a
point of being cheerful and strong in the face of disaster or misery or
sorrow—or at least strong, or at least stone-faced and dry-eyed.
After the service, in the basement of the
church where mourners ate plate after plate of cold cuts and hot dishes, roll
after buttered roll, slice of ham after slice of ham, news that a young man who
had killed himself in a town to the north had been “positively linked” to the
murder of the farmer made its way through the crowd. Each person looked into
the eyes of the person nearest, then quickly at another and another, saw tears
filling those eyes and spilling from them in stern, exhausted relief, felt the
force of a hundred spines burning like fuses, shook hands all around to keep
those hands from trembling, and smiled, then looked away.
The subject of the death penalty sometimes
arises when I tell this story. I am opposed to it, and I present myself as a
“crime victim.” I say, murderous rage flashing whitely, blackly, in my mind,
that if the murderer were alive today, I would want to forgive him. To which
the obvious reply is that the murderer is not alive. My feeling, however,
continues to be that once you get to know someone, it is hard to want to see
them dead.
Plus, what is two plus two? It does not add
up to a novelist weakening under a load of ominous dread, every day more and
more frightened by—simply and frankly—other people. Clearly, the only way out
is to find the well of other souls and drink from it.