THE PALE LIGHT OF SUNSET: SCATTERSHOTS AND HALLUCINATIONS IN AN IMAGINED LIFE

Helen 1 - 1967

146 1967 Helen 1 I hate it here. The wind screams down from Hudson Bay, carrying snow across the flats of Canada, then roars across the lake, whipping the water into slush ice. Once across the lake, it seems to seek out the town, pounding down out of a sky so thick that late afternoon light is filtered to a thin frigid gray. The storm captures the small town like an alien invasion, driving at a hard lean through the streets, along walkways and over roofs. Drifts begin to form and within minutes traffic disappears. I have no place to go. I arrive in the small dark hours of the night before at the small Army base nine miles south of the town, a place so barren and chilling that I don’t even go to bed, just sit in the room staring at the one duffle bag I have dragged along. Finally, a wicked early light comes over the stand of trees to the east and I pull on my only coat and get the hell out of there. I catch a ride into town. And then the storm hits. The Pale Light of Sunset 147 They had warned me about the storms, but I didn’t believe them. I sure as hell am a believer now. I stand on the sidewalk, shivering inside my coat, the weight of the heavy pistol hanging under my arm a reminder that I am not a tourist here. I am a watcher, a hunter. But not now. Not in this storm. I watch through windows as storekeepers huddle against their back walls, their brightest lights on, waiting for customers. But the people are gone. Across the street I see a store with fishing tackle in the window. And bats and balls. Gloves. A tent and a volleyball net. Something for everybody , something to take us to summer, to take us out of the snow, here, on the last day of February. I trudge across the street and push through the door, closing it quickly against the swirl of snow in the entryway. The store is long and narrow and warm, lit with the yellow light of incandescent bulbs drooping beneath a painted tin ceiling. Tables, shelves, counters and racks sag under the weight of gloves, balls, hunting jackets, tents, fishing rods of every known length, hundreds—maybe thousands—of lures, duck calls, wool hats . . . A sporting goods store. A store of fantasy, of every woodsborn boy’s dream. I have never seen anything like it. But the place is empty. Not a customer, not a clerk. No one. Just inside the door I shake the snow from my coat and walk slowly down a side aisle, my fingers trailing over wool shirts and insulated underwear , things that I want to put on, right now, right here, against the storm that presses against the front windows. I’m halfway to the back of the store, standing next to a rack of guns, before I realize that I am not alone. At the very back, where a counter bars the way to a last stand of shelves that hold the largest collection of ammunition I have ever seen, a ladder leans against the top shelf. At the top of the ladder a woman is trying to pull a box from a far corner, stretching out from the ladder, her skirt tight against the curves of her Lee Maynard 148 hips and legs. Her legs are so long, so perfect . . . I realize I have never seen such legs before. Even though her head is turned, I can tell she is beautiful. I watch, unable to turn away, my eyes fixed on the small of her back. She doesn’t know that I am there. Her long, slender fingers finally tip the box into her arms and she climbs gracefully down the ladder. And she sees me. I see her eyes flick over my shoulder, checking the store, learning that we are alone, just the two of us, at the back of the store, warm with the essence of wool shirts and heavy hunting jackets, the storm battering the glass of the front windows. She knows we are alone. Her eyes come back to me and I can see clearly that she is not afraid. She puts the box on the counter, smiles, and says, “Did you bring the storm, or did the storm...