GARSTEIN
by Peter D. Wilson
I hadn’t seen Garstein for years, nor to my shame thought about him very much although we had once been friends of a sort; not bosom pals by any means, but welcome as occasional company. However, although now living in Europe I had business back in the States, and finding myself at a loose end between meetings in his neck of the woods, I felt a sudden urge to visit him. His house was actually in a forest clearing a few miles out of town, and for some reason the thought that he might not be there never occurred to me. Minna and he had built it between them, though I strongly suspect that Minna had done most of the work that didn’t involve sheer physical effort. Naturally they had a very strong attachment to the place, so perhaps my unthinking confidence was not completely unreasonable.
The track was now ill-maintained and getting overgrown, but the car could just get through. The house itself wasn’t much better; goodness knows when it had last seen a lick of paint. I suddenly remembered that the last time we met, Garstein had borrowed ten dollars that we both knew were never likely to be repaid, no matter to me as I’d been fairly successful, but to him a source of embarrassment that I’d tried to ease by promptly changing the subject. At least there are some things in my past conduct that I can recall without disgust.
The door stood slightly ajar and when I banged on it a couple of times a faint "Come in" came from inside. There I found him, much older than I remembered, of course, but there was more than just age behind his altered appearance. It took some time to identify what it might be, and even then it was vague, but he seemed somehow shrunken, in spirit as much as body. "Alex!" he exclaimed after blinking for a moment. "It’s good to see you." "How are you?" I asked, hoping not to get too detailed a reply. "Not too good," he admitted. "Excuse my not coming to the door. I dozed off and it takes me a while to loosen up afterwards. But you look fit enough." "Yes, I’ve been lucky." "You always were!"
The room was untidy, and I thought of how house-proud Minna had been with everything neatly in place and usually one or two vases of seasonal flowers dotted around. Garstein noticed my glance and explained. "I’m afraid Minna died five years ago," and I was startled by a look of anguish that seemed to go beyond ordinary sorrow at bereavement. "I’m sorry," I mumbled, unable to think of anything I might say that would be more adequate for the situation. "You’ll miss her badly."
"I do," he said, again with that look of anguish. "But it isn’t only that." "What, then?" "It’s a long story - well, not so very long, but you won’t want to be bothered with it." "I’ve time, if it helps," I assured him, though wondering what on earth might be coming. His "Then on your own head be it!" relieved my mind a little with its flash of the old humour.
The story proved in fact to be quite brief. He and Minna had been very close with her cousin Lucy and her husband Tim Marshall who had flourished through connections between the Marshall business and some big concern in Idaho Falls. They went nearly everywhere together on elaborate holidays and long excursions whenever Tim could get away. However, it once happened that the Marshalls had to go off by themselves on a delicate family mission. Tim’s nephew Carl was a bit of a dreamer who had wanted to set up independently, and it hadn’t gone well, partly owing to his impatience with keeping proper accounts. He was now in serious financial trouble, and besides the commercial aspect there was a strong suspicion that if he couldn’t continue to support his wife’s extravagance, she was liable to find someone else who would; that would almost certainly mean losing custody of the children, perhaps even contact with them, and probably his home, too. There was a conference with the more conventional and better-placed relatives in an attempt to work out some solution that would at least stave off bankruptcy and maybe restore a measure of prosperity. Whether it might have worked, Garstein couldn’t tell as he didn’t know any details, since on the way back Tim and Lucy were both killed in an accident.
The foursome had been especially fond of a particular spot near Jackson Lake where they would go for picnics if the weather was favourable and they could spare a day from other commitments. They had agreed years before that when any of them died, the survivors would do everything possible to bury their ashes there. Minna honoured this agreement faithfully, and made Garstein promise that if her time came first, he would do the same for her.
"But I haven’t done it," he groaned, obviously in deep distress. All I could say was "Well, it is a hell of a distance." "Yes. It’s a two-hundred-mile round trip, and I can’t afford it." "I see." Then a thought occurred to me. "Look, I’m in no hurry. I could take you there." "No, Alex, it’s too much to ask." Nevertheless I had seen the sudden gleam of hope in his eyes and pressed the offer. "Well, if you insist ..." "I most certainly do. It’s a lovely run up there, and I’ll enjoy it."
The fall colours that year were especially fine, and the latter part of the journey through Yellowstone was spectacular. It was a clear, still day, and the lake when we reached it (actually one of the smaller ones) was like a millpond, with only the occasional circle of ripples from a rising fish to disturb the image of the snow-capped Tetons beyond. We left the car at the viewing point, and Garstein suddenly thought to ask if I had a spade. As it happened there was a snow shovel in the boot, not very good for the purpose but I hoped better than nothing. Then, tucked behind the tool kit, I found a large screwdriver that a previous user of the car must have left behind.
He took a while to get his bearings, as things had changed a bit since his last visit, but then led the way through the trees along a narrow makeshift path even more overgrown than his own home track. I rather wished to have worn tougher clothing but said nothing. After about half a mile we came to a glade where a gap in the surrounding forest gave a narrow view of the lake and mountains. In the centre was a stubby square pillar, once painted white but now stained and shabby. There seemed to have been some sort of inscription, but Garstein said they had never been able to make anything of it.
Embedded near the foot of the pillar were two fairly large stones, marking the locations of the Marshalls’ ashes, and Garstein hunted around for a third. There was nothing of the kind in the glade, but he found one reasonably suitable in the pit left by a tree evidently uprooted by the wind. He was breathing heavily and I insisted he should rest while I tried to dig a hole for Minna’s urn. The shovel proved almost completely useless on packed earth, but I did better with bare hands and the screwdriver. The task still took much longer than with a proper spade, and by the time the hole was large enough Garstein had recovered pretty well. Incongruously, it suddenly occurred to me that I’d never known his forename, although he presumably had one; somehow there had been no occasion to ask. He reverently placed the urn and covered it with the disturbed soil, settled the third stone into it, then stood for a few minutes in silent prayer.
After that he seemed relieved of a great burden, but then a reaction evidently set in and I urged him to sit down, or better still lie down, while I looked for a place to wash my hands in the lake. It took longer than I expected. On returning I found him sitting propped against the pillar, his head bowed. He didn’t respond to my words, and when I lifted his head, he was smiling but there was no pulse.
I left him there; it seemed the right thing to do. He was at peace.
Copyright © Peter D. Wilson 2010
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