An old white woman soon stood on the other side of the open door.
Who are you? she asked.
We are two desperate men on a nonviolent killing spree, said Seymour.
And we’re doing our best to fall in love, said Salmon Boy.
With who? asked the old woman.
With each other, said Seymour.
Well, then, she said, you better come in and get yourself something to eat and drink. You’re talking about some hard, hard work.
Seymour and Salmon Boy sat at her table while she made them lemonade and ham sandwiches. Her husband had been dead for ten long years, years that hung like lace in the attic, like an old quilt on the bedroom wall, like a coyote nailed to a fence post.
My husband, she said, he’s buried out there, back behind the barn. You can’t see his grave right now, but it’s there, right there beneath the snow.
The lemonade was sweet and the ham was salty and everything was near-right with the world.
We only had one child, she said, a son, and he stood up one day, walked out that door right there, and has never returned.
The old woman’s eyes filled with tears. She asked, Didn’t you go to high school with my son John?
Which one of us are you speaking to? asked Seymour.
I’m talking to both of you, she said.
Well, then, I have to say, said Seymour, that I don’t remember anybody named John. I didn’t even go to high school.
How about the Indian? asked the old woman.
His name is Salmon Boy.
Surely, you didn’t go to school with my son, she said, because I would have remembered a crazy name like that.
She walked around on old legs and set an old coffeepot down over a blue flame.
My real name ain’t Salmon Boy.
Real or not, my son didn’t go to school with any Indians, she said. She stirred her coffee. All three of them stared down into its blackness.
Anyway, she said, I think I recognize everybody who visits me. I spend whole days with my visitors, thinking I know them, thinking I have to be a good hostess. They show up in the mornings mostly, and I feed them breakfast. I feed them lunch and dinner. Sometimes, at night, I get a bed ready for them, pillows and sheets and blankets, before I realize they aren’t real.
She looked at the men.
Are you real? she asked.
Seymour and Salmon Boy looked at each other. They weren’t sure.
But listen to me, she said, an old woman telling old stories. How about you boys? And this killing spree of yours, where are you heading to?
It’s a nonviolent killing spree, said Seymour, and we’re heading to Arizona.
So, she said, it’s a north-south killing spree. That’s a lot different than an east-west killing spree.
What’s the difference?
More killing when you’re moving west. More policemen when you’re moving south. East-west takes a lot more discipline, more preparation. North-south, you just got to have enough passion. Passion is all you need. Do you boys have passion?
Seymour remembered his second wife, how she had fallen in love with her gynecologist and run away to Ames, Iowa, taking all of their children with her, so Seymour had dialed up 411, found his first wife’s phone number, called her up at three in the morning, and had asked her to remarry him now, right now.
You’re crazy, she said, that’s why I never stopped loving you.
Then you’ll marry me? he asked. Again? he asked.
Oh, I love you, she said, her voice breaking apart like glass. Then she said, I shouldn’t have married you the first time, and then she hung up the phone.
It was five after three in the morning, so Seymour ran down the hallway with a twenty-dollar bill in his hand, and slid it beneath the door of the red-headed prostitute who lived in Apartment 7. He didn’t want sex — he wanted redemption — so he ran back to his room, climbed into bed, and cried until the sun rose and slapped him across the eyes.
Do you boys have passion? asked the farmhouse old woman. She placed her wrinkled hand on Seymour’s hand.
Salmon Boy was jealous.
The Indian remembered when he told his cousin she was more beautiful than any white girl he had ever seen. She’d taken off her shirt and bra to show him what she’d been hiding beneath. Small breasts, like birds with opened wings, sat down on her brown chest. He loved her. He thought she was beautiful and young and would grow up to be beautiful and old.
Salmon Boy looked at the old white woman, saw her blue, blue eyes, and wondered if she’d been beautiful when she was a girl. He wondered if she had any Indian blood.
My husband was a soldier, said the old woman. She said, He was a reluctant soldier. He shot a dozen men, a dozen of those Japs, on some island in 1943. He shot twelve of them, shot six of them in the head, four of them in the heart, and two of them in the belly. He shot twelve of them without thinking, didn’t stop to wonder what it meant, but then number thirteen came running over the hill, over the grassy hill.
What color was the grass? asked Seymour.
What do you mean? asked the old woman. She asked, What do you mean what color was the grass? The grass is always green. Don’t you know that? Don’t you know the grass is always green.
But it was a different part of the world, said Seymour, I thought maybe the grass is a different color in a different part of the world.
The grass is green in every part of the world, said the old woman. She said, On Mars, the grass is green.
The grass is green on my reservation, said Salmon Boy. He was telling the truth.
There you go, said the old woman, there you go. Even the Indian knows the grass is green. What’s wrong with you? Didn’t you learn anything when you went to high school? My son went to that same high school and he learned a few things before he disappeared forever. You bet he learned a few things.
But what about your husband? asked Seymour. He was trying to change the subject.
What about my husband? Did you know my husband? He was a hero during the Good War. He was a hero, even though he was a reluctant soldier. He shot twelve Japs, shot them all dead, but there was thirteen of them running, and that last one came over the hill, running through the green grass, and my husband tried to shoot him, but he couldn’t pull the trigger, and that Jap ran a bayonet through my husband’s heart, right through the middle of his heart. And they buried him right there on the beach, right there in the sand.
But I thought, said Seymour. He said, I thought your husband was buried behind the barn.
You’re damn right, said the old woman. He’s buried. He’s buried in the snow out there, he’s buried in the sand over there, there are pieces of my husband buried everywhere.
Salmon Boy stared down into his coffee. In that darkness, he saw a white man with a rifle.
He was a hero, said the old woman. My husband shot twelve Japs on the island. Twelve of them! Can you imagine that? All by himself. My husband, he always said he would whisper in my ear in the middle of the night, he always said most men can kill eleven people, but only a few can kill twelve, and only the best, the very best, can kill thirteen.
She put her head down on the cold table.
My husband, she said, he was never the best. He was a good man, but he was never a great man.
With her head down, she breathed deep. With her head down, she fell asleep like somebody had flipped a switch.
Seymour placed his left hand on her gray hair. He held it there.
Salmon Boy was jealous. He closed his eyes and sipped at his coffee. It was bitter and instant and when the Indian opened his eyes, he was sitting in the car right at the edge of the Grand Canyon.
Through the windshield, Salmon Boy watched as Seymour pointed the gun at a tourist family. Mother, father, son, daughter.
Here, here, said the father, you can have all my money.