At the Jim Bridger

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Overview

Welcome to the short stories of Ron Carlson, where strange beach towels turn up in your suburban living room; where the ordinary son of a family of geniuses spins a rollicking tale of happiness and disappointment; and where a desperate ex-con with a broken heart must hide out in a desert hotel, only to make a startling discovery. Epic in scope and confessional in tone, At the Jim Bridger enfolds the reader in a world of love and mystery, and makes us feel better than just about ...

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At the Jim Bridger: Stories

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Overview

Welcome to the short stories of Ron Carlson, where strange beach towels turn up in your suburban living room; where the ordinary son of a family of geniuses spins a rollicking tale of happiness and disappointment; and where a desperate ex-con with a broken heart must hide out in a desert hotel, only to make a startling discovery. Epic in scope and confessional in tone, At the Jim Bridger enfolds the reader in a world of love and mystery, and makes us feel better than just about anything written on the page.

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Editorial Reviews

From the Publisher
“The subtle excellence of these stories makes it easy to lose oneself in them and, more impressively, to recall them later with such clarity and emotion that they seem like one’s own memories.” —The Philadelphia Inquirer

“Trying to sum up a Ron Carlson story is like trying to hold sparkling spring water in your bare hands—no matter how you cup your fingers, some of the magical stuff leaks out.... At the Jim Bridger shows us a real master at work.” —The Seattle Times

“The stories in At the Jim Bridger—eleven exquisite tales of men and women...do the work of true art. Ordinary things, which never before seemed wonderful, suddenly, gracefully, are.” —Esquire

“Carlson [has] written an accomplished, open-hearted book, full of good, grown-up humor and fierce intelligence. Writer’s writer or reader’s writer, Carlson and the stories of At the Jim Bridger deserve all the attention they can get.” —The Boston Globe

Alan Cheuse
The sweet but never saccharine quality of Carlson's prose fits perfectly with the quest for wholeness attempted by his characters.
San Francisco Chronicle
Anthony Day
This collection of stories about people in the uncertain moral terrain of the American West consistently surprises and delights.
Los Angeles Times
Justin Cronin
Carlson [has] written an accomplished, open-hearted book, full of good, grown-up humor and fierce intelligence.
The Boston Globe
Kyrie O'Connor
Carlson does not throw one air ball...he concentrates on people - relentlessly American and almost all men - at internal crossroads.
The Hartford Courant
Charles May
Carlson...has remained true to the literary form he seems to love best and at which he excels...
Milwaukee Journal Sentinel
From The Critics
For nearly twenty years, Carlson has devoted his energies to the short story. While not all the tales in his fourth collection succeed, the author, as always, challenges us to imagine a world both familiar and strange. In "The Potato Gun," a father, in the wake of his mother's death, procrastinates work and worries about his family. A keen attention to the simple rituals and sensual experiences of daily life is visible in Carlson's best writing. His beautiful title story, in which a man begins an extramarital affair after almost dying in a blizzard, is reminiscent, in its depiction of nature, of the work of Hemingway or Jack London. Yet unlike those great writers of the outdoors, Carlson can be funny, quirky, domestic. He continually surprises, generating a unique world that, while marred by loss and inadequacy, is redeemed by moments of tenderness and grace.
—James Schiff

Publishers Weekly
In this taut, focused collection, veteran short story writer Carlson (The Hotel Eden) captures the ordinary occurrences that define our lives. Sharing graceful, unadorned prose and elegant metaphors, the nine stories and two brief sketches collected here portray characters at moments when the solid ground of reality slips out from under them. High school figures prominently: for Carlson, the teenage years offer the perfect transitional moments, when minor incidents are writ large. Fortunately, he depicts these mundane experiences a boy's first date ("The Potato Gun"), his first fistfight ("At Copper View"), his first car ("The Ordinary Son") with neither condescension nor irony, but a mixture of serious reflection and na ve wonder. In "The Ordinary Son," Reed's average intelligence in a family of geniuses makes him its only distinctive member; he amazes his young brother, who is practicing quantum physics with crayons, with the simple pleasure of his brand-new car. Elsewhere, the teenager's unique sense of alienation is a chronic condition: in "Towel Season," Edison's absorbing interest in a highly theoretical engineering project separates him from the neighborhood husbands and wives; in the title story, Donner's recounting of a near-death incident on a camping trip leads to a brief connection between him and a woman who is not his wife. With a precision and consistency rarely achieved in similar collections, this volume should earn Carlson continued, well-deserved recognition. National advertising; author tour. (May) Forecast: Readers will be acquainted with Carlson's name from his appearances in Esquire and Harper's, not to mention O. Henry and Pushcart Prize anthologies. Blurbs by heavy hitters like John Irving and Michael Cunningham will help to entice browsers. Copyright 2002 Cahners Business Information.
Kirkus Reviews
The agonies of adolescence and the moral confusions of adulthood and middle age are observed with finely honed wit in this entertaining fourth collection from the Arizona author of Betrayed by F. Scott Fitzgerald (1977) and Plan B for the Middle Class (1992). There are two brief interludes, one a wry explanation of how real life gets fictionalized, the other a teenager's imaginary romantic personals ad: they echo each other, but their linkage is not otherwise explored. The nine fully developed stories, as varied and uneven a lot as are the contents of its three predecessors, uniformly employ a witty, knowing (usually first-person) narrative voice and a tangy colloquial style that often bursts into authentic comic aphorism (e.g., "It was a bit like being in the army: when in doubt, paint something"). A few stories fall flat: "The Clicker at Tips," about a nowhere relationship played out in a bar whose patrons watch Monday-night football, and "Gary Garrison's Wedding Vows," about the love life of a woman led by her inchoate "feelings," seem especially lame. But when Carlson creates a protagonist with an original relationship to his milieu and circumstances, he can dazzle. The title story's rich portrayal of a conflicted sport fisherman's experiences with his current woman and with a man formerly encountered in extreme circumstances, and thereafter unforgotten, expertly jumbles various marital, parental, and sexual "feelings" together. In "Towel Season" and "The Potato Gun," timid, passive family men are shaken into riskier, hence more fulfilling—and threatening—behavior. And Carlson's at his best in "Evil Eye Allen," a dippy anti-romance about high school hormonal mischief and homespunSatanism, and especially, "The Ordinary Son," a delightful tale of growing up among—and away from—a family of Texan geniuses, including a NASA physicist, a save-the-planet poet, and a girl who calls herself "Isotope." At his (frequent, though inconsistent) best, this is one of our better storytellers. It's about time for a Ron Carlson Selected Stories. Author tour
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Product Details

  • ISBN-13: 9780312307240
  • Publisher: Picador
  • Publication date: 4/2/2003
  • Edition description: First Edition
  • Edition number: 1
  • Pages: 216
  • Sales rank: 947,179
  • Product dimensions: 5.50 (w) x 8.50 (h) x 0.47 (d)

Meet the Author

Ron Carlson is the author of two novels and four story collections, including The Hotel Eden. His fiction has appeared in Esquire, The New Yorker, Harper’s, and Tin House, among others. He lives with his family in Scottsdale, Arizona, and is currently at work on a novel.

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Read an Excerpt

At the Jim Bridger
Stories


By Ron Carlson

Picador USA

Copyright © 2002 Ron Carlson.
All rights reserved.
ISBN: 0312286058



Chapter One


|towel season|


Suddenly it was June and there were strange towels in the house. There were stacks on the table in the entry, two or three towels that Edison knew were not their towels. In the hall, he'd step over large striped piles of strange wet towels waiting to be washed. The kids, Rebecca and Toby, pedaled home in bathing suits, alien towels hung on their necks. Twice Edison tripped as he sidled through the laundry room carrying his files, his feet tangled in a great heap of these damp things. The commotion brought Leslie from the kitchen and she looked down at him, the absentminded professor, his papers around his head. "You're kind of too young for this kind of thing," she said. He didn't look uncomfortable. She knew if she left him there and went back to her potato salad, there was a good chance he'd simply go to sleep. He was up past one almost every night working on his largest mathematical project. This was his final experimental journey for the firm; if it worked, he was going to be able to go on and on toward the edge. If not, he would join all the other middle-level engineers.

"Whose towels are these?"

The answer was, depending on the day, the Hanovers', the Plums', the Reeds'; close-radius towels, the Hanovers and their pool just down the street, the Plums and their pool around the corner, and the Reeds and their pool not three blocks across from the elementary school all the children (nine total) of these people attended.

"These, dear, are the Plums' and we'll be returning them this evening when we go over there for a cookout, so get your work done." She picked up his files and laid them on his chest. "Okay? Swimming? Drinks on their patio? Remember? Don't worry, when the time comes, I'll drive us all over."

Edison crawled to his feet. "All right." Leslie watched him go into his study, and then she stuffed the towels in the washer. He was working on the most advanced and important calculations of his life. The firm only kept one or two theoretical mathematicians, and this project would determine if Edison would make the cut.

The summer developed into these dinners and all the shifting towels. That night, they loaded the car and drove five hundred yards to the Plums' and drifted with the Hanovers and the Reeds toward the gate, carrying their coolers and casseroles and Tupperware containers and the bundle of towels. They seemed like zombies in a fog to Edison, because he was in a fog most of the time himself, so many hours working at his computer screen, and inside the greetings continued even though they'd all seen one another at the Reeds' three nights ago. Edison and Allen Reed opened bottles of Corona and sat out on the picnic table in the steady heat of the season. These outings always disoriented Edison, who saw them as some kind of puzzle. Part of him was still at his green screen mulling equations while he watched the children spill into the green pool and the women set out the food.

"How's the project going, Ed?" Allen asked him. Allen Reed, large and tan, was an applications engineer for the firm. Ed looked at the man's skin, so dark from the sun he seemed part of the strangeness. What kind of engineer has such a tan? Allen was about five years older than Edison and had an affectionate condescension for theoretical math.

"I'm working every day," Edison said. He was looking at the bench where all the towels had gathered in stacks: fourteen towels. There was no way those towels were going home with the right families. Folded there in multicolored order, they seemed part of some problem Edison had solved this week or dreamed of or was working on now.

"Yes, well, you let me know when they find a market for chaos and its theory, and I'll come over with my slide rule and give you a hand." Allen was going to pat Edison on the shoulder, which he did with people he was kidding, but he saw that Edison was about two seconds from getting the joke. They were all used to these odd moments with Edison.

The thing that was said about Edison at least once every party, after he'd been asked a question and then waited five or ten seconds to answer, or after one of his rare remarks, was "I'm glad I'm not a genius," which was meant as a kind of compliment and many times simply as a space filler after some awkwardness.

And even early in the summer on the way home from a cookout, Toby, who was six years old, started crying and when questioned about his grief, stuttered out in a whisper, "Daddy's a genius!" He cried as Leslie carried him to the house in one of the large pale blue towels that Edison knew was not their towel, and he cried himself to sleep.

Undressing for bed, Leslie said, "Ed, can you lighten up a little, fit in? These are my friends."

"Sure," he said as she got in bed beside him. "I think I can do that." A long moment later, he turned to Leslie and said, "But I'm not a genius. I'm just in a tough section of this deal now. Can you tell Toby? I'm just busy. I need to finish this project."

"I know you do," she whispered. "What should I tell him it's like?" When they were dating, he'd begun to try to explain his work to her in metaphors, and she'd continued the game through his career, asking him for comparisons that then she'd inhabit, embellish. Right after they were married and Edison was in graduate school, he'd work late into the night in their apartment and crawl into bed with the calculations still percolating in his head. "What's it like?" Leslie would ask. "Where are you now?" She could tell he was remote, lit. They talked in territories.

"I've crossed all the open ground and the wind has stopped now. My hope is to find a way through this next place."

"Mountains?"

"Right. Okay, mountains, blank, very few markings." He spoke carefully and with a quiet zeal. "They're steep, hard to see."

"Is it cold?"

"No, but it is strange. It's quiet." Then he'd turn to her in bed, his eyes bright, alive. "I'm way past the path. I don't think anyone has climbed this route before. There are no trails, handholds."

Leslie would smile and kiss him in that close proximity. "Keep going," she'd say. "Halfway up that mountain, there's a woman with a cappuccino cart and a chicken salad sandwich: me."

Then a smile would break across his face, too, and he would see her, kiss her back, and say it: "Right. You."

Now in bed, Edison said, "Tell him it's like . . ." He paused and ran the options. "Playing hide-and-seek."

"At night. In the forest?"

"Yes." He was whispering. "It's a forest and parts of this thing are all over the place. It's going to take a while."

The Hanovers' party was like all the parties, a ritual that Edison knew well. The kids swam while the adults drank, then the kids ate and went off into the various corners of the house primarily for television, and then the adults ate their grilled steaks or salmon or shish kebabs and drank a new wine while it got dark and they flirted. It was easy and harmless and whoever was up was sent to the kitchen or the cooler for more potato salad or beer and returned and gave whatever man or woman whatever he or she had asked for and said as a husband or wife might, "There you are, honey. Can I get you anything else, dear?" And maybe there'd be some nudging, a woman punctuating the sentence with her hip at a man's shoulder or a man taking a woman's shoulders in both hands possessively.

At some point there'd be Janny Hanover and Scott Plum coming out of the house holding hands and Janny announcing, "Scott and I have decided to elope," and he'd add, "I've got to have a woman who uses mayonnaise on everything." In their swimsuits in the dark, arms around each waist, now parting and rejoining the group, they did look as if it were a possibility. The eight adults were interchangeable like that, as swimsuit silhouettes, Edison thought, except me, I'm too skinny and too tall, I'd look like a woman's father walking out of the patio doors like that. I'd scare everybody. Around the pool, the towels glowed in random splashes where they'd been thrown. Edison listened to the men and women talk, and when they laughed, he tried to laugh, too.


Days, while Leslie took Toby and Becky to the shoe store, the orthodontist, tennis lessons, Edison worked on his project. He was deep in the fields, each problem more like a long, long hike. He had to go way into each to see the next corner and then there to see forward. He had to keep his mind against it the entire time; one slip and he'd have to backtrack. Edison described his work to Leslie now the same way he began to think of it, as following little people through the forest: some would weave through the trees, while others would hide behind trees and change clothes, emerging at a different speed. He had to keep track of all of them, shepherd them through the trees and over a hill that was not quite yet in sight and line them up for a silver bus. The silver bus was Leslie's contribution. He'd work on butcher paper with pencils, and then after two or three o'clock, he would enter his equations into the computer and walk out into his house, his face vague, dizzy, not quite there yet.


Summer began in earnest and women began stopping by with towels. Edison would hear Janny Hanover or Paula Plum call from the front hall, the strange female voices coming to him at first from the field of numbers progressing across the wide paper. "Don't get up! It's just me! See you tonight at the Reeds'!" and then the door would shut again and Edison would fight with his rising mind to stay close to the shifting numerals as they squirmed and wandered. He felt, at such moments, as if he were trying to gather a parachute in a tricky and persistent wind.

Some days there'd be a tan face suddenly at his study door, Paula Plum or Melissa Reed, saying, "So this is where the genius does it," and placing two or three folded towels on the chair. The incursion was always more than Edison could process. He looked up at the woman, a hot-pink tank top, sunglasses in her hair, and felt as if he'd been struck. The calculation bled, toppled. Edison felt involved in some accident, his hands collapsed, his heartbeat in his face. Then she was gone, whoever she had been, singing something about tonight or tomorrow night at the Plums' or the Reeds', and Edison found himself dislocated, wrecked. His children knew not to barge in that way, because it meant his day's work vanished, and he'd spend hours looking out the front window or walking the neighborhood in the summer heat. The chasm between his pencil figurings and the figures of the real world was that, a chasm, and there was no bridge.

At the Reeds' and the Plums' while the kids splashed in the pool and Scott flirted with Melissa and Allen with Paula, silhouettes passing in and out of the house as summer darkness finally fell while everyone was fed grilled meat of all kinds and Paula Plum's tart potato salad, word got out that Edison was brusque, at least not hospitable, and Janny Hanover lifted her wine to him, saying, "Why, darling, you looked absolutely like I was going to steal your trigonometry!" Edison smiled at her, feeling Leslie's gaze; he promised he'd try to do better. Holding this smile was pure effort.

"And you looked at me like you didn't even know who I was," Paula added.

Edison didn't know what to say, held the smile, tried to chuckle, might have, and then it became painfully clear that he should say something. He couldn't say what he thought: I don't know who you are. The faces glowed in a circle around him, the healthy skin, all those white teeth. "Well, my heavens," and there was a pause which they all knew they would fall into, and people knew they would have to do something-cough, get up for more beer, make a joke. He'd done this to this group a dozen times already this summer, what an oddball. Then he spoke: "Do you ladies go through the neighborhood surprising every geek who's double-checking his lottery numbers?"

And the pause sparked and Dan Hanover laughed, roared, and the laughter carried all of them across, and it was filled with gratitude and something else that Edison saw in Leslie's eyes, something about him: he'd scored a point. There was a new conviviality through the night, more laughter, the men brought Edison another beer, Leslie suddenly at ease. Children drifted in and out of the pool, docking between their parents' legs for a moment, then floated away, dropping towels here and there. Edison, the new center of the group, felt strange: warm and doomed.


The following days were different than any he'd known. People treated him, how? Cordially, warmly, more than that. This new fellowship confused him. He'd obviously broken the code and was inside now. His research crashed and vanished. At the butcher paper with his pencils he was like a man in the silent woods at night, reaching awkwardly for things he could not see. "I'm going in circles."

"Is any of it familiar? Is there a moon?" Leslie asked. "Shall I honk the horn of the silver bus? Start a bonfire?"

"There's no light, no wind. I'm stalled."

"Go uphill. You'll see the horizon."

But he didn't. The work he'd done, all the linkages had been delicate, and after two days the numbers paled and dried and the adhesive dissipated, and while he stared at the sheet, the ragged edge of the last figures, it all ran away. He was going to have to turn around, follow the abstruse calculations back until he could gather it all again. Edison left the room. He walked the long blocks of his neighborhood in the heat, lost and stewing.

Days, he began to ferry the kids around and was surprised to start learning the names of their friends, the young Plums, the Hanover girl, the Reed twins. He was surprised by everything, the pieces of a day, the way they fit and then fled. He'd wait in the van at the right hour, and the children would wander out of the movie theater and climb in. It was a wonder. He started cooking, which he'd always enjoyed, but now he started cooking all the time. Permutations on grilled cheese sandwiches, variations on spaghetti.

He delivered towels, returning stacks of cartoon characters to the Hanovers, Denver Bronco logo towels to the Plums, who had moved here from Colorado, and huge striped things to the Reeds, always trading for his family's mongrel assemblage. He became familiar with the women, dropping in on them at all daytime hours, calling in the front doors, "Man in the house," and hearing after a beat, Janny or Melissa or Paula call, "Thank heaven for that, come on in." If the kids were in the car, he'd drop the towels and greetings and hurry out; if not, sometimes it was coffee. Melissa Reed put a dollop of Jægermeister in hers; Janny Hanover drank directly out of a liter Evian bottle, offering him any of her husband's ales (Dan was a member of Ale of the Month); Paula made him help her make lemonade from scratch. All of the women were grateful for the company. These visits and the weekend parties made Edison in his new life feel as if he were part of a new, larger family, with women and children everywhere; he was with people more than he'd ever been in his life.

In bed he didn't want to talk; his hands ran over Leslie in his approach. She held him firmly, adjusted, asked, "What is it like now, the project?" Edison put his head against her neck, stopped still for a beat, and then began again working along her throat. "Ed, should I worry about you? Where are you with the research?" He lifted away from her in the dark, and then his hand descended and she caught it. She turned toward him now and he pulled to free his hand, but she held it. It was an odd moment for them. "Edison," she said. "What is going on?" They were lying still, not moving. "Are you okay? Have you stumbled on a log and hit your head on a sharp outcropping? Has a mighty bear chased you up a nasty tree? Did he bite you? Should I call that helicopter they use in the mountains?" He could hear the smile in her voice. "What do you need me to do? Where are the little people?" It was clear he was not going to answer. "They're waiting for you. Go get them. And I'm waiting, too, remember? By the silver bus. You'll make it, Ed." But when she let go of his hand and kissed him, he held still one second and then simply turned away.

The project needed to be done this season; it couldn't smolder for another year. They'd take him off it, and have him counting beans in the group cubicles. They put you out on the frontier like this once, and when you came back beaten, you joined one of the teams, your career in close orbit, the adventure gone.


Meanwhile, he fled the house. He'd stand close to Paula at the counter while they squeezed the lemons, their arms touching; he began having a drop of Jæger with Melissa, and when Janny Hanover would see him to the door, they'd hug for five seconds, which is one second over the line. He could feel her water bottle against his back.

Some afternoons Leslie would stand in the doorway of his little study and see the spill of pencils where they'd been for days. She kept the hallway clear of laundry, but he never went to that corner of the house anymore. They circled each other through the days. In bed he was silent. She tried to open him. "Okay, mister, should I try to drive the bus closer, honk the horn? You want me to bring in some of those all-terrain vehicles? Some kind of signal? We're running low on crackers."

After a moment, he said, "I'm not sure."

"Can you see any landmarks, stars?"

"Not really," he answered. "I can't." His voice was flat, exhausted, as he tried to imagine it all. "It's steep. It's too dark. I'm having some trouble with my footing."

"I know you are. Everybody does," Leslie said, opening her eyes and looking at his serious face. "Keep your own path. Dig your feet in. Try."


Paula wanted to know if he really worked for the CIA; Janny wanted to know if his I.Q. was really two hundred; Melissa asked him if she should get implants. She was drinking her green coffee at the kitchen table and she simply lifted her shirt. The fresh folded towels stood on the corner of the table. The afternoons he was home between errands were the worst. Now his calculations seemed a cruel puzzle, someone else's work, dead, forgotten, useless.


Edison was a light at the parties, sharing recipes and inside information on the children. There was always someone at his right hand talking, a man or a woman; he was open now yet still exotic. His difference was clear: he was the only man still not settled, the only man still becoming, unknown, and it gave him an allure that Leslie felt, and she watched him the way you watch the beast in a fairy tale, to see if it is really something very good in other clothing. Certainly, the parties were less of a strain for her now, not having to worry about Edison's oddness, his potential for gaffs, but his new state strained everything else.

By August the women's familiarity with Edison was apparent. At the cookouts, they spoke in a kind of shorthand, and others had to ask them to back up, explain, if they were to understand at all. Janny Hanover let her hand drift to Edison's shoulder as they talked. Paula Plum began using certain words she'd learned from him: vector, valence, viable. Melissa Reed returned from a week-long trip (supposedly to see her parents in Boulder) with four new swimsuits and a remarkable bustline.


Then suddenly it was Labor Day, an afternoon no different from the hundred before it, but as Edison swept the pool patio and washed the deck chairs and cleaned the grill, he knew summer was, in some way, over. But he wanted the exercise there in his yard, the broom, the hose, the bucket of suds, the sun a steady pressure, and as he wiped the tables and squared the furniture, he thought, No wonder Scott and Dan and Allen like this. The pool was clean, a diamond blue, and there wasn't a crumb on the deck. Edison wandered around another half hour and then he put his tools away with great care.

That evening the women did a slow dance around him. He felt it as confused push and pull; he watched the children in the pool, their groupings and regroupings, and then he'd have a new cold beer in his hand, talking again to Scott Plum about chlorine. He sat in the circle of his friends on folding chairs in the reflected swimming pool light, with Paula or Janny right behind him, hip against his shoulder, and he held everyone's attention now, describing with his hands out in the air a game he'd designed to let the children choose who got to ride in the front seat. "It's called First Thumb," he said, lifting his thumbs from each fist; one, then the other. Edison named the different children and how they played the game, and who had gotten to sit in the front seat today and how. His hands worked liked two puppets. The women laughed, the men smiled, and Janny pulled Edison's empty beer bottle out of his hands and replaced it with a full one.

"You're too much," Dan Hanover said. "This is a hell of a summer for you. I'll be glad when you get this spec project done and get over and give us a hand in applications." He leaned forward and made his hands into a ring, fingertip to fingertip. "We've got engine housings-"

"Not just the housings, the whole acceptor," Allen Reed interrupted. "And the radial displacement and timing has a huge window, anything we want. We've got carte blanche, Ed."

"Fund-ing! You'd be good on this team," Dan Hanover said.

"Solve," Allen Reed said, tapping Edison's beer bottle with his own, "for X."

Wrapped in a towel like a little chieftan, Toby waddled up and leaned between his father's legs for a moment, his wet hair sweet on Edison's face. Then he called his sister's name suddenly and ran back in to play.

"Right." Edison did not know what to say. He picked up Toby's wet towel in both hands and looked at the men.

Later, as the party was breaking up and the friends clustered at the gate, Dan Hanover said, "It's a relief to have you joining the real world," and Allen Reed clamped his arm around Edison and said, "It's been a good run. You're a hell of a guy."

Melissa Reed took his upper arm against her new bosom and said, "Don't listen to him, Edison. He says that because you remind him of what he was like ten years ago." She squeezed Edison's arm and kissed him on the lips, but his face had fallen.


That night after everyone had left, Edison was agitated and distracted while they cleaned up. He shadowed Leslie around the deck and through the house and at some point he dumped a load of towels in the laundry room and continued on into his study. After Leslie had cleared the patio, blown out all the candle-lanterns, and squared the kitchen away, she found Edison at his desk. She stood in the doorway for a minute, but he was rapt on his calculations.

He was there through the night, working, as he was in the morning and all the long afternoon. He accepted a tuna sandwich about midday. She found him asleep at five p.m., his face on the large sheet of paper surrounded by his animated figurings and the nubs of six pencils.

She helped him into bed, where he woke at midnight with a tiny start that opened Leslie's eyes. "Greetings," she said.

His voice was rocky and uneven. "I went back in. I walked all the way over the low hills, and I climbed up and back over and into the woods-I found the same woods-and I gathered most of the little people. They're like children, I mean, sometimes they follow, and so now I think I'm headed the right way." He sighed heavily and she could hear the fatigue in his chest.

"Get some sleep."

He was whispering. "I don't have them all, and I see now that's part of it; I'm not sure you ever get them all. There are mountains beyond these I didn't even know about."

Leslie lay still. He knew she was awake.

"But that's another time. Now I can keep these guys together and come down. Do you see? I can wrap this up." She was silent, so he added, "There weren't any bears."

"Stop," she said quietly. "You don't want that game."

"It took all night, but I was able to find them because I knew you were waiting." Leslie could hear the ghost of the old exhilaration in his voice.

"Edison," she said, taking his hand. "I'm not there. You need to understand that I'm not at the silver bus anymore. I waited. I saw you give up. Why would I wait?"

"Where'd you go?" There were seconds between all the sentences. "Where are you?"

She spoke slowly. "I don't know. I'm . . . It's way north. I'm in town, living in a small town above the hardware store in an apartment."

He rose to an elbow and she could feel him above her as he spoke. "What's it like there? How far is it?"

"I just got here. No one knows me. It's getting colder. I wear a coat when I walk to the library in the afternoons. I've got to get the kids in school."

Edison lay back down and she heard the breath go out of him. "In town," he said. "Are the leaves turning?"

"Listen." Now she rolled and covered him, a knee over, her arm across his chest. "My landlord asked about you."

"Who? He asked about me?"

"Where my husband was." Leslie put her hand on his shoulder and pulled herself up to kiss him. Held it. "How long I'd be in town."

"And you told him I was lost? He likes you."

"He's a nice man." Leslie shifted up again and now spoke looking down into his eyes. "He said no one could survive in those hills. Winter comes early. He admired you, your effort." She kissed him. "But you weren't the first person lost to the snow."

"He's been to your place?" Edison's arms were up around her now, and she moved in concert with him.

"He's the landlord." She kissed him deeply, and her hands were moving. "He likes my coffee."

"I always liked your coffee." Edison shifted and pulled her nightshirt over her head, her sudden skin quickening the dark.

"Edison," Leslie whispered. "You're not a hell of a guy; you're not like any of them. Don't join the team." She had been still while she spoke, and now she ran her hand up, finally stopping with her first finger on his nose. "Don't solve for X. Just get all your little people to the bus and drive to town." She pressed her forehead against his. "I left the keys."

"I know where they are," he said. His hand was at her face now, too, and then along her hip, the signal, and he turned them, rolled so that he looked down into her familiar eyes.

"Were you scared?" she said. "What was it like when it started to snow and you were still lost?"

"Everything went white. I wanted to see you again." Every word was sounded against her skin, her hair. "It didn't seem particularly cold, but the snowflakes, when they started, there were trillions."


Excerpted from At the Jim Bridger by Ron Carlson. Copyright © 2002 by Ron Carlson. Excerpted by permission. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.


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Table of Contents

I.

Towel Season

At the Jim Bridger

The Clicker at Tips

Disclaimer

II.

The Ordinary Son

Evil Eye Allen

At Copper View

Single Woman for Long Walks on the Beach

III.

The Potato Gun

Gary Garrison's Wedding Vows

At the El Sol

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Customer Reviews

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Sort by: Showing all of 5 Customer Reviews
  • Posted December 28, 2009

    more from this reviewer

    I Also Recommend:

    Disclaimer...

    Ron Carlson is a masterful writer of short stories, that being said, I feel like this book does not stand up to his other collections - "The Hotel Eden: Stories, "Plan B For Middle Class: Stories" &
    "The News of the World: Stories".

    I first found Ron Carlson after reading a magazine review of his latest novel, "The Signal". Instead of taking on that novel, I started with his short stories and fell in love with them.

    "At the Jim Bridger" is Carlson's newest book of stories and I had extremely high hopes for it. However the up and down quality of the stories didn't grab me like the other books have.

    One of the greatest reviews I've ever read regarding Ron Carlson's short stories is as follows "Trying to sum up a Ron Carlson story is like trying to hold sparkling spring water in your bare hands - no matter how you cup your fingers, some of the magical stuff leaks out." - The Seattle Times.

    This collection has 9 stories and 2 very short interludes, some of my favorites were -

    At the Jim Bridger

    The Potato Gun

    The Ordinary Son

    At the El Sol

    At Copper View

    If you've never read Ron Carlson and you want to check out his short stories, please do yourself a favor and start with any of his other books. Of his four novels, I've read "The Signal" and enjoyed it immensely and I hope to read his award winning "Five Skies" soon.

    Enjoy~

    3 out of 3 people found this review helpful.

    Was this review helpful? Yes  No   Report this review
  • Anonymous

    Posted April 4, 2002

    Best Book of Short Fiction Since the Bible!

    Wow! This guy's got the Mott's. Carlson's stories make me laugh out loud, cry, and dance with the lights out. Very soon I plan to read it. (thanks to Groucho Marx)

    1 out of 1 people found this review helpful.

    Was this review helpful? Yes  No   Report this review
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    Posted August 11, 2011

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    Posted August 18, 2011

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  • Anonymous

    Posted September 16, 2011

    No text was provided for this review.

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