John Wayne

My father’s name was John Wayne. Like the Western star. Except he had no boots, no spurs. Nothing to kick up the dust. I’d like to tell you that he shot men off their horses in the backyard, that he came inside with his gun still smoking, a stoic hero. I’d like to tell you that we lived in a place where there were horses. A man could show his shine on that street, I’d say. A man could have a wilderness in his heart, and it wouldn’t destroy him.

If I were to tell you that my father, John Wayne, killed himself one night under the Midwestern stars, I could tell you it was a downright shoot ‘em up. That he took guns in both his hands and pulled the triggers like life and country depended on it.

The truth is that he killed himself in a garage, the cars running like chained-up horses. And as he wandered past the rakes, drunk on carbon monoxide, he couldn’t even see the leaves caught in their teeth, or how near he was to the doors—the one leading out into the cornfields, the other into the house where pizza was still sitting on the counter but his girls were gone back to their mother. He collapsed on the welcome mat, his neck swelling against everything he’d tracked in.