Percival Everett

The Weather and Women Treat Me Fair

For Al Bearce and Zack Hemenway

A Real Hard Rain

The rain could have fallen harder, in larger drops, been more persistent, or insistent, but that would have made it something else, not rain at all; as it was, it was balancing on the far edge of its definition. When the storm was but five minutes old it promised flooding. The black sky suggested no relief; there was no crack to be found in the swollen mass, not a boundary to be seen. Ten minutes passed and the gutters were useless, the drains couldn’t suck down the flow and the water stood or rushed over curbs toward homes. I was there, I was watching, such a storm the likes of which I had never seen. Cars stalled and why shouldn’t they have, the water by now waist-high in spots. Our house was atop a high hill. People had laughed at me for years when the coming of snow forced me to abandon my car at the base of the steep slope. But now they were not laughing. They were swimming, wading, bailing, paddling, assessing, and regrouping. And the rain did not slacken. When I purchased this house, my wife complained about the hill, the rather severe decline of the back yard — several times our children had lost footing and rolled down into the briars — but this day she was silent. No, she did not complain; she was dry. Besides, the children always healed. In fact, we’d raised veritable mountain goats. On many occasions I would insist to visitors observing our youngsters at play that examinations beyond their shoes would reveal hooves. My wife would glare at me and offer to show off the kids’ scars. “Disgusting,” I would say, and once as she walked away, I uttered, “There will come a flood.”

The water was something; it rose and rose and covered many houses. Many people floated away, I assumed, to other towns. This was what I told my children. We waved to their friends and their friends waved back. My daughter asked me why their waves seemed so different from ours. I told her that if situations were reversed our waves would appear just as theirs — or more so. We learned that squirrels could swim, at least many could — now, at least in our part of the world, all could. The storm was extensive, covering at least the state, probably much more. All radio and television reception failed.

Then the rain stopped and everything was more still than when nothing moves. The clouds broke up and a bright sky shone. There were many birds on our roof and in our trees. We were an island in a vast lake or perhaps a minor ocean. At any rate, we were alone in this malignant, newborn body of water. The houses and trees of the town were lost to view. There were no people. I had not known before, but our house was set on the highest point for many miles in any direction. We were by ourselves and I felt bad for having bought up the adjacent lots. Peering at the sky through the windows, my children wanted to run out to play. I told them it was too deep out, that a slip and roll into the briars would mean a great deal more. My wife did not speak. I had become something of a deity in her eyes, temporary as the office was.

“So, what are we going to do?” she asked finally.

I gazed out the window and observed the sea. “First of all, let us be thankful that we are alive.” I let this soak in for the prescribed time, then turned to their blank faces. “We can’t just sit here.”

“We’ll starve if we do,” said my daughter.

I smiled and passed over her remark. “We have to see what’s left of the world.” Something higher, more noble.

For years I had been just the father, he who stared at clean paper in the typewriter and somehow managed food to the table, he who mumbled and forgot things and where he was going, once washed the same car twice in a day. But now, I was he who had insisted on buying the house on the hill,, the home with the deadly backyard, the inaccessible winter retreat, the last dry spot.

“Dad, are we going to die?” my son asked.

I smiled at him, then turned my eyes to his mother. I studied her for a long second, watching the anxiety swell within her. “No,” I said. I thought she might fly around the room like a released balloon, such was her sigh of relief. I loved it, the power, and I knew I’d best love it good and fast and remember it, for soon reason would return. Reason, the spoiler, the party pooper. Ha! I laughed at reason. It was reason which nearly had us in a split-level down there. I would remind my wife of this when she believed her thinking to be clear.

“Surely we’ll starve,” said my daughter. Food on the brain, that child. An eater from day one, a nipple hog — two at once if she could have managed. And a plump little thing she was. This flood would do her well.

By looking at my son I knew he believed, though I had told him contrary, that we were as good as dead. The little coward, him with his Donald Duck nite-lite and foul-smelling blankey. He was a penny-pincher, too. For someone so sure of the end, he had certainly planned for the future.

Somehow we would set adrift, probably in the raft in the garage if it was still good. My family looked more interesting to me. To my thinking, there is nothing which makes people fascinating like their being about to be drowned. They followed me outside toward the garage, but stopped at the sight of the eternal pool surrounding us. I, too, was taken with it Through the windows, it had seemed less real, as if just a show, but here it went on forever, forever wet, forever deep. We could see nothing but light playing off the surface.

I pulled the raft down from the high shelf above the tools and work counter. Clouds of dust were kicked up and, for the first time ever, the dry, floating particles did not bother me. I didn’t even fan them from my face. None of us did.

My wife went and stood at the open garage door, a child on either side, all facing and staring at how the driveway fell so steeply into the water. I inflated the raft with the bicycle pump.

“What do you think?” I asked, pumping steadily.

“Think? Who can think?” She did not look back.

“We’ll need provisions,” I said. “Even if we don’t venture far away, we’ll need food sooner or later.” I paused to catch my breath, observed the now larger plane of rubber. “We’ll have to rely on our memory of the layout of the town.”

They were not listening. The disaster was creating some distance between us. The situation had moved me lifted my spirits by charging my curiosity and sense of adventure. For my family, it was another story. I wanted to express to them that since we were doomed, we’d best enjoy it But the right words would not avail themselves. I finished the raft and stood away, slapping the luscious dust from my hands. My family turned to view me. Their eyes said, “We’ll wait here.” I tried to appear disappointed, dipping my head and stepping into the house, but I was not. I looked forward to drifting peaceably, alone. Better that I checked the worthiness of the boat alone anyway.

First things first, a nap was in order Actually, I just lay on the sofa and imagined the grid of our town. The market was straight down three blocks, at the bottom of the hill. The water there had to be many tens of feet deep. What I needed was an aqualung, but I had none. For additional food, we would have to try fishing. Worms would be plentiful in the back yard. I sat up and studied the faces which studied mine.

“Pack up food and dry clothing,” I said. “We can’t stay here. We’ve got to see what’s out there.”

“Water is out there,” said my daughter.

“Beyond that,” I said. “Start packing.” I watched as they slowly wandered away to collect items.

“You’re not taking that,” I said.

“Mom!”

“What is it, honey?”

“Daddy won’t let me take Cubby.”

“Tell him there’s no room for non-essential items,” I said.

“There’s no room for non-essential items,” she said and turned back toward the kitchen.

“Cubby’s not a non-sential item,” my son said to her back and my front, “he’s a bear.”

“No Cubby.”

He stormed away, passing in the hall his sister carrying a collapsing dollhouse.

“No.”

This went on.

“No.”

“Non-essential.”

All this while my wife was gathering food together. Silence is a clue that either too little or too much is being done. She’d packed two baskets and a chest, all waiting for me to carry them to the raft. I lifted a basket, groaned, and felt the muscles of my face tighten.

“What do you have in here?”

“Food.”

“Are they all so heavy?”

“Probably.”

“Do we really need so much?”

“You tell me. You’re the flood authority.”

The magic was wearing thin. Well, I understood the station to lack permanence. Soon I would again be reduced to husband-father status.

“I’m not sure the raft can hold all of this.”

She hurled a can of tomato soup into the sink, then braced herself against the counter. “Then you do it. You do it.”

“I’m not being critical.”

She began to sob. I went to her, turned her around and embraced her. The children appeared and observed from the doorway. The gravity of it all was settling in.

Still, it seemed clear that we must set out. I looked at the packed baskets. We would need all of this food. A fact occurred to me which I would not mention to my family. Almost certainly, we would be unable to find our way home once sight of it was lost.

Our house looked so welcoming there on its little island. We waved to it like morons as we floated farther away. A silence came over us, the silence I usually associated with my being the focus of anger. Somehow I had become the responsible party. The flood was my fault. I seemed unafraid, so it must have been my doing. I said—

“You know, all of this is beyond my control.”

No reply.

“I’m as scared as any of you.”

Nothing.

I paddled us onward. Looking down, we could see our town through scattered debris. There was Turk’s Garage, Marietta Karper’s house, the 7-11. I think we were all expecting at any moment to come upon a floating cadaver, but we did not. We did find a good-sized rowboat manned by a large, mongrel dog. The animal seemed happy to see us, anyone. The children were delighted to see him. I, however, saw him readily as just another mouth to feed and a fairly unreliable witness to the things he had seen. Finally, the trade seemed fair, food for the sharing of his larger, more sturdy craft.

The presence of the dog did lift my family’s spirits. Being licked in the face does this. Of course, one thing was certain; if there were any fleas anywhere, they were here.

Now, instead of paddling, I rowed. My family and the dog basked in the warm sun.

I stopped rowing and studied the sleeping faces. When the kids awakened they would name this dog Noah. I’d no doubt of this. My wife would make pimento cheese sandwiches for us and we would eat them and wash them down with Cola from a two-liter bottle. We had no cups. The speck on the horizon that was our house was now gone. I was not even sure in which direction I had last seen it. I took the oars again. I would row until they were awake and the sandwiches were made. After the meal, I would row some more. The flood had made everything quite simple. I would row until I was too weak to continue. We would eat until there was no more food. We would find land and perhaps people or we would die.

My wife’s eyes opened and she looked at me calmly. “How could such a thing happen?” she asked.

“I don’t know,” I said.

“What has happened?” She sat up and gazed at the water.

“It rained real hard.”

A Good Home for Hachita

Vista. It was a view that could make you not just pause, but set up house. So thought Evan Keeler as he craned to observe more clearly the Rio Grande Gorge snaking across the plateau below, carved deeply and cleanly through earth and the ages. His eyes moved to the ochre hills, their shadows creeping in on them, as he began the roll down the other side of the mountains toward Taos.

He’d stayed in Santa Fe longer than he’d have liked, haggling over prices with a couple of gallery people. He had little to say about art peddlers that was good, except that they kept a bit of money in his pockets. In fact, he wasn’t doing so badly. His prints were popular. His canvases found homes. But he hated dealing with the owners and managers of galleries. Nor was he crazy about the kinds of people who bought his works or any work for that matter. It was unfortunate that those coughing up dollars for his paintings were wheeling and dealing, trading and bickering, anticipating in the high grass anticipating his death and a jump in the value of his signature. He liked the infrequent shows. He’d perch off in corners and watch children study his paintings, watch those with no money summon a friend to share a look, a feeling, a bit of something, anything, breathing easily or hurriedly, maybe smiling. That was rare. Too rare. It made him question himself and his talent. Such insecurity was for younger men, however. If an old man fell to such doubt, his organ would shrivel right up, like a plastic straw above a flame. And that would be it. Evan Keeler needed his organ.

Evan Keeler liked women. Loved women. Liked loving women. If the art world beat down his faith in mankind, women re-ignited a kindling flame of human possibilities. A flame, a light that his being, he thought, served more to dim than fuel.

It had been a short marriage. It had been his over-fondness of women which ruined it. There had been a spark, a flame; a belief that time was upon him. She was not beautiful. He told himself that beauty did not matter. He lied. The spark was not enough, not enough to sustain his interest, for in the end that was all it was, interest. When his wife figured out not only that he had been with other women, but why, she became what Evan Keeler termed agressively insecure. He entertained fleetingly the notion that had he married earlier in life all would have been fine. That was dismissed as excuse; a rather pitiful attempt not to seem so pitiful. Finally she left, talking to herself, taking with her the only construction of their marriage — their one-year-old daughter.

He did not know his daughter. Since her departure he had seen her but three times. Twice in two summers while he was still living in Albuquerque and once when he dropped in to visit her in Seattle. In Seattle the child’s mother had not allowed Evan Keeler to their house, but arranged a meeting in a mall. He did not blame her. He had been a shit. Better to be mad than a wimp, he had told her when they broke up, which only made her angrier.

Elaine was seventeen now and, in recent photos at least, very pretty. She was discovering boys in Seattle and they were no doubt discovering her. The only bit of advice offered to her by her father was etched on the back of a postcard with a thirsty jackass on the front. It read: Stay away from boys and men. It surely upset the girl’s mother to have to agree with him. He could hear her adding, “—men like your father.” It was sound advice. It was the very advice he offered most women both before and after he slept with them.

He wondered how his daughter imagined him, whether her mother had, sadly, painted a reasonably clear picture. Was he, in the girl’s eyes, a bum who hustled young women in galleries? Was he the artist whose work she’d seen in the several art magazines in which he’d been featured over the last ten years, vital, bright, innovative? He laughed to himself, at himself, contemplating which in fact he was. He was a little of both or all of the former. Elaine’s mother’s desire to be a liberal had certainly supported a more favorable portrayal of her father, lest her hatred of him be construed as racially rooted.

The highway became the main thoroughfare of Taos. Gas stations, taco joints, adobe motels lined the road which seemed perpetually under construction. He rolled on, slowed to a dusty crawl into town center. He pulled into the plaza and drove around the square, out a side street. He parked near the library, opened the back of his station wagon and took out three canvases.

“Evan!” came a voice.

He shut the tailgate and looked up to see a middle-aged woman at the gate of the library courtyard. “Hello, Gert,” he said.

“Hello, Gert? Is that all I get? I haven’t seen you in three months.” She stepped toward him.

“Long time no see?”

She was smiling and shaking her head as they embraced. She leaned back, her hands on his shoulders. “You’re looking good.”

“Go ahead and finish it. ‘For an old man.’”

“Hardly.”

“You look good, too. How’s it going?”

“It’s going. New paintings? May I see?”

“Why don’t you buy one so I can pay a few bills?”

“You’re out of my range these days.”

“Give me a bid.” He hoisted the canvases and secured his grip. “Come on with me to the Junction.”

“I’m not going in there with that bitch.”

Evan Keeler laughed. “Are you two still at it. Even high school girls take a breather now and then.”

“She’s no schoolgirl.”

“Yeah, well, you’re both the reason I live so far away from everything. The women in this town are good for only one thing.” He was sorry for what he’d said even before the last word was out.

Gert’s gaze fell to the ground and her sandals. She faded a bit.

“Listen, Gert, I’m sorry I said that.”

“Why?” She straightened her shoulders. “You’re absolutely right.” She looked ready to cry. “What else is there to do?” She forced a smile.

“I’m going to take these on over there.”

“Okay. Call me later?”

He nodded.

As he walked away he wanted to kick himself. He considered them. Matrons of the arts. Women with more money than sense. Most living on stipends from trusts left by husbands or monied families. Most nice enough, but concerned mainly with positioning themselves beneath a name they recognized.

In the Junction Gallery, he found a young couple standing in the front room moaning over a Rod Breedlove print. If you’d seen one Breedlove you’d seen them all and all those to come. Besides, Breedlove chased boys. Not a bad thing in itself, but a guy who did that ought to have talent. Evan Keeler leaned his canvases against the desk. The young couple noticed him, mumbled to each other, pointing at the covered packages he’d just set down.

“Karen!” Evan Keeler called out.

A tall, blonde woman came from the back room. “Evan Keeler,” she said, spreading her wings for a hug.

He squeezed her, knowing that she had said his full name loudly for the benefit of the couple.

“What have you brought me?”

He hated this sort of display. “You can look at them later. You have something for me?”

“Yes, I do.” She opened the drawer of the desk and pulled out an envelope. She handed it to him.

He smiled at the man and woman. He opened the envelope and looked at the check. “It’s always less than you expect,” he said. “The nature of checks.”

Karen laughed politely.

He’d upset her by not participating in the selling game. She would chide him about it later, but he didn’t care. “I saw Gert,” he said.

“How wonderful. But why are you telling me?”

“Just keeping things square,” he said, knowing she wouldn’t understand.

“Are you staying in town tonight?”

He hadn’t decided. “No, I don’t believe so. Gotta get back to my desert.”

“At least stay and talk a while.”

The couple began to make their way to the door. If he were to get out of there without a hassle he needed to go now. “I really need to hit the road.”

“Someone’s interested in Hachita.”

He stopped. She had him. Hachita was probably the best of his paintings of recent years, a medium-sized canvas with deep reds and rich yellows, of children in the street of a little hole of a New Mexican town. He’d never known what to ask for it. The agent he used for a while suggested six thousand as the bottom. Karen was asking five. Secretly Evan Keeler wanted to take it home. Instead he lied to himself, saying he could paint another like it. The young couple left. Karen waved to them. He watched the door slowly shut.

“I’ll never understand you,” Karen said.

“Okay. I should have said—”

“Not that. Listen, Evan, if you want to sell your paintings you’ve got to play the game. Those people who were just here had bucks. It’s fine if you want to play the bohemian artist for young girls over at De la Peña’s, but this is the real world.”

“Point taken. Who wants Hachita?”

“Why do you care who wants it? They want to pay for it. Five, just what we were asking. Why do you look so damn sad?”

“Five will be fine.”

She studied him for a second, then went to the coffee-maker on a table in the corner. “What’s bugging you, Evan?”

“When is all of this going to happen?”

She poured herself a cup of coffee. “You want some?”

He shook his head.

“They’re coming by this afternoon. A couple of doctors from Portland.”

“A syndicate is buying it?”

“No, a husband and wife.”

“Do they like the painting?”

“Evan, they’re about to pay five thousand dollars for it.”

“Do they like it? Or are they just collectors? Will they hang it in a place where children can see it?”

“You’re sounding crazy.”

“I guess. Mind if I watch the deal go down?”

“I would love it if you were here.”

“No, no. I don’t want to be here. I just want to watch. From the back room or something.”

She sighed. “Whatever you want.”

“Thanks, Karen. Can I take you to lunch?”

A reluctant but warm smile worked its way over Karen’s face.

They went to De la Peña’s on the square. With the coming of summer new crowds were appearing, the skiers having left. The spring had seen only one good snowfall, shortening the season and making the merchants anxious for the next wave of tourists. De la Peña’s never seemed to suffer, however, being the favorite spot of gringo locals. Evan Keeler sat with Karen at a table near the back.

While they were ordering, Rod Breedlove walked in. The fat Navajo had with him a young man, boy-faced and blond, and an overly made-up, tight-jeaned woman.

“Every time,” Evan Keeler said. “I can’t sit down to eat in this town without that clown walking in.”

“He sells,” said Karen.

“He’s a bum.”

“He sells.” She sipped her Gibson.

Evan Keeler drank water. He was watching Karen’s face when she sat up and her eyes brightened. She waved to someone across the room behind him.

“It’s them,” she said “The doctors from Portland.”

“Oh, no,” he muttered.

“Hello, Dr. McNally, Dr. McNally,” Karen said “I have a treat for you.”

Evan Keeler stood.

“I’d like to introduce Evan Keeler. Evan, Dr. and Dr. McNally.”

“Pleased to meet you,” Evan Keeler said.

“No, the pleasure is all ours,” said the excited female Dr. McNally while the male McNally nodded.

“Sit down, join us,” Karen said.

“Just for a minute.”

“We’ve decided to buy the painting,” said Dr. McNally, the man. “We’re quite thrilled over it.”

Evan Keeler nodded. “I’m glad you like it”

“May I ask you a question?” asked Dr. McNally.

“Of course.”

“How old are you?”

The vultures! Counting down the days of a man’s life. “Forty,” he lied.

The McNallys looked at each other, frowning, puzzling.

Karen laughed loudly. “He’s such a clown. How old are you, Evan? Sixty? Sixty-two?”

“I’m fifty-nine.”

“Why, you’re a young man,” Dr. McNally said, playing with the bracelet on her wrist.

“Yes, I am.” Evan Keeler drank some water, but it went down the wrong way. He coughed, closing a fist in front of his mouth.

“Are you okay?” the McNallys asked.

“Fine,” he tried to say through the choking. He tried so hard to stop that he couldn’t. His face flushed. “Fine.” Cough. “Really.”

The McNallys examined his eyes and measured his pulse. He couldn’t believe this was happening. The whole restaurant was watching.

“How is he?” came a new but familiar voice.

Evan Keeler looked up and saw the fat Indian Breedlove. He got mad and coughed some more.

“Have you ever had heart trouble?” asked one of the McNallys.

“No!”

“Yes,” Karen said.

“Karen!”

“It’s okay,” Dr. McNally said. “Often, people don’t like to admit to heart problems.” He smiled at his wife, who smiled back.

Evan Keeler finally relaxed. He was resigned. The painting was gone.

Evan Keeler left the restaurant and went back to the gallery with Karen’s key. He just wanted to stare at the painting for a while, be alone with it, say goodbye. Five children played on a fresh blacktop, a dirt road the color of plywood rising behind them, a lot on one side of the dusty way, a row of adobe dwellings on the other. The larger of the girls was wearing a bright yellow dress, a simple but beautiful dress, her black eyes looking away from the barefoot boy who talked to her. Two younger boys played catch, but their attention too was turned to the girl. The smaller girl wore a red, a blood-red dress, her dark hair falling over it in braids. She also watched the older girl. The little girl smiled the smile of Evan Keeler’s daughter. Light played off the dark hair and eyes of all the children. Their brown feet were powdered with dust. Wisps of clouds gathered far off in the robin’s-egg-blue sky over the hills. One who knew the desert might see the slow formation of a thunderhead. Evan Keeler loved the painting.

The road slipped by. He was all the way to Camel Rock when he decided he had to turn back. No sale, he would say, and take the picture home. The late afternoon was painting a new face on the land as shadows lengthened and a yellow-green cast was taken on. The light up there was different from the light way south where he lived. They got majestic sunsets up there and great packs of cumulus clouds appearing to flatten on a glass table overhead. But the sky up there did not wash pink with the coming of dusk. The sun up there did not hammer down in a way to remind you of the land, of its severity, its importance, its integrity. The sun up there let the Indians become lazy.

He still saw the painting. Maybe he would donate the painting to the medical clinic in Hachita or to the lobby of the bank in Mimbres where dusty children and good people could look at it or not, at least stroll past it and see themselves peripherally.

It was dark when he reached Taos the second time. There was a parade of jacked-up pickups and low-riders on the main drag, fog lights glaring, horns blowing, radios blasting, Mexicans madly cranking chain-link steering wheels no bigger around than their heads to come about in mid-traffic. Evan Keeler turned off the strip at the drive-in theater and circled the town on dirt roads, kicking up dust in the dark behind him. He found the gallery dark and locked.

He went to Karen’s house up in the hills east of town. He knocked, then pounded on the front door before circling around to the back. She was sitting in the hot tub with a handsome young man.

“I have to talk to you,” Evan Keeler said.

“Evan!”

“I’m sorry. I have to talk to you.” He stepped away, through the sliding glass door into the kitchen. He took a mug from the cupboard and filled it with water from the tap.

Karen followed him inside, slipping on a robe. “What’s this all about?”

“I don’t want to sell it.”

“It’s sold.”

“Back out.”

“They’ve got it, Evan.”

He fell into a chair and held his head in his hands.

“Evan, what is it?” she stood behind him and placed a hand on his neck.

The young man from the tub was wrapped in a towel and leaning in the doorway. He pushed his fingers through his hair.

“Nothing,” Evan Keeler said. “Nothing at all.” He got up and started out. “Sorry I bothered you.”

“Why don’t you stay here tonight?”

“Thanks, but no.”

Evan Keeler left Karen’s house with one thing on his mind. He found his way back to De la Peña’s. He sat at the bar and nursed a club soda while looking around the room. There were many attractive women wearing sundresses of bright colors and bold floral prints and sandals, swishing across the floor on tanned legs. There was a woman on the stool beside him complaining to a friend about her weight.

“Yes, I am,” the woman said. “I’m too heavy. I’ve got to drop at least twenty.”

“You look fine,” her friend said, not looking at her, sipping a highly decorated and large drink, staring at herself in the mirror behind the bar.

“I do not.” She turned to Evan Keeler. “What do you think?” she asked.

“What do I think about what?”

“Am I fat?”

He looked at her, leaned back to take her all in. He tossed a quick glance to the bartender, at the friend, then said, without looking at the woman, “Yes, but it looks good on you.

She said nothing, just sat staring at him.

“On some people fat looks good,” Evan Keeler said, looking her in the eye. “You wouldn’t look good thin. I’m an artist, I know these things.”

The woman turned to her friend and they huddled there as if in conference. He thought she might be crying; her back and fat sides heaved spasmodically. The women got up and left the bar. As he watched them pass through the door his eye caught the entrance of a dark-haired woman. Her eyes were big and brown and he was amazed at how clearly he could see them from his distance. She sat alone in a booth with a table which had not been cleared.

He went to her, his club soda in hand, and fell into the seat opposite her. “I want to tell you something,” he said.

She pushed back into the cushion of her seat.

He stopped a passing waitress. “Would you clear this table and bring this young lady anything she likes?”

“I’ll be with you in a second,” the waitress said and hurried away.

He saw that the young woman was frightened. “You remind me of my daughter,” he said. “She’s seventeen.”

“She looked around nervously.

“Look at me,” he said. She did and he did not smile. “You think that I want to take you somewhere and do something to you.”

She started to rise.

“Stay!”

She fell back, terrified.

“I can’t do anything to you. A couple of doctors are, right now, flying to Portland, Oregon, with my cock.” Slowly, a smile came over his face.

She tried to smile.

“Do you want to know the really scary part about all of this? I’m cold sober.” He paused. “There are men in here that will want to take advantage of you. Don’t let them use you. Don’t give it up. I know what it feels like.”

He stood and walked out, leaving her to think what she had to think, that he was crazy.

A Good Day for the Laughing Blow

Jake is four years old.

Cecile has no visitation privileges. I have sole custody of my son. Cecile told me once that she wanted very much to eat Jake, devour my son, and so the battle started. I instructed my attorney to get her on the stand and ask her if she thought babies were nutritious. After a puzzled look, he did ask her that question and she did supply an affirmative response; witches don’t lie, Cecile had informed me. I got the child and she got observation in the state mental facility. She has since been released and lives with another witch. Together, they are lesbians. Alone, I do not know. Though Cecile has no privileges, I allow her to come by once a month so that she may view Jake through a window. She drools.

I am replaying messages on my answering machine. There is my agent, who says he cannot sell anything until I write it. I find this a reasonable utterance; one of his few. There is my ex-wife, Cecile. She is calling because she has not been by this month. I will return her call. The plants outside Jake’s window are in need of watering.

Jake is in his room, playing with his little xylophone with the brightly colored slats, what I call his diminutive dinker. I like the xylophone. I get on the floor and play, too. Pretty soon I have both mallets and he is watching. I stop.

‘It’s time to eat,” I say.

“Are you going to cook?”

I nod.

He shakes his head.

“Would you rather go out?”

We are in the car. We are going out for pizza. I don’t feel any one way about pizza, but it will have mushrooms. My son is in his car-seat, which is slightly small for him and which has a little steering wheel affixed to it. And a horn. I do not use my horn. I don’t get upset. My son, though, pushes the horn and screams at the top of his lungs at the other cars. “Watch out, buddy! Hey, mac! What’re you doing?! Trying to take your half out the middle?!” He learned this from me back when I was emotional.

The pizza place is owned by Tony Viggiano. He knows us. We always get a medium with mushrooms. We used to get pepperoni, but pepperoni gives Jake gas. We don’t need pepperoni. Tony let me work in the kitchen one evening. I chopped pepperoni. I pretended it was my publisher’s penis.

The pizza eaten, we leave. At home, I tell Jake to prepare for bed. I call Cecile. We exchange polite but wonderfully empty inquiries as to each other’s well-being.

“Tomorrow is Saturday,” I tell her. “I was wondering if you’d like to come by and peer through a window.”

“I would like that.”

“How is Lilith?”

“She’s fine.”

“Are you happy? I know it’s none of my business, but—”

“There’s no need to explain, Grayson. I’m very happy. Very, very happy. Lilith is a much better lover than you ever were.”

Her saying this does not bother me. “Three o’clock.” I hang up.

Jake is in his bedroom, between the sheets. It is a warm night. I am sitting by his bed. He wants a story. I read him a chapter and he goes to sleep.

The morning comes. I am up and in the bathroom. I urinate. As I stand before the mirror, staring dull-eyed at my face, Jake stumbles in and adds his load to the toilet. He climbs onto the high stool next to me and stares dull-eyed at my face. I dispense shaving foam into my hand and then his. We rub it on our faces. I shave. So does Jake. I use an old double-edge. Jake uses the key from a sardine can.

“Don’t cut yourself,” I say.

He shakes his key clean in the sink.

Later, after some play in the park, we are home again and I am waiting for Cecile. Jake is playing in his room. She arrives at three. Lilith is with her. They are walking toward me in the front yard. They are a peculiar sight. Cecile is slim, five nine, beautiful. Lilith is short, very short, husky, not beautiful. Though Lilith shows signs of some sort of grace, her gait reminds me of a monkey’s, her long arms swinging, seeming to push through unseen branches.

“Hello, Grayson,” Cecile says.

“Hello, Cecile. Lilith.”

Lilith says nothing. She smiles.

They follow me around to the side of the house. “So, how have you both been?” There is no answer. I point to the window. “There you go.”

Jake is playing with his xylophone, closely attending to the sounds he’s making. Cecile smiles as she watches, ducking occasionally to avoid being seen. Lilith is smiling.

I am following them back to their car. Cecile reaches for Lilith’s hand. It looks as if she is walking a large ape. Lilith swings around to the driver’s side. Cecile stands before me and takes my hand. Her palm is sweaty. It is her sweat and her monkey’s sweat

“Take care,” I say.

“You, too,” she says. “Jake looks wonderful. He’s so big.”

“Yes.”

She gets into the car and they drive away. Her visit was about fifteen minutes too long. I make a note.

I go inside and to Jake’s room. He is pressing modeling clay through a plastic tube.

“Shall I prepare dinner?”

We are in the car. We are greeted warmly at Ming’s Mandarin House. They know us well.

We are eating. Jake is using chopsticks. He should use a spoon. He stops eating. “Was that Mommy outside my window?”

I hesitate. “Yes.” I have never told him that his mother wants to eat him.

“Does she love me?”

“I don’t know.” I pause. “Yes, she loves you.”

“Why didn’t she come in?”

“She’s shy and — and she doesn’t want to complicate your life.”

He doesn’t understand. He is silent.

“To tell the truth,” I say, “I don’t know why she doesn’t come in.”

He begins to eat again.

Later, in the car, on his way home, Jake turns to me in his car-seat. “I would like to see my mommy.”

“We’ll see.”

We arrive home. After some television, Jake turns in. I stay up and try to work.

I place my pencil aside. I have written no words. I am struggling with the idea of my ex-wife having an actual visit with my son. I do not know if it is a good idea. All of this is important, however. This is the first time he has expressed an interest in seeing his mother. I cannot tell him she wants to eat him. I could ignore the matter. Cecile must love Jake some. Therefore, she may only eat a portion of him; that will not do. I could ignore the matter. But an eye that refuses to see can still be put out.

It is just becoming light out. I am drifting in and out of sleep, in and out of a single-party discussion of the previous night’s subject. I am awake. I do morning things and man the kitchen to prepare French toast French toast is the only thing I make that Jake will eat. He comes in, sits at the table, takes fork in hand.

“F.T.” He bangs the table.

I slap a couple of slices on his plate.

“Butter,” he says.

I give him butter and syrup.

After breakfast, he looks at me, sleep still in his eyes, and says, “Good.” He leaves the room.

I pick up the phone and dial Cecile’s number. Lilith answers. She sounds like she has long arms. “May I speak to Cecile?”

“Grayson?”

“Yes.”

“Cecile is out jogging.”

“Have her call me when she returns.” Jogging, I think once off the phone, a polite way of saying she’s drooling over children in the park. I wash the dishes.

Jake comes to me.

“Is there anything I can do?”

“Watch cartoons.”

“It’s Sunday.”

“So?”

“I dunno.”

The phone rings. It is Cecile. She has returned from the park. “Can you come over later today? To visit Jake?”

“Yes, but—”

“Two o’clock.”

“Okay.”

I am looking at Jake. “Your mother is coming by to talk to you.”

He is confused. He goes out into the yard to play. I go through his room, gathering anything and everything with sharp edges.

It is almost two. It is very warm, but I’m putting a turtleneck sweater on Jake anyway.

“It’s too hot,” he says.

“Better too warm than too cool.”

He waits in his room. Cecile and Lilith arrive. Cecile is dressed very motherly; plain dress, flat sandals. Lilith is wearing a long-sleeved blouse.

I show Cecile to Jake’s room. I leave the door ajar and go to join Lilith in the living room. “How’s it been going?” I ask.

She tells me that things have been going fine, that Cecile has never been happier.

I tell her I do not doubt this.

We sit in silence.

Then I say, “Cecile tells me you may be moving.”

Lilith tells me they may be visiting Providence.

Silence.

I excuse myself and visit the hallway just outside Jake’s room. I can hear Cecile reading. A person cannot talk while devouring a child. I return to silent Lilith. Twenty minutes pass and Cecile is ready to leave. Jake remains in his room. I call to him. He answers. I see out the guests. Cecile is quiet. They leave.

Jake is at his window. when I enter. He knows I’m in the room. I sit on his bed. He turns to me.

“You want to talk?” I ask.

He looks out the window.

“Want to grab a pizza?”

We are in the car. People around us are driving like complete and utter fools, but Jake is quiet. His horn is silent. He gazes ahead.

We are in a booth with our pizza.

“She’s weird,” Jake says.

I say nothing.

“She made me feel funny.”

“What do you mean? Did she make you feel uncomfortable?”

He thinks. “Yes.”

“It’s okay, son. It’s okay to feel that way.”

“Do you think she’s weird?”

“Well, I know her a little better.”

He is silent.

“Do you want her to not come back?”

“I dunno.”

“You okay?”

He nods.

We finish eating and drive home.

Jake is in his bed. I have just put out his light and am about to leave his room. “Sure you’re okay? I mean, you can come sleep with me.”

“I’m okay.”

I get into bed myself. I am lying awake. I feel someone in my room, in my bed. I pull my son closer and cover him up.

It is Tuesday. I am pouring gas into the lawn mower. It is a dependable machine, an unfortunate feature for a lawn mower. I push around the house to the back yard. Jake trots past me toward the front. I am cutting the grass, stepping over waste from the neighbors’ dogs.

Jake is calling me I stop the mower. He is excited. Perhaps he has injured himself. I am running to the front yard. I am slipping on dog shit. I am on the ground. Jake is still calling. He is screaming now. I get to the front and see my son riding away in an old Volvo. It is all very loud Jake is screaming. I am shouting. The Volvo’s muffler is dragging along the street. Mr. Hicks’s collie and another dog are barking and snipping at the tires. I am running alongside the car. Cecile rolls up the window. I pound on it. Lilith is driving. Cecile has Jake in her lap. Jake is squirming and twisting and reaching to unlock the door. He is looking at me. He is afraid. His eyes are wet and wide. He is screaming, begging me to stop the car. Cecile is staring straight ahead. Her head is still. Only her hands are moving, busy holding Jake, restraining him. Mr. Hicks, who has been out watering his flowers, runs to the street as we approach and directs the spray of his hose onto the windshield of the Volvo. Lilith switches on the wipers and swerves slightly. I lose my balance, fall, and roll some distance. I am sitting in the street. I am wet and smelling of dog shit. My elbows are scraped and bleeding. I observe the license plate. I don’t know why; I know who they are.

Mr. Hicks is standing over me, hose in hand. “You okay, Grayson?”

I nod. Bloody, wet, and smelly, I run into my house and pick up the phone. “My son has been kidnapped,” I pant.

The police sergeant puts me on hold.

I hang up and call back. “My son has been kidnapped.”

“And just when did this happen?” He is very calm. And why not, his son has not been kidnapped.

“Just now. Just a minute ago.”

“Wait a second.” He, I imagine, has covered the phone with his hand and turned to someone. His removed voice says, “Really? How was she?” There is a response I cannot make out. “Okay,” he says, back on the line, “who snatched him?”

“His mother.”

“Hmmmm. Hang on.” Again to someone else, “I wouldn’t mind getting in there myself.”

“Hey!” I shout into the receiver.

“By his mother, huh?”

“Listen, I have sole legal custody.”

“She ask for money?”

“Are you talking to me?”

“Yeah,” he snaps. “Money? Ransom? She ask for ransom?”

“No.”

“Then it ain’t kidnapping.”

“Okay, she stole my son.”

“I’m sorry. She is his mother.”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning we can’t do much.”

“In case you didn’t hear me — I have sole legal custody. The operative word here is ‘legal.’”

“Like I said.”

“May I speak to someone else, your superior.”

“He’s just going to tell you the same thing.”

“Please.”

“Listen, buddy, there’s damn little we can do. I suggest you get a court injunction to keep her away from the kid.”

“She already has him.”

“Why don’t you steal him back? That’s what I would do.”

I hang up, go to my desk and search through my drawers. I find Cecile’s address.

The Volvo is not here. I am at the front door, looking inside, pressing the buzzer. No one answers. The door is unlocked. No one is here. In the bedroom, drawers have been left open, empty. There is the bed. This is where that awful apish woman kisses my wife.

I go out and sit in my car. It is very hot. I am bloody and smelly from dog shit. I recall Lilith mentioning Providence. The Volvo’s muffler was dragging the ground. The bus terminal.

The Volvo is here, muffler against asphalt and all. Inside the depot, I see them. They are at the lockers. I run up the stairs and weave through people toward them. I snatch Jake away and place him behind me. “How dare you,” I say.

Cecile and Lilith are startled. They recoil.

“How dare you.”

“Grayson,” says Cecile, her voice soft with a quality from the past.

“I don’t understand, Cecile.”

Lilith is upset. She runs toward me. She is on me and we are struggling. I push her away into the lockers. She runs into me again and we go over the railing. We are falling.

“Grayson!” screams Cecile.

She has called my name. Her ape and I are falling, but she has called my name.

We land on the vinyl couches and a fat man. My leg is injured, but I stand. Lilith is up too. Cecile is running with Jake down the stairs to us. I am looking at Lilith. I am laughing. I am laughing as I pull my fist and let fly a punch. It feels good to hit her. She falls.

I turn and pick up my son. Cecile is looking at me.

“Cecile,” I say. “Jake and I are a family. Please, leave us alone.”

My son and I are leaving, backing out of the terminal. Lilith starts forward, but a silent, staring Cecile pulls her back.

“Please, leave us alone,” I say.

We are in the car. “Get out of the way, you jerk!” I shout as someone blocks our access to the street.

Cry About a Nickel

Clouds hung like webs in the firs and a fine mist wet the air. Blackberry thickets sprawled wide and high, most of the berries withered past picking. Back home, on an autumn morning like this, we might be sharpening knives and boiling water to butcher a hog. But here I was in the wet Cascades. I pulled my pickup to the side of the road and got out. I looked down the steep slope at the Clackamas River tumbling at a good clip over and around rocks. I made my way down a path to the bank and found it littered with fishermen, shoulder to shoulder, casting lures and dragging them past a great many large fish just sitting in a pool as if parked in a lot. Being sincerely ignorant I figured I was running little risk of sounding so when I asked the man nearest me—

“What kind of fish are those?”

The man let his eyes find me slowly and his smile was a few beats behind. “Why, they’re steelhead.”

“They don’t seem to be very interested,” I said.

The man turned back to his line and said nothing.

I watched a bit longer, then climbed back to the road. In South Carolina fishing was done quietly, in private, for creatures hidden from view. At least a man could say, “Aw, there ain’t no fish here.” But this seemed like premeditated self-humiliation.

A boy at the house told me I’d find his father in one of the stables. I wandered into the near one didn’t see him, but I caught a mare nosing around her hock. I found a halter on a nail outside her stall and put it on her, tied her head up.

“What’re you doing there?” a man yelled at me.

“She was nosin’ around her hock and I saw it was capped and had ointment on it. I raised her head up so she wouldn’t burn her nose.”

“What do you know about capped hocks? Who are you?”

“Are you Mr. Davis?”

“Yeah. I’m waitin’”

“Name’s Cooper. I heard you had a job open.”

“What do you know about horses?”

“I know enough to tie a horse’s head up when I’m trying to blister her.”

“Where’re you from?”

“Carolina.”

“North?”

“No, the good one.”

Davis rubbed his jaw and studied the mare. “We don’t get many blacks around here.”

“The horse said the same thing.”

“Five hundred a month. Includes a two-room trailer and utilities.”

Davis had twenty-three horses, most pretty good, and a lot of land. He rented rides to hunters and to anybody who just wanted to get wet in the woods.

The first thing was to clean out the medicine chest. The box was full of all sorts of old salves and liniments and I just had to say aloud to myself, “Pathetic.”

Davis had stepped into the tack room without me noticing. “What’s pathetic?” he asked.

I sat there on the floor, thinking oh no, but I couldn’t back off. “All this stuff,” I said. “Better to have nothing than all this useless trash.”

He didn’t like this. “What’s wrong with it?”

I looked in the box. “Well, sir, I appreciate the fact that this thermometer is fairly clean, but better to have a roll of string in the chest than keep this crap-crusted one on all the time. This is ugly.”

“So, you’ve got a weak stomach.”

I shook my head. “You’ve got ointments in here twenty years old. Why don’t you grab the good stuff for me. Where’s the colic relief? You’ve got three bottles of Bluestone and they’re all empty.”

He didn’t look directly at me, just sort of flipped me a glance. “Fix it,” he said and left.

There were no crossties, so I had to set up some for grooming. I was currycombing a tall stallion when Davis’s son came into the stable.

“Hey, Joe,” the kid said.

“Charlie.”

“Mind if I help?”

I looked at the teenager. It was really a question. As a boy, I would have been required to work the place. “I don’t know,” I said. “Your father might think I’m not earning my pay. Don’t you have other chores?”

“No.”

I didn’t understand this at all. I looked around. “I tell you what. You comb out the hindquarters on Nib here and then dandy-brush his head. I’m gonna shovel out his stall real quick.”

The boy took the comb, stood behind the horse, and began stroking.

“No,” I said and I pulled him away. “Stand up here next to the shoulder, put your arm over his back, and do it like that. So, he won’t kick the tar out of you.”

Charlie laughed nervously and began working again. I shoveled at the stall and watched him. He was a nice boy. I couldn’t tell if he was bright or not, he was so nervous. I stopped and listened to the rain on the roof.

“Does it ever stop raining?” I asked.

“One day last year.”

I laughed, but he just stared at me. Then I thought he wasn’t joking. “You’re not saying—” Before I finished he was smiling.

“How’d you learn about horses?” he asked.

“Grew up with ’em. You don’t spend much time with the animals?”

“Not really.”

“People say that horses are stupid.” I fanned some hay out of my face. “And they’re right, you know. But at least it’s something you can count on.”

Then Davis showed up. “Charles.”

The boy snapped to attention away from the horse and, glancing at the currycomb in his hand, threw it down. “I asked Joe if I could help, Daddy.”

“Get in the house.”

The boy ran from the stable.

“He’s a good boy,” I said.

Davis picked up the comb and studied it. “I’d appreciate it if from now on you just sent him back to the house.”

“All right.” I leaned the pitchfork against the wall and moved to take the horse from the crossties. “He’s got a bunch of chores in there to take care of, does he? Homework and stuff?”

“Yeah.”

Davis looked around at the stable and at the horses, at the stallion in front of him. “The other stables look this good?”

“Gettin’ there.”

It was a fun-time job, all right, and I went to bed sore every night. Finally, I took a weekend off and drove the hour to Portland. I got a hotel room downtown on Saturday and tried to figure out what I was going to do all day. I went to the zoo and a movie, ate at a restaurant, watched bizarrely made-up kids at Pioneer Square, saw another movie, shot pool at a tavern, and went to bed. I dreamed about women. You work ranches and you talk about women and you talk about going to town to get yourself a woman, but you end up watching movies in dark rooms and shooting pool with men.

After a big breakfast at the hotel restaurant, I headed back to the ranch. The weather in Portland had been nice and, to my surprise, the sun was out all during my drive home. I parked by my trailer. Charlie was splitting wood over beside the house. Seeing him doing this made me feel good. I went inside and stowed my gear. There was a knock.

“Come,” I said.

Davis came in. He had a bottle with him and a couple of glasses. “How was your trip?”

“Oh, it was a trip.”

“Mind if I sit?”

I nodded that he was welcome and watched him fill the glasses. “You like bourbon?”

“You bet.”

“Here you go.” He handed the drink over.

I took it and sat with him at the table. He knocked his back and I followed suit He poured another round.

He cleared his throat and focused on me. He had already had a few. “You’re all right, Cooper.” He leaned back. “Naw, I mean it.” He sipped from his glass. “You want to hear how I lost my wife?”

I didn’t say anything. I just looked at him.

“Killed herself.”

I had a headache.

“Know what she died of?”

“A sudden?”

He frowned off my joke. “She took pills. She was an alcoholic and a diabetic and a Catholic. All three, any one of which is fatal alone.”

“I’m sorry,” I said.

He drank more. “They said she was manic, too.” He looked out the window at the sky which was growing overcast. “Charles is a good boy.”

“He’s quiet.”

“That’s my fault, I guess.”

“That’s not a problem.”

“He’s small, you know.”

I just looked at him.

“I don’t have a lot of patience. I don’t have a lot of friends either. I guess the two go together.”

“I reckon.”

“Tell me something, Cooper. What do you think of a man who can’t talk to his kid?”

I swirled my whiskey in the glass and held his eyes.

“I’ve got a temper. A bad one.”

I nodded.

“You want to hear what happened at Charlie’s school last year?”

“To tell the truth, no, I don’t.”

Davis pulled a pack of cigarettes from his shirt pocket and fumbled his way through lighting one, blew out a cloud of blue smoke and coughed. He stood and went to the window, watched as his son split wood. “Look at him. He could do that all day. He’s small, though.”

I polished off my drink.

“You think I’m crazy.”

I shook my head. “No, I don’t.”

“Well, I ain’t crazy. He ain’t right.” He was hot and I was beginning to think he was touched. “Don’t tell me how to run things!”

“Sure thing.”

I didn’t know what he was talking about.

He snatched up his bottle and walked out.

I fell on my bunk and looked at the ceiling. I wanted to pack up and leave, but I needed the job and I wasn’t the sort to leave a man in a lurch. He had a mare ready to drop and a couple of horses with thrush real bad. I didn’t like what I had seen in Davis’s eyes. He was slow-boiling and soon there wouldn’t be anything left to scorch but the pot.

I fixed some grits and scrambled eggs and sausages and sat down to dinner by myself. An evening rain came and went and I could see the fuzzy glow of the moon behind the clouds. I felt bad for little Charlie. Funny, I hadn’t thought of him as small before, but he was. I felt sorry for him and I didn’t know why. I wasn’t about to get involved, though. My mother had a number of hobbies, but raising fools wasn’t one of them.

A couple of days later, four fellows rented horses and went into the hills for elk. I knew when they rode out that all they were going to get up there was drunk. They didn’t deserve the weather that day. It was almost hot when they came back. I was trimming hooves. Charlie was in the stable with the pregnant mare.

“Woowee,” said one man, “what a day.”

“That was fun,” said another, groaning and trying to work a kink out of his back as he climbed down. “That was more fun than huntin’ coons.”

They all dismounted and I took the horses. They’d ridden the animals hard right up to the end and they were sweating like crazy.

I called Charlie over. “Take these horses out and walk ’em around, get ’em cool.” As he stepped away, I yelled for him to loosen the girths. His dad had let up a little and he was freer to hang about and help.

The men lined up along the fence and watched Charlie in the corral.

“Ain’t he pretty?” I heard one of the men say. I thought he was talking about a horse, but another spoke up.

“Hey, I heard about that locker-room business,” he said.

“Oh, this was the boy?”

“Yeah.”

I stepped out and saw that Charlie was ignoring them pretty good. They said a few more things and I got fed up, started toward them.

“Looks like we got the nigger riled,” one said.

I stopped at the crack of a rifle shot. Davis was out of his house and just yards from the corral.

“You boys paid?” Davis asked.

The leader, more or less, put his hands up and laughed a little. “Yeah, we paid.”

“Then get along.”

“Okay, Davis. We’ll get along. Nice boy you got there.” The man chuckled again. They got into their car and left.

Davis watched them roll away. “Charles,” he said. “Go on inside.”

I caught Davis by the arm. “Hey, just let him forget about it.”

He pulled away, didn’t even look at me.

I watched him disappear into the house. Things were becoming a little more clear. More reason to ignore it. My motto: Avoid shit.

It was raining real good when I came back from the grocery store. As I swept around the yard I saw Charlie standing by the tree behind the house. I parked at the trailer, got out of my truck, and went inside for lunch. I finished my coffee and shivered against the chill in the air. Outside, I found it warmer than in the trailer. I started to go check the horses when I noticed that Charlie was still standing by that tree. I went to him. At twenty yards l could see that he was tied to it.

“What’s the story?” I asked, looking around.

The boy just cried and I was pretty damn close to it myself. Rain dripped from his hair and ran down his face.

“Your father do this?” I was looking at the house, but I knew Charlie was nodding. “Why? Did he say why?” I was hesitant about untying him. I thought Davis had flipped and might be waiting at a window to blow my head off. I shouted as I reached for the rope. “Davis! I’m untying the boy! Okay!” I undid the knots and led the kid back to the house.

Davis was sitting in a chair in front of the fireplace. He looked really spaced out. “Hey, Davis, you all right?”

He said nothing.

“I brought Charlie inside here.”

“I heard you.” He leaned forward and poked at the burning logs. “He wouldn’t tell me who they were.”

“He’s a strong boy?’ I said.

“You could call it that.” He sat back again. “Earl Pryor has a mare ready, wants to breed her with Nib. Be over tomorrow.”

“I’ll have him ready. What time?”

“Said eight-thirty. Maybe I should have Charlie watch.”

“For the love of God, Davis, stop and think. Listen to yourself. Charlie’s a good kid who got beat up — think of it like that. It’s none of my business, but—”

Davis cut me off. He stood and faced me. “You’re right. It’s none of your business and you don’t know what the hell you’re talking about.”

“Charlie didn’t do anything.”

“Pack up, drifter.”

I looked at him for a second, but I’d heard him right. “Okay. Fine. But listen up, you’re gonna drive that boy away and for no good reason.”

But he wasn’t listening. He was at his desk. “I’m paying you for this month and next. Fair enough?”

I looked across the room at Charlie. He had settled on the sofa and was looking out the window. Davis waved the check in front of me. I wanted to tell him what he could do with his goddamn money, but I didn’t. I didn’t look at his face. I just took the check, went to the trailer, and started packing.

I kept waiting for a knock on the door; Charlie coming to say goodbye or Davis coming to tell me to have that stallion ready in the morning. But there was no knock. I climbed into my pickup and drove away.

Last Fair Deal

There were once two brothers. They shared a modest house where the older had lived with a wife. Bill did not miss his wife. She had planted a garden in the backyard. Dan, the younger brother, took over the garden when he moved in.

A mole lived in the garden, digging and disturbing. Dan hated what the mole did. He became obsessed with catching the pest.

Dan built many traps. He could not catch him. Dan thought to shove a hose into the dirt and flush him out, but that would only have damaged the plants. Finally, he put up a sign offering a reward to anyone killing the mole. He put the sign on the telephone pole in the corner.

One day, Bill looked out the kitchen window. He saw several neighbor kids, crouching or lying flat, silently watching the garden. They held BB guns and sling-shots at the ready. Bill watched for a while. Ever so often an eager boy would fire. This was followed by a pelting of the same spot by the others. They destroyed plants. They pumped up the rifles and re-loaded their slings and waited again.

Bill observed their faces. They were intent, anxious, solemn. He considered the boy who might fire the fatal shot. Conditions being what they were, there could be no accurate determination of the killer, but he considered the boy anyway. He would know he had fired the shot and he would feel excited, sad, a little confused, relieved. Bill had felt the same when, at that age, nine or ten, his uncle had shoved a knife in his hand and told him to kill a wild hog that the dogs held stretched out. “Stick him,” his uncle had said, and he looked at the pig, a dog at either end. He slit the animal’s throat, surprised at how sharp the knife was, feeling thrilled, honored to be allowed to do it, sickened. But after he had killed the hog there was a release, not only on his part, but on the part of the hog.

Dan had a girlfriend whose name was Alison. She was appalled when she learned of the reward. “I’m appalled,” she said. She marched out into the backyard and dismissed the hunters, told them to find something better to do.

Dan stepped out as the boys were leaving. “Where are you going?” he asked. He glanced at the garden. “Is he dead?”

“No,” said Alison. “I told them to go home.”

“I want that mole dead.” He looked more closely at the garden and saw the demolished plants. “What’s this?” He moved closer to the damage. “Go home!”

That evening, Bill and Dan were visited by their friend Robert. Dan got so worked up while telling Robert about the mole in the garden and his destruction that he was up and pacing and saying he must kill the pest tonight. Alison, who was there, was appalled, Dan said, “I’m going to get a flashlight and jacklight the son-of-a-bitch.”

“No,” Alison said.

“This will work,” Dan said.

Bill and Robert just looked at each other. They followed Alison who followed Dan who went into the backyard with a light and a hatchet.

Dan got down on his knees in the dirt, the light in his left hand, the hatchet held high in his right.

“Dan, would you just look at yourself?” Alison said.

“Go into the house,” Dan said.

Alison stormed away, slamming the back door.

Bill and Robert watched Dan in that position for many minutes. “I don’t think this is working,” Bill said.

Dan wiped perspiration from his forehead with his shirtsleeve as he lowered the weapon.

“What you need is a trap,” Robert said.

“Traps don’t work,” Dan said.

“My son has one that he caught a squirrel in,” Robert said.

Dan stood. “Really? A squirrel?”

“Yes. Would you like to borrow it?”

“Of course I’d like to borrow it. What are you, stupid?”

“We’ll bring it by.”

“Alison’s going to end up hating me,” Dan said.

“Why don’t you just forget the mole,” Bill said.

Dan looked at his brother as if he were crazy. “I can’t forget this animal, this plant-torturer.”

The following day, Robert came by with his son, Ward. Ward was eleven with very thick glasses that made his eyes look big. Ward held in his arms the trap. Bill could never look directly at Ward because of the way the boy’s eyes looked behind those lenses.

“Dan!” Bill called.

Dan came down the stairs, rubbing his hands together at the sight of the trap. He nodded a hello to Robert and looked at Ward. “So, let’s see the trap.”

The boy put the trap down on the floor and began to explain the workings to Dan. He pointed to the rectangular cage. “You put the food back here and when he hits that little wire, the door shuts and you’ve got him.”

“And we’ve got him,” Dan said. He took the trap and the boy into the kitchen to look for bait.

Alison came in through the front door. When she saw Robert she began to shake her head. “You didn’t bring that trap.”

Robert nodded.

She sighed loudly and walked into the kitchen.

Soon, they were all in the backyard. Ward was on the ground, setting the trap. Dan hovered over him. Alison paced.

“I don’t believe you people,” she said. She put her hands on her head. “Stop!”

Dan looked at her. “Calm down. It’s just a mole.”

“That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you.”

“Why don’t you go inside.” Dan looked at his brother. “We’ve set it for a light strike.”

Ward stood up and away from the trap. They went into the house and waited in silence. They ate cake and drank iced tea. Alison sat opposite Dan and just stared at him.

“What is your problem?” Dan finally asked.

“I don’t have a problem,” she said. “The mole has a problem. You have a problem. I don’t have a problem. Tell me why you want to kill that little creature, that poor little creature.”

“That poor little creature, is a vandal. That poor little creature eats better than we do. What about the poor plants he’s killing?”

Things again were silent and tense. Alison’s eyes were still fixed on Dan. He studied the tea in his glass.

Then it was time to check the trap. Dan and Ward led the way out back. There was indeed a small furry ball in the cage. Dan held up the trap and looked at the animal. “At last, we meet.”

“Oh, he’s so cute,” Alison said.

Dan frowned at her, stepped away with the cage.

“He is cute,” Bill said.

“So what?” Dan said. “Atilla the Hun was cute.” He paused, looked at the mole. “He’s cute, but he’s no Bonnie Jean Cox.”

“Who?” Alison asked.

“Never mind.”

“You can’t kill him,” said Alison. “They’re blind, you know.”

Robert answered his son’s question before it was uttered. “No, you may not have him.”

Dan reached into the cage and cautiously grabbed the furry thing. The mole did not bite. He pulled it out and held it in the palm of his hand. “He isn’t all that cute.”

“He likes you,” Alison said. “Awwww.”

“He’s pretty cute,” Bill said.

Ward stroked the mole’s back with a finger. “He’s neat.”

“I’m not going to fall for this stuff,” Dan said. “Tell you what, I’ll let fate decide. I’ll give him a chance.” He went into the house, the mole still in his hand.

“What’s he up to?” Alison asked.

Bill shrugged.

Dan returned from the house with a baseball bat. Standing with them again, he said, “Trial by ordeal.”

“No,” Alison said.

“I’m going to toss him and take a swing.”

“No,” she said.

“He’s never been any good at this,” Bill said.

He tossed the mole up. He planned to miss. He had every intention of setting the mole free, but he wanted this as a theatrical end to the whole affair. He wanted to fan the air in a statement for the power of chance.

It was a good swing. Dan watched his brother’s face. Bill wore the same expression as when they were teenagers and Dan had pointed a rifle in his direction while hog hunting. Bill had been standing on a dike studying signs when Dan came upon some piglets. The sow appeared behind Bill and chased him up the hill. Dan didn’t know what to do. He raised the gun and tried to draw a bead on the hog. Bill’s face was full of surprise and alarm when he saw the rifle, and he fell to the ground as Dan squeezed off the round. The sow was dead on his legs when Bill finally looked up. Dan was already trying to catch the piglets. “We’ve got to get them or they’ll starve.”

Alison screamed. Dan recoiled, almost hitting himself on the face with the bat, as wood meeting mole resulted in a dull thwack.

Bill stepped to his brother’s side and watched with him as the dark ball disappeared over the neighbor’s house. Dan let the bat fall at his feet. Alison ran into the house. Robert quietly led his son away.

Bill scratched his chin. “There you go.”

Hear That Long Train Moan

“The world perhaps was laid out initially with some sort of temporal consistency, but that was soon gone. Out the window. Maybe there never was any kind of consistency. One can certainly imagine creation coming to certain parts of the globe before others, like the telephone or cable. Look around. Jets stretch their exhaust plumes across the skies over thatch huts, people whose main staple is rice watch napalm disintegrate their jungles, some people beat out conversations on hollow logs while the strata above them is filled with microwave signals.” Virgil Boyd re-lit his pipe and sank into his chair. “That’s why,” he told his friend, “I’ve no problem with the period inconsistency within my model.”

Morrison Long sipped his gimlet. “I wasn’t finding fault, but making an observation. Let me ask you something, Virgil: Are you all right?”

“All right? Of course. Never better. Now that I’m retired I have time for my work.” He puffed at his pipe, but drew nothing. “Damn thing won’t stay lit.” Finding the box of matches on the table beside him empty, he patted his pockets and asked if Morrison had any. He did not and so Virgil called out, “Williston!”

An eight-year-old boy with a large head appeared at the study door. He stood erect and attended to his grandfather.

“Williston, be a good boy and find granddad some matches.”

The boy nodded and went away. Virgil Boyd watched him trot across the living room toward the kitchen, skipping over tracks in the foyer and before the hallway.

“The boy is a menace to my work,” Virgil Boyd said. “Doesn’t understand the seriousness of it all.”

“He’s a boy,” Morrison Long said.

“Nor do you appreciate what’s going on in this house.”

“Of course I do, Virgil. By the way, where is Frannie this evening?”

“I don’t know. And I care only to the extent that her absence has caused me to be left alone with that boy of hers.” Virgil Boyd went back to the door and looked. “He’s out there in the model now. Heaven knows what destruction he’s causing.” He looked at his cold pipe. “He’s not a bad boy. But he’s curious.”

“Not a bad thing for a boy to be.”

“Ha!”

“It’s an innocent fault.”

“Innocence will be the downfall of us all. Here he comes.” Virgil Boyd took the matches from Williston and sent him on. “I appreciate his curiosity, but there’s such a thing as discipline.”

Morrison Long stood and went to the empty fireplace to lean on the mantel and look at the moose’s head above. “Did your father really kill this animal?”

“So I was told. A crying shame, if you ask me.” Virgil Boyd got his pipe going, puffing clouds of blue smoke. “I’m sure he didn’t eat any of the beast. Killed for so-called sport. I keep it around as a reminder of crying shames.”

“Imagine the body that went with that head,” Morrison Long said.

“Do you really have to go back to Chicago so soon?”

“I’m afraid so. Unlike you, I still have work. Tell me, do you miss your practice?”

Virgil Boyd chewed the end of his pipe and considered the question. “No. I don’t miss the patients. They never wanted to be there anyway and saw clear of their own negligence to blame me for their pain and expense. I don’t miss being on my feet all day. I’m thankful, however. Dentistry was a good profession and it gave me the skills and patience I need for my detailed work now.”

“Well, it really is something,” Morrison Long’s eye followed the tracks which ran by his feet, across the hearth.

Virgil Boyd walked to the corner of the room where sprawled a replica of a small town with a central square, storefronts and houses with shrubs, trees and lawns.

“What town is that?” asked Morrison Long.

“Ashland, Kentucky.” Virgil Boyd walked to the town. “See, the oil refinery.” Flames sat atop stacks and little lights glowed on the rigging. “Some of the houses on this hill are my finest work. Such detail inside.”

“Let’s see.”

Virgil Boyd shook his head. “We mustn’t disturb the model.”

“Don’t you like to admire your work?”

“I do, but I can’t go around taking the roofs off of people’s houses.”

Morrison Long smiled. “Of course.”

Virgil went back to his chair and sat, took a deep draw on his pipe.

“Are you quite all right?” Morrison Long asked.

“I’m fine.”

“You were joking, weren’t you?”

Virgil Boyd just looked at his friend. “What do you mean?”

“I want to see in one of the houses.”

“No, I said.”

“Why not?”

“Would you want somebody taking the roof off your house and looking in?”

“I suppose not.”

“No, of course you wouldn’t. The model is very delicate. Everything is just so.”

Morrison Long looked at the sculpted hillsides in the corner beyond Ashland, at the tiny trees, at the gardens of the big house whose roof would not be removed.

“What are you thinking?” Virgil Boyd asked.

Morrison Long sat down. “Have you ever been to Ashland, Kentucky?”

“Yes.”

“The real one.”

“Yes.”

“I mean the one in Kentucky. The one the freeway goes through.”

“There’s no freeway through Ashland.”

Morrison Long’s left hand held his right in his lap. His fingers moved to his wrist and he toyed with his watchband. “Virgil,” he said, “do you know who lives in that big house?”

“Yes, of course I do.” Virgil Boyd adjusted himself in his chair and looked his friend in the eye. “Why do you ask?”

“Stop pulling my chain,” Morrison Long said.

“What do you mean?”

“Just stop it. This isn’t funny. Well, maybe it’s funny, but it’s gone too far. So, cut the act.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Viigil Boyd said. “Perhaps you haven’t paid close enough attention to the model. Come back down into the basement with me.” He led the way from the study and down the stairs. “I realize that there is an awful lot to take in, but you really must try.”

Morrison Long followed, saying nothing, looking again at the massive network of HO scale world around him. He looked at a town from America’s old West, a hog farm on its outskirts. He looked at glittering lights of modern Detroit in the far corner of the basement. “It’s more impressive each time I look at it.”

“I feel the same way.” Virgil Boyd took his seat behind the screen of the control terminal. “All the commands come from here.”

“The scheduling and all that.”

Virgil Boyd smiled. “Yes.”

“Perhaps you’ve spent too much time on your trains lately,” said Morrison Long.

“I wish it were only trains.”

“What do you mean?”

Virgil Boyd didn’t answer. He tapped away at the keyboard of his terminal. “I make it a habit to review the scheduling pretty frequently.” He leaned back and studied the screen. The smile faded.

“What is it?” Morrison Long asked.

“There’s something wrong. There is something very much wrong.” Virgil Boyd typed furiously, then put his hands together in his lap as he studied the screen. “That boy.”

“What has he done?” Morrison Long asked.

“He’s evil.”

“He’s a boy, Virgil. What has he done?”

Virgil Boyd worked again on the computer. “I can’t undo it. He screwed up the routing. I can’t stop it.”

“He’s just a boy. I mean, look at all of this stuff. Remember your youth. You’d die to play with this set-up.”

“Play?” Virgil Boyd shook his head. “This is not a toy. It’s not a game.” He turned away from the screen. “He’s evil.”

A train went smoking by.

“Just what is going to happen?” Morrison Long asked.

“Two trains are going to collide and it’s too late to stop them.”

“Too late?”

“They’ve passed the last switching stations.”

Morrison Long sighed. “Just shut the power off.”

“For everything?”

“If you have to.”

“Are you crazy?” Virgil Boyd stood and looked at Detroit. “Do you understand the ramifications of such an action?”

“Come on, Virgil, why don’t you come upstairs and have a drink? Relax.”

Virgil Boyd did not reply. He was to the stairs and moving up them to the first floor. Morrison Long followed. The pace was quickened through the foyer, hall, and kitchen, the leader muttering to himself.

“I’m really getting scared, Virgil,” Morrison Long said at the back door. He leaned against the jamb.

Virgil Boyd turned back to him. “Of course you’re scared. You should be scared. A terrible thing is going to happen.” With that he was off again, trotting through the garden. The yard was lighted by several lamps shining upward at the bases of trees.

Morrison Long ran after him. “Virgil,” he called, “this is crazy,” He stepped over tracks in the walk. He nearly ran into the back of his friend, who had come to a stop. “Virgil!” He grabbed the man and shook him.

“It’s going to happen there,” Virgil Boyd said, pointing to a trestle which crossed the goldfish pond. Colored lights shone under the water. “We’re going to watch it happen, and there’s nothing we can do.”

A train’s whistle sounded.

“Let’s just pick up one of the trains,” Morrison Long said.

“I can’t interfere like that. And besides, which one do I pick up? What is the criteria for such a decision?”

The second train cried.

Morrison Long said nothing, just watched the bridge.

“There is only so much I can do,” Virgil Boyd said. “It’s hard enough just to make this shit. You know what I mean, don’t you, Morrison?”

Thirty-Seven Just to Take a Fall

The announcer called again for the rider. Last call. The gate was opened, and the bull in chute eight was turned out. Luke Ellis did not care. So he had dropped thirty-seven bucks of entry fee. His mind wasn’t on the ride. Better to throw away the money than use it to pay for a spill. He was about to climb into his truck when he spotted Austin Muñoz trotting toward him.

“They turned out your beast,” Muñoz said. He turned to lean his butt against the truck while he caught his breath and lit a cigarette. “So, what’s with you?”

“Nothing.”

Muñoz looked in the bed of the truck at Luke’s saddle. “Bailing out?”

Luke opened the door and sat on the seat, his feet on the ground. “I’m sick of this two-bit stuff.” He took out a smoke of his own to light. He stared at the backs of the people in the stands.

“Is it Cindy?” Muñoz asked.

“Cindy who?”

“Oh, shit.” Muñoz looked at the sky. “You know, when a gal dumps me I just go out and get drunk and then it’s all right.”

“Yeah, that’s why you’re in the position you’re in today. A broken-down, bankrupt, lonely cowboy.”

“With a bum leg,” Muñoz said.

“With a bum leg.”

“So, where’re you goin’?”

“Thought I’d go up to Oregon. Visit my sister. Did I tell you she’s got a new baby?”

“Yeah.” Muñoz dropped his butt on the ground and pressed it out with his boot. “What did Cindy say?”

“Nothin’. Just that she was going out with some stud in Red River. Some damn dude Texan, I guess.”

“What do you suppose those Texies do over there when there ain’t no snow?”

“Got me?” Luke said.

Muñoz smiled “I drove through there on the fourth of July. Place was swarmin’ with those Texies. It took me damn near thirty minutes to drive through the shittin’ town. Hell, it’s only a couple hundred yards long.”

“What the hell was goin’ on?”

“All I could see was a bunch of Texas license plates were goin’ back and forth. That’s it. Except for the dudes sittin’ on them fold-out chairs watching the cars go by.”

Luke smiled.

“Seriously. Sitting on the edge of the road, watching cars go by. Enjoying it.”

“Jesus.” Luke shook his head. “People are weird.”

“Enjoying it,” Muñoz repeated.

“Yeah, well, nobody ever said Texans were smart.”

“Want to take a ride?”

“You mean, do I want to drive you someplace.”

“Questa.”

“That’ll take us through fuckin’ Red River. What’s in Questa?”

Muñoz spat and looked at the stands. “There ain’t nothing goin’ on here. Trust me, I’ll show you a good time.”

Luke listened to the announcer call for the team ropers. “Will there be women there?”

“What do you want me to say?”

“No.”

“No.”

“Get in, Moonie, let’s make tracks.”

Muñoz climbed into the passenger side. Luke wheeled the pickup around in the dusty lot and onto the road. The afternoon sun heated up the cab, and Muñoz drifted off to sleep. Luke turned west at Eagle Nest Lake and started toward the pass which led through Red River and to Questa. Luke reached over and gave Muñoz a shake.

“Moonie. Moonie,” he said.

Muñoz came to.

“I hate that,” Luke said. “Everytime you get in a car you go to fuckin’ sleep. Stay awake and keep me company.”

“Feelin’ lonely?” Muñoz pulled out his cigarettes. “You want to sing songs or something?” He lit up and blew out a cloud.

“I just want you awake to enjoy the ride through beautiful downtown Dead River.”

“Thank you.”

There had been little traffic, but from the hills above the ski town Luke and Muñoz could see all the cars. Down the hill and they were in it. Snailing behind a baby blue Bronco bearing a Texas plate and full of blonde women.

“Man, this shit in Questa had better be good.” Luke scanned the busy sidewalks and cars.

Muñoz watched him. “See her anywhere?”

“Huh?”

“Cindy. You see her yet?”

“Shut up.” Luke leaned back against the seat and stared at the women in the car ahead. “I just don’t understand her.”

“Of course you don’t.”

Luke sighed when they were through Red River without sight of Cindy. He drove on through the pass, looking often down at the river, thinking what he ought to be doing was fishing. Muñoz had drifted off to sleep again by the time they reached the Moly mine and were nearing Questa. Luke woke him up again.

“Where to?” Luke asked.

“Turn right like you’re going up to Cambresto Lake.”

Luke made the turn. “So, you’re goin’ to let me in on what we’re goin’ to?”

“Turn left up here. Just about there.”

There were a number of trucks parked about in no one particular way. Men were walking into and congregating about the wide doors of an old barn. The house that went with it was long ago abandoned, a corpse of a building just lying on the hill above.

Luke turned off the engine and looked around. “Moonie, this has all the earmarks of a cockfight. I don’t need this.”

“It’s not a cockfight. Shows how much you know.” Muñoz got out of the truck and pushed the door shut.

Luke got out. “So, what’s going on?”

“You’ll see.”

They walked toward the barn. As they passed a pickup, Luke caught in his eye the face of a dog. He stopped and gave her a rub behind the ears. He studied the hollow, intense eyes and began to feel unsettled.

“No, Moonie, I’m not goin’ in there. It’s a fuckin’ dogfight.”

“So?”

“So, I’m not goin.’”

“You ever been to one?”

Luke shook his head.

Muñoz grabbed him by the arm. “It’s something to see. Something to see that you’ve never seen.”

Luke let himself be dragged in. Men sat and stood around, some with dogs beside them in cages. All the dogs were silent, not a whimper, not a bark. The men barked, betting and ribbing and eager for the upcoming fight between a black pit bull and a brown-and-white one. The dogs stood in corners of a small corral, leaning toward the center, keeping their masters’ muscles tight against taut ropes. The men yelled in Spanish and English. The dogs just stared at each other, like it was their business, like boxers.

Muñoz pulled Luke to the corral. Luke was saying to himself that he didn’t want to see this, but he couldn’t pull himself away. What he wanted to do was run out and call the state police, but that would have only gotten him killed. Sick as it made him, as embarrassed as he felt because of it, in some way he wanted to see.

Then they let the dogs go. There was no stalking, no circling. The black dog ripped into the shoulder of the other, drew blood and bit again, moving sideways against the grip the brown-and-white had on his upper foreleg. The men shouted, more money changing hands. The masters yelled commands. Luke observed the different styles of fighting, the way the black dog sought to lessen the effect of the bite on his leg by moving into it. Then he heard the leg snap. The black dog yelped and for a second let off chewing at the wide hole he’d made in the brown-and-white. He let off for a second, and that was it. A charge turned him over, and the brown-and-white tore into his chest. The master of the black turned away in disgust. Luke was running out before he could see the heart of the animal exposed. He vomited outside between a pickup and a Pinto wagon.

He raised up to find the eyes of the dog he had petted earlier, still tied and standing in the bed of the truck. He went to the animal, and before he knew what he was doing, he had her untied. He scooped her up in his arms and carried her to his truck, put her in the cab.

“Hey”, somebody yelled, then ran into the barn.

Luke sped away, back to the road and through Questa, where he turned south and headed for Taos.

Luke wanted to kick himself. The owner of this dog would get the word somebody had taken off with his pooch, and the chase would be on. These people took this dog business seriously. He looked at the brindle pit bull, reached over and scratched it behind the ear. He could take the dog to the state police and tell them about the fighting, but his truck had been seen, so he would still be in trouble. The dog stared ahead through the windshield, not smart-looking, not stupid-looking, just there.

He stopped at a Texaco mini-market gas station. The dog sat quietly while he pumped five dollars of regular into the tank. He made kissing sounds and talked to the dog while he screwed on the cap. While he was inside paying the cashier he watched an over-sized Buick with Oklahoma plates pull up alongside the pumps just beyond the truck. The pit bull was out before the car had stopped good and the driver could open his door. There was a small collie in the car, and the pit bull wanted it. There was a little girl in the back with the collie and she was screaming, she was so frightened.

Luke ran out. The man held at bay behind the wheel glared at him. Luke found that he himself was afraid to reach for the dog’s collar to pull him away. The pit bull was not barking, but growling in a low rumble and leaping at the window, his jaws snapping, sounding like a big book being slammed shut.

The man looked at Luke. He realized now that the dog was with him. “Do something,” the man mouthed the words behind the rolled-up window.

Luke took the rope from the bed of the truck. He formed a loop and dropped it over the dog’s head. He gave a strong yank and jerked the dog off her feet. He climbed into his truck from the passenger side and slid over, pulling the dog in behind him. He held fast to the rope while he started the car. He took off, the passenger-side door swinging shut as he curved out onto the highway.

The Okie was out of his car and yelling at him. “What kind of idiot has a dog like that!”

Luke threw the rope at the dog’s face. “Christ,” he said. “I drag you away from a slaughter and—” He stopped. He’d taken the dog, he guessed, because he had failed to see anything vicious in her face. Now, he didn’t know what to think. “Bad dog!” he said. If the dog heard him, she wasn’t impressed. Luke began to wonder what he’d gotten himself into. What was he going to do with this dog? He couldn’t take it back to Questa: he’d return it and they’d beat the shit out of him. He couldn’t let it go in Taos: the damn thing would kill every dog in sight. And what if the asshole whose dog it was called the cops and reported it stolen, description of truck and thief included? No, the guy was dogfighting. He wouldn’t call the police. Would he?

Luke cursed the dog. Then he decided that this was all Cindy’s fault. He pulled into the parking lot behind the plaza and considered that. If Cindy hadn’t told him about the geek from Texas, then he wouldn’t have blown off his ride and ended up with Muñoz at a dogfight. So, here he was, thirty-seven dollars down the drain, a savage dog beside him and some crazy dogfighting banditos hot on his tail. All the fault of a woman. Cindy. She should have this dog.

He started the truck. Dusk was corning on. It would be late when he reached Red River. Especially since he had to go around the other way, through Angel Fire and back through Eagle Nest to avoid Questa and the boys.

It was late when he rolled down the mountain into Red River, and he was asking the same question then that he had been asking the whole way. “What the hell am I doing?” There was no place he knew to look for Cindy. Hell, he didn’t even know if they were in Red River. He had it in his mind to cruise up and down the single drag of town with an eye out for her. He was beginning to think that maybe he had taken a fall off that bull and dinged his head up pretty badly.

Up and down the road, the dog looking out the window at the car lights and store lights and people.

Luke studied the Texans, the dog, the night. He stopped the truck and led the roped dog behind the tavern where he tied her to the bumper of a shiny car. He walked back to his pickup, smiling at pretty, narrow-nosed, blonde women, climbed into his pickup, and drove away toward Oregon.

Esteban

The van had pulled off the road east of Flying Mountain and followed a faint, tire-rutted trail. It just sat there, dusty blue on the white flat. Nothing moved. There was no breeze. Cole Dixson parked his rig beside Winston Keeler’s.

“Anything?” he asked, taking his rifle from its rack.

Keeler continued to peer through the field glasses. “Nope.” He lowered them, reached into his jeep through the window, pulled out a shotgun.

“What do you think? Sleeping?”

Keeler looked at the sun, raked sweat from his forehead with his sleeve. “Doors are closed. Probably empty.” He spat tobacco juice. “I been here half an hour waiting for you and ain’t shit moved.”

“Let’s go.”

The men made their way cautiously toward the vehicle, moving away from each other as they drew nearer. Waves of heat rose from the ground and the van looked unreal in the haze. From about thirty yards it was clear to Cole that the front seats were empty. He fanned Keeler onto the rear. At the van, Keeler stood to the side of the rear door and pounded on it with the butt of his shotgun. Nothing. Cole nodded, widened his stance and raised his rifle. Keeler jerked open the door, took a quick glance, fell back a step.

Cole stepped closer. All four were dead, lying on the floor. One was a kid. “Jesus.”

Keeler pointed at a hibachi next to a wheel well. “Trying to hide and cook,” he said. “Dumbshits.”

The sun was beginning its downward slide. Cole parked in a diagonal space in front of the border patrol station in Henning. Keeler pulled in beside him. They went through the door, Keeler tossing an arm around Cole’s neck, saying, “You can’t let this stuff bug you.”

Vivian, the dispatcher, sat at her board. She leaned back and swiveled in her chair as they walked the length of the counter and around. A thin white hand pulled some of the platinum blonde hair from her face. “Pretty bad?” she asked.

Cole lit a cigarette and nodded, shook the match out, leaned against the inside of the counter. Keeler fell in behind a desk, tossed his hat on the rack behind him.

“Your brother called,” Vivian told Cole.

“Yeah?”

“Wants you to call him back.” She switched the air conditioner in the window beside her down to low. “How many?” she asked.

“Four,” Keeler said.

“One was a kid,” Cole said.

“He said it was important,” Vivian said.

Cole looked at her.

“Your brother.”

“He’s a goddamn lawyer. Everything’s important.”

Keeler laughed. “How’s it feel to be the black sheep of your family?”

Cole exhaled a cloud of blue smoke. “Funny.”

“What do your folks say, black black sheep?” Keeler laughed again.

Vivian shook her head. “Winston, you’re retarded.”

“That’s impossible, Viv,” Keeler said. “I ain’t never been tarded in the first place.”

“Where’s everybody?” Cole asked.

“Tuck’s ridin’ the corner.” Vivian glanced at her pad. “And Bernard, he’s out at Pancho Villa. A couple of campers say they got shot at.” The phone rang and she answered. “Puede hablar más despacio?” She switched the air conditioner off altogether. “Dónde?…Si…Si.” She hung up. “Somebody shot Bernard.”

Cole mashed his butt out. “Where is he?”

“The clinic in Mimbres.”

Keeler was up, hat in hand. “You got gas in your ride?”

“Yeah, let’s go.”

“You call me you hear,” Vivian said as they left.

Babies cried in the clinic waiting room. Cole and Keeler stood at the unmanned desk. Most of the patients were children. Latin parents were often superstitious about their own illnesses, but conscientious about seeking medical care for their young ones. Cole glanced about the room. Mothers looked away from his uniform. He knew some of them were illegals and they knew he knew. He’d seen most of them for a year or more and had known it.

“Hey!” Keeler shouted down the corridor.

A young woman came from a room and walked toward them. “Que le ocurre?” She tugged at her nurse’s whites.

“I’ll tell you what the trouble is,” Keeler said. “We’ve got a friend here and we want to see him.”

“What’s his name?”

“He was wearing a uniform like ours!” Keeler said.

“Bernard Walker,” said Cole.

The woman didn’t answer, pretended to look through papers on her desk.

Cole and Keeler exchanged glances. Cole tapped on the papers in front of her. “Walker.” He studied her eyes. “Es grave?”

She laughed. She gestured for them to follow her down the hallway. They did. In an examination room they found Bernard, flat on his stomach on a table, his gray beard pressed into a pillow with a paper slip. There was a white towel draped over his rear.

“What the fuck happened to you?” Keeler asked.

“Son of a bitch shot me in the ass.”

Cole pulled up a corner of the towel and peeked.

“Get away from there now,” Bernard said.

“You don’t look very shot.” Cole let the towel down.

“Damn pea-shooter twenty-two.” He scratched his beard on the pillow.

Cole stepped back and looked at the prone figure. “You’re not a very long person, are you?”

“Who was it?” Keeler asked. He was at the window, peering out at the dusty alley through drawn blinds.

“It was a kid.”

The doctor came into the room. “Somebody shot your friend in the ass,” he said.

“So we see,” said Cole. “How is he?”

“I don’t know. How was he before?”

“Comedian,” Bernard said.

“The bullet didn’t penetrate very far. It almost bounced off.”

“It hurts like hell.”

“You’re just embarrassed,” Cole said.

“Am not.”

“Butt-wound Bernard,” sang Keeler.

“Cut that out.”

“That’s a good name for you. Butt-wound.”

“Stop it before it sticks.”

“Lie still,” Cole said. “You might shake something loose. You get a good look at the kid?”

‘“You get a good look at the kid?”’ Bernard repeated. “Hell no. Look at where he shot me. I got eyes in the back of my head?”

“I thought you might have been running away or something.”

“You know, I won’t always be stretched out on this table.”

Cole turned to the doctor. “When can he leave?”

“He can get up now.’ Then to Bernard, “Change the bandages a few times a day.”

“Okay, doc.”

Keeler left the window. On his way by he slapped Bernard through the towel. “Let’s roll, butt-wound.”

“Fuck! Keeler, I swear—”

“We’ll be waiting outside,” Cole said. “Where’s your rig?”

“Out on the road.”

In the waiting room, Cole stopped to call Vivian. Keeler went on outside.

“Border patrol,” Vivian answered.

“It’s me, Viv, Cole. Bernard’s okay.’

“What happened?”

“Bernard’ll tell you about it. You go on home. See you tomorrow.”

He stepped out onto the street. With the coming night a cool breeze was starting up. He found Keeler slipping on his jacket. Cole lit a cigarette.

“You oughta give that shit up.”

“I know.”

“I’ll give ol’ Bernard a ride home,” Keeler said.

“All right.”

“What’s eatin’ you?”

“I gotta call my brother.”

“Why don’t you two get along?” Keeler asked.

Cole fell in behind the wheel of his jeep. “It’s not just him, it’s the whole damn family. They way they stay on me you’d think we were related or something.” He cranked the engine.

Keeler laughed. “See you tomorrow.”

The freshly resurfaced Highway 9 split the desert, which lay poorly lighted by a waxing crescent moon sitting low in the west. All the pink of dusk was gone. Cole looked at the sky, found the pole star, then Cassiopeia. It had been a long day and, like the moon, he wanted to follow the sun into hiding. The mild nature of Bernard’s wound had made the immediate business of the matter light, but the fact remained that he had been shot. That was bad. And the van was strange. Something didn’t sit right with him. He recalled the scene, the bodies, no identification for any of them, the hibachi. The van’s tags were from Texas and were hot, didn’t match the van. The men were Mexican. So what? That didn’t make them illegal. He tried to recall everything. There was a sack of jerky and bread, but nothing to cook. Why the hibachi? To keep warm? Why was the grill on it? And the way the bodies were lying about. It was like they knew they were dying, yet no one kicked over the fire. Cole didn’t like it.

The tail-draft of a speeding semi rocked Cole’s rig. He swayed in his seat. He sat erect as he spotted a figure scurrying across the road and through his headlamps’ beams. A glimpse of legs. A glimmer like that of metal. He swung the jeep off the road and across the flat. His lights found the small form, a boy, still running. The boy darted quickly to the left and Cole turned the wheel crisply to stay with him, but he was gone. Cole circled tightly, letting his high beams illuminate the desert floor. There was no place to hide, but the boy was gone. Cole stopped and searched with a hand-held spotlight. A chilly wind kicked up and blew sand through the light.

The next morning Cole entered the station to find Bernard standing at his desk.

“You’re in early,” Bernard said.

“What are you doin’ here?” Cole asked.

“A little bullet can’t keep me home.”

“Viv ain’t come in yet,” Bernard said. “State police called. They want your report on that van soon as possible.”

“What’d they say?”

“I guess one of the dead guys was a local.”

“Huh.”

“What is it?”

Cole pulled out a cigarette. “I knew something was funny out there.” He lit up. “How big was the kid that shot you?”

“Hmmm.” Bernard studied the top of his desk. “I can’t really say. I was rollin’ on the ground when I saw him.”

Cole sat at his desk.

“Why?”

“I chased a kid with a rifle across the desert last night. I lost him.”

“How big?”

“Twelve, maybe.”

“Could have been him.”

Cole picked up the phone and dialed the number of the state police. He was put through to a lieutenant.

“…and that’s all we found.” Cole told him the story. “It was weird about the stove and nothing to cook and all. And there was something else.”

“What’s that?”

“There weren’t any tracks. I mean, no tracks at all. Not even the van’s.”

“Okay. Thanks.”

“I was told one of the dead was a local.”

“The kid. He lived over in Hachita. One of our men recognized him. His mother says his younger brother is missing, too. The two left on horseback day before yesterday to camp and hunt. Esteban Hireles.”

“Well, I’ll keep an eye out.” He hung up, leaned back and looked out at the street.

Vivian came in, her hair not unlike the sun pouring through the window. She put her lunch in the small refrigerator and her bag in the bottom drawer of the file cabinet.

“Hey, Viv,” Cole said.

“Cole.”

Bernard came out of the men’s room.

“I thought you were shot,” the woman said.

“I was.”

“Where?”

“Norm of Mimbres.”

“No. Where on your body?”

“Look at the way he’s walkin,”’ Cole said.

A big grin came over Vivian’s face. “You got shot in your fanny?” She laughed.

“Christ,” muttered Bernard and he tried to go about his work.

“Keeler’s callin’ him Butt-wound Bernard,” Cole said.

“I like that,” she said. “Butt-wound.”

Bernard ignored her.

Cole stood and put on his hat. “I’m gonna go out and ride the corner. Tell Keeler for me.”

“Will do,” Vivian said.

Cole went west and south and patrolled the area where the border of New Mexico made a ninety-degree turn down into old Mexico. Then he went north, up to where the van had been.

Someplace out in the desert was Esteban Hireles, lost, tired, afraid. Cole figured that he must have seen what happened to his brother. The boy must have seen all four killed and probably who did the killing. It crossed Cole’s mind that he might not be the only one looking for the kid.

Most of the morning was gone and the day was growing hot. He stood near where the van had been and looked around. He spotted a place far off that seemed green. He got into his jeep and drove to it. It was a little water hole. In a wash nearby he found the tracks of horses. They were partially blown over and certainly didn’t lead anywhere, but he knew that both boys had been there.

He drove back to the road. The place where he had seen the boy the previous night was not far from where Bernard had been shot. There were rocks near there, places to hide, and a couple of water holes. He gulped water from his canteen.

Cole drove off Route 9 over the desert. He would check the water holes and look for signs. He found one, two, and at the third he discovered a small mound of human feces. From where he stood he could see two big gatherings of rocks. He took his canteen, but left his rifle.

It was about 105, 110 degrees. The afternoon sun was beginning to slow Cole. Not much was moving out there, except a couple of Gila woodpeckers flapping by on their black-and-white-striped wings. Cole climbed up into the rocks, scaring a few rock squirrels from the shade. He reached into a crack without looking. He felt the rope of a body before it struck, but he couldn’t pull back in time. The rattler hooked in and he sent the snake flying with the whipping of his hand. He fell. It was a bad spill. He believed his leg to be broken. He couldn’t walk, so he had to cut and suck the bite. He crawled into some shade and drank some water, tried to stay calm, slow his heart. He cursed himself for being so careless, stupid.

Cole woke up to the pink-washed sunset sky. He was cold, he thought. Then he remembered the bite and figured he was having chills. He’d have to work his way back to the jeep. A bat’s wings whispered through the darkening sky. He tried to stand but fell back down. He scooted down some of the rocks on his butt. He smelled the thin fragrance of burning mesquite. He stood on one leg and hobbled across the rocks. There was the fire. There was the boy. He really needed the boy now. There was no way he could sneak down without spooking the kid. So he rolled himself down the rocks toward the fire.

He rolled through the flames, scattering burning twigs, and onto the boy’s rifle. He slapped the flame out with his trouser leg as he raised the rifle and leveled it at the boy, who was now on his feet.

“No se mueva,” Cole said.

The boy froze.

“Esteban Hireles?”

The boy said nothing, but did respond to his name.

“No se preocupe. I’m here to help.” He laughed at himself. That puzzled the boy and he leaned to move away. “Stay!” Cole said firmly. “Habla usted inglés?”

The boy nodded.

“Esteban, listen to me. A snake bit me on my hand.” He held his hand up for the boy to see. “I need a doctor. Sit down.”

Esteban sat.

“Where is your brother? Dónde…”

“Dead. They killed him.” Esteban’s voice was thin and he was trying to keep it under control. His chest rose and fell with his breathing.

“Lo siento. White men?”

“Si.”

“Look at me, Esteban. Am I a white man?”

He shook his head.

“You can trust me. I want to get the men who killed your brother.” A pain ran through his leg and he grabbed at it.

“Dónde le duele?” Esteban asked where it hurt.

“My leg. No puedo over el pierna., I need a doctor. Listen, kid, I’m about to slip under any second now. Puedo usted un médico?”

Esteban nodded slowly.

A cool wind blew through the camp. It was darker now.

“Hayviento,” Cole said, shivering, holding his arm tight to his body and clutching his shirt.

Esteban tossed him a blanket.

“Me llamo, Cole.” He passed the rifle butt-first to the boy. “My jeep is near the water hole. Just press the button and talk. Please.”

The boy held the rifle and said nothing.

Cole closed his eyes, felt consciousness slipping away.

“Lo siento,” he heard the whispered words of the boy.

Turtle

The boards of the house were gray like those of so many old barns. The overhang of the front porch was supported in part, if not whole by two four-by-fours which stood out because of their light brown freshness. The house sat off the ground on pillars of chipped brick. Chickens walked around under there.

A dark man sat on the porch, his complexion highlighted by his white tractor cap. The cap was crisp and new. His name was Bubba Johnson. He scratched at his cheek while he watched me approach.

“How’s it going, Bubba?” I asked.

“Okay, Dan. How you doin’?”

“Just fine.”

He started to pull himself from his rocker. “Let me get you a chair.”

“Stay there,” I said. “I’ll just sit right here.” I sat on the porch with my feet riding down the steps. “Your corn is looking real good.”

“Yeah, but it got cockaburrs in it. Been out there most of the day. On my knees.”

“Is that your soybeans back that way?”

“No, that’s Theodore Cheesboro’s.”

“I didn’t think your property went that far.”

“Well, that ain’t his property neither,” he laughed. “I don’t know whose it is. Probably belong to some white fella in Rock Hill. But it ain’t Theodore’s.”

I pulled a pack of cigarettes from my shirt pocket and shook one high. I pulled it out with my mouth, tilted the pack toward Bubba.

He shook his head.

“Smart,” I said. I struck a match on the cinderblock step and lit up. “I read where they closed one of the mills. The one where you work?”

“‘Fraid so.” He was momentarily silent. “I might go work at Industrial. I been there already for a physical.” He looked out over the corn. “They closed her up, all right.”

“You like turtle?” I asked.

“Turtle meat?”

“I killed one last week. Cut him up and froze him. I was thinking I’d fry some up tonight.”

“I love turtle.”

“Come on over.”

“I will.”

He wiped perspiration from his forehead with the back of his hand. “It’s a hot one, ain’t it?”

“Sure is,” I said, “but it seems to be cooling off a bit.”

“Yeah, it’s gonna rain. We need it, too.”

I tossed my half-smoked cigarette out into the yard.

“Wanna see some babies?” he asked.

I looked at him.

“Pigs. Wanna see some baby pigs?”

“Sure.”

Bubba was shoeless. He started down the steps past me.

“You want your boots?” I asked.

“Don’t need’ em.”

We walked around the house. We passed his tractor parked out back.

“I hear you got yourself a tractor?’ he said.

“Yep. It’s a ‘49. Needs some work.”

“A Ford?”

“Right.”

“I believe I know the model. Good machine if you get her running.”

The pigs began to squeal loudly.

“I wonder what all that’s about,” he said and we walked faster down the hill toward the pens.

Closer, I could see the little pigs bunching up against their outstretched mother and just outside the pen a lone little pig trying to get back in.

“So, that’s what the commotion is,” Bubba said. “Why don’t you grab him, Dan, and stick him back in there. I’m barefoot.”

I walked around the pen and chased the little guy until I cornered him against the side of the feed shed. I grabbed him by his back legs and tossed him over the wire.

“There you go,” said Bubba.

“How many you got?” I slapped my hands clean on my jeans.

“Ten. You think you might wanna try some pigs?”

“Raising ’em?”

“Yeah.”

“I’ll try anything. Maybe.”

He laughed.

He turned and headed back to the house. I followed. We walked past a large uprooted tree. I stopped to look.

“Storm did that,” he said.

“Damn. When was that?”

“That big one, about a month or so ago.”

“Hunh.”

“Well, that tree didn’t have real deep roots, no way. See.” He pointed.

“Still, it’s a big tree. Must have been some wind. You’re lucky it fell that way.”

“You heard the story about the slave woman and the bad storm?”

“No.”

“They say there was this slave woman who was real scared of thunder and lightning and every time a storm would brew up she’d run up to the white people’s house. Well, this real bad storm come up and she went running up there. She had to stay in the kitchen and back then, you know, the kitchen was sometimes sorta off the house, just sorta attached. Well, this big wind come up and picked up the kitchen and carried it down the road and the slave woman got kilt.”

“Some wind,” I said.

“Yeah. If she had stayed home and not gone runnin’ to them white folks, she’d have been all right.”

A flash of lightning turned both our heads south.

“Bad-looking cloud,” I said.

“It don’t look real friendly.”

We walked on down the dirt drive to my car. A skyrocket split the darkening sky.

“You’d think people would stop selling those damn things,” I said.

“People ain’t got good sense. Fella told me, this fella works at the fireworks place, he told me that people come in there and spend thirty, forty dollars.”

“Phew.”

“I saw a burnt spot in the field cross the highway down that way.” He pointed. “I bet it was some fireworks which done it. Dangerous.”

“I hear you.” I opened my car door. “See you tonight.”

“Probably after the storm.”

The storm was short-lived. I dropped some shortening into the skillet and watched it slide around and melt. Bubba’s truck came roaring up. He needed a muffler.

“Come on in!” I shouted. “Back here in the kitchen. Where the big wind can get us.”

He laughed, hung his cap on a nail. He had a bottle with him. He set it on the table, then pulled a chair around and sat in it backwards, straddling it.

“That ain’t Scotch,” I said, pointing to his bottle.

“Sure ain’t. This here is white liquor. The last batch I ever made.”

“When was that?”

“Fifteen years ago.” He rubbed his face. “Got some glasses?”

I pulled a couple of glasses down and put them on the table.

“You can’t even taste this stuff till it goes down,” he said.

“Where was this still?” I asked, dropping the first pieces of turtle into the pan.

“I used to keep ’em near runnin’ water.”

“Like the branch near the old canal?” I asked. “Down below Old Tuck’s place?”

“Yeah.” He gave me a baffled look.

“I found one of your stills once. Well, the vat. I pissed in it.”

“Good for it,” he said and laughed.

“If you say so.”

“I’ll tell you when I stopped drinkin’ that stuff.”

“When was that?”

“One time it snowed and I went to check on things. I used to keep the vat low to the ground. Course, you know that.”

I laughed.

“Well, I went down there and found rats digging round it. Got rid of the rats and went back two days later and found an ol’ pilot in there.”

“One of those gray snakes?”

“Yeah. Drunk and dead.” He frowned. “That son of a bitch. They tell me that was the best batch I ever made.” He rubbed his jaw. “Drunk and dead. I held that son of a bitch up and let it drip off of him. I wasn’t wastin’ a drop.”

I turned the meat. “Think you might be able to drop by and feed my dogs tomorrow and the next day?”

“No problem. Where are you goin’?”

“Atlanta.”

“Long drive,” he said.

“I suppose.”

“You ought take some workin’ medicine before you go.”

“Excuse me?”

“You ought a take something that’ll work you.”

“Are you talking about a laxative?”

“A long trip like that’ll throw your system off. Best to clean yourself out before you go.”

“I’ll pass.”

Bubba poured the shine and handed me a glass.

“Whoa,” I said and blew out a breath. “That’s something right there.”

“Good, ain’t it?”

“You didn’t tell me why you stopped making this stuff?” My eyes were tearing.

“I was scared of getting caught.”

“I don’t blame you.”

“For a while I had Ol’ Tuck’s boy helpin’ me. Making it for me.”

“Which one?” I asked.

“The real big one, Leroy.”

“I don’t remember him.”

“He was jimmy-jawed. He jumped the broom with Sarah Willis. That Sarah was a pretty thing, like a speckled pup, but she let herself go.”

“So, he gave you a hand.”

“Yeah, but I let him go. He was trying to stretch the bucks.”

“What?”

“The bucks is the last of a batch, real weak. If you mix it with the first jugs you can use it, but Leroy was keeping the first and mixin’ the bucks with the middle. Weak stuff.”

I pulled the first pieces of turtle out and dropped them on some paper towels.

“You wanna help me slaughter a hog?”

“When?” I asked.

“Saturday.”

“I’ll help you.”

“Good, we’ll hang him up then.”

“I kind of like pigs,” I said. “They seem real smart. Not like sheep. Sheep are stupid.”

“Well, maybe not stupid,” he said. “What they used to say about sheep was that they’re humble. Back in Bible times.”

I attended to the turtle frying.

“My papa killed a sheep once. He said once was enough. He said he cut its throat and it screamed and didn’t take its eyes off him. He said that sheep just looked at him till he died. Liked to made him cry.”

“They do have sweet faces.”

“Humble,” he said.

“Humble.”

We sat at the table and took our first bites. He looked up at me.

“Damn good turtle,” he said.

The Bear as Symbol

Dust settled around the pickup which had just skidded to a halt in front of Judd Carlton’s garage. Old Mitch Biter looked up from his perch, fanned at the settling particles, coughed a bit, and spat. Darnell Aimes climbed out of the cab and limped toward the men at the open garage door. He pointed west at the yellow-orange sky and said, “See that?”

Mitch Biter spat again and mumbled, “Sun sets every day.”

Darnell turned to observe his truck. “Can’t that baby move,” he said.

“Sure does move,” said Mitch.

Judd nodded, scratched at his mop of gray hair.

“Got me a 351 Cleveland V-8 in that boy.”

The men had heard it all before.

“Jamie put it in there,” Darnell said and he fell silent.

“Shame about Jamie,” mumbled Mitch.

Darnell nodded. His son Jamie had died years earlier when the brakes of his semi failed on a stretch of mountain freeway in Idaho. He shook it off and turned to Judd. “You got a headlight switch for me?”

“Came in today.” Judd stepped away into the garage and returned with the part. “Three bucks.”

Darnell paid him and left, drove toward the colors in the sky which he liked so much. He whipped up the hill to his tiny house and spun the truck in tight circles, making doughnuts. “I’m strip-mining,” he shouted, then went into the house. He found his sister Clomer sitting in front of the television in the front room. He didn’t say anything to her, he just grabbed his.357 Magnum from the mantel and stepped out onto the porch where he sat on his rocker. The rocker was worn and squeaked a little when he moved it with a steady rhythm back and forth. His pistol was in his lap. Dusk turned slowly dark. He spent most of his hours in this position. On occasion he would fire at people who wandered into his vision. Then a sheriff’s deputy would reluctantly come to call.

“They want to take my land from me,” Darnell would tell the deputy.

“And who’s they?” the deputy would ask.

Darnell would look at him like he was stupid and reply, “Why, the homosexuals.”

The deputy would hold out his hand and ask for the gun which would lead Darnell to leveling the barrel at him and pulling back the hammer. The deputy would then leave.

Darnell had never seen what he called a homosexual. Old man Wooster down the hill fancied boys all his life, but he “weren’t no homosexual, he were just funny. Harmless.” But homosexuals were not harmless. “They’re out to ruin this country. They’re after my land.” Jamie had on several occasions tried to explain to his father that old man Wooster was indeed a homosexual, but Darnell wouldn’t hear it. Jamie told him what Wooster did with certain other men. Darnell said, “Hell, Jamie, I know that. What fool don’t know that? But that don’t make old Wooster no homosexual.”

His sister Clomer lived with him. Clomer had been married to Ricky Tellsy who had been more or less the town drunk of Coy, Arkansas. Ricky had been, up to the time of his death, the most educated person in town, having obtained a master’s and gone halfway through a doctoral program in sociology. “Just attempting to isolate and define a few parameters,” he would say and stagger on past people in the street. “Ain’t he just about the smartest drunk you’d ever want to meet?” folks would say. They encouraged their children to spend time with him.

Ricky died and Clomer was forced to retire from her job at the county utility company. That’s when she went to live with Darnell on his six acres just west of town. Most nights she’d watch television while Darnell rocked and watched the sun sink behind the hills.

Morning came and Darnell pulled his legs out of bed. He sat facing the window and the trees outside. He put on his trousers and boots and went to the kitchen. He sat down to a breakfast of Clomer’s doing.

“I can’t eat these sausages,” Darnell said, pushing a link across his plate with his fork.

“Why not?” asked Clomer.

“Look at ’em.”

Clomer leaned forward and examined the meat. She was damn near blind, legally she was, but Darnell wouldn’t understand this. If she wasn’t walking into walls, she wasn’t blind.

“Squintin’ up like that won’t help you see nothing,” he said. “This meat ain’t cooked thoroughly.”

“I cooked it for a good long time, Darnell.”

“High heat or low heat?”

Clomer fell back into her chair and sipped her coffee. “There was a flame. That’s all I know.”

He pushed his plate to the center of the table.

“Ricky wouldn’t eat pig neither,” Clomer said. “Said it wasn’t healthy. Used to say — I can hear him—’Religious restrictions on the diets of middle eastern peoples were founded in legitimate considerations of health.’ Damn, that man could talk.”

Darnell frowned. “Often, I thought Ricky was one of them homosexuals. But when he married you I knew he was only stupid.” He stood and started away.

“Where are you going?” Clomer asked.

“I’m going to sit guard for awhile.” He stopped and turned to her. “When you’ve a mind to, cast an eye out back.”

“What am I looking for?”

“Anything that ain’t a tree or a chicken.” He went into the front room and took his pistol from the mantel. On the porch, he sat and rocked and stared off into the woods and down the dirt drive. He looked for a while at his pickup, recalling the first time he’d driven it after Jamie dropped in that souped-up engine. It had been parked at Judd Carlton’s garage. He had barely touched the gas and truck kicked out like a shot. Shame about Judd’s dog. “Can’t that baby move,” he muttered.

After some time, Clomer was at the screen door. “Darnell, something fuzzy out back.” He didn’t look at her and she went on. “Too tall for a chicken. Trees don’t move.”

He pulled himself up. “Then I guess I’d best come have a look.”

“I wish you would.”

“Weren’t no person now?”

“Awful fuzzy.”

They walked through the house and into the kitchen. Darnell stood, looking through the screen of the back door while Clomer screwed up her face and peered out the window over the sink. A couple of hens dashed across the yard. “Somethin’s got the gals nervous, all right,” Darnell said. He flipped open the chamber of his revolver, observed the shells, slammed it shut.

“There it is,” said Clomer.

And there it was, stepping from behind the shed, a black bear four feet high. Darnell cocked his weapon. “It’s a bear, Clomer.”

“Oh yeah,” she said as if the knowledge had helped her to see more clearly. “You gonna shoot him?”

He let the hammer forward to rest. “I can’t shoot him, Clomer. He’s a sign.” He turned away from the door. “I’ve got to wrassle him, knife-fight him.”

“With all due respect,” said Clomer, “that don’t sound like the swiftest of ideas.”

Darnell sat at the table. “Nonetheless.”

“The critter’s leaving,” Clomer said. “Getting away.”

“He’ll be back.”

“He was right big. What I could see of him.”

“He’s got to be wrassled, knife-fought.”

Clomer tried to call Mavis Johnson on the telephone. Mavis’s husband, Ed, answered. “Well, hey, Clomer.”

“Hey, Ed. Mavis in?”

“Why, sure she is. You know, Mavis don’t get out like she used to. Bad legs. I’m takin’ the phone to her now. We got us one of the princesses with a long cord put on so Mavis won’t have to get up. She has so much trouble with her legs. Well, here’s Mavis.” Then, away from the phone, “It’s Clomer Tellsy calling. I mentioned your legs.”

“Clomer?” said Mavis.

“Hey, Mavis. How your legs?”

“They’ll do. Don’t heed Ed; you’d think they was his legs.”

“I’m calling to tell you that there’s a bear over here.”

“Where’s Darnell?”

“He’s up front. He says he plans to knife-fight the thing.”

“You don’t say. Don’t that beat all?”

“I just called to tell you.”

“Where’s the bear right now?”

“He’s gone back off into the woods,” said Clomer, “but Darnell is certain he’ll be back.”

“Well, my my my.”

“I’d best be off now.”

“All right, Clomer. Thanks for calling.”

Soon, word was all over Coy about how Darnell Aimes intended to engage a bear in hand-to-hand mortal combat.

Judd Carlton said, “Darnell, you can’t be serious.”

Darnell looked at the man’s feet; the rest of him was down under a Buick. “Oh, I’m serious, all right.”

Mitch Biter was in the garage along with young Randy Volker. Randy couldn’t swallow it; it bothered him something awful. He paced, shaking his head and laughing.

“I’m taking a knife with me,” Darnell said.

“Good move,” mumbled Mitch. “Need something.” He tried to spit his tobacco juice out the door, but it just dribbled down his chin and made the stain on his white shirt wider.

“An old coot like you,” Randy said, “wrasslin’ a bear?”

“A man’s got to do what a man’s got to do.”

“Hell,” said Judd, rolling on his creeper from beneath the car, “why don’t you just run him over with your truck.”

“When are you going to forgive about that dog?”

Judd went to his tool chest. “It’s damn silly if you ask me.”

“How big is the bear?” asked Randy.

“Oh, he’s a big ‘un. Five feet, at least.”

“Why not shoot him,” the youngest asked.

Darnell straightened his back and looked out through the door. “Can’t do that.”

“Can’t do that,” Mitch echoed, tried to spit.

Darnell tossed Mitch an annoyed look which went unnoticed, then said, “I think the thing was let loose on my land. They’re trying to scare me off.”

“Now, why would they want to do that?” Judd asked.

“Hell, if I know,” said Darnell. “Maybe the highway’s comin’ through. They got their reasons. Maybe they want to build one of them malls, full of boo-tiques.”

“Man’s got to have a fight,” mumbled Mitch.

“Well, this is one I’d like to see,” said Randy.

“Ain’t nobody goin’ stop you from comin’ out to take a peek.” Darnell took a deep breath. “Reckon the beast’ll be back tomorrow morning.” He took his time walking to his truck, his head held high. He tore out in the vehicle, kicking up a wake of dust which settled slowly on Mitch and Randy who had stepped out to watch him leave.

The town of Coy was one which rallied behind its citizens in any endeavors, and the pursuit of premature and imbecilic death would not go unobserved. Aside from Judd, Randy and Mitch, there were Ed and Mavis Johnson (bad legs and all), Deke Bumgardner, Raff and Rufus Winslow, and Pixie Hayes along with her seven kids and one on the way. There were others. They were all in the kitchen, lining the walls, crammed in between the counter and the refrigerator, huddled around Darnell who just sat at the table sharpening his Case knife with a whetting stone. It was a hot day. They drank lemonade and sweated. An hour passed.

“That bear ain’t comin’,” said Randy.

“There he is,” said Mitch and a hush fell over the room.

There was no pause. Darnell stood and marched past the bodies out into the yard, knife in hand.

“Man has no sense of drama,” complained young Randy.

“Ricky would be appalled if he weren’t dead,” said Clomer. “He would say that violence was a form of deviant sexual sublimation or something like that. Of course, then Darnell would kill him.”

Everyone was crowded at the doors and windows. Darnell stood in the middle of the yard, shouting obscenities at the bear, the blade of his knife reflecting the sun back at the spectators. The bear approached. Darnell faced the animal and they moved slowly in a circle, studying each other.

“Oh, my my my,” said Mavis Johnson.

“You children turn away, don’t look,” Pixie Hayes said, but the kids watched.

The bear took a swipe at Darnell with a paw, but the old man leaned away from it, then lunged forward with his blade and drew blood from the bear’s shoulder.

“What’s happening?” asked Clomer.

“I don’t believe it,” said Randy. “He got in a lick.”

“He’s doin’it,” Judd said.

The bear feigned a move left and caught Darnell circling around against it He picked the man up, hugged him, and threw him down hard.

“He’s down,” said Ed Johnson.

Darnell pulled himself up. Shaky, he took a couple of wild swings at the beast.

“Well, I’m impressed,” said Rufus Winslow.

The bear got a hold on him again and threw him down in the same fashion.

“He’s down, again,” said one of the Hayes children.

“Course he is,” mumbled Mitch. “Gotta be a damned fool.”

“What’s happening?” asked Clomer.

Darnell Aimes was buried on the edge of his property. Some people claim they’ve seen him up on that ridge at night, his knife in his hand, looking for that bear. Clomer says she hasn’t seen a thing. No one doubts this.

This story originally appeared in Callaloo, Number 27, and is reprinted here with the permission of the editors of Callaloo.

Still Hunting

Thanksgiving came with much rain and chilly winds and an invitation to join Laura’s parents in Washington, D.C., for turkey dinner and pumpkin pie. We drove down on Wednesday. I was nervous. Laura had spoken of her parents infrequently. I did know that James Reskin was a born-again endocrinologist, the son of Jewish parents, and an avid hunter of upland game. Edith Reskin was a dyed-in-the-wool Democrat who had fantasies about FDR and she was still a Jew; this was her final line in any argument with her husband: “At least I’m still a Jew.” We arrived late that evening and I was surprised to find that Laura and I would be sharing a room and a bed. Certainly, I knew that they knew we slept together, but still we were not married. And, after small conversation, of course Laura wanted to make love. I could only think of her mother and father in the room next door, but she would not relent. I made love to her with my hand cupped over her mouth and this only served to excite her more. She screamed into my hand and the bed banged against the wall. I imagined Dr. Reskin on his knees praying for us all.

I awoke to the sound of movement in the room. I rolled over to see Dr. Reskin standing before the window and a day that had not yet begun, holding a broken-down shotgun. I reached for Laura, but she was not there. Reskin engaged the barrels with a clack and looked at me. “Good morning?” I said.

“You ever hunt turkey?” asked Reskin.

“No, sir.”

“The turkey is a good, big bird. A wise and clever bird. You can hunt a band of turkeys for a week and never see one Meleagris gallapavo.” He glanced out the window. “Quite an animal.”

“Yes, sir:’

“Well, get up and get dressed and we’ll see if we can’t bag us one.”

“Do I have time to shower?”

He frowned. “No.”

“What if we don’t get one?”

“We’ve got a Butterball in the freezer. We’ll microwave that sucker and that’ll be it. Besides, wild turkeys are cunning and few and far between. Can’t count on them.”

I sat up. “I don’t have the right clothes.”

“You’ve got jeans.” He pointed to the floor by the bed. “There’s my new pair of shoe pacs. I’ve only worn them once. What size do you wear?”

“Ten-and-a-half.”

“Elevens. Well, up and at ’em. There’s a wool jacket for you downstairs.”

He left and I sat up in bed. I pulled on my jeans and a shirt, laced up the boots and went down to the kitchen. Laura and her mother were sitting at the table, in their robes, drinking coffee. I joined them.

Reskin came in from outside. “Gear’s all packed,” he said.

“Don’t we need a dog?” I asked.

“Nope. Turkey is still hunting.” He bent and kissed his wife’s forehead, then Laura’s. “We’re off.”

The women waved from the driveway as we rolled away in the old International Scout. There was no traffic in Georgetown so early, which made the morning seem even colder. We crossed into Virginia, drove past Manassas, and parked at the edge of a large pasture, Reskin took the shotguns from the rack and draped a shell-sack over his shoulder, handed another to me. He looked out over the pasture and said, “A man named Killer owns this land.”

“Pardon?”

“Nice enough fellow, but that’s some name. Jack Killer.’

“Yes, it is.”

“Here, put this on.” He handed me a bright orange skullcap and pulled one on himself. “Gotta know where the other is.”

We walked out across, then beyond the pasture, uphill and along a ridge. The sun was up now and a bit of the chill was taken out of the air.

“The turkey is some bird,” Reskin began again. “A noble creature. Benjamin Franklin wanted him as the national emblem.” He stopped, looked at the ground, then walked on. “You’ve got to hunt him as you would a deer or elk. Find some sign and wait him out. That’s all you can do.” He stopped and pointed to a place where some leaves had been scratched up. He took me a few yards away and got me down behind a tree. “Now, you just wait here, and when you see — pow! You let him have it.” He left and stepped down the ridge to find a stand of his own.

I tried to get comfortable. I started with the gun aimed at the area where the bird had been feeding, then set the weapon down beside me. I wished I had brought something to read. I fell asleep.

I sprang to my feet at the sound of a shot and grabbed my gun. I followed the direction Reskin had taken down the ridge and through a laurel patch. I found him leaning against a small oak. He was shaken.

“What is it?” I asked.

“I shot him,” he whispered.

“A hunter? Killer?”

“No, a turkey.”

I didn’t understand. “Where is he?”

He looked at me with the strangest expression and said, “I hid him over there.”

I saw nothing. “Where?”

“Over here.” He walked over and pulled up some brush. There was a dead tom.

“Why’d you hide him?”

“He’s so large. He’s just so damn big.”

Edith balked at the prospect of plucking the bird, but a stern look from Reskin sent her stomping to the sink with the carcass, cursing him, saying, “The man is a lunatic, a New Testament-thumping lunatic.”

This was the first time in twelve years of Thanksgiving Day hunts that the good doctor had returned with a kill. An actual wild turkey had never been expected. Reskin didn’t know quite what to make of it. He was a little nervous and of the mind that I had brought him considerable luck. He sat silently in his study awaiting dinner. Laura was thrilled with the bird. She cornered me upstairs in the bathroom as I stepped out of the shower. I grabbed her by her shoulders and looked her in the eye.

“Not in this house,” I said.

“I want it,” she said.

“Not in this house.”

Her eyes grew moist and she ran out and down the hallway to the bedroom. I finished drying and followed her. She was stretched face-down across the bed, crying.

“I’m sorry, Laura, but I don’t like it. This is your parents’ house.”

“Don’t you think they know we sleep together?”

“That’s beside the point. Don’t you want me to be comfortable?”

“Of course, I do.”

“Okay then.”

She was silent while I dressed. The tears went away and she sat up. “Do you ever think of marriage?” she asked.

I looked up from buttoning my shirt. “I guess.”

“What about us?”

“Pardon?”

“Do you think we’ll be together for a long time?”

“That’s hard to say, Laura. Ours is a young relationship. We’ve got a lot of growing to do.” I liked that response.

“Promise me something.”

“What’s that?”

“Promise me I’ll die first.”

I tucked in my shirttail. “What are you saying?”

“I want you to promise that I will die before you.”

“What?”

“I don’t think I could stand to be left alone.”

“I don’t want to talk about this. Let’s go down to dinner.”

Reskin cleared his throat to announce that he was about to recite grace. He fitted a fist into a palm, set his elbows on either side of his plate, and closed his eyes. He paused to let his silence spread across the table. “Dear Lord,” he said, his voice a bit deeper. “First of all, let me ask You a question: Why such a big bird? This is a large tom and I’m not sure I’m worthy of him. But I thank You. We thank You. And thank You for allowing us once again to sit at this table as a family. Please watch over us, protect, though we may screw our brains out in the room next to our parents.” Laura sighed loudly, but he didn’t miss a beat. “And watch over our guest. He is a good man. One might hope better for him than my daughter, but You do work in mysterious ways.”

“James,” Edith complained.

“So, Lord, let us finally say thank You for the lovely meal before us. In Jesus’ name, Amen.”

Though upset by her father, Laura did not cry. Instead, she loaded up on mashed potatoes and refused turkey.

The turkey was a little greasy, as game meat is likely to be, and strong of flavor. I couldn’t recall a tastier bird.

“Very tangy,” said Edith.

Reskin sat back in his chair and looked at her. “If you don’t like it, just leave it on your plate.”

“I didn’t say I didn’t like it. I said it was tangy.”

“Of course, it’s tangy.” Reskin stuck a forkload of meat into his mouth. “Game birds have more flavor than your everyday, force-fed, overweight, crippled, domestic clones.”

He looked to me. “How do you like it?”

“It’s very good.”

“See,” he said.

“Jesus Christ,” Laura muttered.

Reskin slammed his fork down on the table.

“Lighten up,” said Edith.

He looked at me, again. “Do you hear them? On the one hand, my daughter. A painter with no visible inroads to the land of talent, an irresponsible sperm bank who excused an act of murder with the words, ‘It’s my body.’”

“James!” said Edith. “That’s enough!”

Laura was crying. She took more potatoes.

“And my wife,” Reskin went on. “A political groupie who has intimate fantasies about invalid presidents past.”

Laura got up and ran from the table. Edith collected breath, grew larger, stood, said, “At least I’m still a Jew?’ With that, she too was gone.

It was just me and Reskin. We ate on in silence turned the bird over and split the oysters. I studied this man. I didn’t understand him. He was spiritual and sensitive, yet as hard, mean, and vicious as anyone I had ever met. I didn’t understand his anger. I reserved judgment, being a newcomer to a scene with a long and complex history.

He stopped chewing and looked at me. “You think I’m a mean bastard.”

“Yes, sir.’

“Mad at me?”

I shrugged.

He rubbed his eyes and yawned. “I’m sixty-two years old and I don’t know what to do with my life, don’t know if I’ve done anything in it so far.” He chuckled softly. “You’re a smart fellow. Have you figured any of this world out?”

“I’m afraid not.”

“I read the papers and watch the news and I’m sure they’re lying to me. I used to get upset about it, but now I find it entertaining.” He shook his head as if to shake something free. “You’d think that in over thirty years as a doctor I would have learned something about the meaning of life, but I haven’t.” He took up his wineglass, raised it. “To these sad times.”

I drank with him.

Gaining the Door

The horses huddled together against the icy northern wind. Their exhalations condensed and rose in clouds, drifted away. Cody Wilson circled the corral and studied them. The horses were exhausted and winter was on.

“That’s right, Jake,” the aging Wilson said to his hand. “Gotta unshoe ’em and turn ’em out. That way they won’t be petty and nasty come spring. Petty and nasty. That’s how exposure to man will make a beast.”

Jake nodded, having heard it all before, and followed Wilson through the gate. He held the sorrel while Wilson pried his shoes off.

“So, you didn’t tell me how your wife’s leg is,” Wilson said.

“Fine.”

“She at home?”

“Came home the same day.”

“Hunh.” He stood and tossed the sorrel’s fourth shoe to the corner of the pen. “Grab the grey.”

Jake caught the young gelding.

Wilson bent down to work. “I remember when they’d keep you in the hospital for days for that sort of thing.”

“Same day,” Jake said.

“Hunh.”

They finished with the horses. Jake opened the gate. Wilson hung on the fence and watched them trot away.

“Well, there they go,” Jake said, loading his cheek with tobacco.

“There they go.”

The night rolled in colder and noiseless, with off and on flurries of snow. Wilson built a fire and sat in front of it. It felt good to be in out of the wind. He thought about the world outside. He thought he might never go to town again, or anywhere. He’d turn himself out, cut himself loose, rustle for sustenance and not grow fat. He might just sit where he was by his fire until there was no heat left, just a matterless flame.

He thought about songs that he had come to know in his life; he had never set out to learn them. He hummed and whistled a few while the fire made his feet hot. He recalled poems he’d read, but could not remember the words, only how they had made him feel. This seemed right, to remember just the feelings conjured.

Christmas was drawing near, but he refused to think of it. It was just another day. A day that would come and go as always, see him alone and leave him so.

He drank some whiskey and it warmed his gut. He cursed his house for being a magnet for cold winds. He cursed his wife for having found death before him. His children for having grown up and away. And he cursed himself for being an ornery son of a bitch, a man who had driven his family like stock and finally away. He’d have to turn himself out, he reasoned, and he laughed, thinking he was the man to whom he’d been too long exposed.

He got up, tied his boots, and bundled up in his down-filled parka, a gift from his children. Damned if he knew how a man was supposed to get any work done wrapped up like a fat snowman. He opened the door to find a steady snow falling.

The wind pressed against his back as he walked toward the road. He found himself desperately accepting the push of cold air. He tried to occupy himself by looking back on the year. Prices had been good, handsome even. But soon all thinking was gone. He walked, numb to all things, inside and out. He walked the six miles to town.

He stepped into the tavern and stomped the snow off his boots and some feeling into his legs. “I’m here,” he said, “and I walked and I’m on the prod.” He fell into a chair at a table near the door.

“What’ll it be, Cody?” the bartender asked.

“Whiskey.”

Wilson’s face burned as it thawed. His feet were heavy and numb. He sucked down one shot and nursed his way through another.

Two men came in, one tall, the other medium with a game leg.

“What’re you doing out, Wilson?” asked the tall man.

“I’m turned out.”

The lame man coughed into his fist as he slid onto a stool at the bar. “Didn’t see your truck outside,” he said.

“Walked,” Wilson said, and he stood to find his legs, swayed a bit as if with a breeze. The men watched him negotiate his coat and mittens.

“Gonna walk home?” the lame man asked.

Wilson studied the man’s face and offered a reluctant smile. “No, just walkin.”‘

“We’ll drive you,” said the tall man.

But there was fight in Wilson’s eyes. He gained the door. He didn’t look back.

Against a dense night, he inhaled all the frozen air he could. He kissed the wet, parted lips of his wife’s memory. He sang softly to himself a song which once he had sung to his children. It had helped them find sleep.

Chacón, Chacón

Miguel Chacón had a scar on his left shoulder. The bullet had gone through neatly, but a drunk bootleg doctor had butchered him taking it out. The wound was suffered during a gang fight in Española when Miguel’s friend, such as he was, introduced him as Killer Chacón from Taos. On his left hand he had a thumb and three fingers, his pinky having been wrenched out of his socket when it got tangled in his insanely small chain-link steering wheel as he slammed into a spin. The left side of his face was noticeably disfigured: he and a friend felled a tree which landed on a good-sized fir sapling. Miguel, for a reason no one knows, took the chain-saw and began cutting the bent tree. The tree whipped and the saw went flying high into the air. The tree hit Miguel in the face. The chainsaw came down, still running, and sliced the left side of his back. Miguel’s friends, such as they were, sometimes called him Lefty. Mostly, they did not call him. They didn’t like to look at his scars. In a group, Miguel was always the last one on the left or the first one on the right. Those who knew his car always passed quickly, eyes forward, on the right if possible. Miguel concluded, logically, that his right side was charmed, invincible even.

His belief in the guarded nature of his right side was reinforced by an incident on Route 3. His car stalled as he was pulling out from San Cristobal and a semi narrowly missed, yes, the right side of his low-rider. The truck rolled over the shoulder and down a steep slope. When the driver of the truck was hauled up he claimed not to know what had happened. He said, “I just lost control. Hell, I’d rather have crushed the low-riding son of a bitch than drive off the road.” When Miguel was pointed out as the driver of the stalled vehicle, the trucker tried to leap from the stretcher and hit him. “I’ll get you, Poncho,” the man said as the ambulance doors were shut.

This notion of one-sided immortality led Miguel to do everything with his right hand and those tasks which required two hands were performed with his right side facing the project, his left arm stretched to its limit across his front. He always appeared to be handling caustic or potentially explosive materials.

Many of the religious people in Taos saw Miguel Chacón as a living, breathing, nearly talking example of the dichotomy of the world, an ugly but tangible manifestation of nature’s duality, good and bad. Of course, they seldom spoke of it as such — they just crossed themselves and tried to stay on Miguel’s right side as it were. His presence taught them that whereas evil was disfigured and ugly, good was not much to look at. At first, the talk was in jest of Miguel’s right side being a different agent than his left. Then the talk, out of habit, became literal. “I saw Lefty Chacón,” someone would say. “Is he still alive?” was the stock response. People waved to Righty Chacón and turned away from Lefty. With all this going on, Miguel, not the brightest man, began to believe that he was indeed two distinct Chacóns, his right side, pure and uninjured, constantly riding herd over his blemished and misshapen left side.

Lefty Chacón once punched huge José Archuleta in the face, then turned away, showing the man the opposite Chacón. Archuleta looked and looked but could not find Lefty to hit, in spite of the patrons of the bar pointing and shouting, “There he is! There he is!” The Chacóns slipped out of the bar and argued in the parking lot.

“I wished he had bashed in your head,” said Righty.

“If I die, you die, compadre,” said Lefty.

“You’re ugly and disfigured,” said Righty.

“And you are only ugly.” Lefty laughed. “You should be so lucky to share my deformity.”

Righty began to pound Lefty with his fist, but Lefty kept laughing. Soon Righty was tired and they went home and to bed.

That night, while they wrestled for covers and position, Lefty said, “You can not be so good if you have me.” This caused Righty to cry. He prayed for an angel to come smother Lefty.

Lefty awoke before his opposite one morning. He dressed and carried himself out to the car. When he tried to drive away from the house he could only guide the car through tight left-handed circles. Undaunted, he marched to the road and hitched a ride. Old Lester Muñoz saw Righty at the highway-side, but it was Lefty who climbed in beside him.

“Take me to the liquor store,” said Lefty, and a terrified Muñoz complied.

At the liquor store, Manny Medina was opening the cash register. Lefty walked in and produced a rather large and nasty pistol.

“You stupid pendejo,” said Manny, “I just opened up. I don’t have any money.”

“I don’t care,” said Lefty. “Hand it over.”

Apparently, Old Lester Muñoz suspected funny business and told the police, because the police showed up.

Lefty turned to show the deputies a still-sleeping Righty Chacón. Righty woke up to find Manny and the two officers demanding to know what had become of Lefty. Not knowing what was going on and following an instinct for self-preservation, Righty said, “He’s run outside and down the street.” The men ran after.

When Righty discovered what Lefty had tried to do, he beat him. But Lefty only laughed.

Righty, at the end of his rope, dragged the other Chacón to the church. Once there he could only manage his half of the whole through the doors.

“No, I will not go in,” said Lefty.

“I’ll drag you in here so that Christ will strike you down with a lightning bolt.” But hard as he tried he could not do it. He prayed with all his heart and strength, breaking a sweat over the side of the face, his side of the mouth working madly.

Lefty smiled and watched the traffic pass, waved at the pointing people. Soon Righty was exhausted from pleading with God.

“Won’t You do anything?” was the last thing Righty said before collapsing.

Clouds rolled in from the mountains as Lefty muscled the body many miles to Taos Junction, where Taos Creek and the Rio Grande meet. Lefty stepped to the point and laid the whole down, steep, deadly cliffs on either side. They slept.

When they awoke, the moon was full and bright and a stiff wind pushed at them, urging them nearer the edge.

“Why have you brought me here?” asked Righty.

“We’re jumping.”

“Do you want so much for me to feel pain?”

“Yes.”

Righty, upon quick reflection, saw this as a route to freedom. Certainly, Lefty could not follow him to heaven and, most definitely, he would be going to heaven. “Very well, then.” He paused and looked over the edge into the darkness. “Let’s jump.”

They jumped. On the way down, Righty heard Lefty speaking.

“What are you saying?” asked Righty.

“I wasn’t talking to you.”

“Who were you talking to? What did you say?”

“I said that I accept Jesus Christ as my savior and the Son of God and I asked that he forgive my sins.” With that, they fell on, the only sound being Lefty’s laughter.

This story originally appeared in Montana Review, Number 8 and Time Enough for the World (Seattle: Owl Creek Press, 1986), and is reprinted here with the permission of the Owl Creek Press.

Nice White People

Dovetail was just a post office. And that was open only three days a week. It was thirty miles beyond Carlis into the mountains. Carlis was larger; it had a feedstore and a church.

That far up you’d find some Indians. They had roots there. And you’d find some old trappers and prospectors. They were too stubborn or crazy to leave. That was about it. Until Michael and Gloria Johns came from back east to discover the land and return to nature.

The Johnses bought a cabin which had been built and occupied for many years by an old prospector. They purchased the property from an outfit called High-up Realty. The Indians called it Throw-up Really. Michael and Gloria came from just outside Boston, from Newton and a condo to a one-room shack just larger than its outhouse. The Indians thought the Johnses were nice. Odd, maybe. A little stupid, certainly. But nice. In fact, they called them the ‘nice white people.’

Michael and Gloria arrived in the spring. They settled in and, first things first, they set to patching up the outhouse. That’s when an old gray-haired Indian stopped by.

“How are you nice white people?” asked the man.

Michael stopped and called Gloria over. “We’re fine.” He pushed his hand forward to shake. “I’m Michael Johns.”

The Indian took the hand firmly and pumped it up and down. “I’m Old Sherman.”

“This is my wife, Gloria.”

“Pleased to meet you,” said Gloria.

Old Sherman nodded and looked around. “Here for a short stay?” he asked.

“Spring and summer,” said Gloria.

Old Sherman looked at the planks and at the saw in Michael’s hand. “Fixing up your craphouse?”

“Yes,” said Michael.

“Gonna leave it where it stands?”

Michael looked at the structure. “I suppose.”

The old man scratched his head. “Pete, the old miner who lived here, built the place, put that craphouse there fifty years ago. Never moved it. Might be full.”

Michael turned to Gloria.

“What happened to Pete?” asked Gloria.

“Drowned.” Old Sherman stretched and looked at the sky. “Well, you nice white people have a good day. Don’t work too hard.”

Michael and Gloria moved the outhouse.

Many of the Indians in the area raised rabbits as a cash crop. So, when a man in a truck came by selling them Michael and Gloria thought it would be a good idea to buy some. They bought twenty and several ready-made hutches, knowing that they would certainly need to build more. Indians came by and oohed and ahhed over the animals, nodded at each other and smiled at the Johnses.

“You know these are pretty fancy bunnies you got here,” said a tall man.

“Oh, really?” said Michael.

“Yep,” said the man. “You can’t feed these fellas the wet stuff you’ll be pulling up from your garden.”

“No?”

Several Indians came and listened to the conversation. “No,” said another, a woman with hair that fell past her hips. “They’ll get the plague.”

“These pure-bred bunnies ain’t as sturdy as mutts,” said the tall man.

“Then what should we feed them?” said Gloria.

“Rabbit chow?’ said the woman.

“Rabbit chow,” said the tall man.

“The little pellets,” said another.

And so Michael and Gloria would pick up a forty-pound sack of feed for the rabbits each week down in Carlis.

A couple of weeks went by and Gloria noticed something odd about several of the rabbits. Their coats seemed to be thinning. Little tufts of hair floated about the hutches. She called out for Michael.

He leaned the ax against the woodpile and went to her. “What is it?”

“Something’s wrong,” she said. “Look.” She pointed. “Look at the hair.”

Michael leaned forward and studied the animals.

“I think maybe they’re losing their hair, Michael.”

“Don’t get upset. I’m sure it’s common.”

By the time the veterinarian arrived a week later, the rabbits had all lost their fur from their necks to their rumps. Patches of hair remained on the hindquarters.

The vet frowned as he held a rabbit up to the sun.

“Well?” asked Michael.

“I don’t know. I’ve never seen anything just like it. It ain’t mange, but it must be.”

“It is serious?” asked Gloria.

“Like I said, I don’t know.” He put the rabbit back into the hutch. “I wouldn’t eat any of them right now.”

“So, what do we do?”

“Well, I did bring some mange medicine. Maybe it’ll help.” He reached into his bag and pulled out a large can.

“We have to put it on each one?” asked Gloria.

“I believe so,” said the vet. “Unless you can talk them into doing it for each other.” He laughed.

“OK, thanks, doc,” said Michael.

The vet closed his bag, then looked at the Johnses. “By the way, is there any reason you don’t have any males?”

“We have two,” said Gloria. She looked into the cages. “Well, one used to be black and white.”

The vet shook his head.

Gloria sighed.

“All you got is a bunch of gals.”

Gloria stepped away into the house.

Michael walked the vet to his truck.

“So, how are you liking it here?” asked the vet.

“We’re getting used to it.”

“Planning to stay through the winter?”

Michael took a breath. “I don’t know. It’s been a thought.”

“Gets cold.”

“We’re from New England.”

“Uh huh.” The vet got in his truck.

“Thanks for driving such a long way.”

“It was the only way to get here. Sorry I wasn’t of more help.” He started the engine. “Let me know how the salve works.”

Michael watched the truck bounce down the road and disappear around the bend.

Old Sherman’s brother, Pap, was looking to sell at least one of two horses. And one of them limped.

“I guess you don’t want this one,” said Pap.

“I don’t think so,” Michael said.

So, Pap had his son lead the lame horse back into the barn.

“But this one looks in good shape,” said Michael, walking around the horse.

“Look at his teeth,” said Pap.

“How old is he?”

“Look at his teeth.”

Michael looked at the horse’s teeth. “Is he ten?”

“Look at his teeth.”

“Younger than ten?”

“Look at his teeth.” Pap spat on the ground between his feet.

“What is he, about four then?”

“Some teeth, eh?”

Michael paid seventy-five dollars for the animal and walked him over the hill and home to Gloria.

“I got a good deal on him from Pap,” Michael told her. “Seventy-five dollars. He’s only four and we can re-sell him.”

“Do you really want to stay here through the winter?” asked Gloria.

“If you’re up to it.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means if you think you can take it, we’ll stay.”

“And what about you?”

“What about me, what?”

“Can you take it?”

“I can take it.”

“Then I can take it.”

“Fine. Then, we’ll stay.”

The horse wouldn’t budge if a person sat on his back. And he followed Michael around as a dog would. He followed him to the woodpile, to the outhouse, and everywhere else. Some days, the Indians would sit along the top of the ridge and laugh. Then, Old Sherman came by.

“Haven’t seen you in a while,” said Michael.

“How are you nice white people?”

“Fine.”

Old Sherman looked at the horse.

“Look familiar?” Michael asked.

“Yes.”

Gloria came out of the house and asked if anyone cared for coffee.

Old Sherman didn’t hear her. He was looking at the horse. “Yeah,” he said, “this horse carried my little girl to the doctor in Carlis. She was one year old then. She had the fever.”

Gloria looked at Michael, then asked Old Sherman, “How old is she now?”

“Eighteen.”

“Your brother told me he was four,” said Michael.

“Not my brother,” said Old Sherman, shaking his head. “All my brother ever says about a horse is ‘Look at his teeth.’ He wouldn’t lie to you.”

Michael was out at the well when the vet pulled up. “Hi there,” said Michael. “What brings you up this way?”

“Thought I’d check on your bunnies.”

“Still bald. Glo goes out every morning and rubs that gunk all over them and nothing’s happened.

“I had a thought the other day. Just what do you feed your rabbits.”

“Rabbit chow.’

“That’s all? No greens?”

“No greens.”

“That may be the problem. Rabbit chow doesn’t have vitamin A. You ought to give them some greens.”

“What about the plague?”

“Pardon?”

“Never mind.”

Fall came. The horse died of old age. The rabbits died of the plague, still bald. The vet said they just froze to death. The woodstove was cranked up all the way. The outhouse blew over in the wind. The Indians packed to move down mountain.

The Weather and Women Treat Me Fair

“I ain’t here.”

“I’m sick of sayin’ that.”

“Tell her I ain’t here.”

“He ain’t here. She says she knows you’re here.”

“Just hang up.”

“Listen, I gotta hang up.” Tate hung up the phone. “Do your own dirty work from now on.”

“Thanks.”

“Yeah.”

Will slid his second dusty boot off onto the floor and wiggled his socked toes. “My poor pups. I hate puttin’ up fence.”

“You gotta do something about that gal.”

“What do you suggest?”

“Hell, just marry and get it over with.”

“Are you crazy?”

“I don’t care what you do, long as I don’t have to talk to her any more.”

Will unbuttoned his shirt and let the air hit his chest. “Least it wasn’t so hot today.”

“What’s goin’ on with you two, anyway?”

“Hell, I don’t know.”

“She seems all right.”

“Yeah.” Will lit a cigarette. “She’s just about the ficklest woman west of east. When I’m with her, she says I’m crowdin’ her and when I’m somewhere else, she can’t live without me. If I pick her up on time, I’m rushin’ her. If I’m late, I don’t care.”

“Marry her.”

Will laughed.

“The picture sounds perfect.”

“You’re a sick man.” Will drew on his butt and let out the smoke. “I just wanna go to town and get some soft touchin’ from some new faces.”

“Right.”

“You wait and see. You know that Becky, the one that works at the River Inn?”

“I know who you mean.”

“Well, she’s had her eye on me.”

“Hunh. And you’ll talk to her, probably even get a boner and then you’ll see Caitlin come in with some guy or walkin’ past the window and there you go.” Tate laid out a clean shirt and a fresh pair of jeans on his bunk. “But if you don’t get a move—”

“I’m coming.” Will put out his cigarette and started for the shower. “I don’t think you’re seeing this clearly.”

“Could be.”

Tate downshifted behind a car towing a boat. He sighed and sank back into the seat. “What do you say?” he asked, pointing at the vehicle ahead. “A banker from Cheyenne on his way from Wheatland?”

“College teacher from Laramie.”

“You know, I wouldn’t mind just floatin’ around in a boat for a while.”

The car with boat began to slow, then turned left into a gas station.

“See. College teacher,” Will said. “Hooked his signals up backwards.” He lit a cigarette.

“You oughta give that up,” Tate said.

“I know.”

“So, it’s the River Inn first?”

“You bet. Watch out, Becky, here I come!”

The River Inn was just outside town on the bank of the Laramie River. It had a big deck which hung out over the water. The night was warm with a fine breeze and music spread from the tavern through the evening air.

Will and Tate climbed the side steps onto the deck.

“Lots of college kids,” Tate said.

“Yes, indeed.”

They found a table near the railing and looked down at the river. The level was low with late summer.

“Time to come here is spring,” said Will, “when the river’s got some flow in her.”

“There she be,” said Tate, nodding across the way toward the door.

“Becky, Becky, Becky,” Will said. “Make a man hurt himself.”

The waitress came over to their table and took out her pad. She held it down by her thigh. She was wearing gym shorts.

“Hey there, Will.”

“Well, hey, Becky. How’re you doin’ tonight?”

“Fine. You?”

“Good, now. You know my friend Tate?”

Becky shook her head and smiled. “No, but I’ve seen him in here.”

“College kids out in force tonight,” Will said.

Becky sighed. “School’s just startin’ up. They don’t tip for shit.”

“What you doin’ later on?” Will asked.

“Nothing. What you got in mind?”

“Gettin’ together and goin’ from there.”

“Sure. I get off at eleven.”

“Well, all right.”

“What can I get you cowboys?”

“Bourbon, straight up,” Tate said. “Change that. Just a beer.”

“Will?”

“Beer.”

Becky walked away. Will watched her shorts.

“What’d I tell you?” Will said.

“You told me, all right.”

“Look at that sky. Clear as a goddamn bell. Looks like you could pluck a star down if you wanted to.”

“Yep.”

“My granddaddy had a saying. He said, ‘As long as the weather and women treat you fair, you’re doin’ just fine.’”

“And what happened to him?”

“Granny locked him out and he froze to death.”

They laughed.

A couple of girls smiled at Will from a nearby table. “There you go,” he said.

Tate turned and looked at the youngsters. “They’d put you under the jail.”

“Nubile, boy, nubile.”

“You’re crazy.”

Will lit a cigarette. Becky brought the beers and was away again.

“What do you think of Caitlin?” Will asked.

“I don’t know. I’m sick of talkin’ to her on the phone.”

“Do you like her?”

“Sure. She’s nice enough. Pretty.”

“Yep.”

“Hell, you’re asking me these questions — how do you feel about her? Do you like her?”

“Some. I’m fair on the subject.”

“Yeah.” Tate looked down at the lights on the water. There was a canoe on the river. “Fair, you say?”

“Fair.”

“Then this won’t bother you.” Tate pointed with a nod.

Will looked to see Caitlin and a man in the canoe. He scooted his chair back with a squawk against the deck planks and glared at Tate.

“Fair, now, you said.”

“I don’t believe this shit.”

“What you gonna do? Jump in?”

“I’m tempted.” Will was still looking at Tate’s eyes when he stood up. He turned and leaned over the railing. “Caitlin!”

“Oh, hell,” the woman said.

“What are you doing?!”

“Having fun.”

“Who’s that with you?”

“None of your damn business.”

Tate leaned back in his chair and chuckled. Patrons were looking at Will and leaning over the railing. Tate said, “Calm down, Will. You’re the one who wouldn’t talk to her. Remember?”

“Shut up,” Will told Tate. He threw his cigarette at the canoe. The red glow sailed with the breeze and went dark on the water. “Caitlin, you get out of that boat and get up here.”

“Kiss my ass,” she said.

Will pounded the railing. “I’m serious.”

“I’m serious,” Caitlin mocked him. “You’re always serious.”

“Sit down, Will,” Tate said.

“Shut up!”

“Listen, you shit-brained cowboy,” Caitlin said. “I called you today, but you weren’t man enough to talk to me.”

“Get out of the boat and we’ll talk now.”

The man in the canoe tried to paddle them away, but Caitlin stuck her paddle in the water and caused them to circle. She was still looking up at the deck.

Will began to unbutton his shirt. “I swear to God, if you don’t move that thing to the bank, I’m gonna jump in.”

“Will,” Tate said.

“What is it?” Will turned to find Becky behind him. He couldn’t talk and his face seemed in search of an expression.

Becky said, “You want me to let you explain.”

“Yes.”

She took his mug from the table and poured the beer over his head. She stomped away amid the applause of tavern patrons.

Tate shook his head.

“Who was that?!” Caitlin shouted. She was standing in the canoe. The man was trying to steady the boat while asking her to sit.

“Who was that?!” she asked again.

Will wiped beer from his face with his shirttail. “None of your goddamn business.”

“Who was that bitch?!”

“Now, now,” Will said. “Why don’t you sit down before you get all wet.”

“Oh, wouldn’t you like that?”

Tate got up and started away.

“Where are you goin’?” Will asked.

Tate said nothing, just waved him off.

Will studied Tate’s back and seemed to find something. He leaned over the railing, again. “Caitlin,” he said in a calmer voice.

“What?”

“Sit down for a second. Please.”

She sat.

“I’m only going to say this once.” He paused. “Okay.” He rubbed a hand over his wet hair. “Will you marry me?” The boat drifted into a shadow and he could not see her face clearly. “Caitlin?”

“Hell, no,” she said, softly. “Hell, no.” Louder.

About the Author

Percival Everett teaches at the University of Kentucky and lives with his wife, Shere, who is an artist, in Lexington. He is the author of three novels, Suder, Walk Me to the Distance and Cutting Lisa.

Content

Percival Everett
The Weather and Women Treat Me Fair

A Real Hard Rain

A Good Home for Hachita

A Good Day for the Laughing Blow

Cry About a Nickel

Last Fair Deal

Hear That Long Train Moan

Thirty-Seven Just to Take a Fall

Esteban

Turtle

The Bear as Symbol

Still Hunting

Gaining the Door

Chacón, Chacón

Nice White People

The Weather and Women Treat Me Fair

About the Author