Crow Fair Page 7

  Jewell said, “As discussed.”

  After listening to the music intently for several minutes, Nell said, “Bruce only likes stupid hillbillies. I take him for what he is.”

  I was confused: Nell was mentally challenged, underappreciated, and had a killer body. A guy could get into a world of hurt with such mixed signals. I concentrated on the road and reflected that nothing would alleviate my present anxieties like a bulletproof spell of adultery. The ex-Miss-Utah-runner-up thing had an enticing ring of prestige as well, and I was up for leaning into her Tower of Pisa problem.

  “What are you, anyway?” she asked her husband.

  I pulled into the parking lot of Rascal’s Pizzeria and found a slot between a rusted-out Pontiac GTO and a home-oxygen supply van with a kayak rack on top. A light rain had begun to fall, and when Nell got out, she danced around, head thrown back, tongue wiggling and palms up. It was crazy but kind of infectious. Jewell caught her eye, raised a warning finger, and her arms dropped to her sides. Then Bruce pivoted toward the front door. “We surf the toppings.” Nell and I followed, and I was startled when she sought my hand, like a child. I thought I’d extract it, then thought I’d just let it ride and watch for Ann’s reaction. Even in the shift, Nell was eye-catching and would remain so until her behavior was observed.

  Looking around the half-filled room, I said, “Let me see if I can spot them.” Rascal’s had turned into something of a sports bar, with armatured TV screens hung all around the room, speakers blaring. Servers in the lavender Rascal’s uniform hunched over beers while keeping eyes on the screens, some of which showed a demolition derby in Wyoming; one was playing an interview with A-Rod as to his health, and yet another displayed a girl weeping in some jungle setting, holding a revolver. I regarded each of these as a distraction, ground clutter keeping me from finding my wife. Jewell was right in front of me, thumbs in his suspenders. “What say we eat?”

  “Sure, Bruce, grab a table. We can always move.”

  “Not once I tuck into a family size. I could eat a horse.”

  “I’m soooooo hungry!” cried Nell.

  They weren’t here, and I was very abruptly frantic. I kept checking my watch as though it could tell me something. I made sure the ring and vibrate features were both activated on my cell phone, probably taking too much time doing so, since before I knew it both the waitress and the Jewells were eyeing me impatiently. I ordered a small house pizza automatically, just to dispel the awkwardness.

  “Not even going to check out the toppings?” asked Jewell.

  “Got it,” said the waitress and sped off.

  Jewell said, “You all right?”

  “Me? Sure. It’s just that I—”

  “Maybe she ran away with the circus! Ha-ha-ha!”

  “Yeah, that must be it,” I mumbled, instantly aware of what must have been my disquieting delivery. In any case, they saw nothing funny and gazed at me quietly, Nell with her own fervor and concern. “The circus,” I added.

  Why was I so preoccupied? Because I had been deceived by my wife and she had invested some serious planning in this deceit. To what end? To meet someone who was not me and as I awaited a pizza I would have enormous trouble choking down while sitting with two idiots. These were not happy thoughts.

  Then it hit me! The Clearys were too good for a pizza joint, and they had changed restaurants. No doubt, one of their children would be happy to tell me which one they had chosen. I excused myself and went outside with the smokers and called the Clearys’ house. Craig Cleary answered. “Oh, Craig, hi, Hoyt here. Wasn’t tonight the night Ann and I were to meet you at Rascal’s?”

  “I don’t eat at Rascal’s. Is that where you are?”

  “No big deal. We’ll just grab something to go.”

  “Rascal’s! How’s Ann taking this?”

  “I think she’s fascinated in a kind of ironic way.”

  “Fascinated! What’s fascinating at Rascal’s?”

  I struggled, finally blurting, “The toppings.” I disliked this treatment by Craig, and so I repeated firmly, as though training a dog, “The toppings, goddamn it!”

  When I got back to the table, Jewell remarked, “Your face could turn wine into vinegar.” I took it in stride. I had to. My head was spinning. There was a numb spot on my leg, and my mouth felt like it had been years since my last cleaning. There was only one thing to do: get home before Ann.

  “Why is the food taking so long?”

  Jewell asked, “First time ordering a pizza, pal?”

  “I just found out on the phone that Ann sprained her ankle—”

  “Oh, how?”

  “Gopher hole.”

  “A gopher hole!”

  “Jesus Christ, do you have to challenge everything?”

  “Oh. Oh. Oh. Say, I don’t like the way this is heading at all.”

  “People, people,” Nell implored, “let’s just simmer on down.”

  My head was full of a picture of my wife, random and dangerous as a Scud missile. I told the waitress about my emergency, and we soon had the pizzas, packed to go. I grabbed a menu from the counter. Neither of the Jewells spoke as I drove hell-bent back up the dirt road, trees rushing through the side windows, nor when I shoved their pizzas across the seat at them as I parked in front of the darkened house. Jewell said, “Thanks, neighbor,” as he got out. “Thanks, a bunch.” Nell already in flight across the pea rock that served as a lawn. I was soon home with a drink in hand and thinking, perhaps too much, about Ann with someone else, intimate, of course, but also covered with sweat. How much did I want to know? I seemed to be doing all right with bourbon and abstraction at least not having seen her yet. Fortunately, there was a built-in time frame, since last call at Rascal’s would dictate the faux chronology. In this sense, I felt I had my ducks in a row and relaxed for the time being, perusing the Rascal’s menu.

  As part of financing her education, Ann had served in the navy, where I have no doubt she was the darling of the fleet. When we were courting, I could hardly avoid colliding with one of her amatory enthusiasms, especially the one called Shelley, with his collar-length hair and crew-neck sweaters. Shelley was no seaman; Ann believed him to be a filmmaker. It turned out he was a drug dealer, which remained unclear to Ann until formal charges had been filed. I don’t know how that would have turned out if Shelley hadn’t gone to prison, where he was rehabilitated as a nurse. He’s now at a regional hospital outside Omaha. I refilled my drink and started killing moths to pass the time. At the edge of my consciousness, the mystery of Ann’s whereabouts reared its head as often as I could chase it away. I couldn’t tell if the whiskey was helping or not; on the one hand, it seemed to numb me to the escalating misery; on the other hand, it made the drama of it more florid. I was like a dog trapped in a hot car. The temptation was to drink more and throw the matter into greater relief on the theory, masquerading as fact, that I would thereby handle the situation with more equanimity, or at least not start a fight that could only enlarge my suffering while making sure Ann shared it. In the end, I realized it wouldn’t pay to be drunk, and I dumped my latest refill, taking up instead some microwave popcorn, which I ate from a bowl in the armchair I had positioned to face the front door. I pictured this as a prosecutorial touch, which it might well have been if I’d had any guts. I was still at some remove from recognizing that I was terrified of the truth, and when I thought of the way Ann used emery boards as bookmarks, I felt myself choking with emotion.

  Ann came in the door with a blaze of energy and a wildly insincere “Honey, I’m home!” She was a little taken aback to find me hunkered down in the armchair, bowl of popcorn and pizza menu in my lap. And there must have been something in my tone when I asked her about the evening, since she paused with the coat halfway off her shoulders. I could have pressed my face to her crotch and busted her on the spot, but this was not my way. “It was okay,” she said. “How good could it have been with the Clearys?”

  “Did you stuff yourself?”
>
  She paused before saying, “I’ve never been that excited about pizza.”

  “Mozzarella and pepperoni? The usual?”

  “Yep.”

  I raised the menu to my eyes. “Didn’t feel like trying the sundried tomatoes, anchovies, porcini mushrooms, prosciutto, eggplant—”

  “Where’d you get the menu?”

  “Rascal’s. I thought I’d join you.”

  Ann finished hanging her coat and came over to where I sat with the bowl.

  “Did you put butter on this?”

  I felt the shift like a breath.

  “No.”

  Ann took a single piece of popcorn and raised it to her mouth.

  “So, how shall we leave it?”

  The wind funneled down the river valley between the two mountain ranges, picking up speed where the interstate hit its first long straightaway in thirty miles. Clay’s car lot was right on the frontage road, where land was cheap and the wind made its uninterrupted rush whatever the season of the year. Before winter had quite arrived to thicken his blood, while the cattle trucks were still throwing up whirlwinds of cottonwood leaves, the wait between customers seemed endless. He couldn’t even listen to the radio anymore. In the snowy dead of winter it was easier somehow. Now, face close to the window, and one hand leaning against the recycled acoustic tile that lined the walls, he stared down at the roofs and hoods of used vehicles in search of a human form.

  When, just before lunch, a rancher came in about a five-year-old three-quarter-ton Dodge that Clay had sold him, Clay was glad even to receive a complaint. Barely over five feet tall in his canvas vest and railroad cap, the rancher held a pair of fencing pliers as an invitation to mayhem. He shouted, “It’s a lemon!” Clay, trying to lighten the mood, said, “The space shuttle was six billion, and it’s a lemon.” But he ended up getting sucked into a retroactive guarantee just to keep the guy’s business. With my luck, thought Clay, I’ll end up throwing a short block into it, or a rear end. Once the rancher, a friend of Clay’s father, had the repair deal in hand, he asked, “How’s the old man? Gonna pull through?”

  “He’s just about dead,” said Clay emphatically, and went back into the shack with its telephone, cash drawer, and long view of the vehicle lot. At the end of the frontage road, where it met Main Street, a newspaper tumbling through plastered itself against the boarded-up frozen-yogurt stand. The metal sign on wheels in front of the tire-repair shop was flapping back and forth. The Dodge pulled back onto the road and went by the shack. The rancher, barely able to see over the wheel, gave Clay a wave, and Clay smiled broadly saying, “Eat shit!” behind his teeth.

  It was really no longer a hospital, just a place providing emergency care until an ambulance or helicopter could take you to Billings. Three nurses and a doctor were on call. Clay got his father admitted there on the strength of being one of three ranchers who had founded the little hospital when it actually served the rural population then flourishing. It had the advantage of being close to home, with views that meant something to the old man, like the one of the big spring where they’d watered cattle for a century. There was not a lot to be done for him, at least not here. About all anyone could do was listen to his stories, and that seemed enough. Clay of course had heard them all, so there remained only to notice the thickening of detail with each retelling, assuming he could stand to hear his father express yet again his love for the life he’d lived while Clay pondered his own peaked existence at the lot. Should you interrupt the telling, the hard look would return, the face of a man who, throughout his life, had called all the shots that really mattered. Seeing his father in the bed, Clay could hardly help thinking about the ease that lay ahead for him and his sister, even as guilt tore at him. Times had changed all right, but that didn’t excuse much.

  Weekdays Clay listened for as long as he could; and on weekends his sister, Karen, came over from Powderville, sometimes with one of her kids. There were three boys, but two were too wild for that long a ride. Karen said that while she was gone they always got up to something obnoxious if their dad couldn’t find time to come in off the place and kick their asses.

  The hospital sat right in the middle of the old Matador pasture, where the longhorns coming up from Texas had recovered from the long trail. Clay’s great-grandfather had been one of the cowboys, and the story was that when they first arrived the Indian burials were still in the trees, and the ground was covered with stone tepee rings. A picture of that first roundup crew, with the reps from five outfits lined up in front on their horses, was Bill’s most cherished possession, and he fretted constantly about its safekeeping when he was gone. He seemed to feel that no one in his family cared anything about it. That was probably true. Either that or they were sick of hearing about it.

  It had begun to rain, and with the rain came the smell of open country. Karen was supposed to have been there already, and Clay really wanted to get back to the lot. No matter how often intuition betrayed him, he could still convince himself that someone was going to come along and buy a car today. Apart from that he felt a little angry, but at what he wasn’t so sure, maybe everything.

  “I don’t know what’s keeping her,” he said to his father.

  “Probably had to wait for Lewis to get out of school or find someplace to stash them two other little shits.”

  His father couldn’t see as far as the door. So when Karen appeared there, she was able to summon Clay discreetly. For a small brunette, in her jeans and boots and hoodie she could be as emphatic as a trooper telling you to pull over. She was proud to be married to a cowboy.

  “I’ve got to take Lewis in for a shot. He got bit by a skunk and, now, the poor little guy is going to have to have that series. So you need to hold the fort.”

  “My God, Karen, I can’t stay anymore. I’ve been here all morning.” He couldn’t say he’d been fucked over by that sawed-off rancher just half an hour past breakfast, because Karen had zero sympathy so far as his job was concerned.

  Karen said, “You’re going to have to,” and just walked on out. By the time it had occurred to him to offer to take Lewis for the shot, his sister was gone and his father was awake. What good had it been, the old man herding thousands of cattle over all those years only to wind up with his arms like Popsicle sticks and pissing through a tube. Nothing to show for his trouble but stories his son would have to hear all over again, with no relief but the chance of picking up something new about Leo the Illegal or O.C. or Robert Wood or some horse plowed under way back when. Sometimes during these tales, Clay would think about pole dancers or money pouring out of a slot machine or some decent soul appreciating something he’d done, such as that time he acquired the nearly new fire engine the government had bought because the Indians on the Rez didn’t want it, since they already had a bunch just like it they hadn’t gotten around to wrecking. The town enjoyed a lot of use out of that engine, even though no one seemed to remember who found it for them, or even that day the big red beauty first rolled down the street, sirens blazing and blinding chrome all over it. So much for quiet acts of heroism. Maybe it was time to start drawing attention to himself. A Ford dealership in Great Falls was having a Christian fund-raiser with TV stars on Saturday, and something like that might well be in his future. Or just toot his own horn down at the chamber of commerce.

  It was the last Mother’s Day before World War II. You and Karen was just little bitty. Your ma and me drove into the ranch yard, and Leo, the illegal who worked for me then (Here we go, thinks Clay), said some old fellow had arrived about sundown on a wild horse and rolled out his bedroll under the loading chute, put his head on his saddle, and gone to sleep. I had this feeling that it was old Robert Wood, and sure enough it was. (Yep!) Of course I caught him before he fell asleep, just caught his eye to tell him I would see him in the a.m. I pretty much knew what he was after. (So do I.) He had a band of mares up on the mesa behind our mares, and they were running out with wild horses there. Folks from town had come out from tim
e to time to chase them around, and they was absolutely wild. I had been hoping for the chance to gather them for Robert when we had enough hands, because it wasn’t going to be easy at all. (And what a bitch it would turn out to be.)

  Clay’s only defense against these onslaughts was the things he couldn’t say aloud.

  Several months before this, Robert went out into the sagebrush to catch his red roan stud, which was running with some draft horses by the springs. He came with nothing but a little pan of oats and a lariat. (Wait’ll you see how good this trick works.) Just as he got his stud caught, one of the draft horses bites the stud, and Robert gets hung up in the rope and dragged. Your uncle O. C. Drury was plowing up wheat stubble about two miles away and saw the dust cloud from where Robert was being hauled. At his age, Robert really never should have lived, but he did. He was in the hospital all winter.

  I ran into him after he’d healed some, and he said to me in his kind of whiny voice, “Bill, I been laid up. Can you carry me to the place?” I went with him into his little shack of a cabin, and he stripped down to his long underwear. He pulled back the covers of his bed, and there was a great big nest of mice, just full of little pink babies. He carefully moved them to one side and got in next to them, pulled up the covers, and nodded thanks for the lift. (Set your watches for hantavirus.)

  Gradually, I heard rumors that he was back at work pulling up his poor fence and halfway cowproofing it. He brought back his black baldies and his bulls. He was even seen crawling around the cockleburs packing a sprayer with a full tank and a rag tied across his face. He had always lived and worked alone and was still on the place where he was born. (Same dog bit me.)

  Robert was an old-time spade-bit horseman. His horses were quick and bronc-y, and the only safe place around them was on their backs. But they were quiet in a herd of cattle and had the lightest noses in Montana. O. C. Drury hauled cattle as a sideline, and he hated to haul Robert’s calves. Invariably, he’d arrive in the ranch yard mid-October, and Robert would complain, “O.C., I’m so shorthanded just now. Would you catch up that bay and help me bring these cattle in?” O.C. would feel obliged, and he’d crawl on the old bay or the old sorrel, both of which would know right away it wasn’t Robert Wood. So one false move, and the bronc ride was on. (Nice way to treat someone helping you out.)