Black Angus (12 page)

“He'll be a few moments,” Gideon's secretary said. “Why don't you sit down?”

Blanchard did as she suggested, angling his long frame into one of a row of plastic tube-steel chairs. And he rifled through the few magazines available:
Christian Life, The Watchtower, Reader's Digest
. He picked up some flyers for coming farm auctions, wondering whether his own would soon be added to the list.
Free Lunch
, they read.
All sales cash. Auctioneer: Billy Ray Diddle
.

When Gideon finally granted him an audience, Blanchard went in and sat down next to the banker's desk, not missing the fact that the man had not gotten up to greet him or shake his hand. Irritated, Blanchard got out a cigarette and lit it, just as he had the first time he met the banker, but innocently then, not knowing that he would buzz his secretary and tell her to bring in an ashtray, which he did again, now. The woman hurried in and placed the object on the immaculate surface of the desk as if it were a cow-chip. Blanchard thanked her, in vain. She departed without looking at him.

“I forgot you don't smoke,” Blanchard said.

“Or drink.”

“Good habits for a banker.”

“For any man.”

Blanchard's rejoinder, “Or old woman,” went unspoken, and for some reason he could not think of anything else to say, just sat there for a few moments smoking and sweating while the tiny banker steepled his hands, leaned back in his swivel chair, and
pondered
. On the credenza behind him were framed
photographs of himself and his family: wife, children, grandchildren, all immaculate, all not smoking, not drinking. Above them hung a large reproduction of Sallman's ethereal portrait of Jesus and on either side of that simulated wood plaques bearing verses from the Bible:
For all have sinned and come short of the glory of God . . . Whosoever believeth in Him shall not perish but have everlasting life
.

“I can't make the payment,” Blanchard blurted.

“Can't?”

“That's right. I need an extension.”

Gideon opened a folder on his desk and examined the top document, a loan sheet, as if he were not already familiar with its contents.

“Last year's calves,” he said. “You've still got them?”

“Yes.”

“Long yearlings by now, ain't they?”

Blanchard nodded. “Seventy of them.”

“Why don't you sell 'em?”

“Prices are going up. I've got a lot of grass. I figured it'd be better to wait till fall. More weight and a better price.”

“Well, how much
could
you pay on the note? In addition to the interest, naturally.”

“I'd rather extend the whole thing, interest and all. Say, till mid-October.”

“The whole thing, huh?”

“If I can.”

Gideon looked at another page in the folder. “How about your mortgage payment? Falls due in July, I see here. You gonna be able to make that?”

“No problem,” Blanchard lied, knowing he would probably have to sell cows to make it.

“You still have a hired man?”

Blanchard said he did, and Gideon made a face, as if the information caused him exquisite pain.

“Lots of men I know run whole sections by theirself,” he said. “With their wife and kids pitchin' in of course.”

“My wife isn't that strong. Or my son either.”

“Oh? I'm sorry to hear that.”

Blanchard said nothing for a time, waiting. Gideon took out a handkerchief and began to clean his glasses. Blanchard dragged on his cigarette and exhaled. The little man's mouth tightened and he lifted his hand, waving the smoke away.

“What if cattle prices go down in the fall?” he asked.

“I don't think they will. Nothing I read suggests they will.”

“Nothing you read, huh? And what
do
you read, Mister Blanchard?”

“In regard to cattle prices?
The Farm Journal, The Cattleman
, newspapers.”

“Tell me, do you ever read the Bible?”

Blanchard felt a sudden chill, one the tireless air conditioner had not caused. But even for money he found he could not just sit there and be bullied. “Not for market information, no,” he said.

Gideon smiled thinly. “For any information?”

“No, I guess not.”

“You
guess?
”

“I
know
.”

“Well, that's a pity. The Good Book can be a great help, especially in time of trouble.”

“You extend my note, Mister Gideon, and I just might not have a time of trouble.”

Again the banker steepled his fingers and pondered. But this time he finished by shaking his head, slowly, regretfully. “I don't know,” he said. “Frankly, I'm not sure you're a good risk, Mister Blanchard.”

Blanchard said nothing for a few moments, trying not to show the alarm he felt, the fear.

“And why is that?” he said finally, putting out his cigarette.

“Well, it ain't just the debt you carry. Many farmers here abouts carry fairly heavy obligations, and I go along with 'em if I can. It depends on the man.”

Blanchard's fear was turning into anger now, a pinpoint of heat, rage, building inside the cold. “Does it now? And in what way don't I measure up?”

“Oh, I don't want to go into all that.”

“Do it anyway.”

Gideon shrugged. “Well, let's just say it's intangibles—things like attitude and reputation. Now if I was ever to see you and your wife in church—any church—well, that'd be in your favor. 'Cause I'd figure then you probably was a sober, God-fearing Christian gentleman, and that's a good thing for a farmer to be. But when I hear a man in debt—in
my
debt–when I hear he gallivents and carouses around, well, it has to have an effect, don't you think so?”

Blanchard was on his feet now, feeling sick with anger and disappointment. He longed to tell the little prig to go screw himself, but he knew that would only give him reason to call in the entire note.

“How much?” he said. “How much do you want?”

Again Gideon shrugged, the soul of generosity. “Oh, say a fourth, plus the interest. Say ten thousand.”

“
Ten thousand
,” Blanchard repeated.

“Yep.”

“What if I can't make it?”

“Oh, we're not hardnosed here, Mister Blanchard. We'll give you thirty days before taking any action. Give you plenty of time to sell them yearlings.”

“I see.” Blanchard stood there nodding like a fool, as if he were trying to understand some difficult road directions.

“And the same amount every June first till you pay it off,” the banker was saying. “That sound fair enough?”

“I'll see what I can do.”

“You do that.”

As Blanchard left the bank the midday heat was like a wall falling on him, and he found himself breaking into a prickly, chilling sweat as he reached his car. He did not have ten thousand dollars. He did not have one thousand. He had enough to get through the summer, that was all, living and operating expenses, nothing more. And as for selling the yearlings, that was the last thing he wanted to do just now, for then he would have known exactly where he stood. He would have known he could not make it.

When Blanchard got back to the ranch he found Shea sitting on the front porch with Tommy, both of them holding cans of beer. Noting his brother's silly, lopsided grin, Blanchard asked him for his can and poured it out over the edge of the porch before giving it back to him and telling him to take it to the kitchen and throw it into the trash. When he was gone, Blanchard turned on Shea.

“That was pretty stupid,” he said.

“What harm could it do? A can of beer?”

“He's retarded, remember?”

“So?”

“So he has a hard enough time dealing with life sober, let alone drunk.”

“Who doesn't?”

“Don't do it again.”

Shea threw up his hands in innocent surrender. “Whatever you say, chief.”

He was barefoot and barechested, wearing only a pair of dirty chinos. A broad tight bandage ran like a bandolier around his rib cage and over his shoulder; another protected the right side of his forehead and a third showed in his scalp, covering a shaved swath. He had a black eye and his jaw and mouth were swollen purple.

“You look lovely,” Blanchard said.

“I'll survive. Cracked ribs according to the doctor, that's the worst they did. That and twelve stitches, plus a possible concussion.”

“Teach you to go around rescuing ungrateful mutts.”

“That's what Ronda said.”

“How is she?”

“Sexy. Even when you're half dead, she's sexy. I hit on her, but I didn't get anywhere. Guess she prefers older men.”

“Must be.”

“Speaking of romance, what's this Tommy tells me about Susan going to Saint Louis?”

“It's true.”

“Why?”

“Spur of the moment thing. She just wanted a break, that's all.”

Through his wounds, Shea regarded him dubiously. “She didn't run out on you, huh? It ain't a separation?”

“Of course not. It's just a vacation. They'll be back in a couple of weeks.”

“I see. So, meanwhile, who cooks?”

“Why not you?”

Shea mauled his face. “I'm on R. and R. Why not Ronda?”

Tommy had come back onto the porch looking unhappy and ashamed, undoubtedly having remembered by now that Blanchard did not want him to drink beer or liquor. And this would have upset him, for the most important thing in his life Blanchard knew, was to please his older brother. It was a burden Blanchard did not take lightly.

He went over to him now and put his hand on his shoulder “Any calls while I was gone?”

Tommy shook his head. “No calls,” he said. “And I listened too. I stayed right by the house.”

“Good boy.”

“And then Shea come home.” Tommy picked up his tote bag and hugged it to him. “Bad guys beat him up. That's why he's all hurt.”

Blanchard looked over at Shea, who shrugged.

“He asked me. What else could I tell him, that I got hit by a train?”

“They beat him up,” Tommy went on. “They kicked him and hit him with guns. And hit him and kicked him.”

“They're not bad men,” Blanchard said. “They were just drunk. They won't hurt anyone else. There's nothing to be afraid of.”

“Will they come here?”

“No, of course not.”

“If they did, would they hurt you, too?”

“They won't hurt anyone anymore. They promised not to get drunk anymore.”

Hearing that, Tommy seemed to relax a little. “They must been real drunk,” he said.

Blanchard decided to change the subject. “About time we checked on Clarence. And maybe fill the salt feeders, too.”

“I do it, okay?”

“Sure.”

“Good.”

Filling the feeders was Tommy's favorite job on the ranch, one he could understand and help with, one he and Blanchard always did together.

“He's in charge of the salt feeders,” Blanchard said to Shea.

Tommy confirmed it. “I in charge of salt feeders.”

“That's just great,” Shea said to him. Then he lifted his can of beer to Blanchard. “And here's to you, old buddy. You're a man of parts, that's what you are.”

“Most of them used.”

Shea grinned, and had to reach for his mouth in pain. “You say that to
me?
” he got out.

“I see your point.”

“Naturally. But again—what about supper? Who cooks?”

“I will.”

“Why not Ronda?”

“You serious?”

“This is her night off.”

Blanchard had forgotten. In the press of events since he had left her, he had forgotten that intriguing fact. “Well, I did tell her I'd call her,” he said.

“Do it.”

“Not to cook for us, though.”

“Why not?”

Blanchard did not answer. Going to the door, he gave Tommy a wink. “You stay here and look after this poor fella, all right?”

As he went inside, heading for the phone in the kitchen, he thought of the possibility of having her come over for the evening and he knew it would not be right, that it would confuse Tommy, cause him to worry. And he did not want that. On the other hand he did want to see her and he knew he could not go to her place, not leave Tommy alone again this night, even alone with Shea. So he made no decision. He dialed her number and let his voice tell him what was to be.

Shea had arrived okay, he told her. “He's sitting on the front porch now, swilling beer as if nothing happened.”

“That's good,” she said. “I guess he's what you call a stout fellow.”

Blanchard laughed and said he would tell Shea that. Then he plunged on: Susan and Whit had gone to Saint Louis for a few weeks and would she consider coming over for supper? He didn't want to leave Tommy alone again tonight.

“Are you kidding?” she asked.

“No.”

“To your house? With Shea and your brother there?”

“Yes.”

“You think that's wise?”

“No, but it wouldn't be for all night,” he told her. “Just through the evening. I'd like to see you.”

He suggested she pick up a bucket of fried chicken at the new state-line shop, and he would pay her back later. She was silent for a few moments. Then she said all right, she would come.

With Tommy following, Blanchard went out to the equipment shed to see how Clarence was progressing, but he found him gone, along with the small Ford tractor, which meant the old man was already out in the field mowing hay. The baler was put back together, greased, ready to go.

“Old Clarence is a sweetheart,” Blanchard said. “When he's working anyway.”

Tommy did not understand. “Clarence is a sweetheart?”

“Just joking. I mean he's a good worker.”