Charlie Martz and Other Stories (17 page)

Maybe you could give that old man a job. Somethin' where he wouldn't have to move around any.

“Honey, why don't we just stay right here till the moon comes up?”

She'll turn her head to nod all right and that's when you kiss her. Take her face in your hands and kiss her lightly the first one. Maybe two that way. Then put your arms around her and really kiss her good.

Boy!

He looked over at Ace currycombing his horse.

“Ace, why don't we go to La Noria later on?”

“Suits me,” Ace said, not even looking at him.

Chick relaxed. That was easier than he'd expected.

But in the early afternoon a wagon pulled up loaded with salt chunks wrapped in gunny sacks and they spent the rest of the afternoon dropping the salt licks for the herd scattered all over the meadows. After that they had to eat, wash up, and Ace had to shave before they were ready to leave.

Ace sang “The Hog-Eye Man” most of the way there, but this time he was singing more to himself, not shouting the chorus, and it was just something to pass the time and fill the stillness. He made up his own verses when he was tired of the ones he knew: obscene ones that didn't rhyme and he sang these over and over again.

Chick felt good. Even with the sharp little knot inside of him. He'd breathe in and out slowly to make it go away, but it stayed where it was halfway between his stomach and his chest, right in the middle. It would've been good to tell somebody how he felt, but not Ace, and especially not when he was singing that song.

Coming out of the aspen, approaching the pueblo, the knot was even tighter and taking big gulps of air didn't relieve it a bit. He thought:
What's there to be so nervous about? You'd think you were goin' to ask somebody for a job.

“You're awful quiet,” Ace said.

“How could I say anything with you singin' that dirty song?”

“You can sing with me on the way home.”

“Maybe I will. Maybe I'll even drown you right out.”

They passed between the first adobes entering the square, reining in the direction of the cantina. “Big night tonight,” Ace said. In the dimness they could see a line of horses standing at the rail. Light showed in the windows of the cantina and they could hear faint sounds of laughter.

“How come?” Chick asked.

“Saturday night, boy.”

“I lost track of the days.”

“That's what line ridin' does,” Ace stated. They dismounted and tied up at the end of the rail.

Chick saw her the moment they entered the cantina. She was sitting at a table between two men, looking at one of them and smiling at something he was saying. He watched her as he followed Ace to the bar, but she did not look up.

“Have to stand tonight,” Ace said, his eyes roaming over the crowded room. The oil lamps hanging from the beamed ceiling were up to full brightness and a haze of tobacco smoke hung motionless over the table area. Most of the men were Mexican vaqueros; the others, like the two sitting with Luz, were riders from the American side, from any one of a half dozen spreads located in this southern stretch of the San Rafael valley.

“You want mescal?” asked Ace. He made room for himself at the bar.

“All right with me,” Chick said. He glanced over his shoulder. Still the girl had not seen him.

“You look disappointed,” Ace said.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean you look disappointed.”

“You're seein' things.”

“Not yet I'm not,” Ace said. He picked up both of the drinks the man behind the bar had poured and handed one to Chick. “I know what's botherin' you.” Ace grinned. “That little chilipicker over there.”

“You're crazy,” Chick told him.

Ace's grin broadened as he looked down the length of the bar. Alicia was standing near the end talking to a vaquero. “I got somethin' botherin' me, too,” Ace said, and started toward them.

Chick watched him: Ace putting his hand on the vaquero's shoulder, the vaquero turning, looking at him sullenly, then smiling as Ace said something: Alicia smiling too, then laughing, a high shrill laugh; Ace raising his drink to her—

He can sure be friendly when he wants,
Chick thought. He looked at Luz again just as she was rising, picking up the two glasses from the table. A few feet from him she squeezed in next to the bar.

“Luz?”

Her head turned and at first she seemed not to recognize him. “Oh . . . how are you?”

“Fine. How're you?”

“Good.” She turned back to the bar and said something in Spanish to the bartender who raised a bottle and filled the two glasses. She handed him a coin.

“Luz, I said I'd be back today and I am.”

“What?”

“Don't you remember, I said—”

“Oh . . . yes.”

“I thought tonight we could go out for a walk instead of stayin' in this smoky place.” He grinned at her. “Take a look at the moon.”

She was picking up change the bartender had placed on the bar and suddenly she was talking to him again, snapping the words, and her eyes blazed angrily. The bartender handed her another coin.

As she picked up the glasses, Chick said, “I thought we could go for a walk.”

She glanced at him irritably. “Can't you see I'm busy?”

“Later on, then?” His hand touched her arm.

“Do you want me to spill these!”

“I thought—”

“Listen, find a girl who isn't busy.”

She turned from him and went to the table. He watched her sit down between the two men and then he walked out of the cantina. He moved slowly, hearing the cantina sounds behind him, as he took his horse from the rail and led it across the square and between the adobes.

You really got a way with women, haven't you?

He thought of something Ace had said the day before. Something about if you can't handle the women then don't fool with them.

You know what he meant now, huh? Now you know it takes more'n a high opinion of yourself.

But it won't happen again, will it?

Riding back he sang “The Hog-Eye Man” and by the time he reached the line shack the glimpses of her in his mind were less frequent.

Perhaps a little bit of her would always remain in his mind, but for some reason he felt pretty good. Freer.

And at the same time he felt every bit of at least twenty years old.

C
HRIS WAS ON THE
back porch, a loden coat thrown over her shoulders, when the sound of rifle fire reached her again. This time there were three moment-spaced reports coming sharply, clearly from beyond the barn and tractor shed, echoing over the orchard and the open pasture, the reports stretching thinly out of the woods that were perhaps five hundred yards from the house.

She was certain now that someone was shooting on their property; someone who had no business being there. Deer season or not, the fence should tell them it was private property.

Unless the hunters were friends of Evan's.

Waiting, listening, her gaze still fixed on the far slope of the pasture, Chris worked her arms into the coat and fastened the wooden toggles. The hood remained folded away from her dark hair that was parted on the side and held in place by a plain silver clasp. A gray skirt showed below the coat; she wore matching kneesocks and black snow boots that were comfortably well worn.

That could be it,
she thought.
A neighbor, or someone from Howell.
She could picture Evan talking to one of the store clerks in town, to a man he hardly knew, telling him to come around anytime, the woods were always there waiting. That could very well be it. Easy Ev being friendly, inviting everybody in town to tramp all over their property and shoot or scare away whatever game might be there. He would have forgotten about her father coming up in the morning.

Tomorrow would have to be as near perfect as possible. Ideally, Evan and her father would shoot a buck in the morning; in the afternoon they'd relax, mix drinks, and let the talk come naturally. That was the way Chris pictured it. Both of them in a good mood, feeling something in common now with the drinks on the table between them and the buck hanging in the tractor shed. When her father would finally bring the conversation around to his business, Evan would be in a receptive mood and listen without letting his gaze drift out the window to the barn and the orchard standing dark and silent in the November dusk.

It was her father's idea that Evan come to work for him. It was his problem, too—to convince a twenty-four-year-old easygoing ex–basketball star, one year out of Michigan State and only six months married, that he would be happier and make considerably more money as a manufacturer's rep than he could as a seventy-two-acre farmer with six cows and a sizable mortgage.

It wasn't a recent idea. Her father had talked to Evan about it before, but seldom with any hope of success. Evan would turn him down politely, mildly, saying that he'd just always wanted to farm and feeling the way he did about it, at least he ought to try it.

But tomorrow's session could be different. Now, for the first time, Chris would side with her father; not arguing it with Evan, but letting him know, gently, that her father's idea was at least reasonable. Evan could be an asset to any sales organization. He was calm, not likely to panic under pressure; he made friends easily, looked
exceptionally presentable with a suit on, and still had a name in Detroit as a Michigan State basketball star. But—

There was a tricky part to it. Chris realized it first in a personal way, feeling that the quality she loved most about Evan was the very thing that sometimes made her angry. Her father translated it into practical terms. The quality that marked Evan as a good potential salesman, his easygoing friendliness, could also be his biggest liability. “Right now,” her father had said, “he doesn't know where to draw the line. You're too friendly, too patient, and people take advantage of you.” But with direction, guided by her father's experience, Evan's friendliness could be developed into a valuable asset instead of a rug people were likely to walk over anytime they felt like it.

Sure, keep the farm. Her father was for that. Ideal for weekend hunting; fine for during the summer. But why break a full-time pick on a project that couldn't gross more than four thousand its best year? What was the assurance Evan could handle it on his own and make it pay even that much?

This uncertainty raised doubts in Chris's mind. The doubts banded together into a conviction that her father was right and that tomorrow was the day Evan would give in. If for no other reason, she decided now, than for her sake.

Evan's pickup came past the corner of the house, rolled slowly over the gravel drive to stop in front of the garage. He waved getting out. Chris raised a red-mittened hand. She watched him reach over the side panel and lift out a box of groceries. He smiled coming toward the porch, then frowned, gritting his teeth and hurrying, as if the box was too heavy for him. Chris pushed the door open and stepped aside.

“Did you hear the shooting?”

“It's hunting season.” He paused to kiss her on the cheek before going in.

“This shooting was on our land,” Chris said when he appeared in the doorway again.

“I wondered,” Evan said. “There's an old yellow convertible parked on the road in from the highway.” He was already moving down the steps. “I almost went in the ditch getting around it.”

“Evan—”

“I'll be right back.” He went to the pickup, this time lifted out a case of beer and came back holding it close to his chest. “I hope your dad'll settle for beer.”

“He's been known to.” Chris watched him anxiously but waited until Evan was putting the case down on the porch. “Then you don't know who's in our woods.”

He straightened, moving the case against the wall with his foot. “How do you know they're in ours?”

“I was standing right here. You could tell.”

“Well, there aren't any signs posted. I mean you can't really blame them.”

“Evan, they had to climb a fence to get in.”

He had turned and now his gaze hung on the horizon of the pasture slope, as if picturing the trees that were thick down beyond it. His hand came out of his coat pocket with a tobacco plug and he bit off a corner of it, still staring at the slope that was bare except for snow patches and dark tree-stump dots.

Waiting now, wondering what he was thinking, she watched the slow movement of his jaw as he worked the tobacco into his cheek. He looked more like a professional athlete than a farmer, a Major League baseball player, though he had taken up plug tobacco because it was a farmer thing to do. Chris was sure of that. At least he handled it well, as if he'd been chewing tobacco all of his life.

Right now, though, the thoughtful, slow movement of his jaw was exasperating.

“Evan, don't you think you should tell them to leave?”

“Why?”

“Why? Because they're trespassing on your land! And if they haven't killed a deer already, they've probably scared them all away.”

“So why bother?” He pulled work gloves out of his pockets.

“And if there are no deer there,” Chris said, spacing the words, “where will you take Dad tomorrow?”

Evan seemed to smile. “You know all rich girls, even ex-ones, call their fathers Dad. They say, ‘Dad did something.' Like he was the only one the world with that name. They never say, ‘My dad.' You ever notice that?”

“You're changing the subject.”

“I just happened to think of that.”

“All right, my father is looking forward to hunting with you tomorrow. But if someone's in the woods today, there won't be anything to hunt tomorrow. Now does that make sense?”

“You always worry about little piddlin' things.”

“Evan, are you going to tell them to leave or shall I?”

“They might even be gone already.”

“Are you going to find out?”

“I don't see why we should. What if it's somebody who drove all the way up from Detroit to hunt. He works in a plant, looks forward to it all year. Then we go out and ruin his day.”

She stared at him, and at the end of the silence her voice seemed more quiet. “Evan, don't you ever get tired of being a nice guy?”

“I just don't think it's important enough to have to tramp all the way out there.”

He's afraid:
it came to her all at once and in one brief moment seemed to explain everything about Evan. He was really afraid of people—for some reason unnaturally worried about what people thought of him. So he was always friendly, overly friendly. Did that make sense? Thinking about it, she became self-conscious and made her mind see something else. Her father. All right, her father.

Abruptly she said, “I know what Dad would do.”

“I guess he would,” Evan said.

“Well, he doesn't let people walk all over him!”

“No, you can't say he does that.”

“If it's a question of standing up for your rights . . . if it's something you've paid for, something you're entitled to, why should you care what other people think?”

Evan frowned. “Who are we talking about?”

Don't go into it now,
she thought and said, “Just tell me what you intend to do.”

“I'm going to do the chores, if it's all right with you.”

That was it. Chris brushed past him; she was down the steps in two strides and walking across the yard. Let him call. Just let him call. She'd keep right on walking and not look back, not even when he came running after her.

But Evan didn't call. And by the time she had passed the barn she knew he wasn't going to.

All right, then he's not,
she thought, passing the feedlot now that extended out from the barn. She felt awkward, picturing herself as he would see her from the porch, and she concentrated on maintaining a natural, unhurried stride, her hands deep in the pockets of the loden coat.
Just don't look back,
she told herself.
Or stumble.

Once through the orchard, following the trace of road that curved into the pasture gate, she felt more sure of herself. She could trip on the deep, frozen ruts and it wouldn't matter; he couldn't see her now, not until she reached the high ground of the pasture.

Now you're worrying about what somebody thinks of you,
she thought. Then told herself it was natural; Evan, after all, was her husband. But to be afraid of what everybody thought—to use friendliness as a defense—perhaps being even physically afraid of people, that was something else.

And now you're stretching it all out of proportion,
she told herself. Still, she continued to think of Evan, remembering first
the things she liked to remember, seeing him again in a basketball game: tall and long-legged with his relaxed, deft ball-handling and a slow-motion way of going and following through when he took a shot. But after the game they would go out to eat—and there it was.

They could sit in a restaurant for almost an hour waiting to be served or waiting for the check. Evan never complained about the service; and even after sitting there so long, he would still be polite to the waitress and thank her when they left.

Her father's presence seemed to assure good service. (She couldn't help thinking of him in contrast to Evan.) He would no more than raise his eyes and a waiter would be at their table. Just as he could pick up a telephone and there would be last-minute good seats for a Detroit Lions football game. Comparing them now, remembering little things about each one, she was more sure than ever that her father was right about Evan.

To Chris, thinking as she moved carefully over the uneven ground, circling the low places that were filled with water and thinly frozen over, the open pasture sloped gradually, almost imperceptibly. Looking up, she was surprised to see the trees so near. They formed a dark, solid expanse between the snow of the pasture and the dull, overcast sky.

Chris stopped at the edge of the trees. Finding whoever was here could be a problem. She hadn't thought of that before. There was no sound in the trees; no tracks either, she noticed, moving into the dimness. She walked slowly, listening, hearing only her own steps in the dead leaves that almost completely covered the ground.

Evan had mentioned seeing a car. Remembering this, Chris moved in the general direction of the side road that led in from the highway. Less than fifty feet farther on, as she came to a clearing, Chris saw the spot of color, a yellow shape barely visible through the saplings and beyond the wire fence marking their property line. That would be it. Evan had said a yellow convertible.

Nothing to it,
Chris thought.
Now—

She glanced to the side and stopped. Two men stood watching her from the near end of the clearing: one facing her, a rifle cradled in his arm; the other half turned, looking over his shoulder. Not until he came around did Chris see the whiskey bottle held at his side. He was perhaps nineteen or twenty, bareheaded, with a brush cut that was growing out and needed trimming. He smiled, a thin, vaporous trace of his breath forming in the crisp air.

“Well now—” His gaze seemed dulled, clouded by too much to drink, though he stared at Chris calmly, openly appraising her and obviously liking what he saw.