Crow Fair (14 page)

“I already have the big one: picturing Ray in hell with his ass
enfuego
.”

“Ah, speak a bit of Spanish, Mrs. Coelho?” said Dave, who would have rather heard mention of some
oro y plata
.

“Everybody in Modesto speaks ‘a bit of Spanish.’ Where you been all your life?”

“Washington, D.C., ma’am,” said Dave indignantly.

“That explains it,” said Mrs. Ray Coelho, and hung up.

Dave could now see why Ray was without transportation when they met. Wouldn’t want to leave a paper trail renting cars or riding on airplanes. He got all he needed done on the library computers in Modesto, where he and Morsel, two crooks, had found each other and planned a merger.

Apart from the burial grounds there was nothing to do around there. He wasn’t interested in that option until he discovered the liquor cabinet, and by then it was almost early evening. He found a bottle labeled
HOOPOE SCHNAPPS
with a picture of a bird, and he gave it a try. It went straight to his head. After several swigs, he failed to figure out the bird, but that didn’t keep him from getting very happy. The label said the stuff was made from mirabelles, and Dave thought, Fuck, I hope that’s good. Then as his confidence built, he reflected, Hey, I’m totally into mirabelles.

As he headed for the burial grounds, Dave, tottering a bit, decided he was glad to have left the Hoopoe schnapps back at the house. Rounding the equipment shed, he nearly ran into Weldon, who walked by without speaking or even seeing him, it seemed. Right behind the ranch buildings a cow trail led into the prairie, then wound toward a hillside spring that didn’t quite reach the surface, evident only from the patch of greenery. Just
below that was the spot Morsel had told him about, pockmarked with anthills. The ants, she’d claimed, would bring the beads to the surface, but still you had to hunt for them. Dave muttered, “I want some beads.”

He sat down among the mounds and was soon bitten through his pants. He jumped to his feet and swept the ants away, then crouched, peering and picking at the hills. This soon seemed futile, and his thighs ached from squatting; but then he found a speck of sky blue in the dirt, a bead. He clasped it tightly while stirring with his free hand and flicking away ants. He gave no thought to the bodies in the ground beneath him and continued this until dark, by which time his palm was full of Indian beads, and his head of drunken exaltation.

As he crossed the equipment shed, barely able to see his way, he was startled by the silhouette of Weldon’s Stetson and then of the old man’s face very near his own, gazing at him before speaking in a low voice. “You been in the graves, ain’t you?”

“Yes, just looking for beads.”

“You ought not to have done that, feller.”

“Oh? But Morsel said—”

“Look up there at the stars.”

“I don’t understand.”

Weldon Case reached high over his head. “That’s the crow riding the water snake.” He turned back into the dark. Dave was frightened. He went to the cabin and got into bed as quickly as he could, anxious now for the alcohol to fade. He pulled the blanket up under his chin despite the warmth of the night and watched a moth batting against the windowpane at the sight of the moon. When he was nearly asleep, he saw the lights of Morsel’s car wheel across the ceiling, before going dark. He
listened for the car doors, but it was nearly ten minutes before they opened and closed. He rolled over against the wall and pretended to be asleep but watching as the door latch was carefully lifted from without.

Once the reverberation of the screen-door spring had ended, there was whispering. He perceived a dim shadow cross his face, someone peering down at him, and then another whisper. Soon their muffled copulation filled the room, then paused long enough for a window to be opened before resuming. Dave listened more and more intently, comfortable in his pretended sleep, until Ray said in a clear voice, “Dave, you want some of this?”

Dave stuck to his feigning until Morsel laughed, got up, and left with her clothes under her arm. “Night, Dave. Sweet Dreams.”

The door shut, and after a moment, Ray spoke. “What could I do, Dave? She was after my weenie like a chicken after a June bug.” Snorts and, soon after, snoring.

In the doorway of the house, taking in the early sun and smoking a cigarette, was Morsel in an old flannel shirt over what looked like a body stocking that produced a lazily winking camel toe. As Dave stepped up, her eyes followed her father crossing the yard very slowly toward them. “Look,” she said, “he’s wetting his pants. When he ain’t wetting his pants, he walks pretty fast. It’s just something he enjoys.”

Weldon came up and looked at Dave, trying to remember him. He said, “This ain’t much of a place to live. My folks moved us out here. We had a nice little ranch at Coal Banks Landing
on the Missouri, but one day it fell in the river. Morsel, I’m uncomfortable.”

“Go inside, Daddy, I’ll get you a change.”

Once the door shut behind them, Dave said, “Why in the world do you let him fly that plane?”

“It’s all he knows. He flew in the war, and he’s dusted crops. He’ll probably kill himself in the damn thing. Good.”

“What’s he do up there?”

“Looks for his cows.”

“I didn’t know he had any.”

“He don’t. He hadn’t had cows in forever. But he looks for ’em long as he’s got fuel, then he comes down and says the damn things was brushed up to where you couldn’t see ’em.”

“I’m glad you go along with him. That’s sure thoughtful.”

“I don’t know about that, but I gotta tell you this: I can’t make heads or tails of your friend Ray. He was coming on to me the whole time at the cage fights, then he whips out a picture of his ex-wife and tells me she’s the greatest piece of ass he ever had.”

“Aw, gee. What’d you say to that?”

“I said, ‘Ray, she must’ve had one snappin’ pussy, because she’s got a face that would stop a clock.’ I punched him in the shoulder and told him he hadn’t seen nothing yet. What’d you say your name was?”

“I’m Dave.”

“Well, Dave, Ray says you mean to throw in with us. Is that a fact?”

“I’m sure giving it some thought.”

“You look like a team player to me. I guess that bitch he’s married to will help out on that end. Long as I never have to see her.”

Sometimes Dave could tell that Ray couldn’t remember his
name, either. He’d say “pal” or “pard” or, in a pinch, “old-timer,” which seemed especially strange to someone in his twenties. Then when the name came back to him, he’d overuse it. “Dave, what’re we gonna do today.” “Dave, what’s that you just put in your mouth?” “I had an uncle named Dave.” And so forth. But the morning that Morsel slipped out of their room carrying her clothes, he summoned it right away: “Dave, you at all interested in getting rich?”

“I’m doing my best, Ray!”

“I’m talking about taking it up a notch, and I’m fixing to run out of hints.”

“I’m a certified artificial inseminator,” said Dave, loftily. If he had not already scented the bait, he’d have been home days before. But this was a big step, and he knew it was a moment in time.

At least on the phone she couldn’t throw stuff at him.

“The phone is ringing off the hook. Your ranchers wanting to know when you’ll get there.”

“Ma, I know, but I been tied up. Tell them not to get their panties in a wad. I’ll be there.”

“David,” she screeched, “I’m not your secretary!”

“Ma, listen to me, Ma, I got tied up. I’m sparing you the details right now, but trust me.”

“How can I trust you with the phone ringing every ten seconds?”

“Ma, I can’t listen to this shit, I’m under pressure. Pull the fucking thing out of the wall.”

“Pressure? You’ve never been under pressure in your life!”

He hung up on her. He knew he couldn’t live with her anymore. She needed to take her pacemaker and get a room.

Morsel was able to get a custodial order in Miles City based on the danger to community presented by Weldon and his airplane. Ray had so much trouble muscling him into Morsel’s sedan for the ride to assisted living that Dave’s hulking frame had to be enlisted to bind Weldon, who tossed off some antique curses before collapsing in defeat. But the God he called down on them didn’t count for much anymore. At dinner that night, Morsel was still a little blue, despite the toasts, somewhat vague, to a limitless future. Dave smiled along with them, his inquiring looks met by giddy winks from Morsel and Ray. Nevertheless, he felt happy and accepted, at last convinced he was going somewhere. Exchanging a nod, they let him know that he was a “courier.” He smiled around the room in bafflement. Ray unwound one of his wads. Dave was going to California.

“Make sure you drive the limit,” said Ray. “I’ll meanwhile get to know the airplane. Take ’er down to the oil fields. Anyway, it’s important to know your customers.” He and Morsel saw him off from the front stoop. They looked like a real couple.

“Customers for what exactly?” Dave immediately regretted his question. Not a problem, as no one answered him anyway.

“And I’ll keep the home fires burning,” said Morsel without taking the cigarette from her mouth. David had a perfectly good idea what he might be going to California for and recognized the advantage of preserving his ignorance, no guiltier than the
United States Postal Service. “Your Honor, I had no idea what was in the trunk and I am prepared to affirm that under oath or take a lie-detector test, at your discretion,” he rehearsed.

Dave drove straight through, or nearly so, stopping only briefly in Idaho, Utah, and Nevada to walk among cows. His manner with cattle was so familiar that none ran from him but gathered around in benign expectation. Dave sighed and jumped back in the car. He declined to be swayed by second thoughts.

It was late when he drove into Modesto, and he was tired. He checked into a Super 8 and awoke to the hot light of a California morning as it shone through the window onto his face. He ate downstairs and then checked out. The directions he unfolded in his car proved quite exact: within ten minutes he was pulling around the house into the side drive and backing into the open garage.

A woman in a bathrobe emerged from the back door and walked past his window without a word. He popped the trunk and sat quietly as he heard her load then shut it. She stopped at his window, pulling the bathrobe up close around her throat. She wasn’t hard to look at, but Dave could see you wouldn’t want to argue with her. “Tell Ray I said be careful. I’ve heard from two IRS guys already.” Dave said nothing at all.

Dave was so cautious, the trip back took longer. He overnighted at the Garfield again so as to arrive in daylight, getting up twice during the night to check on the car. In the morning, he was reluctant to eat at the café, where some of his former clientele might be sitting around picking their teeth and speculating about fall calves or six-weight steers. He was now so close that he worried about everything from misreading the gas gauge to getting a flat. He even imagined the trunk flying open for no
reason. He headed toward the ranch on an empty stomach, knowing Morsel would take care of that. He flew past fields of cattle with hardly a glance.

No one seemed around to offer the hearty greeting and meal he was counting on. On the wire running from the house to the bunkhouse, a hawk flew off reluctantly as though it had had the place to itself. Dave got out and went into the house. Dirty dishes sat on the dining-room table, light from the television flickered without sound from the living room. When Dave walked in he saw the television was tuned to the shopping network, a close-up of a hand modeling a gold diamond-studded bracelet. Then he saw Morsel on the floor with the remote still in her hand.

Dave felt an icy calm. Ray had done this. Dave patted his pocket for the car keys and walked out of the house, stopping on the porch to survey everything in front of him. Then he went around to the shop. Where the airplane had usually been parked, in its two shallow ruts, Ray was lying with a pool of blood extending from his mouth like a speech balloon without words. He’d lost a shoe. The plane was gone.

Dave felt trapped between the two bodies, as if there was no safe way back to the car. When he got to it, a man was there waiting. He was about Dave’s age, lean and respectable looking in clean khakis and a Shale Services ball cap. “I must have overslept,” he said. “How long have you been here?” He touched his teeth with his thumbnail as he spoke.

“Oh, just a few minutes.”

“Keys.”

“Oh right, yes, I have them here.” Dave patted his pocket again.

“Get the trunk for me, please.” Dave offered him the keys. “No, you.”

“Not a problem.”

Dave bent to insert the key, but his hand was shaking so that at first he missed the lock. The lid rose to reveal the contents of the trunk. Dave never felt a thing.

The Smiths were a very old couple, whose lifelong habits of exercise and outdoor living and careful diet had resulted in their seeming tiny—tiny, pale, and almost totemic—as they spread a picnic tablecloth on my front lawn and arranged their luncheon. Since I live with reckless inattention to what I eat, I watched with fascination as they set out apples, cheese, red wine, and the kind of artisanal bread that looks like something found in the road. The Smiths were the last friends of my parents still alive. And to the degree we spend our lives trying to understand our parents, I always looked forward to Edward and Emily’s visits as a pleasant forensic exercise.