Duane's Depressed (11 page)

The only paper in the cabin was a little notepad that dated from the year the cabin had been built. In the first months he had occasionally had two or three of his fishing buddies in—once or twice they played cards, using the notepad to keep score, if they were playing a card game that involved a score. Such visits had only occurred a few times. Duane soon discovered that what he came to the cabin for was solitude.

But it was good that he had the notepad, and two or three ballpoint pens. Now that he intended to walk to town when he needed something, and would only have a small backpack to carry his supplies in, it behooved him to make careful lists before he went shopping. His first list only consisted of four items: matches, bacon, chili, and a file. He stood for a long time, looking out at the scudding clouds, trying to think of something else he
might need on his trip in. Finally he added one more item to the list: twenty-two shells. He debated in his mind whether to bring a short shotgun back with him. Quail, duck, and wild turkey were all still in season—and the wild pigs were always in season. With a shotgun he could provide himself with a variety of succulent fowl, at least until bird season closed.

But in the end he decided against the shotgun. He wasn’t a back-to-nature crank, after all. He didn’t have to kill everything he ate—canned goods would suit him fine, for the most part. If he developed a sudden hunger for game he would just have to sneak up close enough to something to kill it with the twenty-two.

The clouds lay so low above his hill now that he could no longer see the buildings of Thalia, or, indeed, much of anything. It would be dark in a few hours. Between his relaxing and his wood chopping he had used up much of the day. If he intended to walk to town to pick up the file and a few groceries he had better get started. He couldn’t tell what the clouds intended. If it started to sleet or snow everyone at home would freak out all the more when he told them he was going to walk back to the cabin and spend the night.

Then, watching the two hawks scout the valley, he sat down in his lawn chair again and covered himself—to the chin this time—with the thick poncho. It was a little too cold to be sitting out on a hill in a lawn chair; the heat that he had generated with all his wood chopping had begun to leave him: better to go inside and build a fire with some of the wood he had chopped. Shorty, by dint of frantic effort, had managed to scramble up on the boulder where the old ground squirrel had sat when it scolded him—but the old ground squirrel, at the moment, was snug in its burrow. Shorty stood triumphantly on top of the boulder, yipping at nothing. Then a jackrabbit appeared, well west on the hill, and Shorty was off in hot pursuit.

After a time Duane went inside and built a good fire in the little fireplace. There wasn’t going to be a sunset to watch that evening—just a slow fade from dim to dark. The moment for hiking into Thalia had passed. There was nothing he needed that he couldn’t do without until the next day. He still had the soup, the can of English peas, some crackers, and plenty of coffee. The axe
was thoroughly dulled, but then he didn’t need to chop any more firewood for a while. He had an abundance, stacked right by his door. If part of what he was attempting to do was free himself from habit, then making a habit of walking to town every single day was no way to start.

After a time Shorty came back, rabbitless, and Duane let him in and brought the lawn chair in too. He realized well enough that there were still a few impediments to his enjoyment of the simple life—a few barriers that still had to be removed, the main one being his family. When he left that morning to walk to his cabin it hadn’t dawned on him that what he really wanted to do was live in the cabin permanently. He just told Karla he was going for a walk. He didn’t tell her he was leaving her because he hadn’t realized it himself until he had sat in the lawn chair for a few hours and thought about things. She may have had her apprehensions but she didn’t really know what was going on with him, since he didn’t know himself, really. The one thing he knew for certain was that he didn’t want to live even a single day as he had been living, driving around in his pickup and going through the motions of a life that had long since ceased to interest him. Other than Karla, no one at his house had a clue about his feelings. His little speech about walking for his health had seemed to satisfy whatever concerns the others might have. They wouldn’t particularly miss him if he didn’t show up for supper, probably wouldn’t particularly miss him for a week or two. They would just assume he was on a fishing trip or a business trip or something. Willy and Bubbles would eventually begin to wonder what had become of Pa-Pa—but that wouldn’t occur for a while.

When he tried to think of what he might say to Karla, to make her realize that he was unlikely to be coming back, his brain felt as dull as the axe he had just used to cut the mesquite. The fact was, he felt a little tired—more tired than hungry. He couldn’t really be expected to rethink his whole life—not in one day.

He didn’t imagine Karla would show up looking for him, either. She had had a wary look in her eyes, when he left the house that morning. Though by nature a confronter, Karla had been married to him a long time; she mostly knew when to test him
and when to let be. Of course, she was also impatient—she never let be for long, but she was not so impatient that she couldn’t let a day or two slide by before she decided to bring some crisis to a head. It was not particularly unusual for him to spend a night in his cabin. His failure to appear at suppertime wouldn’t cause too much comment—less, probably, than if he showed up, got a file, and walked away in the night. Karla, once she had had time to think about it, would probably lay back, leave him alone, let him have a day or two to come to his senses.

Just as he had convinced himself that that was likely to be the case, and had opened a can of soup for his supper, he saw a pair of headlights coming across his hill.

“Just when we don’t want company we’re getting company,” he said, to Shorty. But he opened the can of soup anyway, and was trying to decide whether cream of chicken soup would go well with English peas, when Bobby Lee stepped into the cabin, his sunglasses in place, as dark as clouds.

“Goodness me, what’s for supper?” he asked. “If it’s cream of chicken soup can I have a bowl?”

“Help yourself,” Duane said.

14

“I
F YOU’RE JUST GOING TO SIT THERE
and act nervous I wish you’d leave,” Duane said. It didn’t take long for the two of them to consume a bowl of soup and a few crackers; while they were eating Bobby Lee did an unusual amount of twitching, sniffing, shuffling his feet. After such a peaceful day it took very little in the way of human anxiety to set Duane’s teeth on edge.

“I didn’t move all this way out here to eat soup with nervous people,” he added.

“Why
did
you move out here, boss?” Bobby Lee asked. “You own the best house in this whole part of the country and here you are out on a hill, living in a shack with a dog.”

“I moved out here to get away from people who are so nervous they can’t even sit still long enough to eat a bowl of soup,” Duane said.

“Want me to take Shorty back to the wetbacks?” Bobby Lee asked. “I bet they’re missing him by now, and even if they ain’t it would be an excuse to leave.”

“Shorty is not going back to the wetbacks,” Duane informed him. “He lives with me now. I’m going to be his foster parent.”

“You could have adopted me instead of him,” Bobby Lee said. “I’ve been needing a foster parent ever since I lost my left nut.”

“Unless I’m mistaken it was your right nut you lost,” Duane reminded him.

“It might as well have been both nuts, for all the pussy I’m getting,” Bobby Lee said.

“I hope you didn’t drive all the way out here to talk about your sex life,” Duane said. But he offered him a cup of coffee, moved by the sad look Bobby Lee had worn ever since the loss of his testicle.

“I take that back,” Bobby Lee said. “As long as I’ve still got one nut I might get some pussy eventually.”

“Don’t wait too long,” Duane said. “You might get to the point where you don’t want any.”

“Women don’t look twice at a man with one ball,” Bobby Lee said. Even before his operation he had been prone to sudden plunges into bottomless self-pity.

“It’s not the women, it’s you,” Duane said. “You’re a goddamn baby. You go around feeling so sorry for yourself that you don’t try.

“If you tried as hard as you used to, at least the law of averages would be on your side,” Duane added.

“Ain’t you got any hamburger meat?” Bobby asked. “I have to work tonight. That cream of chicken soup may not stick to my ribs very long.”

“I plan to acquire some groceries tomorrow,” Duane said. “I didn’t get time to go shopping today.”

“Karla said you was so lonesome you’d probably appreciate any company you could get, but that was wrong,” Bobby said. “You ain’t even lonesome, are you?”

“Nope,” Duane said.

“Why not? You got to admit this is a lonesome old hill.”

“I think it’s a nice hill,” Duane said. “If it was higher it would be too high, and if it was lower it wouldn’t be a hill, it would just be a ridge. It makes a fine place to retire.”

“Oh, are you retired now?” Bobby Lee asked. “If you are, you should have told them at the office. They’re under the impression that you’re still running a business.”

“I’ll tell them tomorrow,” Duane assured him. “I had to chop my wood today.”

Bobby Lee was quiet for a while, thinking. He extracted a cigarette from a pack, looked at it, and then stuck it behind his ear.

“I get the feeling your retirement home is a smoke-free environment,” he said.

“No, you can smoke,” Duane said. “One of the benefits of retirement is that you get to stop making rules for other people. Other people can go to hell anyway they want to.”

“Hell is not having but one ball and wondering if you’re going to get cancer in the good one,” Bobby Lee said.

“I thought we weren’t going to talk about this anymore,” Duane said.

“I was sent out here by Karla—she instructed me to snoop. I guess you know that,” Bobby Lee said.

“You don’t work for Karla,” Duane reminded him. “You’re not her employee. You don’t have to do her dirty work, you know?”

“I don’t guess I really know what’s happening,” Bobby Lee said. “I thought I was your employee, but now you say you’re retired. Who’s going to run the oil company if that’s the case?”

“Dickie and you,” Duane said. “He’ll be out of rehab next week. A little more responsibility might be good for him. It might encourage him to let the drugs alone.”

“Maybe,” Bobby Lee said.

After that they sat in silence for a long time.

“What do you want me to tell Karla?” Bobby asked.

“Tell her I’m fine,” Duane said.

There was another silence.

“You’re fine—that’s it?” Bobby inquired.

“You’re sitting there looking at me. Don’t I look healthy to you?” Duane asked.

“Yes, but you could be seething underneath,” Bobby Lee said.

“I’m not seething underneath. I was just enjoying a quiet evening in my cabin when you showed up.

“I’m fine,” he added.

“It may be true but she’s not gonna want to hear that,” Bobby Lee said. “She thinks you’re racked with guilt for deserting your family.”

“My family’s six miles away,” Duane reminded him. “If something bad happens somebody can run out and get me.”

“Bad . . . what do you mean, bad?”

“Oh, like a murder, or maybe a car wreck,” Duane said.

Bobby Lee stood up, took the cigarette from behind his ear, tapped it on his wrist, and put it back behind his ear.

“I don’t know, I just feel kind of fraught up about all this,” he said.

“Why?”

“I guess because nobody expected you just to suddenly leave home,” Bobby Lee said. “It ain’t really like you.”

“Well, I didn’t plan it,” Duane said. “It just occurred. And it
is
like me. It’s like the new me.”

“Oh, the retired you?” Bobby asked.

“The me that’s at peace,” Duane said.

“At peace?” Bobby Lee asked.

Duane nodded. Shorty had gone to sleep.

“Then I guess that means you were at war, only none of us knew it,” Bobby Lee said.

“Something like that. One way to explain it is that I got tired of pickups, and all that goes with them.”

“All that goes with them—you mean like family life and stuff?”

Again, Duane nodded.

“You ought to appreciate that yourself,” he said. “You’ve never liked family life, particularly. You spend most of your life in a pickup, drinking beer and smoking.”

“And listening to the radio,” Bobby Lee reminded him.

“I just meant you’re not Mr. Average Dad,” Duane said.

“I know it. I never learned not to marry them cruel women,” Bobby Lee said. “I’ve had to lead a life of driving around, just to escape them.”

“All women are high maintenance,” Duane said. “When you get right down to it that’s the bottom line.”

Bobby Lee considered the remark in silence for a moment.

“Fuckin’ A,” he said, just before he went out the door.

15

K
ARLA WAS IN THE DEN
watching Comedy Central when Nellie came in, dragging two suitcases and several large bags full of tropical doodads. She had just been in Cancun with a new boyfriend, Tommy, but the romance had not quite survived the long unromantic flight back to DFW. Tommy had not felt like defending her right to drag the large bags onto the airplane, the result being that Nellie had been forced to check them—then, wouldn’t you know, her bags had been the very last to come off the plane, which meant that she was at the very end of the Customs line. The Customs agents had become unreasonably suspicious, perhaps because she and Tommy were the last ones in line. By the time they finally got through Customs Nellie was so fed up with Tommy that she brusquely informed him that she never wanted to see him again, an action which necessitated taking a taxi home all the way from Dallas, a distance of one hundred and twenty miles.