Nobody's Angel (18 page)

IT
WAS
PITCH
DARK
. “
I
AM
MARION
EASTERLY
,”
SAID
THE
voice. “You never let me exist. I am not allowed to let you rest. But one night at the proper phase of the moon, a neither-here-nor-there phase of the famous moon, I will arise in the face of our mother and our father and I will be real and you will not have been sent away to school and the proper apologies will be made and you still will have won the roping drunk at the Wilsall rodeo; and all, all will be acceptable.” Patrick turned on the bedside lamp and there was Mary, grinning and buttoned up in a navy peacoat. “Take away the offending years,” she said, “for they have ruined us with crumminess and predictability.”

“Go to bed,” Patrick said to Mary. “Anyone can see you’ve gotten yourself altered.”

Dale turned around in his front seat to look straight at Patrick. The driver, never seen before, presented himself as a concerned friend of the cemetery franchise. He offered to drive and they let him. The other cars were driven by concerned friends of the cemetery as well.

Dale said, “That was quite a deal you put on, Pat.”

“How long did it take you to pump yourself up to say that, Dale?”

“No time at all.” By his own scale, Dale was dauntless.

“Well, if my grandfather would have the courtesy to die, it might mean something to you, even as a lease deal. Why don’t we pull the other car over and find out just how long Grandpa is going to pull this business of not dying?”

“Stop this,” said his mother. Patrick’s batty conduct made her practical.

“Driver, detain that car.”

The driver said, “This isn’t a patrol car.”

“I say stop that car. Remove the offending mystery.”

Dale said, “This will not continue.”

“My father is dead as well,” said Patrick. “But he’s no use that way, is he? He’s no use to Boeing aircraft and he’s no use to us— Driver, pull that car to the shoulder. I accuse its occupant of lingering.”

Patrick could tell that he was ignored like a bad drunk. Beautiful scenery rolled past the windows and was of absolutely no use or comfort to anyone. He looked over at his mother, stranded in horror, and thought, What is the use of my going on like this? And there is no repairing what I’ve done, nothing to be helped by apology. No use.

But when he got to the ranch, he was quite astonished to see the broodmares pasturing the deep grass, their foals moving like shadows next to them, twisting their heads up underneath to nurse. That was one thing that seemed to go on anyway, something that helped, unlike the baleful and unforgiving mountains. He thought, I hope Andrew will find an arrowhead. And if he doesn’t, that Indian will make him one, if he’s any kind of an Indian.

What could I have done? I might well have canceled the reproving-older-brother performance. I might have done better than that. And was there anything to the remark heard over the years that Mary had “that look,” that she was doomed? We shall quiz the Indian as to doom. We are encouraged to think they are the only ones with coherent attitudes on the subject. It’s the world-wide aborigine credit bureau.

The dinner table was set and there was food. Patrick didn’t know how it got there and he had no idea how the
five people converged at the same time while the late-afternoon sun blazed through the windows. It was clear that no one but Andrew was going to do anything with the food. Funeral meats, thought Patrick. Where does that come from? I’m afraid of the thought.

“How do you like that dinner?” he asked Andrew.

“It’s great,” said Andrew. “Except for those things, those Brussels sprouts.”

“Well, eat up.”

“Gonna.”

Then Patrick’s mother began to sob. She sobbed bitterly and deeply, as though a convulsion was at hand. Dale looked across at Patrick. “Are you happy?” he asked. Patrick shook his head. He was wrong again. Dale wasn’t even gloating.

“Aw, come on, Mama, please stop,” Patrick heard himself say.

“… can’t …” In her grief she looked strangely like Mary.

“It’s over. Nobody could do anything.”

“It isn’t true,” she choked. “It’s not.”

Andrew looked from face to face, as if he were at a tennis match. Dale stood up. He wasn’t an impressive man, but he seemed to have a right to his disgust.

“I’m going to the bunkhouse,” he said. “I’ll have the car ready in a bit. We’re going to leave immediately.” He turned to Patrick.
“What have you and your sister done?”

“What have my sister and I done!” Patrick repeated in an astonishment that faded easily.

Dale lifted his wife to her feet. “There are things you don’t do. Andrew, let’s go.” The pale lighting designer had gotten indignant. Patrick felt an odd strength in it.

“I’m still eating!”

“We’ll stop on the way. Get up!” Andrew raised his
hands and shrugged philosophically. Then he stood. When the three went through the dining room door, Dale had one more thing to say: He said, “You’ve shed all of it you’re going to on my wife. It was an old trick of your father’s. But don’t you start.”

Dale left, crazily brave in his elastic-waist vacation pants and loud shirt. Patrick did note that he stood up for his own. And what do I stand up for? You better think of something fast.

27

PATRICK’S
GRANDFATHER
,
MASHING
PEANUT
BUTTER
ONTO
AN
unheated English muffin with the back of a spoon, watched a wasp cruising the honey jar and asked Patrick if he wanted to unload the ranch. He was sure that a pigeon in the form of a deer hunter from Michigan would appear.

“What else would we do?”

“I don’t know. Get on out of here maybe.”

“It seems like I just got back.”

“We could go to the Australia.”

“I don’t think so.”

“Country like this used to be. No sprinklers, no alfalfa, no yard lights, no railroaders, no nothing.”

“I don’t know,” said Patrick. “I don’t want to go to Australia.” He visualized Limey prison descendants photographing koala bears in vulgar city parks.

“This country used to be just nothing and that’s when it was good. And they say the Australia is one big nothing.
I’m telling you, Patrick, I bet we’d do good out there. You can run a spread with just your saddle horses.”

Then it got quiet again. There was nothing further to be said about the Australia. There was not even anything to be said about the departing station wagon, whose lights wheeled quickly against the house.

“Tell me about David Catches,” said Patrick.

“Oh, yeah. Well, he was here for a while. It wasn’t right, but your sister had him here and he was of some use.

“What kind of use?”

“He was good with stock. Worked a long day. But then after that was done, he’d try to tell you how it was. I think Mary made him do that. I don’t think he wanted to.”

“What did you do about it?”

“I told
him
how it was.”

“How long did this go on?”

“Couple years.”

“How come I never heard about it?”

“Like I said, I didn’t feel it was right. I mean, here’s this Indian. And what was Mary up to? I just didn’t feel it was my job to explain it.”

“Maybe it is.” That’s what the jailer thinks, thought Patrick: Throw in together and save the world.

“Anyway, he went to making an Indian out of me and it wasn’t in the cards.”

“Why did he try to do that?”

“He had Mary about halfway made over and I guess he figured to start in on me.”

“Did you believe any of it?”

“Some of it.”

“Like what?”

“I don’t know.”

“I mean just for instance.”

The old man twisted about. “Well, Patrick, this guy’d give you the feeling he’d know where Mary had gone.” Now there was absolute quiet. In a moment the old man spoke again: “Pat, what you said today did not absolutely one hundred percent wash with me.” Here it comes.

“Well, I don’t know. I don’t know if I’ve ever done anything right anymore. I already feel a little bad about the way they left out of here. Do you feel good about anything anymore?”

“I feel good about the Australia and the movies.”

“Come on.”

“Well, I like what I had, the way I used to live. There’s nothing to do anymore, but I’m too old to do much anyway. I can go out in the hills, but I got to take a horse I’m a hundred percent sure won’t buck me down. Who wants to go in the hills on a horse like that? So I think about something I know for certain, like how it once was for me, like when I nighthawked on the Sun River. Or I think about something I don’t know one thing about, like the Australia. And that works pretty good. I recommend it. I say it’s good. I’m not saying it has to be the Australia. It could be just an animal you’ve never seen.” The old man changed his gaze. Patrick turned to see David Catches in the doorway, his hat removed and held with both hands, his black straight hair swept back. Catches smiled and nodded. “You could think about that Indian,” the grandfather continued. “I don’t know any more about him than I do the Australia.” Patrick got up from the table.

“Be back in a sec, David, I’ve got to get a few things.” Patrick hurried off down the corridor.

“You been staying busy?” asked the grandfather.

“Pretty much.”

“Doing what?”

“Punching cows.”

“Where’s this at?”

“Different places. Roundup, Ekalaka, Grassrange, Sumatra. Different reservations. Up on Rocky Boy.”

“I’m hardly ever horseback,” the grandfather said angrily. “Time was, irrigated ground was considered modern.”

Patrick walked in. He was carrying a small valise. His grandfather went to the window.

“Are we ever going to eat?”

“I don’t want to.”

“Catches, what about you?”

“I stopped in town and got a hamburger.”

“You know what I can’t remember?” asked Patrick. “Whose idea was it we talk?”

“I don’t know,” said Catches. “Doesn’t matter. What d’you got in the sack?”

“Whiskey. Number-one kind of bourbon.”

“Okay,” said Catches.

“That way we’ve got a shot at some actuality, medicine man. I mean, this isn’t going to be the sweat lodge.”

“You’re not gonna do your well-known mean-drunk thing, are you?” asked Catches. Patrick gave him a long look.

“All it is, is for loosening tongues and to make sure we don’t have any mystical ceremonies.”

Catches put his hat on and walked over to the sink. He twisted the faucet, cupped his hand under the stream, drank, turned off the water and wiped his face. “No more cracks. I tried to save her too.”

Patrick sat down. “Save her from what?”

“You people and her own thoughts.”

“I don’t want to talk about this,” said the grandfather.

“Stay where you are,” Patrick ordered. “Have a seat,
Catches.” Catches drew a chair with the same fatal gesture he extended to the hat. Now the hat was foursquare on his head and he was looking at the whiskey Patrick unloaded on the table. The yellow electrical light contained the three of them in the dying day. Catches couldn’t keep his eye off the bag. Patrick filled a jug with cold water and set three glasses on the table. He filled the glasses nearly full with whiskey. “The ditch is in the jug, boys. We’re all throwed into this mess. So make yourself brave.”

Catches tilted the whiskey back to his face and, pausing very momentarily, produced a wicked little knife from its leather encasement, a narrow blade with dark, oxidized steel, a maple handle with stars and silver faces. He didn’t seem to mean much by the gesture.

“Is that anything special to you?” Patrick asked. His grandfather got up and walked out. “Spooked the old boy. Well, is it?” They could hear the grandfather slamming doors down the hallway.

“Just a little knife. I cut binder twine with it.”