Rock Springs (19 page)

So in a week I moved up to town, into a little misery flat across from the Burlington Northern yards, and began to wait. There was nothing to do. Watch TV. Stop in a bar. Walk down to the Clark Fork and fish where they had built a little park. Just find a way to spend the time. You think you'd like to have all the time be your own, but that is a fantasy. I was feeling my back to the wall then, and didn't know what would happen to me in a week's time, which is a feeling to stay with you and make being cheerful hard. And no one can like that.

I was at the Top Hat having a drink with Little Troy Burnham, talking about the deer season, when a woman who had been sitting at the front of the bar got up and came over to us. I had seen this woman other times in other bars in town. She would be there in the afternoons around three, and then sometimes late at night when I would be cruising back. She danced with some men from the air base, then sat drinking and talking late. I suppose she left with someone finally. She wasn't a bad-looking woman at all—blond, with wide, dark eyes set out, wide hips and dark eyebrows. She could've been thirty-four years old, although she could've been forty-four or twenty-four, because she was drinking steady, and steady drink can do both to you, especially to women. But I had thought the first time I saw her: Here's one on the way down. A miner's wife drifted up from Butte, or a rancher's daughter just suddenly run off, which can happen. Or worse. And I hadn't been tempted. Trouble comes cheap and leaves expensive, is a way of thinking about that.

“Do you suppose you could give me a light?” the woman said to us. She was standing at our table. Nola was her name. Nola Foster. I'd heard that around. She wasn't drunk. It was four o'clock in the afternoon, and no one was there but Troy Burnham and me.

“If you'll tell me a love story, I'd do anything in the world for you,” Troy said. It was what he always said to women. He'd do anything in the world for something. Troy sits in a wheelchair due to a smoke jumper's injury, and can't do very much. We had been friends since high school and before. He was always short, and I was tall. But Troy had been an excellent wrestler and won awards in Montana, and I had done little of that—some boxing once was all. We had been living, recently, in the same apartments on Ryman Street, though Troy lived there permanently and drove a Checker cab to earn a living, and I was hoping to pass on to something better. “I
would
like a little love story,” Troy said, and called out for whatever Nola Foster was drinking.

“Nola, Troy. Troy, Nola,” I said and lit her cigarette.

“Have we met?” Nola said, taking a seat and glancing at me.

“At the East Gate. Some time ago,” I said.

“That's a very nice bar,” she said in a cool way. “But I hear it's changed hands.”

“I'm glad to make an acquaintance,” Troy said, grinning and adjusting his glasses. “Now let's hear that love story.” He pulled up close to the table so that his head and his big shoulders were above the tabletop. Troy's injury had caused him not to have any hips left. There is something there, but not hips. He needs bars and a special seat in his cab. He is both frail and strong at once, though in most ways he gets on like everybody else.

“I
was
in love,” Nola said quietly as the bartender set her drink down and she took a sip. “And now I'm not.”

“That's a short love story,” I said.

“There's more to it,” Troy said, grinning. “Am I right about that? Here's cheers to you,” he said, and raised his glass.

Nola glanced at me again. “All right. Cheers,” she said and took another drink.

Two men had started playing a pool game at the far end of the room. They had turned on the table light, and I could hear the balls click and someone say, “Bust 'em up, Craft.” And then the smack.

“You don't want to hear about that,” Nola said. “You're drunk men, that's all.”

“We do too,” Troy said. Troy always has enthusiasm. He could very easily complain, but I have never heard it come up. And I believe he has a good heart.

“What about you? What's your name?” Nola said to me.

“Les,” I said.

“Les, then,” she said. “You don't want to hear this, Les.”

“Yes he does,” Troy said, putting his elbows on the table and raising himself. Troy was a little drunk. Maybe we all were a little.

“Why not?” I said.

“See? Sure. Les wants more. He's like me.”

Nola was actually a pretty woman, with a kind of dignity to her that wasn't at once so noticeable, and Troy was thrilled by her.

“All right,” Nola said, taking another sip.

“Whattt I tell you?” Troy said.

“I had really thought he was dying,” Nola said.

“Who?” I said.

“My husband. Harry Lyons. I don't use that name now. Someone's told you this story before, haven't they?”

“Not me. Goddamn!” Troy said. “I
want
to hear this story.”

I said I hadn't heard it either, though I had heard there was a story.

She had a puff on her cigarette and gave us both a look that said she didn't believe us. But she went on. Maybe she'd thought about another drink by then.

“He had this death look. Ca-shit-ic, they call it. He was pale, and his mouth turned down like he could see death. His heart had already gone out once in June, and I had the feeling I'd come in the kitchen some morning and he'd be slumped on his toast.”

“How old was this Harry?” Troy said.

“Fifty-three years old. Older than me by a lot.”

“That's cardiac alley there,” Troy said and nodded at me. Troy has trouble with his own organs now and then. I think they all moved lower when he hit the ground.

“A man gets strange when he's going to die,” Nola said in a quiet voice. “Like he's watching it come. Though Harry was still going to work out at Champion's every day. He was an estimator. Plus he watched
me
all the time. Watched to see if I was getting ready, I guess. Checking the insurance, balancing the checkbook, locating the safe-deposit key. All that. Though I would, too. Who wouldn't?”

“Bet your ass,” Troy said and nodded again. Troy was taking this all in, I could see that.

“And I admit it, I
was
,” Nola said. “I loved Harry. But if he died, where was I going? Was I supposed to die, too? I had to make some plans for myself. I had to think Harry was expendable at some point. To
my
life, anyway.”

“Probably that's why he was watching you,” I said. “He might not have felt expendable in
his
life.”

“I know.” Nola looked at me seriously and smoked her cigarette. “But I had a friend whose husband killed himself. Went into the garage and left the motor running. And his wife was
not
ready. Not in her mind. She thought he was out putting on brakeshoes. And there he was dead when she went out there. She ended up having to move to Washington, D.C. Lost her balance completely over it. Lost her house, too.”

“All bad things,” Troy agreed.

“And that just wasn't going to be me, I thought. And if Harry had to get wind of it, well, so be it. Some days I'd wake
up and look at him in bed and I'd think, Die, Harry, quit worrying about it.”

“I thought this was a love story,” I said. I looked down at where the two men were playing an eight-ball rack. One man was chalking a cue while the other man was leaning over to shoot.

“It's coming,” Troy said. “Just be patient, Les.”

Nola drained her drink. “I'll guarantee it is.”

“Then let's hear it,” I said. “Get on to the love part.”

Nola looked at me strangely then, as if I really did know what she was going to tell, and thought maybe I might tell it first myself. She raised her chin at me. “Harry came home one evening from work, right?” she said. “Just death as usual. Only he said to me, ‘Nola, I've invited some friends over, sweetheart. Why don't you go out and get a flank steak at Albertson's.' I asked when were they coming? He said, in an hour. And I thought, An hour! Because he never brought people home. We went to bars, you know. We didn't entertain. But I said, ‘All right. I'll go get a flank steak.' And I got in the car and went out and bought a flank steak. I thought Harry ought to have what he wants. If he wants to have friends and steak he ought to be able to. Men, before they die, will want strange things.”

“That's a fact, too,” Troy said seriously. “I was full dead all of four minutes when I hit. And I dreamed about nothing but lobster the whole time. And I'd never even seen a lobster, though I have now. Maybe that's what they serve in heaven.” Troy grinned at both of us.

“Well, this wasn't heaven,” Nola said and signaled for another drink. “So when I got back, there was Harry with three Crow Indians, in my house, sitting in the living room drinking mai tais. A man and two women. His
friends
, he said. From the mill. He wanted to have his friends over, he said. And Harry was raised a strict Mormon. Not that it matters.”

“I guess he had a change of heart,” I said.

“That'll happen, too,” Troy said gravely. “LDS's aren't like they used to be. They used to be bad, but that's all changed. Though I guess coloreds still can't get inside the temple all the way.”

“These three were inside my house, though. I'll just say that. And I'm not prejudiced about it. Leopards with spots, leopards without. All the same to me. But I was nice. I went right in the kitchen and put the flank steak in the oven, put some potatoes in water, got out some frozen peas. And went back in to have a drink. And we sat around and talked for half an hour. Talked about the mill. Talked about Marlon Brando. The man and one of the women were married. He worked with Harry. And the other woman was her sister, Winona. There's a town in Mississippi with the same name. I looked it up. So after a while—all nice and friends—I went in to peel my potatoes. And this other woman, Bernie, came in with me to help, I guess. And I was standing there cooking over a little range, and this Bernie said to me, ‘I don't know how you do it, Nola.' ‘Do what, Bernie?' I said. ‘Let Harry go with my sister like he does and you stay so happy about it. I couldn't ever stand that with Claude.' And I just turned around and looked at her.
Winona is what?
I thought. That name seemed so unusual for an Indian. And I just started yelling it. Winona, Winona,' at the top of my lungs right at the stove. I just went crazy a minute, I guess. Screaming, holding a potato in my hand, hot. The man came running into the kitchen. Claude Smart Enemy. Claude was awfully nice. He kept me from harming myself. But when I started yelling, Harry, I guess, figured everything was all up. And he and his Winona woman went right out the door. And he didn't get even to the car when his heart went. He had a myocardial infarction right out on the sidewalk at this Winona's feet. I guess he thought everything was going to be just great. We'd all have dinner together. And I'd never know what was what. Except he didn't count on Bernie saying something.”

“Maybe he was trying to make you appreciate him more,” I said. “Maybe he didn't like being expendable and was sending you a message.”

Nola looked at me seriously again. “I thought of that,” she said. “I thought about that more than once. But that would've been hurtful. And Harry Lyons wasn't a man to hurt you. He was more of a sneak. I just think he wanted us all to be friends.”

“That makes sense.” Troy nodded and looked at me.

“What happened to Winona,” I asked.

“What happened to Winona?” Nola took a drink and gave me a hard look. “Winona moved herself to Spokane. What happened to me is a better question.”

“Why? You're here with us,” Troy said enthusiastically. “You're doing great. Les and me ought to do as well as you're doing. Les is out of work. And I'm out of luck. You're doing the best of the three of us, I'd say.”

“I wouldn't,” Nola said frankly, then turned and stared down at the men playing pool.

“Whafd he leave you?” I said. “Harry.”

“Two thousand,” Nola said coldly.

“That's a small amount,” I said.

“And it's a sad love story, too,” Troy said, shaking his head. “You loved him and it ended rotten. That's like Shakespeare.”

“I loved him enough,” Nola said.

“How about sports. Do you like sports?” Troy said.

Nola looked at Troy oddly then. In his chair Troy doesn't look exactly like a whole man, and sometimes simple things he'll say will seem surprising. And what he'd said then surprised Nola. I've gotten used to it, myself, after all these years.

“Did you want to try skiing?” Nola said and glanced at me.

“Fishing,” Troy said, up on his elbows again. “Let's all of us go fishing. Put an end to old gloomy.” Troy seemed like he wanted to pound the table. And I wondered when was the last time he had slept with a woman. Fifteen years ago, maybe. And now that was all over for him. But he was excited just to be here and get to talk to Nola Foster, and I wasn't going to be in his way. “No one'll be there now,” he said. “We'll catch a fish and cheer ourselves up. Ask Les. He caught a fish.”

I had been going mornings in those days, when the
Today
show got over. Just to kill an hour. The river runs through the middle of town, and I could walk over in five minutes and fish downstream below the motels that are there, and could look up at the blue and white mountains up the Bitterroot, toward my mother's house, and sometimes see the geese coming back up their flyway. It was a strange winter. January was like a spring day, and the Chinook blew down over us a warm wind from the eastern slopes. Some days were cool or cold, but many days were warm, and the only ice you'd see was in the lows where the sun didn't reach. You could walk right out to the river and make a long cast to where the fish were deep down in the cold pools. And you could even think things might turn out better.