The Weather and Women Treat Me Fair (3 page)

The road slipped by. He was all the way to Camel Rock when he decided he had to turn back.
No sale
, he would say, and take the picture home. The late afternoon was painting a new face on the land as shadows lengthened and a yellow-green cast was taken on. The light up there was different from the light way south where he lived. They got majestic sunsets up there and great packs of cumulus clouds appearing to flatten on a glass table overhead. But the sky up there did not wash pink with the coming of dusk. The sun up there did not hammer down in a way to remind you of the land, of its severity, its importance, its integrity. The sun up there let the Indians become lazy.

He still saw the painting. Maybe he would donate the painting to the medical clinic in Hachita or to the lobby of the bank in Mimbres where dusty children and good people could look at it or not, at least stroll past it and see themselves peripherally.

It was dark when he reached Taos the second time. There was a parade of jacked-up pickups and low-riders on the main drag, fog lights glaring, horns blowing, radios blasting, Mexicans madly cranking chain-link steering wheels no bigger around than their heads to come about in mid-traffic. Evan Keeler turned off the strip at the drive-in theater and circled the town on dirt roads, kicking up dust in the dark behind him. He found the gallery dark and locked.

He went to Karen’s house up in the hills east of town. He knocked, then pounded on the front door before circling around to the back. She was sitting in the hot tub with a handsome young man.

“I have to talk to you,” Evan Keeler said.

“Evan!”

“I’m sorry. I have to talk to you.” He stepped away, through the sliding glass door into the kitchen. He took a mug from the cupboard and filled it with water from the tap.

Karen followed him inside, slipping on a robe. “What’s this all about?”

“I don’t want to sell it.”

“It’s sold.”

“Back out.”

“They’ve got it, Evan.”

He fell into a chair and held his head in his hands.

“Evan, what is it?” she stood behind him and placed a hand on his neck.

The young man from the tub was wrapped in a towel and leaning in the doorway. He pushed his fingers through his hair.

“Nothing,” Evan Keeler said. “Nothing at all.” He got up and started out. “Sorry I bothered you.”

“Why don’t you stay here tonight?”

“Thanks, but no.”

Evan Keeler left Karen’s house with one thing on his mind. He found his way back to De la Peña’s. He sat at the bar and nursed a club soda while looking around the room. There were many attractive women wearing sundresses of bright colors and bold floral prints and sandals, swishing across the floor on tanned legs. There was a woman on the stool beside him complaining to a friend about her weight.

“Yes, I am,” the woman said. “I’m too heavy. I’ve got to drop at least twenty.”

“You look fine,” her friend said, not looking at her, sipping a highly decorated and large drink, staring at herself in the mirror behind the bar.

“I do not.” She turned to Evan Keeler. “What do you think?” she asked.

“What do I think about what?”

“Am I fat?”

He looked at her, leaned back to take her all in. He tossed a quick glance to the bartender, at the friend, then said, without looking at the woman, “Yes, but it looks good on you.

She said nothing, just sat staring at him.

“On some people fat looks good,” Evan Keeler said, looking her in the eye. “You wouldn’t look good thin. I’m an artist, I know these things.”

The woman turned to her friend and they huddled there as if in conference. He thought she might be crying; her back and fat sides heaved spasmodically. The women got up and left the bar. As he watched them pass through the door his eye caught the entrance of a dark-haired woman. Her eyes were big and brown and he was amazed at how clearly he could see them from his distance. She sat alone in a booth with a table which had not been cleared.

He went to her, his club soda in hand, and fell into the seat opposite her. “I want to tell you something,” he said.

She pushed back into the cushion of her seat.

He stopped a passing waitress. “Would you clear this table and bring this young lady anything she likes?”

“I’ll be with you in a second,” the waitress said and hurried away.

He saw that the young woman was frightened. “You remind me of my daughter,” he said. “She’s seventeen.”

“She looked around nervously.

“Look at me,” he said. She did and he did not smile. “You think that I want to take you somewhere and do something to you.”

She started to rise.

“Stay!”

She fell back, terrified.

“I can’t do anything to you. A couple of doctors are, right now, flying to Portland, Oregon, with my cock.” Slowly, a smile came over his face.

She tried to smile.

“Do you want to know the really scary part about all of this? I’m cold sober.” He paused. “There are men in here that will want to take advantage of you. Don’t let them use you. Don’t give it up. I know what it feels like.”

He stood and walked out, leaving her to think what she had to think, that he was crazy.

A Good Day for the Laughing Blow

Jake is four years old.

Cecile has no visitation privileges. I have sole custody of my son. Cecile told me once that she wanted very much to eat Jake, devour my son, and so the battle started. I instructed my attorney to get her on the stand and ask her if she thought babies were nutritious. After a puzzled look, he did ask her that question and she did supply an affirmative response; witches don’t lie, Cecile had informed me. I got the child and she got observation in the state mental facility. She has since been released and lives with another witch. Together, they are lesbians. Alone, I do not know. Though Cecile has no privileges, I allow her to come by once a month so that she may view Jake through a window. She drools.

I am replaying messages on my answering machine. There is my agent, who says he cannot sell anything until I write it. I find this a reasonable utterance; one of his few. There is my ex-wife, Cecile. She is calling because she has not been by this month. I will return her call. The plants outside Jake’s window are in need of watering.

Jake is in his room, playing with his little xylophone with the brightly colored slats, what I call his diminutive dinker. I like the xylophone. I get on the floor and play, too. Pretty soon I have both mallets and he is watching. I stop.

‘It’s time to eat,” I say.

“Are you going to cook?”

I nod.

He shakes his head.

“Would you rather go out?”

We are in the car. We are going out for pizza. I don’t feel any one way about pizza, but it will have mushrooms. My son is in his car-seat, which is slightly small for him and which has a little steering wheel affixed to it. And a horn. I do not use my horn. I don’t get upset. My son, though, pushes the horn and screams at the top of his lungs at the other cars. “Watch out, buddy! Hey, mac! What’re you doing?! Trying to take your half out the middle?!” He learned this from me back when I was emotional.

The pizza place is owned by Tony Viggiano. He knows us. We always get a medium with mushrooms. We used to get pepperoni, but pepperoni gives Jake gas. We don’t need pepperoni. Tony let me work in the kitchen one evening. I chopped pepperoni. I pretended it was my publisher’s penis.

The pizza eaten, we leave. At home, I tell Jake to prepare for bed. I call Cecile. We exchange polite but wonderfully empty inquiries as to each other’s well-being.

“Tomorrow is Saturday,” I tell her. “I was wondering if you’d like to come by and peer through a window.”

“I would like that.”

“How is Lilith?”

“She’s fine.”

“Are you happy? I know it’s none of my business, but—”

“There’s no need to explain, Grayson. I’m very happy. Very, very happy. Lilith is a much better lover than you ever were.”

Her saying this does not bother me. “Three o’clock.” I hang up.

Jake is in his bedroom, between the sheets. It is a warm night. I am sitting by his bed. He wants a story. I read him a chapter and he goes to sleep.

The morning comes. I am up and in the bathroom. I urinate. As I stand before the mirror, staring dull-eyed at my face, Jake stumbles in and adds his load to the toilet. He climbs onto the high stool next to me and stares dull-eyed at my face. I dispense shaving foam into my hand and then his. We rub it on our faces. I shave. So does Jake. I use an old double-edge. Jake uses the key from a sardine can.

“Don’t cut yourself,” I say.

He shakes his key clean in the sink.

Later, after some play in the park, we are home again and I am waiting for Cecile. Jake is playing in his room. She arrives at three. Lilith is with her. They are walking toward me in the front yard. They are a peculiar sight. Cecile is slim, five nine, beautiful. Lilith is short, very short, husky, not beautiful. Though Lilith shows signs of some sort of grace, her gait reminds me of a monkey’s, her long arms swinging, seeming to push through unseen branches.

“Hello, Grayson,” Cecile says.

“Hello, Cecile. Lilith.”

Lilith says nothing. She smiles.

They follow me around to the side of the house. “So, how have you both been?” There is no answer. I point to the window. “There you go.”

Jake is playing with his xylophone, closely attending to the sounds he’s making. Cecile smiles as she watches, ducking occasionally to avoid being seen. Lilith is smiling.

I am following them back to their car. Cecile reaches for Lilith’s hand. It looks as if she is walking a large ape. Lilith swings around to the driver’s side. Cecile stands before me and takes my hand. Her palm is sweaty. It is her sweat and her monkey’s sweat

“Take care,” I say.

“You, too,” she says. “Jake looks wonderful. He’s so big.”

“Yes.”

She gets into the car and they drive away. Her visit was about fifteen minutes too long. I make a note.

I go inside and to Jake’s room. He is pressing modeling clay through a plastic tube.

“Shall I prepare dinner?”

We are in the car. We are greeted warmly at Ming’s Mandarin House. They know us well.

We are eating. Jake is using chopsticks. He should use a spoon. He stops eating. “Was that Mommy outside my window?”

I hesitate. “Yes.” I have never told him that his mother wants to eat him.

“Does she love me?”

“I don’t know.” I pause. “Yes, she loves you.”

“Why didn’t she come in?”

“She’s shy and—and she doesn’t want to complicate your life.”

He doesn’t understand. He is silent.

“To tell the truth,” I say, “I don’t know why she doesn’t come in.”

He begins to eat again.

Later, in the car, on his way home, Jake turns to me in his car-seat. “I would like to see my mommy.”

“We’ll see.”

We arrive home. After some television, Jake turns in. I stay up and try to work.

I place my pencil aside. I have written no words. I am struggling with the idea of my ex-wife having an actual visit with my son. I do not know if it is a good idea. All of this is important, however. This is the first time he has expressed an interest in seeing his mother. I cannot tell him she wants to eat him. I could ignore the matter. Cecile must love Jake some. Therefore, she may only eat a portion of him; that will not do. I could ignore the matter. But an eye that refuses to see can still be put out.

It is just becoming light out. I am drifting in and out of sleep, in and out of a single-party discussion of the previous night’s subject. I am awake. I do morning things and man the kitchen to prepare French toast French toast is the only thing I make that Jake will eat. He comes in, sits at the table, takes fork in hand.

“F.T.” He bangs the table.

I slap a couple of slices on his plate.

“Butter,” he says.

I give him butter and syrup.

After breakfast, he looks at me, sleep still in his eyes, and says, “Good.” He leaves the room.

I pick up the phone and dial Cecile’s number. Lilith answers. She sounds like she has long arms. “May I speak to Cecile?”

“Grayson?”

“Yes.”

“Cecile is out jogging.”

“Have her call me when she returns.” Jogging, I think once off the phone, a polite way of saying she’s drooling over children in the park. I wash the dishes.

Jake comes to me.

“Is there anything I can do?”

“Watch cartoons.”

“It’s Sunday.”

“So?”

“I dunno.”

The phone rings. It is Cecile. She has returned from the park. “Can you come over later today? To visit Jake?”

“Yes, but—”

“Two o’clock.”

“Okay.”

I am looking at Jake. “Your mother is coming by to talk to you.”

He is confused. He goes out into the yard to play. I go through his room, gathering anything and everything with sharp edges.

It is almost two. It is very warm, but I’m putting a turtleneck sweater on Jake anyway.

“It’s too hot,” he says.

“Better too warm than too cool.”

He waits in his room. Cecile and Lilith arrive. Cecile is dressed very motherly; plain dress, flat sandals. Lilith is wearing a long-sleeved blouse.

I show Cecile to Jake’s room. I leave the door ajar and go to join Lilith in the living room. “How’s it been going?” I ask.

She tells me that things have been going fine, that Cecile has never been happier.

I tell her I do not doubt this.

We sit in silence.

Then I say, “Cecile tells me you may be moving.”

Lilith tells me they may be visiting Providence.

Silence.

I excuse myself and visit the hallway just outside Jake’s room. I can hear Cecile reading. A person cannot talk while devouring a child. I return to silent Lilith. Twenty minutes pass and Cecile is ready to leave. Jake remains in his room. I call to him. He answers. I see out the guests. Cecile is quiet. They leave.

Jake is at his window. when I enter. He knows I’m in the room. I sit on his bed. He turns to me.