Ugly Behavior (3 page)

Something about the languid, self-satisfied way he said it chilled
me. “How did you know?”

“Oh, I wasn’t
gonna
just waltz right in.
That wouldn’t be too smart, now would it? I’ve been here, three, almost four
days.”

“How?”

“He
ain’t
that smart. Out here by
yourself, you forget how to take care. I got a
sleeproll
,
tucked over behind that little hill. Some food, some dusty old binoculars,
that’s all I needed. Didn’t I tell you I used to be a Boy Scout? Merit badges
and everything? I know how to handle myself in places like this.”

“Oh. Right. I forgot.”

“Point is, I don’t have to stay out here all night. You leave your
window open, I’ll be there. That old
man’ll
never
know.”

“That wouldn’t be a good idea, Tommy.”

“Let me worry about that, babe.”

I walked a few more steps in silence, my eyes on the saguaro
raising their arms in pain or surrender. In the dark they always gave me the
creeps. “My window will be closed. And I’ve got a double lock.”

“But I love
yoooou
,” he crooned behind
me, and laughed.

We didn’t eat breakfast together out here on my father’s ranch, we
never had. He was usually in the studio before he was even all the way awake.
He said he wanted “a brush in my hand before the last dream wears off.” I’d
learned to respect that, even though it sometimes annoyed me. Why were artists
exempt from everyday human interaction? I remember thinking that if I ever
became a successful artist I’d expect no special considerations. It’s only been
recently that I’ve been able to see the arrogance in my holier-than-thou
attitude.

I heard a “
thocking
” sound coming from
somewhere behind the house, followed by laughter, a soft, sick squeal. I didn’t
know what it was at first, but it made me scared and anxious almost
immediately. I ran out the back screen door into the morning glare, shading my
eyes until they adjusted, hearing the “
thock
” again,
the squeal.

The first thing I saw when my eyes calmed down was Tommy in a stained
T-shirt, ball cap, and torn cutoff jeans whacking at stones with an old croquet
mallet, the remains of a set I’d seen lying out there in the sand (Like many
artists I knew, my father had accumulated a massive amount of junk which he
permitted to rust and rot wherever he left it. It seemed to be another one of
those habits permitted artists, but which made you a slob if you were in any
other occupation.) The mallet cracked and flew apart, Tommy cackled, grabbed
another old mallet off the ground, and continued swinging at stones. I didn’t
realize what his target was until it squealed again.

I gazed out toward the collapsing bunkhouse, and there by the
corner of the porch I saw the poor thing: an old
Javelina
,
its eyes wide, with something wrong with its legs. It struggled to get off its
side, but kept falling back down. Then another rock hit it, and it squealed
again. I felt sick. “Tommy! Stop it!”

“Hey, Babe. Just trying to put it out of its misery. I didn’t
cripple it—I swear! Nasty old thing—I stepped off the porch this
morning and it damned near took my foot off. What the hell is it, anyway?”

“
Javelina
. A feral pig, you asshole!
Stop that—you don’t put animals out of their misery by making them
suffer!”

Tommy lifted the mallet menacingly with his thin, spindly arm.
He’d always been embarrassed by how thin his arms were, no matter how much he
worked out. I’m ashamed to say I laughed, seeing him waving the mallet like
that. He was furious. “Don’t talk to me like that, you bitch! I didn’t
know—you’re the one lives in the
fuckin
’
desert!”

Then I heard a series of overlapping, coughing barks from
somewhere beyond the bunkhouse. The rest of the herd. I turned to run back into
the house. I didn’t much care what happened to Tommy after that.

The first rifle crack made me turn around. The old
Javelina
lay still, its head in ruins. The second shot went
over the heads of the two
Javelina
coming around the
bunkhouse, sending them scrambling back, barking furiously. Belatedly, Tommy
hit the ground, the mallet waving over his head as if to protect himself.

My father strode over, rifle in one hand, reached down and grabbed
Tommy by the long hair down his neck, pulled him straight up to his feet. He
shook him furiously. Tommy’s eyes were wide with shock. Then he scowled, opened
his mouth, looked at the gun, snarled, “Off of me!”

“I’m giving you five minutes,” my dad said, waving the rifle. “No
discussion.” Then he looked over his shoulder at me, the gun still pointed in
Tommy’s direction. For a second I thought he was going to kill Tommy, and I was
somewhat surprised to find it was the idea of my father getting into trouble
that frightened me—Tommy could, well, whatever happened to Tommy was very
much his own doing. “Do you want to go with him?” Dad asked me.

“Daddy! Of course not!” I wailed, shocked, furious with his
misjudgment, heart-broken that he had no idea who I really was.

Later that day my father lightly tapped on my bedroom door, and in
a voice that might have been sad, although I wasn’t really sure because I
didn’t know sad when it came contained in my father, he invited me to come out
and help him bury the
Javelina
. I recognized it for
what it was. My father almost never apologized, but when he did this was the
form it took, an invitation to participate as in his own way he made his small
attempt to right the world. We stood together quietly, lifting the heavy,
foul-smelling creature onto one of the extra blankets from the bunkhouse,
wrapped it, then transferred it into the grave he’d spent a couple of hours
digging, because he wanted the dimensions just so, according to some inner
school of spiritual geometry. Then we alternated scraping the dirt in, and on,
and although no words had been spoken, he finished this funeral with a small
bit of twisted wire welded to unidentifiable, cast-off bits, which he pushed
into the ground where the hole had been.

Nothing more was said about the event, and nothing more was said
of Tommy, as my father went back to his art and his regular routine, and I
struggled during my time alone to find my own art and work out my own rhythm
within the world.
 

Weeks passed as they did so often in the desert, as if they didn’t
pass at all, but lay around under that heavy burden of heat, unable to move.
Food was eaten, the usual minimum number of maintenance chores were done,
artwork accumulated, both in my father’s studio and in the confines of my own
room, where my father never came.

Once a season Dad took that long journey into the city for
supplies, artistic and otherwise. He didn’t like the trips—not that he
said much in actual complaint, but his attitude was obvious. For weeks
preceding the trip he was like a wounded old bear, cranky and snappish,
forgetful, unable to find things, casting things about looking for what he’d
lost and ignoring the damage he caused. To make it tolerable he’d usually stay
with a local gallery owner/art critic and his wife, who appeared to be his only
actual friends in the world. They would always throw some small dinner for him,
inviting a few smart people who admired him and were unlikely to offend him. He
was one of those artists who thrived on a certain minimum amount of attention,
but who hated the magnifying glass of praise.

If that couple was not available for some reason Dad would just
sleep somewhere in his truck. “I like my truck,” was all he would say in
response to my very real safety concerns.

Despite his dislike for the journey, however, once begun he was
committed to it, and always stayed away at least a week, much longer than
necessary for gathering supplies. “Might as well make it a research trip,” he
always replied to my questions about this seeming contradiction. What kind of
research was involved I had no real idea—he’d take a camera along but I
never saw the finished pictures.

On the day of his departure the weather seemed to be turning
cooler, with occasional streaks of rain like mist sprayed on a hot iron.
Unexpected clouds would roll in over the desert, and although most of the time
nothing came out of them, they did serve to cool things down a bit. During the
dry afternoons I still heard the rattlers, the occasional complaint of some
Javelina
, scattered insect sound, and now something new,
that buzz and whistle of toads over in the mesquite grass which gradually
became something harsher, louder, a call that sounded a little like bleating
sheep.

My father had been gone several days when I found myself wide
awake one night, hearing a sound like a screech, like something electrical,
like something coming apart at the seams. I sat up. Moonlight brought the
shadows of distant saguaro close, walking my way, nowhere else to go. What did
they want from me? What did they expect? I just do the best I can, I remember
thinking, half asleep. I slipped out of bed, padded across the floor and gazed
out the window. Wind whipped through the tall grass, brushing through the
scrub, charging the night. About ten yards away, where the long ranch house
bent to form my father’s studio, jagged shadows danced in the window. Something
gleamed, fell, rose again. I don’t remember now if I suspected anything
specific. I do remember the overwhelming panic I felt, the sense of impending
doom. I ran out of my room, down the hall, full of charge, electrified, for some
reason suddenly thinking that birds must have gotten into my father’s studio
and were now flying around in there, doing damage.

But, bursting through the door, looking around the ceiling, I
found no sign of the unwelcome birds, just the arm flailing, making that rip,
with exhausted, crying, out of breath sounds, like running, like rape. Then
Tommy’s face appeared around the edge of the canvas, that latest painting,
still on my father’s easel, unfinished. He grabbed it, brought the edge of the
frame down on the floor, raised the knife again, and I just ran, arms waving,
charged right into him, screaming, “No!” and “Don’t!” and felt the knife go
into my face like something hot and impossible, following the jaw line, peeling
me away from myself.

When I went down on the floor I got a better look at the painting,
the saguaro, shadowed, dark and lost, against the night, half-done, blood on
the unpainted portions of the canvas, and yet, still, beautiful. So beautiful,
such was my father’s talent.

During those several weeks in the hospital my father never left my
side. Investigators from the Arizona State Police came by several times, asked
me a few questions, but for the most part consulted with Dad quietly in the
hall. They might not know his art, but they knew he was famous, which to them,
I suppose, meant he merited special attention. Or maybe it was because I was a
girl disfigured by a crazy ex-boyfriend. I don’t know, but everyone was
solicitous, which I didn’t mind.

I wouldn’t have minded if Dad had gone home for awhile, though.
Having him around twenty-four-seven, worrying about what he was thinking, was a
bit much to bear. And the way he talked about the “incident,” I could hardly
stand it.

“They say he waited in the hills until he saw the truck leave. I
don’t understand it—I searched the area thoroughly after I kicked him off
the property.”

“You did? You never told me.”

“I didn’t want to worry you. But given his character, I thought he
might stick around, plot revenge. Cowards, they always seek revenge.”

“I wish you had told me.”

“Maybe, maybe I should have. But I searched those hills, and
beyond, thoroughly. I can’t figure out how I missed him.”

It was his way of taking responsibility, of expressing his sorrow,
I knew. But it aggravated me how he’d turned this terrible thing that had
happened to me into a puzzle that not only he hadn’t solved, but that he might
have prevented. My dad had god forbid made a mistake. “It’s over,” I said.
“It’s past. Do they know where he his now? Did you call Mom?”

He blanched. “The police called her, warned her. She should have
come to visit you. I don’t want to see her, of course, but she’s your mother.”

“I don’t want to see her, either, Dad. I just thought she should
be warned, in case he shows up at her house.”

“They alerted the local police out there, and the state police in
between. They’re pretty sure, they think, he’s left the state.”

“That’s good.” We sat there in silence, neither one of us
comfortable talking about it, but wanting to behave normally, and not knowing
what normal behavior really meant. “Your paintings,” I began, because I’d been
thinking about them. To be honest, it was the first thing I thought of when I
regained consciousness. “You said you could fix them?”

“They’re going to be fine. They’re going to be…” He looked at me,
obviously excited, apologetic about being excited, “better, actually. Better
than before. I’ve worked it out in my head. Applying additional canvas to the
back for the repair, but beyond that—I was having a compositional problem
with ‘Saguaro Night.’ The damage actually suggested a solution. It’s going to
be better, much more interesting.”