When the Women Come out to Dance (2002) (21 page)

Inside of twenty years Virgil had almost twelve hundred acre
s planted in pecans and another section used to graze cattle h e bought, fed and sold. Finding oil under his land and leasing a piece of it to a drilling company made Virgil a pile of mone y and he built a big house on the property. He said they coul d pump all the oil they wanted, which they did, he'd still hav e his pe-cans.

Ben's granddad Carl, Virgil's only son, shot a cattle thie
f riding off with some of their stock when he was fifteen year s old. Hit him with a Winchester at a good four hundred yards.

He was christened Carlos Huntington Webster, named for hi
s mother's dad in Cuba and a Colonel Robert Huntington, Virgil's commanding officer in the marines when they took Guantanamo, but came to use only part of the name.

Once Carlos joined the Marshals Service in 1927 everybod
y began calling him Carl; he was stubborn about answering t o it but finally went along, seeing the name as short for Carlos.

By the 1930s, he had become legendary as one of Oklahoma'
s most colorful lawmen. There were newspaper stories that described Carl Webster being on intimate terms with girlfriends of well-known desperadoes from Frank Miller to George "Machine Gun" Kelly.

Ben showed Kim photos of his mother and dad, Cheryl an
d Robert, taken in California sunshine, his dad in uniform, bu t said he had no memory of them. Robert, a career marine, wa s killed in Vietnam in '68 during Tet, when Ben was three year s old. Cheryl gave him up to become a hippie, went to Sa n Francisco and died there of drugs and alcohol. It was ho w Carl, sixty-two at the time and retired from the Marshals , came to raise him. Kim would ask about Cheryl, wanting t o know how a mother could give up her little boy, but Be n didn't have the answer. He said Carl would tell him about hi s dad, how Robert was a tough kid, hardheaded and liked t o fight, joined the marines on account of Virgil telling hi m stories when he was a kid, and was a DI at Pendleton before going to Vietnam.

"But he'd never say much about my mother other than sh
e was sick all the time. I guess she took up serious drugs an d that was that."

Actually, Ben said, Carl didn't talk much about any of th
e women in the family. "Not until I dropped out of Tulsa after a couple of years to get my rodeo ticket and we sat down with a fifth of Jim Beam."

He told Kim some of what he remembered of the conversation. Carl, close to eighty at the time, saying the men in the family never had much luck with women. Even Virgil, cam e back from Cuba and never saw his mother again. She'd gon e off to live on the Northern Cheyenne reservation, out at Lam e Deer, Montana. Carl said he came out of his own mother , Ben's great-grandma Grace, bless her heart, and she was already dying from birthing him.

Carl said that time, "Now your grandma Kitty--I ca
n barely remember her face even though I'm still married to th e woman. If she died I doubt she's in Heaven. Boy, Kitty wa s hot stuff, wore those real skimpy dresses. She'd read about m e in the paper and pretend to shiver in a cute way.''

It sounded to Ben like Carl's idea was to take Kitty out o
f the honky-tonks and show her a happy home life. Only Kitt y found herself living with a couple of guys who dipped Copenhagen, drank a lot, argued and took turns telling stories about fighting the dons in Cuba and chasing after outlaws in Oklahoma. "Kitty saw me as a geezer before my time," Carl said.

"She had Robert, and took off and I never went lookin
g for her."

This was the occasion Carl said to Ben, "I hope you hav
e better luck with women. We seem to have 'em around for a year or so and they take off or die on us."

Kim said, "What's that supposed to mean,
a curse?" She said, "Luck has nothing to do with it," starting t o show some temper. "You know what your granddad's proble m was? He saw himself as a ladies' man without knowing a goddamn thing about women. It was all guy stuff with Carl, and you ate it up. My Lord, raised by an old man with guns an d livestock out in the middle of nowhere. Having a jarhead dril l instructor for a dad wouldn't have helped either, even if yo u never met him. To tell you the truth," she said, "I'm surprise d you're considerate and know how to please a woman."

They'd argue over dumb things like how to make chili an
d Kim would say, "I'm from where they invented it, for Chris t sake, hon. We do certain things my way or I'm out of here.

Like Kitty, or whatever her name was, your grandma."

This Kim Hunter, from Del Rio, Texas, down on the border, had come to Hollywood hoping to be a movie star and was told she'd have to change her name, as there already was a Ki m Hunter. This Kim Hunter said, "Have the other one chang e hers," like she'd never seen her in Streetcar playing Marlo n Brando's wife. She was a physical fitness nut and got into stun t work falling off horses, getting pushed out of moving cars , jumping off the Titanic, stepping in to get beat up in the sam e dress the star was wearing . . .

He said, "You think you'll ever leave me?"

She said, "I doubt it."

Their arguments played like scenes they could turn on and off. Their home in Studio City was aluminum siding with a flagstone patio, a lot of old shrubbery in the backyard and bat s that would come in the house through the chimney.

Three weeks ago they'd spent Sunday on the beach at Poin
t Dume, where Charlton Heston kisses the real Kim Hunte r playing a monkey chick in Planet of the Apes, and she doesn'
t want to kiss him because being a human he's so ugly--righ t before he takes off and comes to the head of the Statue of Liberty sticking out of the sand.

"You'd never catch me playing an ape," Kim said.

That day they walked along the edge of the Pacific Ocea
n talking about getting married and spending the rest of thei r lives together.

"You sure you want to?"

Ben said, "Yeah, I'm sure."

"If we're gonna have any children--"

"I know, and I want kids. Really."

They had fallen in love falling off a ladder in a movie, fiv
e takes, and were still in love almost two years later. She wa s slim and liked to wear hiking boots with print dresses.

Crossing the rocks to the path up the cliff--that bed o
f volcanic rock at Point Dume--Kim twisted her ankle. The y got home, she put ice on it and an Ace wrap and said she wa s fine. They had talked about going to a movie that night , Harry Potter or Ocean's Eleven. Kim said no problem, she wa s up for it, and said, "You promised to fix the chimney today."

Ben was in the kitchen adding mushrooms to the Pau
l Newman spaghetti sauce. He said, "In a minute."

She limped out saying she'd take care of it, not soundin
g mad or upset; it was just that impulsive way she had. H
e called to her to wait. "Can't you wait one minute?" No answe r from outside. If she thought she could do it--she had don e enough climbing and falling gags, she knew how. He though t of the day they fell off the ladder together five times in th e LONG SHOT of the couple eloping . . . and now they were getting married. He told Kim and told himself he was all for it and believed he meant it.

She had dragged the ladder out of the garage, laid i
t against the chimney to climb up and replace the screen ove r the opening so the bats would quit flying in. She must've go t right to the top. . . . He heard her scream and found her at th e foot of the ladder, on the flagstone.

For the next three days and nights he sat close to the hospital bed taking her hand, touching her face, asking her to please open her eyes. He prayed, having once been a Baptist , see if it would do any good, but she died as he watched he r and had to be told by the nurse she was gone.

They let him sit there while he tried to place the blam
e somewhere, going through ifs.

If he had quit slicing the mushrooms right away.

If Kim wasn't so--the way she was.

If they hadn't gone to Point Dume she wouldn't hav
e twisted her ankle. He was sure it was the ankle caused he r to fall.

That evening at home he got out the Jim Beam and it reminded him of his granddad that last time they were together, Carl hoping Ben had better luck with women, having 'em around a year or so and "they take off or die on us."

He tried to find a way to blame Carl for telling him that
, Ben now looking at four generations of bad luck with women. He was afraid it meant that if it wasn't Kim's time had com e it would've been some other girl's.

The idea was in his head now, stuck there. He didn't see i
t as a curse; there was no such thing. Still, there it was and h e had to ask himself, You think you can handle it?

They had talked about taking a trip one o
f these days to show each other where they came from, Ki m saying, "A bull rider, I imagine you'll show me a stock tan k on a feed lot, like you're proud of it."

Turning off the highway into Okmulgee he was thinkin
g this could be his part of the tour, Kim sitting next to him i n her denim jacket, Ben in a wool shirt hanging out of hi s Levi's. It was mid-November, the best time of the year t o show off his land. They'd be harvesting the pecans and Lydell , his caretaker-foreman, would have a crew out shaking th e trees and gathering up the nuts. First, though, a tour throug h town. And right away he was thinking of Denise again , Denise appearing in his mind ever since he left L
. A .

Okmulgee, population: 13,022.

Show Kim some history, the Creek Nation Council House
, and tell her about the "Trail of Tears" and how Cherokees an d Chickasaws and Creeks were forced to move here from Easter n states. He'd be serious about it and she wouldn't say anything.

He was surprised to see a brand-new jail next to the count
y courthouse.

Here was a chance to tell about Denise if he wanted to. Sa
y to Kim, "See the courthouse? That whole top floor used to b e the jail. I spent a night there when a girl named Denise go t me in trouble." Kim would want to know about it. He'd tel l how he and Denise went skinny-dipping late one night in th e country club swimming pool and he got caught. Denise ran , leaving her clothes, but he wouldn't tell on her so they locke d him up they said to teach him a lesson.

Kim would want to know more about Denise. He'd tell he
r that in high school--right up that street, see it? Okmulge e High, Home of the Bulldogs--she was known as Denise th e piece.

But now he was thinking it wouldn't be fair to say that. I
t was the reputation Denise had, but you couldn't prove it b y him. They had fooled around some but never gone all the way.

Okay, there was Boy Howdy, the variety store where he go
t his sweatsocks and T-shirts. Ralph's barbershop, he'd stop i n once a month for his crewcut. Marino's Bar . . .

It was where he last saw Denise, home that time for Carl'
s funeral in '86. She was about to marry a country entertaine r Ben had never heard of, Wayne Hostetter and the Wranglers , but kept touching him as they had a few beers and talke d about things they did twenty years ago, like yesterday.

His close friend in school, Preston Raincrow, mentione
d her only once, Preston on the tribal police now, a Muskoge e Nation Lighthorseman. They had played basketball togethe r and would write each other when they felt like it. Ben neve r asked about Denise, but Preston happened to say in a lette r she had left Wayne, the country singer, and Ben would thin k of her--sometimes even while he was living with Kim--an d wonder what she was doing. He didn't know why he kep t thinking of her.

He drove past her parents' home on Seminole Avenue, but didn't stop. Denise's dad was a lawyer. He liked to bird-hun t and Carl used to take him out to their property on the Dee p Fork River.

The Orpheum was showing Harry Potter and Monsters Inc.

That Sunday they went to Point Dume they were going to se
e Ocean's Eleven after Kim talked him out of Harry Potter. And i f she were sitting next to him right now . . . they might o r might not see Harry Potter, Kim calling it another kid flick.

II.

Ben took 56 out of town, west, up and aroun
d Okmulgee Lake to the bottomland of the Deep Fork, the rive r that ran through his property to water the groves and kee p out the pecan weevils. They still had to spray all summer fo r fungus and casebearer larva. You had to have the right kind o f weather for pecans. Carl used to pray for a spring flood. It go t too dry the trees'd start throwing off pecans before they wer e ready to harvest.

Lydell, his caretaker-foreman, had worked here all his life
, first for Carl, and now looked after the property for Ben , who'd transfer money to the bank in Okmulgee and Lydel l would draw from it with power of attorney to run the peca n business, pay taxes, hire the spraying done and the wor k crews, keep production records, make deals with brokers t o sell the harvest to a sheller in Texas. Lydell, now in his seventies, would send handwritten reports to Ben. "That tornada come thru and took out 4000 trees. It don't look like we wil l make our nut this year." Was he being funny? It was hard t o tell. If they sorted and bagged a thousand pounds an acre , they'd load eight to ten semis and make money. With las t year's freeze they loaded three trucks. The tornado was th e year before.