Bull Head (13 page)

The woman will slip in through the back of the church and attend the boy's son's wedding, and later, after everyone has left, she'll grab a fistful of confetti and rice from the ground and save it in a small jar that she will keep on the windowsill above her kitchen sink. She'll cut out the birth announcements of each of the young couple's three girls and pin them to her fridge next to the picture of the boy taken in the fruit orchard.

When the son's mother passes away, the woman will attend her funeral, sit in the back of the church, wipe her eyes with a neatly folded handkerchief. In her own final days, the woman will lie in her bed, her head turned toward the window, the sky high
and blue, stretched out over the cutblock, held up by the sturdy columns of trees that surround her, each one hand-planted and pruned, watered and thinned, a profligacy of green.

The boy kisses her, and they cling to each other through the window, their foreheads pressed against one another until he kisses her again. The woman lets go of his hands as he slowly eases the truck out of the drive. He honks his horn; the brake lights on his truck wink, then fade in the mist that skims along the skin of the land, rising up into the dazzling morning as he drives away. She waves, knows that in the grand stretch of time, three days is not long to wait and whispers a small prayer, dear God, keep him safe. Across the lake, the outline of the mountains is sharp and serene; up above, the sky shines like a sapphire, blooming brighter as the day opens around her in a warm embrace.

B
ECAUSE IT'S THE
Thanksgiving weekend, Dwight hangs around with the others at the end of the shift. They are a new crew, green and big-limbed, eager to provide for their families. He doesn't trust them, their tall tales and sloppy work, and by the third beer, he's heard enough. He crushes an empty in his fist, tosses it in the slash, flexes his hand, the knuckles ugly as lug nuts, strands of scars across the top, and shakes out the numbness. He slings the rest of his six-pack, eases into his pickup, and drops the beer in the cooler behind his seat.

In his side-mirror, through the dust, one of the guys throws a can at his truck. Another raises a rifle. When the shot booms out, Dwight lowers his head and glances through the rearview. The men laugh and slap each other's backs, rifle pointed in the air, bottom of a beer can at one guy's mouth. It amazes him that these men have families waiting for them at home. He fishtails out of the turn, flashes his brake lights twice to let them know he's in on the joke, straightens the truck and heads for town.

Dwight punches Merle into the tape deck and “The Running Kind” comes on. The beer buzz hits, and he speeds along a gravel road he knows well. Down the valley, the rain comes fast and blurs a blanket of forest; the clear cuts and fresh slash piles he
has helped fell litter the land. Tonight starts another weekend of beer and bourbon and TV, hunkered down in his room, then another five-day shift with the same crew, the same long twelve-hour days—only the trees will change, falling into other cut-blocks and other valleys. Rain smudges the windshield. There's nothing left except for driving and waiting.

Sarah used to love this section. They were going to build a cabin here when the girls got older. Retire. Raise chickens and cultivate vegetables and sip drinks on the porch at the end of the day. The foreman will probably have him cut the valley next spring, and that will be the end of that. He'll take his saw to every one of them and drop them like old friends, the chain chewing their soft bones.

By the time he hits the blacktop, eastward on the Crow, the rain pelts down hard, dimples the dirt shoulder. Others might drive this long stretch with their eyes closed, but not him, not here. He thinks about the holiday weekend feasts Sarah used to put on. The house warm, windows sweating, the girls rushing to meet him at the door in their pink dresses, dragging him to their toy tables with bright plastic cups and saucers. At Twelve Mile he gears down, wipers on high, the rain pounding his rooftop like a sack of thrown marbles. He stops at the big cedar, with the motor idling, gets out, and walks to the tree.

He pulls the black-and-white photo out of his pocket. Sarah's smile is fading, but the girls—Kate, Christine, and little Jody—still have that photo-studio shine as though the picture were just taken. He wipes them with his shirt cuff and stands for a few minutes in front of four small white crosses, a vase of wilted flowers, a brown teddy bear wrapped in plastic. It leaves him feeling useless
to think about dinners and work and the oncoming winter—a washed out year. The rain rakes the asphalt, gurgles in the ruts, and spits on the picture. He curls it close to him and says, “See you Tuesday.”

He drives slow until he hits the industrial strip on the outskirts of town, pulls into the covered gas bar, parks, and tells the kid to fill it up. A group of miners sit on top of their metal lunch boxes. They smoke, stare down at their boots, wait for the valley's coal corporation bus to pick them up for the graveyard shift. A wet dog lies outside against the garbage can. It cowers when Dwight steps toward it. He bends down and offers the back of his hand. The dog sniffs his fingers cautiously before it, wagging its tail back and forth.

Inside the store, he loads up on pepperoni sticks, a hoagie, and a bottle of Coke, dumps it all on the counter. He reaches for the blue whales. The girls used to squeal over those. He counts out six, two for each, and asks the lady behind the counter for a pack of Export A's.

Outside, a young woman wanders along the service station wall to keep out of the rain. Filthy jeans cling to her skinny legs, her windbreaker soaked through. He shakes his head. She's probably making the rounds out back with truckers whacked out on amphetamines, their families far away; only a matter of time before one of them bangs her up in his truck before dumping her in a ditch on their way home. The glass door rattles as she pushes it open.

Her feet are a mess. Broken toenails, stripped back as though someone had taken pliers to them. “What are you looking at?” she says.

Town unhinges him now, more strange faces, seasonal vagrants coming and going, people who don't give a damn about the place. He nods to her and leaves, closing the door behind him. The miners are gone; he drops a pepperoni stick in front of the dog. Its tail thumps against the garbage can; he stoops down and rubs its ears. It turns on its side, licks his hand. “You're a good dog.” He asks the kid who the dog belongs to, but the kid shrugs and turns back to filling up an RV. Dwight thinks about how this dog needs a home and how nice it would be to have some company. He knows this game; he's only fooling himself, so he drops another pepperoni stick and leaves the dog snuffling the ground for more.

He climbs into his truck, slips it into gear, and within minutes the Lamplighter sign comes into view. Good TV and close enough to the house to feel like home, far enough that he won't walk over there when he gets drunk. Cold beer and wine, tavern next door. At the front desk, Alice hands him a fistful of messages. “That realtor isn't one to give up, is he?”

He stuffs the paper in his pocket. “Sorry for the bother.”

“Keep pre-paying in advance, and he can call as much as he wants.” She returns to her crochet.

He drives around back, buys a fifth of rye and case of beer, slips into his room, peels off his wet clothes, tears the paper wrapper off a stubby glass in the bathroom, pours three thick fingers of rye and splash of Coke. The candy sits in a small white paper bag on the rim of the sink. Goddamn blue whales. He shakes them out onto his palm and squeezes them, but his fingers ache. White knuckle. All the fallers get it. Blue gelatin bleeds on his hand, and he whips them at the bathroom mirror. They bounce off, scatter
across the counter, and tumble onto the floor. The inside of the door is scraped in long vertical claw marks, many of them deep, desperate. He touches them, decides someone must have locked up their dog when they went out or something, and slaps the door hard with the flat of his palm. A man who mistreats his dog mistreats his wife. He's seen it time and again with the men he has worked with over the years.

He gets into bed, pulls up the covers, and leans against the headboard, sips slowly. His arms ache like something dead hangs from his shoulders. He lights a cigarette, flicks on the TV. Baseball. Canned laugh tracks. A documentary on elephants. Families move around in herds, led by the oldest female. They swim, run fast, and tear leaves off branches with their trunks. One of the elephants has lost its trunk to a crocodile at the edge of a murky lake and can no longer hunt for food. It makes a rumbling sound in its throat as it wanders the barren country. When the rumbles turn to low-pitched moans, Dwight hits mute. The girls loved every animal they ever met.

He flicks to the adult channel and turns on the volume. Bored sweaty faces, camera angles for circus freaks, a guitar soundtrack that doesn't match the bewildering action. He turns back to the elephant. Every whimper seems to ridicule Dwight until the elephant drops to the ground and lies there, no longer moving. A small procession of elephants gathers around it and stroke the corpse with their trunks. He takes a deep drink, butts out his cigarette, glances at the alarm clock. 6:29 p.m. Already a long night. He pours another, drinks it in a gulp, and thinks of how this room is all the home he has now. The elephant still whines; he hits mute and no longer feels like getting wasted.

He studies the ceiling and waits. 8:03 p.m. TV flashes in the dark room. He gets up and goes to the bathroom. The whales lie on the floor twisted and upside down, and that makes him miserable. He arranges them on the counter side-by-side and feels better after a hot shower and shaving his five-day beard. He dresses, pulls on his ostrich-skin boots, a last Christmas gift from Sarah, and crosses the highway to the Old Elevator.

The restaurant is busy and warm. The young hostess hugs two menus as she greets him. She is too perky when she asks if he needs a table for two. He holds up one finger and remembers that she, too, is someone's daughter. Her neatly plucked eyebrows scrunch as she studies her seating map, drops a menu, and leads him to a table at the back near the salad bar where high chairs line the hallway toward the toilets. She waits until he is seated before handing him a menu and walks away without a word.

He splurges and orders a porterhouse. Couples sit leaning in close across their tables, some with children who maul paper placemats with crayons, others flushed with wine in the candlelight, and he knows what they are thinking—that poor pathetic man, dining alone. He wants to shout how they got it all wrong; he did the best with the time he was given. Now he waits on god knows what. Eating by himself makes him feel mean, gutted, like his chest has been split open and all that's inside is rotting wood. He eats quickly, pays the bill, leaves a generous tip, and walks out.

It's still raining when he crosses the highway and heads toward the Northerner. Beneath the awning, the young woman from the gas bar slouches against the wall, smoking. Her eyes are narrow, and she flashes a grin that unnerves him, one that says, “You
can't fool me with those ridiculous boots.” He enters the tavern, glad to be amongst the living. Orders a shot of bourbon and a can of Old Style Pilsner. Knocks back the shot, takes a deep sip of beer, motions for another. He turns the can in his hand. The girls used to count the little white bunnies out loud, but he'd turn the can so they'd lose track and have to start all over again. They never tired of that game. He never bought any other beer.

On the small square of parquet floor, a Kootenai woman dances by herself. Eyes bright, her body moves to a beat all its own. He used to watch Sarah dance, guard her from afar. He couldn't believe his good fortune. Fire and gin. Sarah knew how to light him up.

Dwight catches his reflection in the mirror behind the bar. Passes his hand over his eyes and feels too old to be drinking in bars alone. Finishes his beer. The gas bar girl leans against a pillar in the shadows at the back, stares at him. He's had just about all that he can take. He digs in his pockets, pulls out a twenty, and clenches it in his fist. His hands are looser now, thanks to the bourbon, as he makes his way toward the exit.

“Here, take this,” he says, handing her the money. She looks at him, and he knows she's sizing him up to see if he's playing her. “Take it.”

She's prettier close up, maybe older than he thought, although he can't tell with women.

She doesn't glance at the bill. “You want some company tonight, huh?”

“Nope.”

“Nice boots.”

He's not sure if she's being sarcastic, asks her name.

“I don't need a drink.” Her eyes are glazed and soft, and he thinks she must be high.

“Where's your shoes?”

“Listen, I just need a place for the night.”

“I'm not in the mood.”

“I just need a room.”

“You don't understand. I'm not into it. No offence.” He places the money in her palm, but she yanks her hand away.

“I don't need money.”

“Everyone needs money.”

“That's not true. That's not true at all.”

“Suit yourself.” He sets the money down on the counter and turns to leave.

“I'm only taking this so someone else don't come along and grab it.”

She follows him across the parking lot; her bare feet slap against the wet asphalt. It's nice to have someone next to him, walking. He's wary of her and has nothing to say, but he likes the idea that he could say something and have someone talk back to him.