Crow Fair (9 page)

“Your original business was?”

“Nutritional supplements, weight-loss products, essential oils, pet vitamins, the usual. I ran it right here in town. Now it’s in a portfolio somewhere, probably Bahrain.” Bruce pulled Nell back into her seat by her shirt collar and rolled up the window. She slumped and stared at the dark radio dial.

“Where is your car?”

“Do we have a car?”

Nell said, “We have a car. Ours is a sedan.”

What would have unnerved me otherwise, I welcomed: Wait’ll I load this duo onto Ann and the Clearys. “Why can’t she listen to the radio.”

“She can listen to the radio but not while we’re talking. We’ve covered the main stuff. Now she can listen. There’s a time and a place for everything.” I rejoiced at this clodhopper’s philosophy.

Nell turned the radio on, dialing around until she found a classical station and the mournful sound of an oboe, which seemed to settle her down. As though speaking only to herself, she said that she had never been to Bahrain, either in a sedan or any other way. “It’s across the ocean,” barked Jewell.

Nell said, “A truck hit me.”

“Poor Nell.”

“A small red Japanese truck with Idaho plates and a woman driver.”

“See what bubbles up?” said Jewell.

Nell said, “Handel Oboe Concerto in G Minor,” and raised the volume, cupping her hand over the knob so that no one would be able to interfere. Her brows raised, eyes bright, mouth wide open, she was in awe.

Jewell said, “As discussed.”

After listening to the music intently for several minutes, Nell said, “Bruce only likes stupid hillbillies. I take him for what he is.”

I was confused: Nell was mentally challenged, underappreciated, and had a killer body. A guy could get into a world of hurt with such mixed signals. I concentrated on the road and reflected that nothing would alleviate my present anxieties like a bulletproof spell of adultery. The ex-Miss-Utah-runner-up thing had an enticing ring of prestige as well, and I was up for leaning into her Tower of Pisa problem.

“What are you, anyway?” she asked her husband.

I pulled into the parking lot of Rascal’s Pizzeria and found a slot between a rusted-out Pontiac GTO and a home-oxygen supply van with a kayak rack on top. A light rain had begun to fall, and when Nell got out, she danced around, head thrown back, tongue wiggling and palms up. It was crazy but kind of infectious. Jewell caught her eye, raised a warning finger, and her arms dropped to her sides. Then Bruce pivoted toward the front door. “We surf the toppings.” Nell and I followed, and I was startled when she sought my hand, like a child. I thought I’d extract it, then thought I’d just let it ride and watch for Ann’s reaction. Even in the shift, Nell was eye-catching and would remain so until her behavior was observed.

Looking around the half-filled room, I said, “Let me see if I can spot them.” Rascal’s had turned into something of a sports bar, with armatured TV screens hung all around the room,
speakers blaring. Servers in the lavender Rascal’s uniform hunched over beers while keeping eyes on the screens, some of which showed a demolition derby in Wyoming; one was playing an interview with A-Rod as to his health, and yet another displayed a girl weeping in some jungle setting, holding a revolver. I regarded each of these as a distraction, ground clutter keeping me from finding my wife. Jewell was right in front of me, thumbs in his suspenders. “What say we eat?”

“Sure, Bruce, grab a table. We can always move.”

“Not once I tuck into a family size. I could eat a horse.”

“I’m soooooo hungry!” cried Nell.

They weren’t here, and I was very abruptly frantic. I kept checking my watch as though it could tell me something. I made sure the ring and vibrate features were both activated on my cell phone, probably taking too much time doing so, since before I knew it both the waitress and the Jewells were eyeing me impatiently. I ordered a small house pizza automatically, just to dispel the awkwardness.

“Not even going to check out the toppings?” asked Jewell.

“Got it,” said the waitress and sped off.

Jewell said, “You all right?”

“Me? Sure. It’s just that I—”

“Maybe she ran away with the circus! Ha-ha-ha!”

“Yeah, that must be it,” I mumbled, instantly aware of what must have been my disquieting delivery. In any case, they saw nothing funny and gazed at me quietly, Nell with her own fervor and concern. “The circus,” I added.

Why was I so preoccupied? Because I had been deceived by my wife and she had invested some serious planning in this deceit. To what end? To meet someone who was not me and as
I awaited a pizza I would have enormous trouble choking down while sitting with two idiots. These were not happy thoughts.

Then it hit me! The Clearys were too good for a pizza joint, and they had changed restaurants. No doubt, one of their children would be happy to tell me which one they had chosen. I excused myself and went outside with the smokers and called the Clearys’ house. Craig Cleary answered. “Oh, Craig, hi, Hoyt here. Wasn’t tonight the night Ann and I were to meet you at Rascal’s?”

“I don’t eat at Rascal’s. Is that where you are?”

“No big deal. We’ll just grab something to go.”

“Rascal’s! How’s Ann taking this?”

“I think she’s fascinated in a kind of ironic way.”

“Fascinated! What’s fascinating at Rascal’s?”

I struggled, finally blurting, “The toppings.” I disliked this treatment by Craig, and so I repeated firmly, as though training a dog, “The toppings, goddamn it!”

When I got back to the table, Jewell remarked, “Your face could turn wine into vinegar.” I took it in stride. I had to. My head was spinning. There was a numb spot on my leg, and my mouth felt like it had been years since my last cleaning. There was only one thing to do: get home before Ann.

“Why is the food taking so long?”

Jewell asked, “First time ordering a pizza, pal?”

“I just found out on the phone that Ann sprained her ankle—”

“Oh, how?”

“Gopher hole.”

“A gopher hole!”

“Jesus Christ, do you have to challenge everything?”

“Oh. Oh. Oh. Say, I don’t like the way this is heading at all.”

“People, people,” Nell implored, “let’s just simmer on down.”

My head was full of a picture of my wife, random and dangerous as a Scud missile. I told the waitress about my emergency, and we soon had the pizzas, packed to go. I grabbed a menu from the counter. Neither of the Jewells spoke as I drove hell-bent back up the dirt road, trees rushing through the side windows, nor when I shoved their pizzas across the seat at them as I parked in front of the darkened house. Jewell said, “Thanks, neighbor,” as he got out. “Thanks, a bunch.” Nell already in flight across the pea rock that served as a lawn. I was soon home with a drink in hand and thinking, perhaps too much, about Ann with someone else, intimate, of course, but also covered with sweat. How much did I want to know? I seemed to be doing all right with bourbon and abstraction at least not having seen her yet. Fortunately, there was a built-in time frame, since last call at Rascal’s would dictate the faux chronology. In this sense, I felt I had my ducks in a row and relaxed for the time being, perusing the Rascal’s menu.

As part of financing her education, Ann had served in the navy, where I have no doubt she was the darling of the fleet. When we were courting, I could hardly avoid colliding with one of her amatory enthusiasms, especially the one called Shelley, with his collar-length hair and crew-neck sweaters. Shelley was no seaman; Ann believed him to be a filmmaker. It turned out he was a drug dealer, which remained unclear to Ann until formal charges had been filed. I don’t know how that would have turned out if Shelley hadn’t gone to prison, where he was rehabilitated as a nurse. He’s now at a regional hospital outside Omaha. I refilled my drink and started killing moths to pass the time. At
the edge of my consciousness, the mystery of Ann’s whereabouts reared its head as often as I could chase it away. I couldn’t tell if the whiskey was helping or not; on the one hand, it seemed to numb me to the escalating misery; on the other hand, it made the drama of it more florid. I was like a dog trapped in a hot car. The temptation was to drink more and throw the matter into greater relief on the theory, masquerading as fact, that I would thereby handle the situation with more equanimity, or at least not start a fight that could only enlarge my suffering while making sure Ann shared it. In the end, I realized it wouldn’t pay to be drunk, and I dumped my latest refill, taking up instead some microwave popcorn, which I ate from a bowl in the armchair I had positioned to face the front door. I pictured this as a prosecutorial touch, which it might well have been if I’d had any guts. I was still at some remove from recognizing that I was terrified of the truth, and when I thought of the way Ann used emery boards as bookmarks, I felt myself choking with emotion.

Ann came in the door with a blaze of energy and a wildly insincere “Honey, I’m home!” She was a little taken aback to find me hunkered down in the armchair, bowl of popcorn and pizza menu in my lap. And there must have been something in my tone when I asked her about the evening, since she paused with the coat halfway off her shoulders. I could have pressed my face to her crotch and busted her on the spot, but this was not my way. “It was okay,” she said. “How good could it have been with the Clearys?”

“Did you stuff yourself?”

She paused before saying, “I’ve never been that excited about pizza.”

“Mozzarella and pepperoni? The usual?”

“Yep.”

I raised the menu to my eyes. “Didn’t feel like trying the sundried tomatoes, anchovies, porcini mushrooms, prosciutto, eggplant—”

“Where’d you get the menu?”

“Rascal’s. I thought I’d join you.”

Ann finished hanging her coat and came over to where I sat with the bowl.

“Did you put butter on this?”

I felt the shift like a breath.

“No.”

Ann took a single piece of popcorn and raised it to her mouth.

“So, how shall we leave it?”

The wind funneled down the river valley between the two mountain ranges, picking up speed where the interstate hit its first long straightaway in thirty miles. Clay’s car lot was right on the frontage road, where land was cheap and the wind made its uninterrupted rush whatever the season of the year. Before winter had quite arrived to thicken his blood, while the cattle trucks were still throwing up whirlwinds of cottonwood leaves, the wait between customers seemed endless. He couldn’t even listen to the radio anymore. In the snowy dead of winter it was easier somehow. Now, face close to the window, and one hand leaning against the recycled acoustic tile that lined the walls, he stared down at the roofs and hoods of used vehicles in search of a human form.

When, just before lunch, a rancher came in about a five-year-old three-quarter-ton Dodge that Clay had sold him, Clay was glad even to receive a complaint. Barely over five feet tall in his canvas vest and railroad cap, the rancher held a pair of fencing pliers as an invitation to mayhem. He shouted, “It’s a lemon!” Clay, trying to lighten the mood, said, “The space shuttle was six billion, and it’s a lemon.” But he ended up getting sucked into a retroactive guarantee just to keep the guy’s business. With my
luck, thought Clay, I’ll end up throwing a short block into it, or a rear end. Once the rancher, a friend of Clay’s father, had the repair deal in hand, he asked, “How’s the old man? Gonna pull through?”

“He’s just about dead,” said Clay emphatically, and went back into the shack with its telephone, cash drawer, and long view of the vehicle lot. At the end of the frontage road, where it met Main Street, a newspaper tumbling through plastered itself against the boarded-up frozen-yogurt stand. The metal sign on wheels in front of the tire-repair shop was flapping back and forth. The Dodge pulled back onto the road and went by the shack. The rancher, barely able to see over the wheel, gave Clay a wave, and Clay smiled broadly saying, “Eat shit!” behind his teeth.

It was really no longer a hospital, just a place providing emergency care until an ambulance or helicopter could take you to Billings. Three nurses and a doctor were on call. Clay got his father admitted there on the strength of being one of three ranchers who had founded the little hospital when it actually served the rural population then flourishing. It had the advantage of being close to home, with views that meant something to the old man, like the one of the big spring where they’d watered cattle for a century. There was not a lot to be done for him, at least not here. About all anyone could do was listen to his stories, and that seemed enough. Clay of course had heard them all, so there remained only to notice the thickening of detail with each retelling, assuming he could stand to hear his father express yet again his love for the life he’d lived while Clay pondered his own peaked existence at the lot. Should you interrupt
the telling, the hard look would return, the face of a man who, throughout his life, had called all the shots that really mattered. Seeing his father in the bed, Clay could hardly help thinking about the ease that lay ahead for him and his sister, even as guilt tore at him. Times had changed all right, but that didn’t excuse much.