Honeymooners A Cautionary Tale (12 page)

Maybe that manager should
call the police, after all, Ralph said. —That might be the best
thing to do, you know, in the long run.

They made threats early on,
but that was before Alice Ann really got hot and turned on
them.

I can’t go back in that
wretched place. That would be not unlike walking into an ambush.
What man in his right mind would deliberately do something like
that, knowingly walk into a trap? Let me ask you that.

Well, you have to do
something, old Ralph. You can’t just sit here.

Okay, then. Well then, let’s
not panic. Let’s consider everything. We’ll just look carefully at
our options.

Why don’t you put the top
down? Jim suggested. He dialed in a country-western station on the
radio.

What?

The ragtop. Put it down,
man. It’s stuffy in here and smoky. Put it down, Ralph, while we
consider our options.

All right, Ralph said. —That
sounds like a good idea.

Ralph pressed the ragtop
button and the top cranked slowly back. Jim rested his head back on
the seat and looked up at the stars. It was a balmy night, with a
whiff of eucalyptus in the warm breeze. The sound of traffic from
the Bay Shore Freeway was a low, almost comforting rumble. On the
radio the old Silver Fox, Charlie Rich, was singing “Behind Closed
Doors.”

Look up there, Jim said, and
pointed to the sky with the joint. —There’s the Big Dipper. Over
there is Taurus. See those stars? Taurus the bull. There’s Cancer.
Were you ever interested in the stars when you were a kid, old
Ralph?

No, Ralph said, wiggling his
fingers at Jim for the joint. —Not much, anyway, I guess. They were
just always up there, you know, blinking. I don’t remember much
about my childhood.

I wanted to be an astronomer
when I grew up. I memorized the night sky.

Really? Ralph said. —That’s
nice. Can I have another hit of that dooby before it’s
history?

Those stars along the
western horizon, they’re known as the Great Chinese Dragon
constellation. I know my constellations by heart. I know the night
sky like the back of my own hand. Over there, see? That cascade of
stars that looks like, well, a leak. Like they’re dripping down the
sky. That’s called the Moon Maid’s Menstruation. Right up there is
the Great Celestial Salamander.

How stoned are you already?
Ralph said. —Would it really kill you to share some of that
dooby?

And right up there is the
Giant Chimera.

You sound as flaky as Alice
Ann sometimes, Ralph said. He pressed the ragtop’s button and the
top began noisily cranking back up.

Shit, wait a minute, Jim
said. He took another joint from his shirt pocket and handed the
thing to Ralph. —Here, asshole. Now keep the top down,
dickhead.

Wonder what our wives are
doing right now? Ralph said.

Cooling their heels while we
search for your wallet, I guess, Jim said. —Ralph, would you
explain to me why you were running the windshield wipers when I
first came out.

I was just checking
everything out. To see if everything was in working order. Sort of
like a countdown, I guess. Like a pilot before takeoff.

So you really were thinking
about doing it? Jim said. —Taking off. And leaving your best buddy
in the dust.

It wasn’t you I was leaving.
But I was leaving, all right. I came within a heartbeat. And I
might have done it. If you hadn’t come charging out the door
yelling your head off.

I’ve kicked guy’s asses for
less than what you tried to pull tonight, Ralph, Jim said. —And the
night’s young, buddy. Pass the dope, dicknose.

I’m not responsible for what
I’m doing these days, Ralph said.

Are you pleading insanity?
Diminished capacity?

Well, I’ll tell you this,
I’d get off in a court of law.

Where were you thinking
about going, anyway? When you were thinking about dumping your best
buddy.

Anywhere. Somewhere. I don’t
know. Well, I do know. Missoula, Montana, that’s where.

That’s where the woman I
really love lives. I really was thinking about doing it,
too.

Does that woman love
you?

You bet she does. I can
prove it, too. I’ve got it in black and white.

It’s not too late, you
know.

What do you mean?

Let’s go. Let’s do it.
You’ve got your paw on the pedal. Put the pedal to the metal. Let’s
run away from home.

You mean take off? Ralph
said. Ralph looked over at Jim and started to laugh. —You know,
Ralph said, they call Missoula the garden city of the
Northwest.

We’ll make a clean getaway.
We’ll be cowboys in Montana. If I didn’t turn out to be an
astronomer, the next thing I wanted to become when I was a kid was
a cowboy.

Just take off, Ralph said,
chuckling. —Put the pedal to the metal. Ranch by day and sing songs
around the campfire by night.

Break wild horses for our
pay.

Write Western stories full
of vast distances under amazing sunsets.

And full of compound nouns
and proper names, Jim said. —I’ve done it before, old Ralph. Run
away from home. And I’m ready teddy to do it again. We’re not
waiting on me, buddy. Think of the story it would make. We’ll be
the talk of the town.

You want to take off? Just
like that. You mean it?

You bet, Jim said. —I’ve
been on leave this whole term and not written a fiicken decent
sentence. I need a change of scene. I need a change of life.
Besides, my blushing bride is fucking some clown.

What? Ralph said. —What?
You’re kidding.

Nope. She’s fucking some guy
from work. Some sport who wears a white belt and white shoes with
tassels. Too much, I say.

I don’t believe you. Judy
is? How do you know? Did you catch her red-handed? I don’t believe
it. Judy’s not the type.

She told me. Judy’s like
that. She just thought I should know. Judy’s all right. She just
wants a normal, happy life.

She told you? That’s crazy.
You mean she just up and confessed? Why in the world would somebody
do something like that?

Judy’s not like us, Jim
said. —She’s basically a decent person. It’s just something
somebody like Judy would do. She feels guilty about fucking this
guy, which I know is something difficult for somebody like you—or
me, for that matter—to comprehend.

Gosh. Judy always put me in
mind of, you know, Mary Tyler Moore. Holy moly. Did she tell you
any, well, juicy details?

I pumped her for
details.

I’ll be damned, Ralph said.
—I’ll be damned. Did she tell you if she has engaged in any, you
know, oral sex?

Hey, Jim said. —Fuck you and
the horse you rode in on!

Gosh, old Jim, I didn’t mean
anything. I’m sorry. I’m just amazed is all. I just didn’t have any
idea, that’s all.

Anyway, buddy, I, for one,
am going on the lam, which is a way of life I can understand. I am
going to practice some withdrawal of my own, I guess you could
say, some serious withdrawal from ordinary life as I have come to
know and loathe it.

You really are going to go,
aren’t you?

Hi-yo, Silver, away. Aren’t
you going to go with me, buddy?

I can’t, Ralph said. —Not
just yet, I mean. Not right now, exactly.

Oh come on, old Ralph. We’ll
live off the land. We don’t even need maps. We’ll use celestial
navigation to guide our herd north.

I just can’t, Ralph said.
—Not right now, anyway. I’ve got too many loose ends to tie up.
I’ll come up later, though. I will.

Okay, I get the picture, old
Ralph, Jim said. —Well, running away from home is a real perilous
passage. It takes a cowboy with balls like a bull to run away from
home. Okay, then, this will be my Western movie and mine alone, I
reckon, pardner.

I can’t believe this, Ralph
said. —You’re really going to do it. Will you do me a favor, old
Jim?

I don’t know. Maybe.
What?

Will you take something to
somebody for me? Sort of deliver a package to somebody for
me?

Maybe. If it’s not too big.
And not out of my way. And if there are no strings
attached.

Ralph turned off the engine,
then got out and hurried around to the ragtop’s trunk. Jim slid out
of his side and followed Ralph back.

There’s somebody watching us
from the bar door, Ralph said.

It’s the oily manager, Jim
told him.

Wonder what he’s thinking
about all this business? Ralph said. He opened the trunk. —Wonder
what our wives are doing now?

Jesus, Ralph, Jim said, who
knows what the oily fuck thinks. Who cares. As for our wives, they
probably have dates with the cooks by now.

Ralph rummaged about beneath
piles of papers and books until he found an old battered yellow
suitcase. It was covered with faded tourist stickers, see silver
springs was one.

Nice suitcase, Jim
said.

It’s Alice Ann’s. She’s had
this awful thing since childhood. The lock on mine was broken. I
couldn’t very well set off into a new life using a suitcase with a
rope tied around it.

Ralph fumbled with the locks
on the old beat-up suitcase, then flung it open. It looked as
though it had been packed in maybe six seconds, by furious
fistfuls. It was stuffed with wrinkled shirts and pants and wadded
gray underwear, all tangled among assorted, mostly uncapped
toiletries. It also contained several cans of Campbell’s soup, a
couple of rolls of toilet paper, and what looked like a plastic bag
of sandwich fixings.

So you really were thinking
about taking off? Jim said, genuinely surprised and, yes,
impressed.

I told you so, Ralph said.
—I told you so, didn’t I? I wasn’t fooling. I packed this baby
right after Alice Ann nailed me at breakfast. I was ready to hit
the open road in a heartbeat if she turned on me again.

Jim saw the manager waving
from behind the glass door of the bar. He was motioning for Jim and
Ralph. Jim gave him the finger.

Here, Ralph said. —He took a
large folder from the suitcase. —This is it. These are the letters
I was telling you about. Lindsay’s letters. And some of mine, too,
actually. She sent them back to me. But she was angry. She’ll get
over it. Take them to her for me. Please, old Jim. Alice Ann
threatened to burn these babies in the back yard. And she’d do it,
too. Forget any concern for, well, you know, the interests of
posterity. Tell Lindsay for safekeeping. Will you do that, old Jim?
And can I trust you? I mean, these are private letters, old Jim.
Meant for our eyes, Lindsay’s and mine, only. You
understand.

You know you can trust me,
old Ralph. With anything.

Tell Lindsay I’m sorry. Tell
her I’m coming as soon as I can tie up all the loose ends of my
old, wretched life down here.

I’ll tell her, old Ralph.
You can count on me, pardner.

Hey, you fellas! they heard
somebody call out, and they looked up to see the manager standing
outside shaking his fist.

Old Missoula, Montana, Jim
said to Ralph. —The old garden city of the Northwest, Jim
said.

You fellas! Hey! they heard,
and watched the fat, oily manager waddling hurriedly across the
parking lot toward them.

Well, here comes old Zorba,
Jim said. —Zorba the goat.

What? Ralph said. —Who? Who
did you say?

Oh, you know, Jim said. —Old
Melvin’s buddy.

Yes! Jim thought. Fucken
yes. Missoula, Montana. Why not? The garden city of the Northwest.
A place on earth where he somehow knew he could come to belong. A
cowboy-and-Indian town on the verge of things. Maybe even the
uncanny edge of romance.

People of the
Wolf

1

When Lindsay was thirty she
divorced her first husband, this jerk who fancied himself an
emerging great American poet and dangerous outlaw-biker to boot,
after three pitiful years of marriage. For a time after her divorce
and before her remarriage, Lindsay had lived as though she welcomed
grief and ruin. In moments of sustaining illusion, she told herself
that she, the Lindsay, was living legendary. In moments of less
illusion, Lindsay saw her life as lost. A dead-end job selling real
estate was a far cry from that glimpsed golden ideal of her future
she had had as a scholarship girl going East to Vassar College.
Although men now told Lindsay she was beautiful, she could only
see herself as she had been in high school, a fat girl with pimples
who played tuba in the marching band, was editor of the yearbook,
and was brilliant in Latin. She had to admit, however, that after
she had supposedly blossomed into a beauty in college her life had
been full of romantic events, if not love. But where had they led
her?