In the City of Shy Hunters (33 page)

Father's face didn't need clown makeup. His mouth was open and he was staring at Mother. So was Bobbie. So was I.

The wind in the cottonwood made the leaves shake, the sigh and scratch, into the kitchen. The shadows of the leaves on the table, on us, our family at the table, the shadows moving quick over the bowls and cups and cereal boxes, over our hands, on Father's head, Bobbie's face, the smoke of Mother's Herbert Tareyton, made it look like the shadows were still and the world was shaking.

Mother pushed her chair back, stood up quick.

Cotton Parker, Mother said, Now you listen up! We ain't afraid of you no more. We ain't following your rules no more. We're tired of being bullied by a damned old drunk sonofabitch!

Mother puffed and puffed on her cigarette, smoke all around her head.

So I'm smoking in the house, Mother said. And Bobbie's got a dog in her room. And your son Will's got an Injun in his.

So there it is, Mother said. Like it or lump it!

That's not all Bobbie's got in her room, I said.

But it's not the truth. I didn't open my mouth.

Father reached across the table and grabbed Mother by the hair. The table knocked over and dishes and cereal and cereal boxes and milk and coffee went flying. Father was dragging Mother back into her room. He slammed the door, and behind the door it sounded like the mean goose and the monkey were going at it, like all hell was breaking loose.

Bobbie wasn't anywhere around.

Behind the door, Mother screamed out and then a low sound against the floor. I ran up the stairs to my room and there was no sign of Charlie
anywhere. I looked in Bobbie's room and Jupiter was on her bed, whining through the muzzle.

When I got back to the kitchen, I couldn't believe what was waiting for me.

The bedroom door was open and Father was holding Mother by the neck. Bobbie was standing in front of the bedroom door with Father's double-barreled shotgun pointed at Father's middle.

Bobbie's hair was every which way. Bobbie's body was skinny straight up and down, her pink seashell top, her poodle skirt, high heels spread wide apart, the shotgun right-angle to her body. Bobbie had her finger on both triggers.

Mother and Father didn't move. Father in his boxer shorts and T-shirt and Mother in a black dress that didn't fit; Mother and Father stared down the barrels of the shotgun. No doubt about it, they were the deers and Bobbie was the Mack truck.

Then: Well, now, Father said. My dear sweet little Bobbie girl, Father said. The light of my life! You sure do look mighty pretty today.

Shut up! Bobbie said.

You'll shoot your mother too at this range, Father said.

She wants to go too, Bobbie said. Don't you, Mother?

Mother smiled, smoothed the black dress across her hips, stepped closer. Father's hand fell off her.

Careful, Mother! Bobbie said. Don't block him.

Mother stepped aside a little so she didn't block the line of fire.

Listen up, Mr. Rodeo Fucking Clown, Bobbie said. Don't you ever, fucking ever, lay a hand on Mama again.

Bobbie, Father said. His hands were open, palms up. Come on, baby, Father said. This is your daddy.

Shoot! Mother said. Don't think about it, just shoot!

We've had enough! Bobbie said. All of us! Bobbie said. Isn't that right, Will?

Mother's Herbert Tareyton was burning on the linoleum. I stepped on it.

He knows about Charlie, Bobbie said. He knows about my dog. We got to kill him.

Just shoot! Mother cried, and fell down on her knees. Dear God, just shoot!

Bobbie swung the shotgun to the left and pulled the trigger. Shotgun blast real loud and a hole in the plaster wall bigger around than Father was wide. Mother screamed, or Father screamed. Maybe it was me.

Then quiet after something so loud. Plaster dust, buckshot bouncing on the floor.

Then a little black ball of fur and red bow and something shiny ran through the kitchen: Jupiter. He ran to the back door and jumped up through the screen door, but the screen stopped him.

He made it through the screen the second time, and he was running, but his leash got caught between the floorboards of the porch, and he damn near choked himself to death.

Jupiter started screaming dog screams. Dog diarrhea.

Jupiter! Bobbie yelled.

Jupiter! I yelled.

Bobbie kicked off her high heels and was out the kitchen door first, still with the shotgun, then me. She bent down quick and pulled the leash from between the floorboards, let go of the leash, then knelt down to pick the dog up.

But Jupiter was off.

Jupiter! Jupiter! Bobbie yelled.

Bobbie! Bobbie! I yelled.

But Jupiter didn't stop. Muzzled, in his red bow and his rhinestone collar, Jupiter ran and ran around the house, around father's atom-bomb swimming-pool-blue pickup and trailer, around the horse trailer, around the rusted old swing set and teeter-totter, ran to Father's big German shepherd, ran right for him.

Like on TV when you see the lion break the gazelle's neck.

Just like that, Jupiter was a high-pitched muzzled dog scream, a black and red dishrag flopping around in Heap Big Chief's mouth.

On the smooth cement, Bobbie stopped.

Bobbie raised the shotgun, aimed at Heap Big Chief, cocked the shotgun.

I caught up to Bobbie just before Father did.

Father had his arms out and was about to grab Bobbie from behind when I stepped between Father and Bobbie and crouched down. Father went flying over me.

Bobbie shot. Fur flying, brains, bone, pieces of dog muzzle. Heap Big Chief was lying on the ground, his legs twitching, one whole side of his head gone. Jupiter a bloody rag still clenched in Heap Big Chief's mouth.

Bobbie's flying hair, her pink seashell top, her poodle skirt, bare feet firm on the smooth cement. Father on his back right on the cement, white hairy legs, white hairy arms, piss stains and duck butter on his shorts.

Dog blood a red pool from the dog pile.

Bobbie dropped the shotgun right there.

The black dress on Mother in the unrelenting sun was a dark hole in the morning. Bobbie walked to Mother, put her head on Mother's breast, and Mother was holding Bobbie and Bobbie was crying crying. They walked that way, those females, holding on together, back into the house.

Father got up off the smooth cement, cussed, brushed his butt off. He walked toward me like he was going to hit me, but things were different. I squared off and put my fists up. But Father just walked past, not even looking at me. Then from behind, he hit me in the ear, then my other ear. I fell facedown on the smooth cement. The blood on the cement was from me.

Father unhitched the trailers, got in his pickup, started the motor. All Dodges sound the same.

Father left rubber on the smooth cement, threw rocks when he got to the gravel. The pickup sound down the lane through the cottonwoods got farther and farther away.

But he wasn't going far without his pants.

CHARLIE WAS BEHIND
Viv's double-wide, sitting on the wood step. He took one look at me, went in the double-wide, and came out with Viv, and Viv had a warm washcloth.

Viv held my head against her cantaloupe breasts, wiped the blood from my ears. She smelled like permanents and fry bread. Her shoulder was so soft.

Viv cried the whole time she held me, wiped the blood. When she wasn't cussing Father, she was talking something beautiful in Indian.

When Viv got up, her knees cracked. Viv went inside, and in no time at all, came out with two bologna sandwiches and two RC Colas and two paper napkins. At our house, we always tore the napkins in half, but Viv gave Charlie and me whole napkins.

On the wood steps of Viv's double-wide, Charlie came over and sat down next to me. Charlie put his arms across my shoulders. Only then did I start to cry.

I told Charlie about the shotgun and the dead dogs and everything. I told him Father knew Charlie was coming over to the house.

Charlie said, Don't pay it no mind, Will. He can't stop me from coming over.

* * *

CHARLIE AND I
buried the dogs in the corral behind the barn. We had to dig a big hole for Heap Big Chief.

Charlie said, Heap Big Chief heap big hole. And that got us to laughing. Jupiter's hole was just a little hole. We put some rocks around Jupiter's grave and Charlie painted the rocks white with a can of spray paint from Viv's garage.

Later on, Charlie and I went up in the sexually haunted barn and lay down on the straw and looked up at the sunlight coming through the holes in the roof. Charlie took hold of my hand. I pulled my hand away.

It's probably best you don't come over tonight, I said.

What if he comes home all drunk? Charlie said.

All the more reason for you to stay out of here, I said.

ABOUT MIDNIGHT, I
heard Bobbie in the bathroom. Out the window, Father's pickup wasn't in the yard. I ran down the dark wood steps and down the hardwood floor of the hallway to the bathroom and the crack of light under the bathroom door. I knocked on the door and said, Bobbie?—but Bobbie didn't hear me so I just walked in the bathroom, and Bobbie told me to get the fuck out of there, but I didn't.

Bobbie was all sweaty and her hair was wet and the big red T-shirt she wore to bed was soaked all the way through and bunched around the middle of her and you could see Bobbie's pink panties and the hair of her poon under her pink panties. Bobbie was kneeling on the green linoleum, really fountain-mouth, barfing, barfing, her head way into the toilet, her body jerking every time she barfed, her one hand a pillow on the rim of the toilet and her other hand holding tight to the green shower curtain. I didn't know what to do.

Bobbie yelled at me, Stop your fucking crying! which made me cry all the more.

I got the blue washrag from the closet in the hallway and went to the sink and turned on the enamel knob that said cold in black letters on it and let the cold water run on the washrag and left the water running, and then went and knelt down on the green linoleum by Bobbie, touched her on the back first, then put the washrag on her face and wiped her face. Her barf smelled awful. Peanut butter and grape jelly sandwiches and Nestlé Quik and milk. But I stayed holding the washrag to her face.
When she was done barfing for a little bit, I asked Bobbie if she wanted me to turn off the ceiling light and Bobbie said, Yes, thank you. And I turned off the unrelenting fluorescence.

Who knows how long Bobbie and I sat on the bathroom floor in the dark with just the cold water running into the sink.

Bobbie and I are still sitting there.

Then, all at once, the unrelenting fluorescence went back on and Mother was standing at the door. She had her same yellow terry-cloth bathrobe on, same slippers, her hair was the same too, everything the same, but something about Mother that night was beautiful.

She went right to Bobbie, and at first Bobbie waved her arm and tried to keep her away but Mother just took Bobbie's arm and helped Bobbie up and then held Bobbie close to her with Bobbie's head on the yellow terry cloth.

I couldn't look at Mother holding Bobbie, so I looked in the mirror at them. I expected Bobbie any minute to say fuck you or something, but Bobbie didn't. Bobbie just put her head against Mother's yellow terry cloth and kept her eyes closed, tight, like if she opened her eyes Mother would go away.

Then they walked out together, Mother saying, There, there, it'll be all right, Bobbie. And Mother and Bobbie went down the dark wood stairs, and down the hardwood floor of the hall, past the living room, through the dark wood swinging doors to the dining room, then into Mother's bedroom with the bright ceiling light on, the fan on the vanity on, but no windows open, green shades drawn. It smelled like Herbert Tareytons in there, it smelled like her.

Both of them lay down in Mother's bed, and Mother pulled her white chenille bedspread over them and told me to close the door and turn the light off because Bobbie never has liked a lot of light.

I shut off the light, closed Mother's door, and went back upstairs into Bobbie's bathroom and shut the cold water off and flushed the toilet again and folded up the blue washrag on the side of the bathtub and turned off the light.

I sat in the cool bathtub in the dark for a while, until the mosquitoes found me, so then I walked on the hardwood floor into Bobbie's room, into the Marilyn Monroe color of her room, and lay down in Bobbie's bed, exactly straight, feet together, and there was all the colors of the map of the Known Universe just to the left of my toes. I turned off the lamp. I pulled the sheet over me. Even in the dark I could see the colors.

In my dream, Bobbie and I were on Chub and Charlie was on aya-Huaska, and Jupiter was running alongside, and all of us running fast across the bottoms.

When I woke up, I didn't know where I was, then I knew I was in the Residency, then I knew I was in Bobbie's bed, and then I knew there was somebody in the room with me. I could hear somebody taking off their clothes. A belt buckle, boots. Then there was a big body on the bed, pushing that side of the bed down and a hand on my leg under the sheet.

In my forearms, up to my shoulders, splash down through heart, cattle prod to cock.

SOMETHING SO BIG
as your life is hard to tell.

My father's hand and my father's breath, Crown Royal and Pall Malls, and my father's naked arms. His hand up my leg, up my thigh. Father made deep sounds in his throat and stopped with his hand and then pulled off the white of his boxer shorts. Father sat himself across my chest. His cock was right there sticking up, pointing right at me, at my mouth, and his hands were behind him back down on me and Father was saying, Oh, my dear sweet little Bobbie girl.

When Father reached my shorts, he pulled them down and found me there.

Father yelled and jumped out of bed and turned on the unrelenting fluorescents—and there we were, in all the world, father and son, in Bobbie's room, cocks poking up.