Nebraska (5 page)

He woke early to stand at his easel and paint still lifes, like Cezanne's. They gave him a lot of trouble. The colors were
never right. He stacked them in a closet when they were dry. At noon he left the room and walked the city streets or shopped for his evening meal. Or he would sit in the park with a stale loaf of bread and tear up pieces for the pigeons. At night he sat in the stuffed purple chair and listened to German music. Or he wore his reading glasses and slowly turned the pages of art books about Degas or Braque or Picasso.

But windows he'd closed were opened. Books he'd left open were closed. And he sat in the back of a bus and saw a runty kid on a black motorcycle changing lanes, spurting and braking in traffic. He wore goggles and big-cuffed jeans. The kid saw him staring and gave him the finger. Max read his newspaper.

Then Max saw him again at dinner in the lunchroom downstairs. Max ordered the meat loaf special, and the kid walked his machine to the curb. He sat on it, looking at a map. Every now and then he'd wipe his nose on his sleeve.

The coffee was cold. Max told the waitress and she filled a new cup.

“And give me a piece of whatever pie you've got.”

“We've got apple and banana cream.”

“Whatever's freshest.”

She brought him banana cream.

“That your boyfriend out there?”

“Where?”

He pointed.

“Never seen him before.”

“He seems to be waiting for somebody.”

“He's reading a map. Maybe he's lost.”

“Yeah. And maybe he's waiting for somebody.”

He wiped his face with a napkin and threw it down. Then he pulled up his pants and went outside.

“Hey!”

The kid was looking at the letters along the right, then the numbers across the top. He tried to put the two lines together.

“Hey, bright boy. You looking for me?”

“What?”

“Do you want me?”

He squirmed in his seat. “No.”

Max slapped the map from his hands. It fluttered, then folded in the wind and was blown against a tire.

Max grinned and took a step forward, making fists. The kid hopped off the cycle and into the street. Max put his shoe on the gas tank and pushed. The cycle crashed to the pavement. The back wheel spun free.

The old man was about to tear some wires loose when the kid spit at him. Max straightened slowly and the kid spit again. Max took a few steps back, frowning at the spot on his pant leg, stumbling off-balance, and the kid climbed over the cycle, hacking and working his cheeks. Then he spit again, and it struck Max on the cheek.

The old man backed against the building and took out his handkerchief. “Get outa here, huh? Just leave.” He slowly sank to the sidewalk and mopped his face. The kid picked up his cycle.

“That's a dirty, filthy thing to do to anybody,” Max said.

The kid started his cycle, then smiled and said, “Oh, you're gonna be easy.”

Rex poked a jar of turpentine and it smashed to smithereens on the floor. Then he went and ran his arm recklessly along the top of a chest of drawers and everything—hairbrush, scissors, aerosol cans—spilled to the floor in a racket. There was also a mug of pencils and brushes on a drawing table and he
shook them out like pickup sticks. He ripped the sheets off the bed and wadded them up. And he dumped out all the drawers.

We came back at dark and saw the roomer in just his undershirt and slacks, wiping the turpentine up with a paper towel. He was big and had a white beard and he used to be good-looking, you could tell. He looked like he might've been a prizefighter or something.

“There was a guy looking for you,” Rex says.

Max was gathering the pencils and brushes and tapping them together. He didn't even notice me there.

“He looked pretty dangerous,” Rex says.

Max just dropped pieces of glass in a trash can. They clanged on the tin. He struggled to his feet like a workingman with a chunk of pavement in his hands. He looked for just a second at Rex, then he went to the chest of drawers and began picking up clothes.

The kid sat down at the lunchroom counter and unzipped his cracked leather coat. From the other end of the counter Max watched him. He had been talking to the waitress when the door opened. The waitress gave the kid water and a menu. The kid rubbed his knees with his hands as he read. He said, “I'll have a roast pork tenderloin with applesauce and mashed potatoes.”

“Is that on the menu?”

“I've changed my mind,” the kid said. “Give me chicken croquettes with green peas and cream sauce and mashed potatoes.”

The waitress didn't know what to say.

The kid smiled, and then he stopped smiling. He flicked the menu away. “Just give me ham and eggs.”

She wrote on her order pad. “How do you want your eggs?”

“Scrambled.”

The waitress spoke through the wicket to the cook. The kid put his chin in his hand. He turned his water glass.

Max stared as he drank from his coffee cup and set the cup down in the saucer. The kid jerked his head.

“What are
you
looking at?”

Max put a quarter next to his cup. “Nothing.”

Max went to the coat tree. He pulled off a mackinaw jacket and buttoned it on. The kid was swiveled around on his stool. “The hell. You were looking at
me.
”

The waitress had gone through the swinging door in the kitchen. Max blew his nose in a handkerchief. He smiled at the kid. “You're not
half
of what I was.”

The kid smiled and leaned back on the counter. “But I'm what's around these days.”

It will happen this way:

He'll kick at the door and it will fly open, banging against the wall. Max will be at his easel. He'll try to stand. The kid will hold his gun out and fire. Max will slump off his stool. He'll spill his paints. He'll slam to the floor.

Or Max will open the door and the kid will be to his left. He'll ram the pistol in Max's ear. He'll hold his arm out straight and fire twice.

Or he'll rap three times on the door. When it opens, he'll push his shotgun under Max's nose. Max will stumble back, then sit slowly on the bed where he'll hold his head in his hands. The kid will close the door softly behind him. Max will say, “What are you waiting for?” and the kid will ask, “Where do you want it?” Max will look up, and the kid's gun will buck and the old man will grab his eyes.

Or the kid will let the pistol hang down by his thigh. He'll knock on the door. Max will answer. The kid will step inside,
shoving the old man. The pistol will grate against Max's belt buckle until he's backed to the striped bedroom wall. The kid will fire three times, burning the brown flannel shirt. Smoke will crawl up over the collar. The old man will slide to the floor, smearing red on the wall behind him.

Or the door will open a crack. Max will peer out. The kid will shoot, throwing him to the floor. The kid will walk into the room. Max will crawl to a chair, holding his side. He'll sit there in khakis and a blue shirt going black with the blood. He'll say, “I think I'm gonna puke.” The kid will say, “Go ahead.” He'll say, “I gotta go to the bathroom.” He'll pull himself there with the bedposts. Water will run in the sink. He'll come out with a gun. But the kid will fire, and Max's arm will jerk back, his pistol flying. He'll spin and smack his face against a table in his fall.

Or Max will jiggle his keys in one hand while the other clamps groceries tight to his buttoned gray sweater. He'll open the door. The kid will be sitting there in the purple chair by the brushes with a shotgun laid over his legs. The old man will lean against the doorjamb. The groceries will fall. The kid will fire both barrels at the old man's face, hurling him back across the hall. Apples will roll off the rug.

Rex took a wad of rags from a barrel in the garage while I sat against his mom's car brushing my hair. He unwrapped a gun and wiped it off with his shirttail. He sat against his motorcycle seat and turned the chamber round and round, hearing every click. Then he got cold without a coat and covered the gun again and crammed it down his pants. He gave me a weird look. He said, “Ready?”

Max tried to sleep but couldn't. He got up and put on a robe, then took a double-barrel shotgun from the closet, and
two shells from a box in one of the drawers. He sat in a stuffed chair by his brushes, lowered the gun butt to the floor, and leaned forward until his eyebrows touched metal. Then he tripped both triggers.

Rex was just about to climb the stairs when he heard the shotgun noise. He just stood there sort of blue and disappointed until I took his hand and pulled him away and we walked over to the lunchroom. Ron was there in a booth in the back. He'd had the pork tenderloin. We sat in the booth with him and as usual he told me how pretty I looked. Rex just sulked, he was so disappointed.

“You should be happy,” Ron said.

“Do I still get the money?”

Ron nodded. He was grinning around a cigar. He pushed an envelope across the table.

Rex just looked at it. “Then I guess I
am
happy.”

“You should be.”

Rex stuffed the envelope inside his coat pocket. Everybody was quiet until I spoke up and said, “I just can't stand to think about him waiting in the room and knowing he's going to get it. It's too damned awful.”

Rex looked at me strangely. Ron knocked the ash off his cigar. “Well,” he said, “you better not think about it.”

His Dog

T
his was when he first saw her. This was the job where he picked up four hundred dollars. He lifted the collar on his coat and stared into the window reflection of a liquor store across the street and of a fat man in a white shirt turning out the lights in the beer coolers.

The man in the street looked down. The window was the front of a pet shop. In a wicker basket puppies nuzzled and climbed one another in sleep. One of them was loose, prowling. The man tapped the glass with his finger and her ears perked. She had blue eyes. He put on a gruesome rubber mask. The puppy backed away, then yapped and jumped at the glass.

Shh! he said, smiling.

He saw the liquor-store owner begin to pull the iron grate across the high windows.

He crossed the street.

$403.45.

In September, in a park, he saw a boy with the same husky straining at a leash. She was much bigger now, almost grown. The boy dawdled and the pup leaned.

Hey, the man whispered.

The pup turned her head.

Remember?

*
*
*

He picked bone and gristle and choice bits off the plates in the kitchen of the café. The cook was giving him a weird look. He walked up a dark alley with a plastic bag warm and sticky under his arm. He bumped a garbage can and caught its lid. He peered over a hedge and grinned. He ripped the bag and threw it into the yard and watched the young dog snatch up the meat and jerk it back and drop it to the grass. She carried the bone away and sat there in shadow. He saw her eyes sparkle. She kept staring as he left.

He sat against the chain-link fence. His fingers twisted her fur. Occasionally she licked his chin through the mesh.

It's a crazy way of making a living, he said. Most of the time I just get by. Plus, you're alone all the time.

An autumn wind scattered alley leaves. He lifted the collar of his coat.

He said, I dreamt about you last night.

He said, This is my favorite time of year.

I've been thinking about retiring, he said. How would that be?

He tapped the dollar bills together and wrapped them with rubber bands. He spoke through the rubber mask: And now your change.

The clerk stared at him, his arms at his sides.

Just get out one of those paper sacks and scoop in all the coins.

The clerk raised his hands and suddenly lurched for the gun. There was an explosion. The clerk flew back against a tin rack of cigarettes. He looked down at his bleeding chest. He slowly slid to the floor. He sat.

Goddamn it, the man said. He left the change. Smoke stayed under the light.

*
*
*

Dew soaked his knees as he unclipped the chain from her collar. She shook her head and shoulders and watched him walk out the gate. He turned and stood there, stooped and unsure. She tilted her head, glanced at the house. He slapped his thigh softly and she dashed to him and knocked him over with her paws.

Hey! he said. Careful.

He cuddled her and struggled to his feet. He turned happy, tottering circles, his eyes brimming. He rubbed his cheek in her fur. You and me, he whispered. You and me.

She was skittish on his bed. He'd roll with the covers and she'd bolt to the floor. He'd drop his arm over her neck and she'd lie there as though her head were caught in a fence. In the morning she balanced on his chest and gazed out the motel window, barking at semi trailer trucks.

As he drove the jeep he scratched his dog's ears. The dog smiled and lifted her nose, so he spidered down the white patch of fur all the way to her chest. Then he looked in the rearview mirror and his hand went to the glove compartment. He put on the rubber mask. He slowed. A family in a station wagon tried to pass him. He looked at them. They dropped back. He cruised for a while and they slipped up on his left again. The children were wide-eyed, the man and woman laughing.

He glowered in his mask. The man floored his car and the children turned in their seats, staring until they vanished over the hill.

He looked at his dog with victory. She panted.

He cranked down the right window and his dog poked her head out. Her nose squirmed in the air.

We're on the lam. Ever hear that word before? It means we're hiding from the cops.

She bit at leaves and branches that slapped against the door. He chuckled. He patted her rump.

I could watch you for hours, you know that?

He set the brake and opened the jeep's door. His dog clambered over him and ran among the pine trees and across a moist, shady yard to the cabin. She sniffed at the door frame, hopped weeds to the back, came out prancing. She wandered to the lake, waded in to her belly, and lapped at the clear water. She walked out heavily and shook, spraying him. He sat on the bank and smoked a cigarette. When his dog came up and licked his face, he petted her so hard her eyes bulged.

He split logs, nailed up shutters, patched the hull of the rowboat, skimmed stones. She stayed with him.

He found an aluminum bowl and poured in brown pellets. He unwrapped a package of meat and sliced raw liver into the meal. He called his dog. When she chewed at her food, the bowl rang.

He pushed himself back from the table and crossed his stocking feet over the arm of the other chair. He lit a cigarette and stared out at the night. Cigarette smoke splashed off the window. He petted her.

You know what?

Her ears perked forward.

This is exactly how I thought it would be.

He pried a tin box, shook an envelope, stuffed it in his coat pocket. He looked through a stamp collection and sighed with puzzlement. He moved on to another room. He dumped a jew-
elry chest, stirred things with his finger, dropped a pair of earrings and a necklace in his pocket. He smashed the head of a piggy bank, shook it on the bed, picked out the quarters and dimes. The coins clinked in his pocket as he walked down the stairs.

Coming out of the lake house, he saw that his dog, the blue-eyed husky, had a rabbit in her mouth. He buried it and wiped the blood from his hands with a handkerchief. He wouldn't speak to her.

He jerked cupboard doors, banged pans on the stove burners, looked out the cabin window all through the meal. Finally she came to him and rested her head in his lap. He cradled it and played with her ears and tipped her nose up so that her eyes fixed on his.

What's the deal with that rabbit? What's got into you, anyway?

His dog was far ahead of him. There were noises in the distant woods, of tearing leaves and snapping twigs. It sounded like food frying, like talk. He picked up his pace and called to her. He caught his ankle in tangling vines. He shouted her name. The weeds rustled and his dog bounded through, her black fur thorny and snatched with brambles. She circled him and he thumped her side with his hand. He leaned against a tree, rubbed his brow, and looked through the bare upper branches at the sun. He kneaded the muscles of his arms. I'm so afraid I'm going to lose you.

She shook the earrings off every time he clipped them on. The necklace was probably snagged on a stump somewhere.

*
*
*

He fed the fire and knelt there, staring at his dog. She raised one eyebrow, then the other, and her tail beat against the chair. He broke a piece of kindling and tossed it to a corner. His dog chased the piece, bit it gingerly, flipped it in her mouth. He threw the stick again and his dog ran after it, paws rattling on the floor. They played like that for a while, then he picked up a hot stick from the fire and threw it. A wisp of smoke streamed after it. His dog stood there.

Well, get it.

His dog sat and looked around the room, smiling.

He glared, then stood, feeling his knees.

Good girl.

He sat at the table with his coffee and focused on the calendar tacked to the wall. Then he washed out his cup, put on a coat, and stuffed a gun in his pocket. He stood at the open door and patted his thigh. His dog cocked her head, then slowly walked past him to the jeep.

He followed. We gotta eat, he said.

They drove to a hardware store. He put on his mask and pointed his finger at his dog.

I don't want a sound out of you. I want you to stay put.

His mask quaked when he spoke. His dog's eyes darted and she settled on the floor. He sat there, looking out the windshield, then he opened the door. His dog smoothed her whiskers with her tongue and panted. He scraped his shoes on the wooden steps and walked inside. A bell chimed and he said something.

She smelled the litter basket and the space beneath the seat. She rolled a road flare back and forth, then far under the springs, out of reach.

He opened the door and climbed in, huffing. He angrily turned the ignition and lifted to readjust the gun in his coat pocket. He still had the mask on. He put the jeep in gear and aggressively rubbed his knuckles into her skull.

Hungry? he asked.

That night he crouched by the lake and watched a brief flurry of snowflakes speck the water and dissolve. He trudged back to the cabin and tried the door, but it was locked.

What is this?

He cupped his eyes and peered through the window. His dog lay by the orange fire, repeatedly licking her paw.

He tried the door again and it swung free. His dog looked at him.

The oar tips cut into the water and moved, stirring small whirlpools. The green lake was shiny with calm. He slouched back against the prow and zipped his mackinaw up to the collar. He could only see boat houses, boatless docks, woods of blurry red and gold, and over them a gunmetal sky. It looked as though it might snow again. He was alone on the lake, absolutely. He smiled for a moment and slowly rowed back to the cabin.

He thought, I should've brought a radio.

His dog sat patiently on the sand bank of the lake, her tail wagging, a bird of some sort clamped in her jaws.

What've you got? Huh?

He beached the boat, scraping it on rocks. His boots splashed in the water at the shore. He tamped the anchor into silt. He climbed tiredly to his dog.

Give me that.

He tapped her chin and she let the quail roll into his hand.
He stroked the beak with his thumb and the head waggled. She danced around him and jumped. He held her by the collar, threw the bird to the fringe of the forest, wiped his hands on his pants. He knelt next to his dog and cupped her chin in his hand.

Don't you
ever
do that again!

She tried to pull away. He swatted her nose and she flinched. He was about to speak again when she jerked her head and slinked off. He gripped her collar and yanked her around.

Let's get something straight once and for all. That's the kind of thing I won't tolerate. That's the kind of thing that could ruin whatever we've got going here.

He walked slowly back to the cabin. She wouldn't heel. She crossed in and out of the forest.

You bitch! he shouted.

His boots rasped in gravel. His eyes were warm with tears. Bitch.

By evening she was gone.

He threw wood on the fire. He kicked a chair around. He slumped against the door.

It began to snow in earnest and he went to bed early.

He thought he heard a scratching at the door. He couldn't read the time on his watch. He stayed in bed and listened for the sound. He heard a whimper.

There was a faint pink glow from the fireplace. The door opened heavily with snow packed against it. He stood outside, shivering in his slippers and pajamas. The snow slanted in from the lake and, when the wind died, made the slightest crackle in the trees, like someone way out there was wadding cellophane. He walked around the cabin, sloughing through drifts, and saw nothing.

*
*
*

The snow jeweled in the sunlight. There were two sets of powdered prints around the cabin. He looked at them, a cigarette in his mouth, rubbing the sleeves of his flannel shirt.

I could've done that, he thought. I could've walked around the place twice. I was sleepy.

Then he sagged a bit and pressed his eyes with his thumb knuckles. He turned to go back inside when he heard a bark.

His dog plunged happily through the drifts.

He ran to her and waded and fell. He laughed and they rolled together and she ate big chunks of snow. She sneezed. He sprawled in the snow and smiled and playfully cuffed her head. His dog licked his face. He clutched the fur at her neck.

Baby Baby Baby.

She woke to a hammering at the door. The latch rattled like a broken toy. His dog sat there, her ears alert and her head cocked, like the dog peering at the Victrola.

A deep voice said, I'll huff and I'll puff and I'll blow your house down.

His dog whined, then yelped, and walked from side to side.

The door burst open and he stood there in his mackinaw and rubber mask.

Scare ya?

She greeted him and happily pushed her paws into his stomach. Her tongue dangled from her grin.

Look what I got.

He brought a transistor radio from behind his back and clicked it on. Then he picked up her paws and waltzed her to the music while she nipped at his fingers. He let her down and she rolled to her back, barking once. He knelt beside her and took off the mask. He touched sweat from his lip.

That was my last job, he said. I'm retired now. This time it's for real.

She stood over him on all fours in bed. His hands were behind his head. He gazed at the rafters as he talked.

I don't know. I guess women are all right, but they're demanding. They always want to make you something you're not. They're critical of how you act. I don't need that.

She nudged his chin and he smiled.

I need you.

He dusted the windowsills and the mantelpiece. He shoveled the fireplace ashes onto a spread of newspapers. Dog hairs collected everywhere and blew away from his broom. He shook his head with annoyance. He washed the dishes and straightened up his room, and he came out carrying a large, gilt-framed mirror.

He set the mirror against the wall and turned the chair around to face it. His dog walked to him, her nails clicking on the floor. She sat at his feet.

He pointed to the mirror. See what I found?