Western Swing (20 page)

“You got him, Bug. You caught a fish. Gee, it's a beauty.”

Buggie dropped his rod and crept down the bank, staring open-mouthed at his trout. The fish lay on its side, sucking air, the hook clear through its tongue. “It's a cutthroat,” I said. “A nice one.”

“Is it alive?”

“Won't be for long after that ride over the rocks.”

“Should I name him?”

“God, no, Buggie. Never name anything you're going to eat.”

Buggie's eyes grew big. I saw him swallow. “We're gonna eat him?”

The trout fit in my hand lengthwise, its eye turned up with an expression eerily like Buggie's betrayed look. “Of course we're going to eat it. That's why people fish. We don't kill animals just for fun.”

“I don't want to kill it. Could we put it back?”

As if to answer his question, the trout's gills quivered and bled. It died. “Too late,” I said. “Wave bye-bye to the trout spirit.”

After waving bye-bye, Buggie stood next to me with a hand on my shoulder while I cleaned the fish. I slit the belly and ran my little finger through the cavity, flipping the heart, intestines, liver, and fluorescent pink floater bag into the lake. The fish was almost too small to slide onto the stringer.

“He in heaven?”

“Yep, the spirit rises through the sky to fish heaven. It's a place like this only with no people. Pretty soon he'll find a new mama and come back again.”

“Will he still be a fish?”

“Probably, but if he was a good fish, he might come back as something better, a frog or a horny toad or something.”

“Is he alive in heaven?”

“No, he's dead. He has to die so we can eat. But he'll be back again soon.” I felt funny, laying reincarnation on the boy. To me, reincarnation shows more imagination than heaven or the Elysian fields, but it's still basic wishful thinking. At the time, I didn't believe in wishful thinking. However, the alternative was to have Buggie feel like a murderer. I had hoped to protect him from guilt until he was at least six or seven.

“I could have had oatmeal,” Buggie said.

• • •

Buggie carried the trout as we walked up the trail through patches of lupine and Indian paintbrush. I could see he was mumbling something over and over to himself—or maybe to Mary in his pocket. From the anguished look on his face, I think Buggie was in conflict over whether to feel pride or shame in what he had done. All I heard in the general mutter was “dead fish” a couple of times.

When we reached the campground, three little boys from the pickup camper parked next to us ran up, demanding to see the trout, fingering him, poking at his gills. They were obviously so impressed at Buggie's catch that he decided to be proud. I mean, if people admire what you've done, you must have done good. Right?

“I catcht him all by myself,” Buggie said. “Gonna eat him up.”

Ann busied around the Coleman stove, making coffee and eggs and home fried potatoes. She looked sparkly clean and awake in her jeans and Denver University sweatshirt, her hair back in a pony tail. I winked at her, knowing she felt wicked for staying in bed after I got up.

“Buggie caught a whale.”

“All by myself.”

Ann set down her spatula and held the trout up to the light. “All by yourself? Buggie, I'm so proud of you.” Same tone as when I sold the Western and lit sparklers all over the angel food cake.

“I catcht him and Loren cut out his guts.”

“Caught,” I said. “Do you believe a kid who's heard
The Great Gatsby
start to finish and still says catcht?”

Ann kissed me under the ear. “If Buggie wants to say catcht, he can say catcht.”

I held her close a moment. “Did anyone ever tell you that you smell just like a patch of Colorado columbines growing next to a bubbling mountain brook?”

Ann laughed, which was the purpose of the compliment. “Why, yes, a man at the gas station mentioned that just yesterday.”

I nuzzled her neck, following a tendon down into her collarbone. “What say you and me discuss this privately?”

Ann pulled back in mock horror. “Didn't you get enough discussion last night?”

“I'll never get enough discussion.”

“What about little ears?”

“We'll send him out to play in the forest.”

“Can you cook him?” Buggie asked.

Ann broke off the hug. “Only if you men cut off the head. I don't do heads.”

It's nice to be with someone you can nuzzle and say stupid nonsense to before breakfast. I've had long periods in my life when I couldn't. Or didn't. Sometime, even when I was married and doing fine, I'd start stewing about God or Truth or how to write meaningful shit—that's a lie, I can't blame higher purposes; it takes almost nothing to sidetrack me. I can get lost cleaning bricks. One day I'm blown away by the difference between happiness and misery, I'm appreciative as all hell, then a week later I read the newspaper at breakfast, watch
M*A*S*H
reruns during supper, and answer interested questions with a pig grunt. I wander around in this daze until a last vacation or a spray of gravel in the chest from a woman making her exit wakes me up enough to figure out the obvious. But by then it can be too late.

• • •

Buggie's trout fried down to one midsized bite apiece. The grapefruit-pink meat would have been good if I'd deboned him properly. The bones were so tiny, though, they couldn't stick sideways in the throat or splinter through the stomach lining or anything else awful. We just chewed a little longer than usual. Buggie cut his bite into fourths. Bending over his plate, he picked at each section, extricating hairlike bones and wiping them off on his pants' leg. When he was satisfied with one quarter, he popped the meat into his mouth and moved on to the next piece.

Ann ate and hummed at the same time. The song she hummed was called “Sunshine Superman” and had been recorded by a boy named Donovan back in our younger days. “Sunshine Superman” was a sure sign of a good mood. A little footsie under the table gained me a playful kick in the knee.

“Stop that.” Ann laughed.

“Stop what? Wasn't me, must have been a squirrel running up your leg.”

“Let's go on a hike today, Loren. How about you, Bugger? Want to see a waterfall?”

Buggie looked up from his last tiny piece of fish. “How does the trout find a new mama if it's dead?”

“What have you been telling him?”

“He felt bad about killing the trout so I explained heaven and coming back.”

“His spirit is in trout heaven, looking for a new mama. I wanted to name him, but Loren wouldn't let me.”

Ann poked her eggs with a fork. Because of our flirting around, they'd fried up hard as silicone breast implants. “Loren did something right for a change. All Mary doesn't need is a fish sidekick.”

“But how does the trout find a new mama?”

Ann looked at me. “You started this, you tell him.”

“God assigns moms. It's like when you pick teams for a game.”

“Oh.” Buggie thought a minute. “Can I keep the head?”

“No,” Ann said. “I don't think Buggie should hear strange religious theories. He's too young.”

I dumped my cold coffee on the ground and went to the Coleman stove for a fresh cup. “Better now than when he's old and impressionable. I never met a religious fanatic or a cultie yet who was exposed to it as a child.”

“How many culties besides me have you met?”

Buggie jumped from the picnic bench. “Can Mary and I go play with those kids? They have a dump truck.”

“You want to play with other kids?”

“A wheel turns round and the back goes high and the dirt falls out. We're makin' a road.”

“Okay, but if their mom says to go home you come straight back, hear?”

I waited until Ann started the dishes to make my move. Then I stole up behind her, circling my arms around her waist and pushing my belt buckle into the base of her spine. I kissed her earlobe. “You smell good this morning,” I said. “God knows I tried, but I can't keep my hands off your body.” With a practiced touch, I ran my fingers from her waist to the flesh beneath her breasts.

Ann shivered. “Loren, it's broad daylight. What will the neighbors think?”

“The neighbors can fuck each other, I'll take care of you.”

“Loren.”

I turned Ann around and kissed her. Soapy hands slid up the back of my neck.

“It's daytime, Loren.”

“I didn't notice.”

We kissed awhile longer with Ann whispering, “But, but,” every few kisses and me whispering, “Of course we can.” Soon, her body pressed harder against mine, her breathing deepened, and she stopped the “but, buts.” Seduction always works when the woman is washing dishes. Hot, sudsy water must be an aphrodisiac.

“Where's Buggie?” she whispered.

I ran my fingers down the muscles of her back. “He's okay. He's next door loading a dump truck.”

“That feels good. Touch there. Yeah, are you sure he'll be okay?”

“He's in kid heaven over there.”

I took Ann's hand and led her to the tent. Before lifting the flap, we looked over at Buggie playing with three little boys on a mound of dirt beside a pair of lodgepole pines. Buggie leaned forward, smoothing the earth with a piece of bark.

“He's getting filthy,” Ann said.

“He's fine. Buggie needs to play with other boys more.”

“I hope he doesn't ruin his new tennis shoes.”

The sex that last time was warm, slow, and emotional—no intricate positions, no intense thrashing about—just basic easy lovemaking. I kept my eyes open, watching the levels of passion flit across Ann's face. With my finger, I traced the lines across her forehead, the pink on the inside of her barely parted lips. I felt her breasts and stomach and legs against me. She concentrated on what she felt right then; her harmony with the immediate moment was so great, I felt a little saddened that I could never lose myself so completely as Ann. I remember the gasp she made when she came. And the softness in her eyes when she looked at me afterwards.

Later, Ann pulled a sleeping bag over us and we lay next to each other, watching the canvas roof breathe in the wind. She relaxed into the hollow between my shoulder and ribs. I draped her dark blond hair across my chest. “Where should we hike?”

She snuggled closer. “Somewhere flat for Buggie.”

“Mountains aren't usually flat.”

“How about around a lake?”

“Sounds good.” It didn't matter to me where we hiked. I could have stayed in the tent all day.

Ann covered her mouth and yawned. “You think I should get Buggie's eyes checked?”

“Is he acting like he can't see?”

“Some guy from county health came around the day care last week. He said all kids should have their eyes checked before starting kindergarten.”

“Did his father wear glasses?”

Ann looked up at me. “Jeez, I don't remember. I don't think so.”

“You don't remember if he wore glasses or not?”

“It was a long time ago and I barely knew the guy. I don't notice things like glasses.” Ann ran her fingernails across my stomach. She knew I liked that. “You want chicken or burritos for supper?”

“Doesn't matter much to me. Burritos sound good.”

“Okay, burritos. We'll have to pick up salsa from the store at Signal Mountain.” Ann felt along the edge of the tent until she found a towel. “You mind dragging the Bug away from the dump truck? I want to clean up some before we leave.”

“Don't suppose you're ready for seconds?”

Ann laughed. “Once is enough before lunch.”

No kids were playing on the dirt mound, but I went over to see their work. Little roads wound up and around, one road dead-ended on both ends and was lined with white stones. I figured that one to be Buggie's. The next-door neighbors sat inside their camper, eating breakfast, the parents on one side of the table, facing the redheaded boys who might have been triplets. They all looked the same age.

“Have you seen Buggie?”

The mother chewed and swallowed before she spoke. “Who?”

“The little boy who was helping build roads out here a while ago.”

“Oh, him, he's cute. Doesn't smile much.” She looked behind me toward the mound. “He was there when I called the boys in.”

“How long ago was that?”

“Five minutes, he couldn't have gone far.”

As I crossed back to our camp, Ann came through the tent flap, buttoning her shirt. “Got the Bug?”

“Can't find him. The kids he was playing with went in five minutes ago. Their mother said he was still digging when she saw him.”

“Jeez, Loren, I knew this would happen if we fooled around. You don't think he heard us, do you?”

I checked under the picnic table where we'd stashed the fishing equipment. “Pole's still here, he didn't go fishing.”

“Oh, hell, I hate it when I don't know where he is.”

“Couldn't have wandered far. Maybe he climbed something. You look up in the trees, I'll walk down by the creek and the lake. That's the only direction where he could hurt himself.”

This is all we need, I thought, walking back down through the campground and along the creek. Buggie probably heard us making love. He was too young to know what he was hearing, but he'd know it was something he was excluded from. Be just like the kid, hiding to punish us for having fun without him.

Every thirty feet or so I stopped to call. My main concern was to find him before Ann started worrying. Good moods in Ann were fragile. One hint of guilt and she'd mope the rest of vacation.

The trail ran downhill with purple lupine lining both sides. I hoped Buggie hadn't fallen in the creek. It certainly wasn't deep enough to drown anyone, but we'd have to dry him off and change his clothes and go through a long “Why did you go away alone?” speech. It'd be afternoon by the time we started the hike.