Western Swing (42 page)

“Testing, testing. Is this thing on? Loren, the dial's not moving. I can't tell if the machine's recording.”

“It's on.”

“How the hell do you get this to come on?”

“It's on already.”

“Are you sure? I don't think so.”

“Look at the red light.”

“That means it's on?”

“That means it's on.”

“I'm going to play it back and see. I don't think it's on.”

• • •

“You satisfied now?”

“The sun is about to set, Loren. Shouldn't you be out on the fence?”

“I thought I might miss it once. Just stick around and see how you wrap things up.”

“Outside, Loren. I need privacy.”

“You gonna tell about humping more cowboys?”

“Out.”

• • •

Since Loren got three chapters to my two, he's letting me do the epilogue—prologue—whichever comes at the end. Only, one more day in front of a typewriter and I'll scream, so I made him buy me this Japanese machine with the first advance from his publisher. Nice of them to pay him before we finish the book.

Anyhow, I'm much more comfortable with a microphone in my hand. We'll hire some high-school girl from Future Business Leaders of America to transcribe the thing. I imagine Loren will make a pass at her and I'll catch him and, in all likelihood, we'll be off on another book.

Loose ends: I got Loren off the Sleeping Indian without any more gunfire. We spent the next day and a half in bed, asleep mostly, but occasionally rousing ourselves for simultaneous food and sex. At first Loren hauled his rifle along whenever he went outside. And he made dozens of long-distance phone calls to his mother, both brothers, practically everyone he knew in high school. Told them all he truly loved them and he was through with cosmic assholehood.

Along the same lines, I wrote letters of reconciliation—make that apology—to Ron, my dad, and Connie. It seems such a waste to be disliked by someone you love. Dad wrote back, through Mom, that there was nothing to reconcile, that everything was model between us and always had been. Ron didn't answer. Connie sent me a chain letter for women only. The letter said to mail a dollar to the top name, put my name on the bottom, and spread it on to ten friends I trust.

The one I didn't write was Cassie because there seemed to be no reason to reconcile or apologize. Wrong again.

Two days ago, I was repotting an impatiens when Loren showed up from town with the groceries and mail. I'd just reread the last of my book pages that morning, so I was thinking about Thorne Axel. He'd had enough knowledge to figure out an address or phone number, but—so far, anyway—I haven't heard a word about how that deal came down. Been tempted a time or two to call Maria, just to see if everyone on the ranch is still alive, but I guess I won't. I made my choice and the direction I didn't take is none of my damn business.

Loren came banging through the back door and plopped two brown bags on the table next to my dirt-covered newspaper. “What's wrong with the bush?”

“Root bound.” I touched the lip on one sack. “You bought dog food again, didn't you.”

Loren looked across my hand. “I forgot.”

“I forgot” didn't mean he forgot to buy dog food. It meant he forgot both our dogs died last month. Within three days, Rocky's liver, then Josie's heart gave out.

“I was thinking about something else.” Loren stared out the window a moment, adjusting. He always forgets the dogs are dead and, when I remind him, it's like the grief starts over at the beginning. I went back to my impatiens.

“There's a letter from Cassie,” he said. “She's getting married.”

Cassie writing a letter was more a shock than Cassie getting married. I always figured she'd marry someday, but a letter…“Who to?”

Loren pulled himself from the window, adjustments made, the dead dead, the living live. “Who do you think?”

Dirt hit the floor. “Not Mickey?”

“We're invited to the wedding.” Loren flipped the letter across the table. Then he opened the refrigerator and peered in.

I said, “I'll kill the prick.”

Loren spoke to the vegetable bin. “I thought you and Mickey are best pals.”

“I won't have that washed-up drunkard married to my baby.”

“He'll be your son-in-law.” Loren pulled a limp squash from the refrigerator. “Did we ever eat one of these?”

“That bum will poke anything with a hole. How could Cassie marry a man like that?”

Loren threw the squash into the trash bucket. “She's expecting.”

I lunged for the sugar, but Loren beat me to it. He turned quickly, opened the liquor cabinet door, and traded the sugar bowl for the scotch bottle. “The letter's not so bad. I think she'll be happy.”

“Happy?”

It was addressed to both of us—

Dear Mom and Loren

The band is playing West Las Vegas during the tractor pull next month so while we're there Mick and I are going to wed. Ya'll should come. We could sing duets like up at Cody the end of last summer. They were pretty tart harmonies I thought. Roxanne's coming and maybe Connie but I don't know. I'm knockered. It's cool fun except when I get sick. Mick says you'll make a hunky-dory Grandma.

Love ya Mama

Cassie

I put the letter facedown in potting soil and closed my eyes.

“Do you think
tart
is youth jargon or something country western?” Loren asked.

“I never heard it before.”

“I'll ask Marcie next time I see her.”

“She told Roxanne before she told me.”

“And Connie.” Loren poured scotch into a coffee cup and handed it to me. “I was comfortable,” I said.

Loren nodded.

“I figured I did it myself, so I couldn't very well give her crap for sleeping with him.”

“That's true.”

The scotch burned some going down. “But to marry the bum.”

Loren measured himself a shot of Beam. I went on, talking to myself. “Mickey used to claim he was Peter Pan. He lured young girls to Never-Never land and played with them until they decided to grow up. Then they left.”

“Was the fiddle player Captain Hook or Tinker Bell?”

I gave Loren my nastiest stare, but he missed it. “Now that bad-breathed child molester wants to marry my daughter. They won't last six months.”

“You can't stop it.”

“I can sure as hell try.”

“Keep your mouth shut. If it doesn't last six months, you'll be here for her. Nobody runs to a mama who can say ‘I told you so,' or she'll stay with him long after she should leave just to prove you wrong.”

“Maybe.” I looked across at Loren. He looked cute with his curly hair and smudged glasses. “You sure are smart for a man who doesn't even know if he's wearing underwear.”

His hand traveled down to belt level, checking. “Did he really relate to that Peter Pan thing?”

“Pete was the role model.”

“Ever notice that in the end, Mary Martin comes back twenty years later and kidnaps Wendy's daughter?”

I couldn't decide between nicotine, alcohol, sugar, or a sex marathon. Finally settled for all four, pretty much in that order.

• • •

“You missed a great sunset. The moon came up full just as the sun fell behind Rendezvous Mountain. It was a winner.”

“Tell me about it.”

“What's with the sniffles, Lannie?”

“Hell, I don't know. I've been way too emotional lately. You know I started crying during a damn phone company commercial yesterday. It was stupid—some guy called his fat mama to say he loved her and I fell for it.”

“Jeez, you're getting like me.”

“Suppose I could do worse.”

“So why are you crying now?”

“Loren, I'll be forty years old in only sixteen months.”

“Fourteen.”

“And you know what I want to do?”

“Grow younger.”

“I want to borrow a horse from the VanHorns and make love at a full gallop.”

“Tonight?”

“The moon's full.”

“Can we borrow two sets of spurs?”

“So, where's the
off
on this machine?”

“Is the book finished?”

“As it'll ever be.”

“Here.”

CLICK

Rebecca Stern

Reviewers have variously compared Tim Sandlin to Jack Kerouac, Tom Robbins, Larry McMurtry, Joseph Heller, John Irving, Kurt Vonnegut, Carl Hiaasen, and a few other writers you've probably heard of. He has published nine novels and a book of columns. He wrote eleven screenplays for hire, two of which have been made into movies. He used to write reviews for the
New York Times Book Review
but was fired for excessive praise. He lives with his family in Jackson, Wyoming, where he is director of the Jackson Hole Writers Conference. His Sandlinistas follow him at
www.timsandlin.com
.

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