by Callan Wink
“Let’s hear it, then. How should we have done it?”
“Forget it.”
“No, I want to know. I’m all ears.”
“You’re right. We should have tied a rope to the saw. That’s what we should have done.” August leaned his head against the window and closed his eyes for the rest of the ride.
* * *
—
That night August stood under the shower until the hot water ran out. Afterward, somehow still cold, he took the wool blanket off the bed, wrapped it around himself, and called his mother.
“Augie, what a nice surprise,” she said. “I was just thinking about you.”
“Oh yeah? What were you thinking?”
“Nothing specific, really. I was just having a general Augie thought cloud. And then you called. It’s like I summoned you.” She laughed and he could hear her inhale, taking a drag from her cigarillo. “How’s life on the ranch?” she said.
“Oh, it’s okay. They’ve got Hutterites up here. They’re kind of like the Amish back home but not quite as strict. They’ve got trucks and electricity and stuff.”
“Well, that’s interesting. I’m glad you’re getting some culture.”
“What have you been up to?”
“Oh, you know me. Just continuing on the long path to self-betterment. For every hour of confusion and doubt I experience I’m trying to devote at least ten minutes to positive self-talk and self-love.”
“Self-talk? What does that mean?”
“The specifics are between me, myself, and I. But in general it’s combating the hostile babble of the world with some highly directed inward praise.”
“How can you praise yourself and have it do any good?”
“It’s possible, it just takes some practice.”
“Seems like trying to tell yourself a joke to make yourself laugh when you already know the punch line.”
“Well, that would be the cynic’s response. Speaking of, have you been talking to your father?”
“Not in a while.”
“That’s what he said. I called him recently.”
“I didn’t know you guys were talking these days.”
“Not much but here and there, mostly in regards to you.”
“Me?”
“Specifically about your decision to not attend college this year. I know that you know that your father didn’t go to college. However, I feel that you’re processing this information incorrectly. Instead of understanding that your father wants a better life for you than the one he had, I think you believe that because he didn’t attend, you yourself needn’t.”
“It has nothing to do with him. We’ve been over all of this.”
“Okay. It sounds like you’re really thriving up there. But, you know, you could probably get into MSU next semester with no trouble and still get a decent scholarship even.”
“I fell off a tree into the river today and almost cut my foot off with a chainsaw. I’m fine, don’t worry. I wasn’t even going to tell you, but to be honest, I’d rather do that every day of the week than go sit in a classroom down in Bozeman.”
August’s mother was silent for a moment. An inhale and long exhale, a soft cough. “You brought that up to make me worry, and that’s unkind.”
“I was just trying to make a point. I didn’t mean it like that. Never mind. Are you still getting those Bush-isms sent to you every day? I heard a good one the other day, and I wrote it down because I knew you’d like it. Hang on, I’ve got it here somewhere. Okay, here we go: There’s an old saying in Tennessee—I know it’s in Texas, probably in Tennessee—that says, fool me once, shame on—shame on you. Fool me—you can’t get fooled again.”
He thought she might laugh, but she didn’t. He heard the click of her lighter. “I’m having a harder and harder time finding the humor in our current situation,” she said.
August and Tim Duncan were set up on the long, sloping flank of Antelope Butte shooting gophers, sitting in the back of Tim’s truck, using the side for a rifle rest. They’d been at it for a while, and the truck bed was littered with spent shells. The field in front of them was dotted with small lumps of dead gopher, and the surviving gophers were hunkered down in their holes, not showing themselves. August and Tim waited. The sun was a benevolent presence in the sky, the scent of cottonwoods budding down by the river on the wind like a gift.
“Okay, okay, here we go.” August could hear Tim expelling his breath in one long rush and then the pausing at the bottom of the exhale, that moment of stillness where the trigger was best squeezed. The rifle cracked, and Tim clucked his tongue. “Gotcha,” he said. “Check it out. That used to gross me out so bad when I was a kid.”
August shielded his eyes against the sun. He could barely make out a dead gopher and another live gopher doing something with the carcass.
“Wes always told me that gophers were cannibals. Just waiting for one of their pals to go down so that they can munch on their flesh. But that’s not it.”
“Hand me that,” August said. “I can’t really see.”
Tim passed him the rifle and August tracked with the scope until he found the gopher Tim had just shot. Under magnification, he could see the living gopher chewing through the hole that Tim’s .22 round had blown in the dead gopher’s belly. The gopher stopped what it was doing and looked up. August could make out its snout clearly, covered in blood, its eyes black shards.
“That’s disgusting,” August said. “I thought gophers only ate seeds and berries and stuff.”
“Well,” Tim said, “that’s actually what’s going on. Basically, I shot the guts out of that first one, and the second one is in there eating the undigested contents of its pal’s stomach. That’s the survival instinct at its finest right there.” Tim took the rifle back from August and worked a shell into the chamber. He settled down in his shooting stance and scanned the field until he found his target. “Hope that last meal was a good one, little buddy,” he said.
* * *
—
With the light going gold and then orange and then pink over the top of Antelope Butte, Tim emptied his clip. He ran an oiled rag along the Marlin’s blued barrel and worn stock, taking care to wipe the areas around the trigger and bolt. “Hey,” he said. “I never asked you, but what’s up with you having the day off? I mean, I have the day off, but that’s because it’s Sunday and that day still means something in the Duncan household. I know for a fact that Virostok doesn’t keep the Sabbath holy.”
“He just gave me the afternoon off,” August said. “He does that sometimes.”
“Nah,” Tim said. “You’re his only hand. I got my brother and so we switch off doing chores on Sundays and it happens to be my Sunday off is all. But if I’m Virostok and I got you on the payroll, then you don’t get any extra days off.” He held the Marlin up and huffed a fog on each lens of his scope, wiping the lens clean carefully with the tail of his shirt. He slid the rifle back into its fleece-lined case and zipped it up before leaning back against the cab, stretching his arms up, and interlacing his fingers behind his head. “Don’t tell me if you don’t want to, but something’s up.”
“I don’t think it’s any big deal,” August said. “He went down to Billings again.”
“I drive by the place almost every day. I haven’t seen Kim’s car there in, since I can’t even remember when.”
“She’s down in Billings visiting her sister, I guess. That’s what Ancient told me.”
“So then why’d he go down to Billings? If he needed something from there, he could’ve just had her pick it up. Why do you need to visit your own fiancée?”
“I don’t really know, man. I got the afternoon off. I don’t care. None of my business.”
“Uh-huh.” Tim fiddled with the zipper on his gun case, zipping and unzipping in rhythm. “Did you know tha
t you can look up registered sex offenders on the Internet? Just type in your zip code, and it shows all the perverts in your neighborhood.”
“So?”
“Do you have a computer at Virostok’s?”
“No. No Internet in the bunkhouse, either.”
“Well, you could go to the library or something if you wanted to check it out.”
“Why would I want to check it out? Why don’t you just come out and say whatever you’re trying to say?”
“I’m not the type of guy that talks about folks behind their backs. I’m just saying that if you’re in the mood for some interesting reading, you could check out the sex offender registry.”
“I think that’s probably the last place I would go for some interesting reading.”
“Suit yourself.”
“I aim to.”
“Fine. Then forget I mentioned it. I was thinking. It’s almost rodeo season, and you know what that means, right?”
“What does it mean?”
“Cowgirls, and wannabe cowgirls, which are better in my opinion. You dance?”
“No.”
“Seriously?”
“I don’t give a damn about dancing. You do?”
“Not about dancing by itself, but if you mean dancing as a way of meeting young ladies, then the answer is hell yes. All the girls that show up for rodeos can dance, or want to. If you can’t two-step or jitterbug, at least a little, you’re going to be sidelined, bud.”
“I couldn’t care less.”
“The dudes dance, too.”
“So?”
“So, I’m saying that if girls aren’t really your thing, you’ll still need to dance to pick up men. Either way, there’s no avoiding it.”
“Fuck you.”
“No judgment here, pal. It’s the twenty-first century. If you’re into cowboys, I’ll still be your friend.”
“I’m not gay.”
“Then you should probably let me show you the basic moves. You don’t need to be Travolta out there; you just need a couple standby maneuvers to get things flowing.”
“I have absolutely no interest in learning how to dance.”
“I told you, it’s not about the dancing; it’s about the women. A means to an end. Do you want to meet women, yes or no?”
“Not particularly right now. I just don’t want the hassle.”
“The hassle? Dude. Life is the hassle. Women are the only thing that make the hassle worth enduring half the time.”
“Do you want to go get a beer, or what?”
“Does the pope shit in the woods? Let’s get the hell out of here.”
* * *
—
Tim drove, windows down, although it was evening now and getting cool. “My theory is that you’re nursing a little broken heart. Am I right? Some girly do you wrong and send you packing with a bad taste in your mouth and your feelers hurt?”
August shrugged. “Something like that,” he said. “I don’t want to talk about it.”
“Okay. Okay. I understand. I’ll just say one thing, and then I’ll shut up about it. Best way to get over an old lover is to get under a new one. That’s all I’m saying.”
“Good one.”
August was done with work for the day. He had a package of Virostok’s ground beef thawing in a bowl on his kitchen counter. Before firing up the grill he called his mother.
When she answered he could hear music in the background. That one CD she always played when she was cooking dinner for someone. It was the old Cuban guys, Buena Vista Social Club. When that was on in the kitchen, she was preparing to not dine alone.
“Augie!” she said. “How are you?” He could hear the sound of her earring scraping across the phone receiver and then a wooden spoon banging several times on the edge of a pan.
“I’m okay. You cooking?”
“I’m making spaghetti and meatballs. Art was telling me he hasn’t had a good meatball in ages, and that got me thinking. My mom had a great meatball recipe so I dug it up. Good Italian-seasoned bread crumbs are the key, and little chunks of fresh mozzarella that get all melty.”
“Oh, Art’s there. I don’t want to keep you. I was just about to make some dinner myself, and I was calling to ask what you put in the hamburgers you make. I’ve made them a few times, but they haven’t turned out as good as yours.”
“Art’s not here yet. You’re cooking? Wonders never cease. I’d imagined you up there on a steady diet of Cup O’ Noodles and Frosted Mini-Wheats.”
“I’ve been doing a fair amount of that. But Ancient gave me a freezer full of beef, so I figured I might as well start using it. So far I’ve done tacos and burgers. Fair to medium results, but it’s just me so it’s not like anyone is complaining.”
“I’m glad you’re cooking. When you meet a girl you like it’s always nice to be able to make her something. It’s cheaper than going out all the time, and I’ve always said that the way to a girl’s heart, or whatever you’re trying to get to, is through her stomach. Shit, my marinara is bubbling over and I think Art just pulled in. I’m going to let you go, Augie. The secret to my hamburgers is Lipton’s French onion soup mix and Worcestershire sauce and an egg to hold it all together. Good luck, dear, I’ve got to let you go.”
August heard a clunk as she dropped the phone on the counter without hanging up. Buena Vista Social Club, indistinct muttering from his mother, the sounds of a spoon against a metal pan. A male voice. He heard his mom say something about a wine opener. August pressed his ear to the phone. It was silent now except for the music. What were they doing? He hung up before something happened that he couldn’t unhear.
He sat for a moment regarding the package of half-frozen beef and then looked in the small set of cupboards about the sink. Salt, pepper, garlic, Tabasco. Nothing even closely resembling Lipton’s French onion soup mix or Worcestershire sauce. In the end he put the meat in the fridge, changed his shirt, and headed to town.
* * *
—
Tending the Two Dot Bar was a tall, slope-shouldered man, not tremendously older than August, sandy hair and a tucked-in pearl-snap shirt. He slid a coaster across the bar and gave a nod of his head.
“Bud,” August said.
“You old enough? I don’t recognize you.”
August put his wallet on the bar. Looked around. There were two women working the keno machines at the back; other than that the place was empty. “I’m old enough,” August said.
The man shrugged. Twisted the cap off a Budweiser bottle and put it down.
“I’ve actually been in here a few times,” August said. “Usually it’s Theresa behind the bar.”
The bartender leaned against the beer cooler and wiped his hands on his towel. “That’s my aunt. It’s her place. She’s having migraines lately so I’ve been helping out. She never has migraines on Fourth of July weekend when I could actually stand to make some money in here. Always she gets the migraines on Tuesday nights in the off-season when she wants to go up to Great Falls with her girlfriends for the karaoke contests.”
“Karaoke contests?”
“Yeah, there’s some bar up there that has a contest every month. Theresa thinks she’s Shania Twain or something. She trucks up there with her little gaggle of divorced friends to get shitty in a town where no one knows who they are and they can just go wild.”
“I never really understood karaoke,” August said.
“I hear you there. You want a food menu?”
“I know what I’m going to get.”
“Shoot.”
“Small Caesar salad and small pizza. Pepperoni, mushrooms, and green olives.”
The bartender put the food order in, and when he returned he fished out another beer for August and got one for himself. “I figure that by closing time tonight I’l
l have pulled down, in tips, just slightly more than the gas money it takes me to drive over here. I feel that I’m entitled to make up some of my pay in Aunt Theresa’s booze.”
“Seems fair,” August said.
“So, what brings you to town?”
“I’m out working at the Virostok place. Been here a couple months.”
“Oh, sure. Ancient used to come in here quite a bit. Haven’t seen him in a while. How’s he doing?”
“Good, I guess. Fine. He’s got a fiancée.”
The bartender rolled his eyes and took a drink. “I know how that goes. A fiancée will definitely infringe on a guy’s bar time.” He wiped his hand on his rag and extended it across the bar. “I’m Cale, by the way.”
“August.”
“Like the month?”
“The one after July.”
“Huh. I never met an August before. Is that a family name?”
“Not a family name. My mom’s a librarian. She got it from a book.”
“Like a book of baby names?”
“No, it was a novel she liked, I think.”
“You haven’t read it?”
August shook his head. “Nah.”
“If it were me, I think I’d read it. I’d be curious.”
“Maybe someday I will.”
“My parents named me Cale after my mom’s favorite uncle. It’s a Jewish name. I’m not Jewish, but somewhere back in my family they must have been. It means brave dog.”
“Seriously?”
“Yep. My mom always told me that, and then I looked it up one time. It’s true.”
“That’s a pretty good meaning for a name.”
“I’ve always thought so. There’s a lot worse you can do than brave dog. I think a man that knows what his name means does his best to live up to it. That’s why I think you should figure out where yours comes from.”
When August’s food came, he sprinkled dried Parmesan and red pepper flakes over his pizza and let it cool, starting in on the salad. It was iceberg lettuce, swimming in thick Caesar dressing, croutons already soggy. Cale watched August eat. “Not too many people go for the salad here,” he said. “Or the pizza. Our burgers are pretty good, though.”