In the City of Shy Hunters

by Tom Spanbauer

  Or Father said, Mother, you’re the prettiest girl in Bingham County next to your daughter!

  Mother lit a Herbert Tareyton and sucked in hard, the smoke out her nose when she smiled.

  Oh, Cotton!

  THE SECOND WEEK it was back to frozen fish sticks and white-trash tartar sauce, and Mother went back to wearing her old yellow terry-cloth bathrobe.

  Father said he felt too cooped up in Mother’s room and started sleeping out on the porch.

  Most nights, Charlie, late, crawled up the cottonwood and came in my window. When Charlie slept over, I always made sure to lock my door. One night, Charlie and I lying next to each other, we heard Father down in Bobbie’s room.

  We ought to kill that motherfucker, Charlie said.

  You can’t kill your father, I said.

  FATHER PUT HIS horse Star out in the corral with Chub. That whole month, poor old Chub stood in the corner of the corral. Star wouldn’t let Chub eat or drink, so at night I had to sneak out and feed Chub some hay and haul a bucket of water over for him.

  Father’s German shepherd he called Heap Big Chief was tied to Grandmother Cottonwood in front of the barn. At night, I had to feed Heap Big Chief first, so he wouldn’t bark while I was tending to Chub—which wasn’t an easy chore because that dog was a mean dog and didn’t take to nobody but Father. Even with a piece of steak or roast, sometimes I was sure Heap Big Chief was going to tear my arm off.

  The monkey Father named Ricky and the mean goose he named Sea Bass stayed in the horse trailer, and the horse trailer was parked in the backyard, on the smooth concrete, out in the full sun. The monkey was tied up, but the goose was loose in the horse trailer. I never had to go in there to feed the monkey or the goose, thank God, because Father said his animals was his and they had to remember they was his, so he was the one to tend to them. Still, days and days went by sometimes without Father going near the horse trailer. The monkey would start screeching and the goose honking, and still Father didn’t feed them. When it got too bad, I’d throw alfalfa in there and sometimes scraps from the table and set a tin can of water through the swimming-pool-blue rungs of the back gate. One night all hell broke loose, the monkey and the goose fighting over the tin can of water. Scared me to death watching those cooped-up animals—a white goose and a dark-brown skinny monkey—animals so different from each other—honking and hissing and screeching and going at each other, feathers and monkey blood flying. Then Heap Big Chief started barking. Such a racket I thought was going to wake the dead. Wake up Father. But Father didn’t wake up. That August, with his Crown Royal and Cokes, an earthquake or a house fire wouldn’t wake Father.

  BOBBIE TOOK ME in her room and closed the door. Father had bought her two more albums, something by Mitch Miller and one by Pat Boone. Bobbie hated the Mitch Miller, but she was listening to Love Letters in the Sand.

  Bobbie sat down on her bed. I sat down on her bed too, careful not to mess the covers. Bobbie was wearing her lime-green pedal pushers and Keds and a white blouse. Her hair in her blue curlers. It was a bright summer day and Bobbie had her blinds down and we were sitting in the dark, in the Marilyn Monroe light.

  Bobbie didn’t say anything for a while. I didn’t either. We just sat on her bed listening to Pat Boone.

  How’s Jupiter? Bobbie asked.

  Fine, I said. Charlie made him a muzzle.

  Bobbie twisted around quick. The points of the little swords stuck through the blue curlers pushed into the skin of her forehead.

  Something about Bobbie so mean and raw when she looked at me that way, something I never did understand.

  A muzzle? Bobbie said.

  So he can’t bark, I said.

  Bobbie’s hands were spread out wide. The coral fingernail polish on her fingers was drying.

  I just have to see Jupiter! Bobbie said.

  Bobbie touched me just a little on my knee, careful with the coral polish, then left her hand on my knee.

  I put my hand next to Bobbie’s hand on my knee.

  We can sneak over to Viv’s double-wide tonight, I said.

  Under the sword points poking into her forehead, Bobbie’s bangs were taped down with Scotch tape.

  I can’t, Bobbie said.

  What? I said.

  I can’t leave, Bobbie said. He’ll know.

  We’ll wait till he’s drunk and passed out, I said. Then we’ll go over to Viv’s.

  Bobbie got up, pulled the record arm off Love Letters in the Sand, and started the song over again.

  Can’t, Bobbie said. He’ll know.

  THAT NIGHT, CHARLIE brought Jupiter over with him. Charlie and I were lying in bed with Jupiter in between us when the doorknob turned and somebody pushed up against the door. Charlie grabbed his pants and shirt and crawled out the window and sat on the roof beside the dormer. I unlocked the door and opened it. It was Bobbie. She was wearing a black dress with spaghetti straps and black high heels and black nylons with no seams.

  When Jupiter saw Bobbie he started whining and groaning. Bobbie came in, and I closed the door fast.

  Where’d you get that dress? I said.

  Bobbie had Jupiter in her arms and he was licking her as much as the muzzle would let him and Bobbie was going, There there my little puppy dog, Jupiter baby doll don’t cry don’t cry, and then she undid the muzzle and Jupiter was licking and licking her and barking.

  Bobbie! I said. Father’s going to hear!

  He’s too drunk to hear shit, Bobbie said, and when she spoke, I could smell it on her breath: Crown Royal and Coke.

  Bobbie, I said, What, are you drinking with him now too?

  Too? Bobbie said.

  In the gold flecks in Bobbie’s eyes, I saw hate.

  Then: Come on, little Jupiter baby, Bobbie said, Let’s go downstairs.

  Bobbie walked down the stairs to her room, walking the way you do in high heels, the way you do when you’ve had too much to drink, Jupiter cradled under her arm, his tail wagging.

  A couple times that night Charlie and I could hear Jupiter barking.

  IN THE MORNING, at breakfast, I’d set out the cereal boxes and the milk carton and the sugar on the table in the breakfast nook. Bobbie made Father’s coffee, and Father was sitting just in his boxer shorts and T-shirt, staring at the table drinking his coffee. No magic tricks in the morning with Father.

  Bobbie was eating her Rice Krispies, and I was eating my Corn Flakes, when Mother walked into the kitchen in the black dress Bobbie had been wearing the night before and the high heels, but mother’s nylons had seams. Swoops in the seams. Mother was too big around the waist for the black dress and the zipper up the back wasn’t zipped up all the way and you could see her brassiere strap. Mother had her face painted on and her hair done up.

  Mother walked the way you do in high heels right to the drawer where she hid her Herbert Tareytons, tapped a Herbert Tareyton out of the pack, lit it, got the 30 Club ashtray out of the cupboard, then walked right over to the table and sat down and crossed her legs.

  Only silence. In all the world, only silence.

  Then Bobbie said: Mother!

  Bobbie smiled just with her mouth.

  That dress you’re wearing! Bobbie said.

  Oh, this old thing? Mother said, and swirled her cigarette around like Bette Davis. I found it out on the porch on your father’s bed. It’s two sizes too small, Mother said, but hell, nothing’s perfect.

  Mother’s Orange Exotica lipstick was on the end of her Herbert Tareyton.

  A jealous woman, Mother said, Would think the dress was a gift for some other woman. But that’s not the case, Mother said. Is it, Cotton?

  In my forearms first, the fear, up to my shoulders, splashed down through my heart, into my stomach.

  Mother leaned her elbow on the table, inhaled on the cigarette, and blew smoke across the table right into Father’s face.

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