In the City of Shy Hunters

by Tom Spanbauer

  Charlie and I got Bobbie past Mother and to her room no problem. Mother didn’t even ask where we’d been.

  Charlie said, What’s with the flag?

  Who knows? I said.

  Maybe it’s Flag Day, Bobbie said.

  Bobbie went into her bathroom and Charlie and I heard the shower. When Bobbie came out, she was yellow as ever, sweating. She had a towel wrapped around her head and she was wearing her flannel nightgown and there were stains of blood on the back.

  Bobbie dried her hair and then laid the towel on the bedsheet. Made sure that each corner of the towel was equidistant side to side, top to bottom, then lay down on the bed, straight, facing the map of the Known Universe, folded another towel over her crotch and then pulled the sheet over her.

  I put my hand on her forehead. It was so hot.

  Bobbie, I said, Are you sure about this? I mean, we could call Doc Hayden at the Fort Hall Clinic.

  No fucking way, Bobbie said. Now get out of here, she said. I need some sleep.

  Charlie and I kept a glass of water at her bed and cool washrags to wipe her face with. I made her some Campbell’s tomato soup, her favorite, but Bobbie wouldn’t eat it. We stayed by her all night, Charlie sleeping on one side of the bed, me on the other. In the middle of the night, I felt something dripping on my arm. I turned Bobbie’s Marilyn Monroe light on, and there was blood all down the side of the bed and onto the floor.

  When Charlie and I pulled the covers back, it was awful, all the blood and stuff there was coming out of Bobbie.

  I thought for sure she was dead; then just like that Bobbie sat up quick and opened her eyes and looked down at the bed. She didn’t even flinch.

  He said I would hemorrhage, Bobbie said. He said there’d be discharge. Jesus, you guys, Bobbie said. This is hemorrhaging and discharging, OK?

  Bobbie held her stomach as she got out of bed. She stood up, going back and forth, back and forth, for a moment, like she was going to faint, and Charlie and I jumped quick to help, but Bobbie said: I’m all right, I’m all right. Just got to clean this mess up.

  The towels were soaked and so were the sheets. We put the towels and sheets in the bathtub. Bobbie showered again, and when she came out she said, Things look a lot better, Bobbie said.

  I think the worst is over, Bobbie said.

  We flipped the mattress over and put clean sheets on and a clean pillowcase and a clean towel equidistant up and down, side to side, corner to corner, and Bobbie lay down again, arms and legs straight like she was pointing her body at the Known Universe.

  You guys are so sweet, Bobbie said. I love you guys.

  My two brothers, Bobbie said. Thanks for all the help.

  THE NEXT DAY, Charlie and I thought Bobbie was sleeping, and we checked and there was only a little blood, so we had our cereal and then got on ayaHuaska and Chub, played Going Slack fancy riding to Spring Creek. Charlie did the Free Lazy Back and the Lazy Back Rollback. I did the Backward Crouch Stand from the Withers.

  We were back home by noon, in time for Bobbie’s lunch.

  I took up the tray of milk and Wonder bread and bologna with mustard and mayonnaise and lettuce and Clover Club potato chips.

  Bobbie wasn’t in her bed.

  We followed the drops of blood down the stairs, through the hallway, across the cement playground, past the rusted swing set and teeter-totter, past Grandmother Cottonwood, into the barn, up the stairs of the barn, to the hayloft. Bobbie had slung the lariat around the ridgepole and made a hangman’s noose, exactly in the middle of the barn, then crawled up the old stepladder.

  The stepladder was lying flat on the floor, and Bobbie was hanging, the noose around her throat, her soft brown hair hanging down into her face, eyes rolled up Saint Theresa Gone to Heaven, not on the premises, her lips blue, her face yellow, her feet dangling in the air, blood all over the back of her nightgown, blood dripping down onto the barn floor, onto the floorboards and dust and straw and pigeon shit.

  The moment that, after, you’re different.

  The wind through the barn, the wind all around Bobbie, Bobbie swinging slowly, slowly, side to side, back and forth, back and forth. The sound of the rope.

  Charlie and I stood, my arm around Charlie’s waist, Charlie’s arm over my shoulder. Beneath us, around us, the toothpick barn, dry kindling, just one step out of place and the barn would snap.

  CHARLIE SET THE ladder up straight. I went in the house, up the stairs to Bobbie’s room, turned on the Marilyn Monroe light, got her red Swiss army knife out of where she always kept it in the top drawer. I got the black dress with the straps that Father gave her, her nylons with no seams, and her black high heels. Her black brassiere and black panties.

  Charlie cut the rope and Bobbie fell into my arms.

  We washed her, Charlie and I. The steaming hot water in the porcelain pan. Washed the blood off her legs and her vagina. Washed her face. Washed her hair with her Prell shampoo. Combed her hair back off her face. I put Bobbie’s lipstick on her mouth, the red red lipstick she liked, staying exactly inside the curve of her lips. Charlie put on her blue eye shadow, and the eyeliner, and the mascara.

  Then Charlie went to the house to get Bobbie’s Marilyn Monroe light and her purple flowered bedspread, and the map of the Known Universe.

  While Charlie was gone, I lay down right next to Bobbie, exactly straight, perfect, just like her, my hands folded over my breast like her. Pigeon flutter and wind through the shingles. Then silence, perfect silence.

  I put my ear to Bobbie’s mouth.

  Dead silent. No more secrets.

  Charlie and I pinned the map of the Known Universe to the barn wall, exactly above the old Zenith. The old Zenith exactly in the middle under the map.

  We laid Bobbie on her purple flowered bedspread. Exactly centered in the middle. Plugged in her lamp with the white grapes and grape leaves bumps on it, turned on her Marilyn Monroe light.

  It had to be a certain way.

  Bobbie in her makeup, her red lips, her black dress, nylons, and black high heels on the purple flowers of her bedspread, in the Marilyn Monroe light.

  Charlie turned on KSEI on the old Zenith. Perry Como was singing “Faraway Places.”

  Bobbie had such a good look on her face. I’d never seen her look so good.

  Charlie rolled cigarettes with one hand.

  We harmonized “The Idaho State Song,” then “America the Beautiful.”

  WHEN THE AMBULANCE drove up the lane, red and white and yellow lights were all over the cottonwood trees.

  Mother thought they were coming for her and hid in the kitchen closet.

  CHAPTER

  TWENTY-FOUR

  Fiona was cold. She just couldn’t get warm that night, so Fiona and I were under a quilt in Stranded Beings Searching for God on the Conran couch listening to Leonard Cohen and watching Autumn Sonata at the same time. Fiona had made popcorn and I was drinking a St. Pauli Girl and she was drinking Southern Comfort two rocks. We’d had several tokes on the erect pink penis. I was sitting, and Fiona’s head was in my lap.

  Harry was in the hospital again. KS. The doctors were doing tests to see if the KS was in him as well as on him.

  Fiona’s brothers were still in the hospital. When the doctor told her mother that Hunter and Gus had AIDS, Margo Macllvane fell over backward, hit her head on the edge of a waiting-room chair, and had to have five stitches. Dave, Fiona’s father, was taking antidepressants.

  John the Bartender didn’t have tuberculosis, he had a brain fever nobody knew what to do about. Toxic-something-or-other.

  The place inside me the Custer kid had told me to open up, I’d opened up, but True Shot still hadn’t showed up.

  Neither had Rose.

  So there we were, me and my thongs and cutoffs and T-shirt next to Fiona on her Conran couch, in the television light, Fiona under the quilt, on a hot September night, Fiona in a purple wool stocking cap, wearing three layers of sweatshirts, thermal underwear with two pairs of
sweatpants, those kind of gloves with holes for the fingers, Fiona shivering shivering, and me in my black T-shirt rolling cigarettes, watching Ingmar and Ingrid Bergman.

  We should be watching Duck Soup, I said, or It’s a Mad Mad Mad Mad World.

  Fiona pulled herself closer to me. She was a child in my arms, she was so curled up and close.

  When the movie was over, Fiona took the quilt in with her to pee, and when she came back she said, Did you see the black Mercedes limo out in front about four o’clock today?

  In front of where? I said.

  In front of here, Fiona said. A woman with a scarf tied around her head and dark glasses got out and walked into this building. I could have sworn it was Elizabeth Taylor.

  Language my second language.

  I lit my cigarette, lit Fiona’s.

  Maybe, I said, It was.

  What do you mean? Fiona said.

  I pulled the smoke inside to where it hurt.

  Promise not to tell a soul? I said.

  Fiona’s lips were puckered around the cigarette and her cheeks were all sucked in.

  I promise, Fiona said. Blew the smoke out.

  No, I said, Really. You got to promise!

  So I promise! Fiona said. Jeez, I promise!

  Only silence for a moment, in all the world, all of New York City, only silence.

  Fiona’s hair poking out under the purple wool cap, her red lips. Her upper lip trying to smile.

  E-li-za-beth Tay-lor, I said, emphasizing every syllable of her name, Is Rose’s best friend.

  Oh. . . My. . . God! Fiona said, and put her white white hand in front of her red red mouth. Cool, Fiona said.

  Fiona threw part of the quilt over onto my legs. She sat down next to me on the couch. Pretty soon Fiona’s fingers were in my hair just above the back of my neck, curling my hair in her fingers.

  Trouble in my forearms.

  What? I said.

  Right out my back door, Fiona said, pointing her partly gloved finger, The fire-escape section that’s supposed to be cranked up to the second floor, Fiona said, Has been at ground level since I moved in here.

  You mean you want to crawl up the fire escape and look in Rose’s windows? I said.

  No! Fiona said. How could you possibly think that?

  Fiona’s open palm against my open palm.

  I want us to crawl up the fire escape and look in Rose’s windows, Fiona said.

  More power in a pair of tits than any chariot.

  Somebody will see us, I said.

  Nobody’s going to fucking see us! Fiona said.

  What about the dog? I said.

  What dog?

  The pit bull in the chain-link fence, I said.

  Oh, Chauncey! Fiona said. He’s such a pussycat! There’s dog biscuits next to the toaster. Get him one.

  We can’t invade somebody’s privacy like that, I said.

  You invade the E.T.-phone-home guy’s privacy every chance you get, Fiona said.

  That’s different, I said. All I have to do is stand in my kitchen, I said.

  With the lights off! Fiona said.

  But Rose is not home, I said. He hasn’t been home for days.

  I think you might be surprised, Fiona said. Come on! Fiona said. It won’t be spying, it will be adoring!

  CHAUNCEY WAGGED HIS tail when he saw Fiona, sniffed at my hand first, then, through the chain links, took the dog biscuit.

  Fiona climbed up the fire-escape steps first. She was wearing her grandmother’s black Persian lamb coat. The iron of the fire escape rattled, and I looked around at all the windows above us, around us.

  When Fiona got to the first landing, she said, Come on, Will!

  I had my hands around the ladder but I couldn’t make my foot make the step. Spineless ass.

  So I told my foot to just go ahead, and pretty soon just like that I was standing on an iron grating one story up.

  The second story was wobblier. I could feel each one of Fiona’s steps up the stairs all through my body. Then Fiona was crouched down on the second-story landing. Rose’s red velvet drapes were open, and his venetian blinds were strips of light across Fiona’s face and purple wool cap.

  William of Heaven, Fiona whispered loud, Get your ass up here!

  Wobbly wobbly iron grating, all that was between me and mid-air. My steps onto the stairs so loud, banging off all the walls of the courtyard. When I got to the second landing, my knees cracked when I crouched down next to Fiona.

  The sky was a philosopher’s sky, lapis-lazuli blue. The moon was bright and kind of pink-yellow, and you could even see some stars.

  Through the cracks of Rose’s venetian blinds, Fiona put her eyes. I put my eyes into a strip of light.

  The room was full of red roses. Red roses on the brass coffee table next to the gallon jug of gasoline, red roses on the kitchen table and on top of the stereo, roses on the windowsill we had to look around. Roses in Rose’s Italian chandelabra. Rose’s silver ice bucket was on the brass table, and the top of the bottle sticking out of the ice was the widow Veuve Clicquot.

  Rose had the lighting just perfect so everything looked soft and made you feel warm.

  Rose was sitting on the velvet blonde-fainting couch, a tulip glass of bubbly in one hand, a Gauloise in the other. His head was shaved and shined with rosemary oil. He was wearing a big white African gown embroidered at the top, one big gold loop in his queer ear.

  The woman was sitting with her back to us in the velvet overstuffed chair. We could see her hair was black bouffant ratted up. She was wearing white also, a gown just like Rose’s. On her left hand, lying on the arm of the purple-velvet overstuffed chair, was a huge diamond ring. In her other hand was a tulip glass of bubbly.

  Rose’s index went back and forth, back and forth.

  No no Yoko Ono, Rose’s lips said.

  I’d never seen Rose laugh like that, a cats-fucking laugh, the veins in his forehead sticking out, his mouth wide open, his white teeth, rosy lips stretched wide, the inside color. The woman had to set her glass down on the brass table because she was laughing so hard, and she put her head down and covered her face with her hands for a moment. The light on the diamond. Then she sat back up.

  It’s some guy in drag! Fiona whispered.

  It’s all drag, I whispered.

  The music was Brazilian, I guess, or salsa—something with a lot of drums that, even outside, Fiona and I were moving our shoulders to.

  Then a ballad came on, slow, in Spanish or Portuguese. A woman singing. Rose set his tulip glass on the brass table, stood up, and bowed; then the woman set her tulip glass on the brass table, extended her hand to Rose, and stood up. Rose escorted the woman to the kitchen, to the place where Rose’s Persian rug goes from the front room, and onto the linoleum of the kitchen floor.

  Rose took the woman in his arms, and they danced, slow, graceful, Rose looking down, so happy to be looking into the eyes he was looking into. Her head was up, her arm on his shoulder, the dogs running around their feet barking.

  When Rose turned and the woman twirled, the woman’s face turned toward the window, turned toward me and Fiona on the other side of the venetian blind.

  Holy Fucking Jesus Harold Christ! Fiona whispered. It’s Elizabeth Fucking Taylor!

  Cool, I whispered.

  WHEN THE SONG was over, in the silence after the song, and only the sound of the needle on the record, Rose and Elizabeth stood close, holding each other, holding on to the moment. Then Elizabeth sat down. Rose poured more Veuve Clicquot, the whole time the two of them talking, talking, the way friends do and then laughing and talking some more.

  Rose was standing just fine, talking talking, then all of a sudden, just like that, his knees went and he hit the floor.

  Elizabeth jumped, and I jumped, and so did Fiona.

  Elizabeth knelt down, she kissed his shaved head, touched his throat, his ears, put her hand into his Sahara Desert palm.

  My hand was back, just ready to rap on the
window, when Fiona grabbed my wrist.

  What, Fiona said, Are you crazy?

  He’s sick! I said.

  You can’t invade their privacy, Fiona said. If he wants you he’ll call you.

  AFTER A WHILE, Rose stood up. Elizabeth held his arm. The black and the white of them in the chandelabra light in their white flowing robes.

  Rose sat on the blonde-fainting couch, lay back, fainting.

  Elizabeth brought him a glass of water, then went to the stereo, picked out a cassette, put the cassette in, pushed the buttons, sat down, clinked her champagne glass to Rose’s water glass: Salud, Na zdarovya, L’chayim, Here’s Looking at You.

  Bellini. Maria Callas, “Norma.”

  Elizabeth stood up and raised her arms above her head and touched her hands together. She went up on her tiptoes.

  Liz is so fucking beautiful, Fiona whispered.

  Elizabeth, I said. Never call her Liz, I whispered.

  Rule number five, I whispered.

  Then Elizabeth did a turn, a ballerina, and she started singing with Maria Callas. Elizabeth moved her lips exactly to the words. She was looking at Rose exactly the way she looked at Montgomery Clift in A Place in the Sun.

  Elizabeth walked over to Rose, her arms out to him, still moving her lips just right. She sat next to Rose, and Rose put his extra-lovely arms around her, and she put her head on Rose’s chest. Her shoulders were shaking and you could hear she was really crying. Then Rose was crying.

  Who knows how long Rose and Elizabeth cried?

  Outside, on the fire escape, Fiona laid her head on my chest. I put my arms around her.

  Inside crying.

  Outside crying too.

  ELIZABETH AND I took a little vacation, Rose said. To Miami Beach.

  Behind Rose, Buddha was floating on a sea of plastic medicine bottles. You couldn’t see the votive candles anymore, just the flame of them through the plastic.

  Rose was lying on his belly. The votive candles flickered across Rose’s naked legs and butt and back. He had lost more weight.

  My breath in. My breath out.

  I was lying on my back, naked too.

  Inside my chest where I smoke was sore. I put my hands on my chest.