“There’s some truth to that. But how are you, Donald?”
“Never mind how I am. I can’t believe what I’m reading. I’ve seen Crusoe in the paper before. And my neighbors! Two work the night shift at the bottle plant. I mean, I hope I’m not offending you, but according to them, people at the plant actually talk about pushing him into a vat.”
“That’s all behind us now. The company’s been sold.”
After Donald demanded an immediate visit, Evelyn directed him to the ranch and by afternoon he arrived in his truck, a steel flatbed with a headache rack in the rear and so encumbered with tires, jacks, fence stretchers, spools of barbed wire and fuel drums that it looked like a junkyard on wheels.
Donald jumped out, hugged Evelyn and asked immediately how many acres she had. When she told him, he said, “Ooh Evelyn! And how many cows do you run?” At that, he rubbed his hands in glee and asked to see the calves. She agreeably led him to what had arrived thus far. Bill was in the corral and helped conduct the tour, clearly liking Donald on sight as being a real rancher worthy of Evelyn’s company. He particularly admired Donald’s crap-laden truck. “I got a tough customer down here to the barn,” he said. “Don’t want to have this calf, and I think we may be gettin’ kind of a crossways presentation.”
Donald said, “If they can get in trouble, they will, won’t they, Bill? I had an old cow last week started chasing her afterbirth in a circle and ground her calf to mush. I tried to get in the middle of it and got knocked on my butt.”
Bill put the cow in the head catch, where she bawled at the calf she couldn’t see with just its head out but no legs yet visible.
Donald plunged his hand into his beard in thought, then picked up a piece of binder twine from the barn floor and tied her tail to one side. He took his coat off, rolled up his right sleeve and slid his arm up alongside the calf into the cow. “Once they get junior in the birth canal, they’re not too good at kicking. Anyway, here’s our problem. . . .” By now he was crouched against the cow, cheek mashed against her dilated genitals, and struggling as though arm wrestling a giant. “I don’t like to use the snare here, for fear we’d push something through the uterus, but what we’ve got is junior’s turned one front leg backward, and, wouldn’t you know, there’s so much musculature to this cow’s hymen or else we’ve got some damn incomplete dilation. But we’ll get him sorted out here.” He straightened to withdraw his arm, and the small black hooves popped into view behind his hand.
He stood back, and the three of them watched for a long moment until, after mighty straining by the cow, the calf made a little dolphin-dive for his mother’s heels and was born. Donald carried him around so that the cow could see him. As the amnion sac emptied its amber contents into the straw, he said, “Turn Mama loose.”
Bill was smiling. Later as they discussed calving out the heifers, Donald cried, “No, no, Bill, You mustn’t do this to yourself. Next year AI them and calve the whole batch in a matter of days. I’ll help you. After doing it for years I’ve got it down. We’ll freeze-brand them first, synchronize them and buy straws of semen that fit your cattle. Then the nice man comes out from town with his nitrogen tank and you kiss the guesswork of first-calf heifers good-bye!”
Bill even liked the prissy wave at the end wherein Donald said good-bye to all problems associated with heifers.
“These days, Bill, you have to measure everything there is to measure on a cow, test them for efficiency on feed and index them for performance. But I can see you’re like my old man: you’re not buying any of it.”
“Your dad and me are too old.”
Over coffee and a sheet of overbaked cinnamon rolls, Evelyn learned that the Aadfields were in an identical rut to the one she’d seen them in last. Donald tried to explain it but even the explanation seemed part of the problem.
“They could sell the place, but they can’t picture what they’d do with the money. They never had any, so it doesn’t interest them. Realtors come out and it’s like talking to a stone. The trouble is, they can’t hold that ranch together without me, and there are things about me that they don’t need to know. So the small part of me that lives on the ranch and does all the work makes the rest of me too tired to have any other life, and besides, secret lives are incredibly tiring and sort of unreal in the long run, and I just have this feeling I’m going to end up some lonely old bachelor rancher leaning on a number-two Ames irrigating shovel, and not one tourist driving past admiring me as a traditional part of the landscape on the northern route to Yellowstone will ever realize that once upon a time I was an honest-to-God California faggot!”
Afterward Bill said, “Anything ever happens to me, that’d be the feller for you.” She liked being drawn out by Donald, by the vigilance and stillness when he listened to her, his hands folded atop his gloves or reaching for his coffee cup but never moving his eyes away. Consequently, she told him a surprising amount about her life. Such as: “The ranch belongs to Bill and me. God knows where that might lead, so I guess I’m sort of in transition. It hasn’t been that long since my father died, and my mother needs me. I wish I could have my life here, just live it out, y’know? But these little ranches don’t work anymore.”
“Tell me about it.”
“I sell a few horses, but then I don’t know where they’ve gone and it just makes me sad. I don’t like pushing calves into a truck the day they’re weaned either. I don’t like the cows bawling for them for days afterward and looking around where the truck used to be. Sure, we talk about the best way to breed those heifers, but they’re too young to have babies in the first place. It scares them and sometimes kills them. You know what it’s like to take those old cows to be slaughtered, ones you’ve known for ten years or more or you raised from the time they were calves themselves. They get broken mouthed, or you can’t read the shield, and that year they don’t go on the drive to summer pasture. It’s starting to get me down.” She was silent for a long moment, then added with searing conviction, “I may be the wrong person for my own life.”
Donald seemed to have been caught up in her mood. “We had an old longhorn, Luther, we used for a lead steer,” he said. “Luther got old but he never got mean. He just went where he wanted, through fences, whatever. Started going in and out of my mom’s garden and ruining everything. So we loaded him up—weighed over a ton—and drove around half of Montana to find someone to kill him. Finally located somebody at Martinsdale. Dad wanted the head, but Luther was so big his horns broke when they hung him up.” Donald looked desolate. “Just getting in the garden, was all.”
“So you headed for California.”
“Not for that. I went for basic gender issues, which turned out not to be enough for a whole life. Big surprise, that.”
A car drove up in front of the house, and Evelyn, suddenly anxious, went to the window and, separating the blinds with her hand, said, “Paul’s here.”
She hardly had time to get away from the window before Paul bounded inside and nearly slid to a stop with a comic back-pedaling of his arms upon spotting Donald, whom he studied sharply as Evelyn introduced them.
“Have we met before?” asked Paul.
“Not that I know of,” Donald boomed.
Standing closer to Paul, Evelyn noticed how imposing Donald was. His present western vigor was completely unforeseen.
“You live around here, Don?”
“I ranch at Daisy Dean. Got a hundred-head forest permit. Leased up some spring pasture right there where Mission Creek comes into the river. Where do you run your cattle?” He knew perfectly well that Paul didn’t have any.
“I don’t have any cattle,” said Paul, already crestfallen at this perceived disadvantage. “I don’t think I want any. They look like a nonperforming asset to me.”
“Don’t want any cattle? What do you do to pass the time?”
“I find other ways to amuse myself.” Paul was now sufficiently emboldened to let a twinge of acid enter his tone. “Where did you two mee
t?”
“I got stuck in the snow,” said Evelyn, determined not to be interrogated.
“Dad and I dug her out!”
“And now we’re all friends,” said Paul.
“I hope so!” said Donald, clamping a great paw upon Paul’s shoulder, demanding, “How about you, Paul, you got any friends?”
“Enough.”
With a hearty laugh, Donald pounded him on the back, “I gotta go, buddy!” He turned to Evelyn and, without a word, gave her a tiny wave at eye level. In the context of the roaring ranch act it was incomprehensible, but Paul seemed not to have noticed.
“Who was that overbearing bastard?”
“He’s a new friend.”
“A ‘new friend’? I’d hate to think what that means.”
“Then don’t think about it.”
“Oh, I see.”
“No, you don’t see. He’s exactly what I told you he is. He’s my friend.”
“What’s this whole new sacred thing about friends? People used to just have friends. Now there’s this pixie dust over the entire subject.”
“Is that so? I must’ve missed that.”
“I didn’t come out here to argue.”
“Then you’ve made a poor start. I don’t know what you think the other night means, but it doesn’t include the resumption of monitoring my activities.”
“Sounds like you’ve really thought that through.”
“As indeed I have.”
Paul liked to mimic happy astonishment at various of Evelyn’s words. “Monitoring” and “indeed” got such treatment now. It was beyond irritating. It was, Evelyn decided, all part of his routine. “Once they’ve decided you’re the devil,” Paul had said long ago, “the gals beat a path to your door.”
“Evelyn,” he began in an entirely different tone, “I came out to tell you some good news: I have a new job.”
“Already?” Evelyn couldn’t help feeling pleased. It would all be so much better if Paul would just be happy.
“Mr. Majub must’ve approved of my work at the plant: he has hired me as a liaison officer for this region.”
“I’m afraid I don’t know what that is, liaison officer.”
Paul had moved to her side. Evelyn sat in an armchair, and his hand was now in her hair.
“It’s a fancy word for a scout. I think it involves hoopla. I’ve always been keenly interested in hoopla. Majub feels that Montana has some undervalued businesses that are ripe for the plucking.” She could feel her breathing acquire weight and the heat of Paul’s hand was between her shoulders. Though aware of what was happening, she didn’t feel inclined to do anything about it. Her mind acted to quickly minimize all reservations as soon as they arose.
“I’ll have a company car,” he murmured. “I’m just going to follow the old routes, maybe start along the High Line. That feels good, doesn’t it?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Then work my way down toward Wyoming, and you like Wyoming, don’t you?”
“Yeah.”
“Just let go, let go, let go.”
Her breath kept coming out of her, and some of her clothes had accumulated next to the armchair.
“You get out there around Glendive, Forsyth, Miles City, it’s quiet, real, real quiet.”
Evelyn could see none of the light in the room. She heard Paul say, “How about now,” but waited until her breathing and her thoughts were going at the same speed.
“Now is good,” she said.
A retired circuit court judge, T. William Slater, was assigned to mediate the divorce and division of property for Stuart Cross and Natalie. While things were sedate enough at first, Natalie was already offended by Stuart’s suit; he’d never dressed like this before, and she wondered about his need to suddenly display such fashion sense. She knew that his fortunes had improved at the bottling plant, that he was climbing fast and making more money than ever before. His modesty, though, was undiminished, and Natalie hoped it indicated that he’d lowered what she considered to be an extreme position with regard to her property. She took solace in the fact that Justice Slater came from a well-known pioneer family. Ranchers and legislators abounded in his background, and since the end of the Civil War there had been much mingling among Slaters and Whitelaws.
Holding a pencil crossways in his mouth and arranging papers at the same time, T. William Slater managed to say, “I take it that we agree that the divorce itself is desirable.” He put his briefcase under the table and looked up.
Natalie and Stuart each said yes, Stuart with palpable sadness he was trying to disguise.
“So all that’s outstanding is the division of assets.”
Both nodded.
“Are there specific items to which either of you are attached?”
They shook their heads.
“What about the house?”
“Not the house,” said Natalie emphatically.
“So, what I’m looking at here is house, cars, the proceeds of your equity in the business which I gather here has been sold and probated. Yes, of course it has.” Sliding out another sheet of paper. “Because here is all this cash. I seldom see so much uninvested cash.”
“In point of fact,” Natalie said, “I would be willing to let Stuart have the house.”
“Just sell it and we split,” said Stuart.
“What’s that?” asked a startled Natalie.
Justice Slater said, “I’m assuming unless either of you specifies otherwise that all of this can be made liquid, in which case division is simplified. Would either of you care to give me your feelings on this?”
“Sure,” said Stuart cheerfully. “Half and half. Isn’t that the law?”
Natalie’s eyes were wide with indignation as she turned to Justice Slater.
“Unless it’s contested,” said Justice Slater.
“Wait a minute here,” said Natalie. “The proceeds from the plant only arrived a short time ago. Where’s the fairness in that?”
“Does that seem to you to be pertinent?” Justice Slater asked Stuart.
“No.”
“Would you care to elaborate, Mr. Cross?”
“Sure. If I don’t get half, we won’t solve this in mediation. We go to court.”
T. William Slater tried to alleviate Natalie’s indignation with a colorful observation. “It looks like your husband intends to hang on like a bulldog in a thunderstorm!”
“What’s this about, Stuart? You hardly need all this.”
“I’m getting married.”
“You’re getting married?” Natalie’s lips were tight across her teeth, and she locked eyes with Stuart as though expecting him to flinch. Not often had she seen such a gentle smile on his face. Since he declined to say anything further, she thought she would shake a few facts out of him. “Some slut down at the plant?” Natalie’s jaw worked slightly as she awaited an answer, and Justice Slater busied himself among his papers.
“No,” said Stuart mildly.
“Where else would you meet someone?”
“Oh, she’s from the plant all right,” he smiled at Justice Slater, begging his indulgence, “but she doesn’t fit your description.”
“Not, I hope, the little brunette by the bottle washer.”
“Yes, it is.” Stuart smiled.
“I thought Paul had already been through that one.”
“I don’t think so,” said Stuart, staring red-faced at his unblemished legal pad. “He was busy with you.”
With a sudden flurry, T. William Slater resumed his role. “My job is to help us avoid a jury trial, and I heartily suggest you join me in that effort. I have noted that a spectacle is imminent, and I urge you, as long-time residents of this community, to avoid the damage to your standing that public resolution of your dispute will likely produce.”
Natalie had locked on to part of Judge Slater’s remark, and with a chivvying, rueful laugh made several observations. “Yes, Your Honor, we are long-time residents. But there is a difference. Th
ere is a difference. I am a Montana native, born here, raised here and still here. Stuart is an out-of-stater. There, I’ve said it. Stuart is from out east. The Whitelaw family established our fortunes by supplying the miners and cattlemen who built this town in territorial days. We’re the same Scots-Irish stock that fought the Indians, pioneered trails, brought cattle up from Texas and built these good towns. Stuart’s name isn’t even Cross. It was Crozoborski until his grandparents arrived here from Poland. I’ve got nothing against immigrants, Judge Slater, but you and I grew up here. We can still make out the old sign for Slater’s Blacksmith Shop on the side of the beauty parlor. Some of what we feel is just not part of Stuart’s world.”
The Cadence of Grass Page 20