Carson Valley

by Bill Barich

  The third dancer was much better-looking, a tall redhead whose nipples were pierced with rings, and as she wrapped her legs around the firepole and began humping it, Omar got seriously aroused for the first time, grew bolder, and encouraged her by yelling, “Yes, you are so pretty!” and “Go, baby, go!” He was ready to have a woman sit on him now, ready for an experience. When a waitress brought them more beer, he held up a five-dollar bill and waved it at her, but Remo, who was sitting across from him, did the same thing, except that his bill was worth ten dollars. The boy cursed himself. How could he be so stupid! The waitress chose Remo, of course. She was a spindly brunette balanced precariously on spike heels, and as she settled into the beet-faced picker’s lap, Omar felt cheated and hurt. His brain woozy from drink, he was certain that he had fallen in love with the woman in an unnatural, magical, and utterly compelling way.

  He watched with extreme jealously as she adjusted her bra straps and reconfigured her position. She was wearing a sheer nightgown, flimsy and blue, and she put her mouth to Remo’s ear. What could she be whispering? Had she told Remo that he was handsome? That she liked his penis? Omar’s heart sank as the beet-faced picker thrust his pelvis against her ass and gyrated as if he were fucking her. The boy saw Remo run his fingers along the woman’s arms and brush them over her panties and down between her legs. She shimmied and ground against him, and Omar wanted to cry out. He saw Remo slip an exploratory finger under the panties and try to touch her chocha, and he was not at all unhappy when the woman went loca and shoved Remo away, leaping up from his lap and slapping him across the face.

  “I asked you not to do that, didn’t I?” She reminded Omar of a scolding nun. “Didn’t I ask you not to do that? I told you to keep your hands away from there!”

  “Yo no he hecho nada,” Remo demurred, looking to his fellows for support. He hadn’t done anything wrong, had he?

  Omar felt no sympathy for him. You are a dog, Remo, he thought. I hate you. You dog.

  “He can’t even speak English, can he?” the woman asked, pinching Remo’s earlobe and twisting it until his face was an even brighter red. “You’re a dirty man. That’s what you are.” She tugged at her bra straps again. “You don’t belong in here, any of you. You’re all dirty, dirty, dirty!”

  They made no argument when the bouncer ordered them to leave. They all hung their heads as they straggled into the parking lot, but the altercation somehow changed its meaning for Omar once he was outside. What else had they expected? The Show Room was not La Perla Roja, after all. The entire episode seemed funny to the boy now, and he teased the beet-faced picker about his wandering fingers and asked if he could sniff them. Remo gave him a push and then a hug. Yes, Omar thought, these are my brothers, dear to me every one, and in his beery, emotional condition, he felt honored to be counted among the hardworking men of the vineyards on their journey through the transfigured night.

  A jukebox man suggested that they continue their fiesta at another club nearby where there was live music.

  “Not me, man,” Antonio said, shaking his head. Omar was helping to support him, an arm around his waist. “I’m too old for this shit. It’s almost midnight. I’m going to eat, and then I’m going home to bed.”

  Remo put his arms around both of them. He was swaying. “Menudo, amigos,” he said, donning his helmet. “El mejor. You follow me.”

  Off Remo roared on his motorcycle. Omar watched the darting flight of his taillight through the Toyota’s windshield, feeling a tender wave of affection for Antonio and admiring his strong features in profile. Here was the person who had made everything possible for him. Omar had never really lived before, he had never tasted the sweetness of life until Antonio had offered him some guidance. He owed his cousin an enormous debt that he couldn’t ever repay. He looked out at some wealthy residences fenced and dark, and then he and Antonio were speeding downhill toward a dense strip of businesses along the freeway. The boy was awed in the moment by the extent of what he didn’t know about Santa Rosa or the big world beyond his pueblo. He almost collapsed under the thunderous weight of what he did not know, in fact, and it came to him disturbingly, as in an unwanted prophecy, that the harvest would not go on forever. The grapes would all be picked someday. He pictured the vines withered, worthless, and drifted with snow, although he did not truly believe that snow would fall, and saw himself alone and without a purpose.

  “I stay here,” he said, in a stubborn voice.

  “Yeah, whatever,” his cousin told him.

  “Yes, I stay!” Omar poked at his chest, at his heart, and there were tears in his eyes. “I stay here in Carson Valley!”

  Remo had led them to another cantina, a popular spot that was rocking at all hours. The bar was three deep with rowdy men and women, and the balls on four pool tables were clacking in rhythm. A layer of cigarette smoke hovered near the ceiling, and smoke curled around the hunched forms of customers slurping soups and stews and plying their bowls with warm corn tortillas. At the front counter, Omar ordered menudo all around and spiced his own with chopped onions and liberal sprinklings of oregano, cilantro, and hot sauce. He drank even more beer and felt the blaring music throb in his veins, and in his ecstasy he was pulled to his feet and started dancing, twirling in giddy uncontrollable circles, his arms outstretched, his head thrown back, and his eyes closed. He was the only dancer in the cantina, the only one possessed, and he clapped and stomped on the floor, aware that everybody was watching him, beautiful in his soul.

  “Hey, Omar!” Antonio shouted to him. “Sit down, man!”

  But Omar couldn’t stop himself. He imagined that he was one of the dancers at The Show Room and with cloying fingers unbuttoned the top buttons of his shirt to reveal a muscular, hairless chest.

  “Maricón,” someone hissed.

  Omar pretended not to hear the person and danced on, spinning about and unbuttoning more buttons, still beautiful in his soul.

  Again came the single word, a single hiss, harsher now. “Maricón!”

  Omar stopped twirling. He was giving something to the people, surrendering his soul to the music, to its poetry, and he had been gravely insulted. He stared hotly at his accuser, who returned his stare in a mocking way.

  “Fairy boy,” the man said with a smirk. “Cocksucker.”

  “Déjeme en paz,” Omar told him. He wanted to be left in peace. What was wrong with this terrible man?

  The man was slovenly and very drunk, and he had eyes the color of gravy and greasy black hair that hung in strands over his forehead. He seemed to be spoiling for a fight and toyed with the zipper of his trousers, taunting Omar. In a panic, the boy turned away and saw that his cousin was rising from a chair as he might have in a dream to defend him.

  “Please, Ernesto,” he heard Antonio say. “Leave him alone. He’s just a kid. He doesn’t mean any harm.”

  “Hey, you remember me!” the terrible man said, giggling now. “That’s very good. Yes, I am Ernesto Morales! You fire me from your farm, you remember that, too, Lopez?”

  “I didn’t fire you, Ernesto. The boss fired you. You fucked up, man.”

  “But you didn’t help me, did you, amigo?”

  “I tried to help. I warned you it might happen.”

  “You didn’t help me for shit, asshole.” Morales spat into an empty bowl. “No work for me anymore.” He smiled and thrust a thumb toward his mouth. “Now I drink, yes?”

  “I buy you one Budweiser,” Omar offered, fumbling with the last of his cash. His shirt flew away from him to expose more of his chest. “Please?”

  “Maricón!” Morales was dismissive. “Why you fuck me over with your grape money?”

  “Está bien,” Omar said with resignation. The situation was hopeless.

  “Is that little boy your special boyfriend?” Morales was addressing Antonio again. Omar watched as the terrible man stumbled up from his table and produced a hunting knife from a sheath on his belt. “I don’t like no maricón in here.”

&nb
sp; “Serense, Morales!” His cousin had drawn a line. “I’m asking you real nice, man. Put it away.”

  Omar stepped back in horror as Morales lurched forward and almost fell down. He saw Remo try to grab him from behind, but Morales swung around with surprising deftness and slashed furiously at the air. Then Antonio had him firmly by the wrist and was smashing that wrist against his own knee, but Morales wrestled free, snarled, and sank his teeth into Lopez’s forearm. They broke apart for a few seconds, and the boy saw blood bubbling up from his cousin’s wound. Morales snatched a beer bottle and slugged at it while he stared in a dumbfounded way at the broken wrist that now hung limp and useless before him. The extent of his injury seemed to dawn on him then, and he howled indignantly and rushed toward Omar, who backed away. Still Morales pursued him with his blade, slashing and slashing.

  23

  A sea breeze blew through the woods behind Sam McNally’s house in East Hampton and ruffled a windsock above the deck off the living room, where Anna Torelli reclined in a chaise lounge. She was still in her bathing suit after a midmorning swim and was smoking a cigarette borrowed from a pack her host had left out. Anna wasn’t ordinarily a smoker, but the tobacco tasted strong and very good on her freshened palate. The ocean had affected her senses that way since earliest childhood, washing the farm dust from her throat. Her father hated to be torn from his routines, but once or twice every summer the family ganged up on him and forced him into a trip out to the coast, to Salmon Creek or Shell Beach. The water was really too cold for swimming, but Anna had enjoyed the wading and always came away with a feeling of having been cleansed and revitalized.

  A rolling lawn ran downhill to a road that separated McNally’s property from a potato field. The field had recently been cut to stubble, and flocks of grackles and lark buntings were dipping into it to for the chaff. Sam had bought his two-plus acres many years ago when the real estate prices were still fairly reasonable on that part of the island and had built his house in stages. That gave the place an informal, homey, handmade quality Anna liked. Big windows in every room delivered cascades of marine light at almost any hour of the day. The house was ideal for entertaining, with a galley kitchen that opened onto a living and dining area, where a long country pine table held sway. The floors were plank, and sliding glass doors led to three separate decks. The four bedrooms, two up and two down, were stacked with books and decorated with the nautical prints and folk art that McNally had collected in his travels.

  Anna had chosen to spend the previous night, the Friday of their arrival, in McNally’s bedroom. She hadn’t planned to sleep with him, but they drank a little wine after they got in on the jitney, and when he kissed her it seemed silly to refuse. Sam was a skillful, familiar, and attentive lover, so the interlude was agreeable enough, but it was also spectacularly without impact for her. Only later did she understand that she had probably been trying to find that out. Her failure to become truly aroused and lose herself in the act told her that she was outside rather than inside it, observing from a distance. There were no sparks, no animal sense of release. A simple disagreement with Arthur had engaged her at a deeper level. He was most definitely the third person in the bed.

  Go away, Atwater, she told him again. I will forget you, goddam it!

  Anna had almost dropped into a slumber when McNally appeared on the deck with a chilled Bloody Mary in each hand. He was barefooted and chewing on a piece of celery.

  “I’m not going to move from this spot,” she told him with an easy smile. “Not ever. I feel wonderful, Sam.”

  McNally flopped into the chaise lounge next to hers. He wore a bathing suit and a T-shirt that bunched up over his modest belly. He was trim but lacking in muscle tone. The only exercise he ever got was on the golf course. “That was a fine swim, wasn’t it?”

  “I enjoyed every stroke of it.”

  “Has anybody ever told you that your legs are a little bowed?”

  “Don’t be ridiculous.” Anna was slightly offended and also surprised at the extent of her vanity. “They are not.”

  “Yes, they are. I never noticed it before. It’s sort of alluring.”

  “Alluring? I don’t think it’s alluring at all,” Anna told him. “Next you’ll be saying my breasts are sagging.”

  “Your breasts are not sagging. Take my word for it.”

  She let her head rest on his shoulder. “You’re such a nice guy, Sam. We have a good time together, don’t we?”

  “Yes, we do.”

  Weekends with McNally always involved a whirlwind of social activity. He played in a middle-aged, coed softball game every Saturday afternoon and talked Anna into starting in right field for his team, where she misjudged two fly balls but compensated by going three for four at the plate—which, as she pointed out, said everything about the caliber of the competition. Then they were off to town in the car Sam kept on the island, buying up seafood and some fresh vegetables over in Amagansett for the dinner party he had put together in her honor. Anna was envious of the ease with which he moved from village to village and shop to shop, friendly with the fishmonger and the tomato lady and taking delight in every transaction. Sam was comfortable with the simple givens of life, or so it appeared on the surface. He insisted on giving her his grand tour of the East End, showing her the famous cemetery in Springs where so many dead painters and writers were buried and driving through Sag Harbor to see the street where Steinbeck had lived.

  Clouds began forming over the water around five o’clock. The birds in the potato field were whipped into a frenzy, beating their wings in anticipation of a thunderstorm. Anna watched them while she was scrubbing some littleneck clams at the kitchen sink. McNally stood next to her rinsing some lettuce. She could smell a charge in the air, a whiff of electricity.

  “You know what I’d like right now, Sam?” she told him. “A nap.”

  “Go on and have one. There isn’t a whole lot left to do here. I can handle it by myself.”

  “All right. I will.” She kissed him lightly. “You’re spoiling me.”

  “That’s the idea.”

  Anna dried her hands on a towel and walked past the master bedroom to some stairs leading to the second floor. She was conscious of testing McNally this time, drawing a boundary to see whether or not he would cross it. She went into a bedroom, sat on the bed, and waited. Sam didn’t come to her. That was what she had hoped for—some respect for her privacy, no overt claims of intimacy or privilege on his part. He had passed the test, and yet Anna felt curiously disappointed. Bowed legs, sagging breasts—her powers of attraction must be diminishing! No, that wasn’t it. It was McNally’s fault, wasn’t it? He lacked the necessary passion. He was too much the proper gentleman, and she had married a proper gentlemen, etcetera, and all this cogitation, Anna knew, would get her nowhere. She was appalled at her own self-involvement and the number of hours that she had lately been squandering on what she now thought of as her predicament.

  In the mail that week, she had received a clipping from the Valley Herald from her father, an article about the harvest. It was written in the paper’s usual reportorial style, gushy and full of grammatical errors, but it had a powerful impact on her, anyway. The old man had never in all his years sent her so much as a postcard, and when she read the sentences he had scrawled across the margin in his trembly hand, Thought this might interest you! Bought some nice firewood today, Love, Your Dad, it had moved her almost to tears. Victor Torelli was aging, aging, and soon he would be gone. Whenever Anna talked with him on the phone, his voice sounded less and less forceful, fading in and out, with no trace of rancor, a disembodied and even ghostly thing, and she could hear in his faltering words a growing acceptance of the silence that would ultimately capture him. It was not so much the fact that he would die someday that upset her, but rather that there was so much unfinished business between them. In her heedless and ambitious youth, she had never allowed for this moment. She had not included death in her master plan.

&nbs
p; She lay down and covered herself with an afghan. The first drops of rain fell faintly on the roof, but in minutes the windows were drumming under a colossal downpour. The bedroom seemed to swell with earthy fragrances, with odors of grass and loam. Anna dozed for a while and woke and turned onto her side, a cheek resting on her folded hands. She felt comfortably sealed inside the rain, even protected by it, beyond the meshing gears of time, and she dozed again and slept hard and well. It was McNally who finally brought her back to life by tugging on her toes. She saw that the sky was rosy now and stitched with seams of blue.

  “You had a good nap.” He looked at her with fondness. “You’ve been out for a couple of hours.”

  Anna lazily held up her arms to him. “Come here, Sam. Be with me for a minute.”

  “I’m your man,” McNally said, joining her on the bed.

  “I didn’t have a single dream. Isn’t that strange?”

  “That’s a good sign. It means you’re a righteous person.”

  “I like being with you like this, Sam. I’m far away from all my problems.”

  “Don’t go too far on me, Anna,” he said. “I wouldn’t want to lose sight of you.”

  Their dinner guests began arriving around seven-thirty, two couples who were old friends of McNally’s and a stout young man with very long hair that swept over his shoulders. He worked as an editorial assistant to Sam and introduced himself simply as Malcolm. Anna fixed him a gin and tonic and led him to the backyard deck. It was warm enough to eat outside, so she and Sam had spread a tablecloth over a picnic table and lit some citronella candles to keep away the bugs. Malcolm seemed uncomfortable in polite company and stuck a finger under his shirt collar to probe his neck.