No Story to Tell

by K J Steele

  “What?”

  “I asked you a question.”

  “What?"

  She shifted her position, uncomfortable to have gained his full attention. She’d become accustomed to their cursory conversations, both of them applying only nominal resources, instinctively knowing each turn in the dialog, filling in their parts as if on cue, thoughts elsewhere and not sharply required. She took a breath and pushed the words out one behind the other before she could hesitate or think about his response. She wanted to know. Felt that since the question had been raised she needed to ascertain the answer. Needed to uncover the caller’s motive, which seemed to her more important even than his identity. Had it been merely a prank call or was it possible someone actually felt that way about her?

  “Well? Do you?”

  “Do I what?”

  “You heard me, Bobby. Would you describe me that way?”

  “What way?”

  “Beautiful.” She forced the word out yet again, even though they both knew he was well aware of what she’d said.

  He caught the word with a scowl and grunted, uncomfortable at being put on the spot.

  “What kind of asinine question is that?”

  “It’s not asinine. I was just wondering that’s all, you never—”

  “Don’t even bother saying that I never told you that, Vic, ’cause I did and you know it.”

  “When?”

  “I don’t know when. I told you lots of times. Ain’t my fault if you can’t remember.”

  “I remember once, Bobby. No, twice. But it was a long time ago, before we were even married.”

  “Yeah, well, you was good-looking then.”

  “Then? You thought I was good-looking, then?”

  “Course I did. Wouldn’t have married you if I didn’t.”

  “But what—” she started then stumbled, fiddled with the zipper of her coat. It surprised her, this sudden nervousness in the face of his verdict, having long believed herself immune to his judgment. “Well, what about now?”

  “Now?”

  She nodded, forced her eyes to hold his face as he lit his cigarette with agitation.

  “Right now? This very bloody minute?”

  “Well, no, Bobby. Not exactly right now. Just in general. Now that I’m older and everything.”

  “Now?”

  She nodded, her eyes fleeing to her hands, which continued fussing back and forth between her coat zipper and the snap closure on her purse. He looked over at her, slid solid eyes over each feature, a frown wrinkling together his brow as he struggled toward a conclusion. He gave a cursory nod, expelling two bursts of smoke from his nostrils as he did so.

  “Yeah. Yeah, I guess you ain’t too bad-looking yet.”

  “But, would you say I’m beautiful, Bobby?”

  “Blee-oody-hell woman. That’s what I just said. Is that not what I just bloody said?”

  She could feel his discomfort at being cornered. Recognized his brewing frustration in the bunching of his shoulders, the defensive angle at which he’d set his jaw, the way his hands gripped the wheel and harassed it back and forth.

  “Well, why do you think it is you never tell me that?”

  “Tell you what?”

  She felt foolish. Knew she was pushing beyond his comfort zone, but she continued anyhow, wanting more than anything to hear the words she longed to hear.

  “What we were just talking about, Bobby. That you think I still look nice. Why don’t you ever tell me that?”

  It was too much for him: the pressuring, the cornering, the unfamiliar intimacy of the conversation. Even the irregular scratching of the radio combined to form one massive provocation that flew at his face, sending him into a flailing-armed fit.

  “I did tell you! I did! What the hell I got to do, woman, tattoo it across my bloody chest? That make you happy? Huh? Or maybe across my forehead. Yeah, that’s what I’ll do. Tattoo it straight across friggin’ here.” He ripped off his cap and knuckled his forehead hard. “Then every time you look at me you’ll see it. That be good enough for you, Vic? Huh? That work for you?”

  He rattled on over this line of attack, amused with his ingenuity, minuscule beads of sweat working onto his reddened face as he notched his way up through several degrees of intensity.

  “Problem with them tattoos is that they don’t ever go away. Here you’d be all dried up and wrinkly, and me going round still with this damn tattoo across my bloody forehead. I’ll just tell ’em—”

  He attempted his speech several times, but his internal image dissolved him into laughter. He laughed across at her, slapped his leg and actually expected her to join him. She sat stiffly, eyes straight ahead unseeing and ignoring while she waited for him to realize his amusement had not been shared.

  “Hey! What the hell’s picking your ass?”

  “Nothing. Just forget it.” She tried for flippant, but hurt slipped across the consonants and dripped from the vowels.

  “No, I ain’t gonna just forget it. You got a problem, I wanna hear about it.”

  “It’s not a problem.”

  “Yeah, well it feels like a problem to me. Just having a little fun, that’s all. Man, you get your pyramid every friggin’ day of the month or what? Seems you’re always pissy about something.”

  This snagged her temper, drew her back into the arena. Not because it was true, but because it was not, being both grossly unfair and a reversing of the truth.

  “Not true, Bobby. Not true and you know it.”

  “I do, eh?”

  “Well, you should.”

  “Should I?”

  “Yes, you should.”

  “And why is that?”

  “You’ve been around other guy’s wives. You’ve said yourself you’re glad I’m not like most of them.”

  “I said that?”

  “Yes. You did. You know you did, Bobby. You’ve said it lots.”

  “Yeah, well I’m glad you ain’t like Webber’s wife, that’s for damn sure. Look what happened to him.”

  “Webber?”

  “Yeah, you know Webber. JJ’s cousin—”

  “Of course I know Webber, Bobby. What happened to him?”

  “Oh, you know his wife leaving him and all. Own bloody fault, though, I’d say, always flashing her around like a big-titted Barbie doll, yakking about her looks and stuff. Right in front of her, too. Sure as hell didn’t surprise none of us when the bitch up and left the dumb prick. Run straight back home to her mama like a spoiled kid.”

  “Bobby, that’s not why Melanie left him—”

  “That’s exactly what it was. Just look where she ended up. Goes down to that fancy-ass college, ain’t two months before she’s moved in with some old bugger twice her age . . . Dr. what’s-his-face. Ain’t even a real Dr., just some bloody English teacher. Would’ve never happened if she hadn’t got so hopped up on herself. Still be with Webber minding her own damn business.”

  “Come on, Bobby. That’s not fair. Mel just got caught up in a bad situation.”

  “Situation? What the hell’s this situation crap? Ain’t no bloody situation, just a pile of bull-shit gossip.”

  “How would you know?” she challenged, her mind cautioning her to stop while the gullibility of his words provoked her simmering anger.

  “I know. I talked to Webber myself right after she ran off. Poor bugger was in Trappers having a beer because he couldn’t stand going home and being all alone again . . . selfish bitch.” He angrily dragged a quarter of the life from his cigarette, squinting thickly to protect his eyes.

  “Webber. How credible is his story going to be?”

  “Sounded good to me. But ain’t no one going to expect you girls to take his side. Bunch of bloody victims, every last one of you. Drive a man to drink . . . or have a one-night stand with the ole Enfield.”

  Victoria flashed him a look. “Not something to joke about, Bobby.”

  “Who said I was joking?”

  “Well, I saw what he
did to her.”

  “Oh, bullshit! Webber told me she was always making up shit just to get people to feel sorry for her. Said she bruised real easy, bumped into a chair and she’d come up with this great big friggin’ welt, blame it on him. Was all just bullshit.”

  “Well, I saw her face that last time, Bobby, looked awful. What did Webber say about that? She throw herself down the stairs?”

  “Probably did, the crazy bitch. Wouldn’t put it past her. She wasn’t all there, Vic. You wouldn’t believe the shit Webber says she used to pull.”

  “No, I’m sure I wouldn’t,” she said quietly, hoping to put an end to the conversation. She had more questions she needed answers to. Answers that would be found not so much in his words but in his unspoken reactions.

  “Well, that’s one thing for sure. I pretty much stay out of your way. Probably have an affair and I would never even know.”

  She placed the words before him, watched intently to perceive the telltale defensive clues that would give her her answer. But his body withheld its information and he, seemingly untouched, scoffed at the idea.

  “An affair! Shit, what the hell would I want with an affair? Two women to nag me and spend my money? Not bloody likely.” He turned his attention back to his cigarette, french inhaled and blew a couple of jaunty smoke rings into the mirror. “No sir, you’re safe on that front, Vic. Least while you still got your looks.” It was the best he got to giving a compliment, but she recognized the effort and, feeling the feeble base of a conversation forming, decided to pursue it further.

  “You know, I’ve been thinking. I’ve been thinking maybe it might be good for me to find something to do other than just help out around the farm.”

  “Something wrong with just helping out around the farm?” he bristled.

  “No,” she countered quickly. “I sometimes just think it might be nice to be around other people a little bit more, that’s all.”

  “You talking ’bout getting a job? Ain’t no wife of mine needs—”

  “No, Bobby. I wasn’t thinking about getting a job. Not really. I was more thinking of . . . of . . . of opening a dance studio.”

  “A dance studio? Absolutely not! Why the hell you digging up that nonsense again, anyhow? I told ya before. Ain’t no way we can afford to rent a place and have you driving back and forth to town just to play around at teaching a bunch of little kids something they ain’t never gonna use anyhow.”

  “But, what if I could get enough students signed up to pay all the expenses?”

  “Ain’t never gonna happen.”

  “But, what if I could?”

  “You can’t. Rent alone would cost ya a fortune.”

  “Well, I was thinking maybe I could get that empty space beside the Lucky Dollar. It never gets used for anything anyhow so it probably wouldn’t cost much, and if you helped me fix it up a bit, I could—”

  “Hey! I ain’t bloody helping do nothing.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because you ain’t bloody doing it, that’s why!”

  “Bobby, please. Listen, this is important to me. I’ve always wanted—”

  “Well, you ain’t always get what you want, Vic. So forget it.”

  “Bobby—”

  “No!” he yelled.

  “You no!” she yelled back defiantly, surprising both of them. “Look, I’ve wanted to do this for a long, long time. It doesn’t hurt anything if I can get enough students to pay the expenses. I’m doing this, Bobby. Whether you want me to or not.”

  He looked across at her, momentarily stunned. “Well, I ain’t bloody helping you, so don’t think you’ll be asking.”

  “Fine. I’ll do it myself.”

  “Good luck with that.”

  “Thank you,” she chirped sarcastically, surging dangerously on the adrenaline current racing within her. She could hardly believe she’d actually said what she’d just said. Or how quickly Bobby had folded in the face of her defiance.

  “Hey! Hey! Look at that. A friggin’ buck, too.” He pointed excitedly out the front window and into the field running adjacent to the road. A small herd of deer had slipped just beyond the tree-lined fringe and grazed peacefully with dainty movements and watchful eyes. Bobby eased the truck to the side of the road, holding his breath as if by doing so he could restrict the buck’s ability to look up and flee. Quietly as possible he opened his door, stepped with a squeaky scrunch onto the snowy road and unharnessed his rifle from the rack hanging across the truck’s rear window. Shifting the gun under one arm, he scrounged amongst the paper chaos on the seat in search of his clip. His eyes darted intensely from the seat to the buck and back again.

  “Shit! Where’s my bloody clip?”

  “Bobby, what are you doing? You can’t shoot from here, someone could be back in those trees.”

  “Give your head a shake, woman. You think that buck would be standing around if someone was in those trees? Not bloody likely. Shit. Where is that friggin’ thing? Check the cubby will you? Hurry up before the damn thing gets a whiff of us.”

  She obeyed slowly, but the glove box was stuffed beyond full and jammed shut. She gave it a couple of good shots with her fist.

  “Shut up! What the hell you doing? Trying to scare the bugger off?” His head jerked up to see the deers’ reaction, but they ate on, peacefully unaware of the warning they’d been issued. He snapped his eyes back to hers, wildness glaring in his pupil. “Could you be any friggin’ louder?”

  “Well, it’s stuck, Bobby. I was just trying to get it opened. Maybe if you didn’t shove so much crap in—”

  “Ha! There it is, knew it was on the seat.”

  He squeezed the clip out from between the seat, snapped it in place with a cold click and moved with a surprising stealthiness to the front of the truck. Supporting his torso across the hood, he raised the rifle to his eye and pulled the buck into his sights.

  “Ya. Ya, four pointer. Right on,” he murmured, a smile touching on his lips but missing his eyes.

  Victoria sat frozen, waited for the boom that would sound with the force of shock waves and miraculously level the demure taupe statue onto the soft white earth. She watched as the deer picked their way through invisible tufts of grass and scraggles of roots poking through the early snow. She watched their gentle beauty and waited with dread as unbearable seconds crawled by to form one unbearable minute, then two. She looked back to Bobby, briefly thought perhaps he’d been persuaded by the sheer beauty of the animal, but he remained inert, hovering passionately over his rifle, grease-blackened knuckles anxious but steady around the trigger. She slid over the seat and whispered out his opened door.

  “What are you waiting for?”

  “Shhh! Bugger’s in behind. He’ll come out though. Just got to wait a bit.”

  “Bobby, you sure Patterson doesn’t have anything in that field? Last year I think his horses were in there for the winter, weren’t they?”

  “Shht! Shut the hell up, will you? I don’t want to lose this one, it’s a beaut.”

  She sighed and crossed back over to her own seat, whispering under her breath for the deer to look up and run back into the protection of the silver birch, and was startled to see first one head rise then another, followed by tentative steps toward the trees. Bobby, snarling with disbelief, squeezed off a quick shot in a last ditch effort to at least pull one down with an injury if not the simplicity of instant death, but the trees foiled him as white flag tails bounded past silver-blue trunks and out of sight.

  “Shee-it! Damn it all, anyhow. Couple of more seconds and I’d of had the mother. Shit! Nicest damn buck I’ve seen, too.”

  He stamped some warmth back to his toes and jostled the rifle into place, flipping the clip back onto the seat with hard-frozen fingers. All the while he cursed his incredibly bad luck. “Shit, froze my ass off for nothing. I suppose that makes you happy, don’t it?”

  “Well, neither of us is exactly dressed to drag a deer back to the truck.”

 
; He remembered what he had worn, against his will, to try and simulate respectability in the loan manager’s eyes. “Ah, shit. Don’t give a damn ’bout these ugly faggot pants. Look good with a little blood on ’em, set that prissass banker back in his place a bit.”

  Grabbing the wheel with both hands, he pulled himself behind it, lit a smoke and gunned the engine, snatching first gear with a spray of snowy gravel that spat up behind them as they careened back onto the road. Victoria seized the dash to steady herself, swallowed a burst of retaliation and settled her eyes on the blur outside the window as the truck picked up rattles and speed in accompanying degrees. The trees flickered past, blends of coniferous and stark deciduous that paused off and on for ponds and pastures and roadways. A quarter of a mile down the road two toque-topped Patterson grandkids bounced out from the trees astride the long, strong back of the family’s old buckskin mare, waving and laughing as if they’d not a care in the world. Victoria returned a stiff wave. She held her thoughts, her chest heaving with anger at what might have been, at how close Bobby’s actions had been to causing a possibly horrific tragedy. She slid him a sideways glance and saw at once the possibility hadn’t occurred to him. He was intent on picking something from his teeth, checking the mirror, picking some more.

  A west wind greeted them with the stench of the dump as they closed in on town, traffic increasing to the point where everyone was forced to acknowledge two lanes and keep to their own side of the road. Hands and fingers and hats began to tip and nod and wave between vehicles, practically every driver knowing the identity of those they met. Bobby, still peevish, pretended not to see the waves, feigning preoccupation with papers on his dash as he drove by, as if he was searching for a document of profound significance and was too busy with important matters to notice those around him.

  “Where you wanna get dropped off?”

  “Oh, well, maybe Mrs. Barlow’s store. Then I can walk down to the feed store.”

  “What you need at the feed store? You ain’t outta grain yet, are you?”

  “Well, no, not quite. But we might as well get some more since we have the truck in town. Would you mind picking it up for me?”

  “I suppose. What do ya need?”

  “Not sure, that’s why I want to go down there. I need to talk to them about my laying hens.”