Pretty Boy Floyd

by Larry McMurtry

  But the second he spoke, he realized he had slipped again.

  “Driving home?” Ruby said. “Where’d you get a car? You didn’t even have money to buy a train ticket, when you left here,” she reminded him. Then she glanced out the window, and saw the blue Studebaker sitting in front of the house.

  “That car belongs to my boss,” Charley said hastily. “He loaned it to me for a few days so I could come home and see you and Dempsey.”

  That lie didn’t work, either, though it wasn’t the lie that rubbed Ruby wrong this time.

  “Let you come home for a few days?!” Ruby said, coloring. “You mean you’re gonna leave us again?”

  “Honey, it’s the best job I ever had,” Charley said, jumping up so he could pull her into his arms and kiss her suspicions away. As he was jumping up, though, he accidentally triggered the jack-in-the-box, and the little clown popped up and whacked Dempsey right in the eye, hard. Dempsey had been trying to peek into the box to see where the clown lived. The minute he got whacked in the eye, he began to yell at the top of his lungs.

  Ruby picked up Dempsey and tried to shush him. Charley could tell she was mad.

  “Ain’t it about time for his nap?” Charley asked—he felt like his grip on family life had slipped considerably in the short time he had been away.

  “You’re his daddy, you been back ten minutes, and you want me to just stick him in his bed?” Ruby asked. “Why’d you even come back? Why’re you here, stirrin’ us up, if you’re just planning to stay a few days?”

  “Ruby, I can’t answer every question in the world right this minute,” Charley said. “Let’s go for a ride—it’s a beaut of a car!”

  “I can see that lookin’ out the window,” Ruby replied. “You must have the best boss in the world. First he gives you his dead boy’s suit, then he loans you his car so you can drive all the way down to Oklahoma and give your wife and child a few minutes of your valuable time!” She was so mad that Charley could see the vein popping out right next to her eye—the vein that always popped whenever she caught him in a lie.

  “We could go to the drugstore and get Dempsey an ice cream cone,” Charley said, trying to ignore the anger in her voice. “You and me could have a soda. They don’t make sodas up in St. Louis like they do in Sallisaw.”

  Ruby relented, finally, and allowed herself to be taken for a ride in the blue Studebaker, mainly because it beat staying home and fighting. Dempsey loved the car; he bounced up and down on the seat. And she had to admit, the leather seats smelled good.

  It was a pretty day, and just being with Charley caused her mood to improve. Charley was the only man for her—always had been, always would be, even though she didn’t believe a word he said—not about the suit, not about the car, not about the boss, or the job, or anything. Her husband was a liar; if she let herself stay mad about it, she’d be mad twenty-four hours a day.

  It was fun to roll down the main street in Sallisaw, watching the farmers and the tradespeople and the rough-necks turn their heads to gawk at Charley Floyd and his wife and baby, in their new car. Ruby’s suspicion was that Charley had stolen the car. He was a natural-born thief; after all, he had stolen her heart. But the sight of how happy it made him just to have such a car, just to drive it, made her push the thought out of her mind. One thing she had already accepted about life with Charley Floyd: she better take the fun when it was there to be taken—there might be more fun tomorrow—but then again, there might not.

  Millie Adelson, the girl who waited on them at the soda fountain, had been sweet on Charley once. Most of the young women in Sallisaw had been sweet on Charley Floyd at one time or another. Millie was so distracted by the sight of Charley in his new suit that she dropped two scoops of ice cream right out of her scooper while she was making their sodas.

  Dempsey wanted to climb on the counter, and Charley had to threaten to take him outside to get him to settle down. The baby’s eye was already puffy from where the jack-in-the-box had whacked him.

  “Gosh, Charley,” Millie said, breathless. “You could be an undertaker, with a swell suit like that. Lots of folks would be happy just to keel over and die if they’d get buried by a fella that looked as good as you do in that suit.”

  Charley grinned—he loved being complimented on his looks and his attire. But Ruby thought the remark inappropriate. She didn’t appreciate women trying to flirt with her husband—in her presence, or otherwise.

  “I’d like another cherry in this soda,” she said sharply, to remind Millie Adelson to keep her mind on her job.

  10

  Walter Floyd was shoeing Captain Bob, his best mule, when Charley turned into the long dirt lane that led up to the Floyd homestead in his new blue Studebaker. Walter was lean and wiry, with not a speck of fat on him, and his skin was dark and leathery from years spent on the almost treeless plains. Captain Bob was a big mule, with a tendency to lean on Walter whenever he picked up a foot, to either trim the hoof or fit the shoe. Seven or eight hounds were milling around, competing for the parings from Captain Bob’s big hooves. Walter had sweat in his eyes, and four or five horseshoe nails in his mouth.

  Bradley Floyd, tall and thin like his father, stood close by. He had been sharpening knives on the grindstone in the barn. They were planning to kill hogs in a day or two, and butchering six hogs was no light task: Bradley wanted to be sure the knives were good and sharp.

  “That boy better have the sense to pull up before he scares this mule,” Walter said, through his teeth. “Bob’s never seen a blue automobile, he might not take to it.”

  “I never seen one either, Pa,” Bradley said, squinting. “I bet Charley borrowed it from somebody and drove it out here to show off.”

  Mamie Floyd, tall and stately, stepped outside, flour up to her elbows. Her thick, dark mane was pulled back in a fat bun. She was still a handsome woman, with no grey hair on her head, in spite of more than twenty years living on the bleak Oklahoma plains. Bradley, her oldest, was twenty-five today, and she had been up since dawn, making pies for the occasion.

  “Ma, it’s Charley, maybe he struck it rich in St. Louis!” Bradley said.

  Mamie Floyd was used to surprises by now. She had four girls and three boys, and surprises were to be expected with even one child, let alone with seven. And even though Charley had the devil in him, he was her favorite. Charley had a kind of energy, a curiosity and restlessness, that none of her other children had. Seeing him drive up the lane made her think about the first time she took all her children over to Sallisaw, when Charley was eighteen months old. It was hot as blazes, and she had taken the children into the drugstore for a cold drink. In the blink of an eye, Charley had disappeared. They found him an hour later in the back of the hardware store, playing with a pile of nuts and bolts. Mamie knew from then on if she didn’t keep a close eye on him, he’d be gone before she could count to three. Then there was the time he stole all those pennies from the post office in Sallisaw, and they told the federal agents bald-faced lies to get him off. Walter told the agents that Charley had plowed all night, when in fact, he hadn’t touched a plow the whole week.

  “Don’t come on my place drawin’ a bead on one of my boys!” Walter told the men. The fact that lawmen would dare to set foot on his property was enough to cause Walter’s temper to flare up—Walter Floyd didn’t welcome interference from outsiders. Neither did Mamie, for that matter, but she recognized that the law was the law.

  As Charley maneuvered up the bumpy dirt road, he honked the horn a few times, to scatter the pack of coonhounds his father insisted on keeping. In lean times, when the family got by on mostly gravy and mush, the coonhounds still got fed, and fed plenty. Charley never could figure out how his ma put up with all those dogs.

  Captain Bob was acting nervous, and Charley knew there’d be hell to pay if he drove up and spooked the big mule while his pa was trying to shoe him. He braked well short of Walter and his mule, and eased the Studebaker around to the back of the house where
his mother stood.

  “Hi, Ma,” Charley said, looking up at his mother’s floury arms. “You makin’ me a pie for breakfast?”

  “I’m making Bradley a pie, it’s his birthday,” Mamie replied, smiling; it always made her heart glad to lay eyes on her restless son. “If you’re polite, you just might get a slice.”

  Bradley came over with a big butcher knife in his hand, just as Charley got out of the car wearing a suit the likes of which Brad had never seen in his whole life—he even had on a red necktie.

  “Did you turn preacher, or rob a dry goods store, or what, bud?” Bradley asked.

  “Nope, I got promoted at work,” Charley said, shaking his brother’s hand. “Is it hog-killin’ day, or were you plannin’ to cut somebody’s throat?”

  “We might kill the hogs tomorrow, if it’s chilly enough,” Brad told him. “I’m sure you’ll be wantin’ to help, but you better change clothes first.”

  Charley ignored the comment, and walked over to where his father was shoeing the mule.

  “Hello, Pa:” he said.

  Walter was fitting the shoe on Captain Bob’s left forefoot, and Captain Bob was leaning on him, as usual.

  “Push on this mule, I’m tired of holdin’ the son-of-a-bitch up,” Walter said. “Whose Studebaker?”

  Charley pushed against Captain Bob to take a little weight off his father. He was bigger-built than the rest of the Floyd men, and even though he was the youngest boy, he had always been able to hold his own in any squabble with his older brothers.

  “Mine,” Charley answered. He knew he ought to lie about the car, but he didn’t want to. He wanted his pa to know he owned the new car. Walter was always telling him he was worthless, for drinking beer, or for plowing crooked, or for not doing the milking early enough—seeing the blue Studebaker might change his opinion.

  “Whose?” Walter asked, squinting through sweat at Charley.

  “I own it, Pa,” Charley replied. “It’s mine.”

  “Don’t come ’round here lyin’ to me when I’m busy,” Walter said. “I don’t believe you. That suit you’re wearin’ cost more than any automobile I’d ever be able to buy.”

  “It’s gabardine,” Charley said, pleased that his father recognized what a fine suit it was.

  Walter Floyd finished nailing the shoe onto Captain Bob’s foot. He picked up his rasp and filed off the nail-heads, making sure the fit was proper before easing the big mule’s foot back to the ground.

  Then he turned, and looked at Charley.

  “If you was worth half the price of that flashy necktie, you’d be home helpin’ out,” he snorted, glaring.

  “Pa, I got a job back in St. Louis,” Charley explained. “I’m only home for a day or two, but I’ll be glad to help out while I’m here.”

  “Take them tools back to the barn—that’d be a start,” Walter said, abrupt. Then he walked over to the Studebaker, opened the door, got in behind the wheel, and honked the horn. His hounds began to bay; several that had been sleeping crawled out from under the house. Walter continued to honk, and the hounds to bay.

  “This car ain’t so bad,” Walter said, when Charley came back from putting the tools in the barn. “I like this horn, I can use it to call my hounds. Your ma pretty near ruint it, though, she got flour on the seats. I suggest you give me this one since it’s ruint, and get you another.”

  He looked out at his youngest boy.

  “Or, you can take my flivver, if you’re in a hurry and want to just swap even.”

  Charley knew to walk soft when his father began to josh him. Sometimes Walter joked the most before he got the maddest. One minute there’d be a spark of humor in his dark, flinty eyes, and the next minute those same eyes would glint like ice in a ditch.

  “Ma, got any flapjacks?” he asked, hoping to turn the conversation away from his new car—maybe it hadn’t been such a good idea to drive out and show it off, after all.

  “Flapjacks, are you drunk?” Bradley asked. “Breakfast was four hours ago.” He turned, and started back to the barn with the butcher knife.

  “No flapjacks, but I could rustle up some eggs,” Mamie said. “You’re so dressed up it makes me nervous, son. Take off that necktie, at least.”

  Walter continued to sit in the Studebaker blowing the horn at intervals, while Mamie led Charley inside, and made him grits and eggs. Every time Walter honked the horn, his coonhounds bayed.

  “I don’t see how you put up with all them hounds, Ma,” Charley said.

  Mamie had gone back to her piecrusts.

  “Those hounds are the least I put up with,” Mamie said. The day the federal agents showed up looking for the stolen pennies, she’d had the uneasy feeling that it wouldn’t be the last they’d see of the law. Now, Charley was sitting at her kitchen table, shoveling in food like the big kid he was, wearing a suit that the most prosperous banker in Sallisaw would be hard put to afford—not to mention the fancy car her husband was making all the racket in—and Mamie had the uneasy feeling in her stomach again, only this time it felt worse.

  “Your pa’s mad,” she told Charley. That was the first thing she would have to deal with. The law, if it came, would be the second.

  “Why?” Charley asked. “All I done was go off and get the best job there was to be had in St. Louis.”

  “What qualifies you for the best job in St. Louis—you left school in the seventh grade,” Mamie said, skeptical.

  “I don’t know exactly,” Charley said, trying to look convincing. “Maybe the boss just likes me—is there anything wrong with that?”

  “Not a thing, if it’s true,” his mother replied.

  “Then why’s Pa mad?” Charley asked, again.

  “Because you’re driving a nicer automobile than he drives. He ain’t a man who likes to be outdone, particularly by his own children,” Mamie replied.

  Just then, Walter Floyd stomped in the back door, followed by three hounds.

  “Get ’em out! I won’t have dogs in my kitchen while I’m cookin’,” Mamie snapped.

  “No, but you’ll have this lyin’ whelp in his fancy suit,” Walter said. There was a Mason jar full of whiskey sitting in the cabinet. Walter took a glass off a shelf, and poured it full.

  “Looks like good moonshine, Pa,” Charley said, trying to be mild.

  “You don’t know enough about moonshine to be the judge, now, do you?” Walter said. His voice had taken on a sarcastic tone, and he had a mean gleam in his eye. He turned on his heel and went down the hall, the glass of whiskey in his hand.

  “You still make the best grits, Ma,” Charley said, in an attempt to keep his mother soft. “Ruby ain’t got the hang of grits yet.”

  Walter Floyd came right back into the kitchen, the whiskey glass empty. He had a razor strop in his hand. Before Charley could get a forkful of eggs to his mouth, Walter began to flail at him with the razor strop.

  “What’d I do, Pa?” Charley protested, standing up fast. The whipping didn’t hurt much yet, but his father was in a cold fury—Charley had seen him that way often, and he wasn’t likely to stop whipping until his arm wore out.

  “I don’t know what you done, but I aim to find out!” Walter bellowed, whopping Charley as hard as he could. “You don’t come ’round here lyin’ to your mother and me about a job, and this fancy suit, and that fancy car, when we know you left home without a cent to your name not a month ago!” He happened to hit Charley a good lick across the face, and before he knew it, Charley had yanked the strop out of his father’s hand.

  “Pa, I’m grown, you can’t whip me no more!” Charley yelled, throwing the razor strop out the kitchen window.

  Walter looked as if he might press the attack with his fists, so Charley put up his guard. But after glaring for a moment, his father dropped his hands. He poured himself another glass of whiskey, and went back outside to his hounds.

  “I told you he was mad,” Mamie said, tense. “Finish your eggs, and get out of here.”

 
“Ma, didn’t you hear me?” Charley said, his face beet red from anger. “I’m grown now. It’s my business where I got the car!”

  “Yes—your business, and the law’s business, too, I imagine,” Mamie said, looking him straight in the eye. “Your pa and me lied to the law once to get you off. We won’t lie for you again.”

  “Aw, who asked you to?” Charley said, straightening his coat and tie.

  “Don’t sass me, Charley Floyd,” Mamie said. “And I’ll tell you another thing. You better never let me see you raise your hand to your pa. He ain’t perfect, but he’s your father. If I ever see you raise your hand to him, you’ll not be welcome in this house again.”

  “I didn’t raise my hand to him,” Charley said quietly, wanting the last word. He finished the glass of buttermilk he had been drinking, and went out to the car. He could see Bradley through the open barn door, still grinding knives. Walter Floyd was harnessing Captain Bob, getting ready to plow.

  Charley honked the horn a time or two, as he turned and drove away.

  Bradley waved, and four or five of the coonhounds bayed, but his father did not so much as turn his head.

  11

  They were just finishing up the cornbread when Bert Cotton knocked at the front door. Cornbread was one thing Ruby felt confident about—she thought she could make cornbread that was at least as good as her mother-in-law’s. Charley seemed to think so, too; he ate most of it, along with white beans, okra, and hominy.

  At one point, Charley buttered a piece of cornbread and offered it to Dempsey.

  “Don’t give him that, he’ll choke on it,” Ruby said. She took it away from him, but not before Dempsey had smeared himself good with the butter.

  “I just wanted him to have a taste,” Charley said. “He’s big enough to have a taste.”

  Ruby was about to give her husband a lecture on how easy it was to choke babies, when they heard the knock. Ruby looked out the window, and saw the sheriff’s black car, parked right behind the blue Studebaker.