To Skin a Cat

by Thomas McGuane

  Acclaim for

  THOMAS McGUANE’S

  To Skin a Cat

  “Thomas McGuane seems to know all there is to know about upland game, cattle ranches, oil rigs, horses, falconry and the social and economic caste systems of contemporary America.… It is our dwindling rural landscapes and their embattled residents that westerner McGuane knows thoroughly, cares for passionately, and describes as sympathetically as any fiction writer at work today.”

  —Cleveland Plain Dealer

  “Thomas McGuane is a premier American writer, and it is long past time that this fact was made a banner and raised up so that he can read it from horseback in Big Sky country.… It is a great gift to have him like Fort Apache set against the glossy lies and sleek trash mouths of our momentarily homogenized state. One celebrates him for calling us ‘out East’ and for enjoying himself roaming the range, winging one-liners and advancing America’s well-armed, California-or-bust cowboy culture into the next century.”

  —Philadelphia Inquirer

  “The downward spiral from prosperous, snug and well-adapted to despairing and outcast seems nowhere as uncannily seductive as in the fiction of Thomas McGuane.”

  — The New York Times Book Review

  Books by

  THOMAS MCGUANE

  The Sporting Club, 1969

  The Bushwhacked Piano, 1971

  Ninety-two in the Shade, 1973

  Panama, 1978

  An Outside Chance, 1980

  Nobody’s Angel, 1982

  Something to Be Desired, 1984

  To Skin a Cat, 1986

  Keep the Change, 1989

  Nothing but Blue Skies, 1992

  VINTAGE CONTEMPORARIES EDITION, FEBRUARY 1994

  Copyright © 1986 by Thomas McGuane

  All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. Published in the United States by Vintage Books, a division of Random House, Inc., New York, and simultaneously in Canada by Random House of Canada Limited, Toronto. Originally published, in hardcover, by Seymour Lawrence, Inc./E.P. Dutton, a division of NAL Penguin Inc., New York, in 1986.

  These stories originally appeared in the following publications: “The Millionaire” in Ploughshares (Summer 1986); “A Man in Louisiana” in Shenandoah (June 1986); “Like a Leaf” in Playboy (January 1983); “Dogs” in Grand Street (Spring 1986) and in Harper’s (June 1986); “A Skirmish” in Descant (Summer 1986); “Two Hours to Kill” in Mobile Bay Monthly (June 1986); “The Rescue” in Vanity Fair (September 1986); “Little Extras” in Rio Grande (Spring 1986); “Partners” in Playboy (September 1986); “The Road Atlas” in Gentleman’s Quarterly (August 1986); “Flight” in Esquire (August 1986); and “To Skin a Cat” in TriQuarterly (Winter 1981).

  Publisher’s Note: These stories are works of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  McGuane, Thomas.

  To skin a cat.

  (Vintage contemporaries)

  I. Title.

  [PS3563.A3114T61987] 813′.54 87–40093

  ISBN-13: 978-0-394-75521-2

  eBook ISBN: 978-0-8041-7347-6

  v3.1

  For Fred Woodworth

  CONTENTS

  Cover

  Other Books by This Author

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  The Millionaire

  A Man in Louisiana

  Like a Leaf

  Dogs

  A Skirmish

  Two Hours to Kill

  The Rescue

  Sportsmen

  Little Extras

  Partners

  The Road Atlas

  Flight

  To Skin a Cat

  About the Author

  THE MILLIONAIRE

  It was merely a house beside a lake which had been rented. It was winterized to extend the period of time it could be let, though it was hard to see who would want its view after summer was over. The view was of places just like it, divided by water. It was furnished with the kinds of things owners wish renters to have within the limits of their anxiety about damage, impersonal things. Strangely, the owners stored their golfing trophies here. They were old trophies, and the miniature golfers on them, their bronze coats flaking, belonged to another age. One foot tipped too far; their swings were still British and lacked the freedom of motion American trophy makers later learned to suggest. Something of the reflected stillness of the lake was felt in the living room and the wraparound porch, where the outdoor furniture seemed out of place and the indoor furniture had inadvertently weathered.

  Betty was a handsome blonde in her middle forties wearing a green linen Chanel suit. She walked into the house, stooping with two suitcases and managing to clutch the house keys with their large paper tag. Iris, her fifteen-year-old daughter, in the late stages of pregnancy, awkwardly looked for something to do. Betty set the luggage down and stared about with a Mona Lisa smile. She shot a glance at Iris, who was heading for the radio. Iris stopped.

  “I guess the landlord saw us coming,” said Betty. Iris made an assenting murmur in her throat; it was clear she was yet to develop any real attitude toward this place. “Though blaming him for scenting misfortune seems a bit academic at this stage of the proceedings.”

  “Mom, where’s the thermostat at? I’m getting goose bumps.”

  “Find it, Iris. It will be on the wall.” Iris turned and looked off the porch toward the lake. Betty kept talking. “When we went to stay on the water in my youth—when we went to Horseneck Beach, for example—the water made a nice smell for us. It seemed to welcome us… the smell of the ocean. But this lake! Well, it has no odor.”

  “It’s smooth out there. Nice for waterskiing.”

  “In your condition?” Betty walked to the phone and picked it up. “A dial tone. Good.… So, anyway, let’s batten down the hatches. You pick yourself a little delivery room. I’m in shock. I have traipsed a hundred miles from my home for a summer surrounded by strangers and their weekend haciendas. If only I’d been clever enough to bring something familiar, my Sanibel shells, anything.”

  “I’m familiar,” said Iris with a pout.

  “Not entirely, you’re not.”

  Iris sat down to rest, knowing she shouldn’t place her hands on her stomach complacently. She had come to view its swelling as something strange, and the acceptability of that view comforted her.

  The porch and the room had fallen into shadow and the end-table lamps made a yellow glow. Betty stared past her drink while Iris, in her bathrobe, combed out her wet hair. When Jack, who was Betty’s husband and Iris’s father, came in the house, still dressed for business and somehow out of place in this summer cottage, he first peeked through the partially opened front door with either dread or uncertainty. But when he did come in, he did so as the house’s proprietor.

  “Hello, Mother.”

  Betty didn’t yield too quickly, so Jack tried Iris.

  “How is our royal project?” he asked.

  “Hi, Daddy.”

  Jack clasped his hands before him and turned to Betty. “D’ja stock up? You got Scotch?”

  “We have that,” said Betty. “We also have some terrifying concoctions belonging to the owner. Mai tai mix. Spaada wine.”

  “Sid’ll be down. Save it for Sid.”

  Betty asked, “Did you stop off?”

  “Nope,” said Jack. “This is my first. Cheers.”

  “Cheers,” said Betty. “No, Iris, no record.”

  “Sid wanted to meet me for one
quick one but I said, Do you realize what kind of miles I got in front of me?”

  “I think I’ll watch sunset from the porch,” said Iris without being noticed. She went through the sliding door to the porch, where she felt day fade before the electric lights of the house. If she tried, she could make out what her parents were saying to each other, but she didn’t try.

  Jack said, “Can she hear us?”

  “Who’s supposed to bring my stuff up from home?”

  “I’m seeing to it. I didn’t want to look like we were moving out. The Oakfields were staring from their lawn.”

  “How come Sid’s coming up? Does he have to know?”

  “Sid knows all. He’s bringing up a low-mileage Caddy Eldo he wants us to try. Burgundy. Vinyl top. The point is, life doesn’t have to come to an end. Oh, no.”

  Betty drifted off. “Could be gorgeous,” she said.

  “And I predict Judge Anse and his wife will come by. They want to make sure Iris doesn’t back out.”

  “Remind me to thank them for finding us this priceless bide-a-wee. I could smell the wienie roasts from down the beach. This place is like a ball park.”

  “You can always go home, babe, and return when it’s all over.”

  “Let me get back to you on that.”

  “I thought Iris was your claim to fame?”

  “That’s way too simple.”

  Strangely enough, they toasted this too, touching glasses. Jack winked. Betty said, “You.”

  That night when they played gin rummy, Betty was the only one who seemed to have any vitality. Jack leaned a tired, stewed face on one hand and stared at the deck with uncaring eyes. Iris played and kept score. Betty played like a demon; she was in a league of her own. She could shuffle like a professional, making an accordion of the cards between her hands.

  “My final pregnancy was ectopic,” said Betty with an air of peroration. “Otherwise, Iris, you would have had a little baby brother or sister. The ovum—egg to you—the ovum developed in the cervical canal, not in the uterus where the darn thing was supposed to be, Gin!”

  “Great,” said Jack, “it’s over.”

  “I see the doctor tomorrow,” said Iris. “Right?”

  Betty gathered all the cards together in a pile. “Iris, I would hope that it’s clear why you cannot—repeat, cannot—fritter around in the discard pile and expect to get anywhere.”

  Betty and Iris worked closely together inserting leaves into the dining room table. As the table expanded, the living room-dining room combination became less of a no-man’s-land. Iris and Betty quit shoving and moved around the table, looking at all the comforting empty space on its top. Steaming pots in the kitchenette abetted the festivity.

  “Your assignment is to set the table,” said Betty. “Are we ten-four on that?”

  “Ten-four.”

  “I will sit at this end, your father at that end. Dr. Dahlstrom goes right there and Miss Whozis, his girlfriend, goes there. If she has a poodle, the poodle remains in the car.”

  “You don’t even know her, Mother.”

  “I said if there is a poodle. Iris, I love dogs!”

  “What about Brucie?”

  “Brucie! Brucie was a mongrel, I don’t miss him at all. He might have been a dear dog if you weren’t designated to pick up after him. No, Brucie would have never been put to sleep if he had learned to potty outside.”

  “My favorite part of this is the smell of the upstairs cedar closet.”

  “My favorite part of the whole darn thing was when your father learned of your condition and burst into tears. Boo-hoo-hoo. Like Red Skelton.”

  “I meant the house.”

  Jack seemed to try to come in from work differently every time. That night he ran in the door carrying his briefcase like a hot cannonball. And his voice was elevated.

  “Dr. Delwyn Dahlstrom and his chiquita are no more than five miles behind me,” he cried.

  “What of it?” said Betty, smoothing her sleeves. “Our society is reduced to Iris, her gynecologist, and his bimbo. What difference does it make if they’re early?”

  “I want a shower.”

  “Not if they’re five miles back, kiddo. No way, José.”

  “Grab me a pick-me-up. I’m gonna go for it.”

  Jack rose to the occasion. When the doctor came, he pulled open the front door as if revealing the grand prize on a quiz show. Dr. Delwyn Dahlstrom, a portly, grinning Scandinavian, swung his arm to indicate Melanie, a bug-eyed redhead of twenty-five years.

  “Melanie,” he said, doing the honors.

  “We stopped off,” Melanie explained, “See, so if we’re late, that’s how come.”

  “Who’s late?” Betty asked. Only Jack and Iris took it as a crack. Jack spread his arms for the coats. When he got them, he transferred them to Iris and then hurried around the center island to the bartender’s side and began pulling noisy levers on ice trays while the others tried to talk.

  Jack said, “I remember Delwyn making bathtub gin in the urinalysis machine. Does that date me?”

  “You wouldn’t happen to have mai tai mix?” Melanie inquired.

  “And enough Spaada to sink a battleship,” said Betty.

  “True,” said Dr. Dahlstrom.

  “Betty’s right,” said Melanie. “My taste in drinks is corny.”

  Dahlstrom’s spirits made the dinner a noisy good time for everyone except possibly Iris, who was too young to drink and came to seem almost frozen. And maybe Jack noticed it, even though technically Iris wasn’t his department, because he abruptly slumped into his chair and held his head for an odd instant of silence. The others looked at him and it passed.

  “Are you feeling baby move regularly?” Dahlstrom asked Iris.

  “Yes,” said Iris with a red face.

  “Has baby changed position in the last month?”

  “Not really.”

  “Any unusual spotting?”

  “Ugh!” said Melanie.

  “No …” said Iris.

  “And still our young man has not come forward?” the doctor inquired.

  “Delwyn,” said Jack, “it goes like this: He has not come forward. Iris is fifteen. Iris is going on with her life. If the young man comes forward, Iris’s life doesn’t go forward. Use your brain, Delwyn. The story is, Iris goes on with her life.”

  “And Jack handles the private adoption,” Betty added.

  Dahlstrom looked all around himself in search of something; then, his focus sharpening, he suddenly noticed Melanie. “Melanie,” he said, “go find yourself a snack.” This diversionary remark, right after a filling meal, failed to have its intended effect.

  “What?” said Melanie. “Betty’s going to fill me up on Spaada.” Betty pulled a contraption out of the closet, something made of metal tubes and cloth.

  “When I get back to the only home I’ve known since being dragged from Massachusetts as a young bride, it will be Indian summer. Indian summer! To think! I am very lightly complected. So this is going to make a difference on those long days ahead.” With a clattering rush of fabric and aluminum, a red and green and yellow beach umbrella sprang open.

  Jack said, “Jesus H. Christ.” And the doctor said he didn’t get it. Melanie said she knew what it was, it was a beach umbrella, and Betty said she still didn’t have the dunes of childhood and that that stupid odorless lake out there didn’t have so much as a single Pocohontas or other legendary figure associated with it, unless it was the propane man she had been unable to reach on the phone all day.

  “In my mind’s eye,” said Betty, “I will be able to sit next to the Atlantic.”

  “Bearing Portuguese immigrants,” said Jack.

  “I will hear—shut up, Jack—the cry of gulls and the moaning of sea buoys.”

  “I don’t get it,” said Dr. Dahlstrom. “I thought she was from some burg near Boston.”

  Jack’s sigh seemed to detonate. “Yeah, she is,” he said, well within her hearing. “But here’s the catch
. It had a trolley stop near the water. I’ll never hear the end of this if I live to be a hundred.”

  But Melanie took up for Betty. “I’m like Betty when it comes to mountains. I used to live with my dad in Denver. Even in traffic jams—like going to a Broncos game?—you could see right over the top of the cars all the way to … all the way to … what was it, Pike’s Peak?”

  The doctor said, “My favorite is La Jolla.”

  “I go right on standing for something,” said Betty. “Year after year.”

  “Namely the eternal sea,” said Jack. Quite suddenly, he realized that Iris was at the foot of the stairs. She beheld the adults.

  “Good night everybody!” she cried. “Thanks for asking!”

  It wasn’t until she’d gone up and was safely out of earshot that Dr. Dahlstrom said, “Thanks for asking what?”

  Everyone but Melanie fell into a kind of state; she stared from one distant gaze to another, then shrugged. Finally, the doctor said, “You got around the courts on the adoption, huh?”

  “Yup,” said Jack.

  “Who’s the pigeon?”

  “A judge. Yes, a judge, and his hearty but barren wife of thirty years. I like the guy. A real diamond in the rough. State College. Babson-type portfolio of investments. Getting on in years. Wealth. Half hour a day on the rowing machine. Plus, if he morts out, she has family. Betty and I went over this one good.”

  “How did you find this wonderful fellow?”

  The question didn’t make Jack comfortable. “Through a thing down at the plant,” he said. “We tipped a few. This and that. Said his life had everything but kids. A bulb went off.”

  Jack looked around to find someone to break the silence. He didn’t seem to like this silence at all, and no one was coming forward to break it. Just whose side were they on?

  “You know,” said Jack, “I’m not the biggest guy on the block. Just a quonset building, a couple of presses. One shift. One time clock. One faithful foreman. I make the calls. I say to the plant, You build it, I’ll sell it. I call on everybody. I call on the competition. We make beautiful music together. And then one of my boys, a Polack, sticks his big mitt in a punch press. It goes up next to the roller and never comes out. I offer my most sincere regrets. I don’t say, What were you doing with your mitt in the roller? I’m sad for him, but that won’t do. No, he wants it all. He wants my business. You can’t have it, I say. It’s that simple: You can’t have it. You can have reasonable compensation, but no more. I want it all, says the Polack. And he has professional counsel who feels so confident, he has taken it on as a contingency bond. I say, You lean on me, I lean on you. I call on the judge, not as a finagler but as a red-blooded American with his own business. I sell myself to the judge. Meanwhile, the Polack’s lawyer is sending me poison-pen letters. Shit. You reach a point where you don’t know whether you’re part of what makes America great or not.”