by Brady Udall
Todd Freebone said, “Mr. Ted Leo asked me to return your property to you.” He patted the Barge, producing a small burst of dust. “And so”—he coughed, waving his hand—“I think you know where we’re at here. You’ve got your couch, and Mr. Leo wants what’s his. An exchange, that’s what we should call this.”
“I don’t have anything,” Golden said.
“Then you know where to find it,” Todd said.
“No,” Golden said. “I don’t know anything.”
“Well, fuck,” Todd said, looking genuinely disappointed. He considered his lollipop, licked it, grimaced, then took a drag off his cigarette. “That’s really too bad. I was hoping I could go home today and never have to see this hillbilly backwater again. Seriously, man. I didn’t know there were still places like this left.”
Golden looked around. It seemed the Barge, with Todd Freebone on board, had fallen out of the big blue desert sky; except for Golden’s work truck and Nola’s Country Squire station wagon, there were no other vehicles in sight. Golden turned in place, scanning the surrounding geography, until he spotted the back end of a blue pickup parked behind a clump of willows on the little two-track that followed the fence along the Pettigrews’ alfalfa field.
“You stay right here,” Golden told Todd. “You go anywhere near my house, I’m calling the cops.”
Todd threw up his hands. “Oh shit, the cops! Please, man, take your time. I’ll wait right here.”
Golden started to set Pet down but had second thoughts and hefted her up onto his shoulder like a sack of corn. He crossed the expanse of grass and weeds, stepped over the old, leaning crosswire fence, and came up behind the pickup. Nelson sat behind the wheel staring straight ahead, looking sheepish. Even when Golden stuck his head in the driver’s-side window and asked what was going on, Nelson would not look over.
“I ain’t involved with this shit,” he said. “I’m just the driver.”
“You’re not involved? You drove my couch all the way out here, put it out on my lawn, for some reason, and set loose this creep on my children?”
“Hey,” Nelson said, turning to Golden. “I do what I’m told. Ted Leo sends his messages, you know, and now there’s a couch on your lawn. This guy, this is how he takes care of his part of things, I guess. You think I’m enjoying myself? And that was one heavy motherfucking couch, if you want to know.”
Golden positioned Pet in the open window, so Nelson could get a good look at her. Cute as a bug’s ear, she was going at her lollipop with such gusto it appeared she was licking it with her entire face. “How would you like it if you came out of your house one morning and found some creep talking up that sweet little daughter of yours?”
“Wouldn’t.” Nelson gave Pet a shy smile and then turned his gaze quickly back to the windshield. “But then I wouldn’t go running off with the boss man’s wife, neither.”
Even though he knew it would do no good, Golden swore to Nelson on his life that he didn’t run off with Huila, that he had no idea where she was, that this was all an unfortunate misunderstanding.
Nelson shrugged. “Don’t matter to me. But I was you, I’d tell Ted Leo what he wants to know. Then we can all be done with this. I don’t need this any more’n you.”
Just then came the whap of the front screen door, a sound that nearly stopped Golden’s heart. He quickly ascertained that Todd Freebone was still safely on the Barge where he’d left him, and had to peer through a willow thicket to see who’d come out on the porch. It was Ferris, decked out in one of his customary outfits: sweater, jacket, ski hat, nothing below the waist. Staring intently at the huge anomaly on the lawn, he subtly rolled his naked hips counterclockwise as if testing the air. Todd had turned around and was now waving his giant lollipop in Ferris’ direction and saying something Golden couldn’t hear.
Golden reached into the back of Nelson’s pickup, grabbed the first thing at hand—a rusted tire iron—and took off at a lope. Once he climbed over the fence he put Pet down and sent her running for the house. When Todd turned to see the giant man in pajamas bearing down on him armed with some kind of rusty implement, he stood up, the casual smile draining slowly from his face.
“Oh shit!” he chirped. He started in the direction of the house, thought better of it, did a little juke, and, already grinning again, headed down the driveway. He tossed the lollipop over his shoulder, either in an attempt to create a diversion or to lighten his load. Golden, a reluctant sprinter in the first place and already getting winded, pursued Todd down the gravel drive but was losing ground by the step. Letting out a low, Cro-Magnon groan he heaved the tire iron at Todd’s retreating form, missing by a good thirty feet, the iron gouging a divot into the hard-packed sand.
“Whoa-ho!” cried Todd.
“And don’t ever come back here!” Golden shouted.
“Calm down, man!” Todd called from a safe spot on the other side of the county road. “Violence ain’t the answer!”
Golden bent down as if to pick up a rock, which sent Todd back-pedaling into a thicket of wild rosebushes. Seizing the moment, Ferris dashed in front of Golden and snatched up the discarded lollipop from the gravelly area at the edge of the lawn.
“Hey!” Golden shouted, but Ferris was already headed back to the house, his pale little bottom flashing like a silver coin in the sun. In the heat of the moment, Golden had not considered what might happen if one or, even worse, two of the kids entered the house in possession of an industrial-sized lollipop. And there it was: the shouting and screaming had already started.
Stationed at the end of the driveway near the mailbox, Golden stood watch while Nelson picked up Todd. As they drove past, Todd grinned widely from the passenger-side window, and held up a nickel-plated pistol against his chest in a way that said, Let this be our little secret.
“Bye-bye, man!” he called as they pulled away. “By the way, love your jammies!”
LIES UPON LIES
He had spent a good portion of the last two days telling lies: lies about why the job in Nevada had ended early and suddenly; lies about the scratches and contusions on his hands and forehead; lies about why the Barge had suddenly appeared on the Big House lawn; lies about why the strange man who appeared with it had been handing out candy to the children before being summarily chased off the property. During his years in the church Golden had noticed that most of the polygamists he had come to know were honest, upright men. He had always believed this was because they lived according to their convictions, but now he was starting to suspect it was something else entirely: being a dishonest polygamist was an exceptionally difficult trick to pull off. If you told a lie to one wife, you were going to have to repeat it to all of them. And they all asked questions, of course, each of which had to be answered consistently and with the correct details in the correct order because you could be darn sure that afterward, like a bunch of dogged television police detectives investigating a capital murder case, they would get together and compare notes. It didn’t take long to come to the conclusion that telling the truth—painful and inconvenient as it might be—was the only sensible option.
Which made Golden wonder: How had he managed to last this long? After all the lies of the past few days (not to mention the last year), he was now forced to tie them all together with one last (he hoped, he hoped) big one, which went something like this: Golden had not received the full sum he had been promised at this stage of the project and had threatened to shut down all work until he received payment, which ended up getting him fired. The Barge and the creep with the candy were nothing more than an attempt to threaten and intimidate him.
“These Nevada guys,” Golden had already said more than once, chuckling with false humor, “they all think they’re in the Mafia or something.”
“Why are they threatening you?” Nola had asked. “Aren’t you the one who hasn’t been paid? Aren’t you the one who should be threatening them?”
And so Golden had to, on the spot, create a new subplot to thi
s story, one more lie, about how the man who’d hired him was worrying about getting sued, so he had lowered himself to threatening Golden and his family. This part of the story did not seem as likely, but there was no going back now—he would have to stick with it to the end.
“You going to call the police?” Nola said.
“Already have!” Golden lied, now with a certain doomed enthusiasm. “Going into town today to talk to Sheriff Fontana about this.”
It was the fleas, of all things, that had saved him—temporarily, at least. When Beverly and Nola had discovered the little pests setting up shop in their beds and making meals of several of the children, he and his increasingly desperate explanations became, for the moment, an afterthought; he ducked out and drove to Mexican Town. When he pulled up onto the dead front lawn of the Old Lady, Nestor came out to greet him. Instead of hailing him with arms wide open and a loud Jefe! he curtly motioned for Golden to drive around back and park next to the old bread delivery truck that was occasionally pressed into service as a tour bus.
At this point Nestor gave Golden the customary, though somewhat subdued, embrace. Holding him by the arms, he said, “You look worse than before, Jefe, if such a thing is possible. Come in, I will make you some tea.”
Putting a pot on the stove to boil, he explained that Huila was in one of the upstairs rooms sleeping, that she wasn’t feeling well.
“She’s been through a lot,” Golden said, staring blankly at his hands on the vinyl tablecloth. It was hard not to come to the conclusion that everything she was now going through was his fault and his alone.
Nestor went to the front room, moved aside a dusty drape to peek outside. “Somebody follow you here?”
“I don’t think so,” Golden said. “I didn’t really look for that.”
“Next time, you look,” Nestor said. “We have already had one cabrón coming around up here asking questions.”
“I think I know the one you’re talking about.” Golden sighed. “He showed up at my place this morning giving my children candy.”
Nestor sighed a commiseratory sigh. “I think somebody very much wants to find our little escaped pajarito upstairs.” He gave Golden an appraising stare. “Honestly, Jefe, you look like shit. Combing your hair, sometimes it can make a man feel better.”
“Have you talked to her?” Golden said.
“We talked much of the night. I helped her call home to Wah-teh-mala, to talk to her boy. She has money, so we can arrange to bring the boy across. It will take time, but I have talked to some people already.”
“Thank you, Nestor.” Golden reached out to give him a squeeze on the shoulder. “You’ve done me a great favor.”
Nestor winced and pried Golden’s fingers away. “A favor between friends is not a favor. But have you decided what to do? The husband, this guy sounds like a buey. She cannot hide forever.”
“I don’t know what to do, Nestor,” Golden said, and it felt so good to admit this to someone that his voice cracked strangely. “Please tell me what to do.”
“This is nice,” Nestor said, taking a moment to sip his tea. Downstairs, a bass guitar began to play a polka beat. “A rich man, the man who owns the house where I live, a man with many wives and children, and he is asking Nestor the poor Mexican troubadour what to do. This is nice.”
Golden waited; he wasn’t interested in one of Nestor’s offhand observations, he wanted answers—no, he wanted directions, detailed directions, direct orders. He wanted someone to explain to him exactly what to do and how, and in absence of that he would happily settle for some general advice. It would be reasonable to expect a man of Golden’s age and circumstance to be experienced in resolving problems and refereeing disputes, but the truth was he was something of a naïf when it came to this sort of executive decision making. In his job, he almost always took the most convenient route, the option that offered the least complication, resistance and stress (a practice that had cost him vast amounts of money and time over the years) and in his family life, his wives, like corporate handlers or political advisors, jockeyed for position and battled it out among themselves, and when the time came he would be presented with a few limited options in a way that made it clear which option he was to choose. When it wasn’t entirely clear to him which way the wind was blowing he had learned to stall, to withhold judgment until judgment, because it couldn’t wait any longer, was made for him.
The most difficult decision he had made in his life was the one to take on the PussyCat Manor job. He had made it alone, with input from no one. And look where that had gotten him.
Golden let his head sink until his forehead rested on the cool tablecloth. He groaned.
“Come on, Jefe, I am only joking. You will find a solution, it’s not so bad.”
“You’re always saying that, Nestor. This time, it’s bad.”
“I don’t think so,” Nestor said. “You love this lady, am I correct?”
Golden lifted his head and nodded.
“And she loves you?”
“Yes, I mean, I think so.”
“Then you marry her, no? One more lady of the house, what’s the difference? You tell the boss guy to suck his own pinga, she has found a new man in her life, someone to treat her like a woman should be treated. It won’t be the first time this has ever happened, eh?”
Golden sighed. “It’s not that simple. She doesn’t even know I have more than one wife. She thinks I’m normal.”
“Well”—Nestor laughed—“not no more.”
“You told her?”
“How was I to know your secrets, Jefe? To me, four wives and too many children to count, that is something for boasting. I said something, you know, and she was confused, but I told her it’s a common thing in this part of the world and not to worry about it too much. I think her worries are bigger than this anyway.”
“But I lied to her,” Golden said.
Nestor waved his hand. “Please. When it comes to love, everyone is a liar.”
Golden sipped his tea and grimaced. This was why he liked Nestor so much; Nestor, who waved away sin and deceit as if they were nothing more than pesky houseflies.
“She wants to run away,” Golden said quietly, as if he couldn’t believe he was positing such a thing out loud. “She wants me to run away with her.”
“Yes, that is the other option,” Nestor said. “That is always an option for everyone, but not a good one. You disappear, you leave all your troubles behind, correct? I do not think it happens that way. I tell you from experience, I think it is better to try to keep all your troubles in one place.” After finishing his tea, which tasted like grass clippings boiled in water, Golden climbed the stairs to look in on Huila. In a warm upstairs bedroom she lay in the sunken center of a large, swaybacked bed, sleeping. The floor was littered with motorcycle magazines and engine parts, the bedposts wrapped in strings of glowing Christmas lights, and on the far table, displayed like a piece of industrial art, sat an unreasonably complicated bong, a contraption with so many levers and valves and curling glass tubes it was impossible to tell where the pot went in and the smoke came out. In the middle of this seamy still life was Huila, the essence of innocence, wrapped in an afghan, her dark hair like a frame around her face. Golden put a hand to her forehead, found it warm. In a bedside drawer he dug up a pencil and a notebook filled with scribbled lyrics. He tore a corner off one of the pages.
H,
I came to see you. I shall be back soon. Don’t worry. Nestor will take good care of you.
Besos,
G
He paused, wondering if shall was too formal and old-fashioned, but he decided to leave it, thinking this was a situation in which the old-fashioned, the formal, would be appropriate, and anyway, at this point there was nothing to lose. He folded the scrap of paper into a small, neat square and tucked it into her palm.
Downstairs he found Nestor backed into the corner of the kitchen next to the refrigerator, kissing a young woman and vigorously fondling h
er ample buttocks with both hands. When they disengaged at the sound of Golden’s arrival, neither looked in the least bit sheepish.
“This is Juanita, she used to be my cousin’s girlfriend,” Nestor said by way of introduction. He took a bill from his wallet and handed it to her. “Some Marlboros and something for yourself. Thank you, my flower.” With that, he gave her buttock one last squeeze and sent her on her way.
My flower. Golden liked that. He wished he had found a way to incorporate that into his note.
“So,” Nestor said, wiping the lipstick from his mouth, “what were we conversing about?”
“Huila,” Golden said. “I just went to check on her. I think she may have a bit of a fever.”
“We have medicine of every kind,” Nestor said. “But you, Jefe, I think you have some thinking to do.”
Golden blew air out through his nose. “Yes, yes I do.”
“But do not take too long. She cannot hide here forever. And I’m sorry, but I have to tell you that Friday we play the festival in Kingman. I don’t think she should stay here alone. We will be back on Sunday, but maybe you can find another place for her? A motel, possibly. But be careful, if these hijos de puta are smart, and maybe they are, they will check the motels and they will be watching you, and if you are not careful they will follow you to her, you see?”
Golden nodded, rubbing his jaw. “I think I have an idea.”
“Good, good.” Nestor clapped his hands once, loudly, as if all were settled. “In the meantime we will protect her with our lives, like the knights of Camelot. Lardo is good with a switchblade and I have my chain saw.”
Golden crossed the room, saying, “Thank you, Nestor, thank you for everything,” and Nestor was backed into the corner he had occupied with Juanita, and taken in an awkward embrace. “Okay,” he said, giving Golden a light pat on the hip, “yes, yes.”
Golden straightened up, still holding Nestor by the shoulders. “Can I ask one more favor?”
“I am at your service,” said Nestor.
“I was wondering,” Golden said. “Do you have any more of that mescal?”