It had become more difficult for Rita and me to be leery of our new sister-in-law. Even aside from these parties, Helen had become a positive influence around the house. She took a lot of the pressure off Mom by helping prepare meals and taking care of general household chores. And although Mom had shown little sign of wearing down physically, her face sometimes reflected the frightening, distant look commonly attributed to the loneliness. But Helen’s arrival seemed to change that. Rita and I had made some discreet inquiries from people who knew Helen’s family, and found out that, just as Rita suspected, their approach to family matters was much more cutthroat than ours. So I had reluctantly chalked up the incident with the letter about Jack as a miscalculation on Helen’s part, an effort to establish herself as a worthy foe.
“You guys look great!”
The boys emerged from their bedroom, decked out in colorful, billowing pants and shirts. They had both rubbed charcoal along their jaws, and Rita found some black plastic and fashioned tubes around their calves that looked like knee-high boots. Rita had made herself a purple dress that was cut low in the front, showing her ample cleavage, and I couldn’t stop myself from staring. She dug out some makeup that she hadn’t worn “since I left New Jersey,” and I had never seen her look so provocative.
“Blake,” she said with a touch of amusement in her voice.
“Huh?”
“You’re drooling.”
“Oh. Sorry.” My face got hot, and I turned my back to Rita as she started laughing. “Are we ready then?” I asked.
Helen had decorated the house brilliantly considering the meager resources of the times. She had found a worn-out fishing net, and hung it from the ceiling. She took a dusty old trunk and stuffed it with filler, then covered the newspaper with trinkets and cardboard coins painted gold. There was a plank mounted on the front porch, ready to be walked.
To my delight and surprise, everyone in the family was in costume—even Dad, who sported a homemade vest and a big gold earring. Mom and Helen wore dresses similar to Rita’s, with less revealed. Helen’s was blue, Mom’s yellow.
But the birthday boy was the star of the show. Helen made Bob a shirt with thick red horizontal stripes. He wore blousy pants, and around his waist, Helen had wrapped a black sash as wide as a pillow. But the best feature was that he had tied one leg up behind and fashioned a wooden leg out of a chunk of cottonwood. We all started laughing the minute Bob came limping out of his bedroom, and it was the beginning of a day of much of the same.
“Happy birthday.” I shook my brother’s hand, and he sported a warm, happy smile.
“This is great, huh?” he said.
Sharing this fond moment with my brother seemed far removed from an experience we had shared just a few days before, a range of emotional zigs and zags typical of those years. We read in the Ekalaka Eagle that the government was sending some people to Belle Fourche to buy sheep at eight dollars a head. It was not much more than the average annual cost of keeping one sheep fed and healthy. But sadly, it was more than the market was paying. So after arguing with Dad about it, I told him I was going to take some dry and older ewes in and sell them whether he agreed with me or not.
“Don’t be surprised if they end up giving you less than advertised,” Dad warned, and I frowned, annoyed by his growing suspicion toward the government.
So early one Wednesday morning, Bob and I roused twenty-eight head of sheep and eased them out of the corral, pointing them in the direction of Belle Fourche. It was a three-day ride, and we had to move slowly, as many of the sheep were lame from age. We took turns riding ahead to ask permission to cross the next property. The first night, we bunked with Ed and Betty Lee Sloan, who fed us and provided good conversation. Betty Lee even got up at five and cooked breakfast, although we had insisted the night before that she just leave some biscuits and coffee on the table.
The second night, we pulled up to the tidy farmhouse of a couple neither of us knew very well, although we’d heard plenty about them. His name was Lonnie Roberts, and he was the brother of Sophie, the first woman I ever kissed. Or the first woman who ever kissed me.
Lonnie was a tall, lean, long-faced man with the smallest mouth I’d ever seen, and teasing eyes. His wife Ruth was a beautiful woman, and knew it. Her mouth was as full as Lonnie’s was tiny. Her lips and cheeks were always darkened with rouge, and she had a curvaceous figure that she made little effort to hide, wearing tight dresses that provoked many a stern look through the years. But she was, as my dad liked to put it, “a well without a bucket.” Not too bright. The Robertses drank, and their reputation for infidelity was legendary. But nobody could deny that they were as hospitable as anyone around. They each had the kind of charm that made the rumors about them believable. I had always liked them both.
But when we settled into their living room that night, Lonnie seemed distracted, distant. I wondered whether he was one of those people who work so hard at their public persona that they can’t sustain the energy when they get home. While we waited for dinner, Lonnie offered us a drink, which we declined. But he poured himself one—not his first, I’m sure—and sat facing a little away from us. The house was less than neat, with clothes scattered around, as well as items in various stages of repair, including an old horse bridle. Lonnie said little, tipping his glass every few seconds, then refilling it once he’d drained it. Bob and I exchanged a look, wondering if we’d interrupted a fight, or done something offensive.
“How’s your hay?” I finally asked.
Lonnie sipped, staring dreamily toward the window. He looked at us as if he’d just remembered we were there. “Hm?” He sat up straighten. “My hay? I’m sorry, boys. I’m not too talkative tonight. We just found out this morning that my brother-in-law passed on yesterday. Had a heart attack loading some feed.” Lonnie took a deep drink. “Worked himself to death,” he added. “Only forty-two.”
“You mean Lawrence?” I asked.
He nodded, then looked at me, surprised. “You know him?”
“Met him at Pioneer Days, probably fifteen years ago.”
“Wasn’t that the guy that cleaned your clock in the ball game that day?” Bob asked, smiling.
I nodded. “That’s the one.”
“That was you?” Lonnie showed the first sign of his usual charm, smiling, although his mouth barely stretched. “I remember that. I never saw Lawrence lay a bat on a ball before or after that day. He was the worst baseball player I ever saw.”
We all chuckled, guiltily, eyes down.
“I’m sorry to hear that,” I said. “He seemed like a good man. They had a couple of kids, right?”
“Four,” Lonnie said. “Yeah, we’re going to their place tomorrow. The funeral is the day after.”
Bob shook his head. “Damn. Four little ones. What’s Sophie going to do?”
“Sell the place, if they can find a buyer. She’ll move to Belle, I think.”
“Maybe I will have a drink, Lonnie,” I said.
“Yeah, pour me one, too,” Bob added.
The rest of the evening was a blur, although Bob and I only had a couple of drinks. The same could not be said for the Robertses, whose capacity surpassed their legend. I suppose some of their indulgence could be attributed to grief, but there was a routine to their drinking that was smooth, remarkable, indicating that this night was not out of the ordinary. Lonnie poured. And on every other drink that he poured himself, he held the bottle out and poured to one side, without looking. And Ruth’s glass was there each time, ready, if a little unsteady. It was something.
But I was tired, and all talk began to run together, so I excused myself and rolled my sougan out on the floor of the guest room. But I could not sleep. The news of Lawrence’s death had a surprising effect. Although I barely knew him, Lawrence had made an impression on me. I liked him enormously. But I think what hit me hardest was the fact that of all the people I had known who died during the Depression, he was the closest to my age who hadn’t died of dise
ase. And he was dead of overwork. At forty-two. Art’s statement about this land beating hell out of people rang through my head. As did Annie Ketchal’s question from so many years ago—what was he like? I wondered. What was Lawrence Andrews like?
And I realized that although I didn’t know him well, I had a feeling that I knew what he was like. I had a feeling that he was a good man, who worked damn hard, and treated people with respect. I had a feeling that Lawrence was a solid husband and father. I had a feeling that Lawrence was a lot like me. And I think for the first time in my life, it occurred to me that working hard your whole life, and being a good man, and trying to do the right thing can sometimes lead to the same payoff that any other life can. That it’s no guarantee of a damn thing.
Maybe some of it was the booze, but lying there on the floor that night, and seeing myself in Lawrence Andrews, a feeling of nausea entered me like a ghost. I had to run to the window, which I wrenched open, and I thrust my head outside, where I emptied my stomach.
Late that next evening, Bob and I pushed twenty-seven head of tired, limping sheep up to the stockyards in Belle Fourche. We’d lost one old ewe on the way. The office was closed, but one big fellow was just leaving. “Sure, you can corral them here for the night,” he muttered. “I don’t give a damn.” He pulled his felt cowboy hat lower over his eyes.
Bob and I exchanged a look. “Must have had a bad day,” I said.
We got up early the next morning. It was ten degrees warmer than the previous three days, and we could smell the stockyard a half mile away. We arrived around seven, and none of the government people were there yet. The sheep had gathered in a cluster in one corner, complaining in long, hoarse bleats. They were bunched so tightly together that they had to lift their heads above the backs of each other just to see. We sat on the top rail and waited.
An hour later, Bob turned to me. “They must not get paid by the hour,” he said.
I chuckled, nodding. “That’s for sure.”
Bob sighed, staring off toward town. Among the children of George and Catherine Arbuckle, Bob and I had come to look the most alike. Besides the square, solid build of our mother, we also shared round facial features—head, eyes, nose. The one big difference was that I had our father’s squinty playful eyes, while Bob’s drooped rather sadly, like a hound’s.
The fact that we also shared similar personalities made it natural that we didn’t find it necessary to speak much in order to understand each other. We had also inherited our mother’s quiet watchfulness, with our father’s tendency to accept things as they come, sometimes too readily, I suppose. Bob was more passive, but that may have been because he was younger, and married to Helen.
At any rate, the fact that we rarely spoke to each other had never been a source of discomfort for either of us—never, that is, until Helen came into the picture. Before her, I had always felt a solid, unspoken allegiance with my younger brother. But from the moment she unpacked her bags in the big house, even after the incident with the letter about Jack smoothed over, Bob’s demeanor had shifted. Instead of sharing silences, we suffered through them. I felt as if he was always waiting for me to ask him a question that he didn’t want to answer. He would glance at me with a shadow of dread in his eyes. And of course, this made me feel awkward. So in an effort to undermine this awkwardness, I often asked whatever came into my head, which almost always made him nervous. It seemed to be a no-win situation.
“So when are you and Helen going to start having some little ones?” I asked after an hour and a half of silent waiting.
I immediately wished I hadn’t asked, as Bob, who usually sat pretty still, started twitching and jerking his head around like a chicken.
“Oh, I don’t know,” he answered. “I don’t know. You can’t ever tell with these things, you know. These things tend to happen in their own time, you know.”
I nodded, but said nothing, hoping to let the topic die from lack of fuel.
“Just because other people…just because it seems to make sense, or because it would make somebody else happy…well, you can’t make these decisions just because someone else…”
“Yeah,” I said, trying to give Bob a reprieve. “Of course, Bob. I know what you mean.” He seemed to be arguing with himself, or with Helen, I thought. And I didn’t particularly want to get in the middle of either of those conflicts. “I understand,” I added.
He was clearly relieved to drop the subject. And fifteen silent minutes later, a guy finally came along, walking right past us, although he made no effort to acknowledge our presence, even when we said hello.
“Not very friendly, are they?” I said.
“Well, hell, they pretty much got us by the nuts, don’t they?” Bob said. “They don’t have to worry about giving good service.”
We chuckled, but it wasn’t because we were amused.
The rest of the crew arrived, most of them showing the same head-down, eyes-averted indifference that the first guy had. Bob stopped trying to be friendly. But I greeted each of them with a cheerful “Mornin,’” wishing I could rattle them a little, I guess. It didn’t work.
After ten big guys had ducked into the building, I began to wonder why they needed such a big crew. But I decided that with times so bad, they must be flooded with sellers. We waited another half hour before an older guy finally came outside. I recognized him as the one we’d talked to the night before. This guy, who had a ruddy complexion and big bags under his eyes, sauntered over and shook hands. We told him our names, and although he dutifully recorded them, he didn’t tell us his.
“These yours?” He indicated our sheep with his head.
“Yes, sir,” Bob answered.
“All right. Six dollars a head’s the price.”
“I thought it was eight,” I argued. “The paper said eight.”
“Six dollars a head. Take it or leave it.”
I frowned, looking at my feet, and the guy studied us for a second or two. When it appeared that we wanted to think it over, he turned on the heel of a black shiny boot and headed back into the building.
“All right,” I called to the guy.
“Blake,” Bob said. “That barely covers a year’s feed for one of these bastards.”
I nodded. “I know. But do you want to turn them around and take ’em back now? They got us, just like you said. Right here.” I grabbed my crotch.
Bob shook his head, and the guy called over his shoulder. “I’ll be right back.”
Bob and I stood waiting, heads hanging, as if we’d done something to provoke this indignity. Although the twist wasn’t a complete surprise, especially with Dad’s warning, I thought about expecting the worst, and wondered whether I would be less disappointed if I had anticipated this. I didn’t think so.
The man returned with a metal box tucked under his arm. He didn’t look at us, setting the box on a shelf mounted along the fence. He pulled a key from his pocket and unlocked the box, folding a black cover back to reveal a thick pile of bills.
“There’s no give on that price?” I asked.
The man closed his eyes for a second, as if he couldn’t believe anyone would ask such an ignorant question. “You sellin’ or not? If not, you gotta clear out of here. There’s bound to be more coming.” He finally, for the first time that morning, looked at us, and I wished he hadn’t.
The man wore dungarees that were worn at the knees. His hands were rough and scarred, his forearms thick. He was one of us, except for one obvious exception—his eyes. His eyes were hooded, cold, disconnected. And I wondered whether his heart was as cold and disconnected. And I wondered what had happened to this man to make him so hard and cold. Nobody comes into the world with eyes like that, I thought. Was he one of the many who had lost their places? Had he lost his stock? His family? Any of these was possible, but at that moment, I had no room for compassion for this man. Because to me, no matter what had happened to him, taking it out on his own kind was inexcusable. I hated this man.
; “We got twenty-seven head,” I said.
He dug into the box, pulled out a notepad and a chewed pencil, and figured while I did the same in my head. “Comes to a hundred and sixty-two by my count. You want to check it?” He held the pad out.
“That’s right,” I said.
He counted the money and handed me a wad of cold, greasy bills. Then he took another pad from inside the box, and wrote out a bill of sale. “I’ll have to have one of the boys count, just to make sure.”
I nodded.
The guy called into the building, and two big guys opened the massive sliding doors and sauntered outside.
“Give me a count on these,” the guy shouted to them.
Ten minutes later, after they had counted our sheep and herded them inside, Bob and I were still sitting on the fence, unmotivated, immobilized. I felt humiliated. Another rancher came along on horseback, pushing about fifty head of sheep. I opened the gate for him. And standing there holding the gate open, I heard a loud bang from inside the building. Then another. It was a strange noise—very loud, and very penetrating, like two pieces of metal slamming together.
Bob and I approached a small, dirty side window. We held our hands to the sides of our eyes and pressed our faces against the glass. And what we saw still pains me.
Our sheep were lined up in a chute. The sheep we had spent years feeding, nursing, or pulling out of the mud and tangled wire. At the end of the chute stood two of the biggest of these many big men, with sledgehammers. And just as we peeked inside, one of these men swung his hammer in a giant, gleaming arch down onto the ewe’s head, shattering her skull, sending her body into convulsions. Then two other men pulled the still-jerking torso from where it lay and heaved it onto a pile of dead meat, dead wool, where several other big men sheared the carcasses.
I felt ill. Bob swore through his teeth. I tasted salt in the corner of my mouth, and turned away from the window, running the back of my hand along my cheek. Bob hadn’t moved, and I heard another slam of steel.
In Open Spaces Page 21