Kickdown

by Rebecca Clarren

  The door is right there. She could just walk out the way she came. She sets her beer on the bar.

  “Sue, we’re over here.” From the back, behind the jukebox, Ray waves.

  She picks up the beer. Here goes nothing.

  “Stones were flying up off the ground and into my face. It was super fucked up,” Jimmy Crowley is saying when she gets to the table. “Sorry, excuse my language, ma’am.”

  “Oh, I don’t care. Thanks for meeting me.”

  “Well, I owe Ray a few favors. And I remember you, from before. High school cheerleaders ain’t easy to forget.”

  Laugh, Susan. Laugh it off. She’s still standing. Should she slide into the booth beside Jimmy? That might be a little too close. Or pull up a chair to sit squarely between them? The notebook in her back pocket needs to be on the table, or it could be on her lap, hidden from view to protect Jimmy. She puts her beer down on the table and shifts her feet.

  Ray, thank god for Ray, puts his hand on her arm and smiles. He moves over and motions for her to sit beside him.

  “So, um, can we talk about the night of the kick?” she asks, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear.

  “As long as this is off the record, go ahead. What can I do you for?”

  Direct question or second level? Butter him up or not? She smiles at Ray, edges closer to him, and opens her notebook on the table.

  “I’ve heard that you were using a new choke that night, but that you lost control to release some of the pressure that was building up in the well. Did the concussion events happen at each of the openings?”

  Jimmy starts to talk about bullshit company lines and cracked casing. There’s a St. Christopher dangling from a chain around his neck and as he talks, his fingers drumming the table, the pendant lunges into his beer. She’d bought Kelly a St. Christopher before his first hitch in the Jonah Field. Four different times it broke off; every time she’d bought a new one. As if luck could be so easily acquired.

  “You getting that all down?” Jimmy reaches across the table and puts his hand on her notebook.

  “I’m sorry, can you say that one more time?”

  “I said that the roughneck on the last hitch didn’t clean the mud tanks. The drilling fluid was way too fucking light.”

  “And why’s that important again?”

  “You sure you’re not too pretty to be a reporter?”

  You’re no Lois Lane. Kelly had laughed when he said that. There is a squeeze in her chest. She drinks her beer. Ray won’t meet her eye. He’s studying his thumbs.

  Laugh.

  Now.

  Try again.

  “You were saying about the nitrogen and foam from the last job?”

  “Yep, some idiot on the rig’s last hitch didn’t clean the mud tanks. And there was no diverter installed.”

  She should know what a diverter is. Always do your homework. Always know more than they think you do. And she doesn’t know. And what was she thinking. And Ray is embarrassed for her. Her throat is tight. Her pen doesn’t work. She stands up.

  “I’ll be right back. Bathroom still in the back?”

  The smell of bleach is a salvation. She pulls down her pants and her underwear as if she really did need to go. You’re no Lois Lane.

  There are people in Canada who, according to an article in the Alberta Sun, took matters into their own hands when a gas company ruined their land. They slashed tires and cemented-in gas wells. They didn’t hide behind a byline. Susan sits on the toilet and bites her nails.

  “Sue, you in here?”

  Ray knocks on her stall. His boots are so close to her own, they almost touch.

  “This is the women’s bathroom.”

  “Jimmy had to get back. His kid is sick. But he says you can call him whenever. I think he likes you.”

  Susan covers herself with her cardigan. Hiding in the bathroom is a bad sign. She has been trying to ignore the signs, but this is not something easily dismissed. Camila would never hide in a bathroom.

  “How did you know all that stuff about the diverter and the foam? That was great. You did good.”

  “Really?”

  “Come on out already, I’ll buy you a beer. Oh, and my cousin Carson works on a frack crew. He’s having some weird health stuff, says he’ll talk to you as long as it’s off the record. I told him what you’re doing.”

  As if she were someone that could be counted on. What you’re doing. As if she were going to actually write and publish something.

  “I’ll be right out.”

  When she pulls up to the house, the high beams catch two eyes in the dark. Her sister’s lean frame cloaked in Dad’s down coat; the dog at her side, tail wagging. Susan steps out of the truck and the night sky is dirty with stars. Jackie’s breath leaves her body and stitches her to the outside, one exhale at a time until, by the time Susan has closed the space between them, it is as if her sister were sewn into the air.

  “You ever wonder how it might’ve been if Mama didn’t die?” Jackie says, staring up at the sky. “You ever think we might be in better shape?”

  The slight catch in Jackie’s voice lets her know. Even in the dark. Say goodnight and go inside. Duck and run. But there is Jimmy Crowley’s face, how it softened when he saw her listen, saw her believe. Not everyone worries about her.

  “I was out interviewing a roughneck for my story.”

  This doesn’t make an impression. Jackie’s breath slides in and out of the night.

  “Ray says I’m doing a good job,” says Susan, trying again.

  “It’s nice of him to help you.”

  “I think I’m better. Do I seem better?”

  “Maybe.”

  Before Susan considers the tone of disbelief, before she lets it settle into herself, the lie forms in her mouth. She spits it out.

  “My old editor at the Sentinel says he’ll buy the article when I’m done. He says it’ll run above the fold.”

  Drum beats at her chest. You are lying. Lie down, Susan. Lay down, Susan.

  “Really? I mean, congratulations. That’s really great, Susie.”

  “They want three thousand words. And a sidebar.”

  “Well that’s a real start,” says Jackie, her voice uneven. “I’m proud of you.” Jackie sighs and rests her head on the gate. “I can’t sleep. I’ve been so distracted by the ranch, I can’t get this proposal done for my attending. Medical school seems really far away.”

  Susan stares at her sister with great interest. In the span of several minutes, she, Susan, problem child, has been transformed. No longer is she someone to agonize over; now she is a confidante. The way an older sister should be. She touches Jackie’s arm, feeling bones and muscles through the down. Dad wore that coat forever, and still it is the same sky blue. Even in the dark, she knows the color, knows the smell of the fabric.

  “You aren’t sure about medical school,” Susan says neutrally, in the tone of a therapist.

  “I know you think it’s impossible if we want to keep the ranch.”

  “I don’t think that. I think you can’t imagine leaving me to run it without you.”

  Jackie looks hurt. Not what Susan wanted. This was a conversation about Jackie not having to worry about her anymore. “I mean. Ray and I could get on fine.”

  “But Ray is going to be deputy again in June. You know that, right?”

  Susan pinches her belly through her pocket lining.

  “Listen, honey.” Susan steadies her voice. “You don’t need to worry about me.”

  Nothing libelous in a little lie if you’re lying low.

  22

  YOU GOT YOURSELF A Class Four wife there, Ray. Gramps said that once. As in a Class Four river. As in, you got yourself a complicated home life.

  Susan Dunbar, on the other hand, is more like a hanging lake. That girl is hard to get to, deeper than you first think, the kind of pretty that refreshes the soul. Ray watches her from the corner of his cousin Carson’s trailer.

 
; Sitting on the edge of a frayed orange couch, Susan crosses and uncrosses her legs. Carson, his leg still in plaster, picks a remote from a red plastic crate covered with pizza boxes and empty beer cans and mutes the game.

  “I ain’t so sure about this.” Carson catches the Pabst Ray throws him. “The squeaky wheel don’t get fixed in this business, it gets junked. I got a car payment. I got alimony.”

  Two sets of crossed fingers tucked behind her notebook, Susan explains that the interview can be off the record. That the last thing she wants is to jeopardize his job. That it’s entirely up to him. Ken Singer never said those things. He never looked at Ray with such kindness. Sue has always been good at making a person feel like they’re the only person in the room.

  “Listen, cuz, Sue is basically family.” Ray pulls open a folding camping chair and sinks down into it. “She won’t let you down. I swear.”

  Carson stares at the muted hockey game for a full minute. Wind rattles the trailer walls. Men outside leave for their shifts.

  Ray wishes he had got himself a beer, but there isn’t one on the table and it seems rude to get up while Carson is considering. Carson used to follow him around at family barbecues, dogging his every move. He’d come to Ray’s baseball games and sit near the dugout, shouting out “That’s my cousin!” whenever Ray made any sort of contact with the ball. Carson used to talk to Ray about joining the force, about them being partnered up together like in the movies.

  “Listen, what happened to me don’t matter, not really.” Carson sets the beer down on his cast. Decided. Still watching the game. “The big story is all in the MSDSes. Look ’em up for the ingredients in frack fluid. That shit is no joke. Something went wrong on a frack job at Johnson’s the other week. We lost hundreds of thousands of gallons. Couldn’t pull it back up. Where’d it all go? That’s your story.”

  Susan asks him for some names and he shakes his head, silent. Sue is nice about it, thanks him for the tip. Ray tells Carson to call him if he needs anything. They hustle out to the truck, both of them faster than they need be.

  “Damn. I’m sorry, Sue.” Ray pulls out of the windblown man camp, the trailers lined up like toasters. “I hate to let you down.”

  “It’s not your fault. He probably took one look at me and knew I hadn’t done this in years.”

  “Nah. If I were still a deputy, it’d be different.”

  “How’s that?”

  “Oh, you know how it is. What’s that they say? ‘The badge makes the man.’”

  “You think Carson thinks less of you now? People don’t think that.”

  “I don’t blame anyone over it. I mean, come on. I got messy.”

  There’s a half-empty flask of whiskey under his seat. There’s an extra bottle in the barn. Another hidden at the bottom of a box of Christmas ornaments in his garage. He’s been drinking less since he’s been working for the Dunbars, but most days he still doesn’t hold off much past four.

  “Shit, I’m still messy.”

  “If it’s any consolation,” says Sue, “I can’t think of anyone I trust more.”

  “You don’t have to say that.”

  “It’s true. There’s more light when you’re around, Ray Stark. Always has been.”

  Ray touches her beautiful wrist. But only for a second. His hand takes flight until it finds safety on the steering wheel. He focuses on the road ahead, on driving, and he does a good job of not looking at Sue the whole rest of the way. Outside, the clouds in the north promise a rain headed someplace else. They drive past the muddy Colorado, which moves so slow it might as well be one big eddy, circling back on itself.

  That night, Ray bends his head and listens to the highs and lows of his family’s four voices mix into one sound. They all say grace in Spanish. Lilly’s hand in Ray’s right hand is sticky and Monica’s hand in his other hand is hot, and after they’re done with the prayer he holds onto their small hands for a second longer until they both pull away. They pass peas and chicken and bread around the table. Camila asks Monica what she learned in school, which she asks every night, and Monica talks about the space shuttle and how she needs to find a poem to memorize. The whole time, she looks at her mom.

  “Here, Lilly. Eat more peas.” Ray spoons some onto her plate.

  “Do I have to, Mama?”

  “Try a few, baby.” When Camila smiles at the girls, she holds nothing back—her lips wide, her front teeth showing, as if everything she has is theirs. She looks at him and even though the smile is still there on her mouth, it’s reserved, smaller. “Ray, I called Joanna at the courthouse today. There’s a form you fill out to appeal for a shorter probation. I picked it up for you.”

  “I didn’t ask you to do that.”

  “Well, you’re welcome.”

  “Those forms don’t work. Sheriff does whatever he wants.”

  “It’s worth a try. We need your job back.”

  “It’s coming back.”

  “I miss that overtime pay. Sooner you’re back there, the better for everyone.”

  Monica knocks her milk over, and Camila yells; Ray pats his daughter’s hand and tells her it’s no big deal, he’ll take care of it.

  He gets up and stands in front of the open refrigerator for a time, staring and not seeing the half-empty shelves. Uniforms are sexy, Mila had told him all those years back, when she was pregnant and he had been running cattle for Gramps and making barely enough for groceries. She was the one who told him he’d make a great deputy. She was the one who wanted to stay in town, near her parents and the church.

  He sets the glass of milk down in front of his kid and looks across the table at his wife. Her creamy skin against her black low-cut blouse is beautiful. He wants to tell her how much being outside and working for the Dunbars is helping to make him feel half normal. In four weeks he’ll deal with parking lot patrols and meth heads and bar fights and domestic disputes, but not yet. He isn’t ready yet.

  “You all should come up to Dunbars’ this weekend. It’s pretty this time of year. You girls want to see some baby cows?”

  That seems to get through. Monica and Lilly both say yes, but Mila sets her fork down and stares at him.

  “Susan hasn’t returned any of my calls. Is she any better?”

  “I think so. She did pretty good talking to Carson this afternoon.”

  “Why do you need to be there for her interviews?”

  “I guess she thinks it’s useful to have me there. Did you hear about Doc Pitkin’s ranch? They found bubbles yesterday in their part of the creek.”

  “So.” She sits back into her chair. “Now that Susan says there’s a problem, you believe it?”

  “It’s not like that.”

  “Do you want to get involved? I could use help getting the word out about the community meeting next week.”

  “I’m still not clear what the point is in sitting around hearing people blow sunshine.”

  “Oh, Ray. You’ve become so predictable.”

  “Mama, read me about the zebra.”

  “I can do it, honey,” says Ray. “Bring me your book.”

  “Lilly, you know the rules. Not at the dinner table. Jackie must be better by now. It’s been two months.”

  “It feels good to help out.”

  “The dishwasher quit on my brother yesterday. He could use a hand at the restaurant.” Camila sets her fork down. Her stare is bulletproof.

  “I like being outside, Mila, being up there. It’s good for me.”

  “Good?”

  “Can we be excused, Mama?”

  With the girls gone, they light into each other, picking over everything and nothing. Camila clears away the plates, still yelling as she walks to the sink. He sits at the round table by himself and stares at his wedding ring.

  Gramps stayed married to Grandma for fifty-one years. When there was drought and the hay crop failed, he rodeoed for money. Broke his arm in three places once but didn’t lose the bull. Bronco Lou, Grandma called him after that. Wh
en the sun hit the water right, Gramps always put his arm around her and pointed to the bits of light. Betty’s diamonds, he’d call them, and she’d lean into him.

  Ray walks into the kitchen and stands behind Camila at the sink.

  “Mila.” His voice is low, all the fight blown out of him. “Maybe you’d be happier with someone else.”

  “What are you saying?” She doesn’t turn around.

  “I want you to be happy. That’s all I want.”

  They look at each other in the reflection of the window above the sink.

  “You want to leave? That’s not what we do.” Her face drops its mask of toughness and for a moment, fear splays her features into the girl who ran across the desert. “That’s not who we are.”

  “I want us to have the best possible version of our life.”

  “Then make the best of it. Figure out how to be happy and stop looking to me for all the answers.”

  “OK. Forget it.” He touches her shoulder and in a snap, her mask is back on. She yanks her body away from his touch and shakes her head. He stands there for a minute or two, waiting for her to say something, anything. She scrubs the dishes, never looking up.

  “I’ll get bedtime going,” he says at last.

  The two girls are watching TV, some stupid sitcom, and he tells them it’s time to brush teeth and wash up.

  “No. I want Mama to do it,” Lilly says from the couch.

  “I’m already ready, Daddy.” Monica, glassy-eyed in a purple nightgown, doesn’t budge from the floor. “I can watch for seven more minutes.”

  “No, you can’t,” says Camila behind him. “Come on, girls.” She leads them away.

  Under the bright bathroom light, the three of them crowd together in front of the mirror. They all have the same dark hair and almond eyes and the same way of talking over each other. The newspaper sits in his lap unread as he watches them from the couch in the living room.