Letting Loose the Hounds

by Brady Udall

  Oh, it’s a sad fucking world.

  Finally Bud starts putting the pictures away, wiping his eyes, saying I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m a holy goddamn wreck. The girls are up on the porch now, looking at us with these big wide eyes. They know something’s not right. They start to go inside and I tell them there is a snake in there and I better get it before we go inside to eat.

  “Snake?” Bud says. “You got a snake in there?” His voice is still all thick and wrong.

  “Sometimes they get in there, going after mice,” I tell him.

  I start to get up, but Bud stops me, tells me not to bother, if it’s all right with me he’ll find that snake and take care of it. He says it’s the least he can do. “I’ve killed a few snakes in my time,” he says. “The home is no place for a snake.”

  Cornelius gets up too, and tries telling Bud don’t worry, that it’s his house and he’s going to be the one to kill the snake. All the sudden they’re falling all over each other to get into the house, like nothing on this earth will keep them out of there.

  They go inside and the light comes on. I can hear them clomping around, looking under things, throwing things, and then Bud yells, “Holy Shit! Watch out!” and then they’re both shouting, get out of the way, grab that broom, it’s going into the bathroom, look at the size of that motherfucker. They’re yelling so loud because they’re both scared shitless.

  I don’t get up to help or even to have a look, just stay in my chair with my arms around the girls. They look up at me, their eyes round as dimes. We hear Bud and Cornelius go into the bathroom and then the real commotion starts, the shouting and smashing and crashing. We hear glass breaking and all kinds of thumps and whacks and grunting and it sounds more like they’re beating a mule to death in there instead of a poor old snake. It goes on for a long time, too long, the grunting and the thong thong thong the bathtub makes when somebody hits it. Finally it’s quiet and the girls push their noses into my chest.

  We sit there waiting, no sound at all, and pretty soon here comes the screen door flying open and they come out onto the porch, blood smeared on their arms. Damn, they made hamburger out of that snake. They’re both holding onto it, kind of doing a little tug of war with it, their eyes all lit up and crazy. Makes me a little sorry I even mentioned the snake to anybody. The snake is so tore up and bloody I can’t tell what kind it is, it’s just a big long dead snake, all smashed to hell. Can’t even tell which end’s the head or the tail. It’s about as beat-up and dead as a thing could be but it’s still twitching and curling around itself. Bud finally lets go of the snake and drops the bloody coal shovel he’s holding in his other hand. He bends over, panting worse than ever. I put my hand on his side to keep him steady. “We got him,” he says, shaking his head and gulping air. “We showed him, by God.”

  Cornelius goes down the porch steps and starts walking out into the brush, dragging the snake behind him. I tell Bud that Cornelius lost his wife awhile back, too, and Bud looks up at me, his eyes wet and sad now, and he nods. Then he picks up Peaches like she’s nothing but a Barbie doll, holds her up in front of him and gives her a kiss on the cheek. He does the same with Charlotte and the girls stand next to me rubbing the kisses from their faces with Bud’s bloody handprints on their sleeves.

  We turn back to look at Cornelius and he’s dragging that snake behind him, leaning forward, like it’s the heaviest thing in the world. He keeps going until he’s halfway to the road and he stays there in sagebrush for a minute, staring out at nothing. Then he grabs the snake by two hands and begins twirling around, two, three times and lets it go with a loud groan. We can see the snake go spinning out into the sky like it’s flying through the stars and then it lands, a little thud we can barely hear, way out in the dark.

  Beautiful Places

  Me and Green are heading through Utah, mountains all around us, swinging with the Stones and milking our ninety-dollar Monte Carlo for everything she’s worth when there’s a grinding chatter and we coast to a stop knowing that the old boat has pumped her last piston. According to the road sign we just passed, we’re on the outskirts of a place called Logan. Me and Green look at each other and without saying anything, come to an agreement. We got a lot more than ninety dollars’ worth out of this car so we push it into a ditch at the side of the road and start walking.

  We’ve come all the way from Alaska where we worked on a fishing boat for the summer. In the winter months, when all we had was money and lots of time to spend it, we lived high on the hog; we had salmon and moose steak daily, we drank expensive beer and gambled a lot. It would have been paradise except for the unfortunate lack of women.

  When the money ran out, one of our poker buddies gave us a tip about construction jobs in Arizona. The prospect of spending another summer knee-deep in fish guts had sobered us up considerably. Not to mention the women problem. If we were sure of anything, it was that Arizona had its fair share of women. So we bought the car and headed south. We passed through Canada in spring. I don’t believe I’ve ever seen such beauty. Some days, the sky was so blue it brought me close to tears. Imagine it: the old car humming beneath your feet, the wind like a woman’s fingers in your hair, bearing the smell of pine and fresh water and mint.

  Sometimes playing the Stones felt like a desecration.

  About halfway through Idaho I could tell there was something wrong with Green. Green is short and skinny and is missing his right hand. He has long brown hair and a sparse, stringy affair he calls a beard. He sat there for over an hour reading the nutritional information on the back of his Coors. Green doesn’t say much to start with, but he hadn’t said a thing the whole day. I asked him if he planned on drinking that beer and he looked up at me, wide-eyed and startled, the kind of look my crazy Grandma Lou used to have when we’d catch her on the front lawn in the middle of the night square dancing solo in nothing but her saddle shoes.

  He thought about it for awhile and then told me flat out that he didn’t want to go through Utah. I said, What, and go through Nevada? Out of the question, I told him. Utah is a place of beauty. It is pure. Nevada has Las Vegas in it.

  Green mumbled something to the effect that he didn’t believe in beauty. That set me back some. Green is one of those dark serious types, but once in a while he’ll smile and it will make your whole day. Even though I am thoroughly uneducated and only twenty-nine, I know a thing or two about beauty and I, for one, believe in it. I have seen trees full of eagles in Oregon and Sioux children riding bicycles over snowy roads in the Black Hills. I have traveled all over and have seen a good deal of the loveliest things on earth. I told Green about the things I have seen. I asked him if these things don’t count as beauty.

  Green went back to reading his beer and said he couldn’t tell you.

  It was too late to take a detour around Utah and as we entered the state I felt justified. We were in a little valley with a river to one side of us and purple mountain majesty all around. There was still snow on the peaks and in the shadowy places, and I let go of the steering wheel and held out my arms wide as if to say, Look what we might have missed!

  Green paid me no attention and this was when our car gave out on us. I don’t know if Green had some kind of premonition about something like this happening and this is why he didn’t want to go through Utah. I wouldn’t doubt it. Green is a lot smarter than most people would give him credit for. You see a guy with long hair and a beard and missing his right hand and you think he’s a criminal or an idiot. It’s just the way people are.

  We walk toward the center of town and the place seems fairly deserted. There’s nobody on the streets and a car passes every once in awhile. I wonder if we have taken a real back road. When I travel, I don’t use a map. I don’t know how to fold the damn things, much less read them. This gets me into trouble once in awhile, but I adjust. Sometimes I’ll end up in a town that doesn’t even have a gas station or maybe I’ll find myself on a road that leads to nowhere, just stops dead at a wheat field or
gradually gets narrower and full of weeds until there isn’t a road anymore. I’ll take surprises like this over maps any day.

  We’re walking along and I ask Green what his theory might be as to why there’s nobody around. The road is wide and new and right now we are passing a shopping center. I don’t figure he’ll give me an answer; Green is mad at me for coming into Utah. When Green is mad he generally doesn’t say anything at all. We walk along for quite a stretch and Green says, It’s Sunday. I don’t know if this is an answer to my question or just a comment on things, but I don’t push it, I’m just glad Green is speaking.

  After we’ve walked a mile or so we hear singing, singing so beautiful it could break your heart or make you sterile. We have no choice but to walk to it. Green doesn’t seem to be so keen about going toward the singing but he follows me anyway. The music is coming from a big gray church on a hill. The church’s tall doors are opened wide and it’s like angels singing in heaven. I stand there and let it float around me, my eyes closed until it stops. At times like this I wonder why I’m not a religious man.

  Me and Green are down to pocket change, and I, for one, am hungry. We spent our last twenty-dollar bill for gas in Idaho Falls. Stairs lead up to the doors and I go stand at the bottom of them. I figure that if you ever need a hand, a church can’t be a bad place to start. Green lets me know that no offense against God, but he’d rather not go into that church. I tell him if anyone is going into the church, it will be me. I climb the stairs and inside the doors is some kind of entrance room with people sitting on padded benches. They all stare at me and I act like I’m admiring the architecture. There are a couple of women holding crying babies and a few other young folks all done up in ties and dresses. In the main room, which I can’t see, someone is talking about the final days. One of those babies is screeching like the world is coming to an end this very second.

  I notice a kid with a crewcut who doesn’t seem to be enjoying himself. He’s fidgeting and he has the look of someone who has just swallowed something unpleasant. I catch his eye and motion for him to come out. He’s about nineteen or twenty and big-boned. He looks around and steps outside but keeps his distance. I hold out my hand. He shakes it and retreats a few feet.

  I tell him my name and explain to him our situation: coming from Alaska, our car breaking down, no money or food. I ask the kid if he knows where we could find a bit of work so we can make enough money to buy a bus ticket to Arizona or at least get some lunch.

  The kid looks at me, perplexed. I feel bad for getting him out of church and taking advantage of the Christian charity that has most likely been so recently drilled into him.

  Maybe you know someone who needs their lawn mowed, I say.

  The kid looks back into the church and then around at the houses on the street. He says, I don’t think you can find much work, it being Sunday.

  He looks down at Green who has his hands in his pockets, trying to hide the one that’s not there. Green is watching water go down the gutter.

  We don’t want handouts, I say, which is the truth.

  You could mow my lawn if I had one, the kid says. Maybe you want to wash my car? I have a car.

  We wash cars, I say. We’re experts.

  Good deal, he says.

  Just trying to break the ice a little, I point to the kid’s hair and say, That’s quite a hairdo you’ve got. When I was in the army they made us cut our hair like that. What’s your excuse?

  The kid stares at me. I was expecting at least a smile but I’m not getting one. After a minute I say, Why don’t we go get that car washed?

  We go down the stairs and get Green and the kid acquainted, whose name we find out is Wade. He’s got ears like Frisbees and nice teeth. He wears a tie and cowboy boots. I’ve never seen anybody do that before.

  We get in his car and he takes us to his apartment. Wade has a garter belt hanging from his rearview mirror and if the tapes on the floor are any clue, listens to an almost unhealthy amount of heavy metal. I wonder what a guy like this would be doing in church.

  Where are you guys from? Wade says.

  I tell him I’m originally from Pittsburgh, and even though I haven’t been back in a number of years I am still a dyed-in-the-wool Steelers fan and follow the Pirates when I can.

  What about you? Wade says to Green.

  Green says, I am from nowhere, really. All over, I guess. I myself don’t know where Green is from. I don’t even know how he lost his hand. Green has said to me that he doesn’t talk about things that have happened in the past because they’re over with and why talk about them? Back in Alaska I would get him really drunk and once in awhile he would talk about the old days. I never got him to say anything about how he lost his hand but once he told me about the wife he used to have, and the two kids, and how they went to a zoo and a tiger peed all over them from about twenty feet away. We laughed about that until we peed all over ourselves. After we got cleaned up, Green kept telling me about his wife and kids. It was like once he started he couldn’t stop. He told me about the trips they took and how he taught his two boys to play chess before they turned five. They were geniuses, he said. Einsteins.

  I don’t think Green remembers telling me all this. At least he’s never mentioned it. Someday I plan to ask him to tell me where his family is, what happened to them. I think this would explain some things. Someday, when we’ve been together long enough for Green to trust me, he will tell me everything. I don’t doubt it a bit.

  So we wash and wax Wade’s car with some stuff he gave us. The car is an old Cougar, painted gold, with mags and a spoiler—the works. We labor over that car with a sense of pleasure. It has been so long since I washed a car that it feels more like entertainment than a chore.

  Green seems to have loosened up, and that helps. He even whistles while he buffs the hood with a rag that’s twisted around the stump of his wrist. I spray Armor All on the tires and wipe the chrome so clean I can see the pores on my face in it. I try to keep my mind on my work but girls in long dresses walk by and I am instantly distracted. When a breeze blows their skirts about their calves I feel something flutter down the length of my spine. Green doesn’t even notice them.

  When we’re done, the car is a bright and sparkling wonder, a revelation.

  I say to Green, This is beauty, right before your very face and we are responsible for it.

  Green doesn’t say anything, but he smiles and even though we’re stuck in some place without a car or money and have to wash some kid’s car just so we can eat, we are truly happy about it.

  Wade comes out with a sack of food in his arms. He’s got some faded Wranglers on and he now looks a natural in boots. He’s got a dog with him, a blue and black-spotted cow dog with two different colors of eyes: green and yellow. The dog’s narrow face and eyes make it look intelligent somehow. It looks smarter than the majority of my friends.

  Wade says, You guys are professionals.

  I just make a humble shrug and say, Shucks. Green rubs the dog’s ears.

  Wade says, I’d invite you guys in for lunch, but I’ve got too many roommates in there taking up space. I know a place we can go to eat without a lot of noise.

  He takes us to a nice shady spot next to the river, says this is where he likes to take his girlfriends when privacy is needed. It is getting to be late in the day and there seem to be blackbirds everywhere, squawking and flapping in the trees. Robert (the dog’s name, as Wade has informed us) scrambles out of the car and makes a beeline for the river. He jumps in with a huge splash and paddles around, yapping like crazy.

  Dog’s a fish, Wade says, shaking his head.

  We sit down under a cottonwood and eat ham sandwiches and huge amounts of store-bought macaroni salad. We watch the dog and laugh. He’s on the other side of the river, sopping wet and jumping high in the air to snap at buzzing june bugs.

  We’re finishing off the last box of Ding Dongs when Wade says to Green, What happened to your hand?

  I watch Gre
en pick at the grass and I hold my breath. Nobody, including me, has ever asked that question point-blank. Still tearing up grass, he says in a low voice, Got smashed in some machinery where I worked down in St. George. They had to take it off.

  Wade says, So you’re from down south.

  Green just nods. I don’t know what to say, so I keep my mouth shut. Green looks up at Wade.

  You a Mormon? he says. You were in that church.

  Wade nods, says, Try to be. You?

  I was for a while, Green says. My wife wanted me to be one so they baptized me. I was the Scout leader for a couple of years.

  Green has a funny look on his face, a look I’ve never seen before. His eyebrows are pushed up and together. He looks desperate. I continue to keep my mouth shut.

  I was a Scout, Wade says. Almost an Eagle but I took cigarettes to a camp-out once and they never let me back.

  Green sighs and says, They’ll do that.

  Wade puts the last Ding Dong in his mouth. It looks like a hockey puck. Robert comes back to us and lies down next to Wade, munching on a june bug and smelling like a wet dog. The sun is right on us now, just above the mountains and coming in through the leaves. The top of Wade’s crew cut shines and Green’s face is hidden in the shadow of his own hair.

  I still know a few hymns, Green says. I always liked the hymns.

  He whistles part of a nice song I’ve heard him whistle before.

  I just don’t know the words, he says.

  I can’t sing, Wade says. Never could.

  Wade says to me, You a Mormon, too?

  Nope, I say. Though I wish I was one at the moment, for some reason. To tell the truth I don’t know exactly what a Mormon is. Somebody says Mormon and I think of old men in beards and black hats. This Wade is a Mormon. Green says he used to be. I would never have guessed Green was a onetime churchgoer. All of this is definitely interesting.

  I listen to them while they swap a few Boy Scout stories and talk about Wade’s problem with everybody wanting him to be a missionary. I have never heard Green talk so much and I’m fairly certain he’s not drunk. He even gives Wade some advice about women.