by Chris Offutt
“Stay away from here tonight.”
Joe headed for his cabin. At the edge of town, the red sign of a motel was partially lit by flickering neon. Joe impulsively pulled into the lot. A bleary-eyed desk clerk gave him a key. In the room was a single bed and a television. Joe lay on the bed. The ugliest picture he’d ever seen was fastened to the wall by six screws. A phone sat on a table and he felt an intense urge to call Abigail He couldn’t remember if the time in Kentucky was earlier or later than Montana.
He woke folly dressed on top of the bedspread. Sunlight filtered through the curtains as he removed his clothes and went back to sleep. In the afternoon he took a long bath. Winning money at poker had given him the first good feeling in months and he strolled downtown. A faint snow made the buildings indistinct, as if seen through silk. The money felt free to him, come from nowhere, and he wanted to buy something before it wound up transformed to a stack of chips in someone else’s pile.
The courthouse reminded him of the one in Rocksalt. It was built of stone and occupied an entire block, with a statue of a soldier charging across the wide lawn. Across the street was a bail bondsman and a lawyer’s office. It occurred to Joe that Montana made life handy for criminals.
He found a pawnshop with rows of leather jackets and stereo equipment, a motorcycle, and a pinball machine. The young proprietor wore a heavy mustache that ran to his jawline. Joe inspected several pistols and asked for a .32 caliber that would fit in a coat pocket. The man gave him a form to fill out.
“Costs fifteen dollars to run the Brady check,” he said. “Come back in five days.”
Joe didn’t want to put his new name into the federal system. A driver’s license was risk enough.
“It ain’t the money,” Joe said, “but I don’t come to town that often. I’d just as soon get everything taken care of at once.”
“I understand, but I can’t.”
“What about if you just sell it to me personally?”
“Wish I could, partner. Ml these guns are catalogued already and I have to account for them.”
“Ain’t they nothing I can do?”
“Use the paper,” the man said.
“What do you mean?”
“Take a look at the classified ads in the newspaper. Hell, it’s like a black market.”
“How about ammo?”
“Don’t worry, they’ll have that, too.”
Joe bought a gun cleaning kit, and inquired about gold coins.
“What weight?” the man said.
“How’s it come?”
“Ounce, half-ounce, and a quarter.”
“Ounce I guess.”
“Eagle or Maple Leaf?” the man said.
“Shoot, I don’t know.”
“Eagle is American. It’s ten-percent copper alloy but the value’s the same. Canadian Maple Leaf is solid gold.”
“What do most people get?”
“You know how it is around here. Folks mainly go for American. Had some Krugerrands out of South Africa but some man bought them all. Came in wearing full fatigues and carrying a Glock. Paid in hundreds.”
“Reckon I’ll take the Eagle.”
The man stepped into the back room. Stacked on the counter were new Liberty Teeth pamphlets. The front held a quote from Thomas Jefferson; “No free man shall ever be debarred the use of arms.” Inside was a drawing of a scaffold with a man hanging from the noose. Pinned to his shirt was a note that said RACE TRAITOR. A fire burned below his dangling feet. At the bottom were the words MONTANA FOR AMERICANS ONLY.
The man returned with a gold coin in a small plastic bag. It was very heavy. One side bore a raised image of an eagle bringing a sprig to its young in a nest. Below it were the words ONE OZ. FINE GOLD— 50 DOLLARS.
“Fifty bucks,” Joe said. “I’ll take half a dozen.”
“I guess you would. We go by spot price in the newspaper, plus twenty dollars.”
“Then what’s the fifty on it mean?”
“Original mold.” The man shrugged. “They never changed it. I don’t know why.”
The price of the coin was very high, but Joe bought it anyway and slipped it in his pocket. He tapped the pile of pamphlets.
“What are these all about? I keep seeing them.”
“Some friend of the owner drops them off. I threw out two bunches and got in trouble over it.”
“What’s a race traitor?”
“Hell if I know. I can’t keep up with that bunch. One week it’s Indians, next week it’s taxes.” The man shook his head. “They started out being over gun control and I was all for it. The government wanted us to hold a guy’s gun for three days when he took it out of hock, but that didn’t work out. Pawnshops put up a stink all over the country. Now they got the sheriff’s office doing extra work, running background checks. Some of them are so busy with, paperwork, they can’t get out and do no sheriffing.”
“Do these pamphlets help?”
“Hell, no. They piss a lot of people off, including me. But it ain’t my store. If it was, I’d get rid of the damn guns and deal in video games. Biggest turnover we got. You don’t want to look at a setup, do you?”
“I don’t have a TV.”
“No problem, partner. We’ll fix you right up.”
Joe shook his head and left. Though it was late afternoon, he ate breakfast at a diner and read a newspaper. For the first time in months, he took an interest in events of the world. There was an article about Christmas spending having risen since last year. He checked the paper’s date and was astounded to learn that it was January thirteenth. The holidays had come and gone without his notice. He thought of his mother and was stricken by the knowledge that she’d stayed near the phone in case he called.
From a pay phone he called a number in the paper that advertised guns for sale. The voice on the other end was curt, stressing that he only had legal weapons. Joe told him he wanted a small-caliber pistol and arranged to meet the man in the parking lot of a tavern. Outside, a thick snow fell. Neon bar signs tinged the air with gleaming shades of red, Joe drove to the lot and waited. Half an hour later, a small white car parked next to the Jeep. Joe opened the passenger door and sat inside.
The driver was in his forties, with long hair and a black Stetson. He wore a light denim jacket and beneath it Joe could see the web harness of a shoulder holster. The man didn’t talk as he opened a duffel bag and handed Joe one pistol at a time until he chose a .32 caliber. Joe asked for a box of ammunition and the man nodded. When Joe asked how much, the man held up two fingers.
“Two hundred?” Joe said.
The man nodded.
“That’s too much.”
The man shrugged and held out his hand for the pistol. Joe counted the money into the man’s palm. The silence made him nervous. He slipped the gun in his pocket and opened the car door. The man touched his arm. Joe stiffened, a quick surge of fear rushing through him. He turned warily and the man handed him the box of ammunition, Joe left the car.
Snow made a screen that blocked the street. He locked the front hubs into four-wheel drive and crossed the Clark Fork in snow too thick to see the guardrails. His headlights reflected off the wall of snow and shined back through the windshield. He passed two car wrecks, one deserted, the other attended by police and ambulance. He suddenly had no idea how far he’d traveled or how much time had passed since he’d left town. No one knew where he was. He held the steering wheel tightly, afraid of losing his balance and falling from the seat. He wanted to pull over and wait until daylight, wait until spring.
Lights flashed in his rearview mirror and he steered to the edge of the road as a small pickup passed him very fast. Joe drove through the whirl of snow left by the truck’s passage, deciding that the driver must be a local. He wondered if he’d ever be able to rush into the slippery darkness with such confidence.
He stopped at the tavern by Rock Creek, hoping to show off his gold piece» but it was empty. The bartender sat at the bar with a glass and a
bottle of liquor. A situation comedy flickered on a small television.
“I don’t know why I watch this shit,” she said.
“Nothing else to do.”
“You can watch with me, if you like. Everything’s on the house tonight.”
She offered Joe a glass of whisky. As she leaned forward, he saw a flash of delicate black lace inside her shirt. He took a quick sip, which burned his throat and brought on the memory of driving county roads with Arlow. That night seemed like a decade back.
The bartender was still leaning and he didn’t want to look at her because he knew he’d see her bra again. A Liberty Teeth pamphlet lay on the bar. He held it up.
“You believe this stuff?”
“Hell, no,” she said. “That crap’s nothing but a bunch of crap. Some of these round-asses think they’re better than the rest of us. They blame everybody else for their sorry selfs.”
“Then why keep these things here?”
“People just drop them off, same as lost-dog flyers or church bake sales.”
“Is it the Ku Klux Klan, or what?”
“Are they the ones who wear sheets?” Joe nodded.
“Not them, then. Nobody around here can spare the bedding.”
She finished her drink and poured another, her long hair trailing the bar.
“Who is it then,” Joe said.
“Could be you best not ask,” she said, “Could be that’s just the kind of thing you don’t want to know. Now sit here and let’s watch some TV.”
Joe stayed where he was. He sipped the whisky, and the burn ran from his throat to his chest and spread along his limbs.
“Tell you what,” she said. “I’ll fix you something special. Ever hear of a mat drink?”
“No.”
She swayed to her feet and grabbed the stool. She sucked on her cigarette as if it would make her sober and pointed to the other side of the bar.
“You take that rubber mat and drain off all the spills into a glass, then drink it.”
“This is fine,” Joe said.
He touched the glass to his mouth as she sat down.
“Come on over here,” she said. “What’s the matter, you don’t like TV?”
“Not really.”
“My God in heaven. Why the hell not?”
Joe watched the television screen for a minute. At the next joke, the actress paused for the laugh track to begin.
“Right there’s why,” he said. “That’s not real people laughing, I mean it’s real, but it’s on a tape. They just turn it on and off.”
“It’s a comedy is why.”
“It doesn’t need us,” Joe said. “The damn thing laughs at itself.”
“You sure think different from the rest of these cowboys around here.” She pointed at the liquor shelf. “Sure you can’t find nothing you want?”
What he wanted was her, but he was afraid, and the fear bothered him, even as it increased his desire.
“Where you from?” he said.
“Up on the Hi-Line, Daddy moved us to Missoula when I was twelve. How about you?”
“I got a place on Rock Creek.”
“Not one of those tipis, is it?”
“I don’t reckon.”
“Aw, shucks,” she said. “I was hoping you might need you a dpi creeper sometime,”
She finished her drink and looked at him, her gaze moving from his face to his boots and back to his face.
“I was ready to close up when you came in,” she said. “This snow holds business down and the road’s too bad for me to get home. I usually just stay over. Got a bed in the back.”
“Guess I’ll be going then.”
“Have another drink,” she said.
“That’s all right.”
“There’s plenty of it, and more to come,”
“I probably ort to leave.”
“Maybe the roads are too bad for you to make it,” she said, as she stood. “Wouldn’t want you to wreck on us.”
“I’ll be careful.”
“I like careful men,” she said, and moved close to him.
“I do my best.”
“Me, too,” she said. “Why don’t you stay and find out what my best is.”
She leaned forward and kissed him, bumping against his body. Her lips tasted like whisky and smelled of smoke. Joe returned her kiss and she pushed against him, her arms hanging slack at her waist. She stumbled, nearly pulling him to the floor, Joe maneuvered her to lean against the bar. He gripped her arms and kissed her hard, feeling the desire rising in him until the fear surpassed it. He leaned away, abruptly angry. He hurried across the room, hearing her laugh as he went out the door.
He drove through the Valley of the Moon, veering around boulders that had fallen into the road. The creek was dull black at the bottom of a steep drop and he wondered how many collisions had happened here. He felt an urge to stand on the gas pedal, yank the wheel, and plunge down the bank into the water. He slowed to make sure he wouldn’t do it.
At his cabin he parked out of the wind and left the truck. The snow fell in a steady rush, a blanket that never stopped. He stood in the darkness and let it settle on his head, making epaulets along his shoulders. He felt ashamed for not staying with the bartender, and wondered if there was something wrong with him. Perhaps he’d spent so much time alone that he’d been rained for company. He thought about Abigail. Leaving the tavern was not related to her and it had nothing to do with the bartender either. He’d left because he couldn’t be with a woman until he was sure of who he was. “Virgil Caudill was gone and there was no grave, no marker, no place for sorrow and rage. He had simply ceased to exist.
His mind ran through the events in Kentucky. There’d be no question as to who had killed Rodale, but the official interest would go only as far as it had when Boyd died. The police would take a report and little else. The sheriff wouldn’t do anything. Joe hadn’t told anyone where he was going because he hadn’t known himself, and he hadn’t contacted anyone at home. He’d gotten rid of the gun. He’d paid for everything with cash so paper wouldn’t follow him. The only improvement he could see was to have spared Rodale.
He went inside and studied the mirror. Facing him was long hair and a long beard, but it was still Virgil. He wondered who had killed Billy Rodale—Virgil or Joe.
He built a fire and went to bed. Everything he owned had once belonged to other people. Another man’s foot had stretched the leather of his boots. His sleeping bag conformed to the shape of someone else’s body. Even his name had come from the grave. He looked at his hands and wondered if he would recognize them on another man, or loose in a bin at a junk store.
15
* * *
Darkness and snow formed the borders of Joe’s life. He ceased to shave or bathe. He began a dozen books but never read past the first chapter. Many days he stayed in bed. One side of the canyon was always shade, with the sun arriving at midmorning and leaving by midafternoon. Great snow drifts muffled the land. At night the snowlight glowed.
As a child he had watched his father chop wood for the fire each day. He and his brother gathered kindling in a box. He remembered his father saying that wood made you warm twice—first when you split it and second in the fire. Now Joe split wood until his ax was dull and he had enough kindling to last for years. He reorganized the woodpile to make a separate place for the kindling, arranged according to size, then changed his mind and restacked it again.
He spent hours listening to static on the radio, turning the dial slowly to catch each tenth of every number. Occasionally he’d hear a scrap of music, the distant echo of a voice. When he tried to imagine what might be coming over the airwaves, his mind always returned to the advertising jingles of his childhood. He sang one again and again;
There is a reason why
everybody wants to buy
at Glasser Supply
in Rocksalt—
McCulloch Chainsaw!
This was followed by the sound of a chain
saw’s whine, which Joe duplicated with his voice. He walked around the house as if holding a chainsaw, cutting the walls and destroying the furniture. He pretended to lop the possum’s head off, then felt guilty and apologized. The possum continued its blank-eyed stare. Joe combed its tawny fur with his fingers.
“Wouldn’t it be something,” he said, “if there was a million dollars stuffed inside you. Even a thousand dollars. But don’t you worry, I won’t cut you open. Not on your life. I’ll never hurt you. Never.”
A crackling sound outside stopped him. He walked slowly to his bureau for his pistol and eased the safety off. He peered out each window but saw only snow, sky, and the dark wall of trees. His heart was beating fast. He heard the sound again. It came from the front of the cabin. He jerked the door open and stayed behind it, peeking through the crack between door and jamb. The sound came again. Very quickly, he stepped around the door, leading with the pistol. A squirrel stood immobile on the woodpile. It stared at Joe for a long time before biting into a pine cone.
Joe’s hands were trembling, and sweat soaked into his long underwear. He turned from the door, placed the gun on the refrigerator, and kicked the stove until its door caved in. He flipped the kitchen table on its side. He hurled his few dishes across the room, and knocked his canned goods to the floor. He emptied the drawers and ran through the house with a saucepan, beating the walls and doors. He threw his sleeping bag to the floor and stomped it until he tripped himself. In the bathroom, he stared at the mirror briefly before smashing his forehead against it. When he pulled his head away, a shard fell to the sink.
He ran outside without his coat and kept running to stay warm. His breath turned to ice on his beard. He leaned against a tree and heard his ragged breathing, his lungs aching in the cold. He followed coyote tracks along the frozen lane of a gully that fed Rock Creek. Twice his foot broke through the ice. The coyote had its own troubles, visible in the occasional wild scrapes and slides in the snow. There was a sudden spotting of estrus, and Joe recalled Rodale’s dark blood glistening in the night.
The tracks veered left and Joe rested beneath a tall pine. Brown needles covered the ground like sand. None of the pine trees in Kentucky were this big. He had no purpose in the woods, served no function. The coyote hunted game while deer ate bark. Geese had a flock. The ram he’d seen had a mate somewhere on the mountain. He was sick of himself. Terror rippled through him. For the first time in his life, his thoughts scared him. He could not be alone any longer.