by Cathy Holton
He called every florist within a hundred miles. He ordered calla lilies and bird of paradise and orchids and tropical helitonia from Hawaii, and scheduled a dozen of each for delivery over a twelve-hour period. Then he went to the Hallmark store and bought three dozen cards. He spent the rest of the day writing notes on the cards, things like Forgive me. I’m an ass. There’s only one girl like you in the whole world. Give me another chance. You won’t be sorry, and other such things, one line to a card. Then he went to the post office and mailed all the cards at once.
He ordered one of those flashing portable billboards and had it delivered to the driveway of the vacant house across the street from Eadie, so that every morning when she woke up, and every evening when she went to bed, she could see his public affirmation—I love you Eadie—spelled out in bright, flashing neon bulbs.
He called the house and left long messages on her answering machine, filling it up with quotations from Sonnets from the Portuguese and Keats. In the middle of “La Belle Dame Sans Merci” she picked up the phone and said, “Stop calling, Trevor. This isn’t going to work.”
But something in the way she said it made him think it just might.
THE MORNING AFTER their first night at camp, the men got up early and trudged up to the aspen meadow on foot to hunt for elk. They followed the stream up through tall rocky cliffs, through a spruce grove and into a meadow of tall grass and aspen. They found elk scat here and Charles and Leonard got excited, but Bentley could see it was weeks old. They milled around in their excitement and trampled over the most promising trail, but Bentley said nothing. He wasn’t there to help them find game or lead them to the best hunting spots; he was there to make sure they didn’t accidentally shoot themselves or fall into a ravine.
By mid-morning Redmon had had enough. “I’m hungry as a goat on a concrete pasture,” he said. “Let’s get back to camp and eat.”
“We’re not here to eat, we’re here to hunt,” Charles said, brandishing the Remington Wingmaster he had borrowed from Ramsbottom.
“I could eat,” Leonard said.
“Goddamn it,” Charles said.
“Hey, buddy, you best simmer down,” Redmon said. “You’ve had a bee in your bonnet since we started this trip.”
They could smell food as they came down into the pine grove that ringed the camp, and Redmond clapped his hands together and shouted cheerfully to William, “Goddamn, I’m hungry as a woodpecker with a sore pecker! Is that steak you’re cooking there, ’cause I’m definitely in the mood for a big old juicy steak!”
“We having chili,” William said, slamming the lid on the pot. He was wearing the same dirty apron he’d worn yesterday over his camouflage jacket. A cigarette dangled from the edge of his mouth.
“How much longer till it’s ready?” Redmon said, holding his big hairy nose over the pot.
William took the lid off and stirred the chili, his face set with the determined expression of a man contemplating murder and mayhem. “Hey, man, it’s ready when it’s ready. Why don’t you sit your sorry ass down over there by that fire and peel me some potatoes, you looking for something to do.”
Redmon had never in his entire life had a negro talk to him in such a way. It was the way his own daddy used to talk to him. It made Redmon feel like he was a little boy back home in the Alabama pine lands. It made him feel like he and the black man were developing some kind of special bond out here in the wilderness, some kind of macho fellowship that transcended race and creed and economic status.
“I think I’ll have me a beer,” Redmon said.
“Don’t look at me, motherfucker,” William said.
“Well, all right then,” Redmon said, and grinning at William, he went to get himself a beer.
THAT AFTERNOON, THEY decided to try their luck farther up. They took Bentley’s advice and followed a trail that led north from the aspen meadow they had unsuccessfully hunted that morning. The trail skirted the creek, which narrowed to a trickle through thick stands of wild brush, and then widened again as the trail and creek bottom converged. Tall stands of pine and alder crowded the creek as they walked single file, Bentley in front, followed by Charles and then Leonard, with Redmon bringing up the rear. Bentley had been quiet, with the exception of reminding the gentlemen to keep their safeties on.
Pine needles deadened their footsteps as they climbed. It had stopped sleeting but the sky was overcast again, and beneath the tall trees the air was cold and damp and thick with the scent of rotting humus. They had walked for the better part of two hours and had seen nothing, not even a bird. Redmon had complained steadily of the cold and the weight of his rifle and the lack of game. Leonard limped ahead of him, coughing politely from time to time, and trying to be supportive.
The trail opened up on a wide meadow strewn with boulders. The creek here was wide and slow-moving, and they followed its banks as it rose through the tall grass into a stand of pine, where it narrowed and tumbled over smooth boulders.
A half-mile up they came upon a bear cub crouched low in the water, and before anyone could stop him, Redmon swung the Rigby to his shoulder and fired in the air over the cub’s head. The recoil of the elephant gun knocked him flat. The shot echoed through the mountains and across the quiet meadow. The cub rose up on its hind legs, sniffed the air, and ran bawling up a small ridge.
“You idiot,” Charles cried.
“Who you calling an idiot, you Pencil Pusher?” Redmon said, climbing with Leonard’s help, to his feet.
“The mama can’t be far away,” Bentley said, his eyes anxiously scanning the ridge. “You better hope that cub wasn’t a grizzly.”
It was. The sow appeared minutes later, a huge monstrous shape standing upright on the ridge.
“Dear Jesus, what we gonna do now?” Redmon cried.
“Run,” Charles said.
They took off at a sprint across the meadow before Bentley could stop them, Charles moving like a world-class athlete, followed by Leonard who limped along at a good pace, and Redmon who made little grunting squeals as he ran. Bentley watched them in disgust. He leaned over and picked up the Rigby, cradling it in his arms as he walked across the field slowly, his eyes fixed on the sow.
Charles was already in the top of the tree. Leonard, afraid of heights, was climbing slowly. Redmon stood at the base of the tree, holding the stock of Leonard’s rifle up to him.
“Goddamn it, boy, move it,” Redmon shouted at Leonard. Seeing Bentley move up beside him Redmon cried, “Help me, Sport. I can’t get my leg up over that first branch.”
“Shut up,” Bentley hissed, still watching the bear. “You got us into this mess. Get your own ass up that damn tree.”
Redmon looked like he was having a stroke. His face turned purple. His eyes bulged and rolled in his head like marbles. He grasped the lower limb with his free hand.
“I think that bear’s fixing to charge,” Charles said from the top of the tree, trying to be helpful.
“Give me my rifle,” Leonard squealed, and the sow swung her head around toward the tree.
“Shit,” Bentley said.
Redmon raised the stock of Leonard’s rifle like a blind man raising a torch and Leonard clutched the stock with a trembling hand. There was a sudden loud boom as the rifle discharged. The bullet sliced through Redmon’s hunting boot and creased the side of his left heel before piercing the sole of the boot and burrowing several inches into the frozen ground. For a moment, no one moved. Then Redmon dropped to the ground and began to roll around clutching his heel and bleating like a slaughtered sheep. Leonard, realizing he had just shot his biggest client, leaned over and was sick.
Bentley lifted the Rigby, and sighting carefully, aimed at the sow. She stood watching them from the ridge, the rifle shot still echoing through the canyons. The sow dropped to her feet, and turning, disappeared over the ridge with the cub following closely behind.
Bentley lowered the Rigby and turned around slowly. “Didn’t I tell you to put the safety on?
” he said to Leonard. “Didn’t I tell you over and over to put the damn safety on?” He set the Rigby down and knelt beside Redmon. Blood had begun to seep through the hole in Redmon’s boot. Seeing this, Redmon began to scream.
“Shut up, man!” Bentley said. “You want that grizzly coming back?” Redmon clamped his hand over his mouth and watched Bentley, wild-eyed, as Bentley carefully untied the boot and slid it off Redmon’s foot. The sock was soaked in blood, but when he took it off Bentley could see Redmon’s wound was superficial. “It’s just a scratch, man,” he said, shaking his head.
“I’ll bleed to death,” Redmon said, “way up here in the wilderness.”
“No, man, you ain’t gonna bleed to death over this little scratch.” Bentley took a handkerchief out of his pocket, wrapped it tightly around Redmon’s heel, and then put the sock back on. He lifted the boot but Redmon shook his head. “You don’t wear the boot, you can’t walk,” Bentley said to him.
“I can’t walk anyway,” Redmon wailed. “I’m shot!”
Leonard climbed down slowly out of the tree. His face was white. His lips moved soundlessly. Charles climbed down behind him.
“You boys will have to carry him,” Bentley said to them, rising.
Charles looked at Leonard. “You carry him,” he said. “He’s your client.”
“GODDAMN,” RAMSBOTTOM SAID, when Bentley called that night to tell him. “Are you telling me one of them actually shot the other?”
“Yeah, but it’s only a flesh wound. I bandaged him up, gave him a bottle of whiskey, and the yahoo is sitting in front of the fire singing some song about rednecks and mothers and goat ropers. We’ll leave in the morning and be back at the house by mid-afternoon or thereabouts.”
“Hell, we don’t even need to worry about Nature whittling them down,” Ramsbottom said, chuckling. “They seem to be doing a pretty good job of that themselves.”
CHAPTER
* * *
SEVENTEEN
BACK IN ITHACA, the wives were dealing with their own disasters.
Nita spent Wednesday morning housecleaning and at eleven o’clock she stopped and went to shower before the two o’clock closing at the bank. But at one o’clock her cell phone rang and it was Dr. Osborne telling her he had been unable to transfer the funds and they would have to push the closing off until tomorrow.
An ominous feeling settled over Nita. She wasted no time calling Lavonne.
“Goddamn it,” Lavonne said, scratching relentlessly at the rash on her arm. “What’s his number?” She forced herself to calm down before she called him. If he heard panic in her voice, the whole deal would collapse. She forced herself to believe she had another buyer waiting in the wings, and when she had somehow managed to convince herself of this falsehood, she called Osborne.
“We’re not playing around here,” she said. “Either you want the car or you don’t.”
“I don’t think you understand how hard it is to move such a large sum of money. I can wire transfer the funds, although they won’t guarantee fund availability until Monday, but if you want a certified check, it’s going to take a day or two.”
“A day or two? You’ve known about this for over a week.”
“Look, it’s a short time frame. I’m doing the best I can do.”
“How many 1931 Duesenburgs do you know that have gone on the market recently? Call Nita in the morning to confirm you’re ready to close. If you don’t show up tomorrow at two o’clock with a certified check, we’ll sell to the other buyer.”
“What other buyer?”
“The other buyer who’s ready to close tomorrow at two o’clock,” Lavonne lied.
DALLAS PADGETT, THE associate Lavonne had arranged to handle the closing with Delores Swafford and the Winklers, called Thursday morning to say he needed to postpone the closing until Monday. Lavonne scratched furiously at the hives that now covered her chest and stomach. She tried to keep her voice calm.
“I told you, Dallas, we have to close tomorrow. Friday morning at eleven o’clock. That’s the deal. That’s what the contract says.”
“I’m just not comfortable with it, Lavonne. I’ve never done an all-cash deal, especially one that involves such a large amount of cash. I mean, Leonard didn’t leave me any instructions, which isn’t like him. He didn’t leave me a memo or an e-mail or a phone message, nothing.”
“So what are you saying, Dallas, that I made the whole thing up?”
“No, no of course not, Lavonne.”
“You saw the power of attorney. You’ve got a contract, right? The title is clear, right?”
“Well, yes.” She heard the hesitation in his voice. “But normally, there’s a bank involved and a closing like this takes weeks to put together. I don’t know, it just seems so hurried.”
Lavonne thought, There’s a reason for that, you pinhead. She curled her fingers into a fist to keep from scratching and tried to convince herself she had the power to pull this off. She made herself believe she didn’t care if the closing went off or not. She told herself she didn’t need the money; that her business partnership with Mona Shapiro, that her own financial security, wasn’t dependent on this closing. She pretended she had just won the lottery.
“Look, Dallas, you do whatever you have to do.” Her voice sounded surprisingly confident and unconcerned. “I’m just telling you the Winklers have been after us for months to sell the house to them, and Sunday night they called with a cash offer we couldn’t refuse. It was late or Leonard probably would have called you then. He was in a hurry to get out of town Monday morning or he probably would have sent you a memo. All he could do was sign the power of attorney and then ask me to handle it while he’s away.”
“I just wish I could talk to Leonard.”
“Well you can’t, Dallas. He’s where he can’t be reached by cell phone. That’s part of the appeal of the place.” She thought, I don’t need this closing. She thought, Please, God, let this closing come off as planned. “You saw the contract. The contract is clear. We have to close by Friday or the deal’s off.”
“That’s another odd thing,” Dallas said. “I’ve never seen a contract with a five-day closing stipulation.”
“Look, Dallas, you’ve obviously made up your mind not to do the closing, which makes it kind of difficult for me because who else am I going to get to close it at such a late date, but if that’s your decision, fine. I’ll just try to explain to Leonard when he gets back that the Winklers have walked and the huge amount of cash he expected to see in his checking account isn’t there because you got cold feet about doing the closing. I’m sure he’ll understand.”
“Goddamn it. Let me think about it.”
“Call me in an hour.” She hung up. She drove to the bakery feeling like she was standing in the shadow of Mount St. Helens minutes before it detonated. The day was cloudy and rainy, which matched her emotional state perfectly. Wet leaves littered the pavement. Woodsmoke curled from chimneys and hung like a dense fog over the tree-lined streets and rows of neat houses. She was supposed to be meeting Nita and Eadie to go over last-minute details, but all Lavonne could think about was how terrible it was going to be trying to pay rent on a bookkeeper’s salary, assuming, of course, she could even find a job. Assuming it didn’t take Rosebud Smoot ten years of litigation to squeeze out of Leonard whatever money she had coming to her.
NITA HAD ASKED Jimmy Lee to drop her off behind the building and let her walk, but he insisted on dropping her off at the front door so she wouldn’t get wet. When he insisted on anything, she was powerless against him. It was only because he was an honorable man that their lovemaking hadn’t progressed beyond the kissing and cuddling stage, because the truth of the matter was, if he had insisted on moving things to the bed, she would have been powerless against that, too. There were times when she regretted her decision not to sleep with him until after she had confronted Charles. Until after she had decided what to do about her marriage. There were times when she thought about
the way his hair curled against the nape of his neck, or the way his arms felt around her, or how sweet his breath was upon her face, times when she thought: Charles hasn’t been faithful to his wedding vows, why should I be faithful—technically at least—to mine? But she was a good girl. She had been a good girl all her life. She couldn’t go and change who she was now, even though her husband was a faithless bastard, even though she was in love with someone else.
Nita looked over her shoulder as she climbed out of the truck. She and Jimmy Lee tried to be careful, but it was dangerous being seen with him. Charles wasn’t the kind of man to forgive her for anything, especially Jimmy Lee. He was the kind who would take her children away from her for spite and pure meanness. If the sale of the Deuce didn’t go through and she was forced to stay with Charles until she could figure out a way to leave and take the children, her relationship with Jimmy Lee would have to end. She couldn’t risk Charles finding out and punishing her through the children.
And it was beginning to look increasingly as if the sale of the Deuce was not going to take place. The closing was supposed to happen this afternoon at two o’clock, but Dr. Osborne hadn’t called to confirm this. She had called him twice and left messages and he hadn’t returned her call either time. The thought of failure depressed her. The idea that she might have to give up Jimmy Lee thundered through her head, slow and somber as rain on a tin roof.
Eadie and Lavonne were already waiting for her. Nita shook her umbrella out and left it sitting just inside the door.
“Don’t tell me,” Lavonne said when she saw her face. “Dr. Osborne hasn’t called you to confirm the closing.”