by Tim Sandlin
She stared down at me in the tub for a full minute. Then she said, “It’s not my fault you’re growing up evil. You’ll pay for this someday.” She stomped out, slamming the door.
Lizbeth says I don’t pay attention. Cora Ann, who can’t communicate with anyone over twenty-two, says I’m “spaced out.” Sometimes I think I act this way because being nebulous is easier than taking care of myself.
***
The day I woke up with my shoes on, I went into the blackout period at work. I was washing dishes like a demon, slinging plates, stacking cups, listening to the Hobart sing the blues. My mind rested somewhere else: up on the hill studying Colette’s hands, outlining her fingernails, which go almost all the way to the first joint where they widen just a little. I was remembering the lines across the palms, trying to decide what it means when the two main lines don’t touch, and wondering about that small lump of flesh between Colette’s thumb and the rest of her hand.
Somewhere in all this meditation, a giggle seeped in. I looked around to see the whole crew standing by the pickup counter, staring at me the way people stare in dreams when I’ve gone outside without any pants on.
“What’s the matter?” I asked.
Joe, the manager, asked, “What are you doing, Kelly?” This made a couple of waitresses burst into laughter.
“Washing dishes.”
“Is there something wrong with the dish machine?” Joe is a well-enough-meaning guy for a manager. He puts up with my eccentricities, so I try to humor him when I can.
“Not that I know of.”
“You’re washing the same dishes over and over.”
“Huh?”
“Look at that plate in your hand. Why are you loading it into the wash rack?” I looked at the plate. It sparkled. As the saying goes, it was clean enough to eat off of.
“I’ve already washed this plate.”
Joe nodded. “Right, why are you washing it again?”
I looked back at the plate. “I forgot I already washed it.”
“You want to take a break or something?” Joe asked.
“No, I’m fine. I’ll only clean them once from now on.” The waitresses stared at me as if I was some kind of a freak. I guess I made them nervous.
***
That first weekend in June was gray, rainy, cold, rotten. The tourists hid in their motel rooms, watching cable TV and chewing candy bars. Locals stood around the bars and shot pool and drank to fight off the terminal boredom. I rehearsed speeches to give Colette, knowing if the words were dazzling enough and the love undying enough, I could hook her like a rainbow trout on a dry fly. I even practiced a few lines on Alice. She turned her back and washed her face.
Monday, however, the world changed. The sun came out. The Tetons sparkled in air so pure, so clean, the city folks’ lungs must have ached just to breathe it. Driving through Grand Teton Park, I rolled down the windows, turned the radio up full blast, and absorbed life. I was so busy absorbing that I almost ran down a camera-toting tourist who stood on the highway, focused on a buffalo. I swerved between him and the buffalo, frightening all three of us and ruining the picture.
Jackson Lake Lodge sits on a hill overlooking a flat willow swamp with Jackson Lake behind the swamp and Mount Moran behind Jackson Lake. The doors open onto a long room where guests register for cabins and float trips and horseback rides; then there is a wide stairway up to a huge, high-ceilinged place full of overstuffed chairs and old, wealthy people in off-colored slacks.
The bar is behind the stairway. A sign over the door says THE STOCKADE ROOM, NO MINORS ALLOWED. The lounge is made up to look like a wilderness fort from Daniel Boone’s days, all vertical log walls and animal furs, a couple of carved mountain men in full regalia. The ceiling is painted black and the lights are little inset twinklers. It’s supposed to be the night sky over Wyoming. Opposite the entrance is another set of doors opening onto an outdoor deck with chairs and tables.
I sat in the far left corner against the wall.
“You’re my fourth customer of the summer,” the cocktail waitress said. She wore a short skirt, cut jagged at the bottom like a Hollywood version of the happy Indian maiden, and long boots.
“What?” I said.
“We only opened today. You’re the fourth customer.”
“Oh.”
“I guessed where the other three were from. Didn’t miss a one. Want me to guess where you’re from?”
“I’m from Jackson.”
She leaned on one leg and studied me. “I bet you’re from Wisconsin,” she said. “You have that Wisconsin look.”
“I’m from Jackson.”
“Come on, nobody’s from Jackson. You were raised in Wisconsin, right?”
“No.”
She didn’t believe me. I ruined her perfect record. “What do you want?”
“VO and water.”
She wrote it down and walked away. A cardboard pyramid stood in the middle of the table with a specialty drink described on each of the four sides. Turning it slowly, I read about each one. They all sounded sweet.
“Two dollars,” the cocktail waitress said.
I handed her two-fifty. “Do you know what time it is?” I asked.
“Around one. Will that be all?”
“Yes, thank you.”
She walked back to the bar and began talking to the bartender. I sipped the drink. It was mostly water. The waitress with her guess-where-you’re-from game rankled me somewhat. For one thing, it was my game. For another, she was a seasonal employee—a summertime native. Resort areas worldwide maintain strict social caste systems based on how long each member has lived there, the idea being that “anyone who came after me is an outsider.” The system rates the seasonal employee somewhere above the tourists and below horses. No skinny-legged college girl working through summer vacation had the right to ask me where I was from. The bitch.
As I fumed about the cocktail waitress, a man came in wearing a checked sports coat. He picked up an accordion and began to sing. Since I was the only customer in the bar, he glanced at me from time to time to see if I appreciated the songs. I smiled and nodded.
“Any requests, kid?” the man said.
I thought. “Do you know ‘Oklahoma Hills Where I Was Born’?”
“No.” He broke into “Climb Every Mountain,” leaning into each stroke on the accordion.
“You want another one?” the cocktail waitress asked.
I looked up. She was pretty, for a college girl, but the scowl marred her face. “Do you know what time it is?”
“One-thirty, do you want another drink or not?”
I fingered my glass. Most of the ice had melted. “Actually,” I said, “I was born in Milwaukee, lived there till I was twelve.”
“I knew it,” she gloated. “I can spot Wisconsin every time. Listen, since it’s opening day, the next round’s on me.” She twirled and scampered back to the bar, anxious to tell the bartender that her perfect record was still perfect.
I started drink number three before Colette walked through the door. She stood in the entrance, waiting for her eyes to adjust to the bar darkness. She was wearing the same white western shirt she’d worn the first day I drove to the Broken Hart. Her hair was in a ponytail.
I waved my arm to get her attention. “You look nice today,” I said as she slipped into the chair next to mine.
“I don’t feel nice. I’m only here because you trapped me in the toilet, and I knew if I didn’t come, you’d think of something even worse to subject me to next time.”
I raised my glass to my lips and sipped. “You don’t sound in as good a mood as you were Thursday night.”
She picked up the cardboard pyramid and turned it around. “I had all weekend to think. When I think, I get sane and realize what you’re doing to me.”
“The
waitress is a smartass. When she guesses your home state, tell her she’s right.”
“Why?”
“Why are you so late?”
Colette set the pyramid back down. “None of your goddamn business. You look drunk.” She seemed to have worked herself into a fury. The eyebrows, usually so relaxed and wide, were drawn together low over her eyes. Her shoulders were raised, tight. This wasn’t the Colette I knew and loved.
“I was on time. There’s nothing to do in this bar but drink.”
“How many have you had?”
“I’m on my second.”
The cocktail waitress walked over with her tray braced between one hand and her hip. “Hi. What can I get you?” she asked.
Colette brushed her hair behind her right ear. “I’ll take a double Grand Marnier, on the rocks.”
The cocktail waitress didn’t move. “Say ‘I have to go to the market’.”
“Why?” Colette asked.
“Say it,” I said.
“I have to go to the market.”
The cocktail waitress put the tip of her pencil on her upper lip. “Southern, right. East side of Tennessee.”
I jumped in before Colette could answer. “Damn, you’re good. How’d you do that?”
“I deal with a lot of tourists. I am right, aren’t I?” she asked Colette.
“Yeah, I guess so,” Colette muttered. When the waitress was gone, she turned on me. “You sure lie easily.”
I drained my glass. “I do what it takes to get a decent drink.”
“Do you do what it takes to get a decent woman?”
“What the hell’s eating you?”
Colette looked away, toward the bar. “I’m pissed.”
“So I noticed. I’m Grumpy. Do you always drink Grand Marnier?”
“Is there anything wrong with that?”
We observed a moment of silence until the cocktail waitress brought the drinks. “Together, that’s seven dollars,” she said. Colette looked at me. I dug into my pocket for a five and two ones. I handed them to the waitress, but she didn’t leave. “You’re honeymooners, aren’t you? I can always spot the honeymooners.”
Colette scowled. “No, we are not honeymooners.”
I put my arm around her. “Aw, hell, honey, let’s admit it. We can’t fool this little girl.”
“I knew it,” said the waitress, then she went off to tell the bartender.
Colette shrugged my arm off her shoulder. “You’ve got a lot of nerve, Kelly.”
“She’s seasonal.” I drank, then put down my new glass. “What’s gotten into you anyway? You’re a whole different person.”
Colette was in a horrible state, all worked up and emotional. She looked like she might cry. “How dare you tell her we’re honeymooners.”
“Jesus—” I started.
“Don’t Jesus me.”
“So, you want to be honeymooners?”
“I’m warning you, Kelly, don’t start that shit.”
“We’ll have to get married first.”
Colette breathed deeply a couple of times. She tossed down her drink, five dollars’ worth of sticky liqueur in one chug. “It’s all over, Kelly,” she said. “The game has lasted long enough.”
“What do you mean?”
“Danny loves me. I can’t and won’t leave him.”
I tried making eye contact, but she would have no part of it. “We’re meant for each other,” I said.
“No, we aren’t. You do bizarre things, and I’m impressed because somebody’s willing to make a fool of himself over me, but that’s not love or fate. That’s just you acting like a fool.”
“What bizarre things have I done?”
She looked at me. “You don’t know? You sat in a tree outside my house half the night, you literally crashed my father-in-law’s barbecue, you trapped me in the toilet. That’s not bizarre? Not to mention that stunt at the wedding reception.”
I looked around the bar, not knowing what to say. Another couple had come in, the accordion player was taking a break, the waitress and the bartender huddled in the corner. Nobody seemed to care that my life was draining onto the floor. “I’d rather not live without you.”
Colette stared at her empty drink. “You’ll have to get used to it.”
The cocktail waitress approached us, carrying her tray up on her shoulder. The accordion player bounced along behind her, grinning. “Free drinks for the newlyweds,” the waitress laughed, setting another VO and another Grand Marnier on the table. She stood next to me, smiling.
The accordion player planted both feet, pulled his hands apart, closed his eyes, and broke into “Some Enchanted Evening.” His voice was a good octave higher than Ezio Pinza’s or whoever sang it first. And he pronounced “enchanted evening” like Lawrence Welk—“Enchandid Efening.”
“I love you, Colette,” I said over the music. “I’ll die without you.”
The accordion’s volume rose and fell and rose again. Colette smashed her empty glass on the floor. “How dare you say that to me. How dare you dump the responsibility for your life in my lap.”
“I can’t help it.”
“You make me so mad I could slug you.” Colette gulped down her second drink. The cocktail waitress stood very still. The accordion player went into verse two, winding up for the big finish.
Colette was crying, “I can’t stand it anymore.”
I yelled, “I love you.”
“I’m married!” She swung a right hook that struck me on the left cheekbone, knocking me to the floor.
The accordion player held the last word of the song, which was “go,” about seven seconds. “Go-o-o-o.” Then he sighed and opened his eyes, expecting applause or a tip or something other than me on the floor.
Colette covered her mouth with one hand. “Oh, I’m sorry, Kelly. I got excited.” She turned to the cocktail waitress. “I got excited. I’m sorry. He’s frustrating sometimes, and—”
“You aren’t really honeymooners, are you,” the waitress said.
Colette looked back down at me. “Uh, no, not really. I mean, I am, almost. I was a couple of weeks ago—but not with him.”
The cocktail waitress walked away. The accordion player didn’t move. Colette said, “Get up, Kelly. I said I was sorry.”
I felt the side of my head with my hand. “Loving you has been tough on my body.”
Colette laughed. “I’m better now, I needed that. Let’s walk out on the deck and have a drink—on me.”
“Are you going to hit me again?”
She stood up. “Nope, I promise. It’s all out of my system. You go outside and I’ll clean up the broken glass and buy us another round.”
“I still have a full drink.”
“I’ll get you another.”
Close to drunk, I stumbled past the accordion player and out the door onto the deck. What kind of woman had I chosen for my life mate anyway? I mean, I was crazy, but at least I was consistent about it. Colette always did the unexpected. Laughing when we were trapped in the toilet, slugging me for no reason, running away just because my zipper was sticky. Thursday afternoon she yelled, “Fuck off, Kelly.” Thursday night she said I might win her over, Monday afternoon she flattened me, then bought me a drink. Colette wasn’t any more stable than I was. We’d be perfect together.
***
“The waitress was nice, considering,” Colette said, walking onto the deck. “She didn’t seem mad at all about the glass.” Colette had a drink in each hand. Hers was a double.
“She’s probably confused,” I said. I set the new drink by my other one. “Your brother teach you how to punch?”
“No, I’m afraid that was spontaneous violence.”
“You’ve got fighter’s instincts.”
“Thank you.”
C
olette sat next to me, watching the tourists move in and out of the parking lot. We could see sunbathers at the pool behind the lot and farther off lay the valley and the Gros Ventre Mountains. The sun felt real good on my skin. I closed my eyes.
“What’s that mountain over there?” Colette asked.
I opened one eye. “Mount Leidy.”
“It looks lonesome all by itself.”
“Everybody’s lonesome all by themselves.”
Colette giggled and sipped her Marnier. “You sound drunk.”
“I am drunk,” I said. “I have a confession. I had three drinks before you came, not two.”
“You do lie easily, don’t you?”
I closed both eyes again. “Maybe.”
We sat in silence some more. I took Colette’s hand and she squeezed once.
“Damn, it’s nice here,” she said.
I settled deeper into the chair. “You’d have to be crazy to live anywhere but Jackson Hole.”
I could hear Colette sucking ice from her drink. “John says you are crazy. He says you were locked up awhile.”
“I was hospitalized, not locked up.”
“Why?”
“They said I tried to kill myself.”
“What did you do?”
“Do you really want to go into this?”
“Sure, what did you do?”
I opened my eyes to look at Colette. She was so beautiful. “I hit three shots of tequila in the Cowboy Bar bathroom one night.”
“Hit?”
“Shot up.”
“You injected tequila into your bloodstream? With a needle?”
She didn’t seem shocked or anything, just curious. “Yep. I wasn’t trying to kill myself, I only wanted to cop a buzz.”
“What’s ‘cop a buzz’?”
“Get drunk.”
Colette cleared the hair out of her eyes. “What happens when you inject that much tequila?”
I picked up one of my drinks and drained half of it. “Your eyes and ears bleed and you fall down and stop breathing.”
“Is that what happened to you?”
“I don’t know. That’s what they said happened to me. I woke up with tubes down my nose and my wrists tied to the bed.”