Nobody's Angel

by Mcguane, Thomas

  “No.”

  “It will be quiet there?”

  “Could be a little too quiet.”

  The interstate kept curving into them, fanning the lights of Deadrock farther and farther northward. The trucks eastbound in the night mounted from the valley and rolled with a peculiarly fatal motion until they were out of sight.

  They made love in Patrick’s bedroom. They had simply not spoken. There had been a temptation to leave the motor running. Claire’s breath shuddered and she held on to Patrick rather than held him. He was overcome with a blind tenderness. They each smelled like the women in the car. He held her hips and turned his forehead into her fragant neck and felt his own throat ache pointlessly. Suddenly it was out of their control, like a movie film that has come off its sprockets, leaving vivid incomprehensible images. Then stops, awaiting repair.

  “Can you breathe?”

  “Yes.”

  “Like this?”

  “Yes, I can breathe fine.”

  “Sun’ll be up in three hours.”

  “I know it.”

  “But you’ll still be driving in the dark.”

  There was a very long spell of silence.

  “I’ll be driving home from here in the dark.” Then she burst into convulsively merry laughter. “The sun should be up by the time I get back from dropping the ladies— Oh God!”

  Patrick burned, watching her dress. There were things Claire did, not entirely necessary to the simple restoration of her clothes. The braid lay in the channel of her back. She leaned to kiss him good night before she had covered her breasts. Her eyes had now a velocity, an intention and loss of weakness that made him know that although their time was gone, she wanted him again.

  “Amo shuffle on home.”

  “I think you should.”

  “Natty don’t work for no CIA.”

  “That’s clear.”

  “I have chores.”

  “Right …”

  “No car pool up that way. Babylon by Cadillac.”

  “Seems like a shame.”

  “What?”

  “Hit and run. Nothing eventual.”

  She said, “It’s what we have.”

  36

  IN THE THREE HOURS PATRICK SLEPT, A FOOT OF SNOW FELL. It must have fallen on an almost windless night, because where it cleaved at roof’s edge the angle was perfect and vertical. Some of it fell in powdery sheets onto the still-green lilacs. But the world was white as Christmas, and the Absarokas beyond seemed a subtle interstitial variant of that same whiteness, a photograph with two or three planes of focus. The first thing that Patrick heard was a rifle booming into silence; and when he went to the window in his drawers, he could see down into the yard, where his grandfather, head shrouded under an immemorially weathered John B. Stetson hat, was sighting in his old Winchester. He had dragged a table into the yard and was firing toward the elevation of earth beneath the orchard. Patrick took down the binoculars from on top of his dresser to see what he was firing at: an old Hills Brothers can, with the man in the yellow caftan drinking coffee, wedged in the bank. As Patrick watched, the caftan disappeared, round after thundering round, until only the head and fez remained; then in one resonant crack that rolled down the creek bottom, they were gone too. The old man restacked the empties in their box, removed five live rounds, put those in his shirt pocket and stood up on the one good leg and the one slightly crooked, mule-kicked leg that had nearly got him into movies.

  By God, thought Patrick, the bastard can still shoot.

  Once Patrick got downstairs, he could smell Hoppe’s number 9 powder solvent, one of the most sentimental fragrances in the land. Before he turned the corner into the kitchen, he could make out the muscles in the old man’s forearm as he raced the cleaning rod in and out of the barrel; he stopped and watched the patches accumulate from gray-black to white, heard the minute amphibian sound of the oilcan and the swish of cloth. Then when he heard the rifle stand in the corner with a solid thud, he imagined it would be safe to reveal himself without making any promises about hunting trips.

  “Good morning.”

  “Good morning, Pat.”

  “That you shooting?”

  “Yes. The old smokepole will still drive a tack.”

  “What were you shooting at?”

  “I was shooting a little tin. I shot it till I got tired of it. Then I quit.”

  “I suppose you want to go hunting.”

  “No, I don’t. I want to look at apartments. You take me. I can’t be arguing with landlords. I’m the ramrod of the Heart Bar.”

  Arnoldcrest Apartments was built in the twenties and, architecturally, made more than a passing bow to the phantom district known as Constantinople. There was something secretive about its ground plan, a suggestion of courtyards and fountains that never materialized from the beginning, arched entryways and recessed windows—all once the hope of a man dreaming of the deserts of the East, but quite another thing to the widows and pensioners of the Northwest, flattened by snow, fixed incomes and a hundred thousand newspapers. On the other hand, one could hang out an upstairs window, perhaps a little perilous for the octogenarians, and see nine Montana bars. That was not all bad. They could be reached in five minutes at a walk, three at a trot, round-trip times to the contrary notwithstanding.

  They walked from the parked truck. Patrick thought, It’s Istanbul, not Constantinople. Why did Constantinople get the works? That’s nobody’s business but the Turks’. This is what the yellow man in the fez was trying to tell me: We’ve got everything here but the harem.

  Mr. Meacham, the manager, had been in the merchant marine and wore his khakis and T-shirt and crew cut with the same directness of statement—washing versus pressing, cleanness versus grooming—that Patrick imagined had been the measure of the man on the high seas. He had two further thoughts in a row: One, is this how you dress if it is a regular part of your job to take Arnoldcrest clients out the door feet first? Two, is this how you dress to set up a disciplinary contrast with old cowboys and ranchers who do not maintain up-to-date standards of personal hygiene? In other words, does Mr. Meacham batter a door down with his crew cut when he suspects bed wetting? This was a little like packing lunch for Junior’s first school day. Patrick was extremely nervous.

  First they explored a one-bedroom. It had plaster walls and milled wainscoting that must have been done on a production line fifty years ago. The sockets were waist-high, and there was an overhead fixture in the livingroom with green glass cherubs. The steam registers bracketed the one decent-sized window, and the window gave onto a view of the Emperial Theater and the Hawk, a little bar that sold cheese and cigars.

  “Who’s living in the building?” asked the grandfather.

  “A number of people like yourself,” said Meacham. “Some terrific people. A number of former cowboys.”

  “Any Indians?”

  “Yes, Mr. Stands-in-Timber is just down the corridor with his mother, who is said to be a very good cook. They speak sign language to themselves, and so they’re very quiet neighbors indeed.”

  It was fairly quiet, though the lonesome sound of daytime television came from behind brass-numbered doors. Meacham stood at ease, awaiting a decision.

  “We’re a hop, skip and a jump from the hospital,” he threw in. “Lots of folks feel there’s something nice about that. It would take all day to list the churches. Some people like to worship with the radio, but me, I’m for getting out and doing it if you’re able.”

  The two-bedroom looked vast, though it might have been its emptiness that made it seem so. It faced the back lots of small homes with children, high garbage output and racket, which made these vacant rooms seem sad to Patrick. He was afraid there would be too many reminders of the years now lost to his grandfather; though his grandfather might know the children weren’t going to get anywhere, either. Nevertheless, he pressed for the one-room with the view of the theater. And he arranged for additional basement storage for guns, saddles and
panniers.

  “You have any girl friends, Mr. Fitzpatrick?”

  “Don’t be so goddamned stupid.”

  The snow had turned to slush in the street, and people passing the Arnoldcrest had their overcoats drawn around themselves in defense less against this one soggy day than against the five months of winter just now easing itself out of the Arctic. Patrick struck a bargain for his grandfather’s new home. He’d move in after elk hunting.

  They stopped at the cemetery. It was Patrick’s first visit, although, to his surprise, his grandfather had already been, once to remove an ensemble of funeral decorations and once to see if the grass was going to get a start by winter. Patrick thought it was preposterous to view this as a “visit”; but seeking to calm down, he was increasingly bent on imitating the actions of ordinary civilians. The snow had covered the grave and that seemed somehow a friendly fact, a mantle over someone troubled in ways he had never been able to understand, unless it was just the sadness-for-no-reason. Near them an old woman in a heavy twill overcoat sorted flowers by their stems, turning three half-dead bunches into one pretty bouquet and one bundle of waste vegetation. She sternly planted the doomed flowers in snow over her grave, returned to an old Chevrolet she had left idling, and departed, throwing the flowers that hadn’t made it into the backseat. She looked very practical in the flying snow; and Patrick thought there was something to be emulated in that, as to one’s arrangements. Old people, he imagined, daily put their shoulders to a wheel that would break every bone in a young man’s body.

  But this cemetery was a strange place, a prime piece of land, with Views. And in all respects it was best seen as real estate. The land holdings were small, especially by the standards of the West. For some reason you had “plots” instead of “lots.” It occurred to Patrick that as his home country cooked down into smaller and smaller pieces, “plots” were going to be the finale of the land swindle.

  “Pack saddles in good shape?”

  “Yes, they are,” said Patrick.

  “What about the lash ropes?” His grandfather stared at the neat stacks of gear.

  “Yup.”

  “Manties?”

  “Plenty and in good repair.”

  “We still have those canvas britchens?”

  “I had them changed over to leather. They were galling the horses. And I changed to wider cinches on the deckers so we can get away from circulation sores.”

  “The game is going to move in this snow. We ought to start thinking about heading out. If I get a good elk, I can rent a locker at Deadrock Meat and walk down every day for my game. I’ll have all of the good and none of the bad. How you plan to shoe that string?”

  “Two of them are plates, like Leafy. I’m just going to reset them. One’s that gelding I pack salt on. Who you going to ride?”

  “Harry Truman. I want heel and toe calks on him.”

  “I’ll shoe him today, then, so you can get him rode a little before we take him in the hills. He’s been turned out all summer.”

  The grandfather went up top with a halter and bucket of grain to catch Harry Truman. Like his namesake, Harry Truman was half thoroughbred and half mustang. He was a good horse and the last horse the old man broke.

  While Patrick looked for his apron and shoeing tools, he tried to think about Claire. He had to assume she was not in trouble; but returning to a home after having called your husband’s bluff with three prostitutes was not to arrive upon an exact bed of roses. Then, too, it was she who had to drive them home, laminating her own guilt with their doubtless enthusiastic tales of comparison as to their evening with Tio, a man who waited in an empty house for her return. With this thought Patrick was worried, and he was heartsick.

  “Hello?”

  “It’s Patrick. Can you talk?”

  “No.”

  “Okay, good-bye, but call me.”

  “Thank you so much! We have all the subscriptions we can handle!”

  She hung up.

  Well, she’s alive and in good voice, I would say. The snow kept falling. The bunkhouse looked increasingly like some bit of Holland ceramic, its hard angles sentimental in the white down-floating crystal. Who could be against that? Patrick was slightly against it because he had to shoe Harry Truman. But Harry was a good horse, a big strong roan with just a touch of mustang jugheadedness, but strong in all quarters and surefooted to the last degree. Shoeing him, feeling the smart horse balance on three legs, as opposed to him hanging all over you like a less bright horse, Patrick felt that he could entrust him with his grandfather to the farthest, stormiest ridge.

  Peculiarly, his love of the disagreeable old man emerged in the task. He used a hoof gauge to shorten the angle of the horse’s front feet, so that they would break over easier, make the horse handier. He rasped everything off to the gauge and pared out the inside of the hoof, tapering his strokes to the contours of the frog, sensing with his knife the extraordinary blood-pumping dome beneath. He shod with Diamond oughts all the way around, calks at heel and toe. And when he walked him on his lead shank, the horse traveled out balanced and square. Patrick’s back was sore, but he knew his grandfather could fork old Truman without concern now and spend his whole mind on the Absaroka he loved.

  In Patrick’s life, at times of crisis, he had sometimes wished to throw up and go to sleep. He had often wondered about this; but as he was one who despised psychiatry, no easy explanations were available to him. He thought he felt a little queasy as he dialed Claire.

  “How are you?”

  “Fine. Now can you talk?”

  “Yes.”

  “I want to throw up and go to sleep.”

  “What?”

  “It’s snowing.”

  “But what did you just say?”

  “I”—clears throat—“you.”

  “You what me?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Hey, buddy, you’re a phone crank.”

  “Just wanted to call.”

  “The telephone is an instrument which can be abused.”

  “Well, here’s me.”

  “Come on, Patrick.” Then she just said, “Patrick.”

  “I don’t know. Took Grandpa to town. I’m just feeling, uh, weird.”

  “Why?”

  “Why! The answer is …”

  “The answer is what, Patrick?”

  “Stress-related. I fear purgatory at the very least.”

  “But what is it?”

  “I’m looking for a reason.”

  “I’m looking for a reason too.”

  “How did Tio take to the wall of hookers?”

  “Not at all.”

  “What? Incidentally, where is he?”

  “Right outside this window. He’s trying to read my lips. He’s shoveling the walk. No. Where was I? Oh, right, he wouldn’t have anything to do with them. He stayed upstairs and watched Johnny Carson. They made quiche Lorraine and I had to clean up the mess.”

  “Well, I really never saw why we were bringing your husband three hookers.”

  “And it bothers you …”

  “I think so.”

  “It bothers you in a way you can’t quite put your finger on?”

  “That’s it,” he said.

  “I can answer that for you. Despite that it was a gesture which I thought would best help him to see how I thought he was treating me, the main thing you’re worried about was whether or not it indicated some lingering passion between Tio and me.”

  “The crowd jumped to its feet as his teeth soared into deep left.”

  “What?”

  “It’s fair.”

  “What’ve you been smoking, son?”

  “I ain’t smokin. I can barely get out of my own tracks. My foot is stuck in the spittoon. I can no longer sneak up. They can hear the spittoon ringing from a mile out. By the time I get there, all that’s left is tracks. And you can’t smoke tracks.”

  Thus another one seemed drain-bound.

  In the beginning was s
adness; immediately after that was sadness-for-no-reason; and beyond that was the turf of those for whom the day-to-day propositions for going on at all seemed not at all to the point. Patrick, the tank man, took the middle ground: He didn’t know why he felt as he did.

  Why do I feel as I do?

  She hung up on him. A dangerous lip-reader was shoveling her walk.

  37

  Heart Bar

  Monday

  Dear Mother,

  Well, things are still in kind of a wreck around here. I have not been feeling entirely right about my behavior and I think that Dale was correct in saying that that rests upon my shoulders. Still, with us, all was not as it should have been. And I can’t help but think that Mary paid the biggest part of the price. I’m not saying anybody killed her. But couldn’t we have done a better job? I mean, it was quite hard to find anybody to talk to around here. It still is. Grandpa is about as chatty and agreeable as ever.

  I don’t know what Mary had. I had Marion Easterly but she was invisible. Afterwards I had soccer and my tank. But these things don’t add up always. I met Mary’s close friend of the Cheyenne persuasion and I couldn’t help but thinking he had done rather more for her than her family.

  He met her in a whorehouse where she had a job.

  Also, I don’t think Dad’s airplane stunts, including the whopper in the end, were that funny.

  I’ve been thinking about throwing in with more oil-type people, one in particular, as this high lonesome plays out right after its use in calendar photos, funnies and radio serials. I’ve met a nice girl.

  I’ve found a lovely flat for the Granddad. There’s a sign-language study center next door and a monorail to the emergency room. His movie hopes run higher than ever. I’ve persuaded him of the need of a regular physical, as well as a long hard look at the daily stool. I think he’s listening up pretty fair.

  Well, this is no more than an apologetic valentine to you and Dale. Tell Andrew that I feel very strongly that he will never find an arrowhead.

  Think of us!

  Love,

  Captain Fitzpatrick