by Annie Proulx
“You know, even with all these ballet classes and music lessons kids nowadays get to take, I think parents loved their chirdren more in the old days. We was more involved in the work of the family. A boy or girl knew they had value.”
“That’s true. Chirdren today are not valued. Contraceptions, abortions, shows you how much value they put on young ones.”
The pregnant girl’s head was bent low over her French knots. Bob guessed she found the conversation uncomfortable. Had she considered an abortion?
“But in them days, even if it was nothin a do but throw rocks at something, chirdren knew how to make their own fun. My daddy told me that when he was a boy they had a terrible winter, so cold that hunderds a antelope froze to death. And the kids, why they dug out those froze antelopes and dragged them to a good place and stood them up in the snow. My daddy had twenty all in a line in front a the dugout. He’d talk about his big antelope bunch as if they was registered cows. ‘My antelope herd,’ he’d say. Come spring they commenced a rot and draw a crowd a vultures. His sisters said, ‘Your vulture flock.’”
“These abortion parlors, they take the poor little babies and”—she lowered her voice conspiratorially—“cut them up! They sell the body parts to godless scientists. Evolutionists.”
“I heard something even more horrible.”
“What could be?” Needles paused, all hands still.
“I heard that in Warshinton, D.C., the abortionist doctors cut up the babies, cut off the identifiable parts and sell the rest to Chinese restaurants.”
Exclamations of disgust and outrage followed. Bob Dollar was disturbed to see how easily they believed this grisly statement. But Freda Beautyrooms glared at Parmenia Boyce.
“How can a woman a your age believe such claptrap?”
“I accept it on faith. I heard it from a friend whose cousin lives in D.C. and her daughter is a waitress there. It’s common knowledge.”
“It’s common foolishness.”
“We should trust to the Lord to guide us and pray for our enemies and that the killer abortionists will accept Jesus and give up their foul trade.”
And from around the room came soft amens. And they all agreed that hailstones were bigger in the olden days, men and the wind stronger, and the sweetness of life rarer but more intense.
Bob Dollar, who had been vaccinated against religion by Bromo Redpoll’s atheistic cynicism and Uncle Tam’s neutrality, thought to himself that maybe the Lord had a mean streak, or maybe what happened to people was all chance and circumstance. “It beats me,” Bromo had said, “how anybody can support a religion that takes a scene of capital punishment for its central image.”
“My fingers is stiff as a fork,” said Freda Beautyrooms, getting up and going into the kitchen where she ran hot water over her cramped hands.
“My father’s brother died of tuberculosis,” said Jane Ratt. “Years he had it. But you know, that long sickness gave Grandmother time to adjust to the end. She could see it comin and almost welcomed it for it ended the poor boy’s sufferin. She said later she heard the angel wings beatin in the air ever time she went in his sickroom.” She shook loose threads from her quilt section and glanced out into the yard. The men were all in the trucks, out of the rain, which fell gently, a fine thready rain like silk stitches.
“It’s a wonder as many lived as did. Just a little scratch could get infected but somehow healed up. We didn’t have no Band-Aids but my mother would get some awl weed and break it and the sap would drip on the cut and make a nice a coverin as you ever seen.”
Freda Beautyrooms came back in, flexing her fingers. “The sickroom. Now there’s a room folks don’t have these days. But there was always somebody in the sickroom on our ranch. If not one of us chirdren, then some hurt cowboy. It’s a wonder those fellows lived as long as they did, foolhardy, messin with guns and around half-broke horses.”
Mrs. Vera Twombley, a small, wizened woman who had said nothing, now spoke up. She looked older than Freda Beautyrooms but was, in fact, four years younger. “Do you all remember DesJarnett’s melons?” She said it with such longing that Bob was moved, and he glanced around the table, imagining all the old women as young girls, slender and lithe, cutting open the sweet melons and never dreaming they could be old women, ever.
Freda Beautyrooms said, “And then the Depression. Hard years everwhere. Those awful sandstorms. Everbody had a drag a chain behind their car to cut the static electricity or the engine would just quit. And it would build up in the grass from the wind until sometimes it busted into flames. Especially that dry buffalo grass. And people went crazy with the dust, some a them.”
She put her needle back in the case, clearly finished for the day, and went on. “There was plenty a tragedies, but it’s strange the ones you remember as the biggest of all. I’m thinkin of a time after the World War One. I remember I was in grade school and it must a been around Memorial Day, always a big holiday, because I had a new dress and it was ruined. I had a little dog, Big Boy, we named him that because he was so small and spirited. I don’t know what breed you’d call it. Just a little black-and-white feist dog. He used a walk with me to school and then he’d run back home. In the afternoon he’d come set by the school door and wait for me. Like I said, it was just around Memorial Day and folks had put little American flags on all the graves of the boys who died in the war. You know how the wind blows here in the panhandle. Well, you’d walk past the cemetery and those little flags would be a-snappin and a-crackin in the wind. Big Boy just went crazy. He couldn’t stand that noise so we’d run past to get beyond them quick. But you know, you can’t watch a spirited little dog ever minute. One day he come to school with me and went back home as usual. When school was over I went out and he wasn’t there. I started home and when I come up to the cemetery I could see something layin on the grass. It was him, dead, he’d been shot. Well, I carried his little body home just a-bawlin and cryin, and my dress got ruined with the blood. We had a burial for him out under the woolybucket tree. Somebody told us later that a man in town had shot him. Big Boy’d run into the cemetery and started tearin up them little flags, just ripped them to shreds. They said he’d got about seven of them before somebody seen him and said it was ‘Dishonor to the Flag and a Insult to the Nation.’ So that man shot him. I never liked those little flags myself, afterwards, and I never put one on a grave, even when I had call a do so.”
“That shows the Depression wasn’t the only bad time,” said Mrs. Herwig, “though bad enough.”
“You know what was the worst thing about the awl days? Warshin clothes. The old Maytag would just be a-throbbin for hours ever day.”
Phyllis Crouch, the mother of the pregnant Dawn, had been silent but now she spoke with mock exasperation. “With all due respect the early settlers and the folks had to live through the Depression did have a hard time of it, I know, but my granny and my ma never quit harpin on their old troubles. Ma had seven or eight thousand Depression stories about babies blowed off into the sky and people’s teeth all wearin down because they ate so much sand, and Dad could tell you about windmills so choked up with sand they couldn’t run. But why in the world we have to rake it all up again I don’t know. It all happened long ago. We’d be better off talkin about today’s goins-on.”
There was a general laugh and someone freshened up a piece of scandalous gossip.
Bob Dollar counted the oldest women around the table—seven. He had gathered that they were all widows, all owners of substantial properties, some of which might be the acme of perfection for hog farm sites. He resolved to call on each one of them under the guise of learning more about the past, and check out the real estate, any possible heirs. And Tater Crouch as well.
LaVon went into the kitchen to take the refreshments out of the refrigerator. The rain had slacked off, leaving a satiny gloss on the world. Bob carried the plates and chilled food to the porch. A delicious cool breeze slid over the ladies as they sipped their limeade sherbet floats
. The men were out of the trucks, calling to their mothers and grandmothers not to drink too deeply.
Bob sidled up to Freda Beautyrooms.
“Mrs. Beautyrooms, I was fascinated by what you had to say. About the old days here in the panhandle. I wonder if I could visit you sometime and hear more?”
She looked at him and smiled.
“Mr. Dime, or Dollar, or whatever your name is. I learned long ago that when a young man is interested in pursuing my acquaintance it is not because he is interested in me or the old days, but because he is determined to persuade me to invest in some foolish venture, or make an attempt a buy my property for a song. I have discovered that young men’s blandishments are simply too much pie. So I will decline your request.”
The word “rebuffed” leapt to his mind. He had been rebuffed.
On the way home Billy Ratt explained to his grandmother about the metal fish.
“It’s a sign some Christians put on their cars, sort a like that bumper sticker, ‘Honk if You Love Jesus.’ But a little more sophisticated. Has to do with Jesus turnin them five loaves and two fishes into enough to feed all them people. The fish is better than the loaves. Think how hard it would be for them to make a sign a bread shape—one a them Middle East round dudes? Or a slice a white like you get in the Piggly Wiggly? Or one a them long French ones looks like a bear turd? No, they had a make the fish.”
“Well, then, what’s wrong with that? Seems to me you would be proud a let people know you was a Christian.”
“Grandma—” he said and stopped, knowing he was on the wrong end of the argument, that when they got home he would be affixing the metal fish to his truck. He was already thinking of a way to attach a heavy wire that would resemble a fish line. He could set the fish on an angle to show it was caught, and spot weld a flashy lure in its mouth. If it wasn’t sacrilegious.
16
CURIOSITY KILLED THE CAT
As the last quilt lady rolled down the driveway Bob said, in a comradely voice, “All right, LaVon, what’s the story on that girl?” as though she had been keeping back a secret. They were in the kitchen loading the dishwasher.
“What girl is that?” asked LaVon innocently, measuring coffee into the percolator. “That cold stuff is all right but I need a good hot cup a coffee.”
“There was only one girl there. The girl who’s going to have a baby. Dawn.”
“Dawn. Yes. Well, it’s the old story. Dawn wasn’t any better than she had to be. I’m glad Coolbroth never got mixed up with her. Do you want coffee?”
“Yes.”
“She got in trouble. The same thing happened to her mother, Phyllis, that was there today. That’s how come they both carry the name Crouch. Never married. Phyllis, she left home real young, went off to be a movie star or actress or whatever. You know, girl’s dreams. And got herself in trouble. Ace had to go rescue her in Houston or Tulsa, I forget which. So he brought her back and few months later he showed up, the feller got her that way. Ace took one look and ordered him off the property. Said he’d see him in hell before he’d let her go off with him, or let him stay with her. That’s how it went.” The coffee’s heavy fragrance filled the kitchen and Bob got the two last clean cups from the cupboard, pawed through the refrigerator looking for milk.
“Use that cream I whipped for the floats,” said LaVon, pointing at the bowl. The coffee cups had a gala look with puffs of whipped cream riding high.
“And Dawn—that was her baby—was the smartest, sweetest little girl. Ace just spoiled her rotten, got her anything she wanted—a pony, stuffed animals, a telescope. She graduated from high school top of her class. She was goin a go to college. And then! Just like her mother.” It was quiet in the kitchen.
“It’s nice of the quilt ladies to be so kind to her,” said Bob, not sure that it was. “I mean, an unmarried mother and all—”
“I told you, Bob, it’s a Christian ladies’ group and we try to extend a helpin hand to the unfortunate. Some wasn’t so nice to Phyllis years ago. That’s why she made that sarcastic remark. Besides, Dawn’s a good little quilter and a cheerful girl. At least she had the moral fiber to carry her child and not go to some filthy abortionist.”
“She’s very pretty,” said Bob after a while.
“Ah,” said LaVon in the sour voice of one who had never been pretty. “You see where it’s got her.”
And although Bob had more questions LaVon did not want to answer them. A frost settled over her. “Curiosity killed the cat,” she said, and they finished the dishes in silence.
In the bunkhouse Bob read Ribeye Cluke’s letter.
Bob Dollar.
I have your note in hand. Please know that Global Pork Rind’s company policy prohibits site scouts from entering operational units. You do not need to know anything about the operations side of the industry to do your job. Nor are we paying you for a sociological analysis of the panhandle. Bob Dollar, if you want to be in Global’s Big Shot League you will have to get out there and hustle. This procrastination is going to have to be stopped. It is useful when casing a region to get in with the oldsters of the community who know the goods, but the time has come to ACT. I expect to hear some GOOD NEWS from you very soon. Let us have your cooperation.
17
THE DEVIL’S HATBAND
LaVon washed the cups and saucers, Bob carried the chairs back to the attic and disassembled the worktable. LaVon vacuumed up the scraps of cloth and threads and Bob hauled the ordinary furniture back in, her boxes and books and papers. While they sorted out the piles of paper LaVon talked about Jed Steddy, the storekeeper so many of the older women had remembered.
“My graindaddy had dozens of stories about Jake Steddy, but the one we liked best was the contest between the barbwar salesman and Ab Skieret, a big rancher around here in the early days. Bob, I think I want a bring down a bookcase from the attic. There should be a green one up there. Would you mind?”
When the bookcase was in place and thoroughly vacuumed, to get any brown recluse spiders hiding in the joinery, she continued.
“You have to remember that it was all open range here until the barbwar was invented. Texas is the first place they tried out that barbwar for ranchin. Ab Skieret, owned the Woolybucket Cattle Company, and him and his foreman, Blowy Cluck, they was important men in Woolybucket, and both looked it. Skieret had a black handlebar mustache that hung down on his chest and Blowy Cluck was one of them bossy, picky men that could never let anything alone, big round head, round ears like bear’s ears, real brown teeth from chewin molasses plug.
“So, one day these two ride up and wrap reins around the hitch in front a the store. Both a them pretty dusty and old Skieret, who had a rough way a talkin, says, ‘Let’s have a blankety-blank cutter here.’ Course he used strong language which I won’t repeat. Part a Steddy’s counter was a kind a bar for privileged customers. Both men took the whiskey down in one gulp. Then Blowy Cluck turns and looks over the store stock, and he notices the reels a barbwar. He was one for practical jokes and such. He knew Will Rogers when Rogers cowboyed over to Higgins.
“So Blowy says, ‘If you was to wrop up in that and roll down a hill, wouldn’t be much left a you at the bottom. I wouldn’t leave any cows git near such a cruel and unfriendly stuff,’ he says. ‘There’d be plenty a-wounded and drawin screwflies.’
“Old Skieret puts in his two cents’ worth after another dustcutter. He looks Steddy in the eye and says, ‘Don’t your physiognomy tingle with shame for sellin such a devil’s hatband stuff?’ When my grandfather told the story, the way he made Skieret say ‘physiognomy’—all puffed up and show-off—made us roll on the floor laughin. It was a big word for a rancher.
“Steddy says, ‘Why no, Mr. Skieret. Reckon you ought a git acquainted with it some—there’s about a hunderd miles a barbwar right around here. There’s a rumor after while there won’t be no open range. Dividin it up. Fencin it in. All be gone in ten more years.’
“Skieret didn’t care to he
ar this. He says, ‘Them nesters, them dumb farmers. I’m just a goldarn full a them buggers. I give em a brisk time, cut their barb fence and wrop it around their necks. Oh, there’ll be open range long as I’m kickin.’
“There was stories about Skieret: that he once pulled a loaded cart half a mile with a rope in his teeth. And an awful tale about him blowin up a Finn farmer.
“Mr. Steddy quiets him down, says to him, ‘Don’t git carried away. There’s the barbwar salesman comin along now,’ and he is peerin out the window where a fella in a striped suit is takin down a green drummer’s satchel from his wagon seat. ‘That’s him. Billy Gates. Travels for the Barb Fence Company out a De Kalb, Illinois.’
“‘Hell, he is just a kid,’ says Skieret, ‘he ought a be at home bringin sticks for his mam’s woodbox stead a horsin around pretendin a be a growed drummer.’
“The drummer, Billy Gates, comes in, nods, asks for a bottle a sarsaparilla.
“‘Ho, little boy, still like soda water, do you?’ says Skiert to him, squintin up his hot old eyes.
“‘Yes I do, on a hot dry day such as this.’ He nods at Mr. Steddy. ‘And how are you, Mr. Steddy?’
“‘I was just tellin Mr. Skieret here that he ought a become more acquainted with your barbwar. He is a free-range man and vows not to become accustomed to it.’
“‘Devil’s hatband,’ roars Skieret. ‘Look at the blankety-blank skinny stuff—you expect me believe that’ll hold a thousand stampedin longhorns? Don’t care if it’s got stickers on it the size a knittin needles, you git them beasts on a run and they’ll bust it like a spiderweb. You got yourself into a trick Yankee business here and it is bound a fail, for there are too many good Texas men who are loyal to the Great Cause and free grass, and we ain’t takin on no Yankee barbwar.’ That’s how they talked back then.