by Annie Proulx
Slowly it came to him, the high school bully, Rase Wham, had dropped out in tenth grade. Wham had been a vicious sociopath. Cheri Bise, the overweight slut whose insecurity made her an easy sexual conquest, had disappeared around the same time.
“Come on in, have a cup a coffee.” There was a highway of festering pimples alongside her nose. She cleared a path in the debris by kicking toys left and right. Reluctantly he went inside. It stank of cigarettes, garbage, and feces. The television set stuttered colors.
“What are you doing down here?” he asked, taking shallow breaths.
“Rase is workin for Halliburton now. He used a work for a drillin outfit but the well froze and there was a blowout and it kind a hurt him. He had a concussion. Last year. And I work Fridays in the school cafeteria.”
He understood from the tone in her voice that she considered the cafeteria job a career.
“Barbette’s in school, second grade, and that’s Vernon Clarence—” She pointed at the dull-faced boy of four or five holding a box of Cracker Jacks. “And that’s the baby, Lye.” The diaper-clad baby was crawling toward them, his sticky fingers furred with lint and clutching a tiny red car that Buddy recognized as an Aston Martin. The kid, clinging to Buddy’s knee, clawed himself upright and thrust the toy at him.
“Caw!” said the child.
“Yes, it’s a nice car,” said Buddy. In the room beyond he could see a bed heaped with grimy blankets.
“Caw!”
Cheri reheated stale coffee in a saucepan, poured the pungent liquid into mugs emblazonedGO POKES , set one before him. She did not proffer milk nor sugar. She sat down at the table and blew on her coffee.
“And we’re expectin the next one in December, week before Christmas. It’s hard on a kid have a birthday that close a Christmas, but you sure don’t think a that when you’re doin it.” She had a spit-frilled way of talking.
The baby was staring at Buddy with savage intensity, as though he were going to utter a great scientific truth never before known. His face reddened and the vein in his forehead stood out. He grunted and with an explosive burst filled his diaper.
While Cheri changed him on the kitchen table less than eighteen inches from Buddy’s coffee cup, he looked around to avoid watching her mop at Lye’s besmeared buttocks and scrotum. On the floor several feathers were stuck in a coagulated blob. Wads of trodden gum appeared as archipelagoes in a mud-colored sea while bits of popcorn, string ends, torn paper, a crushed McDonald’s cup, and candy wrappers made up the flotsam. An electric wall heater stuck out into the room. On top of it were three cof- fee mugs, two beer cans, several brimming ashtrays, a tiny plastic fox, and a prescription bottle. Through the amber plastic of the bottle he could see the dark forms of capsules.
There was a sudden plop as Cheri threw the loaded diaper into an open pail already seething with banana peels, coffee grounds, and prehistoric diapers.
The older child, Vernon Clarence, edged along the sofa toward the wall heater. His small hands grasped a beer can and shook it. He dropped it on the floor and tried the other, which responded with a promising slosh. He drank the dregs, warm beer running down his chin and soaking his pajama top. Buddy wondered if he should mention to Cheri that the kid was drinking beer, decided against it. The freshly emptied can rolled under the sofa.
Cheri suddenly got up, lunged for the cupboard, and retrieved a package. She shook several small bright pink cakes bristling with shredded coconut onto a chipped saucer.
“Go on! Take one!” She held the saucer in front of his face as Lye had held the toy car.
He took one. A coconut point stuck into his finger like a staple. He put the cake on the table. Lye seized it and mumbled “Caw!” as he gummed the confection. From across the room Vernon Clarence started to bawl, pointing eloquently at Lye, whose face was crowded by the pink mass.
“Here you go! Catch!” shouted Cheri, hurling a cake at the child. It hit an ashtray on the coffee table and sent butts and ash flying.
“I’ve got a get going,” said Buddy, rising. “I just wanted to mention about the dogs—dog. And introduce myself.”
“Well, I’m thrilled,” said Cheri. “I always had a big crush on you in school. All the girls thought you was cute. Rase will just about pass out when I tell him who our new neighbor is.” She snapped a cigarette from the package on the table.
“Say hello to him for me,” said Buddy, struggling with the door latch, which was some devious childproof design. He glanced around the room as he backed out. The fastidious Vernon Clarence was picking a cigarette butt from his confectionary prize.
Buddy’s trailer seemed a cozy haven in contrast with the Whams’, and he quickly made his bed and washed the dishes lest he become like them.
On the Saturday, unseasonably warm, he felt better than he had in a week and went into town for groceries—chocolate bars, pork chops, frozen French fries, frozen waffles, two bakery pies, and no vegetables. At the liquor store he bought a bottle of bourbon. As he drove past the Whams’ trailer he saw them all outside, leaning over the back of Big Boy’s truck, where several rigid animal legs indicated a successful hunt. Old Dad—he had to start thinking of him as Rase Wham—was wielding a bloody knife. There were two six-packs on the roof of the truck cab. Cheri, also with a knife, waved at him and he waved back.
He put his groceries away, eating one of the pies as he did so, wishing the refrigerator’s freezer compartment was bigger. He had bought a newspaper and settled down with a cup of coffee to read the want ads. Truck driver, heavy equipment operator, motel clerk, framing carpenter—there was very little that suited him. He had just started on the gas field ads when someone knocked on the door.
“Come in,” he said, expecting to see one of the Whams. It was Barbette, an overweight seven-year-old with sly, fox-colored eyes, her pale brown hair pulled into a ponytail. She wore jeans and a pink shirt, which had traces of blood on it.
“Dad says come over for the barbecue. Graig shot some antelopes and we’re goin a have a barbecue. Mama’s makin the sauce with ketchup and sugar. Dad says don’t bring no beer, he got plenty.” Without waiting for an answer she turned and ran back.
“O.K.,” said Buddy to the door. But he would not go empty-handed. He lit the tiny oven and heated up the French fries, slipped the bourbon bottle into his jacket pocket.
The adults were half drunk when he went over and he thought Vernon Clarence was drunk as well, for the child was staggering around, sucking at a beer can. This time Buddy did mention it to Cheri, but she laughed.
“Oh, Rase lets him do it. Figures if he starts young he won’t be a bad drunk when he gets up in size. It’s your late starters are the bad ones. He says.”
Amazing, thought Buddy. He and Rase were the same age, but Rase had made all these kids and one of them was an alcoholic even before hitting kindergarten.
Rase came slouching over, stuck out a blood-crusted hand. There was the familiar shaved bullethead, the wide neck and great swollen mounds of muscle. Rase Wham’s face was scarred, and there were tattoos of barbed wire, fanged snakes, and an AK-47 spitting red bullets on his arms. His smile showed a set of broken yellow teeth.
“How the shit are ya? How’d you end up in this fuckin dump? This here’s my asshole buddy, Graig. Graig Deshler. Mountain Man Deshler. He’s the real thing, sleeps on the ground, tracks lions, cooks cowboy coffee.”
Graig Deshler glowered at Buddy. “Fuckin bullshit,” he said, but the glower was for show. He bore the traces of acne so severe that his sallow skin resembled sand drilled by a fast-moving cloudburst. But he had an air of surety that Buddy liked, and his shrewd, twinkling eyes took in everything. After he had a good swallow of the bourbon he began telling Buddy how it was.
“See, everbody tells me I was born a hunderd years too late. Hunderd fifty, more like it. I should a been a mountain man, they tell me. I’m a throwback and proud of it. I live by my wits, see? Trap, hunt, got me a little cabin, no electricity, get water from the cri
ck. Done it all my life. Trap, hunt, got me that little cabin. Only thing different between me and the old-time mountain man is I ain’t got no squaw woman. I been on the lookout for one but hell, they are all too civilized for me, just like the rest a the population, got a have that deodorant and perfume, fancy clothes and go see the hairdresser six times a week. I wouldn’t touch one a them. I got a friend, he’s a Northern Cheyenne, he makes these art pieces for tourists. Needs eagles’ and hawks’ feathers, fur. I keep him supplied. It’s unlawful they say. They can kiss my butt. I never had a huntin license. Game and Fish knows better than mess with me. They give me plenty a room.” His voice went on and on, rising and falling like the outboard motor of a boat circling a lake.
“So this friend a mine, the Cheyenne, I ask him once, ‘You got any sisters?’ Christ, he got mad. Sore as hell, he’s still all fired up. All I did was ask a simple question but you might a thought I was askin him to suck my dick. Inever paid no taxes. The U.S. Government, and that goes for the Game and Fish, can kiss my butt. Old Claude Dallas had the right idea. They come messin around your camp, shoot em. I don’t pay taxes, I don’t need their stinkin pensions or social security or that Medicare shit. Cut my own hair, never shaved since I were a colt but I keep my beard trimmed up. Never liked a see a woodsy man with big bushy whiskers. Catches in the willers. I was goin a run for governor last election.”
He released a prolonged blast of wind, and a stench of burning tires surrounded them. Buddy wondered what in the name of the revered outlaw Claude Dallas the man had eaten—raw skunk? Graig seemed not to notice and stuck out his callused hand for the bourbon bottle.
“Now that’s good stuff. I made moonshine and all kind a homemade whiskey, but I can’t get it to be no good in the taste. You got a have a good whiskey barrel and all I had was a goddamn old pickle barrel. That’s the one concession I make to civilization—liquor. It’s hard a make and I have to say it is worth all they ask for it.”
Buddy, glancing at the muddy Power Wagon, the rifle in the back window, the mountain man’s stainless steel wristwatch, thought Graig made a few other concessions to civilization, and excused himself saying he had to bring his French fries in to Cheri.
In the trailer Cheri was mixing the barbecue sauce. She had dumped a large bottle of ketchup into a bowl and was stirring in brown sugar and Tabasco sauce.
“What I really need,” she said, “is whiskey. About a tablespoon a whiskey makes it real smooth. But I tell you what is almost as good is cough syrup.” She rummaged in the cupboard and brought out a small bottle whose contents went into the red sauce.
“And some salt. There.” She dropped the raw slabs of antelope meat into the bowl and laid a newspaper across the top.
“Just let her set for half a hour or so and then Graig can cook it. He does all the cookin when he visits. He won’t let nobody else even try. He’s out there at that grill long as anybody wants some meat. He’s a sweetheart.” She lit a cigarette and got two beers from the refrigerator, passed one to him. “Let’s go join the party,” she said, pulling on a huge green sweater.
Cheri and Graig were talkative and half-flirting, Graig explaining what his platform would be if he ran for governor again.
“First thing I’d do is make the wolf the state animal, put the wolf on the license plate, get rid a that damn buckin bronco. People say them big Canadian greys they brought into Wyomin is not the native wolf.”
Rase interrupted, spoke very loudly. “WhatI’d do,” he said, “is open up Yellowstone Park for huntin. Clean the place out and get the oil and minin interests in. Could be like Alaska used a be—pay each resident a couple thousand dollars just for livin here.” He let out a huge gobbling laugh, then fell silent again. His eyes wandered and he was jumpy.
Graig continued. “Anyway, they say the native wolf, the Rocky Mountain wolf, was smaller than those Canadian greys. Little bit bigger than coyotes and they didn’t use to run in no packs. Solitary. It’s a lot a hot air. Same animal. Everbody in the state got a opinion about wolves, mostly wrong.”
“Wuf!” said Lye, rubbing the nipple of his baby bottle in the dirt.
“But if I was to be a animal that’s what I’d want a be—a big grey Canadian-Wyomin wolf. I look at a wolf, I look at myself.Owooooh! ”
“Oooow,” said Lye softly.
Rase Wham sat on the picnic table jiggling his leg impatiently. When Buddy, trying to make conversation, asked him a question about his job, he only grunted. After about ten minutes he suddenly shouted at Graig: “When the hell are you goin a cook that meat?” Little Vernon Clarence, on the steps with the barrel of his toy revolver in his mouth, gave a startled jump and began to cry. Rase turned on the child.
“Shut that fuckin mouth or I’ll kill you,” he screamed.
“Take it easy, Rase baby,” said Graig, getting up and going to the grill to see if the coals were ready. He tried for a light tone. “Don’t never rile a mountain man or you’ll have your hands full. Old Mountain Man Vernon Clarence there will tie you in a pretzel.” He winked at the drunk and bawling child.
“You don’t want a cry so loud,” Graig said to him. “Them wolves’ll come and eat you up. That’s what they do, they eat up cryin boys, crunch their bones.” Vernon Clarence cried harder.
“I’ll get the meat,” said Cheri, and she ran up the steps and into the trailer, hauling Vernon Clarence with her.
“Everthing I ever done,” said Graig to Buddy as though all were calm, “I done because I wanted a do it. Nobody made me do nothin and nobody ever give me a medal for doin what I done. No matter what I never heard a fuckin word of appreciation from nobody. And I don’t care. That’s how the ball bounces, that’s how the wind blows. I come over here with two nice pronghorns, cook the meat, and Iwill make the coffee. When we are ready. Cheri can’t make decent coffee if you was to give her a hunderd dollars a cup. I’ll make it. No matter what you do, no matter who you help, they’ll step all over you, wipe their boots on you if they get the chance. But they don’t affect me. I’m used a shitty people. Hell, I even like em.”
“Goddamn,” shouted Rase, “work all week like a dog, have to sit and starve on the weekend? Listen a a lot a hot air about wolves? Where the hell are my smokes?Cheri! ”
“What!” she shouted from inside.
“You got my cigarettes? And bring that meat out here so Graig can get cookin!” Buddy could see the cigarette package under the picnic table. He picked it up and handed it to Rase.
“What the fuck areyou doin with em?”
“They were under the picnic table.”
“Yeah? I bet they were.”
As Rase’s face bunched up into a deformed squash shape, Cheri opened the door at the top of the trailer steps holding the bowl of meat and sauce, edging out, trying to keep the spring-loaded door from slamming on her heels. Partway down the steps her sweater sleeve caught on a protruding nail. The slight jerk cut a notch in her balance and she dropped the bowl, which hit the bottom step and broke into several large pieces. Sauce splattered and the meat fell in the dirt under the steps.
“This fuckin lousy mean old trailer!” she howled. “If I ever get me some money I will buy a real house somewheres, not some fuckin trailer in the sand.” She turned and kicked at the door, sat on the top step, and began to cry, plump hands over her face. Behind her Vernon Clarence’s tear-smeared face appeared, and he too set up a fresh howl.
Graig picked up the largest piece of the broken bowl, almost a complete half, and began piling the dirt-crusted meat into it.
“Shit,” he said, “this’s no biggie. Quit bawlin, Cheri. We’ll just rinse this here meat off with a little beer—that will give it flavor. Throw these steaks on the fire, and the cookin will fix everthing. You won’t never know they’d fell. You come huntin with me one day, and you’ll see I carve my supper meat up out in the field and it got plenty dirt and leaves and hair on, but all that stuff cooks off. It is not important. The old-time mountain men knew that. Anyways, don
’t it say in the Bible somewheres you got a eat a peck a dirt before you die?” He shook a piece of meat, laid it in the broken crockery. “Now, Vernon Clarence, remember what I told you about them wolves that eat crybabies? You better hush that noise or they’ll hear you. Them wolves just gobble crybabies like they was peppermint sticks. And they can find you easy because they can hear you cryin.”