Nobody's Angel

15

WHEN PATRICK WAS FIFTEEN AND IN NEED OF REASONS TO stay in town late, he invented a girl friend, whom he named Marion Easterly. Claire reminded Patrick of Marion. Marion was beautiful in mind and in spirit. He pretended to be hopelessly in love with Marion, so that when he rolled in at two in the morning, he would claim that he and Marion had been discussing how it was to be young and had merely lost track of time. His parents, vaguely susceptible to the idea of romance in others, bought the Marion Easterly story for a year. Patrick had typically been up to no good in some roadhouse. He created a family for Marion: sturdy railroaders with three handsome daughters. Marion was the youngest, a chaste and lively brunette with a yen for tennis and old-fashioned novels about small-town boys in knickerbockers. When Patrick got locked up, Marion was never around. So gradually his parents began to view her as a good influence on their son. If he would just spend time with Marion Easterly, the disorderly-conduct business would fade, boarding school would seem less obligatory and Patrick would grow up and become … a professional.

In July, Patrick roped at the Wilsall rodeo, then joined the rioters in front of the bars. He’d tied his calf under eleven and was considered quite a kid, one who deserved many free drinks right out on the sidewalk. Patrick and his friends sat on the hoods of their cars until the sun collapsed in the Bridger range. By three in the morning he was back at the ranch, careening around the kitchen, trying to make a little snack. He banged into a cabinet, showering crystal onto the slate floor. A pyramid of flatware skated into fragments. He dropped the idea of the snack.

Patrick’s mother and father popped into the kitchen in electric concern. Patrick reeled through the fragments in his cowboy boots, crushing glass and china noisily. He looked at them, his mind racing.

“Marion is dead,” he blurted. “A diesel. She was going out for eggs.” His parents were absolutely silent.

“I just don’t give a shit anymore,” Patrick added.

“You can’t use that language in this house,” his mother said; but his father intervened on the basis of the death of a boy’s first love. Patrick waltzed to his room and passed out.

After ten hours of sleep ruined by guilt, booze and the presence of all his rodeo-dirtied clothes, Patrick awoke with a start and was filled by a sudden and unidentified fear. He cupped a hand over his face to test his breath, then smeared his teeth with a dab of toothpaste. He ran to the kitchen to clean up his mess; but he was too late. He really was.

His mother and father were waiting for him. The kitchen was immaculate. His father wore a suit and tie, his mother a subdued blue dress. It seemed very still.

“Pat,” said his father, “we want to meet Marion’s folks. We wanted to help with the preparations.”

Patrick’s mother had thin trickles of tears glistening on her cheeks. But they fell from eyes that were wrong.

“We can’t find Easterly in the book.”

“They don’t have a phone.”

“Could we just drive by?”

“I don’t think they could handle it, Dad. I mean, this soon.”

The ringing slap sharpened Patrick’s sense of the moment. “You were blotto at Wilsall,” his mother said. “Marion Easterly doesn’t exist!”

“Kind of embarrassing, Pat,” said his father. “We went to the hospital, the morgue, the police. The police in particular had a good laugh at our expense, though the others certainly enjoyed themselves too. I’m afraid you’re kind of a no-good. I’m afraid we’re sending you away to school.”

“It’s fair,” said Patrick.

“I’m afraid I don’t care if it is or not,” said his father. No unscheduled landings for that test pilot.