Eventide

20

SO HE WAS ALONE NOW, MORE ALONE THAN HE HAD EVER been in his life.

Living with his brother seventeen miles out south of Holt he had been alone since that day when they were teenage boys and they’d learned that their parents had been killed in the Chevrolet truck out on the oiled road east of Phillips. But they had been alone together, and they had done all the work there was to do and eaten and talked and thought out things together, and at night they had gone up to bed at the same hour and in the mornings had risen at the same time and gone out once more to the day’s work, each one ever in the presence of the other, almost as if they were a long-suited married couple, or as though they were a pair of twins that could never be separated because who knew what might happen if they were.

Then when they had become old men, after a series of peculiar circumstances had transpired, the pregnant teenaged girl Victoria Roubideaux had come out to the house to live with them, and her coming had changed matters for them forever. And then in the spring of the following year she had delivered the little girl and her arrival had changed matters once again. So they had grown used to the presence of these new people in their lives. They had become accustomed to the way things had changed and they had got so they liked these new changes and got so they wanted them to continue day after day in the same way. Because it began to feel as if each succeeding day was good to them, as though all of this new order of things was what was pointed to all along, even if they could never have known or predicted it in any way or manner beforehand. Then the girl had finished high school and had gone off to Fort Collins to attend college, and they had missed her, missed her and her little daughter both terribly, because after they were gone it was as if they were suffering the sudden absence of something as elemental and essential as the air itself. But they could still talk to the girl on the telephone and look forward to her return at holidays and again at the start of summer, and in any case they still had each other.

Now his brother was buried in the Holt County cemetery northeast of town next to the plot where their parents lay.

IN THE DAYS AND WEEKS AFTER THE FUNERAL IT WAS nearly impossible to convince Victoria that she should return to college. She was not going to leave him, not the way he was. She said he needed her help now. This was the occasion for her to help him as he and his brother had helped her during that time two years ago when she was so alone and lost.

So she had stayed with him through the rest of October and through most of November. Then there came an evening, the Sunday after Thanksgiving, when they were sitting over the supper dishes at the square pinewood table in the kitchen, and Raymond said:

But you’ve got to have your own life, Victoria. You have to go on with it.

I have my own life, she said. I have it here. Because of you and Harold. Where do you think I would be without the two of you? I might still be in Denver or on the street. Or with Dwayne in his apartment, which would be even worse.

Well, I’m still awful glad you come back. I won’t ever forget that. But you have to go on now and do what you said you wanted to.

That was before Harold was killed.

I know, but Harold would want you to go on. You know he would.

But I’m worried about you.

I’m all right. I’m still a pretty tough old bird.

No you’re not. You just had your cast taken off. You’re still limping.

Maybe a little. But that don’t matter.

And Mr. Guthrie has stopped coming out to help you like he was before.

I told him not to. I can manage by myself now. He’ll come out again when I need him. Raymond looked at the girl across the table and reached over and patted her hand. You just got to go on, honey. It’s all right now.

Well, it just makes me feel like you’re trying to get rid of me.

No. Now, don’t you ever think that. You’ll come back in the summertime and all the holidays between now and then. I expect you to. I’ll be upset if you don’t. You and me, we’re bound together the rest of our lives. Don’t you believe that?

She stared at him for a long moment. Then she drew her hand out from under his and stood up and began to clear the table.

Raymond watched her. You must be mad at me now, Victoria, he said. I just guess you are. Is that it?

You better not try to talk me out of coming home.

Why Jesus God, honey. I wouldn’t be trying to talk you out of anything if there was some other way. Don’t you see? I’m going to be about as lonesome as a old yellow dog around here, without you and Katie.

She took up the plates and the serving dishes and glasses and silverware and carried them to the sink and slammed them into the washbasin. One of the glasses broke. It cut her finger and she stood over the sink with tears brimming in her dark eyes. Her heavy black hair fell about her face and she looked slim and beautiful and very young. Raymond rose from his chair and stood beside her, his arm around her shoulders.

And I’m not crying about this broken glass either, she said. Don’t you think that I am.

Oh, I guess I know that, honey, he said. But come on, let’s get these dishes cleaned up here before we make any more mess out of things.

I don’t like it, she said. I don’t care what you say.

I know, he said. Where’s that dishrag? I’m going to wash.

No. You go on and get out of here. At least I’m going to do this much. Go back to the parlor and read your paper. At least you can’t stop me from doing the dishes.

But you know it’s the right thing, don’t you.

She looked up at him. Raymond was studying her face, his faded blue eyes regarding her with considerable kindness and affection. I suppose I don’t have to like it, she said.

I don’t like it myself, he said. We just both know it’s got to be this way. It don’t seem to matter at all what we like. It’s how things are.

She began to wash the dishes and he went back to the parlor and sat down to read in one of the two recliner chairs, and the next day they packed her car and she returned to Fort Collins with her daughter. She moved into the apartment again and in the afternoon she went out to find her professors to see about her classes. She was farther behind in classwork than she had thought she would be. She decided to drop two of her courses and to attempt to catch up in the other three.

And now in Holt County Raymond was completely alone in the old gray house in the country. There was no one left for him to talk to. He missed the girl as soon as she was gone. He missed his brother. It was as if he didn’t know where to look or what to think about. Every day he wore himself out working and he came in at night exhausted, too tired to cook anything, so he warmed up food out of cans. And all the while the wind blew outside and birdsong drifted up from the trees, and from time to time the calling of cattle and the sudden nicker of horses rose up from out in the pastures and the barnlots, and these noises carried up to the house in the evening. But that was all there was for him to hear or pay any attention to. He did not care for the radio. He only watched television for the ten o’clock news and the nightly prediction of tomorrow’s weather.

21

SHE WANTED HIM TO COME INSIDE WITH HER AFTER school let out for the day, after they had walked home together through the park through the drifts of dead elm leaves and across the railroad tracks trailing off in the distance east and west in long silver ribbons, and when they got up to the house he said he would, and once they got inside, her mother was not herself. Mary Wells had gotten a good deal worse lately.

This afternoon when Dena went in to find her, she was sitting in her bedroom on the unmade bed, smoking cigarettes and drinking gin from a coffee cup, staring blankly out the window at the winter lawn and the dark leafless trees along the back alley. I’m home, Mom, Dena said.

Her mother looked up, her face lifted slowly as if she were waking from some dream. Are you? she said.

Yes. DJ’s with me.

You better get yourselves something to eat.

What is there?

I think we have some crackers. Where’s Emma?

She’s here too.

Do something with her, please. It won’t hurt you.

Mom, DJ’s here.

I know. You said that. Go on now.

Mom, do you have to smoke?

Yes, I do. And shut the door on your way out. Don’t forget about your sister.

She just gets in the way.

You heard me.

She went out and the three of them made peanut-butter crackers in the kitchen standing at the counter, and she found a single clean glass in the cupboard and they each drank milk from it, taking turns, and when they were finished she said: Let’s go outside.

It’s cold outside, DJ said.

It’s not that cold.

What about me? said Emma.

You can stay in here and watch TV.

I don’t want to watch TV.

You can’t come with us. Come on, she said. Let’s go if we’re going.

IT WAS COLD AND ALREADY TURNING DARK IN THE SHED at the back of the alley. They lifted the latch and went inside and lit the candles. The candles cast a soft yellow light over the shelf at back and on the flowered carpet and it reached faintly into the chill dark corners. They sat down at the table opposite each other and draped old blankets over their coats.

I went last, she said.

I don’t think so.

Yes, I did.

I thought I went last.

No, it was me.

He took up the dice and tossed them out on the board, then counted the moves and advanced his man seven places.

There, she said. You owe me five hundred dollars.

Let me see it.

She showed him the card with the details printed on the back, showing the figures in dollars if someone landed on the property.

All right, he said. He removed the rubber band from his bundle of pink and green and yellow money and counted the bills out on the table and handed them to her. When did she start smoking? he said. I didn’t know she smoked.

Who?

Your mom.

She just started. She stinks up the house with them.

You ought to get some of her cigarettes sometime.

What for?

So we could smoke out here.

I don’t want to. She looked across at him and then down at the board and gathered up the dice and rolled and went forward nine squares.

Count again, he said.

It’s right.

You just missed me.

I know. I’m going to buy it. How much is it?

He looked among the cards and found the right one. Four hundred dollars, he said.

She counted out the money and he put it in the bank. Go ahead, she said.

He rolled. He moved his man around the corner and took out two hundred dollars from the bank.

You want to buy it?

I don’t have enough money.

You want to borrow some from the bank? You could mortgage.

I don’t like to mortgage.

What are you going to do then? Make up your mind.

I’m thinking about it. He looked across at her. Isn’t your dad ever coming back?

I don’t know. Maybe. But I might go up there.

Alaska?

Why not?

I’d like to go to Alaska, he said.

It’s cold, she said. But it’s different up there.

What do you mean?

It is. It’s not like down here. My dad says you have to know what you’re doing up there. You’ll freeze if you don’t. And they have Kodiak bears up there.

Are you going to roll or not?

She rolled and counted out her moves.

You landed on me this time.

I know that. How much?

Two hundred dollars.

Is that all? That’s easy. She tossed the bills across to him. They floated out onto the board like yellow leaves and he took them up.

It gets dark all winter up there, he said. It hardly ever gets light up there in the wintertime.

Not all winter, it doesn’t.

Most of it, he said. For about four months.

I don’t care, she said. I might go anyway. It’s your turn.

IN THE AFTERNOONS THEY WENT TO THE SHED AFTER school and sat and talked and played board games and contests of cards, and they lit the candles and wrapped up in blankets. And late one afternoon at the end of November they came back into the house in the cold early dark, and her mother was sitting with a man in the kitchen. They were drinking beer from green bottles and smoking cigarettes out of the same pack. Mary Wells had put on lipstick for the first time in weeks and half of the cigarettes in the ashtray were stained from her red mouth. She heard them come in at the front door. Come out here, Dena, she called. I want you to meet someone.

They came into the room and Mary Wells said: This is Bob Jeter. This is a friend of mine I want you to meet.

Bob Jeter had a thin face and a dark mustache and dark goatee. His blond hair was much lighter than his beard and she could see his pink scalp shining through his hair under the kitchen light.

Your mother didn’t tell me you were such a beautiful young lady, he said.

She looked at him.

Aren’t you going to say hello? her mother said.

Hello.

And who’s this? Bob Jeter said.

This is our neighbor, DJ Kephart.

DJ. Well DJ, how are things at the radio station?

The boy glanced at him and looked away. I don’t know what you’re talking about.

Okay, Mary Wells said. That’ll do. You two can go out now.

When they were out in the living room DJ whispered: Who’s that?

I don’t know, she said. I never saw him before. I don’t know who he is.

IN THE EVENING AFTER SUPPER, AFTER BOB JETER HAD left the house, Dena said to her mother: What’s that man doing here?

Her mother looked tired now. The bright glassy-eyed look she’d had before was gone. He’s a friend of mine, she said.

What’s he want here?

He’s a friend, like I said. He’s a vice president at the bank. He makes loans to people. I was talking to him the other day about our circumstances since your father isn’t coming back.

He might come back.

I doubt it. I don’t know anybody who even wants him to.

I want him to come back.

Do you?

Yes.

Maybe he will then. But tell me what you thought of Mr. Jeter.

I don’t see why he had to stay for supper. Doesn’t he have his own house?

Yes. He has his own house. Of course he has his own house. He has a very nice house.

LATER THAT NIGHT WHEN SHE WANTED TO CALL HER father, before she got on the phone, her mother said: If you get ahold of him, you tell him I had a friend here today. Tell your father that.

I’m not going to say that.

You are, or else you won’t talk to him at all.

Mom, I don’t want to.

Tell him I had somebody visiting here this afternoon. He’s not the only one who knows people. That’s something he ought to know, up there in hotshot Alaska.

22

THE PUBLIC DEFENDER ASSIGNED TO HIM WAS A YOUNG woman with red hair. She was three years out of law school and she’d been in possession of his police record for no more than an hour when she came to the Holt County Courthouse on the morning of the docket day to consult with him. She was carrying a stack of files under her arm, and they met in a little bare conference room down the hall from the courtroom, with a sheriff’s deputy waiting outside the door guarding another inmate. Hoyt was wearing his orange jailhouse coveralls and he looked pale and seedy after a month of confinement. She set her files on the table and sat down across the table from him.

Hoyt watched her flip through his police record. You’re about like the rest of them, ain’t you, he said. You want to know what I want, bitch? My number one priority is to get the fuck out of this goddamn place.

She looked at him closely for the first time. You can’t talk like that in here, she said. Not to me you can’t.

What’s wrong with the way I talk?

You know exactly what’s wrong with it.

Hell, he said. I was just getting a little excited there. I’m out of the custom of having any company. He grinned at her. I’ll try to contain myself.

She stared at him. Do that, she said. She closed his file. So, I don’t expect you want to go to trial. Do you.

I don’t know. You tell me.

I don’t think you do.

Why’s that now? I got things I might want to say. I have a right to be heard.

You’re certain of that?

Why wouldn’t I be?

Because your case probably wouldn’t go to trial for two months. Maybe longer. Depending on when it could be heard. Which means in the interim you’d go back to jail. You don’t have bail money, do you?

No, I don’t have no bail money. Where would I get money? They’ve had me locked up for twenty-nine days.

Then you don’t want to go to trial.

I said I didn’t.

When did you say that?

I’m saying it now, Hoyt said. How old are you anyway?

What?

How old a woman are you? You’re pretty good-looking for a lawyer.

She stared across the table at him. She took up a pen and began tapping it on the table. Listen. Mr. Raines.

Yes ma’am, he said. You got my entire attention. He grinned at her and leaned forward.

You know what, she said, I don’t think I do. Because you need to stop playing these stupid games. I don’t need this from you. I’ve got seven other cases to deal with this morning besides yours. You keep this up and we don’t get this resolved today, I’ll see you next month and you can go back downstairs and sit in jail till then. Now do you think you heard that?

Hell. He sat up straight and pulled down the cuffs of his coveralls onto his thin wrists. Take it easy, will you? You’re all strung up here. I never meant nothing. You’re just a good-looking woman, that’s all I’m saying. I haven’t even seen a woman for a month.

That’s only one of your problems, isn’t it.

Yeah, he said. But not for long. Soon as I get out of here I’ll take care of it.

She studied the expression on his face. She thought of saying something to him but then just shook her head. All right, she said. I’ve already spoken to the district attorney and I’ve negotiated the option of two plea agreements on your behalf.

What am I pleaing to?

What do you plead?

Yeah. What do I plead.

You plead guilty to a charge of misdemeanor child abuse. As stated in the police report. With the stipulation that there would be no additional jail time. You agree to have no more contact with the two children and to stay away from their parents’ house. Do you accept all of these conditions?

You think I want to go back to that place after all the trouble they got me into?

That’s not what I asked you.

All right, yes, I accept them. Yes, I’m not going back there again and I won’t contact those kids no more. Does that suit you? What else have you got to say?

Before you’re released the judge will set a period of probation.

How long is that going to be?

A year, maybe two. That’s one possibility. The positive for you in this option is that you’ll be getting out of jail today. The negative is that if you violate your probation you’ll potentially receive a flat jail sentence because of it. Do you understand what I’ve said so far?

Yeah. What else?

Then there’s the other possibility. The charge could be reduced to attempt to commit child abuse. If you accept this option you leave the sentencing to the judge. The positive here for you is that if you violate your probation you’d probably have less jail time in the future. The negative is that you might not get out of jail today. Depending on what sentence the judge hands down.

She stopped and looked at him.

What? he said.

You understand what I’ve just told you.

It’s not that difficult. I got it.

Which option do you want me to negotiate?

I already said what I want. I want out of jail today.

Then you enter a plea of guilty. And you sign this form I’ll give you.

I have to sign something?

You need to commit yourself before we go into court.

She removed two sheets of paper from his file and turned the top sheet so they could both see it, then leaned over and began to read each section aloud, looking up at him frequently as she went through them. The Advisement Per Colorado Rule of Criminal Procedure, Rules Five and Eleven, Plea of Guilty stated his rights and the terms he would agree to in waiving his right to a trial, made sure that he understood the elements of the offense, that he was entering a guilty plea voluntarily, and that he wasn’t under the influence of drugs or alcohol.

Those are the terms, she said. If you understand the terms and agree to them, you sign it.

What’s that other paper you’ve got there?

Standard Conditions.

What’s that?

It’s a list of conditions you’ll be expected to adhere to while you’re on probation.

Like what?

She read through these aloud too. Sixteen conditions saying he would not violate any law or harass any prosecution witness, that he’d maintain a permanent residence, that he wouldn’t leave the state of Colorado without permission, that he’d get a job or at least try to get one, that he wouldn’t use alcohol to excess or other dangerous drug.

I don’t have to sign that?

No, there’s nothing here to sign. This is simply for your information, so you can make an informed decision. You only have to know about it and understand it.

Okay.

Then you’re ready to sign this form of Advisement?

If it gets me out of here, I’ll sign anything.

No. Now wait a minute, she said. You’re not signing just anything. You have to understand exactly what you’re signing.

I understand that. Give me your pen.

You’re sure.

You want me to sign this thing, don’t you.

That’s entirely up to you.

You going to let me use that pen or not? I don’t have one of my own. They’re afraid I’m going to stab somebody.

She handed him the pen and he looked at her and then ducked his head over the paper and printed and signed his name on the two lines and wrote the date beside them. There you go, he said. He pushed the paper across the table.

She took up both sheets of paper and put them in his folder.

What am I suppose to do now?

You wait with the sheriff’s deputy in the courtroom until you’re called.

She rose from the table and took her stack of case files under her arm and went out the door. He watched her leave, looking at her skirt and legs. The deputy waiting outside in the hallway came in, accompanied by the second inmate, and put the cuffs on Hoyt’s wrists again and walked the two of them down the wide corridor to the courtroom to wait for their cases to come up. The second inmate wore shackles on his ankles in addition to his handcuffs, and shuffled along slowly.

There were several people in the courtroom already, sitting and talking. The deputy led Hoyt and the other inmate to a bench near the back, and they sat and watched as more people entered and filed into the rows of benches.

After a while Hoyt leaned toward the sheriff’s deputy. I got to take a piss, he said.

How come you never thought of that earlier?

I never had any reason to think of it earlier.

Get up then, the deputy said. Let’s go. You too, he said to the other inmate. Before they get this thing started.

How come I got to go?

Because I said so. I ain’t about to leave you here.

They went out into the corridor past the lawyers talking to clients and past other people standing in groups below the tall narrow windows. They went down the wooden stairway to the main floor, the other inmate turning sideways taking one step at a time, then the deputy led them into the public rest room behind the staircase. Try not to piss yourself, he said to Hoyt.

Ain’t you going to unzip me? Hoyt said. I know you been wanting to.

I wouldn’t touch you with a goddamn cow prod, you sorry son of a bitch.

You’re missing your chance here.

I’m going to tell you something, Raines. Not everybody in Holt County thinks you’re real cute.

There’s some that do. Some of these women I could name.

Nobody I know of.

You don’t know the right ones.

That must be it. Now hurry the fuck up there.

The other man used the urinal too and they went back upstairs to the courtroom and sat down and waited. The D.A. came in and the young red-haired public defender took her place opposite him at the table in front of the benches where some of the other lawyers were already seated. The bailiff came in and checked the thermostat, tapping the little cage with his finger and peering at it before he sat down. Finally the clerk entered from a side door and called: All rise, and the judge came in, a short heavy dark-haired man in a black robe, and everybody stood until he was seated behind his high desk, then the clerk said: Be seated, and the judge called the first case.

Hoyt’s case came about an hour later. He sat beside the sheriff’s deputy, barely able to stay awake, while various Holt County defendants rose as their names were called and stood at the lectern between the lawyers’ tables and listened to the judge. A boy came forward and the judge motioned for him to take his cap off. The boy removed his cap. The judge asked him if he had acquired auto insurance since the last time he’d appeared in court. The boy said he had and held up a paper. All right, you can go, the judge said. A woman in jeans and a pink shirt was next and her lawyer rose beside her and told the court that one of the causes of her current stress was in custody in Greeley now and that she herself was ready to go to jail today at five o’clock. The judge sentenced the woman to seven days in the county jail and ordered that she abstain from alcohol for two years and informed her that she was to serve one year of supervised probation and do forty-eight hours of public service. When he finished speaking the woman turned and went out into the hall with two girlfriends. Her face had turned red and she had already begun to cry. Her friends put their arms around her waist and whispered softly to her whatever encouragement they could think of.

Then the sheriff’s deputy led the inmate next to Hoyt up to the lawyers’ lectern. The man’s name was Bistrum and he moved forward in his little shuffling steps. He was charged with possession of marijuana and the bouncing of checks, but due to a complication in his case the judge ordered him to return to court on the eighteenth of January. The man swung around to look at a tall girl sitting in the third row and mouthed words to her, and she whispered back to him, then he shook his head and shrugged his shoulders and the deputy led him shuffling back to their bench.

When the judge announced People of the State of Colorado vs. Hoyt Raines, the deputy nodded at him and said: You’re up, asshole. Hoyt gave him a grin and stepped forward. The young public defender stood up beside him and addressed the court.

Your Honor, we wish to advise the court that Mr. Raines has decided to enter a plea of guilty to the charge of misdemeanor child abuse. He is fully aware of the charges and he has been advised of his rights. We submit to the court this copy of the Advisement signed by the defendant.

She stepped to the bench and handed the judge the form. He reached down and took it, then she returned to her place beside Hoyt.

The judge looked at the form. Mr. Raines, do you understand your rights in this courtroom?

I understand them, Hoyt said.

And you understand the charges against you?

Yeah. But that don’t mean I like them.

You don’t have to like them. But you do have to understand them. And you’re telling the court that you do want to plead guilty to the charge of child abuse?

I guess so.

What do you mean you guess so.

I mean yeah, I do.

The judge looked at him for some time. He glanced at the papers in front of him, then addressed the district attorney: You agree that there is a factual basis for this case?

Yes, Your Honor.

What is your recommendation regarding Mr. Raines here?

Your Honor, we believe that since Mr. Raines has already served a month in jail, no further jail time is required. We recommend that there be a period of not less than a year of probation and that Mr. Raines accept without dispute whatever the probation officer reasonably recommends for treatment. We further recommend that the defendant refrain from any contact with the children in question and that he not be permitted to live in the Wallace household any longer.

The judge turned to the young lawyer. Do you concur with all we’ve just heard?

Yes, Your Honor.

Mr. Raines, have you yourself got anything to say?

Hoyt shook his head.

Am I to take that as a no?

No. I haven’t got anything more to say. What good would it do me anyhow.

That might depend upon what you said.

There ain’t nothing to say.

Then you will be remanded over to the sheriff and he will release you from custody today. You will contact the probation officer within twenty-four hours. The court orders you to serve one year of supervised probation. Further, you are ordered to pay full court costs, plus a fine of two hundred dollars, and to do ninety-six hours of public service. You will refrain from any contact with the Wallace children and you will no longer reside in the Wallace household. Any question?

Hoyt looked at the young public defender beside him and when she shook her head he looked at the judge. I heard you, he said. I haven’t got any question.

Good, the judge said. Because I don’t want to see you in here again. This court has seen all it ever wants to see of you, Mr. Raines.

The judge signed the Advisement and handed it to the clerk, then pulled another file out and called the next case.

Hoyt turned and walked to the rear of the courtroom. The deputy rose and escorted him and the other inmate into the hall and on downstairs to the sheriff’s office, where the other man was returned to his cell.

The deputy stood before Hoyt and unlocked his handcuffs. You can gather up your belongings now, he said. And report to the probation officer.

I have twenty-four hours till I have to see him.

That’s the way you’re going to do this, is it? Make it difficult for everybody, like you been doing all along.

It’s none of your fucking business anymore what I do, Hoyt said. The judge released me. I’m free to go. And you’re free to kiss my ass.

23

ON A SATURDAY MORNING IN DECEMBER TOM GUTHRIE and the two boys, Ike and Bobby, drove out to the McPheron place just after breakfast. It was a clear cold day. Only a little wind was blowing up out of the west.

They got out of Guthrie’s old red faded Dodge pickup and entered the horse lot where Raymond was waiting for them next to the barn. The two boys, twelve and eleven, were slim and lank, dressed for the cold day in jeans and lined jackets and wool caps and leather gloves. In the horse lot Raymond already had the horses brushed and saddled, and they stood loose-tied at the pole fence, swinging their heads to look as the Guthries approached.

You fellows are right on time, Raymond said. I’m about ready for you. How you boys doing this morning?

They looked at each other. We’re okay, Ike said.

Hell of a deal having to come out here on a Saturday morning so early, isn’t it.

We don’t mind.

Did he feed you any breakfast before you left town?

Yes sir.

That’s good. It’s going to be a long time till noon dinner.

How do you want to go about this? Guthrie said.

Oh, about like always, I guess, Tom. We’ll just ride out amongst them and bring them all in together to the holding pen there and start separating them. How’s that sound to you?

Sounds fine to me, Guthrie said. You’re the boss.

They mounted the horses and rode out into the pasture. The horses were fresh and a little skittish, a little high in the cold weather, but soon settled down. Far across the pasture the cattle and two-year-old heifers and big blackbaldy calves were spread out in the sagebrush and the native grass, their dark shapes visible over a low wind-blown rise. As they rode on, Guthrie and Raymond talked about the weather and the lateness of the snow and the condition of the grass, and Guthrie thought to inquire about Victoria Roubideaux. Raymond told him she had called the night before. She sounded pretty good, he said. Seems like she’s doing real well in her studies there in Fort Collins. She’ll be coming home for Christmas.

The two boys rode alongside the men, not talking. They looked around at all there was to see, glad to be out of school doing anything on horseback.

When the four riders drew near, the old mother cows and heifers and calves all stopped grazing and stood as still and alert as deer, watching them approach, then began to move away across the grass toward the far fence line.

You boys go turn them, Guthrie said. Don’t you think, Raymond?

That’s right. Head them back this way.

The boys touched up their horses and loped off after the cattle, riding like oldtime cowboys out across the native grass on the treeless high plains under a sky as blue and pure as a piece of new crockery.

THEY GATHERED THE CATTLE AND DROVE THEM BACK TO the home corrals and then shut them up in the holding pen east of the barn. Then they dismounted and loosened the cinches and watered the horses and tied them at the pole fence. The horses stood and shook themselves, resting with one back leg cocked. They each were dark with sweat at their necks and flanks and lathered between their back legs.

Raymond and the two boys began to work the cows and calves now, pushing one cow-calf pair at a time out of the holding pen into the high plank-sided alley where Guthrie stood at the far end ready with the swing gate. One of the boys would trot behind with a herdsman’s whip, heading them down the alley. The calves stayed close to their mothers, but when they reached Guthrie he shoved the head of the gate between them and closed it, sorting the cow out to pasture and the calf into a second big pen. As soon as they were separated both cow and calf began to bawl, crying and calling, milling in a circle. The dust rose in the air out of the unceasing noise and commotion and hung above them in a brown cloud that drifted away only gradually in the low wind. And all the time the cattle kept stirring, shoving against one another, then standing still to set up to bawl, and the calves in the pen kept raising their heads and bawling and crying, their mouths thrown open, showing pink like rubber and roped with slobber, their eyes rolled back to rims of white. Now and then a cow and its calf would locate each other along the plank fence and stand breathing and licking at the other through the narrow spaces between the rough boards. But when the cow would move away, milling along the fence, the calf would lift its head to bawl once more. It all grew louder and dirtier as the morning hours passed.

In the holding pen Raymond said: Here now, you want to watch this one. She tends to be a little snorty. Stay back from her.

A tall black cow came trotting out from the pen with her calf close behind. The boys succeeded in turning them both into the alley and got them headed toward Guthrie. At the end of the alley she came rushing at him, tossing her head as if to hook him. He climbed quickly up the fence two or three boards, and when she reached for him with her horns he kicked at her head. Then she and her calf dodged into the pasture before he could jump down and swing the gate. Ike called: You want me to go get them, Dad?

No, I’m going to leave her. We’ll get a rope on the calf later. That all right, Raymond?

That’s exactly right, Raymond said.

They went on working cattle in the bright day in the dust-filled pens. The day had warmed up a little, the wind had stayed down and they grew warm in their lined jackets. By half-past noon they were finished.

You better come up to the house for some dinner now, Raymond said. I believe these boys here could use something to eat.

Oh, we’ll just go into town, Guthrie said. We’ll get us something to eat at the café. But let us get that calf in first.

No, you better come up to the house. We’ll get the calf later. I got some of that good ground beef thawed out from the locker. It’s going to waste if you don’t come in. I ain’t going to eat all of it by myself.

They left the corrals and walked across the gravel drive to the house and porch where they slapped the dust off their jeans and stomped their boots and went inside and took off their warm jackets and hats, and Raymond washed his hands and face at the sink and started to cook at the old enameled stove. Guthrie and the boys washed up at the sink after him and dried off on the kitchen towel. You boys can help me set the table, Guthrie said.

They got down plates and glasses from the cupboard and set them on the table and laid out silverware, then looked in the old refrigerator and took out bottles of ketchup and mustard. Anything else? Guthrie said.

You can open this can of beans, Raymond said, so I can heat it up. Maybe one of you boys can find some milk.

They stood about in the kitchen watching him cook, and when he was finished at the stove they sat down at the table to eat. He carried the big heavy frying pan to the table and forked two hamburgers onto each plate, the meat was badly overcooked, black and hard as something poked out of a campfire. Then he set the pan on the stove and sat down. Go on ahead and eat, he said, unless somebody wants to pray. No one did. He looked around at them. What are you waiting on? Oh hell, I forgot to buy hamburger buns, didn’t I. Well shoot, he said. He got up and brought a sack of white bread to the table and sat down again. You boys can eat these hamburgers without buns, can’t you?

Yes sir.

Okay then. Let’s see if any of this is worth our attention.

They passed the dish of heated beans around the table and poured ketchup on the hamburgers. The ketchup soaked through and made pink circles on the bread. The bread turned soggy and came apart in their hands so that they had to lean over and eat above their plates. There was not much talking. The boys looked once at their father, and he nodded toward their plates and they ducked their heads and went on eating. When the beans came around again they each spooned out a second large portion. For dessert Raymond got down four coffee cups and opened a big can of grocery-store peaches and went around the table to each place and spooned out bright yellow quarters into each of the cups and poured out the syrup in equal quantities.

Meanwhile Guthrie was looking about the kitchen. There were pieces of machinery and bits of leather and old rusted buckles collected on the chairs and in the corners.

Raymond, he said, you ought to get out of the country now and again. Come into town, have a beer or something. You’re going to get too lonesome out here.

It does get kind of quiet sometimes, Raymond said.

You better drive into town one of these Saturday nights. Have a little fun for yourself.

Well, no. I can’t see what I’d do with myself in town.

You might be surprised, Guthrie said. You might find some manner of interesting trouble to get into.

It might be some kind of trouble I didn’t know how to get out of, Raymond said. What’d I do then?

AFTER LUNCH THEY WENT OUTSIDE AGAIN AND THE TWO boys mounted their horses and rode into the pasture among the cows and located the tall black cow and dropped a rope on her calf and dragged the stiff-legged calf back into the big pen with the rest. The cow made a run at them there, but they were able to turn her away and take the calf inside.

The cattle were all still bawling as before. They would go on bawling and milling for three days. Then the cows would grow hungry enough to move farther out into the pasture to graze and their bags would dry up. As for the calves, Raymond would have to fork out brome hay in the long row of feed bunks in the holding pen and bucket out ground corn on top of the hay, and he’d have to watch them carefully for a while or they might turn sick.

WHEN GUTHRIE AND THE BOYS DROVE OUT TO THE county road to return to Holt, they could still hear the cattle from a mile away.

They’re all right, aren’t they? Bobby said.

Yeah, they’re all right, Guthrie said. They’re going to have to be. It happens every year like this. I thought you knew that.

I never paid it any attention before, Bobby said. I never was a part of it before.

Those cows and heifers are already pregnant with their next year’s calves, Guthrie said. They’d have to wean these calves themselves if we didn’t do it for them. They’ve got to build up their strength for next year’s crop.

They make an awful lot of noise, Ike said. They don’t seem to like it much.

No, Guthrie said.

He looked at his sons riding beside him in the pickup, headed down the gravel road on this bright winter afternoon, the flat open country all around them gray and brown and very dry.

They never do like it, he said. I can’t imagine anything or anybody that would like it. But every living thing in this world gets weaned eventually.

24

THE RAILROAD PENSION CHECK HAD COME AND THE OLD man wanted to go out despite the bitter cold. The temperature had begun to drop every night into the teens and below. You don’t have to come, he said. I can manage without you.

You can’t go by yourself, DJ said. I’m coming with you.

He went back to his bedroom and got into heavier clothes and returned to the front room and took down his mackinaw and mittens from the plank closet in the corner and put them on and then stood at the door holding his stocking cap in his hand. You better dress warm, Grandpa. You remember last winter when you got frostbite.

Don’t you worry about that. I been out in more freezing weather than you ever heard of. Goddamn it, boy, I worked out in this cold all my life.

He put on his old heavy black coat and pulled a corduroy cap down over his white head, the flaps hanging loose beside his big ears. Then he slipped on leather mittens and looked around the room. Turn that light off.

I will, as soon as you go out. I’m waiting on you, DJ said. Have you got your check?

Course I got my check. It’s right here in my wallet. He patted the chest pocket of his overalls under the heavy coat. Let’s go, he said.

They stepped out and immediately the south wind blowing down on them was enough to take their breath away. Above the lights of town the sky was hard and clear. They walked along the street toward downtown. There was no traffic. The lights were on in Mary Wells’s house but all the blinds were pulled down tight. Patches of snow lay scattered in the yards and ruts of ice were hardened in the road.

At Main Street they turned south into the wind and walked along on the sidewalk. A car drove by, its exhaust as white and ragged as wood smoke, before the wind snatched it away. They crossed the railroad tracks and the red signal light shone at the west. The grain elevators loomed over them.

In Holt’s small business district their paired images walked beside them in the plateglass storefronts. The old man went limping bent over in his heavy coat, his head down, and the boy was a good deal shorter in the windows.

At the corner of Third Street they crossed Main and stepped into the tavern, entering the long hot smoky room with its clamor of loud talk and country music and pool games going on in the back and the television playing from the bracketed shelf above the bar. His grandfather peered about while he stood beside him, waiting. Old men were sitting against the wall at a round wooden table, and they went over there.

Who’s that you got with you? one of them said. Is that DJ? Cold enough for you, boy?

Yes sir. Just about. He took a chair from the next table and sat behind his grandfather.

Just about, he says. Hah.

Don’t tell me you walked over here, another old man said. Walt, you must of about froze your tail off coming down here.

I’ve seen colder, he said.

Everybody’s seen colder. I’m just saying it’s cold.

It’s December, ain’t it, the old man said. Now where’s that waitress? I need something to drink here. I want something to heat up my insides.

She’ll be here. Give her a minute.

Watch her when she comes over, said a red-faced man across the table.

Who is she?

Her name’s Tammy. She’s new.

Who is she?

Reuben DeBaca’s ex-wife from over by Norka. Look her over. Here she comes.

The barmaid came over to the table. She was blonde and good-looking, with wide hips and long legs. She had on tight faded jeans, a deliberate hole in the front of one thigh showing tanned skin underneath, and she wore a white low-cut blouse. When she bent forward to remove two empty glasses from the table, all the old men sitting there watched her closely. Didn’t you just come in? she said to the old man.

Just now, he said.

Why don’t you take your coat off and make yourself at home? You’re going to get too hot, then you’ll catch cold when you go back out. What can I bring you?

Bring me, the old man said. He looked toward the bar. Bring me some kind of drinking whiskey.

What kind? We have Jack Daniel’s and Old Grand-Dad and Bushmills and Jameson’s.

Which is your bar whiskey?

That’s Old Crow.

It’s cheaper, ain’t it.

Is that what you want?

That’s it.

And what about you? she said to DJ.

He glanced at her. A cup of coffee, please.

You drink coffee?

Yes ma’am.

He does, his grandfather said. I can’t stop him. He’s been drinking it ever since he was little.

All right then. Anything else?

Bring the boy some corn chips, one of the men said.

Coffee, corn chips, whiskey. Is that it?

Could you wipe this off over here? the red-faced man said. There’s a spot over here.

She looked at him and bent over and wiped the table with a wet rag, and they all looked down the front of her blouse. Will that do? she said.

It sure helps, he said.

You old bastard, she said. You ought to be ashamed of yourself. Acting that way in front of this boy. She went off to get their drinks.

I believe she’s warming up to me, the red-faced man said.

She’d warm up to your bank account a lot faster, one of the others said.

Maybe she would. But a woman like her, you wouldn’t mind spending a little money on her. You got to.

What about her ex-husband?

That’s what I’m talking about. She’s older now. She’s not going to just fold her hands up and sit at home. She wants something better out of life. She knows there’s something more coming her way than a dryland farm out south of Norka.

And you could give it to her.

Why not.

Well, I kind of remember you complaining just last week about how you couldn’t get something in your undershorts to cooperate no more. After that operation you had, where the doctor cut on you.

Well, yeah, he said. There is that. The men at the table all laughed. But a woman like her, he said, she might put some new life in you. She might even manage to raise the dead.

The man next to him slapped him on the back. You just keep thinking that way.

DJ looked toward the bar where the woman was setting out glasses on a tray. Under the blue lights she appeared tall and pretty.

She brought the coffee and corn chips and the whiskey to the table, and his grandfather reached inside the chest pocket of his overalls and drew out his old soft leather wallet and removed his pension check.

What’s this? she said.

My check. From the railroad.

She turned it over and looked at the other side. You want me to cash this?

That’s the usual custom.

You’ll need to sign it, she said.

She handed him a pen, and the old man leaned over the table and stiffly signed his name and gave the pen back together with the check.

I’ll have to see if they will accept this, she said.

They will. I been cashing checks here for years.

I’ll just see, she said, and walked away toward the bar.

What the hell’s a-wrong with her?

She’s just doing her job, Grandpa, DJ whispered.

The old man lifted his tumbler of whiskey and took a long drink. Drink your coffee there, he said to the boy. It won’t do you no good once it gets cold.

The woman came back with a handful of bills and some change and handed the money to the old man. He drew out a dollar bill and gave it to her. Thank you, she said. I never should of questioned you, should I?

No, ma’am, he said. I’ve been coming in here a long time. Longer than you, I imagine. I plan on coming a while yet too.

And I hope you do, she said. Can I bring you anything else?

You can bring me another one of these after a while.

Of course, she said. DJ watched her walk away to another table.

As the old men around the table began to talk, the boy drank some of his coffee, then set the cup beside his chair on the floor and ate a few of the corn chips and took his math assignment from his coat pocket and got out a pencil and laid the sheets of paper on his lap. One of the old men said: Speaking of people getting cut on, and began to tell a story about a man he knew who couldn’t get his equipment to work anymore, so he and his wife went to the doctor. The doctor examined him and then presented him with a sterile needle and vial of fluid to inject into the skin alongside his business, just before he and his wife tried again, and told them to come back afterwards and say how it all went. The couple came back a week later. How’d it go? the doctor said. The man said: Pretty good, it stayed up for forty-five minutes. So what’d you do, the doctor said, and the man said: Well, we did what you’re suppose to, you know. Then after we was finished I went out to the front room and set down on the couch, watching TV and eating salted popcorn, waiting for it to go down again so I could go to bed. The doctor turned to the man’s wife. That must have been pretty good for you too, he said. Like hell, she said. He only had enough wind for five minutes.

DJ listened until his grandfather began telling the story of the Korean War veteran working on the railroad tracks one winter in the cold country south of Hardin Montana. DJ had already heard this one, and he went to work on the math papers he held in his lap. His grandfather’s story was altogether different from the one he’d just heard, and he wasn’t much interested in hearing about some vet chasing his foreman around with a shovel.

THE BARMAID CAME BACK AFTER A TIME AND BROUGHT another glass of whiskey to his grandfather, then left and came back with another round for the others. After the old men paid her, she leaned close to the boy and said softly: Why don’t you come up here with me?

Up where?

Up to the bar. That way you’ll have a place to work on your papers. You can write better up there.

Okay, he said. He stood up next to his grandfather. I’m going up to the bar, Grandpa.

Where?

To the bar. Where I can do my problems.

You behave yourself up there.

I will.

DJ followed her through the room past the men and women who were all talking and drinking, and at the bar she had him climb onto one of the high stools at the corner and he spread his math assignment out on the polished surface. She set his coffee cup and the corn chips beside him.

The bartender came over. Who’s this we got here?

My friend, she said.

He’s a little young to be drinking at a bar, don’t you think?

You leave him alone.

I’m not bothering him. Why would I bother him? I just don’t want him getting us into trouble.

He won’t get us into any trouble. Who’s going to complain?

They better not. But it’s your responsibility, if they do.

Don’t worry about it.

I ain’t going to worry. They don’t pay me enough to worry about shit like this. The bartender looked at her and moved away.

She smiled at DJ and went around behind the bar and brought a steaming glass coffeepot and refilled his cup. Don’t pay any attention to him, she said. He always has to talk.

I don’t want you to get in trouble.

This? she said. This isn’t trouble. I could tell you what trouble is. Don’t you want some sugar in your coffee?

No thank you.

No milk either?

No. I like it this way.

Well, I just expect you’re sweet enough. I have a boy myself, only a little younger than you, she said. He’s a sweet thing like you are. I’ll see him tomorrow. She stood across the bar, holding the coffeepot.

Doesn’t he live with you? he said.

He lives with his daddy. It was better that way. You know, until I got settled.

Oh.

But I sure do miss him.

DJ watched her face. She smiled at him.

But now what about you? Where’s your daddy and mama?

I don’t know who my dad is, he said. I never met him.

Didn’t you? What about your mother? Where’s she?

She died a long time ago.

Oh hell, she said. Listen to me. I’m sorry to hear that. Well, I’m sorry I ever said anything.

DJ looked past her into the backbar mirror, where he saw himself reflected above the ranks of bottles, and he saw her blonde head and the back of her white shirt in the mirror. He looked down and picked up his pencil.

You go on and do your schoolwork, she said. You just have to call if you need something. Will you be all right up here, do you think?

Yes, ma’am.

I’ll be right here if you need something.

Thank you.

You’re very welcome. She smiled. You know what? You and me could get to be good friends, do you think we could?

I guess so.

Well, that’s good enough. That’s being honest. She set the coffeepot on the hotplate and moved out from behind the bar again to work among the tables.

LATER A WOMAN WITH SHORT BROWN HAIR AND VERY blue eyes came to the end of the bar and stood beside DJ. Don’t I know you? she said. I’ve been watching you for half an hour.

I don’t know, he said.

Isn’t that your grandfather? Sitting over there with those other men?

Yes.

I took care of him at night. Don’t you remember? I saw you when you came in early before school one time. Before I went off duty.

Maybe so, he said.

Yes, I’m sure I did.

Then while she was standing beside him at the end of the bar, Raymond McPheron came in at the front door of the tavern.

Well, look at that, she said. This must be hospital reunion night. I didn’t think that man ever came out.

RAYMOND STOOD AND TOOK HIS GLOVES OFF AS HE looked around. He was wearing his silver-belly Bailey hat and his heavy canvas winter coat. He moved out of the doorway and stood behind the men sitting on the stools, waiting until the bartender noticed him.

What’s it going to be?

I’m deciding, Raymond said. What have you got on tap?

Coors and Budweiser and Bud Light.

Let me try a Coors.

The bartender drew the beer and handed it to him past a seated man and Raymond reached him a bill. The bartender made change at the cash register below the mirror and brought it back. Raymond took a drink and turned to look at the people sitting at the tables. He drank again and wiped his mouth with the palm of his hand, then unbuttoned his heavy coat.

The woman who had been standing beside DJ came up and tapped him on the shoulder and Raymond turned to look at her.

There’s room down here, she said. Why don’t you come join us? Raymond took off his hat, holding it in one hand. You remember me, don’t you? She smiled at him and took two little steps, as if she were dancing.

I’m starting to, he said. I’m going to say you must be Linda May from the hospital.

That’s right. You do remember. Come join us down here.

Where?

At the end of the bar. There’s someone else I think you know.

Raymond put his hat back on and followed her along the bar. The men turned on the barstools to look at him as he went by, watching him with the woman. She stopped beside DJ. How about this young man here? she said. Do you remember him?

I believe I do, Raymond said. This must be Walter Kephart’s grandson. I never got his name though.

DJ, the boy said.

How you doing, son?

Pretty good.

Is your grandfather here with you?

DJ pointed to the table against the far wall.

I see him now. How’s he doing? Is he doing pretty good too?

Yes sir. He got over his pneumonia.

Good, Raymond said. He looked at the boy again and noticed his papers on the bartop. Looks like we’re interrupting your schoolwork there. Maybe we better leave you to it.

I’m done. I’m just waiting on Grandpa, till he’s ready to go.

How soon you reckon that’s going to be?

I don’t know. He’s talking.

Old men like to talk, don’t they, Raymond said. He drank from his glass and glanced at the woman standing next to him.

I’m surprised to see you out here, she said. I didn’t think you ever came out at night.

I don’t, Raymond said. I can’t say what I’m doing out here this time.

You need to get out once in a while. Everybody does.

That must be it.

They do. Believe me. It’s good you came out.

Aren’t you working tonight?

No, she said. This is one of my nights off.

Well. That would explain how one of us came to be here anyways.

The boy’s grandfather stepped up to bar next to DJ. You staying out of trouble?

Yes.

It’s about time we get on home.

How you doing there? Raymond said.

Who’s that? Is that you, McPheron?

More or less. Yes sir.

Look who else is here, the old man said, looking at the woman. Aren’t you from the hospital?

That’s right, Linda May said.

Well. Okay then. It’s good to see you. He turned to DJ. Let’s go, boy. Here’s your coat.

DJ stood down from the barstool and put on his coat and stuck his papers in the pocket. I want to tell her good-bye first, he said.

Who?

That lady who was nice to me.

The old man looked into the back. She’s working, he said. She don’t need you bothering her.

I’m not going to bother her.

He walked back toward the pool tables at the rear of the long smoky room where she was talking to some men sitting at a table. They were all laughing and he waited behind her until one of the men said: I believe there’s somebody here wants to say something to you.

The barmaid turned around.

I’m going now, DJ said.

She reached toward him and pulled his coat collar up. You stay warm outside now.

Thank you for all the— He motioned behind himself. For the place to work on my papers.

That’s all right, sweetheart. She smiled at him. I was just glad to see you. Now you come again sometime. Okay? He nodded and went back to his grandfather.

You think you’re ready to go now? the old man said.

Yes.

Let’s go then.

Just a minute, Raymond said. Are you walking?

We walked over here.

You’d better let me drive you home.

You don’t need to do that. We got over here all right.

Sure, but it’s colder now.

Well. The old man glanced toward the door. I don’t like this boy being out like this, I’ll say that.

Linda May looked at Raymond. You haven’t finished your beer. Why don’t you go ahead and run them home and I’ll keep your glass here for you. Then you can come back.

I might, he said.

Do, she said.

They went outside and got into Raymond’s old battered pickup, and he backed away from the curb and turned north up Main Street and followed Walter Kephart’s directions across the railroad tracks and then west into the quiet neighborhood, pulling up in front of their house. The old man and the boy got out. We thank you kindly for the ride, the old man said.

Don’t you take no more sickness, Raymond said.

I don’t plan on it.

The old man shut the pickup door and it didn’t catch, so Raymond leaned across and pushed it open, then slammed it hard. When he looked up they were already halfway to the door of the house. He drove to the end of the block and made a U-turn at the intersection and drove back to Main Street and parked down the block from the tavern. For a while he sat in the cold cab looking at the darkened storefront in front of him. What in hell’s sake do I think I’m doing? he said. His breath smoked in the cold air. I don’t have the first idea. But I guess I’m doing it.

He got out and went back into the warmth and noise once more and walked to the end of the bar where Linda May stood. When he came up to her she smiled and held out his beer glass.

Well, here you are, she said. I didn’t know if you’d come back or not.

I said I might, Raymond said.

That doesn’t mean you would. Men say I might, and it doesn’t mean a thing.

I thought it did, he said.

Maybe it does for you.

He took the glass from her hand and drank the rest of the beer. He looked around and all the people nearby appeared to be having a good time.

Let me buy you another beer, she said. This’ll be my round.

Well, no, he said. Ma’am, I don’t believe I could do that. I better buy you one. Wouldn’t you let me do that?

But the next one’s on me. This is a new day, she said.

Ma’am?

I mean women are different now than they used to be. It’s all right for a woman to buy a man a drink in a barroom now.

I wouldn’t know a thing about that, Raymond said. I don’t believe I ever did know anything about women. There was just my mother and then this young girl that lived with us lately.

You mean the girl with the little child I saw visiting you in the hospital.

Yes ma’am. That would be her. That was Victoria Roubideaux. And her little daughter, Katie.

Where are they now? Don’t they still live with you?

No ma’am, not all the time. They’re off at school. In Fort Collins. She’s taking a course of study at college.

Good for her. But don’t you think you could call me something else? Ma’am makes me sound so old.

I might try, he said.

Good, she said. Now why don’t you tell me about them.

Victoria Roubideaux and Katie?

That’s right. They seem to mean a great deal to you.

Well yes, they do. They mean just about everything to me.

He began to talk to Linda May about the girl and her child, and he told her how it was that they had come to live with him and his brother in the country two and a half years ago, and after a while a table was vacated and they sat down across from each other and he allowed her to buy him a drink, though he insisted on buying the next round himself. He sat there in his hat and winter coat until the place closed, talking to this woman. He had never done such a thing before in his life.

It was late when he drove into the graveled drive and stopped at the gate in front of the old gray house. The temperature had fallen to zero and a pale half-sided moon was coming up in the eastern sky. He got out of the pickup and walked up the sidewalk onto the porch. Inside, the house felt empty and quiet. He hung his coat on its peg and went into the bathroom, then climbed the stairs to his bedroom. He turned the light on and everything there seemed quiet and desolate too. He looked around and finally sat down on the bed and pulled his boots off. He got undressed and put on his flannel striped pajamas and lay awake under the heavy blankets in the cold room, unable to sleep yet, thinking about the woman at the bar and about the old man and the boy, and he began to remember the time his brother was courting the woman in town and how that turned out. The moonlight was showing in the room, silver on the wall, and after a while he went to sleep, and in his sleep he dreamed of Victoria and Katie, knocking at the door of some house he didn’t recognize situated in some town he had never seen before in his life.

25

THERE WAS SNOW FALLING WHEN THEY CAME OUTSIDE Holt County Social Services at the rear of the courthouse in the evening. They had been in the long conference room for an hour, attending a class in the practice of parenthood, while Joy Rae and Richie played with the scarred tedious brightly colored toys in the waiting room and read the little broken-backed books, and during the hour they were all inside it had begun to snow. It was snowing hard now, piling up in the gutters along the street curbs and blowing up against the dark brick walls of the courthouse.

When they came outside, the children were wearing the cheap coats that were too big for them they had bought at the racks at the thrift store, and Betty had on an old calf-length red wool winter coat that was fastened in front with big safety pins. Luther wore only a thin black windbreaker, but he was warm even in that.

Hoo doggie, he said when they stepped out the door. Look at this snow.

We better hurry, Betty said. These kids is going to get cold.

They walked out away from the old high redbrick courthouse. Above them the tiled roof was obscured by the falling snow. They crossed Boston, and, as yet, there were no tracks in the street from any passing cars. The snow came down thickly under the corner streetlight and they went on. The children scuffed their feet, making long dragging marks, and began to fall behind.

Betty turned to look at them. You kids, come on now, she said. Hurry up. Catch up with us.

You ain’t allowed to talk that way, Luther said. You suppose to be nice to them.

I am. I don’t want them to catch cold. We never should of took them out here in this.

How was we going to know it would come on snowing while we was in there in that room?

Well, they ain’t suppose to be out in something like this. Come on.

The children kicked and scuffed along the sidewalks. The atmosphere in the silent town seemed all blue around them. The snow muffled any sound and no one else was out walking. A single car went by, without noise or commotion, a block away, moving at the intersection, stately and quiet as a ship sailing on some silent ghostly sea. They crossed Chicago, then turned up Detroit toward home.

At the trailer they climbed the snow-filled steps and entered the house and removed their shoes at the door and walked out into the room in their stockings. Richie’s had gathered in damp wads around his toes, and his thin heels were scarlet.

You kids get on to bed now and get warm, Luther said. Tomorrow’s school.

Here, Betty said. What was you just telling me about how to talk to these kids right? That teacher said you got to ask them what they want, not just say it.

Oh, yeah, Luther said. Joy Rae, honey, you want anything? You want you a bedtime snack before you go off to sleep?

I want some hot chocolate, Joy Rae said.

What about you, Richie?

I want some pop.

Is he suppose to have pop at night?

I don’t know what he can have, Betty said. She never said nothing about no pop. You just suppose to ask him.

I asked him. He said he wants pop.

What kind of pop?

What kind of pop you want, Richie? You want strawberry? We got black cherry.

Strawberry, Richie said.

Betty brought the drinks and they sat down at the kitchen table. Luther took a package of lasagna from the freezer and put it in the microwave, and it came out steaming and he set it on the table, and Betty got down paper plates left over from a birthday party and they began to eat.

When they were finished, Luther and Betty walked the children back to their bedrooms and left the door open at Richie’s room so he could see the light in the hall. Then Luther went into his and Betty’s room, and he undressed and got into bed in his underwear and stretched out. The bed sagged and complained under his weight. Dear, he called, ain’t you coming to bed?

In a minute, Betty said. But she had stayed in the front room and was sitting on the couch now, watching the snow falling in the front yard and out in Detroit Street. After a while she took up the phone, set it in her lap, and made a call to a house in Phillips. A woman answered.

I’d like to speak to Donna, please, Betty said. I want to talk to Donna Jean.

Who’s calling? the woman said.

This is her mother.

Who?

Her mother. This is Betty Wallace.

You, the woman said. You’re not supposed to call here. Don’t you know that?

I want to talk to her. I ain’t going to do nothing.

It’s against the regulations.

I won’t hurt her. I wouldn’t hurt her for nothing in the world.

Listen to me. You want me to put her on the phone and have her tell you herself you’re not her mother anymore? Is that what you want me to do?

I am too her mother, Betty said. You ain’t suppose to say something like that to me. I’m always going to be her mother. I give birth to her, out of my own self.

Oh no, the woman said. That’s not what the court order says. I’m her mother now. And don’t you ever call here again. I’ll call the police. I got enough trouble on account of her without you making it worse.

What kind of trouble? Is something the matter with Donna?

That’s none of your business. The Lord will guide me. I don’t need any help from you. The woman hung up.

Betty put the receiver down and sat motionless on the couch, and presently she began to cry.

Outside the trailer house the snow continued to fall. It fell thickly in the yard and in the street in front and it kept falling until midnight, then it began to diminish and by one o’clock it had stopped altogether. The sky cleared and the cold brilliant stars came out.

Betty woke then, lying on the couch. It was cold in the room and she rose and walked back to their bedroom and pulled off her thin dress and stepped out of her underwear and unfastened her bra. She put on a tattered yellow nightgown and lay down beside Luther in the sagging bed. Shivering and cold, she pulled the blankets up and moved closer to him. Then she began to remember what the woman had said to her. How her voice had been. You want me to put her on the phone and have her tell you herself you’re not her mother anymore. Betty lay in bed beside Luther, remembering. Soon she began to cry again. She cried quietly for a long time and at last fell asleep against his great warm wide bare back.

26

CHRISTMAS EVE OBSERVANCE WAS GENERAL IN HOLT. There were candlelight services at the local churches and family gatherings in the front rooms of the houses overlooking the quiet streets, and out on the east side of town on US Highway 34 the bartender Monroe kept the Chute Bar and Grill open until two o’clock in the morning.

Hoyt Raines was sitting in a back booth with a middle-aged divorcée named Laverne Griffith, a fleshy maroon-haired woman twenty years his senior. She was buying and they were sitting close together on the same side of the booth, their drinks before them next to the ashtray on the scarred wooden table.

The Chute had been decorated for the season. Loops of red and green lights were festooned above the bar and silver tassels hung from the mirror. A half-dozen men were sitting at the bar, drinking and talking, and an old woman was asleep with her head in her arms at a far table. From the jukebox Elvis Presley was singing I’ll have a blue Christmas without you. A man who had been at the bar earlier had put in enough quarters to play the same song eight times over, but then had gone outside and driven off in the night in his pickup.

One of men at the bar turned to look balefully at the jukebox. He turned back to the bartender. Can’t you do something about that?

What do you want me to do about it?

Well, can’t you turn it off or something?

It’ll stop pretty soon by itself. It’s Christmas. You got to enjoy yourself.

I’m trying to. But I’m sick of that goddamn thing.

It’ll run out pretty quick now. Forget it. Let me get you another drink.

Are you buying?

I could.

Make it a double then.

I said it was Christmas. I never said it was old home week.

The man looked at him. What in hell’s that suppose to mean?

I don’t know. It just come to me. Let’s say it means I’ll get you a single drink.

I’m waiting.

You know what? Monroe said. You ought to cheer up. You’re starting to make everyone around here feel bad.

I can’t help it. It’s the way I am.

Well try, for christsake.

In the back booth Hoyt had circled his arm around Laverne Griffith. She picked a cigarette from the pack on the table and put it in her mouth, and he reached the lighter with his free hand and took it and lit it for her. She blew a cloud of smoke and squinted her eyes shut and rubbed them, then she opened her eyes again, blinking, and stared unhappily across the table.

You all right? Hoyt said.

No, I’m not all right. I’m sad and blue.

Why don’t you and me go over to your place when they close up here. That’ll make you feel better.

She inhaled and blew a long thin stream of smoke away from her face. I’ve been down that old road before, she said. I know where it comes out.

Not with me, you haven’t.

She turned to stare at him. His face was only inches away, his cap pushed back on his thick head of hair. You think you’re that much different?

I’m like nothing you ever knew before, Hoyt said.

What makes you so different?

I’ll show you. I’ll give you a little demonstration.

I’m not talking about that, she said. That’s available to a woman anytime. What about in the morning when we wake up?

I’ll make you breakfast.

What if I don’t eat breakfast.

I’ll make one you will.

She smoked again and looked out into the room. It doesn’t close here for two more hours, she said. She turned and lifted her face toward him. You can give me a kiss anyhow.

AT THE STROKE OF MIDNIGHT MONROE CALLED: MERRY Christmas, you sons of bitches. Merry Christmas, everybody. The men at the bar shook hands and one of them said they should wake the woman sleeping at the far table and ask her if she could guess what day it was.

Let her sleep, one of the others said. She’s better off sleeping. Here, he said to Monroe, give me one of those decorations. Monroe took down a piece of silver tassel from the bar mirror and the man walked over to the woman and leaned over and draped it across her head and shoulders. How’s that look? he said. The woman groaned and sighed, but didn’t wake.

In the booth, Hoyt and Laverne kissed a long time at the announcement that it was Christmas. Oh hell, she said finally. Let’s get out of here. We might as well go back to my place. They stood up out of the booth.

Monroe called: You two have yourself a merry little Christmas now. Drive careful.

Hoyt waved at him and they went outside. It was very cold in the parking lot, the air dry and hard on their faces. They got into her car and she drove them along the ice-rutted empty streets to her apartment on the second floor of a house on Chicago Street, a block south of the grain elevators. They walked around to the back of the house in the frozen grass and he followed her up the plank stairs that were built up outside the house, climbing to a little porch that was roofed over with tin above the landing. She found her key in her purse and unlocked the door. Inside, the apartment was stifling hot but neat and tidy, with almost no furniture. She locked the door and he at once turned her around and began to kiss her face. Jesus Christ, she said, shoving him back, let me get my coat off first. I have to use the bathroom.

Where’s your bedroom at? Hoyt said.

Back there.

She went through the kitchen, and he walked a few steps across the room and entered the bedroom. There was a red comforter over the bed and a mirrored dresser against the bare wall. The mirror reflected the room at an odd angle, including a little closet with a naked lightbulb hanging from a cord. He switched on the lamp beside the bed and got out of his clothes, then dropped them on the floor and got in bed and pulled the cover up. He stretched out comfortably looking at the ceiling and put his hands under his head.

Laverne stepped into the room. Well, why don’t you make yourself at home?

I’m just waiting on you.

You didn’t wait long.

Come on to bed.

Don’t look at me, she said.

What?

Don’t watch me. She turned her back and removed her blouse and her slacks and hung them in the little closet and stood in the doorway facing away from him, and took off her black bra and black silky underwear. Are you looking?

No.

Yes you are.

I’m just doing what you want me to.

Like hell. Shut your eyes.

He looked at her and shut his eyes and she turned toward the bed. She was very pale and soft-looking, with a thick stomach and large fallen breasts and heavy legs, and she seemed saddened in the dim light. She crossed to the bed and crawled in under the covers. She switched off the bedside lamp.

You have to be nice to me, she said. I don’t like to be hurt.

I’m not going to hurt you.

Kiss me first.

He raised up on his side and put one hand to her face and kissed her, then he kissed her again and she lay back quietly and closed her eyes, and beneath the sheet he began to move his hand over her flattened breasts and across her soft stomach, and she said nothing more to him but seemed content just to breathe, and he went on kissing and after a while he lay on her and began to move.

When he was finished he saw that she had gone to sleep beneath him. Laverne, he said. Darlin. Hey. He looked into her sleeping face and rolled off and lay back beside her under the warm covers, and soon was asleep himself.

THE NEXT DAY HE GOT UP LATE AND MADE A BREAKFAST of eggs and coffee and buttered toast, and he sprinkled paprika on the eggs and arranged everything on a large white plate and brought all of it to her in the bedroom. She sat up with the blankets drawn around her shoulders, her maroon hair all matted and disheveled, but she seemed to be cheered now in the morning. What have you got here? she said.

Didn’t I say I’d make you breakfast?

At noon they rose from bed and spent the afternoon and the evening watching the holiday parades on television and viewing the old sweet movies that were shown at Christmastime. And in the succeeding days and weeks in the heart of winter she allowed him to stay with her in the upstairs apartment on Chicago Street while she went off to work as an aide at the Holt County Twilight Nursing Home and he took a job riding cattle pens at the feedlot east of town. He reported to the probation officer at the courthouse as the judge had ordered, and he and Laverne Griffith were still together at the middle of February, and during all that time things stayed satisfactory for Hoyt in the little apartment upstairs.

27

IN THE WEEK BETWEEN CHRISTMAS AND NEW YEAR’S they passed the long afternoons in the shed beside the alley. It was very cold in the shed and the sunlight came in only thinly from the single window. They lit candles on the table and the back shelf, and they had the blankets. For greater warmth they took to lying beside each other on the carpet in the patch of sunlight that fell in through the window.

They lay under the blankets on their backs and talked. Frequently now she talked about her mother. He recalled a memory of his own mother, how she once wore a sleeveless red blouse in the summertime, sitting in the shade on the back porch of a little house in Brush Colorado, and how she was wearing shorts and would stretch her toes in the dirt below the porch step. There was red polish on the nails of her toes and the dirt was soft like powder.

In return, she remembered how her father picked her up one time when she was a little girl and carried her on his shoulders, ducking through a doorway into the kitchen. Her mother was making white flour gravy at the stove, and she turned and smiled, looking at them both. Then her father said something funny, but she couldn’t recall what it was. It had made her mother laugh, she remembered that.

ONE AFTERNOON THEY WERE LYING ON THE FLOOR IN THE shed when she turned toward him and looked at his face in the weak sunlight. What happened to you here?

Where?

This little curved scar.

I ran into a nail, he said.

There was a white scar the shape of a quarter moon beside his eye.

I have a scar too, she said. She opened the blanket and put her shirt neck down for him to see.

SOME AFTERNOONS HE BROUGHT CRACKERS AND CHEESE from his grandfather’s house together with a thermos of coffee. He also brought them books, though he read more than she did. For some time now he’d been checking books out of the old limestone-block Carnegie Library on the corner of Ash Street, where the librarian was a thin unhappy woman who took care of her invalid mother when she wasn’t at work and who during the day conducted the library as if it were a church. He had found the shelves of books he liked and brought the books home every two weeks, summer and winter, and now he took to bringing them to the shed to read lying on the floor beside her.

She took more and more to the practice of daydreaming and wishing, more so now in the absence of her father and in the new desolation that filled the house since her mother had turned so sad and lonely. An hour might go by in the shed with little or no talking, and then watching him read she would eventually begin to tease him, tickling his cheek with a piece of thread, blowing thinly in his ear, until he would put his book down and push her, and then they would begin to push back and forth and to wrestle, and once it happened that she rolled on top of him, and while her face was so close above his she dropped her head suddenly and kissed him on the mouth, and they both stopped and stared, and she kissed him again. Then she rolled off.

What did you do that for?

I felt like it, she said.

AND ONCE HER LITTLE SISTER OPENED THE DOOR OF THE shed in the afternoon, late in that week of Christmas vacation, and found them reading on the floor with the blankets over them. What are you doing?

Shut the door, Dena said.

The little girl stepped inside and shut the door and stood looking at them. What are you doing there on the floor?

Nothing.

Let me under too.

You have to be quiet.

Why?

Because I said so. Because we’re reading.

All right. I will. Let me in.

She crawled under the blanket with them.

No, you have to be over here, Dena said. This is my place next to him.

So for a while the two sisters and the boy lay on the floor under the blankets, reading books in the dim candlelight, with the sun falling down outside in the alley, the three of them softly talking a little, drinking coffee from a thermos, and what was happening in the houses they’d come from seemed, for that short time, of little importance.

28

WHEN RAYMOND CAME UP TO THE HOUSE IN THE AFTERNOON of New Year’s Day after feeding in the winter pasture, shoving hay and protein pellets onto the frozen ground in front of the shaggy milling cattle, he removed his overshoes and canvas coveralls at the kitchen door and went back through the house to shave and wash up, then mounted the stairs to his bedroom and put on dark slacks and the new blue wool shirt Victoria had given him for Christmas. When he came downstairs into the kitchen, Victoria was cooking chicken and dumplings in a big blued pot for their holiday dinner and Katie was standing on a chair at the table stirring flour and water in a red bowl. Each had a white dish towel tied about her waist, and Victoria’s heavy black hair was pulled away from her face and her cheeks were flushed from the cooking.

She turned to look at him from the stove. You’re all dressed up, she said.

I put on your shirt.

I see that. It looks good on you. It looks just right.

So what can I do? he said. What else needs to be done here to get ready for dinner?

You could set the table.

So he spread a white tablecloth over the formal walnut table out in the dining room, where it was centered under the overhead light, and got down the old rosebud china his mother had received as a wedding gift so many years ago and arranged the plates and glasses and silverware about the table. The low afternoon sun streamed in onto the dishes from the unshaded windows. The sunlight was brilliant in the glassware.

Victoria came into the room to see how he was faring and looked closely at the table. Is somebody else coming? she said.

He looked at her briefly and turned to peer out the window toward the horse barn and corrals beyond the graveled drive. I guess you could say there is, he said.

Who is it?

It’s somebody I met.

Somebody you met?

You met her too.

Her? A woman’s coming to dinner?

It’s a woman from the hospital.

What’s her name?

Her name is Linda May. She was working nights when I was in the room there with my leg.

The middle-aged woman with short dark hair?

That sounds about right. Yes, I guess that would have to be her.

Victoria looked at the dishes and glasses ranged in order on the white tablecloth. Why didn’t you tell me?

Raymond stood with his back to her. I don’t rightly know, he said. I guess I was kind of scared to. I didn’t know what you’d think of it.

It’s your house, she said. You can do what you want.

Now that ain’t right, he said. Don’t say that. This here is your house as much as it is mine. It’s been that way for a good while.

I thought it was.

Well it is. He turned to face her. I can tell you that much.

But I don’t understand you not telling me about somebody coming for dinner.

Oh hell, honey, can’t you lay it to an old man’s mistake? An old man that don’t know how to do something he’s never done before?

He stood before her in the new blue shirt, with an expression on his face she had never seen or even imagined. She moved up beside him and put her hand on his arm. I’m sorry, she said. It’ll be all right. It’s just fine. I’m glad you asked her.

Thank you, he said. I hoped you wouldn’t take no offense. I just got the idea to ask her to dinner, that’s all it was. I never saw the harm in it.

There isn’t any, Victoria said. What time did you tell her to come?

Raymond looked at his watch. About a half hour from now.

Did you tell her how to find us out here?

She told me she already knew. She’d been asking around about us, she said.

Oh?

That’s what she told me.

THAT AFTERNOON SHE DROVE UP TO THE HOGWIRE FENCING in front of the house in a ten-year-old cream-colored Ford convertible. She got out and surveyed the gray house and the patches of dirty snow and the three leafless stunted elm trees in the side yard, then came up through the wire gate onto the screened porch. Before she could knock, Raymond opened the door. Come in, he said, come in.

I see I got the right place.

Yes ma’am.

Now you’ll have to call me Linda today, she said. You have to remember that.

You better come in. It’s cold out here.

She entered the kitchen and looked across the room at the girl holding her child at the stove.

This here is Victoria Roubideaux and little Katie.

Yes. I remember them from when you were in the hospital. How do you do.

Victoria stepped forward and they shook hands. Linda May tried to touch Katie but the little girl turned away, pointing her face into her mother’s shoulder.

She’ll be more friendly after a while.

Let me take your coat, Raymond said.

He hung it next to his coveralls and his canvas work jacket on the peg beside the door. Linda May wore black slacks and a red sweater and there were bright silver hoops suspended from her ears. Something sure smells good, she said.

It’s just about ready, Victoria said. Why don’t you go ahead and be seated and I’ll bring it in.

Is there anything I can do to help?

I don’t think so.

Raymond led his guest into the dining room.

What a beautiful table, she said. It all looks so pretty.

This table was my mother’s table. It’s been in that same spot for as long as I can remember.

May I look at it?

Well, how do you mean?

Just underneath, at the table itself.

It’s going to be kind of dusty under there.

She lifted the white cloth and examined the polished surface and then peered below at its massive center pedestal. Why, this must be real walnut, she said. An antique.

It’s old anyhow, Raymond said. Older than me even. Why don’t you sit here.

He pulled out a chair and held it for her and she sat down.

Thank you, she said.

I’ll be right back.

He went into the kitchen, where Victoria was dishing food at the stove. What’s next? he said.

Will you take Katie in and get her settled?

Course I will. Come on, little darlin. Are you ready for some dinner? He bent over to pick her up, then leaned back to take in her round dark eyes that were exactly like her mother’s, and brushed the shiny black hair out of her face. He carried her into the dining room and sat her on a wooden box on the chair opposite Linda May. The little girl looked across the table at her, then picked up her napkin and studied it with great interest.

Victoria came in with the steaming bowl of chicken and dumplings and another of mashed potatoes and went back for a plate of hot rolls and a dish of green beans flavored with bacon. Raymond stood at the head of the table until she sat down and then took the seat across from her, with Linda May and Katie on either side.

Would you say grace? Victoria said.

Raymond appeared startled. What?

Would you say grace, please?

He glanced at Linda May and back at Victoria. I suppose I could take a run at it. It’s been a hell of a long time, though. He dropped his iron-gray head. His cheeks were chafed red and his white forehead shone. Lord, he said. What we’re going to do here, we’re just going to say thank you for this food on the table. And for the hands that prepared it for us. He paused for a long time. They all looked up at him. He went on. And for this bright day outside we’re having. He paused again. Amen, he said. Now do you think we can eat, Victoria?

Yes, she said, and passed Linda May the chicken and dumplings.

LINDA MAY DID MUCH OF THE TALKING WHILE VICTORIA and Raymond listened and answered her questions. Victoria tended to the little girl. After dinner they helped her clear the table, then she took Katie back to the downstairs bedroom they’d been sharing since Raymond had moved up to his old room again, and she put the little girl into bed and lay down with her and read to her until she was asleep, and afterward lay in the darkened room listening through the opened door to Raymond and the woman talking.

They’d already done the dishes together at the kitchen sink and had retired to the parlor. Around them the old flowered wallpaper, stained in places and darkened in one corner from some long-ago rain, was dim and gray. When Linda May entered the room she’d seated herself in Raymond’s chair and he had looked at her and hesitated, then he sat in the chair that had always been his brother’s.

My, she said, that was a wonderful dinner.

That was Victoria’s doing. We never taught her any of that.

Yes. She looked through the doorway into the dining room. The ceiling light made a bright glare over the white tablecloth. I don’t know how you two stand it out here, she said. It’s lonely, don’t you think?

I’ve always been out here, Raymond said. I don’t know how it’d be other places. There’s a neighbor a mile and a half down the road if you need something.

A farmer like you?

Well, I wouldn’t say we was farmers exactly.

What would you say?

I guess you’d have to call us ranchers. We raise cattle. Poverty-stuck old cattle ranchers, more like it.

You make it sound like you’re close to starving.

We’ve done that a time or two. Or pretty near to it.

How big a ranch do you have?

How much land?

Yes.

Well, we have about three sections. All counted.

How much is that? I don’t know what a section is.

There would be six hundred forty acres to a section. It’s mostly grass pasture, what we have. We put up a lot of brome hay every summer but we don’t do any real farming. Well, I keep saying we. I mean me now. I haven’t figured out what I’ll do about haying next summer.

How will you manage?

I’ll think of something. Hire somebody I expect.

It must be terribly hard without your brother here anymore.

It’s not the same. It’s not anything like it. Harold and me, we was together all our lives.

You just have to go on, don’t you.

He looked at her. People always say that, he said. I say as much myself. I don’t know what it means, though. He looked out the window behind her where the night had fallen. The yardlight had come on and there were long shadows in the yard.

She sat watching him. I was surprised to see you come into the tavern the other night, she said.

No, it ain’t like me, he said. I was surprised to be there myself.

Do you think you might come in again?

I imagine it’s possible.

I hope you do.

She sat with one foot folded up under her in his big recliner chair. Her red sweater looked very bright against her dark hair.

And I want to thank you again for inviting me to dinner today, she said.

Well, yes, ma’am. Like I say, Victoria is the one that did all that.

But you’re the one who asked me. I’ve lived in this area long enough to know quite a few people, but I don’t think I’ve ever been invited into one of these old ranch houses before.

Our grandfather homesteaded this place. Him and our grandmother. They come out in eighty-three from Ohio. But where do you come from yourself, can I ask you that?

From Cedar Rapids.

Iowa.

Yes. I was ready for a change.

Don’t they have good hospitals back there?

Oh, sure. Of course they do. But my life kind of fell apart, so I thought I’d come out here. I thought I’d start over, try out life in the mountains. But I only got this far and kind of broke down. I think I may go on to Denver yet, though.

When do you reckon on doing that?

I don’t know. I guess it depends. I’ve only been here a year.

Sometimes a year can be a long time, Raymond said.

Sometimes it can be too long, she said.

WHEN LINDA MAY WAS GETTING READY TO LEAVE, VICTORIA came out from the bedroom to say good night. They stood in the kitchen and Raymond took down Linda May’s coat and held it as she put it on, then he walked her out through the wire gate to her car. Outside in the cold air everything seemed brittle and the ground was frozen down as hard as iron.

Thank you again, she said. You make sure you come into town one of these days.

Be careful out there on that road, he said.

She got into her convertible and turned the key, and the engine turned over but wouldn’t catch. When she tried again it only whined and clicked. She rolled the window down. It’s not going to start, she said.

Sounds like it’s your battery. Is it a old one?

I don’t know. The battery was in it when I bought the car a year ago.

I better give you a push. Let me get my coat.

He went back into the house and pulled his coat and hat from the pegs in the kitchen. Victoria was putting the clean dishes up in the high cupboards. What’s wrong? she said.

I need to give her a push.

You better stay warm out there.

He walked back out past the Ford, where Linda May was still sitting behind the wheel, and crossed the rutted gravel to the garage and climbed into his pickup. He let it run for a minute, then pulled it behind her car and got out to see how the two bumpers would meet. When he walked up to the side of the car and opened the door, she was shivering and hugging herself.

Are you all right? he said.

It’s really cold.

You want to go back in the house?

No. Let’s go ahead.

You know what to do, don’t you?

Pop the clutch once we get going, she said.

And have the key turned on. But don’t try it till I get you out on the county road where we can go a little faster.

He shut the door and got back in his pickup and eased it forward. The bumpers touched and he pushed her slowly out the drive onto the lane and then onto the dark road, his headlights shining very bright on the rear of her car. He went faster, the gravel kicked up under the fenders, and with a lurch her car leapt forward and she pulled away and her headlights and taillights came on. She sped up, the dust was boiling under them from the dry road, and he followed her for half a mile to be sure she was all right, then he slowed and stopped and watched the red taillights going away in the dark.

Victoria was sitting at the kitchen table when he came inside. She had made a fresh pot of coffee. He took off his coat and hat, and she stood up when she saw his face was so dark and red.

Why you’re just freezing, she said.

It must be down around zero out there. He cupped his ears with his hands. It’s going to turn off pretty cold tonight.

I made you a pot of coffee.

Did you, honey? I thought you’d be in bed by now.

I wanted to make sure you got back all right.

Were you worried?

I just wanted to be sure, she said. Were you able to get her car started?

Yes. She’s gone on toward town. Well, I expect she’s almost back to her own home by this time.

29

ON A BRIGHT COLD DAY IN JANUARY ROSE TYLER PARKED unannounced in front of the trailer and got her purse and notebook and walked up the snow-muddied path to the faded trailer house. Dead stalks of cheatgrass and redroot stuck up through the snow beside the path like ragged stands of tiny gray trees. The plank porch had been swept clean, that much had been done. She knocked on the metal door and waited. She knocked again. She looked out into the empty street. Nothing was moving. She turned to knock once more and waited a while longer. She had started down the steps when the door opened behind her.

Luther stood in the doorway wearing sweatpants but no shirt. Is that you, Rose? he said.

Yes. Weren’t you going to let me in?

I didn’t hear you knock. He stood back from the door so she could pass inside. Betty ain’t up yet.

It’s past ten o’clock. I thought you’d both be up by now.

Betty never slept good last night.

What’s wrong?

I don’t know. You’d have to ask her.

I came to talk to both of you this morning. To see how things are going.

Things is fine, Rose. I guess we been doing pretty good.

Why don’t you go put on a shirt and tell Betty to come out. We’ll have a little visit.

Well, I don’t know if she’ll want to get up.

Why don’t you ask her.

He disappeared into the hall and she surveyed the front room and the kitchen. There were dishes and pizza cartons on every flat surface, and the black plastic bag of pop cans leaned against the refrigerator. A morning game show was playing on the television in the corner.

Luther came out of the hallway in a tee-shirt, with Betty shuffling barefooted behind him, looking tired and haggard in a pink bathrobe. She had brushed her hair and it hung down stiff on both sides of her face. She looked at Rose and looked at the television. Is something wrong, Rose? she said.

Nothing that I know of. I said before that I’d come by now and then. It’s part of the court order. Don’t you remember?

I ain’t feeling very good.

Is it still your stomach?

My back too. It’s been gripping me bad this past week.

I’m sorry to hear that.

I can’t sleep no more. I have to rest during the day.

Yes, but you know I’m going to visit you at any time, don’t you. You remember we talked about that.

I know, Betty said. You want to sit down?

Thank you.

Rose seated herself on a chair near the door and glanced at the television. Luther, would you turn that off, please?

He clicked the television off and sat down on the couch close to Betty.

So. How are things? Rose said. You said they were going fine, Luther.

Everything’s pretty good, he said. We’re doing okay, I guess.

How are Joy Rae and Richie?

Well. Richie he still has him some trouble at school. Like before.

What kind of trouble?

It’s hard to say. He don’t talk about it.

It’s those other kids picking on him all the time, Betty said. They won’t never let him alone.

Why do you think that is?

He don’t do nothing to them. Richie’s a good boy. I don’t know what they got against him.

Have you tried talking to his teacher?

That wouldn’t do no good.

But you might at least try. Maybe she knows what’s going on.

I don’t know.

What about Joy Rae?

Oh, now she’s doing real good, Luther said. She can already read better than me.

Can she?

Better than Betty too. Can’t she, Betty.

Betty nodded.

Better than both of us put together, Luther said.

I’m glad she’s doing so well, Rose said. She’s a smart girl. Rose looked around the room. Snow was melting outside on the roof, dripping down in front of the window. Now I have to ask you about Hoyt, she said. Has he been over here?

No ma’am, Luther said. We don’t want him here. He ain’t welcome with us no more.

You need to insist that he stay away. You understand that, don’t you. He cannot be here.

We don’t want to have nothing to do with him. We ain’t even seen him. Have we, Betty?

We seen him that one time in the grocery.

We seen him that one time in the grocery, but we didn’t talk to him. We never even said how you doing. Just went around the other way, didn’t we?

And we ain’t never going to talk to him again, Betty said. I don’t care what he calls us.

Yes, Rose said. That’s right. She studied them both but couldn’t be sure they were telling the truth. Luther’s great red face was damp with sweat, and Betty looked merely dull and sick, her lifeless hair hanging about her face. Rose looked out into the kitchen. That’s fine, she said, I’m glad Hoyt hasn’t been here, but it has to stay that way. Now I want to talk to you about something else. It’s important for you and for your children that you live in a clean and safe environment. You know that. So you need to do a little better in the house here. Things are not as clean and orderly as they might be. You can do better, don’t you think you can?

I told you I been sick, Rose, Betty said.

I understand that. But Luther can help too, can’t you, Luther.

I already been helping, he said.

You need to do a little more. You can start by keeping the dishes washed. And by emptying the trash. You need to take that bag of pop cans out. They’ll attract bugs.

In winter? Luther said.

It’s possible.

Well somebody might steal my cans if I put them outside.

You can keep them on the porch.

I can’t see how they’re going to collect no bugs in winter.

In any case, they shouldn’t be in your kitchen. They shouldn’t be near where you eat.

Luther looked at her, and then he and Betty stared out the front window, their faces stony and obstinate.

Rose watched them. How’re you doing with your money? she said. Are you still separating it into envelopes and paying your bills on time?

Oh, yes ma’am.

That’s fine, then. Do you have any questions for me?

Luther looked at Betty. I don’t have no questions. Do you, dear?

I don’t, Betty said.

And I’ve been told you’ve been going to the parenting classes.

Luther nodded. There’s only two more left, the teacher said.

Yes. Well, it appears that you’re doing okay. I’m glad to see that. So I think I’ll go now. But I’ll come back again before long.

Rose slipped her notebook into her purse, and Luther opened the door for her, and outside in the car when she glanced back in the rearview mirror he was still standing barefoot on the porch, watching her drive away, and Betty was out of sight, somewhere in the house.

30

IN THE NEW YEAR VICTORIA ROUBIDEAUX RETURNED TO Fort Collins with Katie to begin the second semester of classes, and a week after she left Raymond called Linda May on the telephone in the mid-afternoon. When she answered he said: Are you likely to be home for a hour or so?

Yes. Why do you ask?

I wanted to stop by for a minute.

I’ll be here.

The address in the phone book says eight thirty-two Cedar.

Yes. That’s right.

He hung up and drove in to Holt to the Co-op Implement Store on the highway and went past the racks of tools and the box drawers of nuts and bolts and the spools of electrical wire and on to the back, where the snow shovels were hung from hooks like medieval weapons collected in some castle or armory. He looked among the metal shelves of car batteries, reading the brief tags attached to the sides, and finally selected one and carried it to the cash register. The clerk said: Raymond, this ain’t hardly big enough for your pickup.

It ain’t for my pickup.

The man looked at him. Okay then. I didn’t know you had you a car. I just didn’t want you to get the wrong battery and have to come back. You want to charge it or pay cash?

Put it on the ranch account, Raymond said.

The man punched in the numbers on the register and stood waiting, looking at nothing, and drew out the receipt when it appeared and spread it forward on the counter. Raymond signed it and folded away his copy, then hefted the battery onto his hip and went outside and pushed the battery across the front seat and got in. At the stoplight where the highway crossed Main Street he looked left toward the Gas and Go at the solitary car parked in front and looked to the right up Main Street, where just a few cars were moving at this time of day. When the light changed he drove ahead three blocks and turned north on Cedar. Her small white frame house was in the middle of the block, and the Ford convertible at the curb was crowded by snow from when the snowplow had gone through. There was more snow piled up along the walkway in mounds that had melted and hardened overnight, with winter grass showing dry and brown along the edges. He went up to her door and knocked. She came out at once, in a bright blue sweatshirt and sweatpants and her short dark hair was combed neatly. I’ve been standing at the window watching for you, she said. You sounded so mysterious on the phone.

I just brought you something. Could I ask to borrow your car keys?

What are you going to do?

I got something for your car.

Well, come in, she said. The keys are in the house. But I still can’t tell what you’re up to.

He stood in the front hall as she went back to the bedroom to get her purse. He looked in through the doorway. Above the couch in the living room was a framed print of a hazy lavender garden containing a rock bridge and a mist-shrouded pond of water lilies. It looked green and lush, unlike any place in Holt County. She came out and handed him the keys. It won’t start, she said, if that’s what you’re thinking. I tried it just yesterday.

He put the keys in his pocket and went outside to her car and reached inside to pop the hood latch. Then he got a screwdriver and a pair of wrenches from the toolbox in his pickup and carried the new battery back to the Ford, balancing it on the fender as he raised the hood. He lifted out the old battery and put in the new one. After cleaning the battery clamps with his pocketknife, he attached the cables to the posts and tightened them down.

Linda May came out and stood beside him in the street in her coat and scarf. He hadn’t seen her coming and looked up from under the hood.

Why, what in the world? she said.

Get in, he said. Give it a try. He held out her keys.

She took them. You replaced the battery?

Let’s see if this one works.

She climbed into the car and Raymond stood beside her, at the open door. The engine ground and turned over and tried to start. She looked up and he nodded. When she tried again it ground and sputtered and popped and finally started, a burst of black smoke blowing out from behind the car.

Give it a little gas, he said. It needs to idle a while.

Thank you, she said. Thank you so much. What a nice thing for somebody to do. What do I owe you?

You don’t owe me a thing.

Of course I do.

No, he said. Well, how about just making me a cup of coffee? We’ll call it one of these after-Christmas bargain deals. I just thought you might want to run around town someday. I’ll take this old battery back to the co-op and they’ll get rid of it for you.

He shut the hood and put the dead battery in the bed of his pickup while she stood in the street watching him.

Won’t you come in now? she said. It’s cold out here.

If it isn’t no bother.

Good Lord. Of course it isn’t.

They went inside and he followed her into the kitchen where the late afternoon sun was streaming through the back window. He took off his hat and set it on the countertop, then pulled out a chair from the table and sat down. His iron-gray hair was dented at the sides where the hatband had pressed it. She moved to the stove and put the kettle on. Would tea be all right? she said. I only have instant coffee.

Whatever you got’ll be fine.

She took down a variety from the cupboard. Red containers and little square boxes decorated with pictures and round canisters of loose tea. What would you care for? she said.

Oh. Just something regular.

I’ve got green tea and black tea and all of these herbal kinds.

It don’t matter. You pick it out.

But I don’t know what you want. You have to decide.

Just one of them. I don’t hardly drink much tea.

I could make you instant coffee.

No, ma’am, tea’s fine.

Now don’t start calling me that again, she said.

The kettle started whistling and she poured boiling water into a large brown mug and put in a bag of black tea. He watched her at the counter, her back to him. She made herself a cup of green tea and put spoons in the mugs and brought them to the table. Do you use sugar?

I don’t believe so.

You sound so tentative. She sat down across from him.

No. I don’t reckon I’m too tentative.

But is something wrong?

Raymond looked around and fixed on the window over the sink. I just never been in a woman’s kitchen before. Only my mother’s.

Haven’t you?

Not that I can recall. And I believe I’d recall it too.

Well. You just have to relax. It’s okay, you know. You’ve done me a great favor. This is the least I can do.

He stirred the tea with his spoon though he had put nothing in it, then put the spoon on the table and sipped at the mug. The tea bag came up and burned his mouth so he fished it out with his spoon and put the spoon back on the table. He sipped again and looked at it and set the mug down.

She was watching him. You don’t like it, she said.

No, ma’am, he said. I’m just going to let it cool a little. He looked at the pictures displayed on one of the walls, there was a young girl standing beside an oak tree. Who’s that you got captured in the picture there?

That one?

Yes.

Well, that’s my daughter. Rebecca.

Oh. I didn’t know. You never mentioned a daughter before.

Oh yes. That’s one of my favorite photographs of her. It was taken when she was much younger. We don’t talk much anymore. She doesn’t approve of me.

Doesn’t approve of you. How do you mean?

Oh, it was something between us back in Cedar Rapids. After her father left.

Did you two have a fight?

You mean with Rebecca?

Yes, ma’am.

Sort of. Anyway she left the house and wouldn’t come back. That was two years ago. I don’t think about it much lately. She laughed sadly. Not too much anyhow.

Is that how come you to move out here?

That, and other things. Are you sure you don’t want me to make some instant coffee? You’re not drinking your tea.

No. But thanks just the same. This here’s fine. He drank some of the tea and set the mug down and wiped at his mouth. He looked out the window and then at her. I don’t believe Victoria and me’s ever had a fight. I don’t know what we’d have to fight about.

She’s a lovely girl.

Yes. She is.

But you’ve only just gotten started with her, haven’t you.

How do you mean?

We’ll, she’s only been with you for a short time, isn’t that right?

She come out to us two years ago. About two and a half years ago now. We had a little bit of a rough time at first but things have worked out. At least I think so on my side. I can’t speak for her.

She’s very lucky to have you.

If she is, Raymond said, it goes both ways.

She smiled at him, then stood and carried the tea mugs to the sink and dropped the tea bags into the trash.

I’m afraid I’m keeping you, he said.

I would offer you supper. But I’ve got to get ready for work.

This is one of your work nights.

Yes.

I better get on towards home anyway.

He stood and walked to the counter and picked up his hat and looked inside the crown, then glanced at her and started toward the front door. She followed behind. As he passed through he looked about the rooms once more. In the front hall he put on his hat. You want me to shut off your car when I get out there?

Yes, if you would. I forgot all about it.

I’ll just leave the keys on the seat.

Thank you again, she said. Thank you so much.

Yes, ma’am. You’re welcome.

He cut off the ignition in the car and set the keys on the seat, then climbed into his pickup and drove around the block onto Date Street and turned south toward the highway. It was growing dark now, the early darkening of a short winter’s day, the sky fading out, the night coming down. The streetlamps had flickered on at the street corners. When he came to the highway he sat for a moment at the stop sign. There was no one behind him. He was trying to decide. He knew what awaited him at home.

He turned right and drove to Shattuck’s Café at the west edge of Holt and went in and sat at a little table by himself at the window, watching the big grain trucks and the cars going by on US 34, their headlights switched on in the evening dark, the exhaust trailing off in the cold air.

When the high-school girl came to take his order, he said he’d take a hot roast beef sandwich and mashed potatoes and a cup of black coffee.

Don’t you want anything else? she said.

Not that I can get here.

Pardon?

Nothing, he said. I was just thinking out loud. Bring me a slice of apple pie. And some ice cream on the side too, vanilla if you got it.

31

VALENTINE’S FELL ON A SATURDAY AND HOYT WORKED from six in the morning until six in the evening at the feedlot east of town, riding pens in the blowing dirt and cold and doctoring cattle in the sick pen next to the barn, where a blackbaldy steer with bloody scours kicked him in the knee, then loosed itself on his jeans while he was trying to push it into the chute. At the end of the day he caught a ride into town with Elton Chatfield in Elton’s old pickup.

They decided to stop for a beer at the Triple M out on the highway to wash the dust out of their throats, and an hour later they were invited to sit in on a game of ten-point pitch at the card table in the back room. In the following two hours the four old men playing at the table managed to take from Hoyt twenty-five dollars and from Elton nearly fifteen, and afterward bought them each a shot of whiskey out of their own money.

In the meantime Laverne Griffith had been waiting for Hoyt since five-thirty, and she had passed through a number of emotions by the time he arrived at home. She had been sad and blue, and for a while she had worried something might have happened to him, but for much of the time she had simply felt sorry for herself, so by nine o’clock she was mad. She was waiting in the kitchen, drinking gin with the lights off, when she heard him climb the outside stairs and open the front door.

Laverne, you ready, girl? he called.

You son of a bitch, where have you been?

Where are you? How come you haven’t turned any lights on?

I’m out here in the kitchen. For all you care.

He walked back to the kitchen in the dark and felt for the light switch, then looked at her. She was sitting at the table already dressed in her party clothes, a black blouse and white jeans, and her face was rouged and her eyes were made up thickly with mascara. The glass of gin sat before her.

Damn, girl, Hoyt said, you’re looking good. He leaned over and kissed her on the side of the face.

Well, you’re not, she said. And you stink of cow shit.

A steer emptied on me this morning while I was trying to head him. I’ll just grab a shower, then I’ll be ready.

Don’t bother. She looked at him and turned away. I’m not going.

What do you mean you’re not going?

You didn’t even bring me a box of chocolates, did you.

Chocolates?

It’s Valentine’s Day, you son of a bitch. You didn’t even know that. I’m nothing to you. I’m just a place to stay and somebody to fuck in bed when you feel like it. That’s all I mean to you.

Oh hell. You’re all upset. I’ll buy you chocolates tomorrow. I’ll buy you five boxes of chocolates if that’s what you want.

He bent and kissed her again and put his arm around her and poked his hand down into the loose front of her blouse. She slapped at his hand.

Don’t, she said.

Why what’s wrong here?

What do you think is wrong.

Hell, I’m ready to go. Soon as I take a shower.

I’m not going anywhere with you. I told you. You can just get the hell out of here too.

Honey, now this ain’t like you, he said. This don’t sound like my girl.

She took up her glass and took a long drink. He watched her.

You got to quit that drinking. That’s what it is. You’re already drunk and we ain’t even got out of the house yet.

He took her glass away and walked across the kitchen and poured the gin into the sink. Laverne came up out of her chair. She stumbled toward him and slapped him hard in the face.

Don’t ever tell me what I can do in my own goddamn house. Her eyes were wild. She brought her hand up and slapped him again.

You crazy bitch, he said.

He hit her smartly in the face with his open hand, and she spun half around and sat down all at once on the floor.

I’m going to go shower, he said. And you can calm your ass down. Then we’ll get out of here for the night.

When he went back to the bathroom, she stood and grabbed a long metal cooking spoon she’d been stirring their chili with, and lurched after him. He was sitting on the toilet, pulling off his boots, and she began hitting him over the head and about the shoulders with the heavy spoon, spattering chili on his face and shirt and jacket.

Goddamn it, Hoyt shouted. You stupid bitch. Quit it.

He rose up and took hold of her shoulders, spinning her around in the little bathroom, neither of them saying anything at all but both panting furiously, and he grabbed her hand and bent it back until she let go of the spoon. The spoon clattered on the floor. Then he released her, but immediately she scratched desperately at his face, and he shoved her away and she fell backward into the shower curtain, grabbing wildly at anything, and tore the curtain loose from the rod and crashed into the bathtub.

Look what you done, he said. Are you satisfied now?

Help me out of here, she whimpered. Her eyes were wet with tears. She was half wrapped up in the curtain.

You going to quit?

Help me out of here.

Tell me you’re going to quit.

I quit. All right? I quit. You son of a bitch.

You better behave.

He pushed the curtain aside and pulled her by the hand and stepped back, waiting, but she only looked at him. Her makeup had run and her eyes were awash with mascara. Without a word she hurried out of the bathroom and ran through the apartment to the bedroom closet where she grabbed an armful of his shirts, hangers and all, and then rushed back into the front room. He was standing in the kitchen doorway and, when he saw what she was doing, came forward to stop her, but she’d already thrown the door open and flung his shirts through the door out across the stair landing into the night, his flannel work shirts and his good western shirts alike, all drifting and sailing to the ground as in some dream or fantasy.

There, she cried. I did it. Now get out. Get out, you filthy bastard. I’m done with you.

Then Hoyt hit her in the face with his fist.

She fell back against the door and he wrenched it open and went leaping down the stairs to collect his shirts, ducking and bobbing across the yard as he picked them up.

Laverne pulled herself up and shoved the door closed, locked it, and stood looking out the narrow window, panting. She wiped at her nose with her shirt cuff, leaving a smear across her cheek. Her soft woman’s face looked like a Halloween fright mask now. The mass of her maroon hair was all undone.

Hoyt came pounding back up the stairs with his shirts under his arm and tried to turn the knob. Bitch, he said. You better let me in.

Never.

You goddamn bitch. You better open this fucker.

I’ll call the police first.

He hammered on the door, then stepped back and rammed it with his shoulder, glaring back at her through the little window.

You’re going to be sorry for this, he said.

I already am. I’m sorry I ever met you.

He spat at her face in the window and it dribbled slowly down the glass. He stood and watched it for a moment, then walked back down the stairs. He looked around but the houses along the street were all quiet and dark. He walked toward downtown as far as Albany Street, and hid the shirts under a bush across from the courthouse, then went on to the tavern at Third and Main. He was still wearing his work clothes, his flannel shirt, the denim jacket spattered with chili, and his manure-stained jeans. He entered and went directly to the bar.

BY MIDNIGHT HE WAS WEAVING DRUNKENLY ON THE STOOL next to an old local man named Billy Coates who had long dirty white hair and lived alone in a tarpaper house north of the railroad tracks. Hoyt had been telling him his tragic story for an hour and Coates finally said: They’s the davenport if you want it. If you don’t got nowheres else to go.

I don’t have no place else, Hoyt muttered.

I got a dog but you can just push him off. He won’t bother you any.

When the tavern closed, they walked to Albany Street to collect Hoyt’s shirts. The shirts were frozen stiff and Hoyt gathered them up and carried them like boards under his arm, then followed Billy Coates across the tracks to his house, and immediately fell to sleep on the davenport in the front room. The old mongrel dog whined for a while but finally curled up on the floor next to an old coal oil heater, and they each — man and man and dog — slept soundly until Sunday noon.

32

WHEN THE CALVES CAME IN FEBRUARY, RAYMOND ROSE two and three times in the freezing night to check on the cattle he had noticed were showing springy and had begun to bag down, having moved the cattle into the corrals and loafing shed next to the barn in the days before. Once he was there he would check that the nose and the front feet were exposed and started out as normal, or he would catch the laboring cow and pull the calf with the calf-chain, ratcheting the calf out, and sew the cow up afterward and doctor her with antibiotics. So, for weeks of these indistinguishable days and nights, he was exhausted, he was worn out almost beyond thinking. He still had the ordinary daily chores and the hay-feeding to do as always, which by themselves would have been almost too much for one man to do and keep up with, but he was doing all of it alone now, since his brother had been killed in the previous fall. He went on regardless. He went on in a kind of daze. He found himself falling asleep at the kitchen table, noon and night and sometimes, though he’d just risen, in the mornings too when he sat down to his meager solitary hurried meal. Then he would wake an hour or two later, with his neck stiff and his hands numb and his tongue as dry as paper from having breathed through his open mouth for too long with his head lolled back against the chair back, and with the food before him already long gone cold on his plate and the black coffee on the table no longer even tepid in his cup. Then he would sit up and rouse himself and look around, study the light or the lack of it in the kitchen window, and push himself up from the old pinewood table and get into his canvas coveralls and overshoes again and pull on his wool cap and step outside into the winter cold once more. And then walk across the drive to the corrals and calving shed to begin it all again. This routine, day and night, lasted for something over a month.

So it was already the start of March before he felt rested enough to think he might allow himself a single night’s vacation in which to drive to town once again to the tavern on Main Street.

HE SET OUT ON A COOL FRESH NIGHT, DRESSED AGAIN IN his town clothes and his Bailey hat. He had shaved and washed up and had put on some of the cologne that Victoria had given him at Christmastime. It was a Saturday night, the sky overhead clear of any cloud, the stars as clean and bright as if they were no more distant than the next barbed-wire fence post standing up above the barrow ditch running beside the narrow blacktop highway, everything all around him distinct and unhidden. He loved how it all looked, except he would never have said it in that way. He might have said that this was just how it was supposed to look, out on the high plains at the end of winter, on a clear fresh night.

In Holt he parked at the curb in front of the Holt Mercury newspaper offices, closed and darkened for the night, and walked up the block past the unlit stores to the corner. Inside the tavern it was just as before. The same noise and desolate country music, the men shooting pool at the tables in the back and the TV blaring over the bar, the long room just as crowded and smoky as it had been in December — all of it the same, except maybe a little more of it now, a little more gaiety, since it was a Saturday night.

He stood at the door and saw no one that he might sit down with, so he went up to the bar as he had that other time and ordered a draft beer and got it and paid for it and then turned to survey the room. He drank from his glass and wiped the palm of his hand across his mouth. And then he saw that she too was there again, sitting by herself in a booth, looking off to the side. Her short dark hair had grown out a little, but it was Linda May.

He took his glass of beer and walked back past the tables of patrons toward her booth, stopping once to let somebody pass in front of him, then she saw him coming toward her and she sat looking at him without moving, without anything showing in her face. He stood at the booth and removed his hat and held the hat in one hand at his side.

Raymond, she said. Is that you? She spoke too loudly. She was wearing a red blouse that was unbuttoned deeply at the neck, and above the throat of the blouse she wore a silver necklace and there were silver hoops in her ears. Her eyes looked too shiny.

Yes ma’am, he said. I reckon so.

What are you doing?

Well. I come out for a night. I thought I would. Like I done that other time.

She seemed to study him. Have you been here long? she said.

No. Not long.

How have you been?

Okay, I reckon. I guess I’ve been pretty good. I’ve been kind of busy. He looked at her dark hair and shining eyes. How about yourself?

She started to say something but turned to peer toward the back, and then turned forward again and took up her glass and drank.

Ma’am, he said. You okay?

What?

I said, are you okay? You seem a little disturbed.

I’m all right.

How’s your car running?

She looked at him. My car.

Yes ma’am. It wouldn’t start that other time.

Oh, that. No, it’s fine. I thank you for getting me the battery. It starts every time now. She made a little gesture with her glass. Why don’t you sit down.

If you wouldn’t mind.

No. Please do.

He sat opposite her and set his glass of beer on the table and laid his hat on the seat beside him.

How’s that young girl and her baby? she said.

Victoria? They’re both doing pretty good, I believe. They’re back in Fort Collins.

She looked around again, peering toward the back of the room, and this time her eyes changed. Raymond followed her gaze and saw a tall red-haired man with a considerable stomach approaching the booth. He stopped and stood for a moment, then slid in beside Linda May and rested his arm on her shoulder. You attracted you some company while I was gone, he said.

This is a friend, she said. Raymond McPheron. I took care of him at the hospital one time.

I hope you took good care of him.

I did.

How you doing, old buddy?

Raymond looked at him across the table. I don’t believe I know your name, he said.

Why hell, don’t you know me? I thought everybody knew me around here. I’m over at the Ford dealership.

I drive a Dodge, Raymond said.

That would explain it, the man said. Cecil Walton, he said. He lifted his hand into the air above the table and Raymond looked at it and then shook it once, briefly.

Can I buy you a drink — what’d you say your name was?

His name is Raymond, Linda May said. I told you.

That’s right, you did. But I forgot. Is that all right with you?

I didn’t mean it that way.

Okay then. So Ray, can I buy you a drink?

I have one, Raymond said.

How about another? I need one myself. And I know this little lady does. Don’t you. He looked at her.

Yes, she said.

The man looked out across the room and began waving his hand. He kept looking and he waved and whistled once through his teeth. Linda May was sitting close beside him, leaning against the shoulder of his green corduroy shirt. There. She seen me, the man said. She’s coming over.

The young blonde barmaid walked up carrying a bar tray with empty glasses balanced on it. She looked tired. You ready for another round, Cecil? she said.

Does the bear shit in the Vatican?

I don’t know. I’m too wore out. So what’s it going to be?

The same for me and her. And whatever our buddy here wants.

I wouldn’t care for anything, thank you, Raymond said.

Have a drink, Ray.

I don’t think so.

You sure?

Yes.

The blonde woman left and went back through the crowded room toward the bar. The man across from Raymond watched her walk away in her tight jeans, then bent and kissed Linda May on the side of the face. I’ll be right back, he said. I want to talk to this guy over here. He come in the other day looking at new cars and I’m going to sell his ass one of them yet. You go ahead and get caught up with your friend here.

He got up and walked to a nearby table where a fat man was sitting with two women and drew out a chair and sat down. He said something and they laughed. Linda May was watching him closely.

You sure you’re all right? Raymond said.

She turned back. Yes. Why?

No reason, I reckon. I think I’ll head on home.

You just got here.

Yes ma’am, I know.

But is something wrong?

There ain’t nothing wrong. This is the best of all possible worlds, ain’t it.

I don’t understand. What did you come here for? What did you think was going to happen?

I don’t think I had any clear idea about that. I just kind of thought I’d come in and have a drink and see if you was here.

But where have you been? It’s been almost two months.

I got kind of busy.

But my God, did you think I was waiting for you? Is that what you thought? Don’t you know anything?

No ma’am. I don’t believe I do. He stood up out of the booth. Anyway, you take good care of yourself now.

Raymond?

It’s been nice to see you, he said.

He reached for his glass and his hat and walked away. He drank down the rest of the beer and set the glass on the windowsill next to the front door and pulled his hat down tight over his head as though he were expecting high winds and stepped outside. He’d been in the tavern for no more than fifteen minutes.

He walked up the wide sidewalk along the dark storefronts and climbed into his pickup and drove south out of town. There was no car or other vehicle out on the highway. At home he parked in the garage and walked back across the graveled drive.

When he reached the wire gate he stopped and stood looking back toward the horse barn and the cow lots. Then he raised his head and peered up at the stars. He spoke aloud. You dumb old son of a bitch, he said. You dumb old ignorant stupid son of a bitch.

Then he turned again and went through the gate up into the dark quiet house and pulled the door shut behind him.