Nobody's Angel

14

THE NORTHBRANCH SALOON IS A GRAND SPOT IN THE AFTERNOON, thought Patrick. There will be no one there, there will be the sauce in the bottles and that good jukebox. And he could start getting Claire off his mind and just sit at the bar and think about her; then go about his business without this distraction with her off his mind and his mind thereby liberated for more proper business. At this point he knew his father would have asked, “Like what?”

“Hello, Dan,” he said to the bartender on duty. “George Dickel and ditch, if you would.” There was a TV on top of the double-door cooler. The host was getting ready to spin the roulette wheel. A couple from Oregon stared, frozen, at his hand. Patrick gripped his drink and looked up at the “North Dakota pool cue” overhead — it had a telescopic sight; he preferred it to the “North Dakota bowling ball,” which was simply a cinderblock. Claire puts her hands in her back pockets. Around the top of the bar are boards with names and brands on them. American Fork Ranch, Two Dot, Montana. There’s a machine that will play draw poker against you. Hay Hook Ranch. Raw Deal Ranch. Bob Shiplet, Shields Route, Livingston, Montana. Clayton Brothers, Bozeman, Montana. I also don’t think she is being accorded treatment commensurate with her quality by that Okie hubby. And what’s that ailment he’s supposed to have?

She could be the queen of Deadrock, like Calamity Jane, an early Deadrock great. She could be Calamity Claire. Maybe not such a good idea. Maybe bad. There were three views of the original Calamity on the north wall. In one she is dressed as an Army scout. In another she leans on a rifle and wears a fedora on the back of her head. The last is an artist’s rendering on the cover of a dime novel, a Victorian heroine of the kind Patrick was crazy about.

DEADWOOD DICK ON DECK,

OR

CALAMITY JANE, THE HEROINE

OF WHOOP-UP

Oh me oh my. “Make that a double, Dan.” Dan moves past the cross-buck saw, the set of Longhorns, the old-time handcuffs, the horse hobbles, singletrees, ox yokes and buffalo skulls; and fetches the big bourbon. I thought whoop-up meant to get sick to your stomach. Patrick declines to order a Red Baron pizza. He looks out on the empty dance floor, the drums and amplifier, wagon wheels overhead with little flame-shaped light bulbs. Romance. Lost in the crowd, we dance the Cotton-Eyed Joe. Mamas, don’t let your babies grow up to be cowboys. Hear that, Mamas? Don’t let the sonofabitch happen. Lost souls on the big sky. Hell in a hand basket.

Ease past the L. A. Huffman photos of the old chiefs toward that jukebox, now. Get something played, vow not to stay here too long and fall down. No sick-dog stuff.

Jack Daniels, if you please!

Knock me to my knees!

“Dan, triple up on that, would you?”

“Sure about that, Pat?”

“Damn sure. Got troubles.”

“Well, get the lady back.”

“Never had the sonofabitch. I’m just panning for gold.”

“Beats wages. Beats havin’ your thumb up your ass.”

“You haven’t dragged that triple up to me yet.”

“Not going to.”

“Oh dear …”

“Come back tonight when there’s some company to drink with.”

“Oh, piss on it. Is that how it is?”

“That’s how it is. You’re on the allotment.”

“Well, goddamn you anyway.”

“See what I mean?”

“Go fuck yourself.” The front of Patrick’s brain was paralyzed with anger.

“Tried all my life.”

“Good-bye, Dan, you sonofabitch. I’ll see you.”

Patrick pulled off into the IGA parking lot, suspended in the heat against distant mountains with a special, silly desolation. He got out and walked toward the automobiles, four rows deep, clustered around the electric glass doors with labels protecting the unwary from ramming their faces.

He squeezed between a new low Buick with wire wheels and a big all-terrain expeditionary station wagon when suddenly a great malamut — German shepherd crossbred cur arose behind the glass to roar in Patrick’s ear. He thought his heart had stopped. Then his head cleared. He leaned inches from the window: fangs rattled against the glass, spraying the inside with slobber. Patrick looked around and crawled up onto the hood, growling and knocking his own teeth against the windshield wipers. The monster tore around the interior in an evil frenzy, upending thermoses, a wicker picnic basket, a jerry can, clothing, backpacking gewgaws and a purse. Patrick clambered over the car until the beast’s eyes were rolling; then he went inside to buy a six-pack, feeling happy among the pregrown ferns, vanilla extract and Mexican party favors. The summery youngsters seemed especially healthy as they gathered around the newest rage — alfalfa sprouts — heaped cheerfully next to the weigh-out scale, plastic bags and wire ties. As if to confirm his good fortune, he went through the six-items-or-less line with nobody in front of him but without having had any success in guessing the identity of the dog owner. So he sat on the curb and tipped back a can of Rainier while he watched the expedition vehicle. He felt a criminal tickle at the base of his neck.

In a moment an extraordinarily well groomed couple came out with one bag and a magazine, the man in the lead, and went straight to the car. He opened it, yelled “MY GOD!” and quickly shut it. The beast arose once again in the windshield, revealing a vast expanse of whitening gum, and sized up his owners.

“Are you sure that’s your car?” Patrick called out in a friendly voice.

The husband whirled. “Absolutely!” he shouted. His magazine fluttered to the pavement.

“I’d let that old boy simmer down,” Patrick suggested unoffendably. The wife pertly noted that sled dogs were a little on the high-octane side.

“I can see that!” Patrick cried like a simpleton.

Something about that challenged the husband, and he pulled open the door of the car. The rabid sled dog shot between the two and landed huge and spraddled in front of Patrick, gargling vicious spit through his big, pointed white teeth.

I must be close to death, thought Patrick, feeling the Rainier run down the inside of his sleeve. I always knew death would be a slobbering animal, I knew that in Germany and I knew that upon certain unfriendly horses bucking in the rocks. It is every last thing I expected.

He did not move his eyes. The owner was coming up slowly behind the dog, murmuring the words “Dirk, easy, Dirk” over and over. And death passed by like a little breeze: Very slowly the lips once more encased the teeth while Dirk, double-checking his uncertain dog memory, seemed to lose his focus. The owner reached down and gently seized the collar with a cautious “Attaboy.”

“Buddy,” said the owner, “I feel real bad. Is there anything I can do to make it up to you?”

“I’d like some money,” said Patrick.

“You what?”

“Money.”

“How much money?”

“Enough for one Rainier beer in a can. And you buy it. With money.”

The owner returned Dirk to the all-terrain vehicle. His wife waited, not wanting to go in there alone. The husband headed into the store, and Patrick gestured to her with the rest of his six-pack. He made her a toothy grin. “Want a beer, cutie?”

No reply.

In a few minutes, the Rainier appeared in Patrick’s vision. He took it without looking up. “That fucker needs a sled.”

“He’s got one,” the owner shot back.

“I mean your wife.”

No fist swung down to replace the Rainier in his vision. All Patrick had to watch was the slow rotation of a bright pair of hiking boots; there was the sound of cleated rubber on blacktop, the door, the V-8 inhalation and departure. The high lonesome will never be the same for them, thought Patrick, however Dirk might feel. The sky will seem little.

I’ve been through quite an experience, perhaps the number-one Man-Versus-Animal deal for many years here in the Rockies. But I better get myself under control before it’s lights out. God has made greater things to test us than ill-tempered sled dogs; God has made us each other.