Nobody's Angel

26

IT WAS PITCH DARK. “I AM MARION EASTERLY,” SAID THE voice. “You never let me exist. I am not allowed to let you rest. But one night at the proper phase of the moon, a neither-here-nor-there phase of the famous moon, I will arise in the face of our mother and our father and I will be real and you will not have been sent away to school and the proper apologies will be made and you still will have won the roping drunk at the Wilsall rodeo; and all, all will be acceptable.” Patrick turned on the bedside lamp and there was Mary, grinning and buttoned up in a navy peacoat. “Take away the offending years,” she said, “for they have ruined us with crumminess and predictability.”

“Go to bed,” Patrick said to Mary. “Anyone can see you’ve gotten yourself altered.”

Dale turned around in his front seat to look straight at Patrick. The driver, never seen before, presented himself as a concerned friend of the cemetery franchise. He offered to drive and they let him. The other cars were driven by concerned friends of the cemetery as well.

Dale said, “That was quite a deal you put on, Pat.”

“How long did it take you to pump yourself up to say that, Dale?”

“No time at all.” By his own scale, Dale was dauntless.

“Well, if my grandfather would have the courtesy to die, it might mean something to you, even as a lease deal. Why don’t we pull the other car over and find out just how long Grandpa is going to pull this business of not dying?”

“Stop this,” said his mother. Patrick’s batty conduct made her practical.

“Driver, detain that car.”

The driver said, “This isn’t a patrol car.”

“I say stop that car. Remove the offending mystery.”

Dale said, “This will not continue.”

“My father is dead as well,” said Patrick. “But he’s no use that way, is he? He’s no use to Boeing aircraft and he’s no use to us— Driver, pull that car to the shoulder. I accuse its occupant of lingering.”

Patrick could tell that he was ignored like a bad drunk. Beautiful scenery rolled past the windows and was of absolutely no use or comfort to anyone. He looked over at his mother, stranded in horror, and thought, What is the use of my going on like this? And there is no repairing what I’ve done, nothing to be helped by apology. No use.

But when he got to the ranch, he was quite astonished to see the broodmares pasturing the deep grass, their foals moving like shadows next to them, twisting their heads up underneath to nurse. That was one thing that seemed to go on anyway, something that helped, unlike the baleful and unforgiving mountains. He thought, I hope Andrew will find an arrowhead. And if he doesn’t, that Indian will make him one, if he’s any kind of an Indian.

What could I have done? I might well have canceled the reproving-older-brother performance. I might have done better than that. And was there anything to the remark heard over the years that Mary had “that look,” that she was doomed? We shall quiz the Indian as to doom. We are encouraged to think they are the only ones with coherent attitudes on the subject. It’s the world-wide aborigine credit bureau.

The dinner table was set and there was food. Patrick didn’t know how it got there and he had no idea how the five people converged at the same time while the late-afternoon sun blazed through the windows. It was clear that no one but Andrew was going to do anything with the food. Funeral meats, thought Patrick. Where does that come from? I’m afraid of the thought.

“How do you like that dinner?” he asked Andrew.

“It’s great,” said Andrew. “Except for those things, those Brussels sprouts.”

“Well, eat up.”

“Gonna.”

Then Patrick’s mother began to sob. She sobbed bitterly and deeply, as though a convulsion was at hand. Dale looked across at Patrick. “Are you happy?” he asked. Patrick shook his head. He was wrong again. Dale wasn’t even gloating.

“Aw, come on, Mama, please stop,” Patrick heard himself say.

“… can’t …” In her grief she looked strangely like Mary.

“It’s over. Nobody could do anything.”

“It isn’t true,” she choked. “It’s not.”

Andrew looked from face to face, as if he were at a tennis match. Dale stood up. He wasn’t an impressive man, but he seemed to have a right to his disgust.

“I’m going to the bunkhouse,” he said. “I’ll have the car ready in a bit. We’re going to leave immediately.” He turned to Patrick. “What have you and your sister done?”

“What have my sister and I done!” Patrick repeated in an astonishment that faded easily.

Dale lifted his wife to her feet. “There are things you don’t do. Andrew, let’s go.” The pale lighting designer had gotten indignant. Patrick felt an odd strength in it.

“I’m still eating!”

“We’ll stop on the way. Get up!” Andrew raised his hands and shrugged philosophically. Then he stood. When the three went through the dining room door, Dale had one more thing to say: He said, “You’ve shed all of it you’re going to on my wife. It was an old trick of your father’s. But don’t you start.”

Dale left, crazily brave in his elastic-waist vacation pants and loud shirt. Patrick did note that he stood up for his own. And what do I stand up for? You better think of something fast.