“I’m sure those cameras were right there somewhere,” Jim said. He had a way of being single-minded, even when in pain. “That’s nine hundred dollars gone if somebody steals them. Besides, they had pictures in them.”
“I just didn’t see them. I had pictures in me too—pictures of you dying and me being left at the mercy of about a thousand stupid cowboys. Maybe the clown took care of them. He was the only nice person there.”
But she felt guilty, anyway, for not having more presence of mind.
Soon a frail-looking doctor with a black hearing aid came in and led Jim off to be X-rayed, and she sat alone in the waiting room, fidgeting uselessly about the cameras. Jim had only been working at photography three months and she had difficulty taking it seriously. His decision to photograph rodeos seemed quite nonsensical to her. She was always unable to take his work seriously enough at the time when he was most intense about it; by the time she became enthused about one of his lines of endeavor he would almost invariably be bored with it and ripe for a new pursuit.
To escape the brightness of the waiting room she walked out into the front yard of the hospital. The grass was dry and crackly already, though it was not yet summer. She walked around the side of the building to the back, away from the street lights, and felt better at once. The depth and sweep of the sky was a relief after the tiny room, and the sky was sown with uncountable stars. Her hair was mussed; she took a comb out of her purse and stood combing it, her legs spread and her head bent back over one shoulder. Her hair was black and she wore it middling length, just long enough that it touched her shoulders. She felt refreshed and combed vigorously, looking straight up into the Milky Way.
It seemed very odd to her that anyone, even a cowboy, would want to hit Jim. He was mild-tempered and agreeable, and to her knowledge no one had ever hit him before. She walked back around the hospital, combing more leisurely, and saw a car filled with teenagers race down the empty street. It was an old two-tone Buick with no muffler. There were eight or ten kids in it, boys and girls all mashed together, yelling and laughing and waving their arms out the windows. As they passed the hospital a boy pitched an empty beer can high in the air. It rang when it hit the pavement, bounced into the center of the street, and spun around a few times before it stopped. The sound of the car gradually faded and the silence of the empty summer town was complete again.
When she went back inside, the fat red-cheeked nurse was sitting at the desk clicking her tongue over a coverless movie magazine that seemed to be several years old.
“Pore little Debbie,” she said. “Can’t tell a no-good when she sees one, can she, honey? We’ve about got your hubby patched up.”
Patsy felt defenseless. The slovenly ambulance driver she might have kicked, but no person of character would kick a jolly nurse. It irked her to be called honey, and it irked her more to hear Jim referred to as her hubby. It was on the tip of her tongue to say something very complimentary about Elizabeth Taylor, but before she could think of anything she glanced up and saw that the fat nurse was looking at the pictures with affection brimming in her face. Her voice had dropped with sadness when she said, “pore little Debbie,” and she was studying the pictures with as much fondness as she might have bestowed on a family scrapbook.
“I’m sure it was hard on her,” she said, choked for a moment, with a desire to be kind to the nurse.
“’Course Liz ain’t had no easy life either,” the nurse went on. “She was as sweet a little thing as there ever was when she was young. Growed up too fast, I guess, and let all them bright lights and them night spots confuse her. I was out there once, went with my sister and her family. We went to Disneyland and had us quite a time. You-all got any little ones?”
“Not yet,” Patsy said. It was a question she disliked being asked.
“Well, you ought to. Lord bless us, they’re what’s worth living for. ’Course I never married myself, but my sister has six and I love every one of ’em. Liz has been a good mother, seems like, but adult’ry’s adult’ry, don’t matter who does it. When you carry on like that you’ve got to pay. Thank goodness I’ve got a clean conscience, even if I don’t have much else.”
“Did they X-ray my husband yet?” Patsy asked, suddenly remembering Jim.
“Oh, they X-rayed him all right,” the nurse said. “I don’t know what showed up. All them X rays look alike to me.”
She rattled on, and in a few minutes Jim came out looking somewhat steadier. He had a badly swollen lip and a bandage on his forehead. Patsy went over and put her arm around him a little awkwardly. She had never been able to be gracefully affectionate in public.
“The doctor’s been telling me rodeo stories,” Jim said. “I must be lucky. I don’t even have a concussion.”
“Sonny, you wouldn’t know the half of it,” the nurse said cheerfully. “I’ve been a night nurse twenty-four years and you wouldn’t believe the sights I’ve seen, specially after these rodeos. They brought in a boy one time with a hatchet stuck in his skull—never lived the night. And nine times out of ten it’s all to do with women.”
It was not until they were out the door, standing on the front lawn of the hospital, that they realized they had no way back to the rodeo grounds.
“It’s unreal,” Patsy said. “How many more things can go wrong?”
“Actually, they’re not so wrong,” Jim said mildly. “Just inconvenient. Who would have thought those crazy bronc riders would hit me?”
“I would have thought it. I’ll believe anything about cowboys. A bull rider tried to seduce me too. I didn’t get a chance to tell you sooner. He peed on our car and then tried to seduce me.”
Jim seemed scarcely to hear. He wandered aimlessly and a little woozily across the hospital lawn.
“They didn’t even bawl me out or give me warning,” he said. “I would have quit if they had. I took two pictures, and a big one got up and knocked me loop-legged. I’m still loop-legged, I guess.”
“Oh, listen to my problems,” Patsy said, relieved that he could talk again. “If you have to indulge in pity, pity me. There I was, about to be raped and pillaged in a parking lot and left to my unpleasant end. If that had happened I’d be loop-legged too, believe me.”
“I wonder if there’s a taxi.”
“Of course not. What would a taxi be doing out in the wilderness? We’ll have to wait two days for a bus, or else walk. What about my gallant stand for chastity?”
“It sounds like you made it up,” Jim said. “Why would anyone want to pee on our car?”
She thought he was going to say, “Why would anyone want to seduce you,” and was relieved.
“I think he chose the car more or less at random,” she said. “Why would anyone want to knock you loop-legged? These people are crazy, that’s why. Isn’t there anything besides rodeo you could take pictures of? I don’t like you getting beat up and I don’t want to sit around getting raped and pillaged just so you can become a famous photographer. Why not take pictures of gypsies? Then we can go to Europe and look for them.”
Jim was silent, looking down the empty street. He didn’t enjoy joking about his profession, whatever his profession was at the time, and Patsy knew it; but she kept thinking that if she could make the right sort of joke, in the right tone, he might relax about it and then everything would be a lot more fun. But demons got in her and she never made the right sort of joke or found the right tone.
“The bull rider’s name was Boggs,” she said. “He breathed on me. If my fair white body is going to be sacrificed to your ambition the least you could do is take me to Europe. Why must I be sacrificed in Merkel, Texas?”
It didn’t lift his spirits, so with a wriggle of her slim shoulders she dropped it and went over and hugged him, her face against his throat. He had his hands in his pockets and she shyly pulled one out and held it.
“Maybe we could hitchhike back out there,” she said.
Then they heard the thin noise of a siren in the distance and s
aw, far down the straight highway, the red revolving light on top of the ambulance.
“Aha,” Jim said. “Here comes us a ride.” 25
“No,” Patsy said firmly. “That’s not our ride. I refuse to ride with that man.”
“Why? He surely didn’t try to seduce you, did he?”
“No.”
“Then why not?”
“Well, because I threatened to kick him,” she admitted. “I’m the kind of girl who sometimes threatens people.”
“You never threatened to kick me,” Jim said, frankly astonished.
“You’re nicer than him. He just prompted me to threaten him, never mind why.”
“I don’t intend to pass up a ride just because you were rude,” Jim said. “I’m about to collapse. You can apologize. I’m sure you had no business saying whatever you said.”
The ambulance shrieked into town and skidded to a stop on the gravel driveway. Patsy didn’t want to look. She had the horrid conviction that Ed Boggs had indeed been stomped by a bull. She would have to watch him carried into the hospital, his entrails spilling out. Instead, a young cowboy in black chaps emerged from the ambulance and limped inside, holding one of his shoulders. Jim walked over to the ambulance and she followed timidly.
“Sure, sure,” the driver said, waving them in. “I got your cameras for you. Pete Tatum gathered ’em up. Just keep between me and your missus, is all I ask. She’s a little on the violent side, ain’t she?”
He was lighting the stub of a cigar and seemed not to expect an answer. Jim got in the middle and Patsy sat by the window. In a moment they were speeding back past the street lights, toward the dark country. Patsy had her arm on the car door. As they gained speed the rush of air cooled her armpit and blew through her dress, across her chest. The lightning to the northwest had grown heavier; when it flashed they saw the dark shape of a cloud. The driver seemed to be making an effort to be polite and Patsy softened toward him.
“I’m sorry I said what I did,” she said. “I was a bit overwrought. Did you say the clown’s name was Pete? He told me but I’d forgotten.”
“Pete Tatum. Knowed him for years. Only reason Pete bothers with this little show is because his brother’s a big man in the rodeo association here. He works them big professional shows. Santa Rosa and shows like that.”
“It was awfully nice of him to take care of the cameras,” Jim said. “Thank him for us in case we miss him.”
Ahead, off the road, they saw the glow of the arena lights and a lower glow from the dance floor. The driver turned onto the dirt road and they were soon back inside the rodeo grounds.
“This’ll be fine,” Jim said. “Our car’s right here.”
“Okay. Watch out for your missus now. Don’t let her kick none of these pore cowboys. Most of them get kicked enough as it is.”
“I’d advise you not to run that into the ground,” Patsy said. “I might make good on it yet.”
The driver grinned at her engagingly. “I was teasin’,” he said. “Be a pleasure to be kicked by a pretty young wench like yourself. See you-all next time.”
He tooted his horn lightly with the heel of his hand and moved the ambulance expertly through the mob of men and women and children who were leaving the stands.
“You see,” Patsy said. “He keeps calling me things. Could I be accurately described as a wench?”
Jim was too tired to be interested in such issues. Patsy took his hand and they walked through the swirl of people toward the Ford. The horses and cars and departing pickups kept the sandy roadway stirred up, so that the dust rose to their waists and made it seem like they were walking through a sandy mist. Car lights shone red through the sand, and whenever a horse crossed the road in front of a car the lights threw huge wavering shadows against the dust.
“I hope you don’t mind driving,” Jim said. “I still feel dizzy.”
The sorrel was no longer tied next to the Ford, and the trailer he had been tied to was gone. Jim went wearily around the car. Patsy stood for a moment by the door on the driver’s side trying to locate her car keys by the little door light. Finally she jiggled her purse and located them by the jingle.
“Let’s sit until the traffic thins out a little,” she said. Jim was quite agreeable. He slumped silently against his door. By the time Patsy got her key in the ignition his eyes were closed, and very soon he was asleep. It annoyed her and dropped her spirits a little, even though she knew his head must hurt. She wanted to talk, and having him so soon asleep made her feel lonely, as it often did. Jim could go to sleep quicker than anyone she had ever known. He claimed he had always been able to, but she sometimes felt it was an escape technique he had developed for occasions when he didn’t want to talk to her. She would have liked to scoot over by him, but there was a clutter of photographic paraphernalia in the front seat and she had to content herself with putting a hand on his shoulder. Over the way, the dance she had been invited to was in progress. As the cars drove out and the grounds grew quiet she began to hear the sounds of the dancing, a yell now and then, the scraping of feet on concrete, and, over that, the sound of the hillbilly band. At first she only heard the ring of the steel guitars, but as the grounds emptied, mournful snatches of lyric filtered through:
Keep those cards ’n’ letters comin’ in-uh-in, honey,
Tell me that you love me time ’n’ time ugin-uh-in, honey;
It’s many a mile from Memphis to Berlin-uh-in, honey,
So keep those cards ’n’ letters comin’ innn. . . .
Patsy kept time with her fingertips. When the song ended she started the Ford and drove through the almost empty grounds, squashing several beer cans but no bottles that she noticed. There was a very small trailer parked to the left of the exit gate, with a donkey tied to the fence nearby. As she turned to go through the gate her headlights swept across the front of the trailer. A man with no shirt on sat on the tiny steps of the trailer wiping his face with a towel. He looked up when she passed and to her surprise called her name. She braked, puzzled, and he got up from the steps and came to the car, the towel slung over one shoulder.
“Thought that was you,” he said, and she realized it was the clown. He bent and peered in at her solemnly and looked past her at Jim.
“He’s just asleep,” she said. “He’s fine. I’m ashamed of myself for being so flustered.” But she felt embarrassed and oddly flustered again and didn’t know whether to look at him or not. He seemed lankier than he had seemed in his clowning apparel. He was balding too. The hair that was so curly on the sides of his head was almost gone on the top.
“We’re very grateful about the cameras,” she said. A girl had come to the door of the trailer house and stood just inside the screen, her body a dark shadow.
“Well, glad he wasn’t hurt,” Pete said. “Maybe sometime I’ll get to meet him when he’s awake. If he’ll come and see me maybe I can tell him who not to take pictures of.”
“Oh, we won’t be coming back here,” she said. “We were in Dallas and heard about this rodeo and drove out. We’re going to lots more, though—my husband wants to do a book of pictures about them. I’m sure we’ll see you again.”
“Hope so,” Pete said, stepping back. He was sawing the towel thoughtfully against the back of his neck. Patsy never quite knew how to get out of conversations; she gave a little nod, raced her motor a little, and let the clutch out too quickly. The Ford jerked forward and almost died. In a moment she regained control and was out the gate. A cowboy was leading three horses down the middle of the dirt road that led to the highway, but as she approached he obligingly moved them over and waved at her cheerfully, his hands full of bridle reins. When she turned onto the pavement the slight bump caused Jim to slide farther down in the seat, his head still against the car door. Straining, Patsy reached across him and locked it.
The lightning had come close enough that she could see it flickering in her rear-view mirror, but it seemed a dry kind of lightning, appropriate to the coun
try. Ahead on the straight highway were five or six sets of red taillights, cars going back to town. Patsy drove slowly, in no hurry. She followed the taillights into the town and stopped at both lights. The cars that had been ahead of her had all disappeared, absorbed by the town. Except for a deputy’s car parked in the driveway of a filling station, hers was the only vehicle in sight. The deputy was sitting with his car door open. He had taken one boot off, and the sock too, and was contemplating his bare foot with an expression of gloom. He held a pocketknife in his hand, one blade open, as if perhaps he meant to perform an amputation. It was just the sort of moment she would have liked Jim to take a picture of, though no doubt the deputy would have resented it. Probably the man had ingrown toenails from wearing such sharp-toed boots.
When the light turned green she went on, past a block of darkened grocery stores and laundries, still driving slowly and enjoying the almost pristine emptiness of the little town. Except for herself, the deputy, and one lank brown dog, the emptiness was absolute. Soon she left the town behind and turned onto the Interstate. On the broad highway she could not help driving fast. There was no one on the road but herself and the trucks of the night, the huge trucks with squares of red taillights that lumber nightly over the country, from the South to Los Angeles and from Los Angeles to the South. The trucks blinked their eyes when she passed them, purring and snorting like great nocturnal animals. She held to the left until she had passed half a dozen and was ahead of all that were in sight, pushing the Ford almost to its top speed, which was eighty-five. The darkness, the speed, the straining pulse of the car, and the rush of cool air in the window were keenly satisfying to her, as satisfying as the taste of the Hershey bar had been, and as brief, for the motel where they were staying was in Abilene, less than a dozen miles away. She would have liked another fifty miles to drive—the road all to herself and the wind blowing her hair and cooling her arms. She swerved slightly from time to time to avoid the flattened corpse of some possum or coon or armadillo, and much too soon she was among the lights and filling stations of Abilene. It was irritating to have to slow down when she was avid for more driving; she stamped the brake with annoyance at the first light off the freeway.