“Anne, c’mon now, you can’t just expect. . .you know, to. . .”
“To what?”
“To come an. . .”
“Expect what?”
“Expect to, you know, come in and just like that, get. . .you’re not. . .”
“Not what, young enough for you?”
Joe, surprised that he couldn’t help but laugh, shook it off, and said, “It’s that, what you think is love is only. . .only just what you somehow got into your head is somethin me and your mother had and don’t want you to have.”
“Yeah, well, that’s a pretty dumb shit way to make it my fault when you’re in love with me and don’t wanna be.”
“It’s not. . .that’s not what it is. You know as well as me.”
“What I know? That you keep sayin all that ‘cause you can’t stand that you are in love. With me. An’ that you can’t put it all in a picture frame on a shelf and expect it to sit there and rust. You sound just the same, you an mom, big shot know-it-all grown-ups. Anymore, neither of you’d know love if it kicked you in the head. Which is what it did me. But at least I know what it is.”
Butter leaning against her leg, Anne scratched his ears, then went on.
“She told you to keep away from me, didn’t she?”
“No. She didn’t have to.”
“She did. I know why she did. She’s still in love with you too. So now? You’re all guilty ‘cause you used to love her and now you love me.”
Joe shook his head. “No, that’s not how it works, it just. . .we were kids, Anne, but. . .”
“Yeah? Kids? So love, that’s somethin you outgrow, that what you mean?”
In the dark, and not easy to see her face, it made her voice omnipotent. He gave up, he sighed, and he was surprised how much of a sigh he sighed.
“What’s between us, Joe, whatever you want to call it, call it blue sky, call it dog shit, don’t tell me you don’t want it the same as I do.”
“I don’t. What you want isn’t. . .what I want is. . .ah never mind.”
Anne leaned over Butter.
“He lies like a rug, don’t he? Why’s he doin this to me, huh?”
Butter stretched out his legs, she stretched up her arms. She yawned then sleepily curled herself onto the cot, head on his leg.
“You can’t stay here, Anne.”
“Okay, sure, I know. I can’t stay. Fine, I just ain’t leavin, though.”
A standoff, quiet, during which Anne curled closer, during which, Joe almost unaware of it, his hand began stroking her hair, his voice saying, how she was such a beautiful girl, had so much more on the ball than he ever did, her age or even now, how if she really did love somebody it’d be impossible not to love her back, meaning that she didn’t, didn’t love him anyway, and how it was late, and she was drunk, so he’d go ahead and sleep on the floor and she could go ahead and sleep there on the cot, how this other stuff, all of it, had got to end.
The dog squeezed between his legs, panting, smiling up at him, mostly happy teeth all Joe could see in the dark, his tail switching Anne’s face. She swatted it away, murmuring how, All right, Butter, they had to leave it alone now, how Joe didn’t want loving creatures around much, how that ruled out him and her. Butter rolling his happy eyes at her as she smoothed his flat ears.
“Aw, nice doggie, Butter; you’re better lookin anyway. Plus, you got a lot bigger heart.”
She let the weight of her head fall full onto Joe’s thigh. When her breathing became rhythmic, he eased out, replaced himself with his pillow, smoothed the blanket over her, lay on the floor with a coat over him, and though he didn’t go back to sleep, he was no longer restless. He knew everything would get cleared up soon enough.
Shortly before morning, he got dressed and drove off in the jeep.
TO INAUGURATE MEAGHER’S First Annual Fourth of July Rodeo and Sheep Drive, the InterPacific company, in conjunction with their purchase of the upper Hellwater valley and to foster good will for the project, rented out the Grand for an open-bar and free buffet banquet the entire weekend. The first morning, in advance of the chartered jet which was bringing the silver-haired Harada and several of his subordinates, three vans arrived with the caterers and all their supplies; soon the head caterer, a Latin man, who opened many an eye with his diamond earring, was airily waving his assistants on their mission. Almost in no time he had transformed the kitchen into a pavilion of restaurant equipment as fancy as any Squash had seen in any magazine. While the caterer barked in Spanish to his help, he bantered with Squash in stilted English, suiting him up in chef whites and encouraging him to mingle with the other chefs. Whereupon Squash did, tasting the veal cutlets, swirling the Teflon pans full of sauces, studying the prep cooks as they sliced up their intricate floral garnishes. Meanwhile, the industrious caterer was everywhere at once, diplomatically marshalling the setup effort while Father Sterling pestered him about wine and pâté, searching for some culinary common ground to angle for a donation or discount of some kind for the grand church bazaar Father Sterling was just now conceiving.
Marly Croft surreptitiously ducked in, meandering among the tables of pewter banquet ware and silver-plated warming bins, fingering the lace and table linens, marveling at the fine cutlery and exotic tropical flowers blooming in cut-glass vases. The caterer, learning she was the proprietor, immediately fell all over her, lavishing and complimenting and admiring her with such aplomb that she even let him have fifteen minutes for the honor of doing her makeup. They went off together, and when she made her appearance, she was radiant; the shades and hues of his masterful work boosted the auburn of her hair and highlighted the cream of her skin. The kitchen was hushed, then burst into applause. Not only her premises but even Marly herself had been beautifully and adoringly rendered by the robust touches of the caterer.
In the street, preliminary events were already beginning. Dozens of children herded, pushed, kicked, dragged their prize calves, lambs, colts, piglets before a panel of judges seated in lawn chairs under the shade of Major Thomas F. Meagher, the statue itself fluttering with blue, red, white, green satin prize ribbons.
The Tyler family organized a barrel racing event, arranging First Street in a slalom of canary yellow drums provided by Arapahoe Oil. The event was won by their nine year old daughter, because most of the older girls (who were in fact fine riders) were boisterously drunk; they knocked over more barrels than they turned, and drove laughing bystanders from the street.
Stodgy backcountry guides loaded their pack horses with the heaviest gear they could find—rocks, chairs, drunks from the bar—anything to add weight for the pack horse contest, in which each guide would try to lead his horse the fastest the farthest, packed with the most and losing the least. At the gunshot, they filled the road south in a chaotic scramble; by sundown, few had returned. Most of them had lost their way.
Hordes of people milled along First Street, thronging to makeshift booths selling everything from home brew to mutton burgers. An impromptu parade began, joined by anyone who felt like walking, a parade celebrating the residents themselves, because as McComb had remarked, “Who else would?” For a good part of the afternoon old ranchers and sheepherders, itinerant loggers and ranch hands, cooks and wives and clerks and shopkeepers, all cheered one another for being nobody. They cheered whenever the spirit moved them, which was constantly, because it refreshed their hearts; they had never before had anything worth cheering for. Everybody was a crowd pleaser; every man woman and child of Meagher walked in fame the entire length of First Street, then rejoined their beer-can waving, shoulder-jostling neighbors. McComb drove his sheriff’s pickup with makeshift kilts on its wheel wells. Jack Loomis tossed papers from two satchels full of Chronicles printed especially for the occasion. Brad Angstman drove his new International Harvester farmhand, forklift stacked with kegs of beer. Jack Duffy helped Ben Faw start the original town fire-truck; they made it halfway down First Street before a fire broke out under the hood. It sat smoking li
ke a Chinese dragon and people hoo-rayed and doused it with beer. The Berg twins, Ollie and Orville, with beards dyed red with wine and wearing loincloths and breastplates, paraded as Vikings in a cutout canoe emblazoned with the words “Sons of Norway”.
A legion of girls, five to fifteen, wearing swimming suits and chaps and white cowboy boots, twirled leather cattle crops to lead off the Sheep Drive. Behind them, a swarm of over a thousand dirt-gray animals turned line by line onto the street and like an unruly bustling living carpet rolled down the gauntlet of jabbering humans who cleared to the side. Escorted by grizzled sheepherders, the bewildered animals became a leaping river of thick fur bounding one over another, bolting leaping bleating nosing their way, herded by their somber, woolen-clad masters to makeshift pens on the outskirts of town for the next day’s sheepdog cutting contest.
JOE MEEKS WANTED to go home, though he had none, but then at least to hole up, keep quiet, see no one. And no more going over and over and over it all over again. Only get the money from Evan and bolt from Meagher for good.
Instead, he was walking into the Mint, into a rowdy festival of complete foreigners and reveling strangers, fingers worrying the already frayed one way plane ticket in his jacket pocket. Here, he was to meet the head of InterPacific, at Evan’s insistence. Who now appeared quickly at his side to intercept him.
“Nothing to worry about, Joe. Mr. Harada asked me specifically about making your acquaintance.”
Joe followed Evan into the new banquet room, to a senior looking Japanese suit and his younger looking aide standing at a greeting table shaking hands. Evan made introductions. Formal gestures, stiff half bows and limp handshakes, exchanged. Mr. Kato, the aide, incapable of ever not smiling, offered each—Joe, Evan, Mr. Harada, and himself—a small ceramic cup. In it, a liquid that was as clear as, but probably was not, water. Mr. Harada raised his in a toast, Evan and Mr. Kato followed suit, but Joe, anxious, thirsty, and not noticing, gulped his down.
It was not water. Or, it was, but more accurately, fire water.
He reddened. Held back a choke. Coughed. Some silence, just a moment, Evan warily monitoring his guests for any sign of insult. . .
“Pretty good,” Joe said.
And Mr. Harada smiled. And nodded to Mr. Kato, who smilingly refilled Joe’s cup. And once again, with particular pronounced solemnity, the international trading titan raised his cup.
“For appreciation, we very much like honor you, Mr. Joe Meeks, with small Japanese gift.”
Before Joe could throw back this drink too, Mr. Kato quickly keenly grandly presented to him a large package artfully wrappered in decorative rice paper. Joe, no choice but to take it, held it tentatively, anxious, puzzled, looking to Evan. Who grinned and shrugged and was of no help. Meanwhile Mr. Kato intricately removed the rice paper, uncovering a beautifully glazed porcelain pot, and planted in it, a plant—a miniature tree, an infant ornamental full foliaged pine.
“Is bonsai plant, made by my daughter,” Mr. Harada intoned. “We hope you will accept.”
Mr. Harada, uneasy about his English, looked to his aide.
“Bonsai,” Mr. Kato explained, “is art to grow small tree in container, create by cutting roots and wiring branches, to restrict growth of it. It is very ancient custom. Maybe one day in America too, we hope.”
Mr. Harada, with happy eyes now, nodded to Mr. Kato, who nodded, and continued, “A small thank you for your help in our purchase.”
Then he, and Mr. Harada, stepped back. Then another round of stiff bows. Then Mr. Harada turned aside to Evan, while Mr. Kato, on cue, turned to Joe.
“We have great hope for your valley. And as we have been your guests, we hope you come too, be our guest. Often visit. You please have invitation anytime.”
“Well yeah; I don’t know what to say,” Joe, knowing not what to say, said.
Mr. Kato nodded vigorously, not fully understanding, then trailed dutifully behind as Evan took Mr. Harada deeper into the crowd to meet and greet the various shit-kicker clad patrons.
Behind the bar, three bartenders slung amber liquor and bubbly mixers into plastic glasses which disappeared as soon as they were set on the bartop. Outside, car horns blared. People on hoods and tailgates laughed and fell off. All of Meagher either jammed the Mint or spilled out front.
Joe worked his way through the room, trying to leave, to get away from the vaguely familiar names wafting out of the crowd—Tyler, McComb, Habeger, Braughten, Springer—faces he knew and half knew smiling approvingly at him, shaking his hand, passing him drinks he didn’t want. He felt congratulatory eyes on him—the narrow eyed Loomises, the round faced Duffy, the fat eyes of the Malarkey woman from the clinic—and had to look down.
He saw a flash of red hair—a woman—in the corner of his eye. He changed course and veered toward it, curious, thinking it was Marly, but then, no, it was somebody famous. A movie star, a. . .but then saw anew, and it was Marly. . .but Marly like he’d never seen her, all done up, stunning, glamorous. He stopped short. Their eyes met; their eyes looked away.
And Joe moved on. Encumbered and assaulted. Nods and handshakes. For each gesture Joe felt more and more uneasy. He smiled, looking in each taut round face for a sign of suspicion. He felt for the ticket in his pocket again.
“So Joe.”
He turned. Harlo’s lanky body standing next to him.
“Everything’s all okay then?”
“Okay?”
“With how this’s all turned out?”
Joe shrugged. “I guess okay’s an okay way to put it.”
“Wasn’t much else could have been done, anyway. Right?”
“Right.”
“All there is left is take the money and run, I s’pose.”
Joe searched Harlo’s face.
“You mean. . .you’re sayin that’s what you’re gonna do, with your cut of the money?”
“My cut?” Harlo shook his head, half a smile. “Aw I ain’t takin any money, I guess.”
“Sure you are. Why not?”
Harlo pushed back his stringy hair. “Tell you the truth, it just don’t seem right somehow. Can’t say I can say why, but. . .”
But now Wade appeared, holding out two overfull cups, sloshing their boozy contents on the floor.
“Hey. I bought you guys a drink.”
Harlo laughed. “Oh, real generous of you, Wade, given how it’s an open bar.”
Wade, his eyes wild and white, pressed Harlo, then Joe, to take the cups he offered. Harlo looked at Joe; Joe shook his head.
“Wade, put those down. You shouldn’t. . .”
“Okay.” Whereupon Wade downed the drink and crumpled the plastic cup. . .then downed the second.
“Hey chief, I’d lay back a little if I were you.” Harlo said.
“I get to celebrate, don’ I?” Wade’s voice cracked. “Being on my own.”
“Hope you shape up before you get to your new school, Wade. Else you won’t last a week.”
“I can act how I want now, though.” Wade shrugged, grinning drunkenly. “Didn’t you say, Joe?”
“I get the feelin Wade don’t quite go for that fancy pants school you got him goin to.”
“He’ll be fine, soon as he gets there. Gettin used to things comes easy for him.”
Harlo tousled Wade’s hair. “C’mon there, Wade, no one’s pullin out on you here. Just doin what’s best. All anybody can do, right?”
Wade didn’t hear, staring excitedly off into the mass of people.
“Harlo, I’m doin all this for him; nobody gets that?” Joe sighed. “I can’t do anything right?”
“Aw I don’t know bout that. Lookit all these folks wantin to fall over their selves thankin you for sellin out.”
“Yeah. I’m like the grim reaper at a baptism.”
“Mr. Joe Meeks? Must not forget this.” Mr. Kato reappeared, carefully handing Joe the bonsai tree. “Remember, very very delicate.”
The aide bowed and left.
“Wha??
?s that, Joe?”
Wade, despite his goofy smile, looked sad, reminding Joe of someone, he wasn’t sure who. He handed the bonsai to Wade, who puzzled over it, eyes glazed.
“Wade, you’re good with delicate things. How bout you put this somewhere safe.”
Wade held it, teetering, focusing, and Evan arrived to join them again. He clapped Joe’s shoulders.
“Harada is very pleased, Joe. In case you’re interested.”
“You sayin, or askin?”
“What do you mean?”
“Your radar’s on full alert, seems like. Still lookin for somethin to worry about?”
“Well, no, I wasn’t. Now I’m not sure. Is there anything more I should know about?”
“Don’t know what. You got all what you wanted, didn’t you?”
Evan nodded. “We all did. I hope we did. Or is that why you’re in such a rush to leave town?”
“I did what you brought me out to do, didn’t I? So, why not?” Joe pulled out the plane ticket in his jacket. “Though I do sure wish my flight was tomorrow instead of havin to wait.”
“Okay. But, really, why? Do you actually have anywhere to go back to?”
With Wade’s hang dog face wavering in and out of paying attention, Joe shook his head.
“Wherever I can get this all behind me.”
He put the plane ticket back in his jacket.
“Come on, Wade, let’s get home.”
“Home?” Wade said. But Joe had already walked away.
THE RODEO BEGAN the next morning in a milkweed infested oxbow of the Hellwater. An arena was created out of an abandoned sheep corral, reinforced with pickups parked tightly into a circle. Events happened haphazardly, and though it little resembled a conventional rodeo, the spectators didn’t mind. Meagherites hadn’t had a rodeo in so long anything was fine with them, and of the many curious visitors, few had any idea this wasn’t the real thing.
The sheep cutting contest lasted until noon, as one old master after another stood to the side whistling specialized commands to his one best sheepdog, who was tasked with driving a herd of sheep through a maze of fences and cut them all into a pen. As the morning progressed, betting circles did a brisk business in the back of nearly every pickup.