Bull Head Page 10

  He flicks on the TV. Polar bears lumber along the impossible white of the landscape. There’s enough iron in their livers to kill any person who ate one. He doesn’t know how folks figure these things out, but the part that gets him is one of the ways the polar bear hunts. It swims in the water alongside thick chunks of ice, covers its nose with its paw to camouflage itself, floating until it reaches an ice floe where seals and their pups lay. Some pups scatter into the water, some are unable to move quick enough. The attack is sudden and messy.

  He lets go of the remote and stares at his hand, empty, older, tells himself there is no remote, there is no daughter’s or wife’s hand touching him, holding him. He counts out all five fingers with the other hand, picks up the remote, and clicks the TV to mute.

  A few months before the car accident, he had walked along the river at the back of their property with the girls. The river had been frozen over. Five deer emerged from the timber. They stepped across the ice, lifting their black hooves high, setting each hoof down delicately, one after another in single file, hooves clicking on the surface. The girls heard the ice crack behind the deer.

  “Daddy, they’re talking!” Jody said.

  But when the lead deer dropped through and thrashed around, breaking up the ice around it, she started to cry. He lifted her up and turned her away.

  “Look,” Christine said.

  The other four deer paused and twisted around on the spot, followed their tracks back to the river’s edge, trotted a few hundred yards upstream, and crossed there. Christine and Kate grinned. Jody stopped crying.

  “It must have been her time,” Kate said. “Nothing she could do about it.”

  “Are they safe now, Daddy?” Jody said.

  The deer jerked against the ice. He nodded.

  “Promise?”

  He nodded again. The deer flailed in the river, trying to get its hooves onto the ice to prop itself up; steam rose off its neck, its nostrils shrill.

  “Yes.” He set her down. “I promise.”

  She stared hard at him, her little brows wrinkled in disappointment. “I don’t believe you.”

  They can never really be safe, no matter what we do to protect them. He knows that now.

  Dwight rubs his eyes hard, knuckles digging into his sockets. He glances at the realtor’s messages and considers a visit to the house; the girl can have this room for the long weekend. Maybe if he went back, stepped onto the porch where his girls played with their dolls, where Sarah and he sat late into the summer evenings watching the stars whirl in the vast charcoal sky, he wouldn’t need to know what to do next, and he wouldn’t be like some animal looking for something half dead to drag in.

  The sound of the faucet rumbles in the bathroom; the girl coughs. He runs through the options. Drive to a neighbouring town, go shopping, get her some shoes and new clothes, pick up a bucket of chicken for the drive back, or let her sleep late, bring her coffee, watch TV together.

  The taps shut off, and her body stutters as she slides in against the tub. A car horn honks outside, another bottle smashes. Then there’s silence all around and he feels uneasy again. He peeks out through the curtains. The sky murky, fog hanging like cold blue smoke, low to the ground, the neon of the Northerner’s sign faint. She could come to the house, sit in the truck while he checks things out.

  “You’re welcome to stay. Just don’t expect me to hit you. Not till we get to know each other better.” He chuckles to show that it’s a joke. “So, what do you think?” He flips through the phone messages, crumples them, and tosses them to the carpet. He knocks on the bathroom door. Water splashes. His fingertips numb against the doorknob. “So, what do you think?”

  “What’s that?” she says.

  He listens to the waves ripple, the drip of the tap, the supple pulse of her voice rising from the water. He holds onto the doorknob. On the back of his hand, the veins bulge next to the scars from when he punched through the ice to haul out the deer.

  “Tomorrow,” he says. “I was just wondering about tomorrow.”

  SOUTH COUNTRY

  TRAVIS INSISTS THAT I have another drink. He’s bragging about his conquests again and needs the audience that free drinks buy. Well into our second pitcher. The last round of neon syrupy shooters has blasted a hole in my brain. I’ve got an early start in the morning, but he’s a pushy bastard. The new Aussie waitress spins into the dining room, three pizzas balanced in one hand. She props the door open with her hip, leans forward, and turns her head back toward the kitchen. “Are there any more clean plates?” she says. I’m a sucker for accents.

  “Come and get it, baby.” The dishwasher holds a plate in front of his crotch. Another greaser from out east, slumming it on his father’s nickel, doing the boho thing, long hair tied back beneath a ball cap that reads Dish Pig, Let’s Get Dirty. The waitress snatches the plate and strides into the bar.

  “Dollars to doughnuts he’s tapping that.” Travis pours me another, lifts his glass. “This town. Christ. To easy prey.”

  The waitress sets down the pizza and plates, brushes a strand of hair out of her eyes, and glances our way. Travis raises his glass toward her. Every woman he meets is fair game; it’s hunting season year-round. She smiles and ducks into the service area, lights a cigarette, and leans against the panelled wall.

  “Check this out.”

  I turn to him. “Let me guess, you’re going to marry her.”

  His mouth breaks into this shit-eating grin, teeth right out of a comic book, all bright and white and shaped like Chiclets. He grabs my neck and licks the side of my face. “I love you, man.” He gets like this when he’s drinking. People seem to think it’s funny as hell, especially the women. I wipe my face with my sleeve. He holds up a hunting knife with a long wooden handle, snaps out the blade.

  “Where’d you get that?”

  “If you were paying attention, you’d know the answer.” He turns the knife over in his palm and points it at me, carves a circle around my face. “The Bride. Last night.” He jabs it hard into the tabletop where it quivers. He leans back, smiles. “Pay up, buddy-boy.”

  “Yeah, right.”

  He waves our empty jug at the waitress.

  She crushes her cigarette into a coffee cup saucer and comes over with a third pitcher. “If you needed a steak knife, you could’ve asked.”

  That accent. I’d crawl forty miles over broken glass just to come home to that. A pink stone dangles from her neck, down between her breasts.

  Travis grabs her wrist. “I was just making a point to my buddy. Why don’t you join us when you get off?”

  She yanks her hand away. “No thanks. I don’t date psychopaths.”

  “Who said anything about dating?”

  “Man, you can be such a jerk,” I say.

  “He’s all mouth, no teeth. Harmless beneath all that B.S., aren’t you?” She smiles, slaps Travis on the wrist and walks away.

  “Mouthy little wench.” Travis pours the beer. “Her ankles will be wrapped behind my ears by the end of the week. Guaranfuckinteed.”

  I’m tired as hell and look around the bar, map my escape route. The waitress bends over a table, picks up some plates and cutlery, her shirt tight on the curve of her waist.

  “I’m telling you man, the Bride is crazier than she looks. She’s pure butter.”

  “Butter?”

  “Everything but her face.” Travis laughs. “Seriously, she’s got a little place in the Annex. Weird paintings on the walls. Gave me the creeps. And she’s got this cat. Dude, she’s crazy about that cat.” He laughs.

  I have no idea what he’s talking about.

  “She likes to hold it above her head when she’s on top, gyrating and grinding like a belly dancer.” Travis hunches forward, leans over the table. “Goddamn. What a night.”

  “Do you ever tell the truth?”

  The woman has blue eyes that bore right through you like you were some unwanted dog coming in from a storm. We called her “the Bride”
because she shuffled around town in a filthy, tattered wedding gown, sat in the doorways of postcard and T-shirt shops, sketching. Nobody in their right mind would go near her. She was a certifiable loon. “Was she any good?”

  “She’s got a good pussy.” Travis laughs and punches me. “Pay up.”

  I dig into my pocket and count out five twenties, my tips from the last two days, drop them on the table. A dumb-ass wager; a hundred bucks for each girl we get in bed. The loser also has to sleep with her; if he doesn’t, he pays double.

  He folds the knife into its handle. “I couldn’t leave without a little souvenir, could I?” He slips the knife in his pocket. “Now it’s your turn. Let’s see if you can rise to the challenge, buddy boy.”

  It was the start of summer holidays; I had just turned thirteen. My mother dropped me off at church. She gave me the choice to go with her, but it was hot out, and I didn’t want to make the hour-long trip and wait in the pickup outside the bar while she drank and played the slots all afternoon.

  In church, I held the hymnbook in my hands, mouthing the words. Across the aisle, a girl with shiny black hair that hung halfway down her back sang with her parents. I knelt on the flattened padding of the kneeler, pretending to pray, but most of the time I stared at my watch or glanced at the girl, hoping she would notice me.

  After, I climbed up the riverbank to where Harley lay on the hood of his truck, squinting into the sunlight. “Boy, it might be Sunday but that don’t mean you need to be so pokey.” He rolled off the hood and opened the door. “Get in. We’re running late.” He had promised my mom he’d keep me busy over the summer at his buddy’s place, a cattle ranch jammed against the border in the south country.

  Harley drove fast, picked at his teeth with the corner of his cigarette package. I shifted in the seat against the door, stared out the window as trees gave way to open patches of bare land. We turned off the blacktop and drove the gravel.

  “Learn anything at church this morning?”

  “Yeah.”

  “What’s that?”

  “We’re all going to hell.”

  Harley chuckled. “Amen to that.”

  The road snaked up through the valley above the river. Cattle stood scattered through meadows below the timberline and in clusters along the river. Harley drove with one arm on the window, the other on the steering wheel.

  “You got a girlfriend?”

  I shook my head.

  “Why not. Good-looking guy like you. Lots of girls’d be interested. Anyone catch your eye?”

  I shook my head and leaned my forehead on the window, gazed at the land rolling by through the side mirror. A cut line along the ridges ran east-west, the boundary between countries slashed through the forest like a thin scar.

  “You gotta take what you can. Ain’t no one give you what you want.”

  I felt him studying me.

  “Your mom at work today?”

  “Guess so.”

  “Don’t cause her no grief, you hear? She’s got enough on her plate.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Yeah, you understand, or just yeah?”

  “Yeah, I understand.”

  “Good.” He geared down, drove across a cattle guard. The vibration rattled through me.

  The next night there’s no sign of Travis; I feel obvious, sitting alone in the Northerner, pretending to read a paperback while watching the Aussie work the room. She glides between the tables, black curls bouncing on her shoulders, stops at an older American couple’s table.

  “Lemme try one of them elk burgers,” the woman says, not lifting her head from the menu. Her husband sits with his thick arms crossed, orders a rye and coke. The Aussie glances back and gives me a bright mega-watt smile. She writes down their order and pours me a cup of coffee before heading into the kitchen.

  After half an hour, the American woman pushes her plate toward the waitress, two small nibbles taken out of the burger, traces of ketchup smeared on the plate where the French fries were. “I ordered a beef burger.”

  The Aussie picks up the woman’s plate, tells her she’ll be back in a moment with a new order. The woman’s husband grunts as he gets up and leaves the table.

  “That’s all right, honey, we’ve had enough. Just take it off the bill and we’ll call it even, okay?”

  When the Aussie hands the woman the bill, the woman picks through her change purse, holds each coin up in the fluorescent lights. “I don’t know how y’all can tell your coins apart.” Her husband waits outside, lights a cigar, and paces back and forth on the sidewalk. She drops a few coins on the table and leaves.

  The Aussie clears their table and picks up the change piled on top of the bill. Her shoulders sag. “Those cheap bastards.” She dumps the dishes in the service area. The clatter rings out through the bar. She lights a cigarette, taps her foot nervously against the wall.

  I leave a ten-dollar tip for a cup of coffee and head toward her. “Hey, looks like you could use a beer after work.”

  Harley and I got out of the truck. We walked across the yard around the back of the barn to the trailer. A few men with duffle bags hung around a couple of quads, and a boy, older than me, perhaps sixteen, stood alone staring at us. One of guys stuffed a duffel bag in one-two-three-four black garbage bags and wrapped it in duct tape. Harley yelled to the other boy, “Hops, get over here.”

  The boy walked over. Lanky, farm-tough. He had narrow stony eyes and a vicious scar above his lip.

  “Get him set up.”

  “Set up how?” He spoke slow, as if each word were an inconvenience.

  “Don’t be a smart-ass. Show him around. Introduce yourselves. Hell, I don’t know. Sort it out. Be ready in ten, you hear?” Harley walked toward the other men.

  The trailer was oven-hot, stuffy. Hops fished a joint out of his pocket. “Want any?”

  I shook my head.

  “Sure you do.” He lit it, inhaled deeply, and held his breath for a moment, studying me before letting out a low, long exhale, the smoke pouring out of his mouth like a dragon.

  Pencil nubs and topographic maps crowded a table with a deck of Penthouse Pets playing cards, and an ashtray overflowed with butts and roaches. Outside, through the filthy window, the sun burned high in a blank blue sky, the lodgepole pines blazed and shimmered. Cattle bawled, the murmur of men’s voices, dogs barking. Harley chatted with one of the guys on the quad and tied down the duct-taped bags with bungee straps on the back rack.

  Hops took another drag and tapped out the joint in the ashtray, slipped it into his pocket. “Come here, kid. I want to show you something.” The quads started up and drove off; their engines buzzed like chainsaws. He grabbed me by the hair and pushed my head down, held me in front of him. He unzipped his jeans. “Open.”

  I try to shake my head free, but his grip was strong; he tore my hair, and I cried out. He clenched me harder. “That’s it. Open up. Just like your momma does.”

  Hops seized my throat and squeezed. I thought this was it; this was how ends. I gasped for air and punched him in the stomach.

  “Billy?” Harley called, reefing on the doorknob. “Don’t make me break down this door.” The trailer shook. I willed the door to snap off its hinge. “Goddammit, get your skinny ass out here.”

  Hops grunted and loosened his hold on my neck.

  “I’m here,” I coughed.

  “Christ, you’re giving me a headache. You got two minutes. Move it.” The door stopped rattling.

  I spat into an empty beer bottle where cigarette butts floated in stale beer. My eyes stung and my lips hurt. I turned away.

  “Don’t cry, little boy.” Hops moved his fist back and forth in front of his mouth. “You’re gagging for it, just like your momma.”

  The Aussie and I sit across from one another at the all-night diner. There’s another cabbie in a booth and a lone cop, but otherwise the place is dead. She smiles, introduces herself as Linda.

  I flip open my Zippo, drag it along my thigh to s
park a flame, light her cigarette. It’s a move I’ve practiced hundreds of time while waiting for the next fare.

  “That’s some trick.” She tilts her head back and blows smoke rings.

  “You’re pretty talented.” It’s a lie, anyone can blow smoke rings. She laughs anyways; a good sign.

  “It’s easy. Pucker your lips, like this.” Linda leans forward, her breasts push against the edge of the table. Her upper lip is moist. I swear, she could make cleaning toilets sound sexy. I try it and intentionally fail.

  “It’s okay, not many guys can handle a Zippo like you.”

  We laugh. “What’s that?” I point to her necklace.

  She holds it up in her palm, turns it over. “A rose quartz. A love gem.”

  “Does it work?”

  “It gives me comfort.”

  She squeezes it and lets it fall against her skin and asks about me so I tell her stories and renovate my past so it might fit into her present and get her to come home with me. I tell her I’m saving money to buy a piece of land to build on before prices skyrocket, want to open a drywalling business, start a family, get a dog, the whole nine yards. I’m not sure if any of these things are actually true. I haven’t really thought much about my future, but saying it makes it real, as if I could somehow get there and live out my days in peace and contentment, whatever that means.

  “You’ve always lived here?”

  “Yeah.”

  She’s silent for a moment, turns the ashtray in circles on the table as if she’s considering asking me something important, likely about my childhood so she can get to know me better. I veer the conversation toward her and ask, “What brought you to town?”

  “A postcard.” She laughs. “Can you believe that? I remember thinking how beautiful it was. What I didn’t know was I’d have to work all the time to make rent. I haven’t even been out in the mountains, hiking or fishing or anything that involves leaving main street.” She sucks on the filter and exhales. I’ve never seen anyone get so much out of a cigarette.