Authors: Tim Sandlin
This one day, though, the moment Mr. Cox and Frank Lesley was out the door, old Mrs. Hitchcock come through to root around in her safe-deposit box. She did this three, four times a week. Once, when I was helping her with the keys I peeked in and there wasn’t anything but newspaper clippings from the Civil War and a couple of medals. I guess they mattered to Mrs. Hitchcock.
The only trouble was you had to escort her into the box room and stick in a special key while she turned her key, and that left the cage unguarded, which meant if she come at lunch, I was forced to lock down the entire bank until I had her settled.
I tried to hustle back quick, but this particular time, Mrs. Hitchcock wanted to tell me about a liver procedure she’d had described to her—she seemed to care about my opinion—and when I went back to my post I found someone in my money box.
It was the Cox boy, Bill. I said, “How’d you get through that locked door?”
He said, “How do you think?” And he held up a key for me to look at.
“Does your daddy know you have a key to the bank?”
He ignored that and went on counting my ten-dollar bills, getting them all mixed around, with some Benjamin Franklin’s face right ways and some Benjamin Franklin’s face the wrong ways.
Bill gave me his gunfighter stare-down that I know he practiced looking in the mirror. It wouldn’t have scared a ground squirrel.
He said, “What are your intentions toward my sister?”
I was temporarily thrown off. “Agatha Ann?”
“I only got the one sister.”
“My intentions toward Agatha Ann are none of your affair.”
His left hand crept toward the vest pocket where I knew he kept his little muff gun. “I can make it my business,” he said. “Agatha says you two plan to marry.”
She had not mentioned marriage to me in years, not since the hayride where she first brought us up, and I thought she’d forgot all about that part of the plan, but that’s just like Agatha to tell someone it would upset before she tells the person who’s involved. I said, “What if I do?”
“My daddy’s been swell to you over the years, in spite of your line being dope fiends. I won’t have you repaying his trust by taking advantage.”
“Taking advantage is not the way I see matters.”
“You only want Agatha for my father’s money. She’s too homely for anyone to want her for real.”
Now, Agatha was not homely in the least. She had a button nose and freckles acrost her cheekbones. Her hips were a bit slim for bearing children, but like I say, she was not homely, and I took offense at Bill for saying she was.
He went on before I could sock him in the jaw. “You got a soft deal here,” he said. “But if my daddy knew you were dipping Agatha, he’d fire you in a flash.”
“Your sister is a lady. I have not dipped her in any way.”
“Mr. Cox won’t believe that when I tell him. He’ll fire you and put you out of that pigsty you call a house.”
That’s when Mrs. Hitchcock came from the deposit-box room. She kind of trilled, “Thank you, Oly,” as I unlocked the door, but before I could shut up behind her, three men pushed their way through. Two men and a boy, really. The two men smelled like mule skinners, and the boy had a case of nervous hives. You could see his hand quivering on the buckle of his belt there.
One man come over to the cage as I walked around. He said, “We want to make a withdrawal.” I already knew it was a holdup. These weren’t customers with ready accounts.
Bill said, “How much, pard?” like he owned the bank instead of his father, Mr. Cox, and they pulled sidearms. The one who’d talked before said, “All of it.”
The men cleaned my teller drawer, then went to work on the safe. They must have been watching the bank awhile, because they knew exactly how long till Mr. Cox and Frank Lesley would be in from dinner.
The boy—he was nervous and soon I saw Bill was too, and I knew he wasn’t going to let this end with no trouble. I kept behind the cage there so I could either drop when gunfire commenced or reach under the counter for the loaded .36 caliber.
The men came from the safe with their hands full loaded so they’d had to holster their pistols. The uglier of the two said, “Cover us, Shad,” and headed for the door, only Shad was scared so he headed for the door himself. With no gun on us, Bill pulled his and plugged one fella square in the back. The other fella dropped his money and went for his gun. He cleared holster, but before he shot Bill I shot him. The bullet entered at his voice box and exited from the back of his neck. Before long, he was on the floor, gurgling blood.
The boy threw his pistol down and surrendered. He didn’t really have to because Bill was out of bullets and I wasn’t about to shoot nobody else. It made me sick to shoot the first fella. I couldn’t help but think of his mother.
The boy spoke as if resigned to his fate. “They’ll hang me for certain.”
I walked over to view the gurgling man. He stared up at me like a landed trout for a few seconds, then he expired. I said, “They don’t hang for bank robbing anymore. Unless you kill somebody.”
The boy said, “Then they’ll put me in prison for life. I’d rather be hung.”
After Bill’d shot the first one, he turned white as an antelope’s ass, but now, he commenced to recover.
He said, “We’ll tell the sheriff you wasn’t with them.”
The boy and I stared at Bill. I don’t know what Bill’s plan had been in the first place, shooting a man in the back when you only have one bullet and there’s three men. I don’t imagine he even had a plan—just saw a chance to kill someone and went for it.
He said, “We’ll claim you were a customer, caught in the cross fire.”
The boy said, “Why would you do that?”
I said, “Yes, Bill, why would we do that?”
Bill’s brain was working so fast you could almost see it go, like a cash register dinging and binging. “This boy don’t deserve a life in prison. He was led astray by these blackguards.”
The boy said, “Blackguards?”
“What’s your name?” I asked.
“Shadrach Pierce. My mama died in childbirth and I had no proper guidance. I fell in with the wrong crowd.” As an example of the wrong crowd, he pointed at the dead fellas bleeding out on the bank floor.
I said, “My mama died, and you don’t see me robbing no bank.”
Bill turned to face Shadrach close in the eye. “Promise to do what I say from now to eternity, and I’ll lie to the sheriff. You’ll be spared a life in prison.”
“What about him?” Shadrach asked, indicating me.
“He works for my dad. He’ll do what I say.” Which wasn’t true, and saying so almost got that boy sent to prison, but I felt sorry for him. Ever’body makes mistakes, and I hoped his partners being dead might scare the meanness out of him. Besides, that thing about the dead mother touched me. If not for Mr. Cox, I could have gone bad when Mom died, just like Shadrach.
All this thought took place in a heartbeat. “I’ll back you,” I said to Bill, “but not because you threatened me. The boy needs a second chance.”
So that’s what we did. Sheriff Nowlin didn’t believe us. He kept asking what Shadrach’s business had been in the bank if he didn’t have money, and which of the dead fellas was carrying the third gun and how it got way over by the door. In the end, though, there wasn’t much choice for him. Shadrach was let go.
Lydia flounced out of Haven House in the state of irritation that Oly generally triggered. She found Roger sitting in the car as she had left him. Even the hands on the wheel hadn’t moved. One would have thought he’d been frozen in time while she recorded history, except the BMW had 110 new miles on the odometer, a fact Lydia noted immediately.
“That petrified rock of a human is a complete waste of my time and talents,” she said as Roger pulled away from the curb. “I’d rather be back in the joint than suffer any more of his drivel.”
“His story isn’t interesting?”
“His story isn’t true. He’s making up every word, and I have to sit there in silence because if I so much as point out a single historical inaccuracy, he starts over at birth.” Lydia twisted the rearview mirror sideways to check her hair for uneven bangs. “And there’s no consistency. Half the time he talks like a South Carolina clay-eating hick, and then he’ll say a word like
nonplussed
.
I’ve never used
nonplussed
in conversation in my whole life.”
She grabbed Roger’s arm above the elbow. “Pull in the A&W. I feel the need of a root-beer float.”
They went inside, on account of Lydia’s view that drive-up food denigrates society. Roger ate a double cheeseburger while Lydia polished off her float and his french fries.
Their table overlooked a muddy creek where six fuzzy ducklings followed a female mallard in and out of the willows. The babies made interesting patterns of independence and need as they flowed around their mother.
“Do you have any concept of how much I missed the call of a migrating Canada goose while I was locked away?” Lydia asked. “There were days I would have sacrificed my future to see one, even for an instant.”
Roger chewed his cheeseburger and considered telling Lydia the bird she would have gladly sacrificed her future for wasn’t a Canada goose; it was a duck.
“You never appreciate the details of a way of life until you lose it,” she said. “You want that pickle?”
“No.”
When she took the pickle, he noticed the veins on the back of her hand. Instead of blue and thick, the way you would expect, they were red and thin—spidery veins like you see in the cheeks of a drunk.
“Well,” Lydia said. “What do you think?”
Roger said, “I think you’re a crackpot.”
Her color shifted slightly, but otherwise, Lydia gave no response.
Roger went on. “I think you had too much time on your hands in prison, and if I listen to you, I’ll get my hopes up, and I’d rather not get my hopes up for nothing.”
She sucked root beer through a paper straw. The Jackson A&W was possibly the last fast-food restaurant in America giving out paper straws. “So, you do not wish to hear my theory concerning your origins?”
“Yes, I want to hear your theory. I just want you to know I think you’re a crackpot.”
Lydia stared at him a full ten seconds. He stared back. Both Lydia and Roger would have chosen public humiliation over blinking first. Finally, Lydia said, “Fair enough.”
***
“Between hiding with Hank and the time of incarceration, I was unable to see the valley that I love for ten long years. Imagine being banished from home for ten years.”
Roger folded his arms and watched the ducks. He had trouble picturing Lydia as homesick but supposed it was possible. Maybe behind that wall of scorn lived a sentimental sop.
Lydia pulled a pocket mirror from her purse and checked her teeth for residual french fry. “I came up with the idea of reading every book written about Jackson Hole or written by an author who lived in Jackson Hole—every book with any vague yet tenuous connection to Jackson Hole and GroVont. As you must know, I once owned a press here in the valley, specializing in feminist ecological philosophy.”
“Does this have anything to do with my roots?”
“Are you in a rush? Got a busy schedule out there at the Home, servicing the needs of over-ripe little girls?”
Roger glared at her but didn’t speak, so she waited for the testosterone level to settle, then she went on. “I devoured everything, all the way from Owen Wister and his recycled cowboy-as-Ivanhoe stories to that sentimental hogwash my son passes off. There’s a bookstore in Portland with more titles than the Library of Congress. They can send you anything.”
Roger had read Owen Wister, not just
The Virginian
,
but also
Lady Baltimore
,
and he could have argued the cowboy-as-Ivanhoe crack, but he was afraid to go there for fear of knocking Lydia off her train of thought. Lydia’s train of thought didn’t appear capable of dealing with distraction.
“I found several books by a man named Loren Paul who used to live up Ditch Creek.”
“The screenwriter?”
“You’ve heard of him?”
“Sam told me about a novelist up past Antelope Flats who sold out his ideals and moved to Hollywood to spew pabulum for the movies.”
“Sam’s one to talk about pabulum.”
“I’m just repeating what he said.”
“Yeah, well,
Bucky on Half Dome
is no more serious literature than
Dukes of Hazzard
.”
Roger instinctively knew the best way to keep Lydia on track was to shut up.
She said, “Loren Paul made his reputation off a piece of horse dung called
Yeast Infection
,
which was nothing but a woman-bashing polemic disguised as satire.”
“I mostly read books by dead guys, so I haven’t gotten around to that one yet.”
“Don’t bother. Loren had an earlier book, after the Westerns and before the commercial crap, called
Disappearance
.
I have one of the few copies still in existence.”
She reached into her saddle purse and withdrew a narrow green hardback. Turning it in her hands, she showed Roger the word
Disappearance
embossed on the cloth cover. “It’s about his stepson who disappeared at a campground on Jackson Lake.” She passed the book to Roger.
Roger said, “And you think the stepson might be me?”
Lydia shrugged. “The years match up. The description of the boy fits what I imagine you might have looked like at five.”
“Any description fits what I might have looked like at five.” He opened the book and studied the title page. It was signed by the author:
To my good pal Marcie VanHorn, in memory of her Cornish game hen
. The signature was indecipherable.
Lydia said, “There are odd details, names, and places that come across as more than random coincidence, to me, anyway.”
Roger turned to the copyright page. “Callahan, this is fiction.”
“So?”
“Fiction means
not true
.”
“You don’t know that.”
“Look it up.”
“This is a personal story. Read it and tell me you don’t believe this man lost his stepson.”
“It might be based on a true event, but fiction means the names are changed. The descriptions and locations. All those odd details you think are coincidence connecting the story to me would be changed.”
Lydia stared at him across her purse. This wasn’t what she’d expected. She’d expected wonder and curiosity, perhaps awe at her detective skills. Instead he was smack in denial.
She said, “When you first came to Maurey’s ranch, you were quite a mystery. Practically intriguing. You don’t remember, but you and I spent time together. You were a spooky little boy.”
“And that makes you think this kid is me?”
“Read the damn book, Roger.”
Roger turned over another page, to the first chapter. “What’s the kid’s name?”
“Fred.’
He read the first sentence.
Sometimes I have these gaps which are amazingly like being dead except that they don’t last, and I have an awful feeling that being dead lasts.
Lydia said, “Fred. But his mother called him Buggie.”
Roger said, “Fred or Buggie, I don’t know which is worse.”
***
Roger and Lydia found Shannon rocking in a wicker glider on the front porch of Lydia’s house. She was barefoot, wearing a sleeveless blouse and cutoffs, eating a candy bar while she read a magazine. She looked up from the magazine with a vague smile on her face and sent them a four-fingered wave.
“Look at her,” Lydia said. “All the oomph of an old biddy.”
Roger parked the BMW beside his truck. “She looks pretty nice to me.”
“At your age, a fence post with knockers and a knothole would look pretty nice.”
Roger helped Lydia load up her equipment. “You want me to carry that stuff in for you?”
“I’ve got it.”
“Wouldn’t be any trouble.”
“I said I’ve got it.” She started toward the house. “Don’t forget your book. I’ll call next time I need you.”
Roger said, “You’re welcome,” but he said it so quietly he was fairly certain she didn’t hear. She gave no sign of hearing him.
As Lydia crossed the yard toward Shannon, she admired the balance of new purchases on and around her front porch. Since she’d come home, she had installed the glider, three hanging plant baskets, and a hummingbird feeder. Last time she lived in this house, she’d taken it as a temporary arrangement—for twenty years. This time she planned to stay.
Lydia hit the steps, talking. “That boy has all the subtlety of an elk in rut.”
Shannon glanced up to see Roger pulling a three-point U-turn before heading back up the mountain. He double-clutched the gear changes, which made the truck cough.
“Roger?”
“You know they have a word for girls your age who seduce boys his age.”
“What is it?”
Lydia paused, momentarily thrown off her roll. “I forget. But I wish you wouldn’t flaunt yourself before him. After all, he is related to you in some bizarre, labyrinthine fashion.”
“He’s a half brother, sort of. I don’t think Maurey ever legally adopted him because he got too old before the birth-certificate thing could be worked out. And I wasn’t flaunting. I was sitting here alone, reading and eating a candy bar.” As if to prove her statement, Shannon licked chocolate off her fingers.
“Let’s see what you’re reading.” Lydia took the magazine from Shannon and flopped it closed, losing Shannon’s place. The magazine was
Cosmopolitan
.
The cover showed an anorexic junkie with lip implants and huge, artificial breasts. The word
sex
appeared on the cover three times,
orgasm
twice, and
love
once.
Love
was used in the banner head: “Tom Hanks Knows What Love Is.”
“I’ll tell you what love is,” Lydia said. “Love is systematically lowering your standards until you find someone who has systematically lowered their standards down to you.”
Shannon tucked her bare feet up under her thighs. “Is that what you did with Hank?”
Lydia sniffed. “Hank and I were the exceptions. Neither one of us had to lower our standards an inch.”
“Why is it you always get to be the exception? All these natural laws you come up with apply to everyone but you.”
“I’m different. You could be different too, if you didn’t pig out on candy bars in the middle of the day. I haven’t had a bite since breakfast, but you don’t see me bombarding my blood sugar level with chocolate goo.”
Shannon turned sideways with her back against the swing’s arm. She watched Lydia fuss with a flower basket. Lydia was humming quietly, and it sounded to Shannon like the theme from
Green Acres
.
Shannon said, “Grandma, do you think I could stay here awhile?”
“You’ve been staying over a week.”
“I mean live here—with you.”
Lydia bit her lower lip, then said, “How long are we discussing?”
“I don’t know. Until I get back on my feet.”
“I wasn’t aware that you are off your feet.”
Shannon straightened her legs in the swing. Several of her toes showed a chipped light blue polish. “When I think about going back to Carolina, my mind shuts down. I have no life there, no job. Nothing I want to see or do.”
“If you have no life, it’s because you define yourself by men, and when you don’t have one, you are an empty pot.”
“I’ve lived without men before.”
“How long?”
Shannon tried to remember. It had been a long time ago.
Lydia said, “What’s the longest you’ve ever gone without a man on your mind?”
“I went four months without sex once.”
“That’s because you were in love with a married geek who was too racked with guilt to screw you but not racked enough to avoid leading you on.”
Shannon thought about that one—Wyatt. He’d taken an amazing amount of energy. They’d shared more tears than any of the guys she actually slept with.
She said, “Don’t you want me to live here?”
Lydia considered the question honestly, and honestly, it was nice to have Shannon around. Not that she would admit it. “That’s up to you,” she said. “Why would you choose me over your mother and father?”
“I think you’d be a better influence.”
Lydia’s mood shot skyward. She was a sucker for compliments.
“I could stay at Mom’s, only she makes everybody get up at five to work outdoors. I don’t mind hard work, but before dawn…” Shannon shuddered. “And Dad’s, with pregnant girls everywhere you look, it’s like this never-ending reminder that I’m not making something of my life.”
“Having babies is not ‘making something of your life.’”
“Those girls don’t raise their babies, but still—”
“Any fool female can procreate. Cows have babies every spring, but cows can’t publish a book or plant a garden or sit in a porch swing and admire the sunset. That’s making something of your life. Having babies is like going to the bathroom. Sure, it’s natural, but it’s not worth bragging about.”
Shannon felt better than she had since Tanner told her her pussy smelled. “You know why living with you would be so healthy, Grandma? Because you are so incredibly wrong that you clarify what is right. Being around you sweeps away the confusion.”
“I’ll take that as a compliment.” Lydia turned to go into the house. “And stay as long as you like. You can live vicariously through me.”
***
Supper was spinach manicotti and sourdough bread with hand-cranked huckleberry ice cream for dessert. Angel Byron stayed in her cabin, claiming nausea, but the other three girls at the dinner table were the whiniest group Roger had ever been trapped in a room with.