Now Is the Hour (44 page)

Well, I said, he's half-Italian. His mother's Italian and lives somewhere in Italy. His father's half-Shoshone, half-Apache, and is a Mormon and spends his time in Mexico. While he works, he hums a song.
Drifting along with the tumbling tumbleweeds.

And something else about George, I said, is George don't live his life like us white people do.

Billie touched her gold chain and the Hand of Fatima around her throat. Her blue eyes opened up wide. Something far off in Billie's voice right then.

Us white people? Billie said.

He's not goal-oriented, I said. He's not into achieving anything. He's not working or making a living or planning for the future. He is waiting.

Billie reached in her Marlboro pack, pulled out a cigarette. She pushed in the cigarette lighter.

What's he waiting for?

Of all the things I could have said. What came out of my mouth right then, I had no idea.

For love, I said.

The cigarette lighter popped out.

Billie lit the cigarette, took a deep puff. She turned all the way around and looked at me in the eyes. Her blue eyes opened wider, and she seemed to take all of me in for a moment, and in that moment, I swear, Billie'd put two and two together and saw all the way into my dark heart. I tell you, this girl was psychic. Couldn't put anything past her.

Billie handed me the cigarette. I watched her face real close, for all the ways I could know her face. But Billie's face was just Billie's face, and she didn't say anything or let on in any way that she knew.

I was taking a long drag on the cigarette.

Smoking too is differnt, I said. Smoking isn't like smoking is to us. For George, smoking is praying.

Billie's voice Simone Signoret.

Then let's pray, Billie said.

So we prayed, Billie and I, smoking our cigarettes. Pretending we were Indians. Not out loud, but Billie in her head, me in mine. With my inhale, I prayed that Billie wouldn't ask me one more thing about George. With my exhale, I prayed that she'd ask me to tell her everything.

Like to drive you nuts. Sweltering summer. Hot days, hot nights. Still no sleep, or not much. No whacking off, still. Tension in my muscles like a wild animal ready to spring. Something in my belly too. Whenever I took a dump, it was shit spray. Then Mom asked me again if anything was wrong. I said no. But I looked my eyes away as fast as I could because Billie Cody might have been psychic, but my mother was the grandmother of all psychics. At least with anything that had to do with me.

Then the morning, a morning like any other morning, except it was my seventeenth birthday, breakfast was mush and a glass of milk and fried eggs. Only thing differnt was that Mom was somehow more deliberate as she put down the food in front of me. And that she kind of stayed hovering around as I broke the yolks. They were perfect. Dad was sitting in his chair smoking a Viceroy, drinking his tea with two sugars. He was reading the
Idaho Catholic Register.
Then for no reason, out of the blue, Dad shook the paper, folded it, and put the paper
in his lap. He looked over to Mom and gave his tea a couple of stirs with his spoon.

It didn't take long to realize that Dad's Roosky Gypsy eyes had moved from Mom to me. Really, I can't tell you the times when Dad let his eyes light on me. When he was mad, maybe. He looked straight at me when he was mad. But this morning he was looking and looking, and he wasn't mad.

Dad cleared his throat before he spoke.

I just wanted to say, Dad said, you've been doing a good job handling Injun George.

Handling.

Fuck.

Thank you, I said.

Fuck.

In Granny's yard, magic light and dark on everything. Granny's green screen door made the
Inner Sanctum
squeak. The wood grain of the gray front door in front of my eyes, a swirl of lifelines. Bonanza barking before I knocked.

Granny opened the door. Woodsmoke and coffee and frying grease. Buckskin, something else, maybe peppermint, something sharp. Granny's red handkerchief. Strands of white hair stuck up like cobwebs all around her face. Her red-rimmed eyes so bright always, like they were crying. Nothing in between.

Rigby John, Granny said. You look like hell.

Shut up, Bonanza! she said.

Bonanza, his toenails little clicks on the shiny floor, made it to the Pendleton pillow and then fell over.

Granny's old brown-rope hand pointed over at the table, then pulled out the wood chair with the high back.

Here, she said, sit down. You want some coffee?

No thanks, I said.

When I sat down in the chair, Granny's eyes and my eyes were at the same level. Her red-rimmed eyes were looking at me, nothing in between.

Something happened to you this morning, she said.

Sweat from my forehead dripped down into my eyes. I wiped my face on my sleeve.

It's my birthday, I said. I'm seventeen.

Seventeen makes you sweat and turn your skin green? Granny said.

My hands were shaking, so I put my hands in my armpits. Sweat rolling down my armpits.

I'm all right, I said. I just ate something bad.

What was it? Granny said. Dog shit?

Direct contact. All there was in the world right then was Granny's eyes and my eyes.

Horse
shit, I said. I ate some horseshit.

Granny's pink gums all the way around. That smile of hers was so big, her whole face collapsed into it.

George! Granny yelled.

Granny had to stop and get her breath, she was laughing so hard.

Rigby John is here! she yelled. He's green as a toad!

He's been eating horseshit! she yelled.

That really cracked Granny up. She was holding her stomach, making all those weird sounds you do when you laugh.

It's his birthday! she yelled. He's seventeen! You're late for work! It's a new day, son! Brand-new!

A thud in the next room.

Granny smacked her lips together, sucked her lips in over where she didn't have any teeth, took a deep breath.

He's alone, Granny said. And he's sober.

Don't ask me why, she said.

Granny's one eye gave me a big wink.

Happy birthday, she said. Many happy returns.

The brown-rope palm of her hand pressed against my forehead.

Granny's eyes, tears in them, like she was always going to cry.

Now and then, she said. We all have to eat shit, she said. Just don't go making it a habit.

Granny's hand was cool and slick like a crooked tree branch across my eyes.

Just so happens, Granny said, I've got a special remedy for horseshit. Just give me a minute.

That's about the time George stepped out his door. Even with a hangover, George Serano was a beautiful man. But without one, he was dangerous.

Granny's special remedy was a tea that tasted like mud and sticks. But I drank the whole cup. And I took my time. There was nothing
better than sitting at Granny's table, under the 'lectric light with George and his coffee, the log house cool all around me.

Like in
The Wizard of Oz
when the black and white turns to color.

Ain't no place like home.

At the supper table that night, I just wanted to eat the damn supper, then get my ass out of there. Billie had something special planned for my birthday, and I couldn't wait to see her. At Granny's house this morning drinking mud tea, knee to knee to knee with George and Granny, is when I finally knew it in my bones. It was time. High time to tell Billie the truth about George. The trouble was, I still didn't exactly know what was true.

Dad was just as usual sitting at the table with his legs crossed, stirring his cup of tea, reading the
Idaho State Journal.
But Mom was a bit differnt again. She had her hair fluffed out and her eyebrows were on and she was wearing her new shade of lipstick, Red Cherries. Her big plastic glasses were on the table next to the butter dish. When I looked into Mom's almond-shaped hazel eyes, her eyes weren't tired-looking. And she was smiling. Usually Mom smiling meant the world to me, but that evening Mom's smile was wasted on me.

I sat down in my chair same way as I always did. When I looked up, I couldn't believe my eyes. Mom was carrying a plate with a rib-eye steak on it and fresh creamed new peas and potatoes. My favorite food next to hamburgers.

Even Dad was smiling.

It was strange.

For dessert, a yellow cake with chocolate frosting and vanilla ice cream.

There was a birthday candle on top of the cake, and Mom started out singing the “Happy Birthday” song in the right key. Dad joined in with his high, squeaky voice. When they finished singing, I blew out the candle.

My wish right then was I was out of there and next to Billie and telling the truth like we'd always promised.

Mom sat down in her chair and folded her hands on the oilcloth tablecloth. She put her big plastic glasses on and looked over at Dad. Mom unfolded her hands, folded them. The way they were rough. Lots of little wrinkles. The cut-to-the-quick fingernails.

Dad and I wanted to do something a little special for you today, Mom said. Just the three of us.

Mom pushed her glasses up on to her nose. She was looking at Dad again. Like they had this all practiced.

Dad made a sound in his throat, let the newspaper drop. Then his eyes again. As he spoke, his dark Roosky eyes stayed right on me.

You done a real good job in the hay this year, Dad said. You got that hay baled in record time.

Dad looked away quick, shook his paper up, started in to reading again.

My breath. No breath.

Mom stayed sitting. She leaned in farther on her elbows.

Dad, she said.

Dad didn't look over. He stayed looking at the paper.

Mom's big plastic glasses were pointed right at him. She leaned in more.

Dad shook the paper again. He didn't look up.

You had a good day of hauling today too. How many loads you get?

Seven, I said.

Mom took a deep breath, leaned in more. Her rough, red farm hand on the oilcloth tablecloth inching toward Dad.

Dad let the paper fall onto the blue and white tiles of the floor.

Dad rumbled in his throat some more.

Then: This morning I told you about George. What a good job you're doing. But I didn't say all I wanted to say.

Sunlight coming in the window. Onto the kitchen table, on the yellow plastic and chrome chairs, onto Dad's newspaper on the blue and white squares of tile on the floor.

In my life, same as ever. On my right was my father in his Levi's shirt and his Levi's and leather belt with the silver buckle and his cowboy boots. His smashed-down black hair the way his cowboy hat fit. His dark Roosky Gypsy eyes. The smell of him, Lava soap, horse sweat, and sauerkraut.

Same as ever, on my left was my mother. Her hair fluffed out, her Red Cherries lipstick, eyebrows each a perfect swoop. Her big plastic glasses. Her shiny, red, rough, wrinkled, farm hands. Cut-to-the-quick fingernails. Her cotton-print rummage-sale blouse. Her denims. Her white Keds. Her new perfume.

Above the table, the bright light that pulled down. My two hands, the same two hands I'd had for seventeen years, palms down on the tabletop.

Then the air cracked a little bit. A crack like in cement, ants crawling in and out.

Dad said: You've been a good son to me, and I'm proud of you.

The crack was inside me now. And the ants.

Fuck.

Mom pushed off her elbows, sat up straight, took a breath. She pushed the cake plate toward me.

Her almond-shaped hazel eyes.

Happy birthday, Mom said. Have as many pieces as you want.

The Snatch Out was hopping. The end of June, a warm summer Saturday night, everybody was there. The double line of parked cars parked in the Snatch Out went all the way to Ashby Street. I gave Billie the Cokes, put the pickup into first gear, eased up on the clutch, and turned the pickup down the middle of the two lines of cars.

I never did like driving through the Snatch Out. Everybody was looking at you, and you had to pretend everybody wasn't looking at you. Made you feel like everything was wrong about you, everybody looking at you like that. Dad's old beat-up '63 Apache pickup, the banged-in door, the dirty windshield, hay leaves and dust sifting out whenever you hit a bump.

Still I had to do it, though.

I stayed in first gear down through the line of cars, the pickup idling a slow roll, the tires cracking on the gravel. Shiny car after shiny car on the right. Shiny car after shiny car on the left.

I couldn't wait to get out of there, couldn't wait to get to Ashby Street, where, like always, Billie and I turned left, not right, and Billie and I would start yelling, Screw you! at the cars in the Snatch Out as we hightailed it over to Mount Moriah. Couldn't wait to get close to Billie so I could hold her and tell her what that true thing in my heart was I wasn't saying.

But that evening was going to be differnt than I'd planned.

Differnt as things could get. I got nowhere near the truth.

On second thought, I got my nose rubbed in it.

One step too far on the grain elevator, and my face was in the dirt.

Halfway down the line of cars, Billie saw an empty parking space.

Rig! Billie said. Park in there!

I looked at Billie like she'd gone plumb crazy.

I want to go to Mount Moriah, I said.

Just give me a minute, Rig, Billie said. I got something I need to do.

Executing a three-point turn into in between two shiny cars isn't easy. Especially with a Coke in your hand, especially with everybody watching. Especially in the Snatch Out. I gave the Coke to Billie, put in the clutch, put it into reverse. I told myself to just think of it as backing up between two stacks of hay. I was doing fine, everything was fine, and then the horns started honking. On the left was a blue and white '58 Chevy, on the right was a root-beer brown '57 Pontiac. Both of them were honking.