Thomas Mcguane - The Cadence of Grass

“In point of fact,” Natalie said, “I would be willing to let Stuart have the house.”

“Just sell it and we split,” said Stuart.

“What’s that?” asked a startled Natalie.

Justice Slater said, “I’m assuming unless either of you specifies otherwise that all of this can be made liquid, in which case division is simplified. Would either of you care to give me your feelings on this?”

“Sure,” said Stuart cheerfully. “Half and half. Isn’t that the law?”

Natalie’s eyes were wide with indignation as she turned to Justice Slater.

“Unless it’s contested,” said Justice Slater.

“Wait a minute here,” said Natalie. “The proceeds from the plant only arrived a short time ago. Where’s the fairness in that?”

“Does that seem to you to be pertinent?” Justice Slater asked Stuart.

“No.”

“Would you care to elaborate, Mr. Cross?”

“Sure. If I don’t get half, we won’t solve this in mediation. We go to court.”

T. William Slater tried to alleviate Natalie’s indignation with a colorful observation. “It looks like your husband intends to hang on like a bulldog in a thunderstorm!”

“What’s this about, Stuart? You hardly need all this.”

“I’m getting married.”

“You’re getting married ?” Natalie’s lips were tight across her teeth, and she locked eyes with Stuart as though expecting him to flinch. Not often had she seen such a gentle smile on his face. Since he declined to say anything further, she thought she would shake a few facts out of him. “Some slut down at the plant?” Natalie’s jaw worked slightly as she awaited an answer, and Justice Slater busied himself among his papers.

“No,” said Stuart mildly.

“Where else would you meet someone?”

“Oh, she’s from the plant all right,” he smiled at Justice Slater, begging his indulgence, “but she doesn’t fit your description.”

“Not, I hope, the little brunette by the bottle washer.”

“Yes, it is.” Stuart smiled.

“I thought Paul had already been through that one.”

“I don’t think so,” said Stuart, staring red-faced at his unblemished legal pad. “He was busy with you.”

With a sudden flurry, T. William Slater resumed his role. “My job is to help us avoid a jury trial, and I heartily suggest you join me in that effort. I have noted that a spectacle is imminent, and I urge you, as long-time residents of this community, to avoid the damage to your standing that public resolution of your dispute will likely produce.”

Natalie had locked on to part of Judge Slater’s remark, and with a chivvying, rueful laugh made several observations. “Yes, Your Honor, we are long-time residents. But there is a difference. There is a difference. I am a Montana native, born here, raised here and still here. Stuart is an out-of-stater. There, I’ve said it. Stuart is from out east. The Whitelaw family established our fortunes by supplying the miners and cattlemen who built this town in territorial days. We’re the same Scots-Irish stock that fought the Indians, pioneered trails, brought cattle up from Texas and built these good towns. Stuart’s name isn’t even Cross. It was Crozoborski until his grandparents arrived here from Poland. I’ve got nothing against immigrants, Judge Slater, but you and I grew up here. We can still make out the old sign for Slater’s Blacksmith Shop on the side of the beauty parlor. Some of what we feel is just not part of Stuart’s world.”

“I get half or we go to trial,” Stuart practically sang.

Judge Slater, who’d barely peeked up from his papers during Natalie’s speech, said in the gingerly tones of one avoiding an explosion, “There seems to be plenty here to go around.” He extended his palms upward toward the ledgers and documents in a scooping motion. Clearly, he was hunting the exit.

Natalie shouted: “You have any idea what this guy spent on the adult channel? Forty-eight bucks to see Lewd Trooper three times in a row.”

Slater was gone. Natalie made a face of hideous detestation at Stuart. “Bad cop busts barely legals?”

By the end of the week, a chinook had started to blow and the temperature rose sixty degrees in four hours, turning the corrals into a sea of mud. Dirty water backed up into the barn where the cows had tramped snow into icy ridges. Bill and Evelyn dragged straw bales to make a dam around the head catch in case they had to pull a calf, then they saddled their horses and pushed the cows out of the mud into the closest pasture. The new calves, thrilled by the sudden warmth, played crazily as the sun flattened the snow.

Evelyn was glad to be back on a horse and sat for a long time in the hard south wind watching calves overcome by the wish to meet each other, while the cows, after a spell of absorbed eating, grew fearful of losing track of their babies and abruptly lumbered around the herd, each lowing among the crowd for the only acceptable calf. Part of Evelyn’s thrill of watching cattle from horseback lay in observing the distinct personalities in what at a glance seemed anonymous: the contented young mothers, the belligerent matrons, the bad mothers who wished they’d never had this calf, the poor milkers whose abraded udders pained them, the cows who seemed to know their calves were sickly and would not live. Some viewed the horsemen as the enemy and hurried their calves away, while others seemed to recognize the drivers of the hay truck in another guise. And on certain occasions Evelyn felt less herdsman than predator, protein viewing protein. In this game, the poor milker, the indifferent mother, and the mother who was also a grandmother were slaughtered alike. At the end, there were no exceptions. Man must dine. But Evelyn was tired of man.

When the chinook stopped blowing, it stayed still for two days. Skies were clear and the cattle scattered out to look for patches of bare ground, old grass and a change of diet. Bill and Evelyn took their horses into the summer pasture, Evelyn riding her colt Cree, crossing drifts until the Crazy Mountains arose like a silver wedding cake to the north. From there, the water courses, tree lines on a white expanse, made spindly courses to the Yellowstone. The Bridgers could be discerned, as well as the bench of Sheep Mountain, the low-humped Deer Creeks and, to the south, the blue crags and high, dark canyons of the Absaroka. This was altogether too much for the colts, who kept trying to turn toward home and were afraid of the crowds of deer at the bottom of every snow-filled bowl. Evelyn was aware of a great weight lifting off her as they rode along. The notion of not ever going back made her smile and think of the trail: Texas to Montana and never once turn your horse around. Her happiness began to be felt by Cree, who looked eagerly in the direction of their travel while Evelyn made plans with Bill for next year, the following year, the next five and ten years. A three-mile cross fence was in the wrong place and should be moved a half mile to the east. Springs needed to be improved, salt grounds moved, pastures rested, loafing sheds built. Somehow the money must be found for the tractor they coveted, a four-wheel-drive New Holland that would let them bale wild timothy for the horses. From the ridges, they could look down into their small valley and see flocks of pigeons trading between the barn and hay sheds, wings sparkling in the brilliant light.

That night, Paul beat her.

He arrived at suppertime, already upset, and sat in Evelyn’s front room with his coat on. “Rural peace,” he said spitefully. “I wish I had a taste for it.” Evelyn had already decided that she would try not to see him anymore, but she knew not to expect too much of herself and, because he was somewhat crumpled, decided to at least allow him to speak before explaining that their separation must resume.