Thomas McGuane - Nothing but Blue Skies

Frank was thinking, This could be the birth of a new chicken kingdom. He felt a slight buzz, a familiar surge edging on gooseflesh. He and Orville were going to kick ass, Conway and Copenhaver (C & C), people ingesting chicken like bats in a cloud of houseflies.

“Orville, I have an idea.”

Orville didn’t look very hopeful. He had seen some heavy weather. Frank was moved by him and took a moment to reconsider; his own back was against the wall and he wanted to be sure he wasn’t simply transferring some bad luck. He didn’t think he was. Shooting fish in a barrel was not necessarily a universal business image either.

“Orville, do you own the property on which you raise chickens?”

“I have a large mortgage.”

“So you are faced with a bank wishing to foreclose while there is something left.”

“That’s true.”

“I am in a similar situation with a property I own here in town, a clinic. It is substantially leveraged. I have failed to get along with my tenants and they have moved out. I am trying to buy some time before the bank comes in, but I may not succeed.”

“Sounds like we’re in the same boat.”

“Not entirely. I also own the Kid Royale Hotel on Main Street, which as you may know is a famous building from the Territorial era. It was the biggest hotel on the Montana frontier but I have never been able to do anything with it because the cost of renovating it would be prohibitive. Back in the seventies when I acquired it, there was a lot of money for that sort of thing, federal grants, floating around. But we never got it. Those funds were all spent back east, pilgrim stuff, whatever, the Civil War.”

All through this summation, Orville developed a series of nervous and possibly impatient gestures: knitting and reknitting his fingers, biting the back of his right thumbnail, darting his eyes to the window and recrossing his legs. Frank could feel the pressure of the needy chickens. Finally, Orville spoke.

“I know that they have been real successful in the East and Midwest raising chickens in old hotels. But Mr. Copenhaver, I have to be honest. I can’t afford to rent your hotel from you.”

“I don’t want you to. I just want you to move in. We’ll joint venture. If this makes the difference for your business and moves it back into profitability, we will commence the payment of a lease at that time. But my part wouldn’t kick in until you were in the black again.”

Orville didn’t have to think very long. “You want me to draw something up?”

“That’d be fine. I know we can find fair numbers. The main thing is, I own this building outright. Let the bank take back your chicken ranch. Let ’em raise a few eggs themselves. They’re all talking about going back to basics. They can start with chickens.”

“The cocksuckers,” said Orville rather surprisingly.

“Exactly.” Frank hesitated only a moment trying to imagine whether he meant the bankers or the chickens. Once again, Frank shook the powerful hand of Orville Conway. There was a very definite feeling about Orville, that he knew what he was looking at when he was looking at you. And this was the first little bit of accustomed movement Frank had felt in a long while. But he couldn’t always expect June to come around and get him going.

Frank walked home from the office. He passed the irregular colonnades of Schwedler’s maples — a fashionable tree of the twenties — the cotoneaster hedges, the American lindens and, around the bases of the turn-of-the-century homes, the bridal wreath spirea. The street in front of his house was a marvel of retained atmosphere, the permanence of settlers’ hopes, a perfect scene for the freewheeling newspaper boy coming along now, underhanding the evening paper onto lawns; the blue sports car whining along one gear too low; the plumbing truck with galvanized pipe lashed to its roof rack; and the black Saab that swung, like a wingless airplane, around the corner and parked in Frank’s driveway. Frank stopped to watch. He was far enough away that he could easily duck an unwelcome visit. Schoolchildren were starting to appear on the far side of the street, coats tied around their waists, carrying bookbags, walking backward to talk to those walking frontward.

It was Edward Ballantine. Frank took this anonymous moment to size him up. Ballantine was wearing a topcoat over blue jeans and NBA-style high tops. He had on a pair of orange reflective mountaineering glasses, and to hold them a leather thong that hung partway down his back. He removed the glasses and dropped them to his chest while he looked over the doorway. He seemed pretty confident as he stepped up on the porch to knock on Frank’s door. Frank walked as quietly as he could without seeming furtive, and crossed the street.

“May I help you?”

“Oh, Frank, hi,” said Ballantine. He had a facial trait that Frank identified as vaguely out-of-town and which consisted of animating his eyes while leaving his lower face in a noncommittal state. An insincere approach, Frank concluded, allowing for sudden mood shifts depending on the politics of the moment. He thrust out his hand for a handshake, and without looking at it Frank declined to take it. “May we go inside and have a word?” Ballantine asked, starting to throttle down the tone, utilizing the deftly shifted expression toward coolness.

“No,” said Frank, “we may not.” Frank recalled that Ballantine had already quizzed his accountant about the state of his finances.

“Am I to understand that you will not speak to me?”

“Not at all. You just need to do it here on the sidewalk. That’s my home. You know, a man’s home is his castle.”

“I think there are still some issues of joint tenancy there, Frank, with Gracie.”

“Could be, but for now possession is nine tenths of the law. And is that why you’re here, to discuss Gracie’s divorce settlement with me?”

“No, I —”

“Because that’s really not your job, is it, Edward? Though my accountant informs me you’ve been sniffing around.”

“If you’ll give me a chance to talk, I’ll tell you why I’m here.”

“It really is none of your business. I’m sure you can understand that, can’t you, Edward? It’s not a big concept. If it is to you, just let me know how far you got with it and I’ll try to help you with the rest.”

“Frank.”

“?”

“Shut up.”

Frank felt a violent impulse sweep through him, but it passed. Then Edward said, “I think you’re at the point where you might think of looking at your own life to find out what happened to your marriage. I mean, your wife wasn’t stolen by the Comanches or something. She pretty much shot out of here.”

“She did, didn’t she.”

“She sure did.”

“Well, I’d sure like to see her.”

“Just stop at the house. That’s why I came by. I wanted you to know where you could find us.”

“Where’s the house?”

“One Twenty-one Third.”

“Let me think about it first. But maybe I’ll stop over.”

“Nice place,” said Edward. He lifted his hand toward Frank’s house, let it fall.

Frank wondered why he had bothered. “You want to buy it?”

“I don’t think so.”

“That was sort of part of the fantasy at one time, that house.”

“So I’ve heard,” said Edward.

“I thought maybe it would be better if you and Gracie had it —”

“It’s best if you see her.”

“— than if I go on rattling around in it. I’d be happier in a hotel, frankly.”

“I thought you owned a hotel.”

“Yeah, but it’s for chickens.”

Edward gave him a puzzled look, then reminded Frank that he ought to speak to Gracie. Edward turned to go to his Saab. Frank could see that it was hard to know how to make the proper exit, and in fact, he himself turned fairly woodenly to go to his house. He heard the little aircraft whir of Edward’s car, got the mail from his mailbox and went inside.