Thomas Mcguane: Nobody's Angel

“That’s right, Deke.”

“Any suspicion of foul play or is it all in the family?”

“It’s all in the family,” said Patrick.

“Hope like heck it stays out of the papers.”

“Thank you, Deke. I’m one hundred percent certain that it will. You know what I mean, Deke? I’m really that sure.”

It did seem, though, that Deke was intoning some small, minatory announcement and that it might have been better if Patrick hadn’t kicked him onto the sidewalk. But weren’t there a few things one was obliged to do? Perhaps he hadn’t paid enough attention to Mary over the years. He might have written more often. If he had, Patrick considered, the kick might have been vague or symbolic and not shooting some ass-pounding moron onto the sidewalk. And Mrs. Patwell pursuing the children like a wounded pelican — that, too, would have its consequences. The Patwells had the solidest marriage in Deadrock.

PATRICK STOOD AT THE COUNTER AT FARM NEEDS AND bought ten iodized-salt blocks, five hundred pounds of whole oats and a thin twenty-eight-foot lariat. Standing at the counter, he could stare across the street to the grain elevator, the railroad tracks; and coming out of the east, he saw the Burnetts’ car; and when it passed, he saw Claire at the wheel. He followed the car with his eyes and without moving his head.

“Let me just take my slip,” he said to the salesman. “I’ll swing through for the oats in a bit.”

He followed the car discreetly, thinking, She doesn’t know this truck anyway, left at Main, up a few blocks until she stopped. He parked in front of J. C. Penney’s; he saw her get out of her car and walk into the MyWay Cafe. Patrick slapped his pockets for change. The meter maid was two cars away. He had no coins and here she came.

“I’m afraid I’m out of change.”

“I’ll give you time,” she said.

“That’s all right.”

“My gosh, it’ll save you five dollars.” Her grab on the facts was evaporating. The meter itself seemed like a joke.

“Write me up,” said Patrick, jauntily heading across the street, the meter maid staring at him with her pad of tickets. She began to write. She wrote hard and she wrote mean.

Patrick sauntered along the MyWay front window; but then when he gave his eyes one cut to the interior, he found himself locked in gaze with Claire. He waved, then mimed may-I-join-you? As though talking to a lip reader. She just smiled. In we go, thought Patrick; my back is to the meter.

The MyWay is sandwiched between the Wagon Wheel western store and Good Looks, ladies’ fashions. It’s kind of a shotgun arrangement, white inside with orange tables. It has a clock that reads twelve o’clock, three o’clock, 7-Up and nine o’clock. It has a reversible sign hanging in the door that says, OPEN, but from the customers’ view reads, SORRY, WE’RE CLOSED. It has candy in a display called Brach’s Candyland. It has a Safety and Protection on the Job poster, a dispenser for black hair-combs guaranteed for ten years and still only thirty cents. A huge box of S.O.S. says it will cut grease quicker. It’s an A.F. of L. union house and smoking is permitted. It seemed ready for a nuclear attack.

Patrick stood next to the waitress while she finished telling Claire something. Claire cut her eyes over to him, smiled, then paid polite attention to the waitress.

“My brother can lie his way out of anything,” she was saying, “but not me. I ain’t sayin I wasn’t in the wrong. My pickup was flat movin, comin around that old canyon. I’ll tell you. But this smoky says, ‘You wanta pull it over or drive fifty-five?’ I shoulda outrun his ass. Okey-doke, let me get this. How bout you?”

“Black coffee,” said Patrick, and sat down.

“How’re you-all?” Claire had eyes that shone.

“Never better.”

“Bite?”

“No thanks. I came to town for grain.”

“I was hoping you were following me.”

“I’ll follow you next time I see you.” To the waitress: “Coffee is all.”

“Where can you get something to eat in Deadrock?”

“You’re eating now.”

“How can you tell?”

“You can feel it in your throat.”

She chewed slowly and watched Patrick a moment before speaking again. He started to get jumpy.

“May I share my impressions with you about Montana?”

“Oh, but you can,” said Patrick in a tinny voice.

“An area of high transience. But while folks are here, they are proud of it. I have seen no marches to the state flag yet, but I have noticed your extremely direct state motto: ‘ Oro y Plata. ’ I know that stands for gold and silver. It shows a real go-getter attitude.”

“Is that good, Claire?”

“Back where I come from, your shoe salesman strikes oil in the side lot and starts a ranch with headquarters in the Cayman Islands, then he buys a show horse, the bull that wins the Houston Fat Stock Show and a disco.”

“Whoever did that?”

“My father! I’m nouveau riche ! We’re just not old family. The foundation for old families in Oklahoma is early-day stealing, before the advent of good records.”

Patrick changed his mind and ordered pumpkin pie. He could see upper torsos passing the front window. He could see newspaper readers at other tables, revealing only their hands, which seized either end of the newsprint and stretched it to their eyes.

“What got you to come to Montana?” Patrick was growing tired of hearing himself ask these sap questions. Still, he couldn’t break out of it. I’m no sap, he thought.

“Tio sold the cabin cruiser. We had it in Corpus. It was to go to Padre Island. Padre Island is kind of a redneck Riviera. It has great birds. But Tio kept running aground. Tio has kind of a health problem. So when the Coast Guard said they wouldn’t rescue us anymore, Tio said, ‘That does it. I’ll spend my money in another area. The northern grasslands, for instance.’ ”

“Has it been a good move?”

“The jury is still out. Tio’s starved for conversation. Nobody does much oil here, not to mention cattle futures, row crops or running horses.”

“Did Tio inherit his money?” I’ve had enough of Tio. Why am I asking this?

“Let’s say he got it somehow. But he’s done right smart with what he got.” It was a hollow advertisement.

“I see.”

“And in some ways he’s a very private person. About the only way somebody’d get his telephone number at home is if one of his bird dogs run away and they got it off its collar.”

Patrick moved upon the pie, ate half of it, swigged some coffee and asked (this will get her off balance), “When was the last time you blushed?” He blushed. Sapland.

“At my wedding.” It didn’t get her off balance.

“Really.”

“Oklahoma girls are trained to pull off one of those in their lives. After that, they are never required to do it again.”

“I blushed at my First Communion.”

“Are you a Catholic?”

“I consider myself one.”

“You mean you aren’t practicing.”

“That is correct.”

“Then why do you consider yourself one?”

“It makes me feel I’m just that much less of a white man.”

“Aha!”

Patrick managed to pay for the ice cream and walk Claire to her car. He held the door for her. She ducked in and, talking to him, made a blind reach for the climate control, then the sound system. Four speakers boom in Jamaican: “ Natty don’t work for no CIA. ” She grinned.

“Amo shuffle on home,” she said. “Babylon by Cadillac.”

“Can you give me a lift to my truck?”

“Get on in.”

The cool interior was wonderful, the simulated-walnut dashboard reassuring in that someone cared to keep up appearances. No high tech here, just plastic that ached for ancient hardwoods.