Thomas Mcguane - Nobody's Angel

“Who’s living in the building?” asked the grandfather.

“A number of people like yourself,” said Meacham. “Some terrific people. A number of former cowboys.”

“Any Indians?”

“Yes, Mr. Stands-in-Timber is just down the corridor with his mother, who is said to be a very good cook. They speak sign language to themselves, and so they’re very quiet neighbors indeed.”

It was fairly quiet, though the lonesome sound of daytime television came from behind brass-numbered doors. Meacham stood at ease, awaiting a decision.

“We’re a hop, skip and a jump from the hospital,” he threw in. “Lots of folks feel there’s something nice about that. It would take all day to list the churches. Some people like to worship with the radio, but me, I’m for getting out and doing it if you’re able.”

The two-bedroom looked vast, though it might have been its emptiness that made it seem so. It faced the back lots of small homes with children, high garbage output and racket, which made these vacant rooms seem sad to Patrick. He was afraid there would be too many reminders of the years now lost to his grandfather; though his grandfather might know the children weren’t going to get anywhere, either. Nevertheless, he pressed for the one-room with the view of the theater. And he arranged for additional basement storage for guns, saddles and panniers.

“You have any girl friends, Mr. Fitzpatrick?”

“Don’t be so goddamned stupid.”

The snow had turned to slush in the street, and people passing the Arnoldcrest had their overcoats drawn around themselves in defense less against this one soggy day than against the five months of winter just now easing itself out of the Arctic. Patrick struck a bargain for his grandfather’s new home. He’d move in after elk hunting.

They stopped at the cemetery. It was Patrick’s first visit, although, to his surprise, his grandfather had already been, once to remove an ensemble of funeral decorations and once to see if the grass was going to get a start by winter. Patrick thought it was preposterous to view this as a “visit”; but seeking to calm down, he was increasingly bent on imitating the actions of ordinary civilians. The snow had covered the grave and that seemed somehow a friendly fact, a mantle over someone troubled in ways he had never been able to understand, unless it was just the sadness-for-no-reason. Near them an old woman in a heavy twill overcoat sorted flowers by their stems, turning three half-dead bunches into one pretty bouquet and one bundle of waste vegetation. She sternly planted the doomed flowers in snow over her grave, returned to an old Chevrolet she had left idling, and departed, throwing the flowers that hadn’t made it into the backseat. She looked very practical in the flying snow; and Patrick thought there was something to be emulated in that, as to one’s arrangements. Old people, he imagined, daily put their shoulders to a wheel that would break every bone in a young man’s body.

But this cemetery was a strange place, a prime piece of land, with Views. And in all respects it was best seen as real estate. The land holdings were small, especially by the standards of the West. For some reason you had “plots” instead of “lots.” It occurred to Patrick that as his home country cooked down into smaller and smaller pieces, “plots” were going to be the finale of the land swindle.

“Pack saddles in good shape?”

“Yes, they are,” said Patrick.

“What about the lash ropes?” His grandfather stared at the neat stacks of gear.

“Yup.”

“Manties?”

“Plenty and in good repair.”

“We still have those canvas britchens?”

“I had them changed over to leather. They were galling the horses. And I changed to wider cinches on the deckers so we can get away from circulation sores.”

“The game is going to move in this snow. We ought to start thinking about heading out. If I get a good elk, I can rent a locker at Deadrock Meat and walk down every day for my game. I’ll have all of the good and none of the bad. How you plan to shoe that string?”

“Two of them are plates, like Leafy. I’m just going to reset them. One’s that gelding I pack salt on. Who you going to ride?”

“Harry Truman. I want heel and toe calks on him.”

“I’ll shoe him today, then, so you can get him rode a little before we take him in the hills. He’s been turned out all summer.”

The grandfather went up top with a halter and bucket of grain to catch Harry Truman. Like his namesake, Harry Truman was half thoroughbred and half mustang. He was a good horse and the last horse the old man broke.

While Patrick looked for his apron and shoeing tools, he tried to think about Claire. He had to assume she was not in trouble; but returning to a home after having called your husband’s bluff with three prostitutes was not to arrive upon an exact bed of roses. Then, too, it was she who had to drive them home, laminating her own guilt with their doubtless enthusiastic tales of comparison as to their evening with Tio, a man who waited in an empty house for her return. With this thought Patrick was worried, and he was heartsick.

“Hello?”

“It’s Patrick. Can you talk?”

“No.”

“Okay, good-bye, but call me.”

“Thank you so much! We have all the subscriptions we can handle!”

She hung up.

Well, she’s alive and in good voice, I would say. The snow kept falling. The bunkhouse looked increasingly like some bit of Holland ceramic, its hard angles sentimental in the white down-floating crystal. Who could be against that? Patrick was slightly against it because he had to shoe Harry Truman. But Harry was a good horse, a big strong roan with just a touch of mustang jugheadedness, but strong in all quarters and surefooted to the last degree. Shoeing him, feeling the smart horse balance on three legs, as opposed to him hanging all over you like a less bright horse, Patrick felt that he could entrust him with his grandfather to the farthest, stormiest ridge.

Peculiarly, his love of the disagreeable old man emerged in the task. He used a hoof gauge to shorten the angle of the horse’s front feet, so that they would break over easier, make the horse handier. He rasped everything off to the gauge and pared out the inside of the hoof, tapering his strokes to the contours of the frog, sensing with his knife the extraordinary blood-pumping dome beneath. He shod with Diamond oughts all the way around, calks at heel and toe. And when he walked him on his lead shank, the horse traveled out balanced and square. Patrick’s back was sore, but he knew his grandfather could fork old Truman without concern now and spend his whole mind on the Absaroka he loved.

In Patrick’s life, at times of crisis, he had sometimes wished to throw up and go to sleep. He had often wondered about this; but as he was one who despised psychiatry, no easy explanations were available to him. He thought he felt a little queasy as he dialed Claire.

“How are you?”

“Fine. Now can you talk?”

“Yes.”

“I want to throw up and go to sleep.”

“What?”

“It’s snowing.”

“But what did you just say?”

“I”—clears throat—“you.”

“You what me?”

“Nothing.”

“Hey, buddy, you’re a phone crank.”

“Just wanted to call.”

“The telephone is an instrument which can be abused.”

“Well, here’s me.”

“Come on, Patrick.” Then she just said, “Patrick.”

“I don’t know. Took Grandpa to town. I’m just feeling, uh, weird.”

“Why?”

“ Why! The answer is …”

“The answer is what, Patrick?”

“Stress-related. I fear purgatory at the very least.”