Thomas Mcguane - Keep the Change

“Now, Astrid. There was something quite delicate. A picture had begun to form.” Joe felt like a vampire.

“I can see that picture.”

“But wait. I had decided to marry her. We would live together in the picture that had begun to form. I flew to New York and quit my job with Ivan. I was exhausted. When I was flying home, the country unfolded beneath the wings and it all came to me that — I don’t like that smile, Astrid — I would marry this lovely girl. And I must say, that is a very nasty smile, indeed.”

“I shouldn’t laugh,” said Astrid. “I am in the dreary mental situation in which sneezing, laughing, coughing, calling the dog, or ensemble singing are equally uncomfortable. Anyway, what happened is that you thought it over and upon consideration, upon the most serious consideration you—”

“No. Not this time. I called and before I had the chance to propose, her husband went for a ride with me and told me that they were working it out.”

“There’s a husband?”

“And a right odd one at that. He used to thrash me when I was a boy, beat me like a gong.”

“Well, if you’d had any conviction, you’d have argued with him. If you’d had the kind of conviction that it would take to go back to your painting, you’d have told that hubby off. Now what’ve you got? A trashy-mouth Cuban who doesn’t appreciate you.”

“Oh, darling,” said Joe in a flat and uninterested tone, “don’t be so hard on yourself.”

Astrid’s weeping was real. Joe could scarcely remonstrate with her. She had every right to this. His position had eroded and he could not say a thing. Instead, he gazed through the window at nothing and came to appreciate how wonderful much of the world could seem.

Collecting herself, she said, “Well, what am I to do?”

“I’m not good at this,” said Joe.

Astrid tried to shift her weight slightly. She sighed. “Given my desperation, I wonder if you’d have time to murmur some smut in my ear.”

“Astrid.”

“Something about the schoolteacher possibly. Anything. There was a fly in the room earlier. You can’t imagine my absorption in watching its confused circuit of my room.”

“I hope you’re resisting ideas like that.”

“What easy ideas have you resisted?”

“I hate you.”

“I hate you too.”

The sudden bitterness of these remarks was stunning. Literally, they were both stunned by what they had said. They had heard it before and it was still utterly stunning, as stunning to hear as to say.

He rose to go. “We don’t mean that.”

“We don’t?” said Astrid. She looked exhausted. He was horribly sorry that he hadn’t headed the moment off. But they had been in this intense snare for so long. It was hard to keep things from just running their course.

The next day Lureen was on the phone at seven.

“Joe, I don’t know if you realize this but Smitty has been bringing seafood up from Texas in a refrigerated truck. I mean, he’s brokering it, not physically doing it himself, and he has run into a hitch.”

“Which is?” Joe asked, knowing that he had just learned where the lease money had gone, some of it anyway.

“I hear your suspicion already. Now, I want you to give this a fair hearing.”

“Sock it to me, Lureen.”

“Well, a big load of it spoiled.”

“That’s a shame. I’m sorry to hear it.”

“But it was insured.”

“When did this happen?”

“Three weeks ago.”

“How much was it insured for?”

“Thirty thousand.”

“Wow, that’s a powerful load of shrimp. Did he collect?”

“Not yet. But I’m sure he will.”

“So what’s the problem?”

“The problem is that the insurance company has initiated an investigation. They want to actually view the spoiled shrimp. Smitty said, It’s a little late now, I buried it. And the investigators said, We want to see the spot. So, Smitty very graciously took them out to the place—”

“Wait a minute. Where?”

“ There . You were in New York. And up by the burn pit, he showed them the empty boxes, but they wanted to see the shrimp. Smitty couldn’t believe his ears. The what? he said. And real rudelike, the chief investigator says, The shrimp, the shrimp, the shrimp! It’s been three weeks! Smitty told him. They have decomposed! You got it? But — and it’s a big ‘but’—this horrible man, this investigator said, Nope, there’d still be shells. I don’t know where this all leads but, Joe, for my own peace of mind, I know you’ve spent time down in the Florida—”

“Right, Lureen, I’ve seen a world of shrimp.”

“Would there still be, after all these weeks, any indication — I won’t say evidence —that there had been any shrimp?”

“Yes. Shells. Tens of thousands of them, by the sound of it.”

“Joe, we’ve tried so hard to be nice to you and make you feel to home …”

It was too late. She had already signed for the cattle. Joe put the receiver down slowly and carefully. At first, he was contrite: he could have said something more reassuring. But, like what? He was entirely limited to exaggerating the speed at which shrimp shells decompose. How else could he explain Lureen’s belligerence? Surely she was not one hundred percent taken in by Smitty, the bounder. She must know he meant to glom the ranch, mustn’t she?

Joe actually saw Smitty drive up. Smitty wasn’t going very fast when he came in the driveway, but he stabbed the brakes so that the blue and white Ford skidded a little on the gravel. He sort of threw himself from the car, flinging the door shut behind him. At first, he seemed in a hurry but he lost a little speed by the time he actually got to the front door.

“Smitty,” said Joe, opening the door for him. He reached out his hand. Smitty gave it a glance before shaking it.

“Have you got a minute?”

“Sure I do, Smitty. Coffee?”

“No, I’m fine. Where can we sit?”

They went into the living room. Smitty glanced around at the books, the family pictures, the braided riata that hung on a hook by the door, the college diplomas, the brands burned into the wood, the chunks of quartz that old settler had mortared into the fireplace. They sat down.

“What’s the deal, Joe?”

“Sir?”

“The deal. What are you doing back here?”

“Well, I just wanted to come back.”

“You did.”

“And I thought, somewhere along the way, we might do more with the place. The spotted knapweed and spurge are kind of taking over. Russian thistle. The fellows who lease it don’t care about the old ranch. Fences falling. Springs gone.”

“Leasing is the only money there is left in these places.”

“The money? What money? So far as I can tell, the grazing fees aren’t even making it to Lureen.”

“We’re listing it as a receivable. We’ve had some problem collecting. If we can’t collect it, we can write it off. We all need that.”

“To write it off you’re going to have to sue the man that owes it to you. The government requires that.”

“Whatever.”

“Maybe the rancher you were dealing with needed to be examined more closely.”

“He’s over twenty-one. What can I say?”

Smitty put a cigarette in the exact center of his mouth and with a book of matches in his hands, rested his elbows on his knees, looked off into space and thought. “Joe,” he said and lit the cigarette. “Why don’t you kiss my ass?”

“Because I have preserved my options, Smitty. One of them is to keep an eye on you.” Then he added, “I know the seafood business hasn’t treated you well. You must be under pressure.” Smitty’s eyes flicked off to the wall.