Thomas McGuane - Crow Fair - Stories

“I’m doing home health care. Whatever he stole he kept. Killing himself was the one good idea he come up with in the last thirty years. At least it’s prevented the government from garnishing my wages, what little they are. I been all through this with the other guy that called. Have to wait for his death to be confirmed or else I can’t get benefits. If I know Ray, he’s on the bottom of the Tuolumne River just to fuck with me. I wish I could have seen him one last time to tell him his water skis and croquet set went to Goodwill. If the bank hadn’t taken back his airplane, there wouldn’t have been even that little bit of equity I got to keep me from losing my house and sleeping in my motherfuckin’ car. Too bad you didn’t meet Ray. He was an A-to-Z crumb bum.”

“I’m terribly sorry to hear about your husband,” said Dave mechanically.

“I don’t think the government is ‘terribly sorry’ to hear about anything. You reading this off a card?”

“No, this is just a follow-up to make sure your file stays active until you receive the benefits you’re entitled to.”

“I already have the big one: picturing Ray in hell with his ass enfuego .”

“Ah, speak a bit of Spanish, Mrs. Coelho?” said Dave, who would have rather heard mention of some oro y plata .

“Everybody in Modesto speaks ‘a bit of Spanish.’ Where you been all your life?”

“Washington, D.C., ma’am,” said Dave indignantly.

“That explains it,” said Mrs. Ray Coelho, and hung up.

Dave could now see why Ray was without transportation when they met. Wouldn’t want to leave a paper trail renting cars or riding on airplanes. He got all he needed done on the library computers in Modesto, where he and Morsel, two crooks, had found each other and planned a merger.

Apart from the burial grounds there was nothing to do around there. He wasn’t interested in that option until he discovered the liquor cabinet, and by then it was almost early evening. He found a bottle labeled HOOPOE SCHNAPPS with a picture of a bird, and he gave it a try. It went straight to his head. After several swigs, he failed to figure out the bird, but that didn’t keep him from getting very happy. The label said the stuff was made from mirabelles, and Dave thought, Fuck, I hope that’s good. Then as his confidence built, he reflected, Hey, I’m totally into mirabelles.

As he headed for the burial grounds, Dave, tottering a bit, decided he was glad to have left the Hoopoe schnapps back at the house. Rounding the equipment shed, he nearly ran into Weldon, who walked by without speaking or even seeing him, it seemed. Right behind the ranch buildings a cow trail led into the prairie, then wound toward a hillside spring that didn’t quite reach the surface, evident only from the patch of greenery. Just below that was the spot Morsel had told him about, pockmarked with anthills. The ants, she’d claimed, would bring the beads to the surface, but still you had to hunt for them. Dave muttered, “I want some beads.”

He sat down among the mounds and was soon bitten through his pants. He jumped to his feet and swept the ants away, then crouched, peering and picking at the hills. This soon seemed futile, and his thighs ached from squatting; but then he found a speck of sky blue in the dirt, a bead. He clasped it tightly while stirring with his free hand and flicking away ants. He gave no thought to the bodies in the ground beneath him and continued this until dark, by which time his palm was full of Indian beads, and his head of drunken exaltation.

As he crossed the equipment shed, barely able to see his way, he was startled by the silhouette of Weldon’s Stetson and then of the old man’s face very near his own, gazing at him before speaking in a low voice. “You been in the graves, ain’t you?”

“Yes, just looking for beads.”

“You ought not to have done that, feller.”

“Oh? But Morsel said—”

“Look up there at the stars.”

“I don’t understand.”

Weldon Case reached high over his head. “That’s the crow riding the water snake.” He turned back into the dark. Dave was frightened. He went to the cabin and got into bed as quickly as he could, anxious now for the alcohol to fade. He pulled the blanket up under his chin despite the warmth of the night and watched a moth batting against the windowpane at the sight of the moon. When he was nearly asleep, he saw the lights of Morsel’s car wheel across the ceiling, before going dark. He listened for the car doors, but it was nearly ten minutes before they opened and closed. He rolled over against the wall and pretended to be asleep but watching as the door latch was carefully lifted from without.

Once the reverberation of the screen-door spring had ended, there was whispering. He perceived a dim shadow cross his face, someone peering down at him, and then another whisper. Soon their muffled copulation filled the room, then paused long enough for a window to be opened before resuming. Dave listened more and more intently, comfortable in his pretended sleep, until Ray said in a clear voice, “Dave, you want some of this?”

Dave stuck to his feigning until Morsel laughed, got up, and left with her clothes under her arm. “Night, Dave. Sweet Dreams.”

The door shut, and after a moment, Ray spoke. “What could I do, Dave? She was after my weenie like a chicken after a June bug.” Snorts and, soon after, snoring.

In the doorway of the house, taking in the early sun and smoking a cigarette, was Morsel in an old flannel shirt over what looked like a body stocking that produced a lazily winking camel toe. As Dave stepped up, her eyes followed her father crossing the yard very slowly toward them. “Look,” she said, “he’s wetting his pants. When he ain’t wetting his pants, he walks pretty fast. It’s just something he enjoys.”

Weldon came up and looked at Dave, trying to remember him. He said, “This ain’t much of a place to live. My folks moved us out here. We had a nice little ranch at Coal Banks Landing on the Missouri, but one day it fell in the river. Morsel, I’m uncomfortable.”

“Go inside, Daddy, I’ll get you a change.”

Once the door shut behind them, Dave said, “Why in the world do you let him fly that plane?”

“It’s all he knows. He flew in the war, and he’s dusted crops. He’ll probably kill himself in the damn thing. Good.”

“What’s he do up there?”

“Looks for his cows.”

“I didn’t know he had any.”

“He don’t. He hadn’t had cows in forever. But he looks for ’em long as he’s got fuel, then he comes down and says the damn things was brushed up to where you couldn’t see ’em.”

“I’m glad you go along with him. That’s sure thoughtful.”

“I don’t know about that, but I gotta tell you this: I can’t make heads or tails of your friend Ray. He was coming on to me the whole time at the cage fights, then he whips out a picture of his ex-wife and tells me she’s the greatest piece of ass he ever had.”

“Aw, gee. What’d you say to that?”

“I said, ‘Ray, she must’ve had one snappin’ pussy, because she’s got a face that would stop a clock.’ I punched him in the shoulder and told him he hadn’t seen nothing yet. What’d you say your name was?”

“I’m Dave.”

“Well, Dave, Ray says you mean to throw in with us. Is that a fact?”

“I’m sure giving it some thought.”

“You look like a team player to me. I guess that bitch he’s married to will help out on that end. Long as I never have to see her.”

Sometimes Dave could tell that Ray couldn’t remember his name, either. He’d say “pal” or “pard” or, in a pinch, “old-timer,” which seemed especially strange to someone in his twenties. Then when the name came back to him, he’d overuse it. “Dave, what’re we gonna do today.” “Dave, what’s that you just put in your mouth?” “I had an uncle named Dave.” And so forth. But the morning that Morsel slipped out of their room carrying her clothes, he summoned it right away: “Dave, you at all interested in getting rich?”