Thomas McGuane - Crow Fair - Stories

Mrs. Tanner turned from the window, beaming at everything and animadverting about the “new life.” Arnold winced at these remarks as sharply as he did at Mary’s contractions. Mary was just disconcerted by the number of unreciprocated statements, more bugling than dialogue. Arnold held her hand, and then leaned across so that he could hold both of her hands, while Mrs. Tanner strode the linoleum. He loved to hold Mary’s hands: they were so strong. He thought of them as farmer’s hands.

Mary owed her hard hands and a confidant horsemanship to her childhood on a ranch a mile and a quarter from the Canadian border, a remote place yet well within reach of the bank that had seized it and thrown Mary and her family into poverty. The president of the United States had told them to borrow, borrow, borrow for their business; thus, the bank had gotten the swather, the baler, the rock windrower, the tractor, the front-end loader, the self-propelled bale wagon, and eight broke horses and their tack, while the family had hit the road. Mary used to say that “bank” was just another four-letter word, but eventually she’d put that behind her, too.

“Mrs. Tanner,” Mary said, “I seem to be oversensitive tonight. Could you stop talking?”

“Is it a problem?”

“ ‘Is it a problem?’ ” Mary repeated. Arnold’s face was in his hands. “Mrs. Tanner, it is a huge problem. This is a time when people want a little peace, and you just won’t shut up. I’m about to have a baby, and you seem rambunctious.”

Mrs. Tanner reassembled her winter clothes and departed. Mary looked at Arnold and said, “I’m sorry, Arnie.”

The boy was born at two o’clock in the morning. Mary was exhausted and so was Arnold, who was both elated and confused but truly loving to his bedraggled wife. They had never chosen a name for the baby, thinking that it was presumptuous to do so before seeing whether it was a boy or a girl. They agreed that a list of gender-based alternatives was somehow corny. But Mary’s suggestion, based on a sudden recollection of the aspirant at loan-officer school, startled Arnold.

“Pedro? I don’t think I’d be comfortable with that, Mary.”

They settled on Peter, which left Mary with her glimmer of rationale and pleased Arnold, who liked old-fashioned names. Mary’s affectionate name for him, however, would always be Pedro. And, without question, he had a Pedro look to him.

Mary bought a horse and, as Peter grew, Arnold spent more and more time in San Juan Capistrano; the day came when he told Mary that he would not be coming back. As foreseen as that must have been, they both wept discreetly to avoid alarming Peter, who was in the next room. They tried to discuss how Arnold would spend time with Peter, but the future looked so fractured that they were forced to trust to their love and intentions.

“Will I always be able to see Peter?” Arnold sobbed. Mary was crying, too. But she knew where to put her pain. She had her boy to think of, and where to put pain was a skill she’d learned early on.

“The house is yours, of course,” Arnold said with a brave, generous smile that suggested he was unaware that he was speaking to a loan officer who had already begun to do the numbers in her head. She couldn’t help it. It was her latest version of tough.

“Thank you, Arnold.”

“And my owning the bank with my mother means that your job is assured.”

Mary loved Arnold, but this airy way of dispensing justice hurried her agenda.

“Don’t you find that a little informal?”

“You must mean divorce.”

“I’m not the one going to San Juan Capistrano. You are.”

“No doubt we’ll have to get something written up.”

“This is a no-fault state. When couples split the sheets, they split them fifty-fifty.” Mary laughed heartily. “I could keep you on at the bank, Arnold, but not from California.”

He’d let Mary see his origins, and Mary had reminded him of hers. Arnold sighed in concession.

His mother was not pleased when she learned of her new partnership. Her mouth fell open as Mary explained the arrangement, but Mary reached across the conference-room table and gently lifted it shut. News of all this was greeted warmly as it shot around the bank.

Mary learned more about banking every day. Mrs. Tanner, despite her claims at the beauty parlor, however, knew nothing except how she had come to acquire what equity she had, and she spent more and more of her time and money on increasingly futile cosmetic surgery. As a figurehead at board meetings, she wore costumes and an imitation youth that contrasted with the professionalism of Mary Elizabeth Tanner, who ran the bank with evenhanded authority. Over time, there came to be nothing disreputable about Mary whatsoever. Wonderful how dollars did that, and Mary had a little gold dollar sign on a chain around her pretty neck.

Considering the hoops he had to jump through, Arnold did his very best to be Peter’s father, virtually commuting from California. This was even more remarkable once he had sold his share of the bank to Mary, since this occasioned a rupture with his own mother. Peter was consoled by the fact that his parents were now sleeping together once a month, and Arnold called him Pedro at intimate moments. He never let on to his friend in California how much he enjoyed these interludes of snuggling with Mary.

Peter was already a star at little-guy soccer. Mrs. Tanner came to the games, and Peter ran straight to Grandma after each game, which softened the smirk on her well-stretched face. Finally, Arnold and his mother reconciled, under the leafless cottonwoods shadowing the battered playing field, during a 3–1 win over the Red Devils of Reed Point, Montana. All the fight went out of Mrs. Tanner, who never made another board meeting but spent her life estate as she saw fit, letting her face sag and reading bodice rippers on her porch, from which she could watch the neighbors during the warm months, and by the pool in San Juan Capistrano during the cold.

Arnold got out of banking and into business, at which he did well. Arnold always did well: no one was more serious about work. Peter had a girlfriend, Mary’s hair was going gray, and Arnold’s domestic arrangements were stable most of the time, except during the winter, when his mother interfered.

“She’s driving me nuts,” Arnold complained to Mary.

“You’ll have to stand it,” Mary said. “She’s lonely, she’s old, and she’s your mother.”

“Can’t Peter do winter sports? What about basketball?”

When Mrs. Tanner’s advancing dementia and prying nature made Arnold’s companion, T.O. — tired of her referring to him as a “houseboy”—threaten to leave, Arnold popped her into assisted living, and that was that. Mrs. Tanner did not go easily; as T.O., a burly Oklahoman, drawled, “She hung on like a bulldog in a thunderstorm.”

“She’s my mother!” Arnold cried without much feeling.

Before Peter left for college, Mary decided to take him to see the place where she had grown up. This was a reward, in a sense, because Peter had always asked about it. No doubt he had heard rumors concerning his mother, and he wanted to confirm her ranch origins. This was straightforward curiosity, as Peter was the furthest thing from insecure. Well brought up and popular, he was the first in his family to trail neither his past nor his proclivities like a lead ball.

They set out in the middle of June, in Mary’s big Lincoln, heading for the great, nearly empty stretches of northern Montana, where underpopulated counties would deny the government’s right to tax them, attempt to secede from the Union, and issue their own money in the form of scrip. Some radicalized soothsayer would arise — a crop duster, a diesel mechanic, a gunsmith — then fade away, and the region would go back to sparse agriculture, a cow every hundred acres, a trailer house with a basketball backboard and a muddy truck. Minds spun in the solitude.