Thomas McGuane - Crow Fair - Stories

Pulling off the interstate and down into a riverside trailer park, I was convinced that euphoria was the rarest of all prizes, and being as good as anyone at cherishing mine, I started to fear that seeing the corpse up close might be a buzzkill. A small crowd had formed at the riverbank, and the squad car was parked close by. I pulled up next to the deputy, who got out and, spotting me, said, “Jesus Christ.” The small crowd parted at the sight of the uniform, and I pushed through in its wake, rudely asked to stop shoving. There within the circle of gawkers was the dead bridegroom. Either his wedding clothes were too small for him or he was seriously waterlogged. I don’t know why they laid him out on a picnic table. The well-trimmed mustache seemed misplaced on the broad moon face whose wide-open eyes were giving me such a bad feeling. The gawkers would look at the face, then at one another searching for some explanation. People with sideburns that long were inevitably from the wrong side of the tracks, where me and my family, excepting Grandma, had all lived. I couldn’t say why I felt a corpse shouldn’t have a mustache and long sideburns. It seemed about time to buck up with some more artificial elation. But first I thought it only right to inform this group that it was I who had first spotted our friend floating past. This fell on deaf ears. I looked around me with a bleak, ironic smile undaunted by their indignation.

Somebody at the Mad Hatter had told me there was going to be midget wrestling at the Waterhole. There was a van parked in front with the logo SUPPORT MIDGET VIOLENCE, but no midgets in sight unless they were asleep inside. Two horses stood tied to the hitching rack in front by the trough and beside them four pickup trucks with so much mud on the windshields that the drivers could only have seen through the wiper arcs. Between two of the trucks was a blood-red Porsche Carrera with New Mexico plates and a King Charles spaniel at the wheel. I was able to get what I wanted without giving the others the impression that I cared to mingle. The bartender was a compulsive counter wiper, and when I got up, the tip I left there disappeared. He pretended to find the bills under the rag as I departed, giving the entire crowd a laugh at my expense as I pushed through the doors. I thought of going back and raising hell but found the Porsche unlocked and released the spaniel instead. It was dark, and all I could think of was one word, “Grandma!” The dog headed off through the houses with their lighted windows as I was swept by uneasiness.

Something was making me drive this fast. I was trying my best to reckon where those little units of time had gone. Whatever trouble I was headed for, it didn’t feel like it was entirely my fault, just because someone decided to send a corpse through my day. If he’d lived on Grandma’s side of town, he would have enjoyed more options with no sideburns to maintain.

It was not easy to find our picnic site in the dark, and I wouldn’t have been sure I’d found it if I hadn’t spotted the remains of the box lunch. I ate the other deviled-ham sandwich, the hard-boiled egg, the spicy pickle, and the cookie, and staring at the large expanse of the river, breathing mostly with my abdominal muscles, I tried to collect my thoughts and ward off hysteria.

The chair was gone. So, she didn’t jump in the river. Can’t have more than one corpse a day. Somebody must have found Grandma and taken her home. This thought gave me an especially sharp pain, as it suggested one more person looking down on me, the oaf who left his blind grandmother on the riverbank.

I drove back across the Harlowton Bridge, through town heading for Snob Hollow, where Grandmother lived. My watch has a luminous dial, but I was afraid to look, fearing yet another buzzkill. By the time I stopped in front of Grandma’s, I was having palpitations. I rifled the backseat in search of the minis sometimes scattered there but found only a mocking handful of empties. I stared through the windshield at the pair of juniper hedges leading to the door. My mind was so inflamed that when I got out of the car I thought I saw a face. I approached the front door and knocked, and then knocked again. Blood rushed to my head when I heard something within.

Mrs. Devlin was fastening her terry-cloth wrapper at the neck. She was no girl herself, and those big teeth and accusing eyes only subtracted from any impression of innocence. She had led a blameless life and wouldn’t say shit if she had a mouthful, but when backed by Grandma’s authority she could be dangerous.

“You,” she said.

“Just checking in on Grandma.”

Then in the dark behind Mrs. Devlin I heard Grandma ask, “Is that him?”

“Yes, it is, Adeline.”

“Mrs. Devlin, kindly slap his face for me.” It sure stung.

I imagined saying, Try this one on for size , before throwing Mrs. Devlin a roundhouse, but of course I just stood there as the door was slammed in my face. I headed back downtown, which in the dark looked abandoned, with so few lights that their silhouettes showed against the night sky, the blank face of the derelict mercantile, the bell cupola of the fire station with its mantle of cold stars. I returned to my room at the hotel, and the view of the mountains through the empty lobby, the old billiard table on which a century ago some surgeon treated the victim of a gunfight, the smells of mahogany and matted carpet, the dimmed lights gleaming off the souvenir cabinet. On my wave of booze and self-pity, one more nobody for the rest of the world to kick around. I pictured myself as the last survivor of my family, except for Grandma, who was left to contemplate what she had achieved over the generations. The thought lulled me into a nice sleep. I awakened to the sound of the breakfast dishes clattering in the restaurant, and for me a brand-new chance for success. As usual, whether I made the most of it or not, it would be fun just to see what happened, because, say what you will, I’m a glass-half-full kind of guy.

There wasn’t time to eat before going to work, Mrs. Hessler being a Nazi about punctuality. I was careful to avoid a long look at myself as I brushed my teeth and glanced at my watch. I pulled on one of my work shirts, the one that says YOUR COMPANY NAME HERE at the top, YOUR LOGO HERE in the middle, and ONE CHILD AT A TIME at the bottom. Mrs. Hessler had gotten them in some close-out sale and expected to see them.

When I first went to work for Mrs. Hessler, it was just after my casino years and, knowing about my résumé, she got me to teach her Texas Hold’em. She was pretty good but soon got overconfident and went off for a gambler’s weekend to Vegas and lost her ass. Naturally she blamed me. That set the tone. I told her that in a world where sperm donors are expected to pay child support, anything could happen.

Hooray for me! I was actually early. I let myself into the playroom and realized I had never cleaned up on Friday. I had been in some haste to get to the Mad Hatter, and so now, with so little strength, I would have to put everything in order before Hessler let me know by her silence how unhappy she was with me, her drone. Back to the barracoon, darky! I told her I’d read that some archbishop staying at a five-star hotel in the Seychelles got his ass scorched on a rogue bidet. She didn’t even crack a smile. Chutes and Ladders was all over the floor, and I got dizzy picking up all the pieces. Moronic instruments for tiny mites — drums, tambourines, ocarinas — all would have to go on the music shelf. The GOD MADE ME SPECIAL poster had broken free of its thumbtacks. I didn’t remember so much chaos on Friday — motivational ribbons and certificates, birthday crowns, star badges, alphabet stickers all over the room — but then my mind had been elsewhere.