Robert Coover - John's Wife

The man whose wife Floyd had once in sin but, now redeemed, no longer coveted felt himself, back in his old hometown after invigorating westward journeys, on something of a mission. The town (he had not been paying enough attention to it and it was important to him) seemed idled, confused, unfocused—“sunk in the doldrums,” as his mother would say — its communal pulse slowed, its eyes glazed over, and John, charging purposefully through it, was bringing it back to life again. At the airport when he’d landed (the last ten miles and final descent had seemed much longer than usual, he was probably trail-wearier than he thought, but he shook it off), he’d found his manager and town’s future mayor dozing, snorting resonantly through his sausagey nose, and unable to say, when abruptly awakened with a boot to his shins, whether he’d seen Bruce or not, though Bruce’s private jet was parked there. To get Snuffy up and running again, John had taken him on a brisk tour of the warehouse sheds, asking him to figure out where they were going to house the local headquarters of the national trucking firm he’d just bought and to get estimates on any new loading bays and access roads they’d have to build; when he left him, on the phone to his crew and barking out orders in his trademark no-crap rhetoric, the old coach’s eyes had brightened and the familiar fire had returned. In town, John stopped in at his bank offices (a teller whose child had developed bone cancer squeezed his hands and thanked him for helping to bump her up on the priority list for an urgently needed marrow transplant, which she said had gone well, and everyone in the bank seemed to straighten up an inch or two and flash a smile as he passed through) to check his mail, sign checks, return calls (Nevada said: “We have to talk …”), send out a couple dozen faxes, order up flowers for his wife and call the caterers to make sure everything was ready for his Pioneers Day barbecue: “Whatever we did last year, you better increase it by about twenty percent. It’s going to be a big one.” At home, he got Clarissa who, sounding radiant and cheerful, clearly shared his good mood; she said she just loved Granny Opal and she’d leave a note for Mom that he’d called. Yes, she thought Uncle Bruce was probably in town. He phoned his mother to thank her for all her help with the children and for visiting poor old Barnaby so regularly (“Anything I can do for him?” “No! No, he’s — he’s fine!”), then called Kevin out at the club to tell him to get his clubs ready, he’d be out shortly after lunch. When asked, he told Kevin to go ahead and hire someone for the club shop, he’d sort it out with the board later. “Also, start thinking about a food-services manager who’s able and willing to fill in at the bar, Kev. You need more time out on the course to keep your competitive edge.” “Great! I’ll get started on that today, John!” He had decided to accept outstanding offers, modest though they were, on some of the assets Barnaby had acquired in his failed takeover bid so as to help cover the purchase of the trucking firm and to provide cash for the development of the racetrack, so he dropped by Trevor’s office to get the paperwork started, but he wasn’t in. Off to lunch maybe. Not a bad idea, but John wasn’t hungry. He’d talk Kev into throwing together one of his classic hot beef-and-pepper heroes out at the club when he got there. Which he hoped would be soon: he felt a string of birdies coming on, lined up on his scorecard like fucking turtledoves on a clothesline. He dropped down to the chamber of commerce, back in their old quarters after finding their new civic center offices too damp and noisy, to see how the parade committee was coming along (lagging behind as usual, maybe more than usual, his visit serving as a wake-up call), picked up a map of this year’s route, told them about the latest new business he was bringing to town, dropped hints about the racetrack. They seemed upset that this week’s town newspaper had not appeared, not yet anyway, with all the Pioneers Day announcements and advertisements (it was almost like they’d begun to believe the goddamned holiday would not occur unless the paper announced it), and he assured them he would drop by Ellsworth’s shop to check it out. “Will, uh, will your wife be in the parade this year, John?” “Sure, why wouldn’t she be?” On his way over to the hardware store where he had a surprise to spring on old Floyd, he saw Lenny helping heavy-bellied Trixie out of their car in front of Alf’s antiquated medical facility. The only doctor still with downtown offices, the building itself a decrepit fossil like its occupier, ready for the wrecking ball. He’d offered Alf a good price to move to one of the new medical centers but Alf said he was too old to change kennels, he’d die soon enough, and John, though he’d joked to the contrary, allowed that was probably so. The minister and his wife waved and John waved back as he crossed over to the old family store. His cranky tough-as-nails manager in there collapsed unabashedly into tears when he told him he was putting him in charge of the central operations of the new trucking line and raising his salary by half again with additional bonuses based on traffic, after which the old cracker broke into either prayer or joyful cussing, John couldn’t be sure which. He paused at the door on the way out: about time to rethink this ancient relic, what his father liked to call the family’s public badge of honor, though he often winked when he said it. So what, then? A watering hole for the out-of-town racetrack crowd maybe? Souvenir shop? Museum? Or: all three at once. Why not? A slowly rotating bar, say, in the middle of a cyclorama of the age of the pioneers (he knew just who to hire as a technical consultant), old weapons, clothes, and implements on display, and some coin-operated interactive video machines for exploring the daily life of the prairie settlers. In virtual reality maybe: walk around in their vanished lives. Unspeakably dreary when lived, an entertainment when revisited. He already had a piece of the new high-tech action, he could put it to practical use right here at home. Probably have to buy up the cafe next door for floor space, eat up some of the alley, but it could be a big money-spinner, bring traffic in off the highway, too: he’d have them, so to speak, all drinking out of great-great-grandpop’s famous horse trough again. He called out to old Alf, just shuffling back to work across the street, reminding him about the barbecue (Alf nodded, asked him to give him a call later, John said he’d see him out at the club), then popped his head in the door of the Sixth Street Cafe to remind Oxford of the same thing. “Pioneers Day! Already? Can’t be—!” “I’m afraid it is, Oxford. Time flies!” “But—” “House flies!” shouted one of the children and they both giggled. “And bring the grandkids!” He left the old pharmacist, nose down to the table, muttering to himself and trying to read the dial of his wristwatch through his thick lenses, and crossed over in the direction of city hall and the police station, nearly getting run down twice, first by the pharmacy van reeling out of the alleyway with witless Cornell hunched over the wheel, then by his cousin Maynard’s black sedan, which came barreling around the opposite corner, tires squealing, driven by a wild-haired stony-eyed Veronica who looked like she’d just fallen out of bed. Had she been trying to hit him? John grinned his clenched-teeth grin, brushed his sleeve. He had a surprise in store for her fucked-up hubby, too, one that should cheer him up. He was planning to offer his abused cuz the chance to run the new racetrack (best to have someone in the legal profession in the front office, he figured), assuming of course that Mange was ready to make the right sort of investment in the enterprise, but he was saving this announcement (have to make sure they were invited, struck as they were from the official lists: he made a mental note) for the barbecue.