Peter Heller - The Painter

I gave Sport the elk mug. A bull elk in the fall in a tawny field, yellow aspen losing leaves, overcast about to snow, he is lifting his head to bugle and from his muzzle a stream of fog in the icy air. Seemed right.

“You get the elk,” I said. I was going to say bull but I didn’t want to encourage him. To the deputy I said, the NASCAR cow or the loon? The NASCAR cow coffee cup said wISCONSIN and had the head of a happy looking Holstein framed by a border of what looked like black and white racing checks.

The deputy grinned. He was a beefy kid with a fade and flattop, probably played high school ball for Delta and was the luckiest man in the universe when he landed the job with the county. Could tell he was the type who appreciates what’s appreciatible, really loved his wife, etc., which I admire and like in a man, in fact liked them both and had the circumstances been different I would have relished pouring the two coffee and sitting down to bullshit.

“NASCAR cow every time,” said Dan the deputy.

There was no stool on this side of the counter so I stood, leaned back against the drawers next to the stove said,

“Anything in those? Sugar?”

Sport said, “If you have cream and honey, otherwise fine.” I smiled at him. Because it was clear that he was getting me in the habit of getting him what he asked, the more specific the better. Honey. Exactly what I took in my coffee. The kid shook his head. Polite. A blunt instrument. Hadn’t learned the use of subtle tools yet, probably never would, it would probably fuck up his general sense of gratitude. I am not at all a simple person but I like simple people, I admire them.

I put out the half and half and honey, took mine, alternating with Sport, our spoons tinking in happy duet, picked up my Ugly Mug and leaned back, crossed my arms. The mug by the way is a bad picture of an ocean liner, don’t ask me. I was awake now, felt ready. Sport sipped, nodded, smiled, said,

“You often fish in the middle of the night?”

This time I did not let myself get thrown. I did not babble. I took a long sip of strong coffee looking at the greening base of the mountain out the window and thought, Virga. Not last night. Last night the rain reached the ground with a will, furious. Furious and glad. The way I would be feeling right now if Sport didn’t scare me. Well. Don’t be scared. Be yourself. Be honest. About the things you can be honest about.

“Yes. Once in a while. My daughter and I used to do it pretty often. When there was a moon.”

“Where’s your daughter now?”

I put down the Ugly Mug.

“She was murdered.”

Sport’s mug stopped halfway to his mouth.

“I’m sorry.”

“She was fifteen.”

He nodded. He drank, didn’t say anything. We all looked into our mugs.

“There was a moon last night before the rain?”

“I guess there was.”

“Did you go fishing last night?”

I shook my head, sipped. “Last night I slept.”

“Your wading boots are puddling by the front door.”

I blinked.

“Rain,” I said. “Remember.”

“They’re in under the roof, in your vestibule. Nothing else wet.”

“That’s right,” I said. “After it poured I remembered I’d left my whole kit lying on the grass and over the stump. From the other day. Boots, waders, rod. Sometimes I just let it all dry out there. I thought fuck. In the middle of the night when I woke up to pee. So I went out and put them away. I mean it won’t hurt anything but it’s better to let everything air out.”

“Good coffee,” Sport said. “What is it?”

“Folgers. New whole bean.”

He raised an eyebrow, grinned.

“Tastes better when you take it out of a fancy jar.”

“I’ll have to try that. Huh. But you brought your vest in?”

That stopped me. Cocked my head, turned, slid the pot off the hot pad on the coffeemaker, gave us all a refill, the three cups, elk, cow, Titanic .

“The vest by the door that’s flecked with old blood,” he said.

Everybody stared at him. Everybody being me and Flattop.

He sipped, little smile. “Fish blood, I’m guessing.”

I turned, slipped the pot back onto the burner, mind jumbling. Turned off the pot’s red-lit power switch, flick, now brown and dead. Off. Same as blood. Red going on, then brown. Dell’s blood. DNA, all that. The picture of the man raising the club to strike the little roan for the third time probably to kill it. Hitching up the road fast as I could to take him down. Down into the ditch. I straightened, drew a breath, turned.

“That’s a man’s blood to tell you the truth. Recent.”

Flattop’s mouth actually opened.

I wanted to see. If I could make Sport stop in his tracks. Reciprocate. Make him tick into a facial expression he hadn’t planned on. Catch his breath. Drain some of that runner’s blush from his boy’s cheeks.

It worked. He had the mug coming down from his lips and he almost choked. Everybody knew what everybody was after, this wasn’t anybody’s first rodeo except maybe the kid deputy who, I noticed, had been watching the whole interview with a kind of awe.

“Man’s blood? You don’t say?”

“Yup. Outfitter named Dell Siminoe.”

Now the kid actually choked. Hid it in a big cough, took a white kerchief out of his back pocket and wiped his brow instead of his mouth, stared at me, then his mentor. Like he was watching a tennis match. I smiled at him. A big honest smile, the first one since the two arrived. I wanted to laugh, but, funny thing, I didn’t want to embarrass the kid in front of Sport. Instead I topped off his cup, leaned back against the far counter, against the drawers next to the stove. Through the French doors onto the ramada, which were open to screen, I noticed the sun breaking over the cottonwood leaves, the big trees up on the ditch, the morning was cool and fresh and soon it would start getting hot. I loved this. The morning. The smell of the damp ground coming through the screen doors after night rain. Even having visitors, these visitors. I felt happy. Which was fucked up, thinking about it now.

It was Sport’s turn to collect himself. He was too smart not to know what was coming. He just had to drink his coffee and watch it play out. I thought.

“Dell Siminoe?” he said.

“Yah. The reason you all are here. Because of the fight. Because I assaulted the man day before yesterday and gave him a bloody nose and I guess he’s just a big pussy and now he’s filing charges. Probably didn’t tell you he was in the middle of killing a little horse.”

They stared at me.

I thought he would say, Why don’t you start from the beginning. Thought now we could stop the foreplay and he would pull out a steno pad, one of those flip notebooks, all official now, and start writing. He didn’t. He said,

“Dell Siminoe isn’t filing any charges. Dell Siminoe is dead.”

Pause.

“Murdered in cold blood.”

Pause.

“Thirty steps from seven bow hunters and a campfire.”

Pause.

“In the middle of last night.”

Pause.

“Would you mind telling us where you were last night? All of last night.”

“RIP,” I said. I said: “Not really. Dead? Kinda hope he’s in the bad place. You think I killed him because I was mad enough to give the man a bloody nose?”

All the time I was thinking, I wasn’t wearing the fishing vest. When I tackled him, when we fought. I don’t dress until I get to the creek. Thinking, wondering if the cowboy Stinky would remember that, the one I knocked into the road. Probably not. I’d have to go with it anyway. That was a gamble. I was not averse to gambling when I didn’t have to, so it was no stretch at all to roll the dice, go all in when I had no choice.