Peter Heller - The Painter

Not a single car passed in not sure how much time. A katydid pulsed out of the grass on the shoulder. The blackbirds buzzed and shrieked in happy territorial arguments. The sun climbed over the low ridge behind me and threw my shadow down to water’s edge. After a while the beaver in the closest pond emerged and cut a faint wake across the still water. Came back. Some woodless errand. I could hear too the slow current pouring over the closest dam, sifting and burbling in the pool below. I painted. Painted the pace of it, the sounds as much as anything. The calm. It calmed me. That thing happened where I disappear. Except this time it was not into the poised energy of a woman, or into some watery interior landscape, but into instead the quiet creek in front of me, into the raucous commerce of corvids, the inscrutable transit of a beaver, the slow breathing of the morning. It was different and soothing and freeing and I didn’t even know that I’d disappeared until I heard the higher vibration of an approaching car, still a ways off.

It wasn’t a car it was a truck. A tall long-nosed blue semi with a shiny V grille like a cowcatcher and a high load of hay. Downshifted as it came around the last bend into view, the loud stuttered growl and cough and pitch into a higher octave.

The hay was in square bales and stacked tight and green. He passed at maybe 40 mph, blasting me with a sweet grass-smelling wind and then I heard the air brakes hiss, the double downshift and he stopped along the shoulder. Grind of gears and he backed up, neatly slotting into what was left of the pullout ahead of me as if it had been made for him. The high door clucked open and he swung down, the idle of the big diesel somehow growling benignly, fitting nicely with the other sounds of the morning.

I thought of “Phantom 309” the way Tom Waits sang it, I loved that song. At the wheel sat a big man / and I’d have to say he must’ve weighed two ten / As he stuck out a big hand and he said with a grin / “Big Joe’s the name…”

He was—big. Not sure about two-ten but he was like six feet, heavy in the shoulders. Wore a camo cap and a full beard like me, but dark. Aviator shades, Wranglers, brown leather shitkickers. His boots scuffed the ridged dirt as he walked the length of his rig, unconsciously checking the straps and the load as he came. He moved with the loose jointed rhythm of an athlete. Hand came up in a wave, still twenty yards off. Country. I noticed that most country people hail you from a decent distance, city people wait till they’re right up in your face. Then he stopped at the end of the trailer, looked up at the high stack of bales, put a hand up on the wall of hay, patted it. Fished a tin of chew out of his breast pocket, twisted off the lid and put a plug in his upper lip. Extra polite. I smiled. I raised my chin: c’mon. He came.

“Morning.”

He stood off twice the length of an extended arm. Somehow I knew right then that he was a hunter.

“Hey.”

“Dip?” he said.

Shook my head. “Took me five years to quit.”

He nodded, spat. “Don’t want to interrupt.”

“Not at all.”

“Sure?”

“Yup.”

“You a painter?”

He broke into a wide smile at his own question, showed white teeth, surprisingly white for a guy who chewed.

“I mean as opposed to a hobbyist. I mean you sure as shit look like you know what you’re doing.”

“Well I don’t know how to do much else if that’s what you mean.”

“ ’Cept fish?”

That surprised me.

“You got two rods leaning against the cap of your truck. I noticed as I passed. I thought fisherman-painter, this guy’s got the life.”

He took off his shades, folded them and hung them off the same pocket the chew came out of. He glanced at the canvas, shyly, as if he were sneaking a look at something very personal which I guess it was.

“Nice,” he said.

“Thanks.”

“I like the fish.”

He looked past the bank at the stepped and spreading ponds.

“The way you made ’em jump even though they ain’t jumping. That takes something. Maybe balls isn’t the word. Spirit.”

“Huh.”

He was looking at the creek but addressing the painting, politely.

“The thing moves. The picture. I like that. The birds, the fish, the beaver, the clouds, the water. Sorta like looking at music. You know if it had colors. Nice.”

Nodded to himself.

“Jason,” he said.

“Jim.”

“Pleasure.”

“Likewise.”

“I fished this stretch before. Why I stopped, partly. Brookies a course, but last time, it was fall, I got a cutthroat about as big as a tuna. Surprised the shit out of me. Didn’t even know they were in here.”

He glanced over. “You expecting company?”

I put the brush I was still holding back in the murky spirit jar, set my own cap back, rubbed my forehead.

“No. Don’t think so.”

I looked at him puzzled.

“You got a .41 magnum stuck in your easel.”

“Oh shit.” My hand went instinctively to the gun, stopped halfway. I shrugged.

“Maybe for bear,” he said politely.

I didn’t know what to say. Suddenly my whole predicament, the one I’d happily forgotten for a few hours, came tumbling down. He must’ve seen it.

“Or lion,” he said more helpfully. “Lotta lion coming back into these hills.”

I rubbed my face. We both looked down at the creek, at the molten rings of the sipping trout touching the black surface with the delayed rhythm of a very slow rain.

“You like to fish the Sulphur, huh?”

“What?”

“Me, too. I fished it just the other day. Hay delivery. I never fished it in the middle of the night, though. That must be interesting. With a moon and all.”

He was looking down at the creek, very casual. My hand went to the shelf of the easel, rested there.

“Amazing that’s legal when you think about it. I mean fishing and hunting, they’re pretty much the same. Going out to stalk something in the dark like that. Maybe kill it.”

He patted the tin of snuff in the breast pocket of his snap shirt, thought about doubling the size of his plug, decided against it. Maybe trying to cut down. A phone rang, his. The ring was coyotes yapping. He pulled it out of his jeans, glanced at the ID, at me, and silenced the ringer. Put it back.

My hand did not move from the easel. Inches from the gun. I was very still.

“You must have Verizon,” I said.

“What? Oh. Yeah, only way to go around here. If you don’t have it you need it.” He spat, hit a clod with a neat jet. He said, “Not good to be out in the middle of nowhere with no way to, you know, get in touch.”

Turned his head, looked at me full on, expressionless. “I was thinking of fishing this, take a break for an hour. Take a chill pill. You?”

I didn’t answer. Chill pill . I’d heard that expression recently and then I remembered where: at Dell’s camp, two minutes before I’d killed him.

Sometimes in a bar fight, just before it erupts, you feel the way things are going, they can’t go any other way, and you strike. Preempt. Maybe you don’t even want to, but you’ve been here before and you know how it will go if you don’t. Now I didn’t. It teetered. I watched him.

“You deliver hay to a hunting camp? Half a dozen guys?”

“Eight guys. Well. Seven. Now it’d be seven, wouldn’t it?” Spat. “Yeah, one on the slab makes seven. I never was too good at math.”

“Maybe the fishing isn’t too good here right now.”

“Maybe not. I got things I got to do anyway just down the road.” He turned his head, worked the plug in his cheek with his tongue, looked at me, steady. His hair was very dark, almost black, but his eyes were mineral blue. They were mineral hard and the calmness in them tightened my wires more than any anger.