Thomas McGuane - To Skin a Cat

“What did you lobby for?”

“Meat byproducts.”

“Women have the hearts of assassins.”

“These big statements, Bobby! We’ve got some difficult eating ahead of us.” The waiter brings their ghastly platters, gratuity in the price.

The rakish de Havilland jet has Arabic writing on the fuselage. Bobby leads Marianne aboard. All is luxury-thick aluminum.

“Marianne, meet Abdul. He bombed a kibbutz and can really cook.” Abdul is the first pilot Marianne has seen in a fez. He has twinkling eyes.

The jet heads out over the Atlantic. The navigator serves drinks to Bobby and Marianne. They are keen on the upholstery. Later, Bobby attempts to seduce Marianne by putting his hand up her dress and fiddling awkwardly with her underthings as though he were trying to retrieve a letter through a mail slot. After a good deal of this, he spots America through the window. He also notices Abdul and the navigator watching to see if he’s going to get his thing into Marianne.

When he closes the door to the cockpit, he says, “Watch where you’re going or you’ll ram America.”

Then Bobby does something strange. He pulls a gun on Marianne and yells for her to undress. When she is naked she lies on the floor with her feet on either side of the aisle. Bobby mounts her as the airplane sinks into the atmosphere of America. The wings make an eerie chiming as they angle toward the coast.

In the taxicab, New York goes unnoticed. Bobby and Marianne are discussing her rape.

Marianne says, “If it hadn’t been for the peering Arabs, the airplane would have been a good place to make love.”

“What about when I pulled the gun?”

“I thought it was pretentious.”

At last they take a room at the Pierre. Though the room has a handsome view, they have thus far avoided looking at New York. Only after two orange juices have been delivered does Bobby go to the window.

“There are some very remarkable hawks that live on the tops of those buildings,” he says, “and they bang into the shit-heel pigeons for dinner.”

“I thought we were going to Deadrock, Montana. Even the cur took me to the country.”

“To Mummy’s place, so he could bop you in his old playroom.”

“That’s enough.”

“Spreading yourself thin.”

“Bobby, you’re jealous. How very nice.” Marianne beams without guile, two thousand miles from the chicken.

Then rather strangely, Bobby says, “I don’t know why we came here.”

“I don’t either.”

“I thought coming back to America would give us a sense of starting over.”

“I don’t want to start over. I want to have a nice time.”

“We have to find a place to live, a place with the atmosphere of home. But before that, let’s send out for a whore.”

“For what?”

“Inspirational chats.”

Marianne gazes at him with serene gray eyes.

“Let me ask you this, do you have a mother?”

“Yes, I do,” says Bobby.

“And where does she live?”

“She recently moved to the Carlyle.”

“From where?”

“Deadrock, Montana.”

“Are we going to see her? Is that why we’re here?”

“Yes, one reason.”

“Is it to get money?”

“There is that.”

At the Oyster Bar in Grand Central Station, Bobby says, “That is it, the best oyster stew in America. Little wonder Lillian Hellman chose this for the site of her soiree. Did she have it at Twenty-one? No, she had it at the Oyster Bar because she knew the city and she knew her oysters.”

“Bobby?”

“What?”

“May we order?”

After Bobby has gone on and on about hookers and they are now in a corridor of the Carlyle Hotel, Marianne states the following in no uncertain terms:

“What you would do with a hooker is your own problem. I have no interest in hookers. And what does that have to do with your mother? Let’s see her first, and please may we get off the subject of hookers. I am increasingly suspicious that you are treating me like one.”

The door swings open and there stands Emily Decatur, Bobby’s mother. She has neatly arrayed silver hair and wears a Dale Evans cowgirl suit.

She says, “Howdy, Bob. And who might this be?”

“Marianne, a sport from Duluth. Mother is a cowgirl from New York, Deadrock, and Santa Barbara.”

“Come in. How do you do. Come right in.”

Amid the French walnut furniture are barbed-wire collections, western bronzes, and mounted arrowhead collections. Leaning against a fine old armoire are a couple of wagon wheels.

“How broke are you, Bob?”

“Fairly broke. It wouldn’t be so bad but I have plans.”

“So, something new.”

“It’s been on the back burner,” says Bobby. “But I’d be in motion, I think, if I had the wherewithal.”

“This is where the rich old broad comes in,” says Emily Decatur to Marianne, a speech which, in the atmosphere Bobby has tried to induce, seems brightly candid.

“I’m afraid it is,” says Bobby, preserving sincerity.

“Would the Deadrock ranch be a help?”

“Would I have to run it?”

“It’s been leased out for twenty years. You’d need to supply an address, though, if you wanted the checks to come to you. Are you up to that?”

“Yes, that would be very nice.”

“Then it’s yours,” says Emily Decatur. “Would you like an aerial photograph of it?”

“Not really.”

“Are you sure? You can see the little homestead, and tiny figures of cows and horses.”

“Thanks, but I don’t really want it.”

“Okay, it’s a deal then,” says Emily Decatur, pumping her son’s hand.

“That’s quite a gesture, Ma. Say, thanks for the nice ranch.”

“The West is where it all begins.”

“I think so.”

“You’re free, Bob.”

“That’s what the West is for, Ma, to make men free.”

“Now what’re you going to do?”

“I’m going to San Francisco to become a pimp.”

Bobby is staring from the window while Marianne does her makeup at a little desk. Bobby opens the door to permit a room-service waiter to push a linen-covered cart in and set up a table.

“How many places shall I set, sir?”

“Three, and keep the entrees in the warmer, as we are not yet ready to dine.”

The waiter sets out melons, cheese, and red and white wines while Bobby signs the check. He wishes the waiter a spirited “Andale, muchacho!” as he goes.

“Hungry, darling?”

“Famished, but I want to get my eyes on first.”

Marianne has made herself up vividly, like a courtesan.

A knock.

Bobby admits Adrienne, a brown-eyed handsome young lady.

“Just right,” Bobby cries. “Oh, goody.”

“Hello, I’m Adrienne.”

“And this is Marianne. I’m Bobby Decatur. I’ve taken the liberty of ordering you some lovely noisettes of lamb. Marianne is having coquilles Saint-Jacques and I–I’m having a cheeseburger, and I really don’t want a cheeseburger but I want to soak in the tub and watch you two dine and chat. I think the cheeseburger will be a little handier. The prospects of the entree floating between one’s knees will be eliminated.”

Adrienne says, “Here’s one with his mind in the gutter.”

“I’m no real animal,” Bobby objects, as he stacks hundreds on the table. “That should cover the eventualities.”

Soon Bobby floats in the tub, idly nipping at the cheeseburger, spurting soap from his free hand, and gleefully peering out through the bathroom door.

“Aw, come on in!”

“No!”

“Adrienne has to!”

“You said we were partners!” retorts Marianne strangely.

At the table, Adrienne says, “He must look like a prune by now. Hey, what do you guys want from me?”