Thomas McGuane - To Skin a Cat

“Mind if I take some of this organic yogurt?”

“Nope.”

“I think it’s wonderful you should be having all these wonderful things. They’re so good for your karma. What do you do, sit down with the Mother Earth News , eat some yogurt, and then go knife somebody?”

“Not quite.”

“Join me,” Bobby orders. He seems possessed. He’s thinking of killing Chino, but he’s modulated that to possession. Chino sits.

“Where are those pictures you showed me the other day?”

“Under the bookend.”

Bobby wanders absently into the other room. He doesn’t remember the bookend. Chino gets up and quietly begins to follow him. He picks up Bobby’s dinner knife. As he clears the corner, Bobby swings the short heavy revolver into his face. Chino drops the silverware and totters around like an old man, holding his face and cooing. Bobby strolls back with the pictures and gestures for Chino to sit down. He sits.

“This is dinner. This is what you’re gonna eat, Chino.”

“I can’t eat those. I can’t eat Polaroids. They’ve got chemicals on them.”

“You have to eat them. If you don’t, I can’t answer for my actions. You can put any seasoning on them you like.” Bobby throws the ghastly pictures on Chino’s plate, one by one.

“What’s this one?”

“My kid. Name of Jesse.”

“How old is he?”

“Ten.”

“He looks about three in this picture. You shouldn’t have this picture in here. Who’s his mother?”

“Used to be one of my girls,” says Chino gloomily.

“You don’t have to eat those pictures.”

Bobby wanders disconsolately out the door. The curtain is falling.

“See you.”

“ ’Bye.”

Donna’s features have grown vaguer since Bobby left. He sits down next to her. She says, “I’ve been cocktailing since you left. Thanks for the drinks.”

“I feel the best thing would be for you to come back to my place.”

“What’d you say to Chino?”

“Not that much.”

“Did you hit him?”

“Once I had to.”

“You hit him …?”

“Had to.”

“I’ll come with you. Will I be able to work?”

“That’s the whole idea.”

“Here’s the thing. You’ve made it so I have to hide out, and, like, I’ve had to hide before. But you’re not necessarily my next guy.”

“How many of you are there?”

“Four.”

“Names?”

“Jan, Marielle, and La Costa. And Donna.”

“All Caucasian?”

“La Costa is Negro. We never see Marielle. She went to college. She has her own clients. She buys municipal bonds.”

“Is this all you guys do?”

“Jan dances. What about your lady?”

“I’m in love with her. I could marry her. It could happen. She’s Caucasian.”

“All the pimps fall in love with La Costa. If you see Chino again, it will be because of La Costa.”

Before they ever get inside the door, Bobby wants to know how Donna likes the view. She says, “It’s great.” Bobby asks her if she remembers tricking him into going to Chino’s the first time.

“Yes.… ”

Bobby slams her across the face. She takes two staggering steps with her arms hanging. “That was the last mistake you’re allowed.”

Marianne opens the door in time to glimpse the blow. Bobby is a bit breathless from the adrenaline; it was like real exposure in rock climbing. Marianne asks what’s going on.

Bobby says, “I was just explaining to Donna that the fastest way to get a low red-cell count is to have someone cut your throat.” He feels the gravity on his noggin.

But Donna is the first to go into the house, introducing herself to Marianne as she passes. When they follow her in, Marianne says, to improve the situation, “I’m afraid Bobby sees himself as dangerous.”

“I’m afraid of what else he sees,” says Donna.

“Have you eaten?”

“Not today. I sat around Enrico’s, and I guess I drank too much. Bunch of mixed drinks.”

In the kitchen, Marianne begins to reheat some homemade lentil soup for Donna, who is applying cleansing cream under her eyes, reverting to the plain midwestern girl she is. The day is done. Soon she is tucked in, in the spare bedroom. Bobby puts cheese melba toast and a glass of wine next to her bed. He works the tiny concerns to the point of dowdiness.

“You might get an appetite during the night. Tomorrow, we get your clothes.”

“Thank you.”

“And maybe we can ring up the other girls for a drink in the evening.”

“Maybe,” says Donna, eyeing his lips for slobber. No sign.

“Y’know what I mean.”

“I know.”

Upstairs, while Marianne lies in bed reading, Bobby stretches out on the floor and sketches the floor plan of the house on a large sheet of butcher paper. Marianne thinks for a moment; then it dawns on her. “If you’re planning on turning this into a whorehouse, count me out. I don’t see that as an intelligent atmosphere.”

“What else could you do?” asks Bobby maladroitly.

“I could go back to work! Working in a whorehouse is not the only option I have! I never had such a discussion until I met you!”

“You were the one who took on that cop with such alacrity.”

“Not alacrity, you bastard, I was fool enough to indulge myself in your wishful thinking.”

“Which I see you now resent.”

“You bet your life! And especially since you don’t seem to have any conviction about it yourself. Listen to me, Bobby, I am reading a nice book by Jane Austen, and tonight I have no further desire to discuss whorehouses. Go talk to the whore downstairs, if you can’t stand the pressure. I’m reading my book.”

“I might.”

I am on probation for soliciting. One slip and I will be jailed or assigned to community service. I prefer Jane Austen.”

“I’m going downstairs to talk to Donna.”

Bobby’s bathrobe trails behind him as he descends. Bobby opens the spare room. It is empty. The drawers on the first floor are all pulled out. Marianne’s purse is upended, looted. He turns his wallet inside out in futile hope. When he treads upstairs and back into the bedroom, Marianne inquires, without looking up from her book, “We been robbed?”

“Yup.”

“Did she eat the little snacks you left by her little table?”

“I guess there wasn’t time.”

Bobby goes to bed, outfitted in disappointment. Yet once the lights are off, he falls into a deep sleep, dreaming of ambulance service in the Ardennes. Then he wakes up and snaps the light. Marianne is already awake, lost, her eyes going nowhere.

“Darling?”

“What, baby?”

“Have you had thousands of lovers?” he asks.

“Oh, babe.”

“Tell me.”

“No,” she says.

“How many?”

“I don’t know, darling.”

“You don’t even know how many?”

“I didn’t count.”

“Count. You mean it would be necessary to start counting?”

“Oh, Bobby, can’t we just sleep?”

“I have to get this off my chest.”

“Why do you have to?”

“I can’t sleep,” says Bobby. “Under fifty?”

“I think so.”

“But close.”

“Bobby, I don’t know! My God, we don’t even make love ourselves lately!”

“What a heartache I’ve got.”

“I’m starting to get mad!”

“Don’t get mad at me. My heart is aching, God damn it!”

“If you’ve got such a heartache, why are you trying to turn me into a hooker?”

“To wipe those aches away!”

“Well, let me tell you right now, I’m not about to reconstruct my past for you. So you can quit worrying about that one.”

“Yeah, but you had one.”

“So did you.”