James Hynes - Kings of Infinite Space

“The Sons of Katie Elder,” mumbled J.J. through a mouthful of french fries.

“Yes! Praise Jesus!” Bob Wier crunched his celery and lifted his eyes to heaven. “What’s that wonderful line from Chisum?”

“Jism?” said J.J. with a glint in his eye.

“Knock it off, son,” warned the Colonel.

Bob Wier ignored them both. “Somebody asks him. .” Crunch, crunch . “Oh yes, somebody says, ‘Where are you going, John?’ and he says—” Swallowing his celery, Bob Wier threw his shoulders back and essayed the lurching rhythms of a pretty fair John Wayne imitation. “ ‘Somethin’ I shoulda done thirty years ago.’ ”

“That’s not what he says!” protested J.J., his mouth full.

“So let me get this straight.” Paul was astonished to hear himself weighing in. “We admire John Wayne because he’s a procrastinator?”

Bob Wier broadened his smile at Paul, unsure whether Paul was joking or not. The Colonel’s gaze drilled into him from across the table. J.J. shot an angry glance at the Colonel, as if to say, I told you so .

This was a mistake, Paul thought, I shouldn’t have sat down here. He was aware of the Colonel’s gaze on him.

“Jism,” snorted J.J. again, in case no one had heard him the first time.

“I don’t think the professor agrees with you, Bob,” said the Colonel, ignoring him. He had finished his exquisite little lunch and was closing up the enameled box. He dabbed at the corners of his lips with a creamy linen napkin.

“Really!” said Bob Wier, a little too enthusiastically. He folded his hands and peered at Paul earnestly. “It’d be a blessing to hear your thoughts on the subject.”

Paul held up a finger; he was chewing.

“I think what the professor wants to say,” said the Colonel, carefully folding his napkin, “is that in the later movies — pardon me, the later films —of Marion Morrison, what we see is not a role model, not a moral paragon, but an actor . And not just an actor, but a vain old movie star in a wig and a corset who let his stuntman do everything but the close-ups.” The Colonel smiled across the table. “I think the professor here prefers the dark, neurotic John Wayne of Red River , the — how shall I put it?” He placed his hands on either side of his Japanese lunch box. “The Nixonesque John Wayne, John Wayne as King Lear, if you will. And do you know, gentlemen? He’s right.” He held up his creased palm. Bob Wier nodded earnestly, while J.J. glared at Paul and shoved a limp bundle of fries into his mouth.

“Those earlier films of Mr. Morrison’s,” the Colonel continued, “are the work of a mature artist, a man at the peak of his powers as a professional and as a man. With all due respect to you, Bob, those earlier films convey more of the richness and complexity of life than do the more, shall we say, self-indulgent work of his waning years.”

“Hm.” Bob Wier rubbed his chin.

“A corset,” said J.J., chewing slowly. “Fuck.”

“Now,” The Colonel leveled his gaze at Paul “Is that a fair assessment of your position?”

Paul swallowed his mouthful of cheese sandwich. What he wanted to say was, John Wayne? Hell, I don’t even like westerns. The only John Wayne movie he remembered really enjoying was a boneheaded epic (he couldn’t recall the name) where Wayne, in heavy makeup, played Genghis Khan. But if he had given the Duke’s oove any thought over the years, then, well yes, he’d have to admit, grudgingly, that he preferred Red River to Wayne’s later films. But only, he would have hastened to add, because it was the work of a great filmmaker like Howard Hawks, not because of John Wayne , for chrissakes.

“Well, okay, yes,” he began, but before he could qualify his answer, the Colonel said, “Outstanding. I thought as much. Now, gentlemen.” The Colonel emphatically clapped his hands together, once. “Topic B: The welcome, if brief return to our midst of the redoubtable Stanley Tulendij. What are we to make of this unexpected visit?”

Paul took another bite of his sandwich. Bob Wier was snapping the lid of his Tupperware, and J.J. was rubbing his lips with a wad of paper napkin, but both men swiveled their gazes in Paul’s direction. Even the Colonel narrowed his eyes from across the table.

His mouth full, his sandwich clutched between his hands, Paul glanced from J.J. to the Colonel to Bob Wier. He forced himself to swallow. “You’re asking me?”

The three men watched him intently. They did not say a word.

Paul felt his face get warm again. “I, uh, only just met the guy. .”

“But you’ve heard the story,” said J.J. “Everybody’s heard the story.”

“The layoffs,” said Bob Wier. “His defiance.”

“A man at the peak of his personal and professional powers,” said the Colonel, “cut down in his prime.”

“Sacrificing himself for his men,” said Bob Wier.

“He faced his enemies,” said the Colonel, “and drew a line in the sand.”

“Cross that , motherfucker,” said J.J., flinging down his wadded-up napkin.

“The fateful bus trip,” said Bob Wier.

“That fucking storm,” said J.J.

“The sinkhole,” intoned the Colonel, leaning across the table and folding his hands while gravely fixing Paul with his gaze.

“I, uh,” stammered Paul, “I think somebody might have mentioned it to me. .”

“The man stood up, Paul.” The Colonel’s voice was tight with emotion. “He did what a man should.”

Paul squeezed his sandwich. They would not stop looking at him. “Well,” he said at last, “good for him.”

A glance passed between his three companions. They seemed to withdraw the tiniest increment from him, as if he had failed some test.

“Amen,” said Bob Wier, burping his Tupperware.

“Yeah, right.” J.J. glanced around the room.

The Colonel banked his gaze and silently ground his palms together.

“Nolene told me.” Paul was at once foolishly eager not to disappoint these guys and furious at himself for his eagerness. “About Stanley Tulendij.” Shut up! he told himself.

“Nolene. Ah, yes.” The Colonel frowned at the tabletop.

What’s going on here? Paul wondered. What are they trying to get me to say?

“ ‘I will leave you in the desert,’ ” Bob Wier said. “Ezekiel twenty-nine, five.” He lifted up his hands, playing to the back pews again. “ ‘Then all who live in Egypt will know that I am the Lord.’ Twenty-nine, six.”

“There’s a Rashomon aspect to the situation, Professor.” The Colonel peered significantly at Paul. “You may have heard one version of what happened to Stanley Tulendij, but you have not heard the truth.”

“Amen,” breathed Bob Wier.

You’ve got it wrong, Paul wanted to say. The point of Rashomon is not that one of the stories is true and the others are lies, it’s that no one will ever be able to tell. There is no truth, you overbearing son of a bitch. That’s what it means to invoke Rashomon . And stop calling me professor. .

“Paul.” Bob Wier clasped his hands together on the table-top. He almost looked as if he might cry. “It’s a real blessing to have you join the team. I just wanted to say that.”

“Nuff said.” J.J. repressed a belch and pushed himself back from the table. Bob Wier stood also.

“Actually, Bob,” Paul said, “I’ve been—”

“I think what our good friend Paul is trying to say,” said the Colonel, “is that he’s already been on the team for a good — what is it? — a good six weeks now.” He made no move to get up from the table. “Isn’t that right, Paul?”