Nothing but Blue Skies (15 page)

They waited a long time after the apparatus was removed and she lingered on. They decided to stay with her in shifts. Mike went home to eat with his family; Frank stayed and watched. She never moved. Frank thought about her for a while, then thought about himself. He considered the compartments they had gotten into over the years, starting with his father the farmer-entrepreneur, his mother the town beauty of the famous Geranium Festival, Frank the investment manager and Mike the orthodontist. Gracie was about to join the former-wife class, and his mother had eased into the class of the soon dead. Frank’s daughter was in the college class, to enter either the professional or the homemaker class and join them all in the grand march off the flat earth. He decided to stop thinking about himself and about all that this meant under his flat-earth view, and to listen. He heard nothing. He got up and stood next to his mother. Her small hand lay open on the bed. Her wrist was terribly thin. He rested his hand next to it and lay his finger across her wrist. Nothing. He remembered how superfluous
she thought he was. She said he was the boy who held the lantern while his mother chopped the wood.

“There’s one of my patients,” said Mike. “See that pretty teenager there? Carrying the milk shake? Well, you oughta had a look at her when she arrived on my doorstep. Looked like a church key.”

“She looks fine now.”

“Nothing whatsoever to prevent her from falling into your basic local social pattern. When I got her, she was headed for a life either alone or with a wheat farmer.”

Frank asked himself how two brothers could have turned out so differently. Everywhere Mike looked he saw certainty, definition and meaning. And yet, when they were growing up, Frank was always optimistic and Mike suspicious. Mike’s suspicion had paid off. He knew absolutely where he was going and it didn’t bother him that it was one mouth after another. The inevitable things about life didn’t bother him either. Even death struck him as one more piece of local color, a nostalgic event.

“Frank, what in the hell are you thinking about?”

“I was just thinking how different we are.”

“You just figured that out?”

“No, it still is hard for me to understand.”

“Not me. You’re a year older. You had to break trail. Plus, Dad made more sense to me than he did to you. That’s why everything has seemed so much clearer to me. You always seemed to think Dad was crazy.”

“I suppose.”

“I may be missing a whole layer of life, you know,” Mike said. “Its seriousness. But I don’t strain my mechanism like you do. Sometimes I think you’re like an airplane that keeps taxiing and never quite gets airborne. I’m dumb, I just fly.”

“I was airborne for a while.”

“Maybe you were. But I don’t crave struggle. I enjoy my life. It goes by smooth as silk and I’d just as soon have it that way. I’m a big fat happy guy with a big fat happy wife and several extremely average children. I like it. I’m flying.”

“I don’t blame you,” said Frank. He looked up and saw Dick Hoiness coming in, the old guitarist hidden in a summer suit, and signaled him to come over.

“Hi, Dick,” Frank said coolly as Hoiness reached the table. “I wanted to thank you for slipping out of the bar the other day.”

“It had to be done.”

“Had to be done,” Frank said. “I ought to cancel my insurance.”

“Life will go on.”

“You cancel yours and I’ll cancel mine,” said Mike, always loyal. This might have gotten serious.

“What a day,” said Hoiness, starting for the counter. “Let me know what you want to do, fellas.”

“We forgive you,” said Frank. “We just wish you were more of a stand-up guy.”

“Musicians aren’t like that,” called Hoiness from the counter. “We’re gentle escapists — you know, four-F.”

“What about your claims adjusters?” Mike asked.

“Different breed,” said Hoiness. “Hard-boiled but compassionate, realistic but generous, universally loved. Montana natives one and all. Low rates and prompt attention. Our claims adjusters stand for family values and a decreased dependence on foreign oil.” He turned to the smiling girl behind the counter and ordered. He pointed to each item he ordered on the wall menu behind her, as though she had never heard of these things before.

Frank watched and thought how much he wished things would change faster at McDonald’s. Americans had overtaken their product line, if he was any judge, waiting for McThis and McThat. If there were only a few departures or insights — McShit on the toilets, anything — it would be so much easier to take one’s seat in this American meeting place and not feel such despair that the world was going on without you.

“How’s your deal going?” Mike asked.

“It’s all right. Hasn’t been much to it this last little while. Exchanged some cattle. Everybody’s getting run off the national forest. There’s a bunch of timid traders out there. I had the idea to
do a warm-up lot somewhere, maybe Billings, but the way this yearling thing has been looking, the price of feed and everything else, I just didn’t have the juice to do it, not and guarantee gains where they need to be.”

“What about the water slide at Helena.”

“Sold it.”

“The Hertz franchise at Helena — I got to tell you, Frank, I’m hearing all the time now that you’re overextended.”

“It’s true, but I’m getting by with it. The Hertz franchise is fine. I wish I had a bunch more.”

“Frank!” Mike, at first incredulous, was soon off in thought.

Young people had started to fill up the place and were blowing the straw wrappers off their straws. They all looked so intense to Frank, so ready to burst into something. The ones who got crowded shoved back. The ones who were hot, coming in from outside, took off their coats and fanned their faces hard.

“I say we dump the ranch,” said Mike.

“Count me in,” said Frank, still looking at the youngsters clamoring for hamburgers. That should have been a signal to get back into the cattle business more seriously. He had bought and sold thousands of cattle the way other people played pinochle on Thursdays and he had done it with other people’s money as well as his own. Now he was thinking that once he got out from under the present loans, he might not want the risk, responsibility, commitment, whatever. So, sure, sell the ranch. And thus would end an American family’s place on earth.

“You want to list it?” Frank asked.

“Let’s run an ad.”

“Mike, why don’t you write it.”

“Sure, let me write it,” said Mike. “You know, I’m not a reflective guy, but at a time like this it might be nice to sit down and compose a few words about the old place.”

“You want to try it now?”

Mike got a ballpoint out of his shirt pocket, where it had made a dime-sized blue spot. “Fire. You start,” Mike said, and turned over his paper placemat. “Give me a headline.”

“Old home place,” said Frank. “In capitals,
OLD HOME PLACE
.”

“Okay, then underneath: ‘In same family four generations.’ Didn’t our grandfather start the place?”

“It was
his
parents. Fattened oxen that came off the immigrant wagons.”

“Gotcha: ‘Local farm dynasty decides to relinquish ancestral headquarters.’ This I like. Don’t say anything against it. ‘Long-awaited decision. Priced to move. Principals only.’ Got it. Hoss, I’m putting it in the
Wall Street Journal
. I’m going to say that Hollywood types forced us out of the cattle business. That’s one of the best ways to get a Hollywood type to buy it.”

“Add: ‘Moose, deer, bear, elk, grouse, trout.’ ”

“Why?”

“They all have that, all local ads. One keystroke on the IBM. You don’t want this ad to look like it was done in L.A. They never mention the one kind of wildlife they all have, rattlesnakes.”

“All right,” Mike said, writing. “What else?”

“What’s the view?”

“There isn’t one.”

“We better come up with one or we’re going to have to go on owning it. Can we just say, ‘Big sky’?”

“I think that’s fair. That doesn’t really misrepresent anything. I mean, what’s big to one person may not be big to another. Anyway, people who are out there trying to scoop up old family places are in on this bullshit. It’s kind of like date rape. You can’t get fucked if you don’t spread your legs.”

“You’re great, Mike. You always see things so clearly. I get bogged down thinking about the lives that have been lived out there, the crops gathered, the calves shipped.”

“It just gets in the way, Frank.”

Frank left it in Mike’s hands and walked out to the parking lot while his brother visited with the many normal people he knew inside. Whenever they talked business, Mike liked to act tough. That’s why his deals were all stiffs. Frank barely cared, but he did care, and an undetected slyness had worked for him long enough
that he was dangerously overextended. He had to keep a mental buoyancy or go under.

The parking lot was now full of cars and the great white clouds were reflected on their colored roofs. Frank looked up and got the feeling he was looking clear into outer space. A truck piled high with yellow split firewood went through the drive-up line with two laughing cowboys in front, their hats on the back of their heads, the radio blaring the Neville Brothers’ “Yellow Moon.”

Frank stopped and tried to feel his detachment against this throbbing daily intensity that was all around for the asking. Whenever he jumped in, he overjumped; when he tried to stay reasonable, he was like a cat burglar in the homes of everyday people, or someone who had broken into the zoo on a day when it was closed. The street was busy; people were pouring in and out of the restaurant. People sat with their car doors open, their feet on the pavement, and ate ice cream. And yet the big vacant sky seemed to proclaim their isolation. Frank found it attractive in a way even he knew was ludicrous, like the impulse that sends shy people to nudist colonies. Or even the one that landed him among the Eskimos. This is why bland people buy sports cars, he thought; things get lively around them and they have to jump in there with their car. He remembered how he and his friends used to dance through the night to the rock bands, none more extreme than Dick Hoiness’s Violet Twilight, or the Great Falls screamers Standing Start, or the psychedelic band from the Assiniboine reservation, Arthur and the Agnostics, with its stupendous lead singer Arthur Red Wolf, or the great all-girl hard-rock band, the Decibelles. And what fun those darn drugs were. Marvelous worlds aslant, a personal speed wobble in the middle of a civilization equally out of control. And it was wonderful, however short, to have such didactic views of everything, everyone coming down from the mountain with the tablets of stone. Hard to say what it all came to now. Skulls in the desert.

Frank set out for the ranch in somewhat higher spirits, the possibility of not owning something that had always been in their lives throwing the place into sudden and blazing relief. He was
able to go over its every feature in his mind now, from springs to dragging gates to the smells of the cellar and the loose boards in the parlor, the paint on the cupboard doors with the previous contrasting paint job, the flour bins with the odorless mummified mice. Yes, he thought, a lost home and the gates of hell.

There was little traffic, and clouds distinct enough that one could navigate by them. A distant tractor plowing a summer-fallowed field trailed a plume of brilliant dust high in the air. The yellow-and-black-striped gates at the railroad crossings stood out vividly in the farm greenery along the tracks. “Slippin’ and a-slidin’,” sang Frank to himself, “peepin’ and a-hidin’.” What a day. What freedom, what breezes. What life ahead! “I been told, baby, you been bold!”

When he drove into the farmyard and looked at the fine old white house with its porches and chimneys, its slanted stone-sided cellar entry, its small chaste cedar shingles, the outbuildings, fenced and ditched small fields beyond, he could already feel it floating into abstraction like a diploma, into a rather glamorous distance.

Things seemed to be in apple-pie order, just as they were when Boyd left. That whole thing was entirely unfortunate. He thought with a bit of a thrill that he ought to go over to Boyd’s house and express his regret that things had ever come to such a pass.

There was a car parked in front of the Jarrell house, not Boyd’s black Chevy half-ton pickup. Frank walked briskly to the house. He shot his cuff to look at his watch, suggesting that there would be many stops today. When he knocked, it was to a jokey little rhythm. He whistled and cast an admiring glance at the scrubby vegetation. The door opened and there stood Mrs. Jarrell: middle height, close-cropped hair, blue tank top and a face that saw through everything. She held the screen door in her hand and kept it between them. Frank was surprised to see her.

“I don’t want to talk to you,” she said. He could see the little irritated red dots in her armpit where she had shaved. The shadows that fell on her face from the door made her seem even more grave and unreachable than the already frightening tone of her voice.

“I won’t take any of your time. But I do need to reach Boyd. It’s business, that’s all. That’s all it is.”

“Maybe you’d like to come in.”

She opened the screen door a little more, just enough for Frank to sidle through, which he didn’t want to do. It seemed that if he declined he might set her off, and so, as obsequiously as he could, feeling the spaciousness behind him, he turned sideways to enter. She seized him by the shirt and pulled his face to hers, a knot of
hatred and the pale ocher eyes of a weimaraner, her words full of spit. “Don’t flatter yourself,” she hissed. “You listening real good? Now get the fuck out.” And then he was looking at the discolored white mass of the locked door. He went around to the side window, which was partly opened.

“I’ll bet you’re a good cook too,” he called out. “Probably have a million friends, bunch of adoring nephews and nieces —” Glass exploded over the top of him as an electric flatiron came through the window. He picked a few shards from his hair. “I’ll catch up with you later.
Ciao!
”

Now as he drove he took no pleasure in the car. The way out of town had had all the expectation. It almost always does, thought Frank; all the movies, all the old westerns, had their great flavor in the road out of town. Going back to town was always somehow with your tail between your legs, kind of falling-on-your-sword in effect, and was just generally a joyless direction, devoid of chance. But going back with glass shards in your hair and the spit of a stranger on your brow would test anyone’s mettle. He liked to picture Mrs. Jarrell with her hand on her stomach, unable to find satisfaction, heading for the milk of magnesia. And there was no reason, short of the general rat-maze conditions of modern life, that they should not be kind to each other: