by KT Sparks
The door to the garage slammed again.
“Bitsy, it’s been too long. Great to see you.” Carroll two-stepped around Martin and Julie and enveloped the tiny woman in a hug, then pushed her back with both hands and smiled: “Bitsy.”
“Lolly.” This was Bitsy’s take on the hated “Carroll.” “I am so sorry about Dottie.”
“Yeah,” he said, still grinning, “I hear it’s bad.” He leaned in, as if for a hug, seemed to reconsider, then reached for her left breast and gave it a full-handed squeeze.
“You always had great tits, Bitsy. Great fucking tits. Make sure Julie gets you a drink. You’ll have to excuse me.”
Martin silently thanked his dad for exhibiting this particular manifestation of cranial rewiring at this particular moment. It sucked some of the venom out of the hall. Or at least smothered it with a blanket of embarrassment and confusion.
“Julie dear, is that you? Come in and sit with me for a minute, darling.” Dottie’s voice floated in.
Julie stopped shifting. Bitsy was patting her breast, as if checking to make sure Martin’s dad hadn’t walked off with a chunk of it and didn’t seem to have heard. Julie’s eyes unfocused and she smiled. Martin knew what she was thinking. What fate to Bitsy Newport was worse than death? Getting one-upped, that’s what. And here was Dottie, reprising her role as Julie’s good mother, just in time to one-up Bitsy Newport into oblivion. Christ, Martin thought, his chest expanding with pride, his parents were deluding on all cylinders tonight.
“Let’s go in together, Mom,” said Julie in the saccharine tone favored by matricidal maniacs from Lizzy Borden to Norman Bates.
She took Bitsy’s hand away from her breast and led her into the living room. Martin followed, but at a distance that would allow him to brake and reverse when the crash came and bumpers and gasoline started flying all over the place.
“I smell urine,” said Bitsy, standing at the side of the hospital bed but not touching it, as if she thought the undeniable stink of death might wipe off on her Ralph Lauren chinos. “Who’s your housekeeper? You shouldn’t stand for that, Dottie.” She addressed the back of Dottie’s head, which was all of her that was visible in the heap of sheets and pillows. “Is she alive?”
Julie moved the pieces of the crushed chair aside with her foot and leaned over the bed. “Mrs. Oliphant, are you awake?” Then, with a look at her own mother, “Mom, Mommy, it’s Julie, your daughter. Remember the bully I told you about? She’s here to see you.”
Dottie turned her head, her pellucid eyelids still clamped tight. She moaned through grey lips, then said, “Chopo?”
“It’s Bitsy, dear. I’ve come to visit.” Bitsy shot Julie a look and pushed in front of her.
“The woman I told you about,” said Julie, shoving her mom back with a quaking arm. “The one who called me fat. She’s the one who said I was hideous.”
“I never said hideous,” said Bitsy.
“Tell her.” Julie looked ready to crawl into the bed with Dottie, who had opened wide her terrified eyes. “Tell her I’m beautiful.”
“Oh, Julie,” said Bitsy. “This is not fair.”
“Tell her,” Julie grabbed the sick woman’s arm, just skin badly stapled to bone.
Dottie sat up and looked at Martin. Her arm was still in Julie’s hand. “Who is it? Where’s Chopo?”
Martin stepped toward the bed. This had to end.
“Chopo’s right here.” He placed a hand on Julie’s shoulder, which was shaking hard. “And this is Bitsy Newport, you remember Bitsy. She used to be your friend.”
Julie started to sob. Bitsy said, “Hello, Dottie. How are you?”
“She used to be your friend,” Martin said, not dropping his eyes from his mom’s. “But now she works for the glue factory. She’s come to take your Chopo away.”
Dottie turned to her old friend, her best friend, and screamed.
March 23, 1986
TO: Bob Lattner, editor
FROM: Martin Oliphant, reporter and assistant editor
RE: Feature article on the 50th anniversary of the death of Arthur Chapman, cowboy poet
________________________________________
Miss Stanley, reference technician (her nomenclature, not mine) at the Pierre Public Library, pursuant to my request submitted in September of 1985, has turned up two volumes of Arthur Chapman’s cowboy poetry: Out Where the West Begins and Cactus Center, both published in 1921. She has also, to her and my great delight, procured from the New York Public Library a microfiche copy of Arthur Chapman’s New York Times obituary, which shows he died in December of 1935.
I propose to write a feature Sunday article introducing cowboy poetry to Pierre based on these books, the brief bio of Chapman included in the obituary, and an interview with Miss Stanley about her adventures obtaining the microfiche (which she claims are legion, and she’ll tell you more if you ever buy her that Singapore Sling you’ve been promising, “you sly dog,” her nomenclature, not mine) [TYPIST NOTE: Mr. Lattner: It is unfair to string that poor girl along just so you don’t have to look up things on your own. Plus she is too young for you. IJT]. I also can draw from Songs of the Cowboys for other and earlier examples of the art form, a scoop of sorts, as I have reason to believe (stains, wear, and tear) that my copy is quite rare.
You should be particularly interested in Chapman (as I am) because, according to the NYT, he both started, middled, and ended his cowboy poetry career as a journalist: Chicago Daily News (1895-1898), Denver Republican (1898-1913), Denver Times (managing editor, 1913-1919), and the New York Tribune and New York Herald Tribune until his death.
I have finished the research you asked for (notes on your desk) on the new Chi Chi’s and hepatitis, so I am available to start this piece posthaste.
MCO/ijt
10
The day before Martin’s birthday, Mrs. Trinkle organized what she called “the intervention.” The previous week’s brawl between Julie, Bitsy Newport, Dottie-Oliphant-cum-Bitsy-Newport, Dottie-Oliphant-cum-the-Pecos-River-Queen, Chopo, and Martin had left few physical scars, all on Martin, who saw double for three days and still sported a bruise the shape of Alaska on the right side of his chest. But emotional wreckage was rampant: Bitsy had keened and skittered her way down the Oliphant front walk and into her Mercedes Benz 190E and had not been heard from since. Julie stopped bathing, stopped speaking to anyone, and started consuming her, Martin’s, and a small Cossack regiment’s share of Christian Brothers alone in her room each night.
Mrs. Trinkle made a reservation for them at Emilio’s under the pretense of celebrating Martin’s birthday. Carroll was in Denver for business, so it was Mrs. Trinkle, Lattner, Martin, Frank, and Julie. Frank was a last-minute addition. He usually avoided any public appearances with his family, but he was in an expansive mood, having received an acceptance from Colorado State in that afternoon’s mail.
“Like a fucking reprieve from the governor,” he explained to Lattner, who met them at the restaurant.
“Cheers, young man,” said Lattner, setting down the martini glass he had dragged with him from the bar. He took a place at the head of the table, snapped open a red cloth napkin, and tucked it into his collar over an already sauce-splattered tie. “So, Martin,” he said, tipping his chair back, losing his balance for a moment, then clunking back down, “share with us the wisdom of your twenty-two years on this great planet.”
“In a moment,” said Mrs. Trinkle, with one finger edging Lattner’s martini glass away from him. “First, let’s drink a little toast to Julie.”
Mrs. Trinkle had read a Redbook article on interventions—heroin addictions, albeit, but she was certain the principles were the same for any sort of what she called “mental hobgoblins.” She had explained this to Lattner and Martin that afternoon. Lattner obviously had not heeded.
“Okay, to Julie. And to Martin’s birt
hday. But mostly to Martin’s birthday or why did I spend twenty-five dollars I could have used on Jameson’s on a cake from Bit o’ Swiss?” said Lattner.
Excellent, thought Martin. He hoped it was Black Forest. The evening was looking up.
Mrs. Trinkle ignored Lattner, pressed on as if reading from the Redbook playbook. “Julie dear, we are all here for you to help you cope with your fraught domestic situation.”
Julie smiled, practically the first Martin had seen in a week. “Great,” she said. “Let me tell you what I’m thinking.”
Martin listened to Julie spill out her plans and recognized, for the first time, the Bitsy Newport in the girl. She knew her mind, twisted as it might be, and expressed it clearly, not as opinion but as fact, not as a hope but as a finished blueprint. Lattner and Mrs. Trinkle nodded at her, mumbled agreement when she stopped to take a breath. She had hijacked the intervention.
The gist of Julie’s self-help plan was this: She would get a job at the Leader Telegram, filling in for Lattner when he was too drunk to finish his copy, helping Mrs. Trinkle with the editing. She would get Martin’s job, he realized as she continued to talk. He would give up his job so Julie could feel better about herself. Happy birthday, fat boy.
“What do you think, Martin?” Lattner took a sip of a new martini. “She’d be pretty good at the newspaper game, I reckon.”
Mrs. Trinkle put a hand on Lattner’s arm. “Well, you know, Martin has been doing quite a lot lately.”
Lattner tilted his head, took another sip, and, after way too long, said, “He has, he has. Julie, I have a reporter already.” Another too long pause. “Martin!”
“But Martin is going to go out West after his mom dies,” said Julie, “which is any day now. It’s all he talks about. And it’s not like I expect to get paid until he leaves.”
This set all the heads, except Martin’s, bobbing happily. Over plates of paglia e fieno and spinach manicotti and pasta puttanesca, the table, except Martin, discussed where Julie would sit, investigations she might conduct, copy editing she might undertake. All, except Martin, agreed the situation was win-win: a better Leader Telegram and a happier, healthier Julie. After what seemed like several hours of this, the waitress brought Martin’s cake.
“Then it’s settled,” said Mrs. Trinkle, smiling and clearly pleased with herself. “Martin, why don’t you cut it?”
Martin picked up the knife the waitress handed him, briefly contemplated shoving it into Julie’s fleshy throat, then sliced into the creamy topping. No candles, no “Happy Birthday, dear Martin” mumbled out in embarrassed disharmony, no “make a wish, Martin.”
No need. No problem. He could see the Rockies now, peeking out from the far horizon. He could smell the hay, feel the tickle of barn dust on his nose. No matter, all this. He’d be with Ginger soon.
One week into Julie’s employment at the Leader Telegram, and Martin began to think it wasn’t such a bad idea after all. For one thing, there was his mom. Amoya Higgins, the Jamaican nurse Martin had hired while Julie was in her post-matricidal funk, stayed on. She was competent and kind and Dottie, though she slept just as much and improved not at all, seemed to sleep easier. For another, Julie’s presence in the Leader Telegram offices forced Martin to up his game. He had been simply ignoring Lattner’s incessant and bellowed requests for “someone to make some goddamn sense out of this presser from the Art League” or “an interview with the Stevenstown Blossom Queen—no photos, this one is preggers and showing.” But Julie jumped at such commands, like a Jack Russell to the rat. And Martin began to too.
And that was perhaps for the best. Because, since the night at Emilio’s, Martin had come to understand that he needed to put meat on the bleached bones of his, as Julie pointed out, oft-asserted plans to relocate. Did he really think he could just show up somewhere west of the Mississippi, and Beaufort and Ginger would come galloping in to sweep him up? Did he really think Beaufort would jump at the chance to hire him on as a hand? That Ginger would insist on a seat for him in her Rodeo Queen court? That he would get a job reading cowboy poetry aloud? He, who had performed in front of a crowd only twice, both times to loud acclaim, though never paid and once naked?
No, cowboy poetry might be the train that would take him to his western destiny, but his job at the Leader Telegram was his ticket. He’d do it the way Arthur Chapman did, according to the New York Times obituary, which Martin had quoted extensively in his article on the 50th anniversary of Chapman’s death. Lattner had finally let it run, albeit on a Tuesday and under a recipe for Potato Chip Fried Chicken Cutlets. It had only inspired one reader response, which was both negative and misinformed: the owner of Zick’s Bowling Lanes complained that the article had displaced the cartoon strip, “Mark Trail,” which had in fact moved to the sports section the week before. But Martin was proud of the byline and inspired by Chapman’s history, a Midwesterner who never rode the range but became the most famous cowboy poet of his time. Martin could do the same: hone his journalism acumen here, in the heart of the heartland, just as Chapman had in Chicago, and then move it west. Carry his clips and his thesaurus like a saddle and a lariat, and take the stockman literary world by dust storm.
Martin pulled the Custom Cruiser out of the driveway and heard the first clinks of April sleet hit the back window. He regretted volunteering to cover the Orchard Mall opening. Six-thirty in the morning. It was still dark. The ribbon-cutting ceremony wasn’t until ten, but Lattner had wanted a few pictures of the eager shoppers lining up to get the first J.C. Penney rose velveteen blazer or takeout chop suey from the food court’s gleaming new China House.
No one was lined up when Martin pulled into the expanse of blacktopped parking spaces, frosted with a crunching layer of ice. Workers in blaze orange vests were setting up a stage at one end of the lot. To the left, in a roped-off area, carnies milled around a collapsed Tilt-a-Whirl and haphazardly painted trailers promising TERROR TERROR TERROR. A fun fair. Of course. What Midwestern cultural event was complete without rickety thrill rides, E. coli-laden corn dogs, and rigged games of chance? Martin snapped a few pictures of the “Welcome to Orchards Mall” banner going up over the stage, then wandered to the carnival to see if he could find a churro.
Which he could not. He took some more pictures: tattooed carnies smoking hand-rolled cigarettes; a stilled Scrambler, one bent metal arm reaching for the gray sky; a midget in a diaper and a down jacket applying white clown paint. Diane Arbus reincarnate, that was Martin.
He thought he smelled coffee and headed in that direction. He passed a dented white trailer and was hit with the scent of horses. It deluged him. Beaufort, the hands, the straw, the leather, Ginger, the dry heat, the poetry, Ginger, the sweet horse sweat, Ginger, Ginger. He swung around, almost sure he would see her behind him, leading her silver mare into the stall, laughing at his posturing as a photographer.
But, of course, behind him, no Ginger. No churro and no coffee either. Just an old pony being led by an even older man. Martin knew him. Earl Dewitty of Dewitty’s Delightful Pony Rides. There was not a county fair, church homecoming festival, or community ice cream social to which Dewitty didn’t bring his string of stunted nags. Every kid in Pierre had ridden one of them at least once. And what status, what joy, to be the beloved child whose parents sprung to have Earl haul his herd to a birthday party. Martin did not have such parents. Martin had never even been invited to a birthday party of a child who had such parents.
Martin watched Dewitty hook the pony into a complicated chain metal harness, which was, in turn, attached to a rusty disk. The gray pony’s back was so swayed, there’d be no need for a saddle. Dewitty could just wedge a kid in there. Martin almost felt sorry for the beast, though he was pretty sure this was the same animal that had tried to take a chunk out of his thigh about fifteen years ago at the Blossomtown Fest. He snapped a picture, got closer, noticed a line of sores where the saddle had rubbed the nag raw, sn
apped another.
“Get the fuck out, you sorry nag, or I’ll ship you on the next boat to France, where they’ll eat you for lunch.” Dewitty’s voice echoed out of the trailer, followed by several loud clomps and what sounded like a woman screaming but could have been a pony’s wail. A minute later, Dewitty emerged, this time tugging on a sorrel pony that was tugging just as hard the other way. Martin could see the same pattern of sores on this one. He snapped several pictures, and several more after Dewitty got the sorry steed hooked up to the wheel, picked up a board, and began beating the animal with what looked like well-practiced strokes, not stopping until the pony fell to its knees. Martin leaned in and shot a close-up.
“No pictures,” Dewitty snarled. “Pictures are two dollars, rides are two dollars. Pay separately. No discounts. Use your own camera.”
“That’s okay,” said Martin. “I’m out of film anyway.”
He took two weeks to write the story. He showed the pictures of the saddle sores to Dr. Hall, the local vet, who gave him great quotes like “worst I’ve ever seen.” Martin discovered that Dewitty’s Delightful Pony Rides had had several complaints filed against it with the Better Business Bureau and interviewed all of the complainants, most of whom had hired Dewitty and his foaming beasties for birthday parties. But the final of these interviews, with Treena Wentworth, the director of the Pierre Humane Society, provided all he needed to finish his piece.
He had suggested that they rendezvous at the Baroda McDonald’s, twenty minutes east of Pierre. He relished the deep throat aspects of the interview, even after the dressing down he got from his source, a committed vegetarian, on his choice of meeting place. They settled into a molded plastic booth.
“Thank God someone is finally paying attention,” she said and stared down into her coffee, as if examining its murk for stray cow entrails.
