Dangerous Men

by Michael Katakis

  Praise for Dangerous Men

  ‘In this powerful debut, Michael Katakis strips away the comfortable fabric of civilization to reveal painful truths, bone-chilling emotion, and starkly isolated souls set in a timeless winter landscape. I was reminded of Ernest Hemingway’s darker stories from his own debut, In Our Time. Like that master, Katakis never fails to engage the reader’s imagination nor evoke a strong visceral response that lingers long after the book is closed.’

  CHARLES SCRIBNER III

  ‘Michael Katakis writes well about contemporary America in these fast-paced stories that come back to haunt you like an Edward Hopper Sunday.’

  PATRICK HEMINGWAY

  ‘The stories in Dangerous Men are stark Western morality plays, evocative of the land and its people and the way those are ultimately mistreated. These are stories of love and violence, revenge and redemption, and of the dark, heavy sins which can never be redeemed. These stories will haunt you.’

  DAVID MCCUMBER

  ‘Michael Katakis targets the human heart with his fiction. His aim is straight and true.’

  WILLIAM HJORTSBERG

  ‘Set against the enduring landscape and depressed towns of modern-day Montana, Michael Katakis’ stories are about good, hard-working people faced with immediate and life-altering decisions. He introduces his readers to emotions that conjure loneliness, to choices that mold emotions and to resolutions that cannot help but touch readers who have not fallen into the pitfall of modern-day correctness. Offsetting these extreme stories is Katakis’ writing, straightforward and poetic in the genre of Jean Giono and Knut Hamsun, a difficult task he realizes effortlessly.’

  GUY DE LA VALDENE

  ’A severe beauty of a book that uproots your own unsettling past and slays the famished ghosts. You hold your breath and vainly hush your heart as you tread gingerly down each sentence. If death can be made architectural and sublime, then Michael Katakis has accomplished just that in Dangerous Men.’

  BELLE YANG

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  For Melissa, Ian and Kris

  CONTENTS

  The Fence

  Hunter’s Moon

  Home for Christmas

  Part One:

  The Final Tally of Walter Lesser

  Part Two:

  Cemetery Trees

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgements

  THE FENCE

  At first she nagged him a great deal . . . but he soon developed a faculty for never listening to her. It would be impolite, he considered, to notice her when she was not being a lady.

  JOHN STEINBECK, The Pastures of Heaven

  As the man’s arthritic hands struggled to separate flesh from wire, her dead eyes stared up at him. The horse she’d been riding had fallen down a shallow rise, pinning them both against the fence. As they struggled, the tangled wire worked around the woman’s neck, slowly garroting her.

  He wiped the blood from the throat that years before had demanded pearls then rested her head back on the ground. Speaking softly, he stroked the horse’s neck, took off its saddle and let it run free. Leaning on the post, he rolled a cigarette, looked at the mountains in the distance and down at the initials carved into the weathered wood. They were cut years before she had come.

  Once, he had believed he could save her from the demons that fired her rages, but found that belief was no match for her cruelty. She understood that and took pleasure in, little by little, stripping away his self-respect, until he was nothing except a man who never objected.

  Out of habit, he leaned over and studied the fence. Except for the break, he admired its straight line. The ten miles of wire that surrounded the ranch had been a part of his education. When he looked at the wire he thought of his grandfather and remembered how the old man taught him about the placement of poles, the stringing of wire and its repair. He had learned to take pride in his work, to respect other people’s property and his own. The fence had given him all of that and in return he had given sixty years of his life.

  In 1932, the family had fallen on hard times, forcing his father to convert the property into a dude ranch for part of the year. People came to Montana from all over the world to experience a way of life wrapped in myth and legend.

  To the family’s surprise, people loved it and would return with their children who, years later, would return with their own. That is how he spent his youth. He would saddle the guests’ horses and guide them into the backcountry. After a day of working the wire, he’d set up camp by the Shields River. There was a moment he always looked forward to on those outings. He’d set up camp, make a fire and feed the horses. First it would get quiet and then everyone would be looking up at the millions of stars, trying to count the shooting ones. He loved those nights because it felt like he was bringing beauty into their lives.

  The beautiful girl with long, brown hair traveled to the ranch from Rhode Island in the summer of 1954, and from the time she arrived she flirted with the young cowboy. Once, while showing guests how to repair broken wire, she rubbed up behind him and looked over his shoulder. Drops of her sweat fell on his neck and when he jumped back, she, and the other guests, laughed at his embarrassment. She did that many times and took pleasure in his shock. He looked forward to the time she’d be gone, but after she left, he found that he missed her.

  That is how it began. She wrote to him every week from Jamestown until she returned to the ranch. After she left, he would dream about the things they had done.

  Once, after the guests had gone, she had stayed on for a few days. They rode to a place that he loved on the far east side of the ranch. In the fire’s light she began to undress him and then unbuttoned her shirt and pants. That evening the young cowboy confused sex with love.

  It was years later when he learned what she had done and how desperate she had been to get out of Jamestown. Back in Rhode Island she had been seeing a young painter who was starting to acquire a reputation in New York. She said she loved him and the young painter believed her. When he learned about the others, he told her it was over but, late at night, she would knock on his door and beg him to take her back. He would begin to dream again.

  The back and forth became an addiction and the young man stopped painting. There was nothing but him now and he wasn’t enough because she wasn’t the kind of woman who cared for broken things.

  Her life in Jamestown was over. She would always be known as the woman who destroyed a young man’s life for no other reason than she could. She moved on, looking for another young man with dreams who would believe her.

  He struggled for words as they stood naked in front of the fire.

  ‘What do you want?’ she asked.

  ‘Marry me.’

  In his arms she smiled.

  ‘Yes. I’ll marry you.’

  The old cowboy looked at the straight lines of the wire and remembered the time before she had come. He had always loved the fence and in return it had provided for him. As he looked down into her dead eyes, he realized the fence had provided for him again.

  HUNTER’S MOON

  I could give all to Time except – except

  What I myself have held . . . For I am there,

  And what I would not part with I have kept.

  ROBERT FROST

  For a long time he watched as she slept, and in the moonlight that bathed the room he studied every curve of her. He
put his face into her thick hair, breathed deep and remembered how they met in Paris years before. He had been a young photojournalist covering the war in Vietnam and she an anthropologist on holiday from West Africa.

  Drinking at the Ritz, he had looked across the room and seen her laughing with friends. Out of character, he walked toward their table and stood there trying to speak, but stumbled, embarrassed by his intrusion. She simply turned and smiled. He relaxed and introduced himself and for the rest of the evening they talked as if they’d known each other always. After thirty-five years they were still together.

  As he stroked her hair, she opened her green eyes, and smiled.

  ‘Can’t sleep?’ she asked.

  ‘Not when I’m next to such a beauty. It’s too exciting, you know.’

  ‘Is there anything I can do?’

  He giggled like a schoolboy and his face turned red as it always did when she teased.

  ‘I love you,’ he said. ‘I’ve always loved you.’

  ‘Come here.’

  When he woke he was alone except for Mr Bear, the big Chesapeake Bay Retriever who, for the last eleven years, had shared their lives and who loved to sneak up on the bed at night. He helped the old dog down and together they limped to the kitchen. From the window he could see her moving through the harvested rows of her garden. He began to cry, but caught himself and started preparing the scones she loved.

  For three days she had no pain and it was like it had always been. After her first operation the doctors said they had gotten all of the disease but after six months the cancer returned. She endured another surgery, but again, it had returned. He remembered sitting in the stark office and how the doctor’s eyes could not meet hers. He said something about statistics and another operation and described how the illness would progress. While the doctor nervously went on she looked at the photographs on the desk.

  ‘Your children are lovely,’ she said. ‘You’re a lucky man.’

  ‘Thank you. That’s Katy on the left and the twin boys making faces are Caleb and Michael. That’s my wife Emma behind them. They’re a handful. The kids, I mean.’

  As was her way, she had made the doctor feel relaxed. They carried on about his family, the life she had lived in Africa and the simple things that made life sweet.

  The doctor rose when she thanked him for all he had done and then expressed her wish to go home and resume the life she loved for whatever time was left.

  The smell of scones greeted her as she came in from the garden. He handed her a cup of tea.

  ‘You spoil me.’

  ‘I’ll stop it, then,’ he said.

  ‘Don’t you dare.’

  ‘How are you feeling?’

  ‘I’m fine, dear, and I’m very much looking forward to our day.’ Then she gave him the look that always drove him crazy, the look he called the ‘Jezebel’ face. ‘And the night?’ she whispered. ‘I’m really looking forward to our night.’

  ‘Don’t you think we’re a little old for that stuff?’

  ‘Old?’ she said. ‘That must have been another man I made love with last night.’

  ‘Did you make love with someone last night?’ he joked.

  She gently punched his shoulder.

  ‘Okay, I remember. I have my moments, don’t I?’

  She held his face, kissed his lips and then went upstairs to finish some letters while he got out the shotguns and clothing.

  Most of their life together had been lived in Montana and every fall they would go bird hunting in the Shields Valley. Over time, many of the ranches had been sold and in their places were town homes and subdivisions. In many ways it was unrecognizable from what they had known, except for their favorite place.

  When they first moved to the area they were introduced to Jim Gambol. He had taken a liking to the young couple and as their friendship developed, the rancher learned that the young man loved bird hunting and offered him the use of his six hundred acres. The land was known as Gambol’s field.

  It had been a long time since they had first walked the foothills that surrounded the wheat fields. The Crazy Mountains were to the east and Sumner Creek ran through the land’s center, creating an oasis of trees and wild grasses. It was in those grasses that they had made love and watched the Hunter’s Moon as it rose above the mountains for the first time. They had returned for every Hunter’s Moon since.

  By the time she came downstairs, everything was packed. She collected the Thermos and sandwiches, while he warmed up the car and helped Mr Bear into the back.

  Driving down Brackett Creek Road, they looked over the land that had once belonged to their neighbors, George and Catherine Lesser. The families had shared good times but that was all gone. The Lessers were dead and the once beautiful hills that had been home to elk, eagle and hawk were now a subdivision called Wild West Estates.

  ‘Everything ends,’ she whispered.

  ‘Did you say something, dear?’

  ‘Just talking to myself and remembering how good it’s been for us and what a grand time we’ve had.’

  At Clyde Park he turned left and headed up Highway 89 toward Wilsall. At the power line he followed the old gravel road past the open gate to the fence that bordered the field. He opened her door and she kissed him as Mr Bear barked demands for freedom. The place had this effect on them. It was filled with their history and was a survivor in a changing world. Like them, the field possessed grace and beauty and very little time.

  They put on their coats and pulled out the guns. For the last six years this had been a tradition and symbolic of time passing. Neither of them carried shells any more, they just walked the field, guns empty, talking and remembering. It had been a fall day like this when she shot her last bird. She never liked seeing them fall out of the sky and after the first surgery she wanted to celebrate life and not contribute to the end of things. She had insisted that he continue but he was content to walk with her and explore the world within the confines of the field.

  After a short walk she became weak. He rushed to her.

  ‘Here, let me help you.’

  ‘You always have,’ she said.

  A cold wind came up as he helped her to the car.

  ‘The weather report said that tomorrow would be clear and cold. Will we see the moon?’ she asked.

  ‘I’m sure it will be a fine afternoon, like all of them.’

  ‘But last year we had a terrible storm and nearly froze.

  Remember?’

  ‘Yes, I remember. It was a fine day because you were with me and it was fun to come home and light the fire and dance,’ he said.

  ‘Dance? Oh yes, the dance. It was fun the way you put on that old Chubby Checker record and made me twist. That was the night you pulled your back, as I recall.’

  ‘Try to just remember the big picture rather than all the small details,’ he said.

  She caressed his cheek and he began to cry.

  ‘I can’t. I just can’t.’

  ‘Oh, my love. It’s all right. Really. We’ve agreed and I’m counting on you to help me. I want it to be like now, when I’m happy. I know what I’m asking. Please.’

  ‘Yes,’ he whispered.

  ‘And don’t you dare put your back out tonight,’ she whispered.

  Driving home, he mentioned that he had made plans for dinner. She had wanted to stay home but smiled when he mentioned the Mint.

  By seven that evening they were driving down Bridger Canyon. The sky was clear and the stars lit up the trees and pastures. It was one of those magical Montana nights they loved. She cracked the window to take in the autumn air and then bent and turned violently, grabbing her side. Trying to help, the man nearly lost control of the car before bringing it to a skidding stop.

  ‘It’s fine, dear. I’m fine,’ she said, trying to catch her breath.

  ‘I’ll take you home right away.’

  ‘No, I’m fine, really. I want to go out tonight. I want to go.’

  Over the last few days
she had felt so good and had been lulled into thinking the pain had been a dream. She wouldn’t think that again.

  A collective cheer rose as they walked through the doors of the Mint. The man had planned the party with Jack and Karen Bender who owned the Mint. They had decided to close the place for the night so everyone could celebrate thirty years of friendship. Everyone reminisced and throughout the evening he would look across the room to wherever she was and she would sense his eyes, would turn and smile back.

  People paired off and danced to the music coming from the old jukebox and for a moment they danced to the memory of a world that had once been young and had seemed for ever.

  Driving home she rested her head on his shoulder.

  ‘Tired?’ he asked.

  ‘No. I’m happy. Thank you for tonight.’

  He drove on, trying not to think.

  Pulling up the blinds, the morning light filled the room. She turned over and saw him standing there, holding a tray and grinning. She smelled the biscuits. The old man set the tray down and puffed up her pillows and then placed the tray over her lap. Next to the basket of biscuits was a jar of strawberry preserves from France. She picked up the jam and read the label as he moved to the other side of the bed.

  ‘Do you remember?’ he asked.

  ‘Oh yes. I remember the Ritz and I remember how we stayed in our room for days living on eggs, champagne, croissants and this glorious jam.’

  ‘I remember, too. It was perfect, wasn’t it?’

  They lay in bed talking about the years and how timing and chance had brought them together. They talked of the children they had tried for, but couldn’t have, and all the miles they had traveled together. They laughed more than cried and wished for others the lives they lived. They made love and slept.

  It was early afternoon when she rose. The sensation started as she walked down the stairs. At first it was nothing more than a mild spasm, but then, like a wave gaining speed, the pain crashed against her spine and she collapsed. He rushed up from the basement and held her until it passed. When she was ready, he helped her to her feet and they walked to the living room. He set her gently in the leather chair by the fireplace and then placed the old Indian blanket over her legs. With his back turned, he threw another log on the fire and quickly wiped tears from his eyes.