Thalia

by Larry McMurtry

  “You’re just tight,” I said. “You oughtn’t to let a few dollars stand between you and your health.”

  “I am tight,” he said. “I’m rich, too.”

  “You don’t live like it,” I said.

  “No, because I want to stay rich. The best way in the world to get poor is to start living rich.”

  I couldn’t do a damn thing with him. He kept on working, day in and day out, warm or cold. And the thing was he wasn’t much help any more, only he didn’t seem to notice it. I was doing nine-tenths of the work, and it kept me busy and worn out and tired. It was just miserable old hard cold work, no fun to it, like loading cake and hay and feeding cattle and building fence and all kinds of winter work like that. I’d been home three weeks before I ever seen Molly.

  But then she come over to see me one day and cooked us supper, and I guess she seen right off how Dad was. I think it worried her, but she was real cheerful that day and never mentioned it to me. But she started coming over two or three times a week and cooking for us. Sometimes she even got there in time to ride a pasture with me, or help me with the chores. It was real good of her to come; I was crazier about her than I had ever been. I was pretty lonesome anyway, and worn out and worried about Dad, and it was awful nice to have somebody warm like Molly to be with once in a while. But no matter what I said or how I said it, she wouldn’t marry me.

  “I know you want me to, Gid,” she said. “But it might be bad if I did. You might be sorry you ever asked me,” she said.

  “That ain’t true,” I said. “I wouldn’t be.”

  She thought a minute, and grinned, but a sad grin. “Then I might be,” she said. “That would be just as bad.”

  One night after Dad had gone upstairs to bed we sat by the fireplace awhile, and we got to talking about him. Molly was the best person there ever was for sitting by the fire with. Every time she came over we got off by ourselves a little while, and those were about the only times I got unwound.

  “You better make him go to the doctor,” she said. “If you don’t, I think he’s going to get real sick.”

  “He’s too damn contrary,” I said. “He just won’t go.”

  “Don’t talk bad about him,” she said. “He’s a real good man. He treats me better than anybody I know, you included.” I don’t know what that had to do with it, but it was true. Dad always let Molly know he thought she was about tops.

  “I don’t reckon he’ll die,” I said. “You don’t, do you?”

  She hugged me then. “He might, Gid,” she said. “He’s just getting sicker and sicker.”

  I thought that over for a while and it really scared me. I couldn’t imagine Dad not being around to give the orders. Even sick he was just as active as he could be, and never missed a thing. It was hard to think of Dad being any other way than alive.

  “Dad couldn’t keep still long enough to die,” I said. Neither one of us thought it was funny, though.

  “I sure am glad my dad’s healthy,” she said. “I guess he’ll live to be a hundred. If he was to die, I think I’d just plain go crazy.”

  “I don’t guess anybody lasts forever,” I said. “Funny thing, I’ve always been sure Dad would outlive me. I just never thought of it any other way.”

  We sat for a long time, thinking about it. But I couldn’t believe it would happen. I guess I knew it had to sometime, but I just couldn’t believe it. Not even in my brain.

  “Well, if he’d just quit working and set around and rest up a little,” I said. “I think he’d get all right. He stays on the go too much.”

  She shook her head. “That ain’t his trouble. I think that’s good for him. If your dad had to die, I’d want him to do it working, wouldn’t you? Just to go on working till it happens. That’s all he loves to do. If he was to sit around in a rocking chair, he’d get to feeling useless, and that’d be worse than being tired.”

  I kissed her and we sat on the couch for another hour or so. I meant to ride her home, but I was too tired, and she wouldn’t let me.

  “Much obliged,” I said. “Come back whenever you can. We sure are glad to see you.”

  “Why, I enjoy it, Gid,” she said. “Next time Dad goes off I’ll come over.” When she rode off into the wind it reminded me of Johnny, up there on the plains. I missed having him around.

  LIFE IS JUST a hard, mean business, sometimes. Here we were worrying about my dad, and three days after we had that conversation Molly’s own dad staggered into his smokehouse drunk, looking for some whiskey, and picked up a jug of lye by mistake and drank a big swallow of it and it killed him. He never even got out of the smokehouse. Eddie and one of his cronies was over there at the time; he had been drinking with the old man, and he went out and found him. It was a windy, dusty evening. And the first thing Molly said to me when I got there was, “Well, Gid, my poor old daddy never lived to be a hundred after all.” And she just about did go crazy that night.

  It was the end of any respect I ever had for Eddie White. I guess he was just scared of dead people. Anyhow he sent his damn oil-field crony over in the car to tell us. Dad had gone to bed, and I didn’t wake him. I left a note on the kitchen table, where he’d see it in the morning. And then I saddled up and got over there on the run, and when I got there Eddie and his buddie were just driving away. I don’t know where they were going in such a hurry, but they left Molly by herself with her dad, and there wasn’t no excuse for that, drunk or not. I rushed in and she was in the kitchen, bawling her head off—she didn’t even know Eddie was gone; the old man was dumped on a bed in his bedroom, with just a quilt thrown over him. I never mentioned Eddie and she never either; maybe she was so torn up she forgot he had been there.

  She wanted me to do something for her daddy, clean him up a little; but she didn’t want to go in the room with me and I didn’t want to leave her by herself for fear she’d get to taking on agin. I made her drink some coffee, and I got a towel and wiped her face and kinda dried her eyes, and then we washed the dishes. There was a lot to wash; I guess she had cooked supper for Eddie and his friend. Washing them calmed her down some. When we had the kitchen good and clean I made her hold the lamp while I went in and straightened the old man out the best I could. He looked terrible, and I didn’t know a thing about what I was doing, but I got his boots off anyway, and got him wiped up some and laid out and covered up neater than he had been. It was a mistake for Molly to come; it made her sick at her stomach. She vomited in the bedroom first, and then I carried her to the bathroom and held her head while she finished emptying her stomach. She was awfully white and shaky. I walked her down to the bedroom and made her take her clothes off and put her nightgown on and get in bed, and she laid there and cried while I went back and cleaned up in the bathroom and the other bedroom. Then I left the lamp on the kitchen table and got in bed with her. She thought some people might come; she thought Eddie must have gone to tell some, when she remembered him. But I didn’t expect him to tell a soul that night, and he didn’t.

  “But what will I do, Gid?” she said. “You know I can’t do without Dad.”

  “Hush, sugar,” I said. “Let me just hug you tight. Let’s don’t talk for a while.”

  And I did hold her. For maybe half an hour her eyes were wide open and she was stiff in the bed, but then she got warm and relaxed and her eyes shut and she was asleep. I stayed awake just about all night, holding her, and she never moved or turned over till morning. She was lucky to be able to sleep, I thought. She was so helpless, in a way. And when it got light and she woke up I was watching her and still holding her. I saw just as plain as day when she remembered what had happened, and I thought she would get bad again, but she never. She looked real serious and then she pulled my head down and kissed me and got up and put up her hair standing by the bed, and she never cried at all until later that morning, when Dad and the other people begin to come.

  Fifteen

  DAD FINALLY DID GO TO A DOCTOR, IN FACT HE WENT TO five of them, but he had be
en right all along. They never done him no good. One of them kept him in the hospital for two weeks, though, and that threw ever bit of the ranch work on me. It was around the first of April before I got Johnny off a letter, and then I never said much.

  DEAR JONATHAN:

  I know you love that name so much I thought I would just use it on you.

  Well, how was the winter up there? I guess you have got a family of half-breed kids by now, or did that deal ever turn out? Let me know, I am sure curious.

  I guess the big news down here is about Molly’s old man. He drunk lye last month and died, it was awful hard on Molly but I think she is over the worst of it now. She is getting sweeter all the time, and I mean it, I think I am going to get her in the notion of marrying me one of these days, then when you come back you will really know what you’ve missed. But I guess you will bring your Indian sweetheart home, so you won’t mind too much.

  Eddie is acting sorrier than ever, I may have to fight him yet.

  Well, I wish you would come home, we could sure put you to work, we might even give you a raise. Our steers wintered good but the calf crop is pretty puny. If we don’t get some rain the grass will all play out by June.

  I guess that’s all the news I know of. If you see Old Man Grinsom, say hello for me and ask him if he thinks I can ride or not. I have got a new sorrel horse by the way, he can foxtrot like nobody’s business but he ain’t no cowhorse yet. He’s just a four-year-old though. I give thirty-five dollars for him.

  Write me sometime and send me the news from New Mexico.

  Your friend,

  GID

  I guess old Johnny must have been sitting at the table with his pencil licked when he got my letter, because I got one from him in less than a week’s time.

  DEAR GID:

  I would use the rest of your name too, but I ain’t the kind that has to get even with ever mean trick that’s played on me.

  Well, this is the life for me, and I don’t mean maybe. This place I’m at is the rancho grandy for sure, there ain’t no damn mesquite to get in your way, but I do kinda wish it had a few more windbreaks in it. It like to blown us all away in Feb. and March, them was just fall breezes you got when you was up here. Jelly, she made a big wool bandanna to keep my neck warm.

  Jelly ain’t her real name, but that’s what the boss called her so I use it too. He wasn’t kidding when he said she was pretty. Boy I never would have made it through the winter without her.

  Well, tell Molly I’m awful sorry about her trouble. I’m just sorry for her, I ain’t gonna miss the old bastard personally, are you? I wish I had been there though.

  If you do fight Eddie, don’t let him get the first lick. Get the first one yourself, with a two-by-four if one’s handy.

  I ain’t losing no sleep over you and her getting married, I know she ain’t that far gone.

  We had quite a bit of snow in early March, never had much before that. It’s all the moisture we’ve had. This here ain’t a very big ranch, really, and it’s a good thing because there’s just me to take care of it. The coyotes have got six calves so far, I even seen one Lobo but didn’t get a shot at him. There ain’t a decent horse on the place.

  Well, write me agin. I like to hear the news. I may come home one of these days if I don’t get lost in the sandstorms. Tell Molly I’ll be seeing her.

  Your friend,

  JOHNNY

  Sixteen

  WE HAD A GOOD RAIN IN EARLY FEBRUARY, AND IT looked like that would be the last we’d ever have. We never had a sprinkle in March, and by the middle of April the pastures were looking like they usually looked in July. It never helped Dad’s disposition, or mine either. We had to feed the cattle, and it was such hard, hot work Dad just couldn’t do it. Between the dry weather and Dad being sick, I wasn’t in a very good humor.

  One morning I run into Eddie. I was down in the River pasture, feeding. The cattle could hear me well enough, but it was hot and they didn’t want to come to the wagon. I hollered around for an hour and only got sixty-five or seventy. I was just about to go ahead and feed them when three damn floppy-eared turd hounds come loping up through the brush, barking like hell. The cattle took off in about ten different directions. I got down and chunked the dogs and went on and got most of the cattle back together agin, and I’ll be damned if the dogs didn’t come up and run them off agin. My horse was tied to the back of the wagon, so I got on him and took my rope down and went after some dogs. I didn’t rope them, but I whipped the shit out of two of them. The other one was too much of a dodger. When I was trotting back to the wagon, coiling my rope, I seen Eddie slouching across the flat. I might have known they was his dogs; nobody but him had time to run hounds that time of year. He had on an old khaki jumper and some patched pants and some roughnecking boots and looked like he hadn’t seen a razor in about ten days. Both of us were mad.

  But I didn’t start off unfriendly. “Howdy, Ed,” I said.

  “Goddammit, Fry, that ain’t no way to treat dogs,” he said. “No telling where they are now. I been looking for them all morning, and now I got it to do over agin.”

  “I’d been after these cattle they run off a good while, myself,” I said. “I guess the dogs will come home when they get hungry, won’t they?”

  “But maybe I don’t want them home,” he said. “I might want to hunt some more.”

  “Listen here,” I said. “I don’t give a plugged nickel what you want, if you’re asking me. But what I want is for you and them dogs to get out of this pasture. And the next time they scare off cattle of mine they ain’t gonna get off so easy. Next time they’re gonna get the shit drug out of them.”

  “I’m a notion to whip your butt, right now,” he said.

  I got off my horse.

  “Have at it,” I said. “I hope you brought your lunch. You may need it before you’re through.”

  “Aw, hell no,” he said. “Then I’d have to carry you to the hospital. But let me tell you, you got one coming. Write it down in your little book.”

  “Don’t wait till I get too old,” I said.

  “Another thing,” he said. “Stay the hell away from my wife. I don’t even want to see you on her place.”

  “Stay away from your what?” I said.

  “My wife!” he said. “Just leave her the hell alone.”

  It was like lightning had hit me, only not fast lightning but a real slow bolt that slid all the way down me. By the time it got to my feet I was plumb numb. I couldn’t have said boo.

  “Why, you look surprised,” he said. “I guess that shows you, now don’t it. You and your long-legged buddy, too. Hell, we been married three weeks, and she’s a real dilly. Me and her we really take after one another. I never had a woman so crazy about me.

  “Well, ain’t you gonna congratulate me?” He winked and grinned.

  I got back on my horse and went on back to the wagon, and he went off after his dogs. A good many of the cattle had come back, and I fed them.

  THAT AFTERNOON I went out with the posthole diggers and the wire stretchers, but I didn’t do no fencing. I went down to the far tank and sat under a big shade tree, watching the mockingbirds and the killdeers fly around. There were a lot of bubbles on top of the water; I should have fished. I just couldn’t understand Molly doing it. I wouldn’t have cared if lightning had struck me. There didn’t seem no reason left to work or nothing. I got to wondering if I would ever see her agin, and I couldn’t think what I’d say if I did. There wasn’t no clouds to look at, just water and sky, so I watched the water awhile and then I watched the sky. I didn’t do much thinking; I just sat there feeling tight and sick. About sundown I rode home. Dad noticed there wasn’t no dirt on my diggers, but he was tired too, and he never said nothing about it. We had cold steak and cold potatoes for supper, and I made the coffee too weak. It wasn’t such a good supper.

  Seventeen

  IT LOOKED LIKE THE WORLD WAS GOING COMPLETELY TO pot. Dad was getting worse instead of better, a
nd three or four days after I found out about Molly I got another letter from Johnny.

  DEAR GID:

  Well, I’ve got so much time to kill now, I thought I would write you again. I have been in a real scrape, it’s what I get for riding sorry horses, I ought to know better. I was off riding line and my horse buggered at a damn skunk and off I went, only I got caught in my rope and he drug me about half a mile. I guess I am the most skinned-up person you ever saw. Besides, my hip was broke, and I was about ten miles from home; it was a pretty hard crawl, I tell you for sure, I was out lost all one night. If it had been cold the coyotes would have ate me by now.

  Jelly she got me into town and now they got me cemented up so I can’t turn over. It’s pretty tiresome, so don’t ever break no hips if you can help it.

  The horse come in, so I ain’t lost the saddle.

  These doctors are no-count, they give me a lot of trouble. I guess it will be June before I’m worth anything agin.

  Wish you was up here, we could play some cards and talk over old times. Write me when you get time and let me know all about Molly and you dad and what’s happening down that way. I ain’t had much news lately.

  Your friend,

  JOHNNY

  So he wasn’t having no luck, either. I didn’t know what to write him, all the news was so bad. I wished I could have gone up and stayed with him like he done with me, but it just couldn’t be managed. Finally I wrote him a note.

  DEAR JOHNNY:

  We are all sorry to hear about your trouble, that’s a cowboy’s life. I would come and stay, only Dad’s pretty sick now and there ain’t nobody but me to run the ranch.

  Molly has married Eddie, I guess that’s the end of that. I haven’t seen her. He is too sorry to talk about.

  We haven’t had no rain, either.

  I wish you would come on home when you get well, we could sure use a good hand.

  Your friend,

  GID

  Dad was looking low. I would have given anything to talk to Molly about it, but the times when I could talk to her were over and gone. I did go in and see Mabel Peters a time or two. She was a nice old girl, but she wasn’t much help. She was after me to marry her, and I was half a mind to. I didn’t see how I could be no worse off than I was. At least we’d have somebody to do the cooking and the housework. I wanted to hire somebody, but Dad wouldn’t let me.