Keep the Change

by Thomas McGuane

  “No,” said Astrid, “we’re going now. Were you serious about that dog?”

  “What next!” said Joe without taking his eyes off the screen.

  “May I see you a moment, Joe?” Astrid stood in the doorway to their bedroom. Ivan studied the backs of his fingernails in the open front door, buffing them occasionally on his left coat-sleeve. Joe met Astrid in the bedroom and she shoved the door shut. She gave him a long look and took a deep breath.

  “Let me tell you something, sport,” she began, “you don’t fool me with this tasteless display we’ve just witnessed.”

  “I don’t.”

  “No, you don’t.”

  “What sort of display would have struck you as less tasteless?”

  “A sincere remark or two about your plight. A word of hope that you’ll come to life soon. Your life.”

  “All whoppers!”

  “I’m just gonna step back, and let you choose.”

  She went out the door. Joe followed her. Ivan was still in the same spot. When Joe went over, Ivan deployed his hand as a kind of handshake option, Joe’s choice. Joe shook.

  Ivan and Astrid went into the night. He heard them call the dog and when he saw the lights wheel and go out, and he knew the dog was gone, he at last realized how blithely things were being taken away from him. He went to bed and contained himself as well as he could, but the pillowcase grew wet around his face.

  His sleep produced the need for sleep, for rest, for deep restoration from this masquerade of sleep in which all the tainted follies had opportunity for festivity and parade. He had Astrid in his arms and his inability to distinguish love and hate no longer mattered because she wasn’t there in the light of day.

  33

  The cool spell passed and it was hot again. Joe was going to take a good long look at the white hills. He was going to start at the beginning. He got in the truck and drove toward the drought-ravaged expanses east of town where the road looked like a long rippled strip of gray taffy; on the farthest reaches of the road, looking as small as occasional flies, were the very few vehicles out today. Dust followed a tractor as an unsuccessful crop was plowed into the ground. Joe could picture the cavalry crossing here, following the Indians and their ghost dogs. Sheep were drifted off into the corners of pastures waiting for the cool of evening to feed. Ribbed cattle circled the tractor tires that held the salt. Old stock ponds looked like meteor craters and the weeds that came in with the highway gravel had blossomed to devour the pastures. It was neither summer nor fall. The sky was blue and the mountains lay on the horizon like a black saw. A white cloud stood off to one end of the mountains. In a small pasture, a solitary bull threw dust up under himself beneath the crooked arm of a defunct sprinkler. The thin green belt beneath the irrigation ditches contrasted immediately with the prickly pear desert that began inches above. The radio played “Black roses, white rhythm and blues.” Astrid used to say, “I thought Montana was so unlucky for you. I can’t understand why you want to go back.” And he had said with what seemed like prescience and laudable mental health, “Yes, but I’m not superstitious!” And she’d said, “Wait a minute. You were pretty clear on this. You said it was unlucky for you and it was unlucky for everybody else.”

  Joe said, “That’s my home!”

  He stopped the truck at the bottom of a long, open draw and walked for almost an hour. At the end of that walk, he reached the gloomy, ruined, enormous house that he had long ago visited with his father, the mansion of the Silver King, a piece of discarded property no longer even attached to a remembered name. It was a heap out in a pasture and if you had never been inside it the way Joe had and felt in the design of its chambers the anger and assertion of the Silver King himself, the mansion didn’t look good enough to shelter slaughter cattle until sale day. Grackles jumped and showered in the lee of its discolored walls and the palisade of poplars that led from the remains of the gate seemed like the work of a comedian.

  Joe walked to the far side of the building and sat down close to the wall out of the wind. The mud swallows had built their nests solidly up under the eaves and wild roses were banked and tangled wherever corruption of the wall’s surface gave them a grip. Concentric circles in the stucco surrounded black dots where stray gunfire had intercepted the building, adding to the impression that it was a fortress. Joe thought about how his father’s bank had repossessed the property. His father was gone—even the bank was gone! He was going to go in.

  A piece of car spring in the yard made a good pry bar, and Joe used it to get the plywood off one of the windows, leaving a black violated gap in the wall. He made a leap to the sill, teetering sorely on his stomach, then poured himself inside. He raised his eyes to the painting of the white hills.

  Joe walked across the ringing flags to get a view of the picture. He could feel the stride the room induced and imagined the demands of spirit the Silver King made on everything. Such people, he thought, attacked death headlong with their insistence on comfort and social leverage. It was absolutely fascinating that it didn’t work.

  But the painting was still mysterious; it had not changed. “The only painting I’ve ever understood,” said Joe’s father after he had showed it to his son. “Too bad it’s fading.” The delicacy of shading in the overlapping white hills, rescued from vagueness by the cheap pine frame, seemed beyond the studied coarseness Joe’s father leveled at everything else.

  It was a matter of dragging an old davenport across the room and bracing it against one corner of the fireplace. He stepped up onto one arm, then to its back and then up onto the mantel. He turned around very slowly and faced the wall, to the left of the painting. By shuffling in slow motion down the length of the mantel he was able to move himself to its center.

  There was no picture. There was a frame hanging there and it outlined the spoiled plaster behind it. It could have been anything. It was nothing, really. Close up, it really didn’t even look like white hills. This of course explained why it had never been stolen. Joe concluded that no amount of experience would make him smart.

  His father must always have known there was nothing there. The rage Joe felt quickly ebbed. In his imaginary parenthood, he had begun to see what caused the encouragement of belief. It was eternal playfulness toward one’s child; and it explained the absence of the painting. It wasn’t an empty frame; it was his father telling him that somewhere in the abyss something shone.

  34

  He was driving a little too fast for a dirt road, tools jumping around on the seat of the truck and a shovel in the bed beating out a tattoo. He was going to see Ellen, sweeping toward her on a euphoric zephyr. He knew how intense he must look; and he began doing facial exercises as a preparation for feigning indifference. The flatbed hopped across the potholes. Antelope watched from afar. “Hi, kiddo,” he said. “Thought I’d see how you were getting along.” He cleared his throat and frowned. “Good afternoon, Ellen. Lovely day. I hope this isn’t a bad time.” He craned over so he could watch himself in the rearview mirror. “Hiya Ellen-baby, guess what? I’m gonna lose that fucking ranch this week. YAAGH!” A sudden and vast deflation befell him and he slumped in the front of the truck and slowed down. When he got to the schoolyard, the children were gone and Ellen was walking toward her old sedan in her coat.

  She saw Joe and walked over toward him. She said, “Well, what do you know about that?”

  “I wanted to see you,” said Joe.

  “Here I am.”

  “Have you been thinking?”

  “About what? My phone bill? My cholesterol?”

  “Your phone bill.”

  “I think about it every time I lift the Princess Touchtone to my ear. Incidentally, my husband and I are anxious for you to know how happy we are to have worked everything out. I realize I’m kind of repeating myself. But it seems we have to do that with you. Joe, I don’t want to be this way.”

  “Can we take a short drive?” Joe asked.

  “How short?”

&nbs
p; “Five minutes.”

  “I guess it can be arranged,” said Ellen and climbed in. Joe noticed how closely she followed the rural convention of going from an amorous interest to a display of loathing; in the country, no one broke off an affair amicably. Ellen looked out at the beautiful fall day, directing a kind of all-purpose disgust at falling aspen leaves. This was the sort of thing Astrid never put him through.

  Joe drove back toward town and quickly approached its single stoplight; he was heading for the open country to show her the white hills, both the painting and the ones beyond, and explain enough about his life that he could, if necessary, close this chapter too.

  “Where are we going?” Ellen asked in alarm. “Stop at this light and let me out.” The light began to turn red. Ellen tried the door handle. Some pedestrians had stopped to look on. Joe ran the light. Ellen pushed the door open and shouted, “Help!” and Joe hit the gas. The bystanders fluttered into their wake. He watched in the rearview mirror as they started to go into action.

  “We’ll just take a little loop out toward the Crazies and I’ll drop you back at the school. What in God’s name caused you to yell that?”

  “I wanted to be dropped off. Joe, you have to learn to take hints a little better than you do.”

  “I’m going to show you something and we’re going to talk.”

  “About what? My husband and I are back together. We have resolved our differences. We’re happy again. We’re a goddamn couple, got it?”

  “Why did you lie to me about Clara?”

  She studied him for a moment in a shocked way. Then he saw she wouldn’t argue.

  “Billy and I had hit this rough spot in the road.”

  “I still don’t follow you.”

  “It was Daddy’s idea actually. He had worked it out on the calendar. I have to admit, it wasn’t that far-fetched. But he’s got that big bite missing from his ranch and he kind of put two and two together.”

  “You ought to be ashamed of yourself.”

  “Whatever.” She turned to him suddenly. She made little fists and rolled her eyes upward. “You don’t need to understand me. Billy knows everything there is to know about me, and he loves me.”

  Joe wished he had time to think about this. She had a point. It was about lives that were specific to each other. It wasn’t about generalities. It wasn’t about “love.” “Love” was like “home.” It was basic chin music.

  Joe drove along slowly, as though adding speed would only substantiate the appearance of kidnap. Since he was pouring with sweat, he now merely wished to add a few amiable notes and get Ellen back to the schoolyard. This had all turned into something a bit different from what he had hoped for. At that very moment, he began to realize how much he wished he had Astrid advising him right now. She would say something quite concrete like “Hit the brakes” or “Don’t do anything stupid. That way nobody will get hurt.”

  “Here they come,” said Ellen.

  “Here comes who?”

  “Look in the mirror.”

  A small motorcade had formed a mile or so back; a cloud of dust arose from them and drifted across the sage flats. Joe picked up speed but couldn’t seem to widen the gap. Perspiration broke out on his lip. “Are you going to clear this business up with that mob, if they catch us?”

  “Let me get back to you on that,” said Ellen with the faintest smile. Ellen had become so strange. It was more than indifference—it was a weird fog. He imagined her thinking how badly she wanted to get shut of this jackass and back to the husband and daughter she loved. This perception reduced Joe’s account to virtual sardine size. He felt too paltry to go on taking the wheel.

  He flattened the accelerator against the floor. The truck seemed to swim at terrific speed up the gradual grade toward the hills. A jack rabbit burst onto the road ahead of them, paced the truck for fifty yards and peeled off into the sagebrush. Nothing Joe did seemed to extend the distance between himself and the cluster of vehicles behind.

  “Have you been doing any fishing?” Ellen asked.

  “I really haven’t had the time.”

  The truck skidded slightly sideways.

  “Somebody said there’s a Mexican woman staying with you.” So that was it. A bird dove at the windshield and veered off in a pop of feathers.

  “An old girlfriend,” Joe said candidly. “It’s a very sad thing. She couldn’t stick it out. She’d had enough, and she was very patient in her own way. If she’d lied to me more I’d be with her today.”

  Ellen mused at the rocketing scenery.

  “I’ve got a teacher’s meeting in Helena,” she said wearily. “On Tuesday. That’s another world.”

  “Who will substitute for you?”

  “An old lady who doesn’t make the kids work. It makes me look like a bum.” Somehow, Joe got the truck into a wild slide going down a steep grade into a gully. The truck turned backward at about sixty miles an hour. “This is really making me moody,” said Ellen. They plunged into a grove of junipers and burst out the other side in a shower of wood and branches. Some of the foliage was heaped up against the windshield and it was a little while before Joe could see where he was going. The vigilantes were still bringing up the rear in a cloud of dust. One of them dropped back, a plume of steam jetting from the radiator.

  It was hopeless. He couldn’t outrun them in this evil, weak farm truck. All he wanted was a brainless chase that could last for weeks. He stopped, backed and turned around. Deadrock was visible in the blue distance. The machines advanced toward him. “You’ve really got a bee in your bonnet,” Ellen said.

  “Shut up, you stupid bitch, you rotten crumb.”

  “I see,” said Ellen. “The idea being that I got you into this?”

  Joe said nothing.

  “After the big rush, I am now a ‘stupid bitch.’ This may be the first serious conversation we’ve had since we met. Are you telling me that it is possible I could mean more to you than pussy or golf lessons? Let’s have it, Joe. I could actually rise in your esteem to the status of ‘stupid bitch.’ Oh, this is romantic. I had really misjudged the depth of feeling around here. And I’ve gone back to my husband when I could have enjoyed these passionate tongue-lashings.”

  At the approach of massed cars and trucks, Joe just stopped. Twenty vehicles wheeled all around them and skidded to a halt, dumping a small crowd of armed civilians, the State Farm agent, a mechanic still in his coveralls, a pharmacist in a white tunic of some kind, a couple of waitresses. They were still pouring out and a few guns had been displayed, when Ellen threw open her door and cried, “This is all a terrible misunderstanding! It was supposed to be a joke!” She climbed out of the truck. One of the mechanics, in coveralls and a gray crewcut that showed the crown of his head, came to the truck and held a gun to Joe’s temple. Joe looked over to see Billy Kelton emerging from a Plymouth Valiant he should have recognized. “A complication,” Joe said. “Here comes Billy.”

  “Son,” said the man in the crewcut in a startlingly mild voice, “this is where she all comes out in the wash.” Joe had a sudden feeling of isolation as Ellen walked over and joined her husband at a distance from the cluster of people and vehicles. Billy shoved her away from him and began to walk toward Joe’s truck. Joe wondered what the shoving meant, in terms of a margin of safety, of an exploitable ambiguity.

  “That’s Billy,” said Joe’s guard. “He’s getting ready to have a fit.”

  “What’s he going to do?”

  “Do? He’s going back to Vietnam!”

  The mechanic smiled like a season ticket holder. The blood beat in Joe’s face. Joe thought that was the time to grab the gun but he just thought about it with a kind of longing, knowing he wouldn’t have any idea what to do with it.

  Billy came over with a bakery truck driver at his side, a blond-haired man with long sideburns and an expression of permanent surprise. “Something to tell the grandchildren, ay?” Billy said to the mechanic. “Get him out for me, would you?”

>   The mechanic opened the door and dragged Joe out. He and the man from the bakery held his arms, shoving him up against the car. Billy got so close, Joe could only focus on one of his eyes at a time. But it was enough for Joe to recognize that Billy didn’t have his heart in this. Twice he had punched Joe years ago and apparently that was enough. “Time is hastening, Joe. You need to cut it out.” Billy turned and spoke to the others. “You guys can go.” They hesitated in their disappointment. “Go on,” he said more firmly. They began to move off. “The show is over,” he said, making what Joe considered an extraordinary concession.

  “Is that it?” asked the mechanic.

  “That’s it,” said Billy without turning back. “Ellen, take my car back to the house.”

  “He really didn’t do anything, Billy.”

  “Probably not. Just go on back now with Vern and them.”

  Ellen moved away from them. A breeze had come up and the clouds were moving overhead rapidly. The air was cold enough that the exhaust smell of the vehicles was sharp. Billy turned to Joe once more. “We’ll just let Ellen go on back to town with Vern and them. If she goes, they’ll all go. They’re upset because they couldn’t lynch you. You and your family sure been popular around here. All them boys banked with your dad.”

  “Which one is Vern?” asked Joe without interest.

  “Fella with the flattop.”

  “Oh.” Joe’s eyes drifted over to Vern, who was returning reluctantly to a car much too small for him. Joe couldn’t see how he could even get in it. But he elected not to report this impression.

  “Let me drive,” said Billy, opening the door to get in. Joe slid over.

  “The keys are in it,” Joe said with a sickly smile.

  Billy was wearing old levis and wingtip cowboy boots nearly worn through on top by spur straps. He smiled at Joe and started up the truck. Joe could see that the cars and trucks which had followed them were almost out of sight now. As the various members of the community who had come out to help returned to town in their cars, something went out of the air. Joe said, “I saw on the news they’re having a potato famine in Malibu.”