Jack and Susan in 1933

by Michael McDowell

  Leaving Scotty and Zelda on the shore of the lake, with strict instructions neither to go into the water nor to eat anything they came across, Susan went into the general store.

  It was one of those places that carried everything you’d need if you were being hunted down for a murder you didn’t commit and anticipated spending eighteen months in a mountainous desert wilderness.

  But Susan hadn’t come to that point quite yet.

  All she needed now was someone to drive her on to her cousin Blossom’s ranch, five miles away.

  Someone could indeed take her there, Susan learned, for ten dollars.

  She started to protest, then realized that the alternative to this abject bilking was to walk the distance. She made a feeble objection to the price, however, just because she imagined everyone did, and she did not want to be remembered by any eccentricity of behavior.

  She had to wait two hours for the woman’s son to come back with the truck. The vehicle had no doors, and no seat beside the driver’s, so Susan was forced to jounce around in the rusty, filthy truck bed with Scotty and Zelda. She and the dogs coughed in the dust and exhaust fumes.

  Being a fugitive had very little to recommend it, Susan decided. In fact, the only thing that could be said in favor of her flight was that it fortuitously coincided with her residency requirement for a divorce from Harmon.

  The thought suddenly occurred to Susan’s sun-baked brain that she might well be riding through land that she herself owned, and she looked around with more interest. This desert was drier, hotter, emptier, and less inviting than she had ever imagined, even when told it couldn’t be sold for the price of the negligible taxes on it. Just the sort of land that she would own, she decided.

  Finally the truck neared the ranch, which was nestled in a flat stretch of land between two jagged spurs of a desolate-looking mountain. It looked, actually, as if a conscious act of God had been required to prevent the Excelsior Ranch from being buried beneath a landslide of rock from above. It was noon, but every building in the ranch was in deep shadow. Cooler, perhaps, than what she’d just been driven through, but rather like a sickroom in the tropics with all the shades drawn. Not exactly a cheerful shadiness.

  The Indian let Susan off at the gate, and she had hardly gotten her bags off the back, and gathered up Scotty and Zelda, before he drove off again. She had wanted him to wait until she had at least made certain that Blossom was still running the ranch, and this idea seemed the pinnacle of prudence a moment later, when a woman ran screeching out of the largest building on the property, screaming, “You criminal!” and firing off both barrels of a shotgun by way of exclamation points.

  Susan’s heart sank, thinking that she’d been discovered here and would be arrested even before she’d had the chance to wash the dust from her face.

  But then it became clear—when the woman with the shotgun fired not at Susan or her dogs, but at the fast-retreating truck—that the opprobrium of criminal had been delivered not to her but to the Indian in the doorless vehicle.

  “How much did those thieving McAlpines charge you?” she demanded suddenly of Susan.

  “Ten dollars.”

  “I’ve shot both doors off that Indian’s truck. Next time I’ll get him, and when I’ve done that, I’m going to pick off his mother.”

  “Are you Blossom?” said Susan, who’d never met her cousin.

  “I am. Blossom Mayback. And you should have let me pick you up in Reno. I go in twice a week, at the least. I wasn’t expecting you till tomorrow.”

  Susan realized Blossom assumed she was one of the divorcées who’d made reservations on the ranch.

  “No, you weren’t expecting me at all,” said Susan.

  Blossom was a tall, thin, angular woman, about forty. She wore men’s jeans, boots, and a patched blue shirt. There was a family resemblance, and on the whole, Blossom Mayback looked about like what Susan had always imagined her brother would look like if she’d had one.

  “Well, there’s always room for one more,” said Blossom, and scooped up both Scotty and Zelda, and rubbed their noses against her cheeks.

  “I’m Susan,” said Susan. “Susan Bright. Your cousin.”

  Blossom stopped and stared at Susan. Pressed against Blossom’s cheeks, the dogs were absolutely still and silent, as if they feared that this peculiar maneuver might yet turn into a new sort of punishment.

  “Then I don’t have to welcome you,” said Blossom with something strange in her voice—repressed anger, disappointment, fear. “Since you own this place.”

  Susan realized suddenly what her cousin was thinking.

  “Oh no, no, I’m not here to take over, or anything like that—”

  Blossom said nothing.

  “I’m here to ask for your help.”

  That was the right note to have struck. Blossom wasn’t the sort to like asking for favors, or to be indebted, but she was always ready to do someone else a good turn. Blossom was even more pleased when she didn’t get recompense for this largess. Susan knew this by instinct. Her own mother had been that way.

  “Are you in trouble?”

  “Yes,” said Susan. “Fairly serious trouble, if you want the truth.”

  “Well then, you’ve come to the right place,” said Blossom, “but let’s get you inside before these two perish of the sun.”

  The Excelsior Ranch, née Dirt Hole Farm, consisted of one principal building with an office for Blossom, fourteen chambers for overweight women in the process of divorcing their husbands, a dining room, and three baths. The low old-fashioned kitchen was entirely separate, and was presided over by a fat Indian woman and her fat seven-year-old son. A new building, well off to the side, had two bedchambers and a bath. One of the chambers was occupied by Wesley Goff, a rather anemic-looking, yellow-haired man from Worcester, Massachusetts, who was designated the ranch overseer. Wesley looked the type to be much more at home as a fitter on the fifth floor of Macy’s than he did in this remote desert area of Nevada. And in fact, most of the heavy work at the ranch was done by Colleen, a brawny young woman with flaming orange hair and a perpetually burned skin. Colleen shared the larger chamber with Blossom, and neither woman seemed much to mind the inconvenience. In yet another building were the twin Indian sisters who did the cleaning, spoke only to each other, and seemed to have nothing to do with anyone but themselves. There were stables with a dozen horses, most of them as tame as Scotty and Zelda. An old storage house had been turned into a gymnasium. Here, with the most rudimentary of athletic equipment, Colleen put the divorcées through their paces. “Shed weight while you shed a mate,” Blossom said to Susan, “that’s what I tell ’em.”

  Blossom installed Susan in her best room, and after Susan had bathed and changed her clothes, she invited her cousin in. Susan sat on the edge of the bed, and Blossom leaned against the windowframe. Outside was the corral where three pale fat women rode around and around in a circle, while Wesley stood in the middle and gossiped with Colleen.

  “Talk quietly,” Blossom warned, “for the walls are thin, and the inmates are curious creatures.”

  Susan had debated how much to tell Blossom. She needn’t have troubled her mind. She was too weary for anything but the truth, so she told it as best she knew how, beginning with her poverty after the Crash, not sliding over her decision to marry for money, her worry that she’d led Marcellus on, nor her unintentionally falling in love with Jack. She told of all the difficulties that had come after and ended with her seeking refuge and anonymity at the Excelsior Ranch.

  Telling the truth was the right thing to do.

  If Blossom didn’t entirely understand, she didn’t make judgments. Her only question was: “But if you didn’t murder the man, why are you running from the police?”

  Susan stared. “I don’t know. I probably look even guiltier now, don’t I?”

  “Yes,” Blossom said. “I would think so.”

  Susan considered the issue for a moment, then recanted. “No, I’m not
running from the police, actually. I came here because Jack told me to come here. If he thought there was a good reason I should hide myself away, then I’m assuming that I’m doing the best thing.”

  “That’s a fair amount of trust to put into the son-in law of the man who was murdered.”

  “He’s also the lawyer of the man who’s divorcing me,” Susan said, “and I trust him even after that.”

  “You’re probably right to trust him, because I know already that you’re no fool. And don’t worry, I’ll keep you here safe enough,” Blossom said. “We’ll give you a new name, and tell some story about you. I’ve heard enough of ’em that I don’t doubt I can come up with something plausible. Even though Dirt Hole Farm won’t be as exciting as Reno, you’ll have company, and not bad company either.” She laughed. “Up until three days ago we had a Russian princess here—”

  “A Russian princess?” echoed Susan, startled.

  “Princess Something Unpronounceable hyphen Something More Unpronounceable. I don’t know if she’s real or if she’s bogus, but however that is, she still works behind the linen counter at some place called Wanamaker’s. You know it?”

  “Yes, and I think I know the princess, too. She tried to kill me last night.”

  “My, you do lead an interesting life, don’t you Susan?”

  Blossom laughed, but then suddenly she appeared troubled. “A friend of the princess’s is arriving tomorrow.”

  “Oh no…” Susan’s heart sank.

  “Beauregard, was it?”

  “Beaumont,” said Susan miserably, and she wasn’t a bit surprised.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  “IT CAN’T BE A coincidence,” Susan said dismally after she’d explained to Blossom that Barbara Beaumont, expected tomorrow, was the woman in the world Susan wanted most to avoid.

  “It must be,” Blossom argued. “She made the reservation three days ago. That was before you decided to come here.”

  “Actually,” Susan corrected morosely, “it was even before I knew I didn’t have anywhere else to go. When I was just a plain old future divorcée rather than a future divorcée suspected of murder.”

  “Maybe she knows we’re cousins,” Blossom suggested.

  “The only person I told about you is Jack, just before I left for Nevada. Maybe he told her. It’s perfectly like Barbara to go a fair distance out of her way simply to annoy one of my few living relatives.”

  “I’m eager to meet Mrs. Beaumont. She sounds like a piece of work.”

  “There’s no one to stop her from coming?”

  “No telephone here. No telephone at Pyramid either. I suppose I could drive into Reno and stop her…”

  “That would be suspicious-making,” said Susan.

  “Then she’ll be here in the morning,” Blossom warned, “arriving by private car.”

  “If she comes here, I have to leave,” said Susan with a sigh. It was getting even harder to be a fugitive. “Do you have any idea of where I might go?”

  “You can stay here,” said Blossom. “We’ll just tie Mrs. Beaumont to a chair for six weeks.”

  Susan for a moment looked horrified, and then she realized that Blossom was joking. “I’d love to see Barbara tied to a chair for a few days, but I think it would constitute kidnapping.”

  “Susan, what I do to these women probably constitutes slavery and torture anyway, but there is a way for you to stay on here without the woman getting suspicious. There’s a cabin a mile or two from here, and it’s not near any of the trails we use. There’s not much to it, but Colleen and I fixed it up a little, and sometimes when these females get to us, we’ll say we’re going in to Carson City to pay our taxes, and we hide out there.”

  “No chance Barbara will run across me there?”

  “Is she the sort who crawls up rocky slopes that a mountain goat would turn up his nose at? Does she like places without running water or electricity—”

  “I’ll be safe,” said Susan.

  “Colleen and I will take you up there this afternoon—don’t want Jack’s wife showing up ahead of schedule and catching you here. One of us can stay the night with you if you like—it’s pretty lonely out there.”

  “You’re very kind,” said Susan. “I can use a little kindness right now.”

  Blossom laughed. “You do own this place, you know, and you’ve never asked for a penny out of me for it.”

  “But all the work is yours,” said Susan. “I had no right to ask you for anything.”

  Blossom shook her head. “Well, if you don’t go to the chair, and you don’t get to marry your lawyer, then you know you’ve always got a home. Even if you don’t want to stay here with us, I’ll make sure you get a portion of our profits here.”

  “Oh no, Blossom—”

  “Don’t thank me yet. The profits aren’t much, but what do I have to spend the money on? Even if those thieving McAlpines in Pyramid had something I wanted, I wouldn’t give them the satisfaction of paying them for it. It’s just Colleen and Wesley and me here, and there’s plenty to take care of us. We can take care of you and still not go without.”

  Susan discovered she was weeping.

  Blossom pushed away from the window, sat down beside Susan on the bed, and laid that weeping head tenderly on her angular breast.

  “You ride well,” said Colleen admiringly.

  “I’m surprised,” said Susan. “It’s been many years, and of course this isn’t a bit like the Myopia Hunt Club.”

  Blossom led the way on her horse. Susan followed. Colleen brought up the rear. Blossom’s and Colleen’s horses were loaded with supplies, and Scotty and Zelda trotted along happily behind. They seemed to like this place, but perhaps they only mimicked Susan’s mood, and Susan had already decided she liked this place very much.

  “What will those women think—the ones who saw me come and leave so quickly?”

  “I’ll tell them you made a mistake and thought that the Club Excelsior was for putting on weight instead of taking it off.”

  Colleen laughed heartily behind her. “That’ll make ’em swear!”

  “That is very strange,” said Susan, a thought occurring to her suddenly.

  “What?” asked Blossom, glancing over her shoulder.

  “Barbara is as thin as I am. There’s no reason for her to come here.”

  “Which means,” said Blossom, “that Mrs. Beaumont does know I’m your cousin.”

  “And she probably expects me to show up here.”

  “Don’t worry,” said Colleen. “I don’t care if it was Eleanor Roosevelt and the Queen Mother who was arriving here to find you out—Blossom and me’ll protect you.”

  The sun was lowered already behind the Pyramid Mountains, and their horses picked their way among the rocks in the purple shade. The way was so rough and winding that it seemed a distance much greater than a mile or two from the ranch to the isolated cabin. Even for Susan’s fear of discovery, the place seemed sufficiently out of the way.

  “We’re almost there,” said Blossom, and her voice echoed off the rocks. She turned sharply into a deep canyon cut in the side of the mountain.

  Susan’s horse followed into the canyon, which was in even deeper shadow. It was already evening here. Susan felt as if she were going between the ribs of a gigantic skeleton. The canyon made a sharp turn, and just beyond the turn was a low cabin fashioned half of stone and half of dark planks. It was pushed up against the rocks, and had two small four-paned windows, a narrow door, and a roof of corroded metal.

  Susan had seen places just like it in western movies. It was the place where murderers took refuge from their relentless pursuers.

  As the three women dismounted, Scotty and Zelda ran forward and took up places on either side of the door, as an earnest display of the protection they intended to provide Susan in this out-of-the-way place.

  “It’s not Park Avenue, you two, is it?”

  “We done the best we could to fix it up,” Colleen began in disappointed
apology, “but I know it ain’t what—”

  “Oh no, no,” Susan cried. “That’s not what I meant at all. I’d rather be here— much rather be here than on Park Avenue, and I’m sure these two would as well.”

  By the way they wagged their tails, it looked both as if the terriers understood and agreed.

  Inside was what the outside promised. Once Colleen had lighted the kerosene lamp, Susan saw a back wall of stone, with exposed stone and planks for the other walls. Two narrow hard cots. A hearth that served for heating and cooking. An open cupboard with cooking utensils, some crockery, a box of cutlery, and a shelf of books. A closed cupboard for storage of food. Two shotguns leaning in the corner. Some old-fashioned prints nailed to the wall—innocent children, gamboling pets, dewy-eyed actresses of the previous generation, and several signed photographs of current film stars.

  “I write to ’em,” Colleen said, blushing, “and they send me their pictures, for nothing.”

  It was better than a penthouse on Park Avenue.

  “No,” said Susan, “please don’t think you have to stay with me.”

  “You might be frightened,” Colleen protested.

  “This place isn’t any lonelier than the house in Albany—and as long as I have Scotty and Zelda to keep me company and frighten away the wolves—”

  “It might be better if we did get back,” said Blossom. “Don’t want curious people asking where we spent the night, do we?”

  Susan stood in the doorway and watched them mount their horses. It was dark now. Inside, the kerosene lamp cast a soft yellow glow over the cabin. Colleen had built a fire in the hearth for warmth, certainly, during the cold desert nights—but it also burned for comfort.

  “Take my horse back,” Susan said.

  “That really leaves you here alone,” said Blossom. “Could you find your way back to the ranch?”

  Susan nodded. “But I’ll be all right. Taking care of myself in New York for two years was probably a great deal more difficult than this is going to be.”