I opened it and read the name of the business silently. Hillcrest Women’s Clinic. Across the bottom, written in pen, was $265.00. Paid in Cash.
I fell back against the desk. The paper was heavy, and I wanted to lay it down. My hand grew hot, and I looked at Koy. Her eyes were red, borderline bloodshot. For a few minutes we stood in the quiet. She offered no excuses, I asked no questions.
After several minutes of silence, I whispered, “Are you okay?”
She nodded, smeared the tears across her cheeks, covered her eyes with her glasses, and walked out of my class. The only sound was the smack and slide of her heels on the old wooden floor.
I walked to the window and watched her open her car door and start the engine. She puttered off, and I sat down next to the window, wrestling with the weight of that receipt.
chapter twenty-two
I WEAR COWBOY BOOTS MOST ALL THE TIME. THEY’RE me. No, they’re not the most comfortable shoes ever made, but there’s something about them. If you ever start, you’ll understand. I grew up watching John Wayne with Papa, so my first pair of shoes was a pair of Dingo boots. Once I outgrew them, Papa had them bronzed and used them for bookends for Nanny’s cookbooks. They’re in the kitchen now.
Currently I have six pair, seven if you count my barn boots, and Maggie hates every single one. She only tolerates one pair, a pair of black Tony Lamas made out of Brahma bull hide. Good-looking. She bought them for me. The rest are a hodgepodge of whatever I could find on sale. They’re old and beat up, and most are in need of new soles. If she could, Maggs would pitch them all—or use them as pots for her plants. She’d prefer that I wear nicer “dress shoes” when I’m out in public, so I compromised and showed her the Tony Lamas that I had been eyeing.
Maggs can flare a temper when she wants. When she gets fed up or frustrated with me, it usually comes back to the boots. “Dylan Styles, you are not John Wayne. This is not a dude ranch, and you are not a cowboy.” Then she puts her hand on her hips and mutters to herself, “I married the Marlboro man.”
If I came home looking like the cover of GQ, or a model for Polo or Johnston Murphy, Maggs would have my head examined. Just ’cause a shoe fits does not mean that you wear it. You have to ask if it’s the shoe you want to wear.
The same goes with jeans. I wear Wranglers. The kind with the tab on the right rear pocket. Maggie can’t stand them. She likes Levis. I keep telling her that Levis are made for people with low waists and funky-shaped bodies. Wranglers are made for real people with real bodies—people who wear boots.
I bought Maggs a pair one day, rubbed some dirt on them to make them look worn, and then slipped them into her drawer. She was getting ready to go work in the barn and pulled them on without knowing it. She got them buttoned and made it all the way to the coffeepot before she squealed, “Dylan Styles! You sneak. What is this?” Then she tripped over her heel trying to get them off.
I convinced her to wear them, but it wasn’t easy. Now she only wears them when she’s cleaning out Pinky’s stall or working in her garden, but I did catch her going to the store in them one day. I didn’t say anything, though, because if I did, that would have been the end of it. She’d have taken them off right there and never worn them again. Sometimes it’s best to be quiet when you’re right.
That was about two years ago. They look pretty well worn by now, but I think if she was honest, which she’ll never be when it comes to those jeans, she likes them. They might even be her favorite pair. In my opinion, they fit her great. Lord, do they fit her. But she’ll never give me the satisfaction of admitting it. Funny how that works.
A WEEK HAD PASSED, AND MY FIB-FOUR OWED ME PAPERS.
Marvin walked into class first, sat down, and began blowing into his hands. “It’s cold as Siberia in here.”
He was right. Winter had come on quickly.
Just before the bell, Koy walked in and quietly took her seat. Glasses on.
I lectured on the need to comb one’s writing to get rid of filler and get the most out of one’s words—to find some happy medium between Hemingway and Faulkner. They were half listening.
Class ended, my foursome dropped their papers on my desk with ear-to-ear smiles, and everybody filed out.
“Koy, may I see you?”
She looked my way, took a few steps, then stood at my desk as the rest of class departed.
“Have you thought about what you’ll do when you leave here? Have you thought about getting a four-year degree?”
“Some,” she said, offering nothing further.
“Well, in case you do, I took a few of your works, specifically a few assignments and a few journal entries, and sent them to the chair of the English department at Spelman.”
“You did what?” she demanded, taking off her glasses.
“Koy, Spelman is a great school. It might be a good fit for you.”
“Professuh, that stuff is personal. I thought you said you wouldn’t show it to anyone.”
“You’re right. I did. I broke my word.”
“Professuh. Why? I thought I could trust you.” Koy put one hand on her hip, and her eyes filled with tears.
“Koy, you can trust me to believe in you. And I believe you have a gift. As it turns out, so does the chair of the English department at Spelman. This envelope explains that. Spelman gives a few writing scholarships every year to promising students. Scripps-Howard gave them a bunch of money, and it seems they want to give you some of it.”
She took the envelope from me and read the letter. Twice. “Is this for real?” she asked with disbelieving eyes.
“Every word,” I said, smiling.
Koy was silent for several minutes, reading and rereading the letter. Then, as if shot out of a cannon, she jumped up and kissed me square on the lips. “Oops, sorry, Professor. I didn’t mean to do that.” She kissed me on the cheek, grabbed her backpack, and ran out of class, screaming at the top of her lungs.
Two seconds later she ran back into the classroom, gave me a great big bear hug, kissed me on the cheek again, and disappeared. I heard her run across the lawn beneath my window and up to a group of girls crowding around the soda machines. After a few seconds of hysterical, noisy speech, they started jumping up and down, hugging her, handing the letter back and forth, and dancing as though they’d struck it rich in the Sierra Madre. I stood at the windowsill and wondered how long it’d been since I’d even felt like dancing.
chapter twenty-three
IT WAS FRIDAY, AND ONLY ONE WEEK OF CLASS remained. I slipped on my boots and whistled for Blue, who was chasing a jackrabbit down a corn row, and we hopped in the truck. I hadn’t been up to see Bryce in a few weeks. I needed to pay him a visit.
Bryce and I don’t ever talk about what happened with Mr. Caglestock. We never discuss investments or money or anything of the sort. I just check in on him.
I skirted town, passed the amphitheatre, rambled a few more miles, rounded the corner, and bumped the gate of the Silver Screen, which as usual was locked and chained. I left my truck and picked my way through the trees to the fence just like ten thousand kids before me.
On Friday and Saturday nights, that place used to be the center of the world of Digger. One side was Sodom. The other was Gomorrah. I pulled the fence up, Blue and I slipped under, and we hiked the drive to Bryce’s trailer. I’ll never understand, and it’ll never make sense. Bryce can afford to buy all of Digger, yet he lives in a trailer. At least nobody will ever say that he’s reckless with his money.
At the top of the hill, approaching the ticket booth, I heard somebody inside banging on something. After a few more whacks, Bryce appeared with a hammer, a screwdriver, some Liquid-Plumr, and a car battery.
“Howdy, Bryce,” I said, backing up.
Bryce took one look at me, said “Dylan,” nodded his head, and walked back to the shed next to his trailer. Any greeting other than my name and a nod would be excessive coming from him.
Bryce was actually dressed that day. Which
is always nice. Every time I climb that driveway, I prepare myself for the image of his naked frame. Not a pretty sight, but one you’d better be prepared to see if you’re going to come up here. Today, he was wearing cut-off fatigue shorts, a T-shirt that used to be white, combat boots, no socks, and apparently no underwear. The hole in the back of his shorts gave that away. But let’s praise progress where we see it. Boots were progress. The fact that they were laced up and almost polished was nothing short of miraculous.
“How’re you doing?” I asked.
Bryce walked into his shed, dug around for something, and began throwing odd tools and objects over his head. “Hand me that torch, would you, Doc?”
I handed him the flashlight, and he disappeared deeper into the shed. I don’t know how Bryce knows about my education. I’ve never told him, and we certainly don’t travel in the same circles. In the last eight years, I think Bryce has really only spoken to me, Maggie, and Mr. Caglestock. But one thing about Bryce, he may play the ex-marine out-there bagpipes-playing drunk, and he may be, but he knows a heck of a lot more than folks outside of his private hell give him credit for. Sometimes I wonder who’s crazy—Bryce or the rest of us?
He came out of the shed holding an enormous fuse and sweating profusely.
“What’s that for?” I asked. He had left behind all the other tools except the Liquid-Plumr, which was now looped through his belt and carried like a holster.
“Projector.” Bryce stomped past me in a perfect military march toward the projector house.
“Oh, I see.” Bryce had something on his mind, and no amount of conversation from me was going to distract him. “Well, then, what’s the Liquid-Plumr for?”
Bryce stopped, looked at the bottle hanging from his belt, and appeared to be thinking pretty hard. “Oh, that,” he said, and started marching again. “That’s gasoline.”
“What’s the gasoline for?” Sometimes you have to keep at Bryce.
“Well”—Bryce reached the projector house and began climbing the steps to the projector room—“if this fuse don’t work, I thought I’d set it on fire.”
“Oh,” I said. “Can I help with the fuse?”
“Nope.” Sweat was pouring off his forehead. His hands were dripping wet, and the chance of electrocution seemed pretty good. “I got it.”
It was apparent that Bryce had not been drinking that day. He was far too lucid. Which was good, but also bad. It made for better conversation but usually ended up in an explosion, a fire, or both. If he didn’t get some beer in him quickly, flames were a certainty.
Bryce slapped the fuse into a box on the wall and lifted the breaker switch. The projector reel turned, and Clint Eastwood appeared barely visible on the screen. He was lighting a short cigar and looking at the camera through squinted eyes under the brim of a weathered hat.
“Good, Bad, ’n’ Ugly,” Bryce said, pointing to the screen. “I was smack in the middle, when the ugly guy death-marches Clint into the desert. Then, whammo, the fuse blows and hacks me off something fierce.” Bryce spat. “Took me three days to find the second reel, and then the fuse goes blowing on me. That really chaps my hide.” Bryce rubbed his fingers along the handle of the jug hanging from his belt.
“Yeah,” I said. “I can tell.”
“Well, how ’bout a beer?” he asked.
“No, thanks,” I said, holding out my hands. “I’m on my way to town. Just wanted to say hi.”
Bryce looked at me out of the corner of his eye. “Well, if you change your mind, Rio Lobo is showing tonight.”
Rio Lobo is a John Wayne classic and squarely positioned in my top five. Bryce knows this. He must have wanted some company.
“Thanks,” I said, nodding my head. “Blue, too?” Never assume anything with Bryce.
Bryce looked at Blue, nodded affirmatively, and marched back toward his shed.
AT THE HOSPITAL, EVERYTHING WAS NORMAL. IF YOU CAN ever call a hospital normal: people walking around in white coats, poking needles in other people, or cutting them open and either putting something in or taking something out. Don’t get me wrong. I’m all for hospitals, but think about it. In what other environment do we allow strangers to do the stuff they do to us at hospitals? Where the words “drop your shorts” or “take your clothes off” are not perverted or sexual, but routine? Everything from sawing the top of your head off to checking your prostate to removing a cancerous lump to inserting silicone in a breast. If a Martian came to earth, he’d have a lot of questions about hospitals.
Blue walked with me to Maggie’s room and jumped up on the bed with her. He licked her face and hand, then curled up next to her feet. A nurse I did not know walked by, stuck her head in, eyed Blue, and was about to say something, but I gave her a look, and she quietly disappeared. They had quit bugging me about Blue weeks ago.
Maggs’s hair was combed, her sheets and socks were clean, the window shades were pulled to half-light, and Blue’s bed was unfolded and spread in the corner. On the table was a cup of crushed ice. Not for Maggie, obviously. For me, the habitual ice chewer.
Amanda again. Nothing gets past her. How does a girl, almost nine months pregnant, working the night shift, with ankles swollen to the size of grapefruits, do all this? I don’t get it.
I sat next to Maggs for an hour or so and brought her up to date. I told her the latest about Bryce, the farm, and class, and as I did, her breathing sped up. Her lips tightened and then relaxed. It wasn’t labored or fretful breathing, but excited breathing. I told her, “Semester’s almost over, and DJC hasn’t fired me yet. Some of my students are starting to write pretty well.” I looked out the door toward the nurses’ station. “Amanda has come a long way, and this other girl, Koy, has a real gift. A born writer. My football players? Well, they’re just like me when I took that class.”
Her breathing skipped, the right corner of her mouth quivered, and her right index finger pointed and then relaxed. Blue laid his head across her leg, and I continued holding her right hand with my left.
“They turned in their term papers almost two weeks ago, so we’ll be busy this week. I gave them a few days off to work on their last assignment. Some of them deserve it. Others, well . . . ”
Maggs and I sat in the quiet, and I watched her chest rise and fall with every breath. Her breathing was quiet, but deep, and her nostrils flared with each rise of her chest. She has a beautiful nose. I patted her stomach, which, the doctors say, has healed, and rolled my chair down to the end of the bed to put cream on her feet. Her nails were immaculate. I rubbed her feet, slipped her socks back on, and slid my hand beneath hers. Her right index finger flexed again, and this time it didn’t relax. I sat a few minutes watching her finger. Her breathing sped up, and her forehead wrinkled. After a few minutes, her finger went limp and breathing slowed. I looked at her face, and the wrinkle had half disappeared.
I’m a shower person myself, but not Maggs. She has a thing about baths. If we could afford the hot water, she would soak for hours, draining and refilling the tub several times. Maybe it’s a woman thing. I went into the bathroom off Maggs’s room, shut the door, ran some warm water into the sink, and soaked a washrag until it was just north of lukewarm. Then, careful not to disturb her IV, catheter, or the plethora of electronic nodes, I bathed Maggie. I don’t know if that’s right or wrong; maybe I just wanted to see and touch my wife. Whatever it was, I know that if the roles were reversed, I’d want her to do the same for me. I’d want my wife’s hands on me. I’d want to know she was there, thinking about me, and her hands could tell me that better than anything else she might do.
Every afternoon the physical therapy team, made up of two nurses who look as though they ought to be teaching an aerobics class, spends thirty minutes flexing and stretching Maggs’s limbs. Sort of like an involuntary yoga class. Their purpose, while good, is to slow the inevitable atrophying of Maggs’s muscles.
My purpose was a bit different. I just wanted her to feel my touch and know I was right there, ho
lding her. “Maggs,” I whispered, leaning my nose against her ear, “you can wake up anytime you want. Even if I’m not here. You can wake up anytime.”
I toweled her dry and kissed her forehead on the wrinkle, and her finger flexed around mine again, like a promise. I stroked her hand, her finger relaxed, and Blue and I tiptoed out the door.
I SPENT THE AFTERNOON WORKING ON THE TRACTOR, which really needed Bryce’s Liquid-Plumr. Not to start it, but to set it on fire. Late in the afternoon, the mailman came and left me a nice present in the form of the property tax bill.
Sundown arrived and found me idling back from the river on the tractor, pulling a trailer full of wood. I had cut a load, not because Jim Biggins had failed to provide his yearly supply, but because the weatherman said we would need all we could find. I stacked it outside, showered, and the moon reminded me of Bryce, so I grabbed my coat and headed out.
Blue and I slipped over and under the fence and found Bryce sitting in a beach chair, watching Rio Lobo and surrounded by empty beer cans.
“Hey, Doc. Have a seat.” He threw a can of Old Milwaukee at me.
I chuckled. Why in the world a man that rich would buy beer that cheap just killed me.
Bryce stood, stumbled a little, grabbed a rusty beach chair, spread it for me, set it next to his, and then threw me another beer. I had yet to sip the first one.
It was early in the movie, and the Duke was buying a drink for two Confederate soldiers just released from a Union prison. Bryce held his beer high, garbled something inaudible, ended it with, “ . . . John!” and chugged whatever was left in the can. He tossed it behind him, popped another top amid foamy spray, and then sat back comfortably.
The Dead Don't Dance Page 17
