Bull Head

by John Vigna

  “Sentence me, baby. Give me life.” Ricky pulls out another fiver and drops it next to her. She smiles and grabs Ricky’s head, smothers his face against her chest. He gives the thumbs up and men yell, raising their drinks in the air. She pushes Ricky away and turns to Lonnie; with a pout, she reaches to touch his bad eye with her fingernail. Interception. Lonnie freezes; her face softens. He jerks his head back, stands, and marches across the bar to the door marked GENTS.

  The toilet is empty, quiet. Back in the bar the men chant, “Shower, shower, shower.” Ricky’s voice croaks above the rest.

  Lonnie looks into the mirror, examines the black and purple bruise spreading outward, thinning into jaundiced yellow. Another week and it will fade. He scrubs his hands with a cracked, filthy bar of soap. His gold wedding band is buried in the flesh of his finger, but grazes him when he splashes water on his face; he wants to drag the edge of it along his skin, scrape his face into something grotesque. Lonnie stands back from the mirror and sucks in his belly, pulls up his pants, cinches his belt a notch, but it only hurts his hip and makes his stomach look larger when he inspects his profile from the side. “You’re not fooling nobody, lard-ass.” He pinches the doughy folds of flesh, jiggles them in his fingers, imagines slicing them off to give himself the flat washboard look he convinces himself he once had when he was younger. “All Out of Love” starts again near the end of the song, an encore; the men roar and slam tables. Lonnie pulls his shirt-tails out and swings the door open.

  Ricky waves a rolled-up poster at the waitress, points to his shooter glass, and raises two fingers. The stripper meanders between tables, leads a grey-haired man by the hand. Just a salesman, not a real working man, Lonnie decides. Her red satin housecoat pulled tight at the waist, she carries a bundle of clothes and her blanket, handcuffs dangling from her fingers. She offers Lonnie a weary smile. He stands aside; his butt pushes against the chair backs.

  “See you around.” She brushes past him. The old man follows, raises his eyebrows in a conspiratorial glance. They wind their way through the bar toward a doorway marked NO ENTRY. She shoulders the door open, pulls the man in, and bumps the door closed with her hip.

  Lonnie joins Ricky, grips his shoulder. “Sorry, bud, gotta go.”

  “What? Duos are next.”

  “See you in a few days.”

  “What the hell, big guy? I got shooters coming.” Ricky taps Lonnie’s stomach with the poster. “Christ, she’s got you by the short and curlies.”

  Lonnie raises a fist as though to punch him. Ricky doesn’t move.

  “Hit me.” They bump fists. “Later.”

  Lonnie glares at the men sitting behind Ricky. One of them lifts his bottle and sneers. “You have yourself a good night.”

  He leaves through the back, passes the NO ENTRYdoor. At the edge of the parking lot, two does graze on pine needles, lift their heads, and scamper into the trees. He climbs into his rig, lights the diesel, reaches for a pack of bubble gum, unwraps two pieces, and pops them in his mouth to mask the stink of beer. He starts the engine, slips the truck into gear, and begins the hour-long drive home.

  The fresh tang of summer dusk rushes through the cab window. The sky a dark sepia film, two ravens swim over the road, land on the shoulder and hop off into the ditch as Lonnie’s truck rumbles toward them. He drives east along the Crow, built on the dry bed of the Elk River, cutting through the once sacred land of the Kootenai. Narrow valley bottoms crowded by the granite billows of sharp mountains. The sun drops off the horizon behind him, casts shadows over the eastern hills. These mountains are his home, not Dani’s. She came to ski, and like many others, did not leave after the snow melted and the prairie crocuses sprouted up. As he clears the tunnel, Bull Head Mountain comes into view, towers over town, the postcard-perfect shadows showing a Kootenai Chief and his daughter on horseback, legend has it, chasing another man. It gives Lonnie the creeps each time he sees it.

  He pulls up on the patch of dirt in front of his boyhood home. Spackled siding with shards of broken glass mixed in; faded porch boards in need of paint. The curtains are drawn, but the living room light is on. Next door, Johnson waters his garden, the embers of his cigarette glowing in the darkness. A glass of homemade plonk sits on top of Lonnie’s low fence.

  “Long day?”

  “You know it.” Lonnie stands at the rotting fence, careful not to lean on it. Another item on his long to-do list of repairs around the house. “We’ve been hauling near 120 Mile, Top of the World.” Johnson’s black and tan barks, strains against a short, frayed rope tied to the porch. The water dish lies upside down. Fresh mounds of dug dirt stack against the side of the house. Lonnie catches a whiff of dog shit.

  “Cutting that far back now, huh?” Johnson shakes his head. “Hell, we used to cut near the front of the valley. The trips short and sweet. I’d get five or six in a day, take a dip in the hot springs and still be home for dinner and a tumble in the sack. Those were the days.”

  A lanky blond boy carries a stack of fresh poplar limbs into Johnson’s house. Lonnie considers what he’d use them for, too green to burn. Another boy sits on the ground, pushes a dump truck back and forth, scoops shovelfuls of mud into the back of it and then tips it out. The third boy stands beside Johnson’s leg, tugs on his belt loops.

  “Hi, little fella.” Lonnie reaches to tousle the boy’s hair, but he turns away. The dog barks.

  “Goddammit, shut that mutt up.” Johnson turns to the boy, smacks him on the head. “Where’s ya manners?” The boy stares at Lonnie. “They’ll be the death of me,” Johnson says. “Starting with her.” Johnson nods toward his wife coming up the alley. She’s heavy and bloated and carries two garbage bags rattling with empty cans and bottles. A small boy drags his feet behind her. “It’s a race I got no chance of winning.”

  The dog pulls at its rope, its barks turn into high-pitched yips. Dani was right: the wife is pregnant again. Her theory that Johnson keeps getting her pregnant so they can collect child allowance from the government to supplement his disability cheques seems about right. Lonnie nods, but her face remains passive as she walks past them and enters the house. The little boy next to Johnson runs in after her.

  “Jesse, shut that goddamn dog up.”

  Jesse pushes the toy truck, dumps another load of mud, and kicks the truck on its side. He slaps the dog’s head with a plastic shovel. The dog yelps. Jesse lifts his shovel again. The dog cowers and whimpers.

  Johnson crushes his cigarette against the fence and slides the butt into his cigarette pack. He takes a long guzzle from his glass. “I want to show you something. Gimme a minute.”

  While Johnson disappears inside his house, Lonnie studies Johnson’s greenhouse, brightly lit, but covered with a thin black screen, making it difficult to see the leafy plants growing inside. Johnson has told Lonnie he grows tomato plants, but they don’t smell like tomatoes. He comes out carrying a rifle, glances up and down the alley, cocks the lever-action.

  “Check it out. 1892. Modelled after the gun that won the west.” Johnson lifts it to his shoulder and aims down the alley. He pushes the rifle toward Lonnie. “Go on, take it.”

  “That’s all right. It’s a fine looking gun.”

  “C’mon. Try it. She pulls a bit to the left but she’s honest. A real collector’s piece.” Johnson offers it with both hands. “Careful, she’s loaded.”

  Lonnie takes the rifle. It feels lighter than it looks, makes him anxious, as if it could go off at any moment and change the course of his life. But what makes him more nervous is the knowledge that his neighbour stores a loaded gun in a house with a pregnant wife and five boys. That would be a deal breaker for Dani. If she found out, they’d have to move out.

  “It’s yours. Hundred bucks.”

  Lonnie shakes his head, hands the rifle back to Johnson. “I better get home.”

  “I’d do the same if I had a pretty little lady like yours. Eighty.”

  “You don’t understand. It’s not the mo
ney.”

  “A hundred then. It’s still a steal. I know you’re good for it.” Johnson picks up his bottle and crosses the alley. “Sleep on it.” He raises his glass and enters his house.

  Lonnie walks across the yard, opens the door to his truck, slips the gun behind the back seat, covers it up with his Storm Rider, and climbs the front steps of his porch.

  Inside, the house is warm and smells of chili. A wooden spoon rests against a plate next to the stove. He kicks off his boots, lifts the lid, sniffs, picks up the spoon and digs into the pot, blowing on the chili to cool it before taking a mouthful. An empty wine bottle sits on the countertop next to the toaster and coffee maker. He reaches inside the pot to get another taste.

  “Don’t stir with that spoon.” Dani startles him, leans against the doorframe.

  “I thought you were upstairs.” He drops the spoon in the sink.

  “You know I don’t like it when you leave things in there.”

  “Sorry.” He rinses the spoon and puts it in the dishwasher.

  “Where the hell have you been?” She steps into the kitchen and rests against the counter, clenches her wine glass. Her brown eyes are narrow and steely; her dark hair wet, pulled back in a tight ponytail.

  “I lost track of time.”

  “Where were you?”

  “Out with Ricky.”

  “Where?”

  “C’mon. It’s Ricky. At the bar.”

  “The titty bar?”

  “We had a beer after work.”

  “Jesus, I only ask one thing of you. One fucking thing.” She smacks the fridge door with her palm.

  “I only had one beer.”

  “I don’t care if you had ten. You’re so selfish, you know that?” Her voice wavers. “Do you have any idea how many of those women are abused, hooked on drugs? How can you sit there and watch them?” She wipes her eye with a knuckle.

  “Sorry.” He steps toward her.

  “You make me sick. Don’t touch me.”

  “It was just a beer. You know how Ricky gets.”

  “No. How does he get?”

  “Listen, it’s been a long day. I left him behind and rushed home. Let me fix you a drink.” He uncorks another bottle of wine, fills her glass.

  “You can be such an asshole.”

  “I know. I know.” He massages her neck and shoulders.

  “How’s your eye?” She strokes the swollen skin below his eye with the pads of her fingers. Her touch feels strange, comforting.

  “Makes me look like a bad-ass.”

  “Things have been so crazy at work lately.”

  “I know.”

  “It looks a lot better.” She kisses his ear, whispers, “Does it hurt?”

  “It’s fine.”

  “Forgive me?” Her voice vibrates low in his ear. She nibbles on his earlobe, tugs it.

  He wants to believe that she’s turned a corner and, once the pressure of her work subsides, she’ll be more like the woman he married three years ago. He nods. “Sure.”

  She pulls away and holds out her glass for him to refill, and when he does, she grabs a bowl from the cupboard and places it on the counter. “You better eat. Morning’s coming fast.”

  II

  The next day at Canal Flats, after he makes the first of three long hauls and waits as the loader plucks trees from his trailer, Lonnie writes a letter. His pen scrawls over the sheet of paper, a desperate man’s scratchings.

  His last personal ad went unanswered, but Ricky encouraged him to write another, and although he hadn’t seen the letter, Ricky teased that it had been too serious, filled with too much horseshit. “You gotta stand out, man. Like a black wolf or a one-legged man in an ass-kicking contest. A guy with a patch over his eye, something. Make women take notice of you.”

  Now Lonnie tries to write something true about himself, something light.

  Robust Romeo Seeks Shapely Juliet:

  I’m a 34-year-old, overweight underachiever on the verge of giving up on love. I have short black hair and dark brown eyes. I pray when I need help and I’m embarrassed to say that I own a Bible but proud to say I haven’t read it because frankly, it bored me to death when I tried. Guess I’m going to hell. I’m somewhat athletic, or at least was. Now I sit on my butt all day and super-size my meals. I use Dial soap and sleep with my feet outside of the covers.

  I drink but don’t smoke and I’m not very good at being around strangers. Most of the time I’m lonely and moody. Plus, I’m married. She once loved me but now loathes me. Despite my spare tire, trucker butt and secret love of donuts, I’m what you might call a good-looking homebody.

  He re-reads the letter, folds and slips it into an envelope, addresses it to The Free Press. After the logs are unloaded, he drives to the general store in Canal Flats for a stamp, two cans of cola, a candy bar, and a large bag of potato chips. He slips the letter through the mailbox slot and begins the long drive to Top of the World, taps his fingers on the steering wheel, dips into the bag of chips between his legs.

  III

  Later in the week, after he drops off the last load of logs, Lonnie stops to check his post office box. He parks his rig behind Tamarack Mall, climbs down, and ambles past rusted low-ride sedans and shiny pickup trucks with dual rear tires.

  He walks along the row of shops—Chatters Hair Salon, Sunshine Video, Saan. In Suds & Duds, he is startled to see the stripper standing in front of a washing machine with a young boy who holds a basket of laundry. She wears loose navy blue sweatpants short on the calf, tennis sneakers, an oversized sweatshirt. Her hair is tied up.

  She helps the boy stuff some dark clothes into the washer, dumps in a capful of liquid detergent, digs through her pockets for change. She’s shorter than he remembered. Lonnie notices her anklet. When she glances toward the window, he freezes. They lock eyes for a moment before he turns away, scans the parking lot, kicks at the ground. He looks up again. She’s immersed in a celebrity magazine. Her son slouches in a chair next to her with his arms crossed. Lonnie considers walking into the laundromat to pretend he’s waiting for his laundry, buy a candy bar from the vending machine, casually strike up a conversation with her. But there’s the grime on his jeans and hands, his suspenders, his sweat-stained ball cap. Instead he hurries into the card shop and checks his postal box. Empty. He leaves and stops in at the Overwaitea, buys two packages of steaks, a can of corn, four large potatoes, and a box of tampons for Dani, and rushes past the laundromat without lifting his head.

  IV

  The lights are off when he arrives home. Next door, the Johnson boys hammer boards together in the shape of a small dog kennel; Johnson shouts at his wife inside the greenhouse.

  Lonnie closes the door and sets the groceries down on the counter. “Dani?” He kicks off his boots and climbs the stairs. “Hello?” Sits on the edge of the bed, peels off his wool socks, unhooks his overalls, unbuttons his shirt.

  He turns the shower on and steps into the tub, draws the curtain behind him. Runs a bar of soap under his armpits, over his drooping chest, jiggles the flesh beneath each breast, pins his shoulders back to stretch the skin. Dani’s right. Man boobs. He tries to recapture the stripper writhing on the blanket in front of him. Her legs spread open, her hairless skin, the way she touched herself, covered her crotch with the palm of her hand, her smile penetrating him. He tugs himself a few times but remains limp. Lonnie turns off the shower, towels himself and wipes the fog from the mirror. The bruise gives him a tough look, one he admires. “I’ll kick your ass.” He pivots away, then toward the mirror. “I’m not kidding. I’ll kick your ass.” He presses his finger-tips on the sore bone beneath his eye, slides his finger along the length of it so the pad of his finger touches the lower part of his eye. He sucks in his stomach, sticks out his chest, squints into the mirror, punches the air in front of him. “What are you gonna do about it, huh?” His stomach hangs over his groin like a shaggy meat skirt. Lonnie turns away from his reflection and exhales with resignation. The
door opens downstairs. He dresses and hurries down to meet Dani.

  “Hey. How was your day?” He leans toward her, but she turns away, slips out of her jacket, sets down her backpack.

  “Messed up as usual.”

  “Hungry? I’ll get dinner started.”

  She looks at him for a moment. Her face is ashen, whipped. “Jesus, is that all you think about? Food?”

  “I just got home. These long hauls are killing me.” He takes the steaks out of the fridge, unwraps them, and seasons both sides with salt and pepper. Blood leaks around the edges.

  “I suppose you stopped in to see Ricky?”

  “I picked up the groceries, came straight home.”

  “Like I believe you.” She looks in the cupboard. “Don’t tell me you forgot to pick up wine? I spend the afternoon at the hospital with a woman who’s got a couple of broken ribs, whose husband still has the kids. This is so messed up.”

  “What?”

  “Nothing. Jesus. Get with the program.” Her fists hang clenched at her sides.

  He reaches to hold them. “Come here.”

  “What’s wrong with you?” She yanks her hands away.

  “I’ll just be a minute.” He picks up the steaks and turns for the door.

  “I’m pregnant.”

  He stares at the blood seeping from the meat and sets down the plate. “What? How?”

  “Wrong thing to say.”

  “Sorry. I’m just a little surprised.”

  “You don’t sound happy.”

  He knows this voice of hers too well, the defiance and disdain in it. He tries to remember the last time they slept together. A few months ago after one of their fights. She’d discovered the newspaper with his check marks beside bachelor suite rentals. She’d been deep into the wine and came into the guest room, slid in next to him naked except for a pair of cowboy boots. She pinched the folds on his stomach, slurred, “Let’s start a family.” She got on her knees and faced the wall in the dark, her palms flat against it, and told him to ride her, cowboy. He pressed himself into her and began to stroke, the slap of his belly mocking him against her bottom. She twisted her head around and told him to give it to her harder. He closed his eyes, imagined she was the young woman he’d seen at the roadside 3 & 93 Dairy Bar, and ground into her, grabbed her boot heels, wheezed and gasped, lost in his own world, oblivious to her beneath him. Dani begged him to slap her and pushed herself back against him so that they lost their rhythm. She leaned her face against the wall, reached behind, dug her hands into the flesh of his buttocks and pulled him into her again. But he couldn’t finish. He remembered waiting for daylight to break into the room, listening to her finish herself off next to him.