Bull Head

by John Vigna

  Hops sneers.

  I nod. Her face is pale and her eyes are lost in dark shadowed hollows. Her throat moves when she swallows.

  I slip out of bed and get dressed. My mouth is stale with spit and cheap wine; the bedside lamp glows. I walk around the cabin careful not to bump into anything and check out the paintings, but they are too big, too obvious. Search her desk, snatch a cluster of paintbrushes, set them down.

  The Bride sleeps on her side, the sheets twisted around her body. Her thin breasts sag toward the mattress. Her stomach hangs loose in a wrinkled paunch. On the table I locate her purse, grope around in it, find a wad of crisp fifties, slip them into my pocket. She turns onto her stomach. I notice her stretch marks, realize she’s some kid’s mother, and feel disgusting. The cat is nowhere to be found.

  Dawn breaks across the sky, splashes the mountain peaks with a scarlet glow. A couple staggers along the sidewalk, flags me down. I turn off my overhead light, speed past them. The man shouts, the woman flips me the finger. I whiz through the streets with the windows down; the rush of cold air washes out the cab.

  The door to Linda’s suite is unlocked. I turn on the shower and use her toothbrush to brush my teeth. Her necklace lies on the counter with her makeup. I try to wash the Bride off me, spit out the toothpaste, gulp down hot water from the showerhead. I shampoo my hair and take the loofah hanging from the shower and scour my body until it tingles and burns. I rinse myself, stand for a long time under the hot water, then turn off the taps, towel dry, and clean my teeth again before sliding into bed. Linda shifts, mumbles, “How’s work?” I hold her close, anxious that my body might betray me, whisper, “Busy night.” My chest rises and falls against her back, and I focus on breathing slow, wait for sleep to come. I get a flash of the Bride, on her hands and knees, her cheek pressed against the wall, my fist clenching her hair. I feel myself stir next to Linda and press hard upon her. She doesn’t move. I kiss her shoulder, but she doesn’t move. I hold her tight, terrified that if I let her go, she’ll drift away.

  Hops grabbed the girl’s hand and spun her around a couple of times. “Nothing like a good slow waltz.” He winked at me.

  “Stop it. You’re making me dizzy,” she said.

  He pushed her down on the couch.

  “It’s dirty.”

  “We gotta get back to work,” I said. The quad buzzed in the distance.

  “Shut your trap.” Hops ripped her T-shirt up over her head, tossed it to the side. He squeezed her plum-sized breasts through a small bra.

  “Ouch. You’re hurting me.”

  Hops twisted her bra strap, snapped it, laughed. “Off,” he said.

  She shook her head. He grabbed her hand and rubbed his crotch with her palm. “Gross. Stop it.” She pulled her hand away and began to cry.

  “Let’s get out of here,” I said.

  The next day I find Travis at the golf course sitting outside the clubhouse on the patio overlooking the eighteenth hole patio. A Bloody Caesar sits on the glass table. The trees have turned, their golden leaves brilliant flares against their white trunks. Elk bugle in the distance; their shrieks float across the neatly clipped greens and fairways. Travis lifts his head. He wears sunglasses, his dark hair dishevelled. He reaches for his glass and holds it up. “Hail, Caesar.”

  “You look like shit.” I feel refreshed as if the events of last night occurred last year. I’m good at forgetting quickly. I’ve had plenty of practice.

  “Cheers, buddy-boy.”

  “To the Bride.” I raise my glass.

  Travis lowers his sunglasses. His eyes are bloodshot, weary. “Tell me you’re joking.”

  I slap down the money I grabbed from her purse. “Drinks on our mutual friend.”

  “That’s seriously cold, man.”

  “Pay up.”

  Travis chuckles. “Well, well, you’re just full of it today, huh? Good for you. It’s better than seeing you drag your ass around like some sad sack.”

  I lean back in my chair. The Lizard Range holds snow to the tree line and soon will be coated in white. “What’d you do last night? Or should I say, who?”

  “The usual. Northerner.”

  I laugh and punch his arm. “Didn’t get lucky, huh?”

  “Holding out on the Aussie.”

  “Not going to happen.”

  Travis stands, puts a hand on my shoulder, squeezes it. “It is going to happen. I’ll double our bet. That’s how sure I am.” He counts out a hundred bucks and drops it on the table. “Enjoy the moment.”

  “Oh, I will.” He walks through the restaurant and leaves. I order a drink and sip it alone. The narrow fairway slices through the valley beyond the green where men drive around in silent carts. Upriver, a bugling elk pierces the silence.

  The girl shrieked, her thin arms crossed in front of her chest; she wriggled and twisted. Hops dropped down on her, grunting. She pried her arms free, slapped and punched him wildly, blue veins swollen on her neck. He pulled his jeans down with one hand, held her jaw tight with the other. She whipped her head side-to-side, snapped her teeth, but he leaned his forearm into her chin, muzzled her mouth with his elbow. Her face was contorted, red, unnatural, ugly; her eyes watery, pleading; her breath patchy, gasping sharply. The sunlight cut through the leaves and glinted off the scythe’s blade.

  Travis and I wait for Linda to bring us another pitcher of beer and when it arrives, he smiles slyly at her and she smiles back at him. I pour him a glass.

  He licks my face. “I love you, man. Especially when you’re buying.”

  I push him away. “I’ll buy a lot more if you stop licking my face.”

  There’s a commotion at the front door. A vaguely familiar voice draws near before I recognize it. The Bride stands in front us.

  “Who the hell do you think you’re fooling?” she screams.

  “What are you talking about?”

  “You fucking thief.” Her face is red and her fists are clenched. She pounds the table. “Give it back.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” I turn to Travis and chuckle.

  Travis shakes his head and stares at the tabletop. Linda stands near the service area with a plate in each hand.

  “You goddamn coward.”

  “Be reasonable. Let’s sort this outside.” I get up and try to lead her toward the door, but she swings her arm away.

  “Be reasonable? You steal my money and want me to be reasonable?”

  Travis shifts in his seat. I search for Linda, but she’s nowhere to be seen. I dig in my pockets, offer forty dollars to the Bride. “I’ll pay the rest tomorrow, when the bank opens. You’ve made your point. Just go.”

  “You’re pathetic, you know that? Scumbag.”

  “While you’re here, maybe you want to ask him for your knife?” It’s a dumb-ass, cheap move, narking on Travis, but I have no choice.

  “What knife?”

  Travis stands and makes his way across the bar. I point at him.

  “I don’t know what kind of game you’re playing,” she says. “You’re one sick asshole.”

  Later, at my place, I lie to Linda. She leaves it open for me, her fingers move up and down my forearms, her voice soft against my neck. I don’t disappoint her. I tell her I drove the Bride home once and that she flirted with me, but I rejected her. That must be why she made the accusations. Travis slept with her, stole her knife, and bragged about it.

  I stick as close to the facts as possible. It helps me believe the story myself, and I’m certain Linda believes it, too. It’s easier to handle than the truth. I feel an unusual softness toward her, this unspoken pact between us, and I consider that this closeness will see us through.

  She stops stroking my arm. “Thanks for telling me.” Her voice is quiet.

  I want to kiss her on the lips to confirm that my lie has worked, but she turns away.

  “I’ll walk myself home.”

  In the distance, I heard the quad stop and idle at the store, its drone
crackling the air. Hops pried the girl’s legs apart with his knees, yanked his underwear down, fumbled his hand between them. She cried out and reached toward me, her hand shaking. Her eyes turned toward the scythe leaning against the tree.

  Vince came out of the store to meet Harley. Vince shrugged his shoulders, pointed toward the stand of trees we were in. The quad groaned to life and rumbled as Harley sped toward us. He stood and leaned forward, squinted in our direction, and hollered.

  I grabbed the scythe, clutched it tight. Hops had his back to me, his jeans were at his knees, and his belt flipped back and forth against the dirt. I raised the scythe above Hops; the girl’s eyes widened. The quad wailed closer, Harley’s voice screeched in the air. I wanted to tell her that it’s okay; it will all be okay, that it will pass, and you’ll be fine. It might take some time, but you’ll learn to slash it out of you bit by bit, leave it behind until maybe there’s nothing left. Nothing left to do but survive.

  As the hot grass swayed beneath us, I dropped the scythe beside her and sprinted out of the forest, away from Harley, away from it all, running as fast as I could, screaming at something, a past, a future, a life that seemed like no way out at all.

  The dish pig informs me that Linda went home early. I buy a bottle of wine from the off-sales counter and leave. It’s a clear, cold night; the walk energizes me.

  Light seeps through her window. I peer through a gap in the blinds. Candles lit on the night table, the sheets a tumbled mess. Her hair is dishevelled. She sits on her bed in a housecoat. I tap on the window. Linda looks up; her eyes are puffy, but she doesn’t move. I tap again. She doesn’t move. I try the window; it slides open. She jumps back and shouts, “Get out before I call the cops.”

  “What’s wrong? What happened?” I push the blinds aside but she looks scared so I stop from climbing in. “Let me explain.”

  “I’m calling the cops.” She stands and picks up her phone. “You guys make me sick.”

  I close the window, leave the wine bottle on the sidewalk, and take off, running until my legs are heavy, my lungs tight. When I reach Travis’s place, I bang on his door. I hammer the door again, lean over to catch my breath.

  “Back here.”

  He’s sitting on the picnic tabletop in the yard, beer cans strewn in the grass beneath the table. “Hey buddy-boy, what’s up?” Travis smirks. “How’s the Bride?” He sips from a can.

  I charge him.

  “Slow down, man. What the hell?”

  I slap the beer away from him and soak his jacket.

  “What the hell is wrong with you?” Travis sweeps the beer off himself and laughs. “Jesus. Chill. Have I got something to show you.”

  I grab his collar, twist, and pin him on the table. My first punch misses his face and slams into the table. It hurts like hell and only makes me angrier. “Were you even with the Bride?”

  “What do you think, dumb-ass?” Travis sits up. “Christ, get it together.” He shakes his head and laughs. Linda’s rose quartz hangs off his neck.

  My next blow hits him on the top of his forehead, thick and dull. Travis lays stunned, holding his head; blood seeps from the cut. I rip the necklace off and jab him with the pointed edge of the stone. He shoves me, and we fall off the table. He knees me in the groin. I curl up and cough; bile floods my throat.

  “You okay?” he says.

  I swing at him wildly but miss, get up and tackle him, slam him against the table. We fall on the ground, and I pummel him with both arms, vicious punches that glance off his face and head. My fists are bloodied and sore.

  He cries out; I strike him harder. Freshly turned dirt stuffs my nostrils. Travis knees me in the groin. I wheeze; blood and dirt flood my mouth. He struggles to get up; his breath is laboured, quick. He yells out. My eyes throb. I head-butt him, and a headache surges through me, a splitting pain that blooms and radiates through my skull. I rest my forehead against Travis’s head and smash him hard again and again, smearing blood between us. His breath is shallow and rasps in my ear. I grab him, hold him tight, and sob against his neck, our chests rising and falling together.

  BULL HEAD

  WHILE SPLITTING WOOD one late October morning, Sonny sensed there’d be trouble when Bacon Face barked at his neighbour striding across the property, swinging a bucket of turnips.

  The pail clanged against Bojan’s thigh. Behind him, his glazed log home loomed wide and immense, its roof peaks vaulted toward the sky, a pre-fab package shipped up from the States. To the side stood a large pine tree with broad limbs that Sonny had climbed as a child while his father smoked his pipe below, and later where Sonny had hung deer, elk, and moose carcasses after hunting trips with his wife, Norma. “The Pines Bed and Breakfast” sign was now nailed to its bark.

  Bojan’s veranda sheltered cords of neatly stacked tamarack dropped off by someone Sonny didn’t know. Sonny hadn’t seen a guest yet, but suspected they’d show up in droves to escape the noise and pace of the city, relentlessly clawing away at their lives. They’d trample Sonny’s property, snap pictures of the big pine or the gentle curve in the river, Bull Head Mountain in the background. They’d clutch their guidebooks and ask him about the upside-down mountain and then take pictures of his hand-chopped firewood, cords of it stacked in a convoluted system of woodsheds and lean-tos. Sonny planned to scowl when they pointed their cameras at him and Bacon Face, chase them away with his axe, shout like some wild man, laughing when he turned and walked back home, the axe across his shoulder. The novelty of it. Some people had no sense of place.

  Bojan dropped the bucket at Sonny’s feet. “What is this all about?”

  Bacon Face circled Bojan, barking, his brown hackles up along the ridge of his spine. Sonny snapped his fingers and pointed to the ground where Bacon Face sat and growled until Sonny snapped his fingers again and the dog quieted.

  Sonny crouched down and lifted another log. He couldn’t understand what Bojan’s wife, Milica, saw in Bojan, a crude rain barrel of a man who sounded ridiculous with his formalized English. He set the log on the chopping block and steadied it. “Looks like a bucket full of turnips.”

  “I am glad your sense of sight is not yet gone.” Bojan shook his head from side to side; his grey whiskers scraped the collar of his plaid shirt. “Can you tell me why this bucket is full of torn turnips?”

  Sonny picked up his axe, held the smooth handle in his palm. The head gleamed bright in the sunlight, sharp enough to slice the paper the annual property assessment was printed on. “No need keeping me in suspense.”

  “Just because you are mayor does not give you a right to joke at my expense. You know full well the reason these are shredded is that dog of yours. Milica is upset. Your mutt has been tearing up our garden every night.”

  Sonny winced at the mention of Milica. He lifted his axe and split a log. Woodchips dusted the sleeve of his flannel shirt. He stacked the wood against the white Tyvek-covered wall, bent over to pick up another log, and leaned on his axe. “I know we ain’t been neighbours for long, but that ain’t my fault. My father settled here in 1904. We’ve survived forest fires, two floods, mine disasters, disease, and every other affliction laid on this valley. If there’s something we’ve learned over time, it’s you can’t tell which way the train went by looking at the tracks.” Sonny stepped back, lifted his axe and struck the log, popping it in half. “You’ve got some nerve coming over here making accusations.”

  Bojan shook the pail in Sonny’s face. “I do not care how long you have been here. A fact is a fact. Your mutt was in our garden.”

  “It weren’t Bacon Face.” Sonny dropped the axe. He walked over to the woodpile and grabbed a shovel leaning against it. He jammed the blade in the loamy soil of his garden, dug up a shovelful of turnips, shook the dirt free, and wiped them against his shirt. He placed each one carefully in the bucket. “Take these back to your wife. Let’s move on and be neighbourly.”

  Bojan gripped the bucket handle. “If I see your dog sniffing around my pro
perty, I will shoot him.”

  “That won’t be necessary. Even if he has wandered over there, and there’s no way he did, I can guarantee you he’s not interested in turnips.”

  “What kind of man names their dog Bacon Face?” Bojan turned around and trudged back to his house before Sonny could answer him.

  Every day after chopping wood, Sonny walked to the Bull Head Inn—City Hall, as it was known—a cramped bar with three guest rooms above it jammed with old refrigerators, broken neon signs, three-legged chairs and tables, and dusty, taxidermied bears, fish, wolves, and deer. Bacon Face followed, rooted around in the bunch grass and meadow parsley that choked the path. At the bar’s entrance, Sonny picked up a log from the woodpile and pushed open the squeaky door, made his way to the woodstove. He tossed the log in, took his regular seat, and nodded to Lorne.

  “Today’s the day, Sonny. This will either knock your rubber boots off or melt them to your feet.” Lorne set a bowl of baked beans in front of him.

  Sonny picked around the beans with his plastic spoon and pushed it away. A jar of pickled eggs and another of pigs’ feet sat on the bar top next to a rack of peanuts and Barney the Beagle, a taxidermy dog with a marble for one eye, once voted Mayor of Bull Head, his name embroidered on a toque that rested on top of his head. Lorne poured Sonny a cup of coffee. Sonny opened a National Geographic and flipped through the pages.

  “Anything new?” Lorne said.

  “Animals.”

  “What kind of animals?”

  “Animals, dammit. Just animals.”

  “Who pissed in your cereal this morning?”

  Sonny slurped his coffee and set it down. He kept his hand on the cup’s handle, stared at it, rubbed it with his thumb. “Says he’s gonna shoot Bacon Face if he goes near his property.”

  “Who?”

  “Bo. Bohunk. Bojangle. However the hell you say his name.”

  “Empty wagons do the most rattling.”