Half an Inch of Water: Stories

by Percival Everett

  “You know him?” Oliver asked.

  “Never met him.”

  Oliver walked over and looked at a wall of photos. Duncan posed with various people, maybe famous. There were a couple of pictures of Duncan standing with prized beef. “Do you know anything about him?”

  “Heard some people talking about him. Nobody seems to like the guy very much, if at all.”

  “I heard he said something to your daughter.”

  “I heard that, too, but she says she never saw him.” Duncan lit his cigar. “What are you after, Oliver?”

  “You know the folks up on the rez say Billy White Feather is a white guy?”

  Duncan blew out a cloud of smoke. “White Feather sounds awfully Indian to me. What’s eating at you?”

  “This guy left me a note about buying horses that weren’t his to sell. Left the note tacked to my door. “He sighed, thought about Lauren at home, and said, “I’d better get home.”

  “Maybe Billy White Feather isn’t Shoshone or Arapaho, but everybody described him as an Indian guy to me,” Dwight said.

  “What else did they say about him?”

  “Great big guy.”

  “Fat?”

  “I heard big. Could be he’s fat.”

  “Woman up at Ethete described him as a skinny blond man to me.”

  Oliver and Duncan stared out the same window.

  “Well, I gotta go,” Oliver said.

  “I’ll ask around some,” Duncan said.

  Oliver nodded and left.

  Oliver arrived home to find Lauren dragging a bag of fertilizer across the yard. He got out of the truck and picked it up for her. “You’re going to hurt yourself,” he said. “This shit is heavy.”

  “You can carry my shit any day, cowboy,” she said.

  “Where do you want it?”

  “By the hydrangeas.”

  “And which ones might those be?”

  Lauren pointed.

  Oliver put down the bag.

  “What was that phone call all about?” she asked. “You got me all nervous and scared.”

  “Sorry about that. It’s just that I found out about the twins up on the reservation from a note left on our door. And I started worrying because someone had been on the place.”

  “Well, you got yourself another note.” Lauren pulled a paper from her sweater pocket, handed it to him. “It’s from Billy White Feather.”

  “He was here?”

  “No, some woman brought it by.”

  “Indian woman?”

  “White. Never saw her before, but she was wearing one of those pale blue uniforms from that fast-food place near the grocery store. What’s it called?” She searched. “Tasty Freeze.”

  “What did she look like?”

  “Twenty-five, maybe a little older. Thick body, but not fat. Blond hair. Bad makeup.”

  “Did she say her name?”

  “No, but her name tag said Billie with an i-e.”

  “Very funny.”

  “I kid you not.”

  Oliver looked at the note. Sorry about this morning. Beautiful twins, but not mine. Call me if you need a ranch hand.

  “You sure you don’t know this guy?”

  “Now I’m not so sure. Maybe from a while ago. Maybe he used a different name. I’m trying to remember if I know any tall, short, skinny, fat white Indians with black blond hair.”

  That night Oliver couldn’t sleep. He pulled on some jeans and a sweatshirt and walked downstairs. Tuck raised his head from his bed when Oliver sat in the mudroom to put on his boots. He told the dog to stay and Tuck put his head back down. The snow had stopped and the clouds had blown clear, allowing the temperature to take a serious drop. He folded his arms over his chest and walked out into the pasture with his donkeys. They stirred at the bottom of the hill and plodded their way up, investigating, hoping for treats.

  Oliver thought about the twin foals and hoped they would be all right. He then considered Billy White Feather or rather he tried to consider him, tried to imagine him. He wouldn’t have cared at all, except that the notes that had been left on the door of his home. It irked him even now that a stranger had stood on his porch without his knowledge. He worried for Lauren. Then the fragility of it all, everything, became so apparent. Strangers always had access to one’s home. He could not be there all the time. He decided to find a companion for Tuck.

  The donkeys came and stood around him, became still and peaceful. One of them lay down. Perhaps they were asleep. Who could tell? Perhaps he was still asleep and only dreaming that he was standing out in a pasture. The cold air bit at him some more and he decided, dream or not, he’d go back inside.

  The next morning, after feeding the horses, after fixing a near-downed section of fence, and after a light breakfast of yogurt and toast, Oliver drove into town to the Tasty Freeze. He arrived a little after eight to discover they opened at eight thirty. He sat in his truck with his dog and listened to the news and weather on the radio. It seemed winter was coming early and hard.

  An old-model blue Buick 225 rolled in and parked in a spot on the far side of the lot beside the dumpsters. A man got out and walked toward the restaurant. Oliver got out and waved to him.

  “We’ll be open in about twenty minutes,” the man said.

  “Does Billie work here?” Oliver asked.

  “Who wants to know?” The man was rightly suspicious.

  “My name is Oliver Campbell. Billie brought a note by my place yesterday and I just want to ask her about it.”

  The man looked Oliver up and down. “What kind of note?”

  “It was a note about some horses. She delivered it to my place for Billy White Feather.”

  “Fuck Billy White Feather. If you’re a friend of his, then you ain’t no friend of mine.” The man started to move away.

  “I’ve never even seen Billy White Feather. I just want to know why I’m getting these notes.”

  “Yeah, well, that guy’s got problems.”

  “You know him then,” Oliver said.

  “He came around here about three months ago messing with every waitress he could talk to.”

  “White guy?”

  “Hispanic, I think. Anyway, that’s what the girls told me.”

  “You never saw him?”

  “I wish I had.”

  Oliver nodded. “Does Billie work today?”

  “She should be here soon.”

  “Mind if I wait?”

  “Suit yourself.”

  Oliver returned to his truck.

  Another man arrived by bicycle. A tall, skinny, older woman parked her late-sixties Cadillac Coupe de Ville beside the Buick. A stout young woman with blond hair was dropped off by a man in a white dually pickup.

  Oliver got out of his truck and called to her. “Excuse me, ma’am. Are you Billie?”

  The woman looked at Oliver and then at the door of the Tasty Freeze as if she was considering running. When he was closer he could see that her name tag did indeed read Billie.

  “It’s okay,” Oliver said. “I just want to ask you a couple of questions. You left a note with my wife yesterday. The note from Billy White Feather.”

  The woman’s face showed some kind of relief, but she was still uncomfortable. “And?” she said.

  “I just wanted to ask you about Billy White Feather.”

  “I delivered that note for my idiot roommate. I don’t even know Billy White Feather.”

  “Your roommate.”

  “Yes, my roommate.”

  “And where might I find your roommate?” Oliver asked. He felt suddenly exhausted and perhaps overwhelmed. He certainly had no idea what he was doing in the parking lot of the Tasty Freeze.

  “Not here,” she said.

  “You think I can drop by and see her?”

  “Not here meaning not in town. She’s gone. She’s on her way to Denver to meet up with that guy.”

  “Billy White Feather.”

  “Yeah.”


  “Listen, I’d really like to track down this guy. Did she give you a forwarding address or anything?”

  “I can’t tell you that. I don’t know you.”

  “I understand.” He looked at the sky. “But you’ve seen my place, my wife. You know I’m not some crazy killer.”

  “I don’t know that.”

  “I’ll give you ten dollars for the address.”

  “Listen, I’m late for work.”

  “Twenty dollars.”

  “You’re not a crazy?”

  “No ma’am.”

  She gave Oliver the address and walked on into the restaurant.

  Oliver returned home to do his chores. It was time for his horses to have their shots and so he waited for Sam Innis, the vet. Innis always delivered the vaccine and left it to Oliver to administer the shots. He drove in while Oliver was combing out his mare’s tail.

  “I’ve got the drugs,” Innis said conspiratorially, stepping out of his rig.

  “Thanks.”

  “First one’s free.” Innis looked around, then at the sky. “Any animals need looking at?”

  “Everybody is standing. Got time for coffee?”

  “A quick cup sounds good.” The vet followed Oliver across the yard and into the house.

  Innis sat at the table in the kitchen. Oliver pulled some mugs from the cupboard and reached for the pot.

  “Where’s Lauren?”

  “Food shopping.”

  “Shoot. The only reason I come all the way out here is to see her. You can tell her I said that.”

  “I will.”

  Oliver poured the coffee.

  Innis yawned. “Sorry. Late night.”

  “Out partying?”

  “I wish. Some foals died up on the reservation.”

  “The twins?”

  “Yup.”

  “Damn. What happened?”

  “Beats me. Failure to thrive. They looked good, real good. I can’t believe both failed. Twins are difficult.” Innis sipped his coffee. He handled the information like someone used to death.

  Oliver was shaken by what he’d just heard. “I can’t believe it,” he said. He sat at the table, too. “They looked good.”

  “I’m going to do autopsies on them, but nothing is going to turn up. It just happens.”

  Oliver looked out the window at Tuck sniffing at the vet’s tires. “George must be pretty disappointed.”

  “I think he is, but who can tell with him.”

  They drank for a couple of minutes without talking.

  “It’s a tough thing, all right,” Innis said. “Twins are a complicated business. Complicated.”

  “Yeah, I guess so.”

  “Well, gotta run.”

  “Thanks for bringing the meds over,” Oliver said.

  Oliver checked the tractor and the plow blade. He would apparently be needing them soon. The sky had become fat and gray. Like a city pigeon. That was how his father had described a snow sky. He’d told Lauren the news about the foals and her eyes had welled up, but she didn’t cry. She’d seemed more worried about him. Then he’d started talking about Billy White Feather again. She hadn’t laughed at him, but she did stare at him with concern. She’d watched him unfold and fold the piece of paper with the Denver address.

  Now he walked into the house to find on the kitchen table a paper sack and a tall thermos bottle standing next to it. Lauren was sitting, drinking tea.

  “What’s this?” he asked.

  “Some sandwiches, some cookies, some coffee.” She looked him in the eye and offered a weak smile. “How long have we been married? That was a rhetorical question.”

  “I thought so.”

  “I know you, Oliver Campbell. Go to Denver. Figure this out. Otherwise you’re going to drive me crazy.”

  “I thought I did that anyway.”

  “It’s a long drive, so stop for the night in Laramie.”

  “You’ve got this all figured out.”

  “Pretty much.”

  “Well, bolt the doors. I’ll put the twelve gauge by the bed.”

  “You’re scaring me again. I won’t need it.”

  “Humor me.”

  Lauren nodded.

  “Want to ride with me?” he asked.

  “And who’s going to take care of this place?”

  “Just what am I looking for?”

  “Billy White Feather.”

  “And why?”

  “Beats me.”

  Oliver started toward the stairs, stopped. “He came to our home, Lauren. Stood on our porch.”

  “I know.”

  The drive to Denver, though long, was a familiar one. He knew when he promised Lauren he would stop for the night that he would not. It was only two in the afternoon when he reached Laramie and with only three more hours of driving it made little sense to lay up for the better part of a day. He grabbed a hot dog at Dick’s Dogs, a place he could never visit if he were with Lauren, then continued on. He reached Denver just about in the middle of rush hour.

  Sitting in traffic turned out to be better for his thinking than the driving. He looked at the faces of the other drivers. Any one of them could have been Billy White Feather. He had decided that Billy White Feather was actually a middle-aged, wheelchair-bound Filipina. Or a tall black man with a disfiguring scar down the center of his face.

  If he found the man, what was he going to say? “Hey, why are you leaving me notes?” Or maybe “Stay out of my yard.” Being there felt suddenly stupid. He had half a mind to turn around and head back to Laramie for the night. But it was only half a mind, after all. The rest of his mind wanted to see what Billy White Feather looked like.

  Was he a Native guy or was he white? Oliver knew he wouldn’t be able to tell by looking. Maybe everybody had him wrong. Maybe he was an Indian, but he sure wasn’t Arapaho or Shoshone. Maybe he was a white guy with dark skin and a ponytail, going around telling all the wasichus that he was an Indian. None of this thinking answered the question of what he was going to say if he found the man.

  He got off the freeway and made his way through town. He found the street and the address. It was a dingy neighborhood, made dingier by the fact that it was dusk now. Oliver parked in front of the small white house. A couple of teenagers eyed him as they walked by. He decided that sitting in his truck like that might get him into trouble, so he got out and walked to the door.

  No one answered his knock. He walked around back, feeling uncomfortable as his head passed windows. He expected a pit bull to come running at him at any moment. In the back was a poorly maintained rectangle of grass, one of those circular clothes drying racks, and a partially disassembled motorcycle under a cheap aluminum cover. He tripped a motion-activated yard light over the peeled-paint screen door. His hands were shaking, but once he realized it, they stopped. He knocked on the back door and still there was no response. He sat on the concrete steps and looked at the battered Honda bike. It was fast becoming dark now. He looked again at the door.

  Oliver got up and went back to his truck. He found some paper, the back of something on the floor, and wrote a note. He walked around to the back of the house again. As he attempted to wedge his note between the screen door and the jamb, the back door opened. A woman in a dingy yellow terry cloth robe stood rubbing her eyes.

  “Who the fuck are you?” she asked. She was tall and extremely skinny. Oliver thought she looked like a user of some kind of drug, but decided he didn’t know enough to tell. She had small features set in a narrow face with a sharp nose that was pointed at Oliver.

  “Is this where Billy White Feather lives?”

  “It’s where he’s supposed to live soon,” she said.

  “I was leaving him a note. Are you his girlfriend?”

  “I’m her roommate.” She sniffed like she had a cold. “What do you want with Billy?”

  “Billy left me a note at my place up in Wyoming,” Oliver said.

  “Yeah?”

  “I don’t know this Bi
lly and I want to know why he left me a note.”

  “You drove all the way from Wyoming for that?”

  When she said it, it did sound sort of crazy.

  “I’m calling the cops if you don’t leave,” she said.

  “Do you know Billy?”

  “Suppose I do?”

  “Is Billy White Feather white or Indian?”

  “What kind of question is that? You’d better get away from here.”

  “He put a note on my door and I don’t know him. I just want to know what he looks like. Tall? Short? What?”

  “Fuck you,” she said and slammed the door.

  Oliver left the note wedged inside the screen. He walked back to his truck and fell in behind the wheel. The teenagers noticed him again and walked back in his direction. He heard a siren in the distance. Billy White Feather might or might not be coming back to this house, but it hardly mattered. Oliver had left a note. Oliver had been on his porch.

  Liquid Glass

  Harold Beaver leaned over the engine and shook his head. “I don’t know about this,” he said. “I just don’t know.” He played with a torque wrench, spinning it around on his fingertips. “What if you’ve got a leak from the cooling system into the oil? I think you might.”

  “I don’t,” Donnie St. Clair said. “This motor is perfect.”

  “Then why are we working on it?”

  “There’s no leak. I have an exhaust tick. Let’s just do it.”

  “Okay, listen, I’m telling you one more time,” Harold said. “I pour this liquid glass in there and there’s no taking it out. If there’s even a tiny leak, that’s the end of this engine.”

  “Just do it.”

  Harold removed the radiator cap. He poured the sodium silicate into a beaker, about a quarter cup.

  “That’s all it takes?” Donnie said.

  “Listen, I think this is a bad idea.” Harold looked Donnie in the eye. “Just let me replace your head gasket.”

  “And how much will that cost me?”

  “Four hundred fifty.”

  “Dollars?”

  “Yes, dollars.”

  “Pour it in,” Donnie said.

  “No, you pour it in,” Harold said. “You can do it and just remember what I told you.”

  “Pussy,” Donnie said. He took the beaker and poured the liquid quickly into the radiator.