Hear That Long Train Moan
“The world perhaps was laid out initially with some sort of temporal consistency, but that was soon gone. Out the window. Maybe there never was any kind of consistency. One can certainly imagine creation coming to certain parts of the globe before others, like the telephone or cable. Look around. Jets stretch their exhaust plumes across the skies over thatch huts, people whose main staple is rice watch napalm disintegrate their jungles, some people beat out conversations on hollow logs while the strata above them is filled with microwave signals.” Virgil Boyd re-lit his pipe and sank into his chair. “That’s why,” he told his friend, “I’ve no problem with the period inconsistency within my model.”
Morrison Long sipped his gimlet. “I wasn’t finding fault, but making an observation. Let me ask you something, Virgil: Are you all right?”
“All right? Of course. Never better. Now that I’m retired I have time for my work.” He puffed at his pipe, but drew nothing. “Damn thing won’t stay lit.” Finding the box of matches on the table beside him empty, he patted his pockets and asked if Morrison had any. He did not and so Virgil called out, “Williston!”
An eight-year-old boy with a large head appeared at the study door. He stood erect and attended to his grandfather.
“Williston, be a good boy and find granddad some matches.”
The boy nodded and went away. Virgil Boyd watched him trot across the living room toward the kitchen, skipping over tracks in the foyer and before the hallway.
“The boy is a menace to my work,” Virgil Boyd said. “Doesn’t understand the seriousness of it all.”
“He’s a boy,” Morrison Long said.
“Nor do you appreciate what’s going on in this house.”
“Of course I do, Virgil. By the way, where is Frannie this evening?”
“I don’t know. And I care only to the extent that her absence has caused me to be left alone with that boy of hers.” Virgil Boyd went back to the door and looked. “He’s out there in the model now. Heaven knows what destruction he’s causing.” He looked at his cold pipe. “He’s not a bad boy. But he’s curious.”
“Not a bad thing for a boy to be.”
“Ha!”
“It’s an innocent fault.”
“Innocence will be the downfall of us all. Here he comes.” Virgil Boyd took the matches from Williston and sent him on. “I appreciate his curiosity, but there’s such a thing as discipline.”
Morrison Long stood and went to the empty fireplace to lean on the mantel and look at the moose’s head above. “Did your father really kill this animal?”
“So I was told. A crying shame, if you ask me.” Virgil Boyd got his pipe going, puffing clouds of blue smoke. “I’m sure he didn’t eat any of the beast. Killed for so-called sport. I keep it around as a reminder of crying shames.”
“Imagine the body that went with that head,” Morrison Long said.
“Do you really have to go back to Chicago so soon?”
“I’m afraid so. Unlike you, I still have work. Tell me, do you miss your practice?”
Virgil Boyd chewed the end of his pipe and considered the question. “No. I don’t miss the patients. They never wanted to be there anyway and saw clear of their own negligence to blame me for their pain and expense. I don’t miss being on my feet all day. I’m thankful, however. Dentistry was a good profession and it gave me the skills and patience I need for my detailed work now.”
“Well, it really is something,” Morrison Long’s eye followed the tracks which ran by his feet, across the hearth.
Virgil Boyd walked to the corner of the room where sprawled a replica of a small town with a central square, storefronts and houses with shrubs, trees and lawns.
“What town is that?” asked Morrison Long.
“Ashland, Kentucky.” Virgil Boyd walked to the town. “See, the oil refinery.” Flames sat atop stacks and little lights glowed on the rigging. “Some of the houses on this hill are my finest work. Such detail inside.”
“Let’s see.”
Virgil Boyd shook his head. “We mustn’t disturb the model.”
“Don’t you like to admire your work?”
“I do, but I can’t go around taking the roofs off of people’s houses.”
Morrison Long smiled. “Of course.”
Virgil went back to his chair and sat, took a deep draw on his pipe.
“Are you quite all right?” Morrison Long asked.
“I’m fine.”
“You were joking, weren’t you?”
Virgil Boyd just looked at his friend. “What do you mean?”
“I want to see in one of the houses.”
“No, I said.”
“Why not?”
“Would you want somebody taking the roof off your house and looking in?”
“I suppose not.”
“No, of course you wouldn’t. The model is very delicate. Everything is just so.”
Morrison Long looked at the sculpted hillsides in the corner beyond Ashland, at the tiny trees, at the gardens of the big house whose roof would not be removed.
“What are you thinking?” Virgil Boyd asked.
Morrison Long sat down. “Have you ever been to Ashland, Kentucky?”
“Yes.”
“The real one.”
“Yes.”
“I mean the one in Kentucky. The one the freeway goes through.”
“There’s no freeway through Ashland.”
Morrison Long’s left hand held his right in his lap. His fingers moved to his wrist and he toyed with his watchband. “Virgil,” he said, “do you know who lives in that big house?”
“Yes, of course I do.” Virgil Boyd adjusted himself in his chair and looked his friend in the eye. “Why do you ask?”
“Stop pulling my chain,” Morrison Long said.
“What do you mean?”
“Just stop it. This isn’t funny. Well, maybe it’s funny, but it’s gone too far. So, cut the act.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Viigil Boyd said. “Perhaps you haven’t paid close enough attention to the model. Come back down into the basement with me.” He led the way from the study and down the stairs. “I realize that there is an awful lot to take in, but you really must try.”
Morrison Long followed, saying nothing, looking again at the massive network of HO scale world around him. He looked at a town from America’s old West, a hog farm on its outskirts. He looked at glittering lights of modern Detroit in the far corner of the basement. “It’s more impressive each time I look at it.”
“I feel the same way.” Virgil Boyd took his seat behind the screen of the control terminal. “All the commands come from here.”
“The scheduling and all that.”
Virgil Boyd smiled. “Yes.”
“Perhaps you’ve spent too much time on your trains lately,” said Morrison Long.
“I wish it were only trains.”
“What do you mean?”
Virgil Boyd didn’t answer. He tapped away at the keyboard of his terminal. “I make it a habit to review the scheduling pretty frequently.” He leaned back and studied the screen. The smile faded.
“What is it?” Morrison Long asked.
“There’s something wrong. There is something very much wrong.” Virgil Boyd typed furiously, then put his hands together in his lap as he studied the screen. “That boy.”
“What has he done?” Morrison Long asked.
“He’s evil.”
“He’s a boy, Virgil. What has he done?”
Virgil Boyd worked again on the computer. “I can’t undo it. He screwed up the routing. I can’t stop it.”
“He’s just a boy. I mean, look at all of this stuff. Remember your youth. You’d die to play with this set-up.”
“Play?” Virgil Boyd shook his head. “This is not a toy. It’s not a game.” He turned away from the screen. “He’s evil.”
A train went smoking by.
&nb
sp; “Just what is going to happen?” Morrison Long asked.
“Two trains are going to collide and it’s too late to stop them.”
“Too late?”
“They’ve passed the last switching stations.”
Morrison Long sighed. “Just shut the power off.”
“For everything?”
“If you have to.”
“Are you crazy?” Virgil Boyd stood and looked at Detroit. “Do you understand the ramifications of such an action?”
“Come on, Virgil, why don’t you come upstairs and have a drink? Relax.”
Virgil Boyd did not reply. He was to the stairs and moving up them to the first floor. Morrison Long followed. The pace was quickened through the foyer, hall, and kitchen, the leader muttering to himself.
“I’m really getting scared, Virgil,” Morrison Long said at the back door. He leaned against the jamb.
Virgil Boyd turned back to him. “Of course you’re scared. You should be scared. A terrible thing is going to happen.” With that he was off again, trotting through the garden. The yard was lighted by several lamps shining upward at the bases of trees.
Morrison Long ran after him. “Virgil,” he called, “this is crazy,” He stepped over tracks in the walk. He nearly ran into the back of his friend, who had come to a stop. “Virgil!” He grabbed the man and shook him.
“It’s going to happen there,” Virgil Boyd said, pointing to a trestle which crossed the goldfish pond. Colored lights shone under the water. “We’re going to watch it happen, and there’s nothing we can do.”
A train’s whistle sounded.
“Let’s just pick up one of the trains,” Morrison Long said.
“I can’t interfere like that. And besides, which one do I pick up? What is the criteria for such a decision?”
The second train cried.
Morrison Long said nothing, just watched the bridge.
“There is only so much I can do,” Virgil Boyd said. “It’s hard enough just to make this shit. You know what I mean, don’t you, Morrison?”
Thirty-Seven Just to Take a Fall
The announcer called again for the rider. Last call. The gate was opened, and the bull in chute eight was turned out. Luke Ellis did not care. So he had dropped thirty-seven bucks of entry fee. His mind wasn’t on the ride. Better to throw away the money than use it to pay for a spill. He was about to climb into his truck when he spotted Austin Muñoz trotting toward him.
“They turned out your beast,” Muñoz said. He turned to lean his butt against the truck while he caught his breath and lit a cigarette. “So, what’s with you?”
“Nothing.”
Muñoz looked in the bed of the truck at Luke’s saddle. “Bailing out?”
Luke opened the door and sat on the seat, his feet on the ground. “I’m sick of this two-bit stuff.” He took out a smoke of his own to light. He stared at the backs of the people in the stands.
“Is it Cindy?” Muñoz asked.
“Cindy who?”
“Oh, shit.” Muñoz looked at the sky. “You know, when a gal dumps me I just go out and get drunk and then it’s all right.”
“Yeah, that’s why you’re in the position you’re in today. A broken-down, bankrupt, lonely cowboy.”
“With a bum leg,” Muñoz said.
“With a bum leg.”
“So, where’re you goin’?”
“Thought I’d go up to Oregon. Visit my sister. Did I tell you she’s got a new baby?”
“Yeah.” Muñoz dropped his butt on the ground and pressed it out with his boot. “What did Cindy say?”
“Nothin’. Just that she was going out with some stud in Red River. Some damn dude Texan, I guess.”
“What do you suppose those Texies do over there when there ain’t no snow?”
“Got me?” Luke said.
Muñoz smiled “I drove through there on the fourth of July. Place was swarmin’ with those Texies. It took me damn near thirty minutes to drive through the shittin’ town. Hell, it’s only a couple hundred yards long.”
“What the hell was goin’ on?”
“All I could see was a bunch of Texas license plates were goin’ back and forth. That’s it. Except for the dudes sittin’ on them fold-out chairs watching the cars go by.”
Luke smiled.
“Seriously. Sitting on the edge of the road, watching cars go by. Enjoying it.”
“Jesus.” Luke shook his head. “People are weird.”
“Enjoying it,” Muñoz repeated.
“Yeah, well, nobody ever said Texans were smart.”
“Want to take a ride?”
“You mean, do I want to drive you someplace.”
“Questa.”
“That’ll take us through fuckin’ Red River. What’s in Questa?”
Muñoz spat and looked at the stands. “There ain’t nothing goin’ on here. Trust me, I’ll show you a good time.”
Luke listened to the announcer call for the team ropers. “Will there be women there?”
“What do you want me to say?”
“No.”
“No.”
“Get in, Moonie, let’s make tracks.”
Muñoz climbed into the passenger side. Luke wheeled the pickup around in the dusty lot and onto the road. The afternoon sun heated up the cab, and Muñoz drifted off to sleep. Luke turned west at Eagle Nest Lake and started toward the pass which led through Red River and to Questa. Luke reached over and gave Muñoz a shake.
“Moonie. Moonie,” he said.
Muñoz came to.
“I hate that,” Luke said. “Everytime you get in a car you go to fuckin’ sleep. Stay awake and keep me company.”
“Feelin’ lonely?” Muñoz pulled out his cigarettes. “You want to sing songs or something?” He lit up and blew out a cloud.
“I just want you awake to enjoy the ride through beautiful downtown Dead River.”
“Thank you.”
There had been little traffic, but from the hills above the ski town Luke and Muñoz could see all the cars. Down the hill and they were in it. Snailing behind a baby blue Bronco bearing a Texas plate and full of blonde women.
“Man, this shit in Questa had better be good.” Luke scanned the busy sidewalks and cars.
Muñoz watched him. “See her anywhere?”
“Huh?”
“Cindy. You see her yet?”
“Shut up.” Luke leaned back against the seat and stared at the women in the car ahead. “I just don’t understand her.”
“Of course you don’t.”
Luke sighed when they were through Red River without sight of Cindy. He drove on through the pass, looking often down at the river, thinking what he ought to be doing was fishing. Muñoz had drifted off to sleep again by the time they reached the Moly mine and were nearing Questa. Luke woke him up again.
“Where to?” Luke asked.
“Turn right like you’re going up to Cambresto Lake.”
Luke made the turn. “So, you’re goin’ to let me in on what we’re goin’ to?”
“Turn left up here. Just about there.”
There were a number of trucks parked about in no one particular way. Men were walking into and congregating about the wide doors of an old barn. The house that went with it was long ago abandoned, a corpse of a building just lying on the hill above.
Luke turned off the engine and looked around. “Moonie, this has all the earmarks of a cockfight. I don’t need this.”
“It’s not a cockfight. Shows how much you know.” Muñoz got out of the truck and pushed the door shut.
Luke got out. “So, what’s going on?”
“You’ll see.”
They walked toward the barn. As they passed a pickup, Luke caught in his eye the face of a dog. He stopped and gave her a rub behind the ears. He studied the hollow, intense eyes and began to feel unsettled.
“No, Moonie, I’m not goin’ in there. It’s a fuckin’ dogfight.”
“So?”
“You ever been to one?”
Luke shook his head.
Muñoz grabbed him by the arm. “It’s something to see. Something to see that you’ve never seen.”
Luke let himself be dragged in. Men sat and stood around, some with dogs beside them in cages. All the dogs were silent, not a whimper, not a bark. The men barked, betting and ribbing and eager for the upcoming fight between a black pit bull and a brown-and-white one. The dogs stood in corners of a small corral, leaning toward the center, keeping their masters’ muscles tight against taut ropes. The men yelled in Spanish and English. The dogs just stared at each other, like it was their business, like boxers.
Muñoz pulled Luke to the corral. Luke was saying to himself that he didn’t want to see this, but he couldn’t pull himself away. What he wanted to do was run out and call the state police, but that would have only gotten him killed. Sick as it made him, as embarrassed as he felt because of it, in some way he wanted to see.
Then they let the dogs go. There was no stalking, no circling. The black dog ripped into the shoulder of the other, drew blood and bit again, moving sideways against the grip the brown-and-white had on his upper foreleg. The men shouted, more money changing hands. The masters yelled commands. Luke observed the different styles of fighting, the way the black dog sought to lessen the effect of the bite on his leg by moving into it. Then he heard the leg snap. The black dog yelped and for a second let off chewing at the wide hole he’d made in the brown-and-white. He let off for a second, and that was it. A charge turned him over, and the brown-and-white tore into his chest. The master of the black turned away in disgust. Luke was running out before he could see the heart of the animal exposed. He vomited outside between a pickup and a Pinto wagon.
He raised up to find the eyes of the dog he had petted earlier, still tied and standing in the bed of the truck. He went to the animal, and before he knew what he was doing, he had her untied. He scooped her up in his arms and carried her to his truck, put her in the cab.
“Hey”, somebody yelled, then ran into the barn.
Luke sped away, back to the road and through Questa, where he turned south and headed for Taos.
Luke wanted to kick himself. The owner of this dog would get the word somebody had taken off with his pooch, and the chase would be on. These people took this dog business seriously. He looked at the brindle pit bull, reached over and scratched it behind the ear. He could take the dog to the state police and tell them about the fighting, but his truck had been seen, so he would still be in trouble. The dog stared ahead through the windshield, not smart-looking, not stupid-looking, just there.
The Weather and Women Treat Me Fair Page 5
