Letting Loose the Hounds

by Brady Udall

  As I search the crowd, looking for something like the face I saw in the paper, I have this heavy, sick feeling in my gut. What if I do see him? What am I going to do? I’ve thought a lot about this, especially in the past few days, I’ve gone over and over it in my mind. My plan is simple and just: I’ll do it to him the way he did it to my father: I’ll pick a fight. I will make him fight me. The only difference is I won’t need to use a forty-pound jack to finish him off.

  But what about afterwards? Don’t think I haven’t considered that. Calfred Pulsipher killed my father and wasn’t even given a trial. An autopsy was done and they said they could not infallibly trace the bleeding to any of the blows he received. Small town, bogus bullshit. My mother kept all the newspaper clippings and they tell the whole story; the way they saw it, two good old boys got drunk, had a bit of a scuffle, and one of them had the misfortune of getting killed. Sending somebody to jail wouldn’t make anything better, would it? Why make a bad situation worse?

  Just thinking about it makes my blood go lava-hot and I want to grab the chair I’m in and start smashing things and people. Even if I get thrown in the clink, even if they send me there forever, I’ve got to go through with it. I owe it to my father. I owe it to my mother and to myself. It’s the one thing I want to get right in this fucked-up life of mine.

  I sip my Dr. Pepper and watch people pushing through the big swinging wooden doors and each time I get this needle-jab of dread in my chest, thinking it might be him, but it’s only these assholes in their creased blue jeans. Honest, I’d like to line them up and whale the shit out of them, one by one, just for practice. And this music they all listen to. I may like the cowboy life but nobody says I have to listen to their music.

  Everyone starts clearing chairs and lining up to do these ridiculous syncopated honky-tonk dance steps. Even though I smell like the end of civilization and I’m not wearing Tony Lamas and a shiny belt buckle the size of a dessert plate, a few of these swivel-hipped cowgirls with moisture in their cleavages come up and ask me to dance. I put on my best smile and politely decline; I have a lot on my mind.

  I sit there and watch the clumps of young men crowded together, slamming beers and cat-calling the women, and for the first time since I’ve been in Arizona I feel lonely and a little homesick, sitting here by myself in a bar roaring with people having a good time.

  Before going home I hit the remaining bars in Salado, all four of them, but there is not a sign of Calfred Pulsipher. When I drag my ass back to the trailer it’s nearly one a.m. and I can see through the window that Richard, clad in camouflage-style long johns, has fallen asleep in his recliner with the Volume A encyclopedia nestled in his groin. I know he is waiting up for me; he wants to be the one to catch me when I slip up.

  I’m tired but I don’t feel like dealing with Richard, so I take a walk up the hill toward the ranch house. Though I hadn’t meant to, I end up standing on the front lawn of the house, looking up at the dark windows, thinking: I used to live in this house. It is white, two-storied and has a wide covered porch with a built-in swinging love seat. In the nine months I’ve been here I’ve never stepped foot in this house, never really had any desire to, until now.

  I walk around the place a couple of times, tripping over a Big Wheel, nearly falling into one of those plastic baby-pools, and finally I decide—what can it hurt?—to take a look inside. The only first-floor window I can find that doesn’t have the shades drawn is back behind a thick mass of bushes. I use a breast-stroke swimming motion to claw my way in and find myself looking into what is probably the family room: pictures on the wall, a cowhide couch, a grandfather clock, a collection of old Coca-Cola bottles on the mantel. Everything is dark and shadowed, but I try to imagine what the room would look like in the light of day, what my mother—a young, pretty version—might have looked like sitting on the couch, or my father over in the corner, winding the clock.

  I strain, I try, but nothing; I can’t seem to jog a single memory. Then, just as I’m pulling myself out of the bushes, I hear something behind me and there’s Ted in nothing but boxer shorts and unlaced running shoes holding a .22 pistol. His legs and chest are the color of mayonnaise.

  “Hey,” he says, squinting. He’s not wearing his glasses and I can tell he doesn’t know who I am—I think about making a break for it. Finally, I whisper, “Ted, it’s Archie.”

  Ted fiddles with one of his hearing aids and says, “Archie?”

  “Couldn’t sleep,” I say. “I’m out for a walk.”

  “Is there something wrong?” Ted says. “Something you need to talk about?”

  I think of the questions I would love to ask Ted: What was my father like when you knew him? Do we really have the same looks, the same way of talking? When you moved into the house did it smell like English Leather? But I keep my mouth shut.

  Ted looks at me for a minute, as if he’s trying to make some kind of decision, and then he says, “That Miss Condley woman called tonight. She tried calling over to your place but you weren’t there all night. She was pretty upset.”

  “Shit,” I say. I’d completely forgotten it was Tuesday, the day Ms. Condley calls every week.

  “Five o’clock’s a bitch, Archie,” Ted says, turning around to go inside. “I’d get to bed if I was you.”

  On my way to the trailer a wave of exhaustion hits me and I can barely put one foot in front of the other. Careful not to wake Richard, I check in on Doug who is pacing the floor of the laundry room like an expectant father, back and forth, back and forth, no doubt full of worries of his own—an insomniac if there ever was one. I pick him up and take him to bed with me. I lie under the covers and hold him tight against my chest—this kind of pressure calms him for some reason—and pretty soon he’s making this gurgling noise in the back of his throat, almost like the purring of a cat. When he’s good and relaxed I put him up on the bedpost where he hunkers right down and nods off. Crazy as it sounds, it comforts me to have him there, above me in the dark while I sleep.

  Instead of lounging on the couch watching Cheers after work, I’m driving hell-bent-for-leather in a lavender Oldsmobile packed with illegal aliens. My blood is hopped up with adrenaline and I’m doing well over seventy with an old Mexican woman asleep in my lap.

  This all started last night after surveying the bars and my little run-in with Ted. I barely got to sleep and the next thing I knew there was Jesus, right in my bedroom, tugging on my big toe. “Arshie,” he whispered. “Wake it up.”

  I could tell right away something was the matter; instead of that what-the-hell grin he always wears, his face was pinched and worried. And what’s more, he’d once vowed never to step foot in a residence which housed a “big dirty-shit buzzard,” as he put it. But here he was.

  He jabbered in a mixture of English and Spanish and finally I got the gist of the problem; his family was stuck at the border. Jesus’ wife and kids go down to visit family once or twice a year and they’ve always had someone, a contact, who would arrange for them to get across the border, bribe the right people, and drive them up to Salado. Now apparently, that contact had disappeared and the family was waiting at the border down near Nogales; Jesus had made arrangements for them to get across but there was nobody to pick them up. Jesus himself couldn’t risk going; not only did he not have a driver’s license (if he was stopped on the highway he’d end up on the other side of the border, too), he was supposed to go with Ted to the livestock auction in Albuquerque.

  He pulled a fist-sized wad of money out of his pocket. “I pay big cash.”

  I pushed the wad away and told him he was insulting me with his money. What was a favor between friends? Jesus eyed me like he thought I was crazy, then began outlining what he wanted me to do.

  My work today involved digging out several cattle guards and I worked like a man on fire to get done early. I finished by four o’clock, drove the Ford home, and there was the ’72 Oldsmobile sitting out in front of the trailer just as Jesus said it would be. He h
ad borrowed the car from his Aunt Lourdes, and I figured it would be an inconspicuous looking vehicle, but this one looked like a pimp/drug pusher special. The damn thing was about as long as your average school bus and purple.

  It drove like a champ, though. It’s a four-hour drive down to Nogales but I made it in just under three, the huge rosary on the rearview mirror clacking against the windshield the whole way. By the time I got there it was just getting dark and starting to drizzle. I had no trouble finding the spot Jesus described to me; about eight miles west of Nogales a small utility road runs parallel to the twelve-foot border fence, which is intersected by some railroad tracks. Above the tracks two red warning lights cast their glow over everything, making you feel like you’re in hell.

  I had assumed that the family would be there, already across, but the place was as quiet and empty as the rest of the desert. I could hear coyotes shouting at each other off in the distance.

  I sat there a good hour, seeing nothing, hearing nothing but the coyotes, getting more worried by the minute. With the racket the coyotes were making, and the perfect stillness of everything else, along with the red glow of the lights, I got paranoid. I was scared, I’ll admit it. I wanted to fire up that long purple machine and get the hell away. On the way down I’d worried about getting back in time for Ms. Condley to call; since she missed me last night I knew she would be calling tonight, and being out of the house again would look suspicious. But now I was simply spooked about getting caught; it’s not something I’ve checked on, but transporting illegal aliens is most likely a felony and would land me in some serious shit.

  I got out of the car, pacing around in the mud, stopping to listen once in awhile, until I heard what sounded like a car motor out in the dark. I strained my ears and after awhile I heard voices that sounded like they were coming from the other side of the fence. About a hundred yards off, in a shallow ravine, I saw movement. I crept closer and could just make out somebody working on the fence with what looked like a pair of wire-cutters.

  I counted ten people coming under, a few of them children. When I agreed to pick up Jesus’ family, I thought he meant his wife and kids, not the whole bunch. They all started off in the opposite direction from me, lugging shopping sacks full of belongings. It was obvious they could not see me so I flashed my headlights to let them know where I was. Immediately someone swore in Spanish and everyone began running towards the car, shouting and bumping into each other. About halfway to the car, one of the kids, apparently spooked and bewildered by this whole affair, peeled off to the left and began running helter-skelter through the brush. I went after him, using a little cowboy geometry; when going after a steer you don’t pursue him directly, you estimate where his path will take him and you head out for that point. The kid, however, didn’t cooperate, zigzagging like a rabbit under fire, with me high-stepping it through the mud behind him, clown-like.

  By the time I was able to corral the kid and carry him back to the car, everyone had most of their belongings stuffed into the trunk, themselves jammed in the car, and some old lady was at the wheel, cranking the key and gunning the accelerator. I convinced her to scoot over and let me take the controls, and just as we started out, a pair of headlights with a search beam on top came over a hill about half a mile away. Who knows, it could have been some redneck out spotlighting deer, but at that moment I was sure the border patrol, the FBI and CIA were all bearing down on us. Everyone shouted at once and the grandma put up a high-pitched wail, the kind you hear at third-world funerals. The car fishtailed in the mud and lumbered over clumps of cactus and mesquite; I kept the lights off so I had no idea where I was going. I’m a veteran of chases like these, but this time I was scared out of my mind, pretty much like everybody else in the car. Somebody in back prayed to the Virgin Mary, the kids screamed, Grandma wailed, and for once in my life I kept perfectly quiet.

  It didn’t take long for my eyes to adjust to the darkness and pretty soon I found myself on a washboard dirt road heading god-knows-where. A couple of times we saw headlights, way off in the distance, which made the Grandma start up her wail, inducing the kids in back to commence their crying again.

  But now, after about a half hour of searching, we’ve got ourselves back on the highway and everybody seems to have calmed. Grandma is so relaxed she’s snoring like a lumberjack. By the time we make it to Salado, it’s near midnight and pretty much everybody in the car except me is asleep. When I pull into Jesus’ front yard, I can see him sitting under the old basketball hoop, his hands clamped together between his legs. I pull to a stop, shut off the engine and suddenly it’s chaos again, people shouting and trying to untangle themselves, babies crying, Grandma giving orders.

  As I help pull belongings out of the trunk I watch Jesus gather his two daughters and little son, hugging them, not willing to let go even though they are already squirming to get away. I know this is a common scene, a father being reunited with his kids, but for some reason, standing there in the dark of the other side of the car, I have to turn away. I look in the other direction, out at the lights of town, until Jesus comes up behind me and gives me a good whack on the back, saying, “Tank you, Arshie, very good,” and holding a hand over his heart.

  He invites me inside, but his tiny house is already overflowing with people, so I ask him if I can take the Oldsmobile out for a drive. I’ve only had a couple hours of sleep in the last two days but I don’t feel like going back to the trailer. Jesus says no problem, take the car to Las Vegas if you want.

  I drive into Salado and stop at Burly’s; I feel like talking to someone, blowing off a little steam, but the place is nearly empty tonight. Only a few old-timers sit at the bar, bending down to their shot glasses like birds drinking from a puddle. I take a table near the back and I sit there alone for a minute. I keep seeing that scene with Jesus and his kids and I feel so clenched and jumpy it’s like I’m going to explode. So when the bartender calls over the bar, asking what do I want, without much hesitation I call back, “Shot of Jim Beam.”

  When the drink comes, I look at it for a minute before I lift it to my mouth. It’s been less than a year since I had a drink, but the stuff scorches my throat like it’s my first time ever. I sip the whiskey, swishing it around, and by the time I’m halfway finished with my second shot I’ve decided—it’s almost like a revelation—that tonight is the night I’m going to take care of Calfred Pulsipher. I could wait around forever for him to come out of hiding, checking the bars, looking under every hat at the gas station and grocery store, or I could have some real-man balls and go directly to him.

  Suddenly I can’t stay a minute longer in that place, not even for a few more drinks, so I drop some money on the table, get into the car, and stop in at the Circle K for a six-pack. Then I’m on my way back to Jesus’ house.

  When I get there, the house is entirely dark. I figured everybody would still be up, celebrating or something, but the place is quiet as a tomb. Without meaning to I pound so hard on the door the whole house shakes.

  I see a teenage girl—one of my passengers earlier tonight—peek through the window and then Jesus comes out, pants unzipped, shirt on inside-out. I can smell the damp scent of sex on him and there’s no doubt I’ve just broken up the long-awaited reunion with his wife. He’s in there putting that big pecker of his to good use and along comes Archie in the middle of the night to break things up.

  I feel stupid and guilty, but I’m not going to let that stop me. “Jesus,” I say, “I’m real sorry but I need you to tell me where Calfred Pulsipher lives.”

  “Ah?” Jesus says, peering out at me.

  “I need to know where Calfred Pulsipher lives. Please.”

  “Now? You going there now?”

  “Right now.”

  Jesus sighs, shouts back something inside to his wife, closes the door and steps outside next to me.

  “Why you going there?” he says.

  “All you have to do is tell me where.”

  “Come on,” Je
sus says, walking barefoot across the gravel and bullheads. He gets in his work truck and says, “I bring you.”

  I try to tell him that he only needs to give me directions, but he shakes his head, revs the engine, and says, “Come in.”

  I feel like cockroach shit for taking advantage of him like this, doing him a favor and then asking one in return right off the bat, ruining his night and everything. I try to tell him this on the way but he waves his hand at me without looking my way. I break one of the beers off the six-pack and hand it to him and he tosses it right out the window.

  We’re on the highway for a couple of miles before Jesus turns off on a tiny dirt road I’ve never noticed before. It’s barely a cow track, full of mudholes and melon-sized boulders. Jesus keeps the truck on a straight course, heedless of the obstacles, and the truck jounces and rocks like a boat in high seas. I tear off one of the beers for myself; the whiskey I drank at Burly’s hardly did a thing for me, and I know I’ll need to be good and whacked-out to get through this whole thing, but the beer tastes sour and watery, and with all the bouncing around this truck is doing, I’m this close to throwing up all over the floor. So I chuck the remainder of the six-pack out the window, as far as it will go, and watch the cans jump and spray among the bushes. After what seems like miles of bump and rattle, Jesus turns again on another dirt road and suddenly stops.

  “What’s wrong?” I say.

  “Here,” he says.

  I look around, seeing nothing but brush and slab-sided buttes, and then I notice the shell of an old Buick sitting back off the road about thirty yards, and behind that, in the night-shadows of an old cottonwood, is a house no bigger than a rich man’s bathroom. I look back at Jesus, who’s staring out the windshield, and get out of the truck.