Improbable Fortunes

by Jeffrey Price

  “Push ’em out, you fucking lummox!”

  Dudival could not recall very much of what happened after that. For years, his mind had tricked him into believing that he had thrown a bale of hay out the door. And that Bian had hugged him goodbye then stepped aboard a Greyhound bus for Denver. But of course, neither was the case.

  When his tour of duty was up, Dudival returned to Colorado. He didn’t talk about the war or the Trangs to his family—and no one pressed him. They already knew some of it from the doctors at the VA hospital where the corporal spent three months. They didn’t know that Bian was still tunneling—only now into their son’s brain—and would emerge every night to commit acts of sabotage—like breaking all the furniture in his bedroom, firing his deer rifle out the window, and urging him to self-immolate like the Buddhist monks she so admired.

  d

  “You all right, Sheriff?” asked Buster, noticing that the sheriff was tearing up.

  “I think a damn bug went up my nose,” the sheriff said.

  Ashamed of himself, and overcompensating, he stood on the gas pedal. Buster looked on with some unease as the speedometer tickled one hundred and thirty miles an hour.

  “Gotta test these mounts for vibration,” the sheriff explained in his choked-up voice.

  Later that evening, Buster and Sheriff Dudival drove up the Dave Wood Road that traversed the Uncompahgre Mesa where they found a doe that had been hit by a car. They threw it into the back of the truck and when they came upon a natural backstop, tested Sheriff Dudival’s new .357 Sig to see how it stacked up against the Colt .45 ACP for bullet penetration and expansion. The sheriff watched Buster empty a magazine into the carcass with adolescent enthusiasm. When the pistol’s breech locked back empty, they walked downrange to assess the damage.

  “You ever kilt an’body?” asked Buster.

  Sheriff Dudival, his head bowed over the dead deer, did not answer. Buster, feeling that he had somehow overstepped the boundaries of their relationship, shut up and bowed his head with him. The two men stood in solemn silence for fifteen, maybe twenty minutes. Finally, the sheriff took a deep breath and looked up.

  “You hungry?”

  They cruised to the DQ where they ordered hamburgers and a couple of strawberry milkshakes at the drive-up window. The server, seeing it was Sheriff Dudival, practically shoved the bag at him—evidently still smarting from her recent DUI. The rest of the way home was passed in thoughtful silence and the appreciation of scenery too easily taken for granted. Finally, they drove under the Stumplehorst gates, and Dudival stopped in front of Doc and Gigglehorn’s cabin.

  “Sheriff, ah reckon this was jes about the bes’ day of my lahf.”

  “I enjoyed it quite a bit myself.” The sheriff lit a cigarette. “You know, Buster, Mr. Stumplehorst tells me that, despite your earlier problems, you’ve developed into one real fine cowboy.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  Dudival could see Ned pull the drapes slightly and look suspiciously out the window of the cabin.

  “That Gigglehorn’s a communist. I hope you don’t put any stock in that claptrap of his.”

  “Tell you the truth, ah really don’t know what he’s sayin’ most of the time, but he seems to really believe it.”

  “Listen to me, Buster. Private property. You’ve got to have private property in a democracy.”

  “Yessir.”

  “Without private property, there’d be no incentive for people to get off their asses in the morning. You understand what I’m saying?”

  “Yessir.”

  There was another long uncomfortable silence.

  “You still pickin’ at your nose?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Usin’ that hankie I got ya?”

  “Yessir.”

  “Good man. No person with character likes to rub shoulders with a nose picker…or a spitter, for that matter.”

  “Ah got my eye on it, sir.”

  “And don’t ever fall into that habit of putting a matchstick in your mouth. An intelligent person doesn’t walk around like that.” Buster nodded, appreciatively.

  “All right. I guess that kind of covers things for now.”

  “Thanks again, Sheriff. Ah know yor a busy man. ’Ppreciate you taken the tahm for me.” They shook hands. Sheriff Dudival still looked troubled. All the talk about communists and nose picking had not provided a smooth segue for what he still wanted to get off his chest.

  “Buster, don’t you know day it is?”

  “It’s Sunday.”

  “Yes, it’s Sunday, but other than that.” Buster just looked at him blankly.

  “Buster, today’s your birthday.”

  “Well, ah’ll be…ah believe it is!”

  “You’re eighteen. You’re no longer a minor. With that, come some serious responsibilities. Do you understand what I’m talking about?”

  “Yes, sir. Ah can get married.”

  “Yes, you can. And that’s sort of what I wanted to talk to you about.” What had weighed so heavily on Sheriff Dudival’s mind was that today was the day that Buster would officially be let loose on the world. Dudival would no longer be able to protect him as a minor or as his personal ward of the court. “There’s some other things to consider as well.”

  “Ah can buy a gun, raht?”

  “Yes, that’s right. And you’re now eligible to vote, sign up for the armed forces…but also, as an adult, you’re eligible for the electric chair—let’s say if you ever…killed someone.”

  “But ah ain’t ever kilt no one.”

  “I’m saying if.”

  “All right. Thanks for the heads up,” Buster said good-naturedly.

  “I didn’t mean to depress you with this talk. I just felt it was my duty to… Listen, I’ve got a lot of faith in you. And there’s no reason you shouldn’t have faith in yourself, too. There’s plenty of kids in this town who’ve had it better than you. No question about it, but you’ve got a big advantage over all of them. You already know the world can kick a guy pretty good in the ass. You’re not gonna fold up like a little baby bird at the first sign of adversity, are you?”

  “Fill me in on adversity ag’in?”

  “When things aren’t going your way.”

  “No, sir, ah ain’t lahk that.”

  “That’s right. You are not like that,” Dudival said, mildly correcting his grammar. “Okay. The next thing I have to tell you is that from this day forward, your relationship with Mr. and Mrs. Stumplehorst is just as employer-employee. They’re no longer obligated to keep you as foster parents. They’re gonna judge you just like they would any of the other degenerates that work for them. You clear about that?”

  “Yessir.”

  “Good man. Now if it’s not too much trouble, I’d be obliged if you’d give me a ride home.”

  “But, sir, ya got yor own truck.”

  “Buster, I’m giving this truck to you.” Dudival took the keys out of the ignition and handed them to Buster. “The insurance and registration is in the glove box.”

  Buster just stared at him. The sheriff thought that perhaps he’d given Buster too much to digest at one sitting.

  “Happy birthday, son.”

  Dudival abruptly got out of the driver’s seat and went around to the other side of the truck. When he opened the passenger door, Buster had his head in his hands sobbing.

  “Now, c’mon now,” the sheriff said, his lower lip trembling out of control himself. “Don’t be like that. You’ll embarrass us both.”

  “Why’re ya doin’ this for me, anyways?”

  “It’s time somebody did something for you.”

  “But…hadint they already?”

  Sheriff Dudival just looked at him.

  “Just drive me home,” he said.

  CHAPTER SEVEN


  Eighteen Licks and One for Good Luck

  “Whose truck is that parked outside?” Gigglehorn said, seated behind his easel, pretending that he hadn’t been peeking out the window.

  “Ah guess that’r be mine.”

  “You bought a truck on credit? You idiot! Don’t you understand anything? That’s how they suck you into the whole rotten system!”

  “Uh, what?”

  “People pay double for something on credit because they’re too stupid to deny themselves something they can’t really afford in the first place!”

  “Ah dint buy it. Som’body done giver to me.”

  Now he had Doc Solitcz’s attention.

  “Somebody gave you a truck? Who’d do something like that?”

  “Sheriff Dudival. He done it.”

  “That’s a…pretty grand gesture, bonehead. Why?”

  “Mr. Gigglehorn, fer the life a me, ah don’t know.”

  Gigglehorn’s brain was on the boil now, his eyes blinking uncontrollably.

  “Did he say something like, ‘Here’s this truck. From time to time, I’m going to need information from you pertaining to Ned Gigglehorn?’”

  “Nuthin’ lahk that…”

  “…Nothing about keeping tabs on Ned Gigglehorn’s activities on behalf of the International Workers of the World?”

  “The who…?” Buster asked.

  “He didn’t want you to go through my things to find the names of people I…”

  “For Chrissake, Ned!” Dr. Solitcz finally cut in. “Nobody cares about your activities, aside from the AARP and the Gold Bond chafing powder people.”

  “That doesn’t explain…”

  “Why would he spy on you? The man saved your goddamn life!”

  “How’d he save yor life?” Buster asked.

  Gigglehorn was quiet and tried to keep his hands from touching his ’coon face. “Let’s just drop it.”

  “That’s probably a good idea. After all, it is the kid’s birthday.” Doc Solitcz turned to Buster. “And now that you’re eighteen, we were thinking you just might be old enough to appreciate a good eighteen-year-old whiskey.” Doc Solitcz produced three glasses from the shelf and blew the dust and dead fruit flies out of them. He poured one for Buster, one for himself and an extra large one for Gigglehorn—whose darkened visage indicated the need for an increased dosage.

  “Happy birthday, Buster. Cheers.”

  They raised their glasses and clinked.

  “Here’s a little something to wear when you’re strolling down Main Street.”

  Doc Solitcz handed him a wrapped box. Inside was a brand new Resistol hat.

  “Goll-lee…thanks, Doc!”

  Gigglehorn reached under his bed and dragged out a rectangular package carefully wrapped in grocery bag paper. Buster opened it. It was an old rifle.

  “The thirty-forty Krag bolt action carbine…” Gigglehorn pronounced, “…was the rifle used by Teddy Roosevelt and the Rough Riders…”

  “Jiminy, Ned…thanks.”

  “The Spanish American War being the first time a politician staged a publicity stunt to kick off a presidential campaign. Nowadays, of course, these cowards just write books.”

  “How you load this booger?” was all Buster wanted to know.

  “The magazine’s on the side,” Gigglehorn replied, disgruntled, feeling his political assessment had gone unappreciated.

  Doc Solitcz got out an old Kodak Retina and composed a picture with Buster in his new hat holding the rifle.

  “Wait a minute!” Gigglehorn handed Buster a pamphlet on the Songbirds of Colorado. “Hold the rifle in your left hand and this in your right hand.” Doc Solitcz looked at him quizzically as Gigglehorn arranged Buster this way and that.

  “Our very own Lee Harvey Oswald,” Gigglehorn explained, as they recreated a facsimile of the famous photo of the assassin in his backyard.

  Gigglehorn and Doc Solitcz had a laugh, but then stopped when they saw an envelope slide under the door. They all just stood and looked at it.

  “Very mysterious.”

  “It says ‘Buster’ on it,” Buster said.

  “Then it’s probably for you, wouldn’t you say?”

  Buster opened it. It was a birthday card. At the bottom, all it read was, Cows need milking. His roommates were waiting for him to say something, but Buster just put the card in his back pocket. He stretched his arms and performed a big stage yawn.

  “Welp, thanks ag’in for ever’thang. Ah’m kinda tucker’d out, so ah’ll jes hit the sack if’n ya don’t mind.”

  “Sure. We don’t mind.”

  They watched bemused as he climbed the stairs to the loft, then shook their heads as they poured another drink. Buster quietly opened the window in the loft and climbed out.

  The first to hear the noises of Buster and Destiny’s lovemaking were the quarter horses in the corral. They had been on edge that night—the slight whiff of mountain lion on the southerly wind. Ears pricked, hooves were stamped restlessly in the mud; a human was moaning in the barn—no, make that two humans moaning in the barn. The horses started to move, slowly at first, then desperately around and around in the corral, whinnying, bucking. A rooster, picking up on the disturbance, came running out from the coop, crowing an hour earlier than usual—and didn’t stop. The cows began mooing loudly. The swine squealed and grunted, putting their sensitive noses to the bars, sniffing the human truffles of sex—a smell that had once drifted noiselessly from the second floor of the house many years ago. The horses became more and more agitated. Old Stinker started to kick the fence—others followed suit. Some kicked in the red boards of the barn. As Buster and Destiny reached their climax high above the milking room, every animal on the ranch was bellowing forth a cacophony of protest—that human sex like this should not be taking place in their barn.

  In the barn, Buster and Destiny had hoisted themselves up on a hay bay twenty feet in the air. Now shed of their virginity, they lay dizzily on the bale gazing up at the ceiling, pocked with muddy swallows’ nests. If it seemed as if they were spinning, they were. And if it seemed that the ceiling was now retreating as if they were looking through the wrong end of a telescope, that’s because they were. Mr. Stumplehorst, hearing the racket from the house, had grabbed a shotgun and run to the barn thinking a coyote was in there. Now he was lowering the hay bale and when it reached eye level saw Buster and his daughter in flagrante delicto. Flustered, he let go of the rope—sending Buster and Destiny crashing to earth and he stomping back to the house.

  In the morning, Buster was not allowed to say goodbye to Destiny. He wasn’t even allowed breakfast. Destiny and her sisters were kept inside while Mr. Stumplehorst had been given the unpleasant task of giving Buster his marching orders. Buster, under the smirking gaze of his fellow cowboys, was loading his few things into the bed of the Apache when Mr. Stumplehorst walked up to him with Stinker.

  “What did I say the first day you come here?”

  “Stay clear a my daughters,” Buster answered glumly.

  “That’s right. And what did you go up and do? Any fair man would say you brung this on yorself.”

  Buster looked up at the house. Destiny was standing mutely in her window, crying. He turned back to Mr. Stumplehorst.

  “Sir, ah wanna marry her.”

  “That ain’t in the cards.”

  “But ah love ’er.” In the pasture behind them, Mr. Stumplehorst’s prize bull, Pepita, was smelling the rear-end of a three-year-old cow that had somehow forced her way through the fence.

  “Maybe you do, but that doesn’t matter right now. Yor never gonna see her ag’in. Those are my orders from On High.”

  “Sir, ah b’lieve ah’d maker a good husband.”

  Stumplehorst put a comforting hand on Buster’s shoulder, but when he saw his wife watching from thei
r bedroom window, quickly let it drop.

  “I got nothin’ against you, personally. Fact is, you and me ain’t much diff’rint. Maybe that’s why the old lady cast such a powr’ful hate on ya. I tole her that yor one a the best damn cowboys we ever had around here but, sorry to say, that fall upon deaf ears…” The romantic tableau behind them continued to unfold with Pepita mounting the cow and copulating. “The breed that you and me come from…there ain’t a lotta demand for it, anymore. So, it’s prolly best for everybody’s sake to jes…jes let it die off.”

  Buster hung his head. Mr. Stumplehorst hung his head as well. A few moments passed while both he and Mr. Stumplehorst scratched the dirt with the toes of their boots as if the answer to all their problems could be uncovered there.

  “I suppose you think I’m a coldhearted sonofabitch.”

  “No, sir, ah do not.”

  “Prolly like to kill me right now, in fact.”

  “No, sir, thought ain’t even crost my mind.” Stumplehorst searched his face for veracity, then turned and untied his horse’s reins from the fence.

  “Well, if it ever does, r’member this was my wife’s doin’. You can knock her off anytime without a peep from me. In the meantime, jes so there’s no hard feelins, I’m givin’ ya Stinker.”

  Buster waved the offer off.