Improbable Fortunes

by Jeffrey Price

  “Shep Dudival! Are you crazy?” Dudival didn’t answer. He stumbled to his feet and threw himself across the river once again in hot pursuit. Using his head now, he herded her toward a patch of wild rose bushes. She tried to run through them, but found herself painfully caught. Dudival grabbed her, threw her down on the grass and put his full weight on top of her. She was still trying to catch her breath when he kissed her on the mouth like he’d seen Rosanno Brazzi do with Mary Martin in South Pacific. The kiss, despite all the sidespin and English he put on it, came in DOA. When he ceased and desisted, Dudival opened his eyes to find that Jimmy had had hers open the whole time. Her expression was of confused amusement, as if she had just seen a drunk, bare-assed Indian run down Main Street wearing his red long johns on his head as a headdress. This was exactly the problem her grandfather had warned Dudival about. It was time to be forceful. With shaking hands, he reached down to unbuckle her pants, but she started squirming around and giggling like he was trying to tickle her. He tried kissing her again, but finding her mouth now was like hitting the ducky at the carnival sharp shooting booth. Finally, he just stopped. He didn’t mind roughing up the occasional leftist at the uranium mine, but he couldn’t do this to a woman. Attempting to reintroduce decorum to the proceedings, Dudival performed a rigid military-style pushup, lifting his body off of hers then rolling off as if leaping from a moving car. They were both lying on their backs now looking up into the swishing willows.“Shep, what the hell’s gotten into you?”

  “I don’t know.” Dudival was disgusted with himself and angry that he had blindly followed Sheriff Morgan’s advice. Jimmy leaned on one elbow, studying the tortured look on his face. She thought about kissing him on the cheek, but then dismissed the idea as being silly. Besides, she really didn’t feel like kissing him. She didn’t know why, but she didn’t. She only knew that, besides her grandfather, Dudival was her best friend in the world and she hated seeing him miserable.

  “Shep…?”

  “What?” he said after a long interval.

  “If you had your druthers, you rather be shot or stabbed?”

  “Haven’t we already gone over that one?”

  “I didn’t know it was a matter of public record,” she said feigning huffiness. Finally, he turned to face her. She had an impish toothy grin—that still showcased the yellow remnants of her corn-eating victory. Pathetically, he couldn’t help himself from loving her.

  “Shot,” he said. “I’d rather be shot.”

  Now one of the waitresses brought their food and whispered something in Sheriff Dudival’s ear. He nodded. Buster was taking his first bite out of a double cheeseburger with grilled onions.

  “Buster, the Stumplehorsts are here at the restaurant,” the sheriff said, not wanting him to have food in his mouth in case he choked.

  “Is Destiny with ’em?”

  “Yes, she is.” Buster blushed, composed himself and then started to get up. The sheriff held onto his arm.

  “Here’s the complication, Buster. There’s still a restraining order against you. So, you have a choice and I want you to consider this carefully. I could go out there and say that you were here first, so they would have to leave or…you could leave.”

  “But ah wanna see Destiny. See how she is and all.” Buster craned his neck around to the front door to see if he could catch a glimpse of her.

  “They’re waiting outside for an answer. How do you want me to handle this?”

  Buster didn’t really have to think about it.

  “Ah’ll go.”

  “I believe that’s the gentlemanly thing to do.”

  “See how much damn trouble that gal is?” Jimmy offered, to make it worse.

  “I’ll have them wrap up your dinner and bring it out to you.”

  Buster started for the front door. The sheriff stopped him.

  “Best to go out the back.”

  Buster hesitated, then capitulated and skulked out the back door. “Jes cain’t figger it,” Jimmy said.

  “He’s in love,” Dudival said, turning to make eye contact with her. “You’re capable of doing a lot of ill-considered things when you’re in love,” Dudival said pointedly. Jimmy shuddered, like ants had just crawled up the back of her shirt.

  “Well, thank you, Ann Fuckin’ Landers!”

  Dudival just stared at her. Defiantly, she put a big piece of chicken-fried steak in her mouth and chewed it open-mouthed, being intentionally obnoxious in a childish attempt to get him to pry his eyes off her. Finally, he shook his head and returned to his own supper.

  “Ah need ya to run a name for me, compadre.”

  “I’ll have to think about that.”

  “He’s jes an old friend ah loss tech with.”

  “I’m not doing that for you anymore.”

  “C’mon now. But lookee here, a feller in my perzishun has to make shor he’s prop’rly said all his g’byes.”

  “You’re not going anywhere, Jimmy. So don’t give me that bunk,” Dudival said, his eyes getting moist.

  “So yool do this fer ol’ Jimmy?”

  “This is the last goddamn time.” Jimmy gleefully reached into her shirt pocket and gave him a slip of paper. Dudival readjusted his glasses, having trouble reading her chicken scratch.

  “What’s this say?”

  “Flowers,” she said. “Beverly Flowers.”

  b

  Buster sat glumly in Jimmy’s truck. She had parked it in the back by the dumpsters so no one with bad intentions could identify her truck from the highway. She was always thinking of things like that. Mary Boyle, Buster’s third mother, came out the back with a tray of food.

  “Hey, Buster. I heard what just happened so I made up a fresh burger and fries for you.”

  “Much obliged, Mom, but ah kinder loss my apper-tite.”

  “Just for the record, I don’t think it’s right what they’re doing. They should kiss your feet to have a nice boy like you be interested in their daughter.”

  “’Course yood say that. Yor my mom.”

  Their conversation was interrupted as the window to the ladies’ room suddenly screeched open. Buster and Mary watched as a woman’s leg dangled out of the opening followed by another leg. Someone in a dress was awkwardly attempting to exit through the window backward. Her dress got hung up over her head exposing sensible white underpants. The figure hung there like that for a moment.

  “Who’s that?”

  “Destiny.”

  “I’ll leave you two to talk.” Mary gave Buster a couple of extra napkins from her waitress apron then went back inside the regular way.

  Buster quickly got out of the truck to help Destiny down from the window.

  “I told my mother I had to go to the bathroom.”

  “That s’plains it,” Buster said.

  They stood looking at each other—the parking lot’s yellow sodium light making the mayflies and miller moths swirling around her head look like a halo. They kissed.

  “I shouldn’t do that,” she said, pulling away.

  “Why not?”

  “I’m seeing somebody.”

  “Well, jes stop seein’ him then.”

  “It’s more complicated than that.”

  Destiny saw something over Buster’s shoulder that made her duck down behind the truck. She motioned to the ladies’ room window. Buster turned to see an irritated Calvina Stumplehorst craning her neck outside the window looking for her errant daughter. Buster and Mrs. Stumplehorst’s eyes met. He smiled at her. She gave him nothing back—then slowly closed the window. Buster helped Destiny to her feet.

  “You just can’t come home and expect me waiting for you. I didn’t hear from you for almost two years.”

  “But ah wrote you. Ah wrote you thirty-five goldarn letters.”

  “Well, if you did. I never did get o
ne of ’em.”

  Buster considered that. He looked back to the restaurant. “Jimmy.”

  Buster took Destiny by the hand and dragged her through the back door of the restaurant.

  “What’re ya doin’?”

  Sheriff Dudival and Jimmy had just been served their coffee and pie a la mode when Buster appeared before them with Destiny.

  “Buster, you’re willfully violating the restraining order,” Sheriff Dudival said, getting to his feet to do his duty. Buster ignored him.

  “Tell’er, Jimmy,” Buster demanded.

  “Tell’er what, pard?” she said, as sweetly as the untouched pie in front of her.

  “Tell’er ’bout the dang letters ah wrote.”

  Jimmy leaned back casually addressing Destiny.

  “The boy here wrote a shitload a letters.” She turned to Buster. “Satersfied?”

  “What’d ya do with ’em?”

  “Truth be tole, ah burned ev’r lass one them weepy cocksuckers.”

  Destiny looked at Buster, burst into tears, and ran out.

  Sheriff Dudival threw down his napkin in disgust.

  “Jimmy, how could you do something that?”

  “Ev’rbody’s mad at Jimmy.” Jimmy took a few sniffs of oxygen. “This gal’s no good. Ah coont wait fer a fuckin’ Act a Congress b’fore the doofus figgered it out for hissef.”

  “You dint have no right!”

  “You owe this boy an apology.”

  “Doin’ the tough thang aint allus pop’lar. They’ll be no ’pologies forthcomin’.”

  “Thas it fer us, Jimmy. Ah’ll pack my thangs and move off t’night!”

  “Don’t be sech a ninny. Sit down and less disgust this.”

  “Ah’m thoo with ya,” Buster said as he headed out the door.

  “Ah was jes lookin’ out fer ya, ASSHOLE!” she yelled after him.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Stalking Destiny

  Buster hitched a ride on a lumber truck that was taking the shortcut across the Lame Horse Mesa to Cortez. He walked the rest of the way to Jimmy’s then packed his few possessions, loaded up Stinker in the trailer and returned to his sheepherder’s campsite. It was a little worse for wear after the winter, but he didn’t care about his own comfort. All Buster could think about was Destiny. For the first time in his life he was angry and heartsick at the same time—angry at Jimmy, heartsick at losing Destiny to a real estate salesman. The whole idea of finding his real family to impress the Stumplehorsts had backfired badly. Now he was faced with a choice. Should he fight back and try to reclaim Destiny or should he take the beating—like he had with Cookie—and chalk it up to one of those lessons in life? He decided that this time he would fight back. Destiny was meant to be with him. He had to save her. To anybody else, it would seem clear that she didn’t want to be saved. But in Buster’s particular upside-down way of thinking, Destiny had supplied a small clue as to why he should continue his pursuit. It was the fact that she had climbed backwards out of the lavatory window in a dress. To Buster, that told him that, despite her new position as a real estate executive, she was still at heart, the girl in the barn. So pride and commonsense would have to hold his coat while he fought for her.

  He was going to need a job. Pragmatically, he drew a twenty-five mile circle on a map around Vanadium and drove to every cattle operation within that. Only one of the cattle bosses didn’t give him a flat out “no.” That guy backed out at the last moment.

  “How come you changed yor mind?” Buster asked.

  “Look, kid, I hear you’re a top hand, but I buy my hay from Stumplehorst. Do I need to draw you a picture?”

  Buster increased the circumference on his map to fifty miles with no greater success. Jimmy was right about how no one wanted to go up against the Stumplehorsts. But then again, Jimmy could go to hell.

  Buster stopped off in town to pick up supplies and check his post office box. There was some mail that had been forwarded from Jimmy Bayles Morgan’s box number. He was about to read it when he caught sight of Destiny’s photo on the front page of a free real estate flyer. It was an ad for an open house that Destiny’s real estate company had scheduled for that very same day—a little farmhouse just outside of town with five acres for $149,000. Was it unreasonable to think that such a place was within reach of a young cowboy without a job? What was the harm in dropping by in taking a look? And if he happened to bump into Destiny—well, wouldn’t that be a funny coincidence?

  Buster drove over up to the house in his Apache and parked on the gravel county road. There were a few cars in the driveway. Buster decided, for the maximum dramatic effect of his reappearance, to wait until they had left. He passed the time braiding strands of horsehair for a fob for his truck keys. When every car had driven off, leaving a lone copper colored BMW X-5, he got out of his truck and walked up to the front door.

  Downstairs was a little walnut table in the entranceway. There was a silver tray with Cord Travesty’s business cards fanned across. There were some plastic glasses with dribs of white wine left in them by the potential clients who decided they’d had enough of looking at this sad and dingy house. Buster looked in the kitchen. The faucet was leaking. He tried to turn it off. It still dripped. Probably needed a new gasket. No one was in the pantry. No one was in the spare downstairs bedroom, either. That meant that there was only one place left for Destiny to be, the upstairs bedroom. Buster ascended the stairs quietly—hoping to surprise her. The door was closed. Buster eased the door open slowly—just in case she was on the other side of it with a tape measure or something. Instead, he found her on the bed with Cord Travesty. He was copulating with her very quickly from behind as if he was competing in some crazy athletic event. Buster stood there until his eyeballs filled with tears and quietly closed the door.

  At his camp that night, he sat for hours looking into the fire. Not giving up was proving to be a more painful proposition than he originally imagined. Then he remembered his groceries were still in the truck. He retrieved a package of hot dogs, some potato salad, which he sniffed, and a pint of vanilla ice cream—which was now completely melted. Down at the bottom of the soggy bag was his mail. There was a notice for jury duty, an offer for a credit card with 0% interest for three months, and a letter. He tossed the jury duty notice and the credit card offer in the fire, put three hot dogs on a cottonwood skewer, and opened the letter. It read:

  Dear Buster,

  I remember you telling me that you didn’t use the Internet, so I am writing this the old-fashioned way with paper and a fountain pen. This particular pen that I acquired at auction was said to have belonged to Secretary of State, George Marshall. Anyway, I enjoyed myself very much on our little ride up the mountain. It kind of got me thinking. This is going to sound crazy, but what if you and I went elk hunting together? If I was so lucky as to catch one, I would like the proceeds to be “swapped out” for some canned goods and other essentials the same way you do. We could go 50-50 on it. Please arrange this for me.

  P.S. Don’t worry. I’m not bringing my wife this time.

  Sincerely,

  Marvin Mallomar, New York City

  Buster folded the letter and tucked it in his jacket. Mr. Mallomar on an elk hunt? The notion seemed preposterous. Arranging it wasn’t the problem. He was surrounded by one of the largest elk herds on the western slope. The problem was whether Mr. Mallomar would survive the heart attack he would most likely have while traipsing the eleven-thousand-plus-foot mountain ridges in the coming snow.

  Buster wrote Mr. Mallomar back on a postcard depicting an old photograph of a stuffed black bear sitting in an outhouse.

  Dear Mr. Mallomar,

  Ah’d be tikkled to set you on an elk this fall. Jes hope you know what yor in for. Yor gonna be trakin these animels in freezin cold wether pretty high up. Ah’d feel a hole lot better if you got yoserf in sha
pe a bit.

  Ceerly,

  Buster McCaffrey, Vanadium

  Even though Buster meant well, Mallomar was rankled by the insinuation that he was out of shape. He was a pretty strong guy for his size. He didn’t drink all that much. Well, maybe he drank, but he never smoked besides the odd Cuban. In business, he had the reputation of being a tough guy. When he gave his look, people would want to shit their pants. But even Mallomar had to admit that intimidating people and coping with the elements—high altitude and steep terrain—were not the same. Grudgingly, he admitted to himself that Buster might be right—although, this assessment only came after he’d taken his Lexapro for depression (he discovered he liked it better than his old Elavil) and paced for two hours. And pacing wasn’t going to get him in shape either, so for the next four weeks he walked the six blocks to his office building. When he got there, he took the stairs to the fifteenth floor—muttering every step of the way about Buster underestimating the determination of Marvin P. Mallomar.

  b

  In Vanadium, the first rifle season had begun. Lame Horse Mesa’s surrounding mountains provided the best elk hunting on public land that any workingman could ask for in North America. From October 12 to the end of December, a continuous elephant walk of Texas and Oklahoma trucks circled Vanadium’s downtown looking for a parking place. The two restaurants and hardware store were filled from ten o’clock until three—because if a hunter hadn’t filled his tag by morning, he usually came into town to warm up or nurse a few beers and watch the Fox Channel before heading back to his freezing tent. But it wasn’t only the hardware store and restaurants that benefited from the orange “Welcome Hunters” banner that hung across Main Street.