Gallatin Canyon

by Thomas McGuane

  “I know who you are,” she said.

  “That’s more than I can say!” Neville called out.

  “May I turn that thing off?”

  “No!”

  “Well, I am. I’m turning it off.”

  Dulcie went past him and bent over the set, reaching for the controls. Neville had the wire on her in nothing flat, called her a lowdown escort service. Though there was a spell of tumult— more like a rerun than anything new—it was the moment when movement stopped that finally produced surprise, and Neville was swept by desire at last. Everything in his life had led to this ravishing stillness. He knew who to dedicate this one to.

  Orval went on sitting in his rocker, stubbing out his cigarettes in a tomato juice can. Sooner or later, Dulcie would have to put the horse up and come have a few words with him. At the same time, his new hired man wandered down the darkening road away from the little ranch, away from the Cheyenne and their old cars, weeping at the innocence now beyond his grasp, never to be a virgin again. It was great to feel something so strongly. He hoped to weep forever. If only his father could have been there to see him with tears streaming down his face. It would have been a beginning, something good. He could just hear his voice.

  “Well, son, I’ll be damned. You feel pretty strongly about this, don’t you?”

  Miracle Boy

  We always went back to my mother’s hometown when someone was about to die. We missed Uncle Kevin because the doctors misdiagnosed his ruptured appendix, owing to referred pain in his shoulder. Septicemia killed him before they sorted it out with a victorious air we never forgave. The liverless baby was well before our time—it would have been older than my mother had it lived—but my grandfather’s departure arrived ideally for scheduling purposes in the late stages of diabetes; we drove instead of taking the train and en route were able to stay over for an extra day at the Algonquin Inn in western New York, taking advantage of Wienerschnitzel Night, and still make it in time for the various obsequies while reducing prolonged visits by priests. (My father was an agnostic and fought sponging clergy with vigor, remarking that he had “fronted his last snockered prelate” and adding, “Amazing how often it’s Crown Royal.”)

  Before I relate the death of my grandmother, I have to summarize that of my grandfather, because that was where I acquired my short-lived reputation as a worker of household wonders. Ever since I have had great sympathy for those identified as seers or healers; my heart even goes out to those merely called lucky. Like someone drifting lazily down the Niagara River, the big fall is just a matter of time.

  My grandfather, though a diabetic, went on occasional sweet binges, cherry pies at Al Mack’s diner, and he injected himself with insulin daily, to our agog fascination. He held in reserve giant sugar-filled jawbreakers in his pocket, and when I was too pressingly talkative a single one of those hunks would keep me silent for almost three hours. He was a quiet man, a volunteer fireman who played checkers in the open-fronted firehouse down whose brass pole I was sometimes allowed to slide. In his youth he had read in a newspaper that “Many people persist in making the cemetery a place of recreation, generally a foreign element prompted by ignorance,” and thereafter he was a tireless promoter of public parks.

  On the Fourth of July, while most of the family was at the parade on North Main Street and after a midday meal of quahog chowder, swordfish, beet greens, and corn, he lay down on his big brown favorite couch and died. He’d never taken up more room than he needed, and in an essentially matriarchal household his death was mostly seen as foreshadowing my grandmother’s, though it was widely celebrated among “the foreign element.” This was not long after little boys were given dresses to wear, and my mother and aunts sent me off dressed as a hula girl for the Fourth of July parade, a debacle that ended in my breaking a white plastic ukulele with its Arthur Godfrey “automatic” chord changer during one of many clashes with Azorean native Joao Furtado—later known as Meatball—who called me, with sensible directness, “little girl.” When I got home from the parade, my grandfather was dead. I studied the adults for clues. They were studying my grandmother for clues. She took to her bed. Three days later, she was still there.

  Her absence brought the household to a standstill. My mother and aunts seemed entirely helpless without her ordering them around. She did not even seem to acknowledge them when they visited her room, and a meeting was called where it was decided to send me in. Her idealization of children was counted upon to bring her around before the house and its contents sank into the earth, an eventuality I could imagine to include the opaque projector in the attic with its pictures of long-dead baseball players, the cabinet full of Belleek china in the priest parlor, all the wildly squeaky beds and creaking stairs, the bookless “library” reeking of cigars, and even the souvenir Hitler Youth knife my uncle Paul had given me. As it happened I was the only child available for idealizing, standing around with my mouth open. And so I headed to my grandmother’s bedroom, which was on the second floor, and there I acquired my reputation as a performer of miracles, setting myself up for a fall whose effects would never end. (When my father learned of my success, he began calling me Miracle Boy, later M.B.)

  I let myself in without knocking, closing the door behind me. From her bed my grandmother followed me with her eyes. I started to say something in greeting but the impulse died, and instead I looked around for a place to sit. The ornate brass bed was to the right as I entered; to the left was a vanity with its silver brush and mirror carefully arranged. At the far end of the room was a door to a small porch over Brownell Street, access to which we were all denied, as it sagged dangerously with dry rot. I took the chair from in front of the dresser, pulled it up beside my grandmother’s bed, and sat down. I was perfectly comfortable. My grandmother had turned her head on the pillow to look directly at me, upon me, and I could tell that my presence was welcome. After a while, several formulaic remarks on the death of my grandfather passed through my mind, since even then I was capable of a modicum of glibness in the little-old-man style encouraged by my aunts. But those thoughts vanished and I gazed at my grandmother’s long hair, gathered around her face in silver braids. My mind wandered again, and then I spoke.

  “I was wondering,” I mused, “if Grandpa left me any jewels.”

  My grandmother stared at me, sitting on my hands in her vanity chair, knocking the toes of my shoes against each other as the silence lengthened. Suddenly she began to laugh, from some deep place and loud enough that the scurrying of my mother and my aunts could be heard outside the door, where they must have been eavesdropping. Then my grandmother sent me away so she could rise, dress, and make our supper. Thus was born my reputation as a child healer, my personal albatross, Miracle Boy.

  The house was a typical triple-decker on a very small lot, hardly bigger than the footprint of the house itself, with a tiny yard bound by a severely rectilinear and humorless hedge. Any game in the yard had to involve the roof, usually winging a ball up there and guessing which side it would fall off. My uncle Paul, a veteran of World War II, was always willing to do this with me for hours on end; he never really seemed to have a job. Otherwise, all you could do in the yard was stand there and stay clear of the hedge. This being a corner lot, the windows on two sides gave a point-blank view of the faces of pedestrians, and the second-and third-floor windows were ideal for the launching of tomatoes, stink bombs, and rotten eggs. Once when my constant adversary, Meatball Furtado, had chased me all the way from North Park, Aunt Constance was able to pour boiling water on him from the second floor, melting the cast on his recently broken arm. This unambiguous Irish-Portuguese skirmish pretty much reflects the fortress quality of the small neighborhoods of the town, with a church at the center and a pocket park for escalating ethnic conflict. In time, jicks, Portagees, and harps would be partners in law firms and especially in local politics. Then they’d move away and just be Americans—consumers, parents, drivers of minivans. I suppose it’s a good thing.
/>   Here in this small yard, on his reluctant and occasional visits from the Midwest, my father sat, reading Yachting and contemplating a global circumnavigation, though, he often told me with a conspirator’s wink, he would not necessarily return to the same spot from which he’d gamely set sail—by which I guess he really meant he hoped one day to leave us. The closest he came to circumnavigating was a steel cabin cruiser that never left the dock and came with an oil painting of a busty woman walking through a crowded church. It was entitled A Big Titter Rolled down the Aisle. This vessel sat in a rental slip on a stagnant lake, and served as a platform for cocktail parties. At the height of these gatherings, my father would start the engine and then look with authority over the transom to make sure the water pump was sending coolant out the exhaust. The feat was performed in silence and suggested that behind the revelry lay a serious world, the world of the sea.

  Now my grandmother was dying, the death of a monarch. My father was going to have to visit my mother’s cherished hometown and all his in-laws, a dreadful prospect, as he viewed my grandparents’ house as a lunatic asylum; its bubbling humanity trained a cold light on behavior that had its roots in his own days as an Eagle Scout and piano prodigy in a four-block area south of Scollay Square, where he was the only pianist, thanks to his iron-willed mother, half paralyzed by an early stroke brought on by her terrible temper. My father hated to play the piano, hated even to see one, and forbade me to join the Boy Scouts.

  Between my grandmother’s first and second strokes, my mother and I set out in the Nash for this old lunch-bucket city and its mosaic of neighborhoods, the house-rattling trains and worn-out baseball diamonds; my father told my mother he would follow “in due course” for the funeral. She looked him in the eye and asked, “What if she recovers?”

  I was inside my grandparents’ house on the occasion of her second cerebral hemorrhage. My reputation as a wonder worker had lingered in the years since my grandfather’s death, and at each crisis I worried that I would be asked to perform again. As the house filled with family members, including my physician uncle Walter, all gathered hopelessly around the door to my grandmother’s bedroom, which seemed to glow with ominous beams of light. Walter came and went wearing a stethoscope, which he had never before done in this house. He was so handsome it sometimes made his sisters gasp, and with all power now in his hands he seemed like a god.

  My mother ordered my father to get on the road immediately, and I worried that if his opinions got loose in this atmosphere every one of us would suffer. I was less focused on the impending demise of my grandmother than on seeing my favorite uncle, Paul, my grandmother’s youngest, a man in his fifties who sold the occasional insurance policy from his bare office in the Granite Block. He lived in a rooming house named Mohican House after the old Mohican Hotel, and his habits had changed little in many years, consisting as they did in day drinking and reading odd books from the public library. He collected printed mazes; some, he told me, were quite famous, like Welk’s Reflection, Double Snowflake, and Jabberwocky. He was keenly interested in the tea clippers and had an old painting that he claimed to have fished out of some Yankee’s garbage pail, a portrait of a Massachusetts sea captain dressed in embroidered robes like the emperor of China.

  On our drive across Ontario and western New York, I listened again as my mother recited the saga of my grandmother, both hands on the wheel, cigarette in her mouth: the Saga of the Displaced Gael. Orphaned at twelve, Grandma worked a life-devouring job in the textile mills but managed a happy marriage to a fellow she met on the narrows (Grandpa) between North and South Watuppa ponds, where young people gathered. They were to enjoy fertile parenthood, modest gentility, economic sufficiency, and religious security only a block from their parish church; she did, however, occasionally cross the Quequechan River to attend Mass with French Canadian girlfriends she’d met in the spinning room at the Pocasset mill. My grandfather supplied special groceries to the side-wheelers of the Fall River Line including the Commonwealth, the Pilgrim, and the fabulous Princess. His was a tiny business based on special arrangements with a fruit boat that brought bananas from Central America. My grandfather told me of the deadly spiders that sometimes arrived with this cargo, hinted at Spanish treasure from Honduras (probably the origin of my previously mentioned interest in “jewels”), and described the three great steering wheels in the pilothouse of the Princess and the chandeliers in its engine room. Even my grandparents’ Yankee neighbors, who ranged from mill owners and bankers to broken-down fellows who delivered firewood by horse and wagon, accorded grudging admiration to this honest couple, especially as immigrants even more peculiar than the Irish began arriving from warmer and warmer seas, smaller and browner by the day. If my mother got too caught up in her story, she allowed me to drive on my learner’s permit while she kept smoking or chewed her thumbnail.

  The children grew up and took their respective places: teacher, policeman, physician, waitress, and finally occasional insurance salesman Paul, who came home from the war having lost to a German booby trap his best friend, a boy from President Avenue with whom he’d enlisted. Paul emphasized that the device was a Leica camera, which seemed to undercut the disparaging term for the thing that had killed his friend. After that Paul began to decline, and the gossip was that he wouldn’t have taken the loss of his friend so badly if the pair of them hadn’t been queer. But he was smart and resourceful and he managed to go on, usually by selling a policy to one of his drinking buddies. He was tall and well dressed, his auburn hair combed back straight from a high forehead in an elegant look that spoke of success. By evening, the look would change to something wild and slipping.

  My mother had always seemed fearless; if she wasn’t, she concealed her fear with spontaneous belligerence. But she strove for obedient perfection under my grandmother’s eyes and when she fell short, usually in household matters like cooking or cleaning or religious matters like forgetting First Fridays, she responded to my grandmother’s well-concealed wrath like an educated dog, performing as directed but with the faint slink of force training. This behavior was disturbing and made me ambivalent about my grandmother, who treated me like a prince. Behind the geniality of this tiny woman, I saw the iron fist. I wasn’t sure I liked it.

  Paul moved in and out of the house over the years, even had temperate spells. I remember some very pleasant times when my mother and I visited: he threw a baseball onto the complex of roofs for me to field with my Marty Marion infielder’s mitt and tried to instill in me his passionate Irish sentimentality and diasporic mythology. The rest of the family was feverishly American and did not care to celebrate the Irish connection; in fact, Uncle Walter on traveling to Ireland announced that the place was highly disorganized and insufficiently hygienic, and that the garrulity of the people was annoying, especially the sharp cracks that were mechanical and tiresome and always about other people.

  But Paul had archaic Gaelic jigs on 78s that he played at tremendous volume from his room next to his mother’s, and, when drunk, he could roar along to various all-too-familiar ballads—“Mother Machree,” “The Wearing of the Green,” “When Irish Eyes Are Smiling,” and so on—giving me a whack when I accompanied the great John McCormack with such invented lyrics as “my vile Irish toes” or “God bless you, you pest, you, Mother Machree.”

  Sometimes he tired of his old records and said it wasn’t the potato famine that had driven the Irish from the land; they had left to escape the music. It really depended on what the Bushmill’s was up to. He also used me to practice his insurance pitch. “Good morning, Wilbur,” he would begin—not my name—and it was always morning in these pitches even though he was incapable of rising early enough to make a morning pitch. Wilbur was an imaginary Yankee farmer, dull, credulous, yet wily. “Wilbur, we’ve known each other a good many years and, God willing, more to come with, let’s hope, much prosperity and happiness. I know you to be a man, Wilbur, whose family stands just below the saints in his esteem, a man who thin
ks of everything to protect them from . . . from—Christ!—protect them from, uh— the unforeseen! Christ, of course! The unforeseen! —But ask yourself, Have you really thought of everything?” Here is where the other shoe was meant to drop, but, more often than not, Paul allowed himself an uncontrolled snort of hilarity before refilling his “martini.” This was never a martini; it was invariably a jolt of Bushmill’s, but he called it a martini, and the delicacy of the concept compelled him to hold the libation between thumb and forefinger, which uncertain grasp sometimes caused the drink to crash to the floor, a “tragedy.”

  The fact that Paul and I got on so well would be remembered during my seventeenth year, when I was called upon to perform one more miracle. By my humoring him during his Irish spells, I had earned his faith. He’d taken me to see the Red Sox, Plymouth Rock, Bunker Hill, and Old Ironsides; he bought me lobster rolls at Al Mack’s diner, a Penn Senator surf-casting reel, coffee cabinets and vanilla Cokes by the hundred. He made me call a drinking fountain a “bubbler,” in the Rhode Island style.

  Eventually, Paul moved back to his digs at Mohican House, evicted by Uncle Walter, who had replaced my grandfather for such duties. My grandmother was also a disciplinarian, but when it came to her youngest son she reverted to type and viewed him as troubled, broken by the war, while the rest of her offspring were expected to follow clear but inflexible rules. Irish tenors were replaced by radio broadcasts of ball games. For every holiday and the whole of summer, my mother continued to drag me from what she viewed as our place of exile in the Midwest to Brownell Street, which I might not have liked but for our almost daily trips to Horseneck Beach, where I had the occasional red-faced meeting with a girl in a bathing suit. I also made a new friend on Hood Street next to North Park, Brucie Blaylock, who could defend me against Meatball and his allies. Brucie was a tough athletic boy with scuffed knuckles and a perpetually runny nose whose beautiful eighteen-year-old sister had just married a policeman. The couple was still living in my friend’s home awaiting an apartment and, while snooping through their belongings, we discovered a gross of condoms which we counted, being unsure how many were in a gross. “This cop,” said my friend, gazing at the mountain of tiny packages, “is gonna stick it in my sister a hundred and forty-four times!” My mind spun not altogether unpleasantly at this carnal prospect, and my fear of bathing-suit girls at Horseneck Beach rose starkly. From time to time, we would re-count the condoms; by the time the number dropped below a hundred, my friend was suffering and I wandered around as if etherized by the information.