by Aaron Latham
“Don’t you ever come in this here office ag’in!” he bellowed. “Your mama neither.”
“Go to hell,” she screamed. “I’ll go anywhere I like in my own home, and you can’t stop me.”
Leaving his wife in the hallway, Goodnight stepped back into his office and slammed the door. He wished the door had a lock, but it didn’t. Well, maybe he would have one put on. He went to the window and closed the curtains. Then he picked up the torn page and placed it on a low table, fitting the two jagged halves back together. Maybe he could glue them. Returning to his cowhide couch, he lay down and tried to calm down.
52
The door swung open with a loud crack. Goodnight jumped. He saw his wife standing in the doorway. She didn’t cross the threshold, didn’t actually enter the office, so technically she wasn’t defying him, but he was still irritated. Then Goodnight realized that Revelie held a basket in her left hand. What was she up to? He saw her reach into the basket with her right hand and pull out an egg. Why on earth? She cocked her arm and threw the egg at his head. It hit him on the chin and yellow goo splashed up into his nose. He sneezed and struggled to get up off the couch. He managed to raise himself into a sitting position just as she threw the second egg. When he ducked, it hit him right on top of the head, soaking, matting his hair. Goodnight told himself: Thank God she’s throwin’ eggs instead of bullets, because she’s a damn good shot. Well, eggs would be a woman’s weapon, wouldn’t they?
“What the hell?” yelled Goodnight.
“You always keep me out,” Revelie screamed. “Out of your office. Out of your secrets. Out of your mind. Out of everything except your bed.”
As Goodnight lurched to his feet, Revelie threw another egg. It missed him and splattered on the wall behind him. Charging, his one good eye saw an egg zooming right at it. Oh, no. He tried to dodge but too late. Now his working eye saw nothing but yellow. Temporarily blinded, Goodnight just stood there paralyzed, an easy target. Then he felt an egg hit him in the crotch. Wiping the yolk from his eye, he saw a yellow Revelie, a yellow office, a yellow world.
Goodnight charged again. An egg broke on his belt buckle. Reaching Revelie, he put his shoulder into her stomach and lifted her off the ground. She dropped the basket and more eggs broke on the floor. Carrying her like a sack of flour, he could feel her fists beating on his back.
“Stoppit!” he yelled.
She didn’t stop.
“You sure got some funny ideas about cleanin’ up a place. Egg all over ever’where. Your mama ain’t gonna like that. And it’s gonna stay right there till she gits here.”
He carried her out of the office, down the hall, across the big living room, past the big stone mantelpiece, past the two deer heads with their horns still locked in mortal combat, out the front door, across the wide porch, through the front yard to the sprouting garden. There he threw her to the ground. Then he grabbed the garden hose, which was attached to the windmill’s high tank. He started hosing her down. She screamed, she shivered, she screamed louder.
Goodnight looked up and saw his cowboys standing all around him watching. Oh, no. Dropping the hose, he stalked back into the red stone house.
Back in his office, Goodnight tried to make sense of what had happened. Had he been wrong? Unfair? No, he told himself emphatically. But a small thought whispered that he could have at least told Revelie why the paper was so important to him. He could have explained that it was a rare relic of his dead sister, a long-ago arithmetic lesson. But he hadn’t—because saying even that much would be too painful. Or so he told himself lying flat on his back in the dark, dripping egg.
53
That evening, Goodnight went looking for Revelie, wanting to make up. He found her in what was supposed to be the nursery but had been turned into her sewing room. She sat with sewing in her lap, but her hands were idle. Her face was neither happy nor sad. It didn’t change when he approached her. He wondered: Was that good news or bad?
“What do you want?” Revelie asked in a flat voice.
“I’m sorry I turned the hose on you,” Goodnight said.
Then he waited. She didn’t say anything. She looked at him, but then she looked away.
“I said I’m sorry,” he said. He waited. “Ain’t you gonna say you’re sorry, too?”
He waited again. She still didn’t say a word.
“What do you want from me?” he asked.
“I want to know who you are,” she said simply.
“You know who I am. We been married for years, for Christ’s sake. Whaddaya mean, you don’t know who I am?”
“You’re so closed. You won’t let me in.”
“I’m the one,” he laughed, “that’s supposed to git in.”
“That is low humor. I don’t appreciate low humor. You know that.”
“I don’t know what I know anymore.”
“I don’t know you. There’s a secret part of you hidden away. I thought marriage was supposed to be for better or worse, for richer for poorer, for no secrets between husband and wife. And as we all know, you’ve got secrets.”
“I’ll tell you someday.”
“You’ve been saying that for years. Let me tell you: Mental walls can become physical walls. I know you won’t believe me, but I know I’m right. That’s why we’ve never made a baby.”
“Let me tell you: I know somethin’ about breedin’. So listen up: A cow don’t have to know a bull’s secrets to have a calf. That I’m sure of.”
“So you think I’m a cow.”
“No, I don’t.”
“You must have done something so terrible, so unforgivable, that you’re afraid to tell me.”
“No, that ain’t it.”
“I don’t want to have a baby with you unless I know what you’ve done. Why do you feel so guilty? I don’t want to pass this terrible defect on to my children.”
“There ain’t no whatever you called it. What are you talkin’ about?”
“You tell me.”
He didn’t say anything.
“You make me feel barren. Dried up.” She paused and stared at him. “You say your brooding room is your room. Well, this is my room. Please leave.”
Goodnight got up and left the room.
54
Goodnight slept in his office that night, and got out of the house early the next morning. He figured he had better stay out of Revelie’s way for a while. The boss and his cowboys spent the day checking the herd, looking for sick or injured cattle, bringing in strays. But the rancher found it hard to concentrate on his work. He kept thinking of his wife, trying to come up with the words that would quench her anger. He tried many lines of approach, but none seemed very promising. Self-consciously, he reached up and touched the new scratches on his face.
When he wasn’t thinking of his wife, Goodnight thought about her mother. What a hell of a time for her to be expected! He and his mother-in-law had been corresponding for months, which hadn’t made him like her any better. She was proving to be a very different kind of partner from what her husband had been. When the original five years were up, having earned $500,000 above expenses, Goodnight and Velvet Pants had renewed their deal on the same terms, except for a reduced interest rate, 8 percent instead of 10. The continuing partnership had been good for both parties, growing in value at 70 percent per annum, as Velvet Pants would have said. Their extraordinary profits made it possible for them to keep buying more land. Now the Home Ranch stretched over a million acres with 100,000 cattle. As long as business was good, Velvet Pants had left Goodnight alone, but Mrs. Sanborn didn’t see it that way. She wanted an accuratecount ofall the cattle. (She loved to underline.) She also wanteditemized expenses. She acted as if she didn’t trust him. And now she was coming out on a personalinspection tour.
“Hey, boss, company’s comin’,” announced Too Short.
Goodnight glanced up at the north wall of the canyon. Then he fished his field glasses out of his saddlebag. Focusing, he saw some sort of vehi
cle flanked by cavalrymen beginning a long and rough descent. She would be here all too soon. Goodnight considered making a courteous gesture, riding to meet her, greet her, and escort her to the house, but he just couldn’t bring himself to do so. He would see her at the end of the workday. She would never know that he had seen her crawling down that wall. Besides, work was work, wasn’t it? It had to be done, didn’t it? His new partner wouldn’t want him to leave a job half-done, would she?
He went back to not concentrating on his work.
As he rode home in the evening, Goodnight saw an ambulance, parked at his front door, grow larger and larger. Of course, she would have come in an ambulance, just like last time, with a cavalry escort, like last time. Two cavalrymen were seated on his front steps. He tugged back on Red’s reins. His thirteen-year-old horse—already walking slowly—walked even slower. When he finally arrived at the stable, he took his time unsaddling and brushing his mount.
Goodnight stopped to say hello to the soldiers camped on his steps. Then he walked apprehensively into his living room, where he found Revelie seated in a big easy chair, which had been covered with an Indian blanket.
“My mother’s here,” she said.
“I kinda figured that,” he said. “Where is your mama now?”
“She’s napping. The journey was exhausting, and she’s ill.”
“What’s the matter with her?”
“She simply cannot stop burping.” Revelie paused. “She blames Texas.”
They both laughed. And in the laughter, they were old friends again. But when it stopped, there was still a strain between them.
“Well, I think I’ll take a nap myself,” Goodnight said. “Your mom’s got a good idea there.”
55
Mr. Goodnight, wake up,” Mrs. Sanborn demanded. “I understand,burp —excuse me—that you’ve been brutalizing my daughter. I might have known.” She stood in the middle of his office, wearing white gloves, challenging him on his own ground. He really should have gotten a lock for his door. “This place is a pigsty,” she added. “What are those yellow stains?”
“If you don’t like it in here,” he said, too groggy to be diplomatic, “you don’t hafta stay.”
“You’re insolent, Mr. Goodnight,burp. I beg your pardon. But if I refuse to go, what are you going to do? Knock me down? Drag me out of your office by my heels?”
He just shrugged. She didn’t look much older, showed very few grey hairs, but she appeared smaller. Had she shrunk, or had he grown? He wasn’t sure. Maybe neither.
“Perhaps I should be the one asking you to vacate this room,burp.” This time she just shrugged rather than apologize. “Let me remind you that my daughter and I now own two-thirds of your unholy hideaway. It is no longer yours; it is ours. Would you like for me to summon the sheriff and ask him to evict you?”
“Good luck,” said her son-in-law, who knew the sheriff.
“Still insolent. I warned my daughter about you.”
“I’m sure you did.”
“Mr. Goodnight, I might as well tell you directly: I’ve come to rescue my daughter. I know she’s not happy here. I’ve read her letters. We’re going to sell this ranch and go home.”
“You cain’t sell it.”
Goodnight got up and walked out of his office. His sanctuary had become a cage. But his mother-in-law pursued him. She was worse than barbed wire: you couldn’t get around her or over her or through her. They faced each other on the spacious front porch.
“On the contrary, I assure you: we can and we will sell.” She choked down a burp. “We own a majority interest in this ranch. That means you are a helpless minority. We can do whatever we want to, thank you very much.”
The next morning, after another night spent in his office, Goodnight was packing his saddlebags on the front porch. Revelie appeared and stood over him. She didn’t say anything, just waited for an explanation.
“I heard a rumor Loving was workin’ on a spread in New Mexico,” he tried to explain. “S’posed to be someplace outside a Hot Springs. Figure I better take a look before he drifts ag’in.”
“You just want to get away from me and my mother,” Revelie said. “I know you.”
“I don’t wanta git away from you.”
He smiled and waited for it to be returned, but it wasn’t.
“It’s good you’re leaving,” Revelie said, “because really you’ve been gone for a long time already—if you were ever here. You prefer Loving because he doesn’t ask any questions.”
“Don’t say that.”
“Why didn’t you come to bed last night?” she accused.
“I didn’t think you wanted me.”
“I want you, the whole you, not just a part of you. I’m tired of your shooting your mess into me but holding back your seed.”
“That’s crazy, Revelie,” he protested.
“Maybe, but I don’t think so. You won’t share your thoughts. You won’t share your feelings. You won’t tell me what happened to you during those lost years. Since you’re so bad at sharing, it makes sense that you won’t give me a baby because you know you’dhave to share it with me.”
“Revelie, you’re wrong. I want a baby just as bad as you do. I’d love to share it with you.”
“Then why haven’t you given me one?”
“I’ve tried.”
“No, you haven’t. You want the pleasure, but you don’t want to give a piece of yourself. You make me so angry.”
Goodnight didn’t know what to say, so he said: “I figure this is a good time to go because you won’t be lonely. Not with your mama to keep you company.”
“I’m lonely when you’re here.”
“Don’t say that.”
“It’s the truth.”
Her tone made him feel guilty, but it also irritated him. He wouldn’t mind being a hundred miles from his wife’s moods. Or from his mother-in-law’s personality. But he knew Revelie’s complaints weren’t entirely unjust. Hehad held back a lot from her. He told himself he couldn’t help it. Told himself that for the thousandth time. But he certainly hadn’t held back his seed. That was crazy. But if she really believed it . . .? Who knew what havoc believing something could cause?
“Well, I guess I’ll be goin’,” Goodnight said, not in his most loving voice. He stood up, slung his saddlebags over his shoulder.
“Goodbye,” said Revelie.
“Just like that?”
“Yes, sure, go on your quest. I don’t give a damn. I won’t miss you. You aren’t here when you’re here anyway. Go have fun on your Quest for Loving.”
“What?”
“Your Quest for Loving.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Just go. Go play quest.”
“I hope you’ll be here when I git back. With Loving.”
56
Goodnight beheld a magic landscape: snow in the summertime. He had been riding a long time and wondered if he had dozed off. He shook his head to see if he was awake. He seemed to be. And yet the snow didn’t go away, didn’t melt into an optical illusion, just stayed put right there in the middle of the desert. The lone rider felt as if he had let his mind wander and somehow lost track of time, even lost track of the seasons, maybe lost track of the years. That would teach him to daydream. But the wind was hot on his cheek. His shirt was sweat-soaked on his back. It was summer, not winter, wasn’t it? He began to worry that he had been on a solitary journey too long. Been gone from Texas too long? Been too long in the emptiness of these New Mexico badlands. Was he going crazy? He reached down and touched the handle of his ax; he needed something real to hang onto. He would have preferred to take hold of Revelie’s hand, but . . .
The snow shimmered in the distance as if it couldn’t make up its mind whether it wanted to be solid or liquid. As he drew closer, Goodnight thought he could make out waves. He beheld a vast snowwhite ocean. It reminded him of the blue ocean where he had once been so happy so briefly. He waded in the ocean
of memory that flowed into the ocean of dream. He was getting his oceans all mixed up, just like his seasons. The ground shifted beneath him as if the whole earth were melting into liquid. No, that was just his horse stumbling. He told himself not to let his imagination get the bit between its teeth and run away with him.
Goodnight kept expecting the snow to change color, to tarnish, to fade, to muddy, but it never did. The closer he drew, the whiter and brighter it seemed to become. But the snow did alter, did change in character, did become heavier and coarser. The crystals were transmuted into grains.
But Goodnight was as amazed by the vast desert of pure white sand as he had been by the illusion of snow in the summertime. It couldn’t be real and yet it stretched for uncounted miles. He rode into these white sands and entered a world that was unlike any he had ever known. His senses seemed to be playing tricks on him. He wasn’t sure he could trust them. And yet he wasn’t frightened. He felt exhilarated, enchanted. The landscape made him feel like a boy again, and he soon fell to wondering if perhaps he had discovered a child’s paradise, a world made of sugar. He even got down off his horse and tasted the whiteness. It wasn’t sweet. He spit it out because it tasted like dirt, but it didn’t look like dirt. Or rather it was gorgeous dirt, dirt transformed, magnificent dirt.
Goodnight loved the rolling white sand dunes, which were as tall as foothills, but he found himself squinting at them. The glare of the sun hurt his solitary eye. His horse found the going difficult because its hooves sank deep into the white powder with every step. Navigating was tricky. Here landmarks no longer existed. South looked like north, east just like west. The direction ahead was identical to the direction behind. Goodnight simply followed the sinking sun, but he still had an uneasy sense of not knowing where he was, of being lost in a huge whiteness.
Since Red was exhausted, Goodnight decided to stop and make camp early. But he couldn’t make a campfire because there wasn’t any wood, not even any twigs, in this vast, bitter sugar bowl. The only living creature he saw was a white lizard, which he didn’t notice until it moved. He found himself wondering if there were other white animals all around him, as invisible as ghosts. He kept glancing back over his shoulder, but he didn’t see anything.
