Hiram Page nods. I admire a man of strong convictions.
That may be, says Lord God. But do you follow those convictions your own self ?
I have my own ideas about the world, Mr. Cole. Hiram Page squints into the dusty vision of the mountains in the west. I look out here and I see a simple world. I look there— he nods toward the east, toward town— and I see complexity.
A thing is either right or wrong, says Lord God. Always. Gray is the color of mice. A weak and inferior creature. Something to keep out of your house. Something to set a trap for. Gray is for the professors and doctors, the people who say, Money is no object. For the rest of us, it's an object and it's one that's hard to get. Maybe harder than ever. For a while we had lots of it. Now we don't. Get used to it.
I couldn't agree with you more, Mr. Cole. That's why I'm here to help.
Lord God turns away from Hiram and spits. I've never been one to be needing help.
You don't trust me, do you? I'm sorry to hear that.
A man has to earn trust. Isn't that what they say?
They say a lot of things. They say it's wrong for a man to have more than one wife. What if he keeps all his wives safe and sound? I remember a sermon you preached a couple months back about this poor gal who forgot her child in the car and left the windows rolled up as she worked at a restaurant. The little boy died of heat prostration and his mother, well, you can imagine how she felt.
I remember that story. She's a single mother with too much on her plate. Running around trying to raise a baby boy and make ends meet at the same time. She was supposed to drop the boy off at day care. But she was late. She forgot he was in the car.
You know if she had a husband who treated her right, that boy would be alive today. So what if he had another wife? What if he provides for both of them, gives them warm clothes, a roof over their heads, food on the table? Cares for their children? We're coming down from a time when we were gluttons. Fat and sassy is over. The world is turning.
Lord God nods. There's still a right and wrong to things.
There's an art to having more than one wife. It's not always easy.
How many you got?
Two.
So where would Ruby fit in?
She'd be the third. I don't count them up that way, but I suppose they do now and then.
I've got one wife, says Lord God. He pauses, staring into Hiram Page's eyes with a look of scorn and pain. And she won't have me around anymore.
We all hurt somehow.
That's easy for you to say, with two wives at home. Juliet waited for me all that time I was in the Arab desert. She was a good woman all that time. It wasn't until I got back that she decided she couldn't take me anymore.
People say it's unnatural, having two wives. Or three. But you know the worst thing, don't you?
I don't know. A lot of things are bad. I wouldn't put a word to the worst amongst them.
You live it every day, Brother Cole.
I live my life is what I live.
The worst thing is being alone. And a man with two wives, he's never alone.
I'm not alone. My granddaughter here fills my house like a bright light. She's like a comet to my night. She's more than I can say.
That's the joy of children.
And if you take Ruby as a wife, what then? She'll be just another wife to you? And my daughter and my granddaughter will be living with you. And me alone.
I'll look after both of them. Times are hard and I'll protect them.
That's what I do.
Hiram Page says, You think I'm trying to buy your daughter, don't you?
I didn't say that.
A man's words have meaning, Mr. Cole. I'm not stupid. I heard that explanation of right and wrong and I sense you're saying that what this gasoline here is is a bribe of some sort.
Back in the day the Cheyenne would buy their brides with horses. This isn't too far from that now, is it?
You could say that. If you ask me, a man deserves a gift for giving up his daughter in marriage. And it's not me alone, either. This kind of thing has been going on for thousands of years. Probably back to fires in caves, hides of fur and flint knives. Maybe this is a taste of the past in the future.
Lord God sits on the bench and watches the wind strip the dust off the prairie. The aspens by the woodshed whip and sway in the wind, their leaves now dusted and abused- looking. Maybe all things are coming around to the old ways, he says.
You're right about that. How many wives did Abraham have?
Lord God scratches his good leg. Refresh my memory.
He had more than one, I know that, say Hiram.
Two, says Lord God. Sarah and Keturah. He lived to be one hundred and seventy- five years old, he did. And Sarah passed away before he took another wife.
Hiram stands and brushes the dust off his hands. He looks a bit put out. And then there's King Solomon, he says. But I won't waste any more of your time, Mr. Cole. Let me tell you this: People say I'm not to be trusted. As you might imagine I find that insulting. I know that people say it and think it. The reality is none say it to my face. And if they do they live to regret it. Myself I don't have many regrets expect perhaps the women I was not able to help and provide for a better life. That is in terms of both physical comfort and spiritual well- being. A good woman not only enjoys a certain degree of physical comfort but she both expects and deserves it.
There's more to life than comfort, says Lord God.
That there is. Hiram Page lifts his chin and stands to go. Now, I come from Custer County and we have the strongest and loveliest women in the world but they don't always get to enjoy the comfort they deserve. It's cold in the winter and windy in the summer. Some winters the best you can do is shovel a canyon out your front door. Come summertime the wind will blow so hard you can't hear yourself think.
I've been there, says Lord God. The wind is a bother, that's for sure.
One year the wind blew a woman's mind clean away so she tore off her clothes and ran naked and screaming across the prairie. It was a sad thing to see. But we weren't surprised. It fills your ears with an unholy roar like you got a seashell cupped up against your ears constant- like. So people ask me why I have two wives. Me, I wonder why I have so few. I do get along with women quite well and I'm not ashamed to admit that I know how to keep a woman happy. Thank her for what she's cooked you for dinner and show her a good time now and then. Make sure she has plenty of work to do to discourage any foolishness. Tell her how nice she looks but don't let her get a big head about it.
Amen, says Lord God.
The prophet Joseph said it's the duty of every man to propagate the world. You don't do that by sitting around a bar, polluting your body with drink and whining about how some filly broke your heart. You get out amongst them. You find a woman who is glad to have your attention. You make her happy and keep her safe. The world is a dangerous place. Women know it and want to be protected. That's where I come in.
That's all fine and dandy, says Lord God. But I still got a daughter with a mind of her own. I'll tell you what. I'll take that offer of gasoline and thank you kindly. But there's no guarantee of anything. The best I can do for you is set up a how- do. I'll do my best but if you want her for a wife, it's going to be her choice, not mine.
I respect that, says Page. Winston Churchill put it right: We make a living by what we get. We make a life by what we give.
Lord God rises stiffly and limps to the front door. He pauses there for a minute, still watching the wind whipping the aspen branches into a state. I'll talk to her about a meeting here. I might could set that up.
Hiram Page dusts off his hat. That sounds good to me. He sticks out his hand and shakes Lord God's hard and fast. We'll be in touch, okay?
Lord God nods. I'll make sure that's good with Ruby. Then I'll give you a call.
He stands inside the screen door and watches Page drive away. The dust clouds cast a milky reflection in Lord God's pale eyes. After a mom
ent, he drags the jerry cans through the yard, back to the woodshed.
J a c k B r o w n v i s i t s the pawnshop three times before he catches Hiram page behind the counter, busy with customers. Brown's hands are sweating and he wipes them on his jeans as he stands there, waiting his turn. He's silently rehearsing his argument of how much money he's owed for his role in the hijacking, how much the ring might be worth. He knows Page is a shrewd customer. One not likely to open his wallet out of the goodness of his heart.
Finally Hiram comes to him and says, in his rich voice, So the prodigal cousin returneth, bearing his hat in hand.
Brown hitches up his pants and puts his hat back on his head. The first thing you'll learn about me is I'm a man of my word.
Maybe not the first thing, but let's not quibble. Words are men's daughters, but God's sons are things.
What's that supposed to mean?
In the vernacular? Put up or shut up.
Jack Brown puts the jewelry box on the counter and taps the glass with it twice. This is a carat and a half of top- quality diamond, set in white gold, over a hundred years old too. So it's no bloody diamond, for what that's worth.
Hiram Page says nothing and opens the jewelry box as if it may contain a bomb. He takes the ring and looks it over closely. And how did you manage to retrieve this piece of ice? he asks. Last I heard your ex- Mex sweetheart absconded from my nephew's house with an Apache. Hiram raises his eyebrows and adds, Who left him with a rough- cut scalp.
You might not believe this but they just up and gave it back. Dropped it off at my house like a lawn mower they borrowed. The damnedest thing.
You saw this Indian?
Jack Brown nods and laughs. Scary- looking sumbitch he is.
He and I aren't finished, says Hiram. I can't let a man like that make a fool of me and get away with it.
They gave me the ring and far as I'm concerned, end of story. Here it is.
Hiram Page stands for a moment in thought. A dachshund waddles down the aisle of the pawnshop, approaches Jack Brown, and sniffs at his boots.
Hey, pooch, says Brown.
Hiram Page smiles at the dog and walks around the counter, takes a bone- shaped dog treat from a glass jar, then offers it. Weenie here is a favorite of mine.
I love a good dog, says Jack. He watches your back, right?
Hiram scratches Weenie's ears for a moment, then says, Would you mind if I get my gem loupe to make a more professional assessment of its commercial quality?
Your what?
Loupe. A magnifying glass.
You go right ahead.
Hiram Page stands up, takes the ring and the jewelry box, and heads to his office. Jack Brown shifts his feet and sighs, star ing at the oddities and curios on the shelf behind the counter: A pair of velvet handcuffs. A porcelain cookie jar made in the likeness of a grinning red- faced cartoon Indian with a tall feather headdress. He wonders what Becca's friend Cochise would think of that little number. He can hear Hiram Page laughing and joking with a Mexican woman in the back office. He seems in no hurry. It's like a goddamn bank in here, is what it is. They make you wait just to mess with your head. Bank or car dealership. Same difference.
After a moment Hiram returns and holds the diamond up to the light, peering at it through the loupe. Well well well, he says. That's a nice stone you have there. I might be able to make you an offer.
That's what I want to hear, says Jack.
Let me ask this first: Did you tell me you were planning on buying a new truck?
I hope so. Of course I'm owed some money here already, right?
That you are. Page steps away to open his cash register and returns with a white envelope. Now, you can take this, or we can talk about that truck you need.
Jack Brown opens the envelope, counts out two thousand dollars in hundred- dollar bills. Well, that's a start. But what do you mean, we can talk about a truck?
Hiram holds the diamond ring delicately and peers through the loupe. The color is a bit milkier than what we'd like, he says. Not the best- case scenario, mind you. And there are a couple of rough spots and tiny fractures, almost like spiderwebs. But they don't ruin the gem. You say this was your grandmother's ring?
It's been in our family for three generations. I hate to sell it but money is hard to come by these days. I got laid off from my contracting job and my Jeep's always broke down, one thing or another. So I guess I have no choice.
Hiram sets the ring and loupe down on the counter and purses his lips. Well, I'm not sure that's the end of the story. Maybe you do have a choice. You've done me favors now and that counts for something. Come with me, he says, and passes from behind the counter to the front door.
They step out into the parking lot and Hiram points to a Ford pickup. How would you like to be driving that?
Jack Brown looks at him askance. You're shittin' me? That truck looks new.
It's not two years old yet. But I might be persuaded to give you a deal on it. You won't even have to let that heirloom ring leave your family.
Hiram Page explains that he'll take the two thousand dollars in the envelope as down payment, the ring as collateral and sell Jack Brown the truck, doing the financing himself, so Jack'll owe him a monthly payment and if he doesn't make it, he'll lose the ring.
But as long as you keep making those payments, the ring stays in your family, says Page.
Jack Brown walks around the truck and peers into the tinted windows. What is this, eight- cylinder? Four- wheel drive?
Sure is. You know your way around a vehicle, don't you?
You bet I do. Jack squats low and checks out the underside. Skid plate, tow hitch, the works. He stands up and peeks in the passenger- side window. Looks like it has a nice sound system too.
The best, says Hiram. It'll blow your ears out if that's what you want.
Jack Brown squats again and looks at the knobby tires. What's the blue book on this baby?
It's worth twenty- eight thousand. But I'll cut you a deal. I got it from a dealer and didn't have to pay full cost. I think I could let it go for eighteen K.
Eighteen thousand dollars?
With five thousand dollars' collateral on the ring.
So I'll owe you eleven?
No, thirteen. Or just north of that. I've already figured in a discount for deeds done. But I think we can get those monthlies down to be pretty reasonable.
Jack Brown smiles. That sounds like a mighty sweet deal to me. He sticks out his hand and shakes Hiram's. When can we do it?
I'll get the papers drawn up this week.
I knew it was going to work out between us. That man is one smart SOB, I said that to myself, soon as I met you.
I'm not so smart, just His vessel. Or as was once said, Unless the Lord builds the house, its builders labor in vain.
Well, shit. You know the Bible by heart?
Not the whole thing. Hiram winks and takes Jack's shoulder to steer him toward the cab for a closer look. Only the good parts.
He doesn't mention that the truck has been burning oil for months now, that it's a chop- shop special with dubious parts and patronage. The boy is a fool and the surprising thing about young fools is how many survive to become old fools.
R u b y f i n d s h e r s e l f listening to the liquid melody of a Western Meadowlark. She realizes that in her mind she no longer calls it a Yellowbib but by its common name, Meadowlark. The genus and species even crop into her brain and sit on their own barbed- wire fence, singing like their namesake, Sturnella neglecta. It bothers her at first that her habits are changing, that she's becoming Ward's shadow. He never ordered her to call birds by their accepted names, but after a time his way just made horse sense.
Still she doesn't like the idea of being under Ward's thumb, under anyone's thumb. She's changing. Is she giving up a piece of her personality? Of her specialness? The reason for this preference of Meadowlark over Yellowbib is simple: She's now witnessed a Common Yellowthroat in cattails near the Arkansas
River, and Yellowbib is too close to Yellowthroat.
Now she's begun to see her special names as just another quirk of a backwoods mentality. Even backward. Hick names, she thinks. And she doesn't want to be hick. She may have been born a hick, but she wants to live as something entirely different. Ward insists she should finish high school and go to college, maybe become a biologist.
She thinks he's right. The tightened focus of another world, one beyond Lord God. A higher level, she hopes. She used to lump similar birds together and not worry about their variations, but now she feels rather foolish not to have recognized the differ ence between the White- Breasted Nuthatch, her Tuxedo Bird, the Red- Breasted Nuthatch, smaller, with a cinnamon belly and an eye stripe, and the Pygmy Nuthatch, smaller yet, with a gray cap. She finds herself swollen with learning, watching the Mourning Doves fly across the afternoon blue sky and alight on the telephone line, and wonders if the White Pelicans have arrived at the mountain lakes yet.
The Bird Saviors Page 16
