Reamde - Страница 4

By the time they’d made it to the exit, he’d decided that the Walmart was not so much a starship as an interdimensional portal to every other Walmart in the known universe, and that when they walked out the doors past the greeters they might find themselves in Pocatello or Wichita. But as it turned out they were still in Iowa.

“Why’d you move up there?” asked the girl on the drive back. She was profoundly affected by the nasal, singsongy speech pathology that was so common to girls in her cohort and that Zula had made great strides toward getting rid of.

Richard checked the rearview mirror and saw Peter and Zula exchanging a significant glance.

Girl, haven’t you heard of Wikipedia!?

Instead of telling her why he’d moved, he told her what he’d done when he’d gotten there: “I worked as a guide.”

“Like a hunting guide?”

“No, I’m not a hunter.”

“I was wondering why you knew so much about guns.”

“Because I grew up here,” he explained. “And in Canada some of us carried them on the job. It’s harder to own guns there. You have to take special courses, belong to a gun club and so on.”

“Why’d you carry them on the job…”

“… if I wasn’t a hunting guide?”

“Yeah.”

“Grizzlies.”

“Oh, like in case one of them attacked you?”

“That’s correct.”

“You could, like, shoot in the air and scare it off?”

“In the heart and kill it.”

“Did that ever happen?”

Richard checked the rearview again, hoping to make eye contact and send the telepathic message For God’s sake, will someone back there rescue me from this conversation, but Peter and Zula merely looked interested.

“Yes,” Richard said. He was tempted to lie. But this was the re-u. It would out.

“The bear rug in Grandpa’s den,” Zula explained from the back.

“That’s real!?” asked the girl.

“Of course it’s real, Vicki! What did you think it was, polyester!?”

“You killed that bear, Uncle Dick?”

“I fired two slugs into its body while my client was rediscovering long-forgotten tree-climbing skills. Not long after, its heart stopped beating.”

“And then you skinned it?”

No, it politely climbed out of its own pelt before giving up the ghost. Richard was finding it more and more difficult to resist firing off snappy rejoinders. Only the Furious Muses were holding him at bay.

“I carried it on my back across the United States border,” Richard heard himself explaining. “With the skull and everything, it weighed about half as much as I did at that age.”

“Why’d you do that?”

“Because it was illegal. Not shooting the bear. That’s okay, if it’s self-defense. But then you’re supposed to turn it over to the authorities.”

“Why?”

“Because,” said Peter, figuring it out, “otherwise, people would just go out and kill bears. They would claim it was self-defense and keep the trophies.”

“How far was it?”

“Two hundred miles.”

“You must have wanted it pretty bad!”

“I didn’t.”

“Why did you carry it on your back two hundred miles then?”

“Because the client wanted it.”

“I’m confused!” Vicki complained, as if her emotional state were really the important thing here. “You did that just for the client?”

“It’s the opposite of that!” Zula said, slightly indignant.

Peter said, “Wait a sec. The bear attacked you and your client — ”

“I’ll tell the story!” Richard announced, holding up a hand. He didn’t want it told, wished it hadn’t come up in the first place. But it was the only story he had about himself that he could tell in decent company, and if it were going to be told, he wanted to do it himself. “The client’s dog started it. Hassled the poor bear. The bear picked the dog up in its jaws and started shaking it like a squirrel.”

“Was it like a poodle or something?” Vicki asked.

“It was an eighty-pound golden lab,” Richard said.

“Ohmygod!”

“That is kind of what I was saying. When the lab stopped struggling, which didn’t take long, the bear tossed it into the bushes and advanced on us like If you had anything whatsoever to do with that fucking dog, you’re dead. That’s when the shooting happened.”

Peter snorted at this choice of phrase.

“There was no bravery involved, if that’s what you’re thinking. There was only one climbable tree. The client was not setting any speed records getting up it. We couldn’t both climb it at the same time, is all I’m saying. And not even a horse can outrun a grizzly. I was just standing there with a slug gun. What was I going to do?”

Silence, as they considered the rhetorical question.

“Slug gun?” Zula asked, dropping into engineer mode.

“A twelve-gauge shotgun loaded with slugs rather than shells. Optimized for this one purpose. Two barrels, side by side: an Elmer Fudd special. So I went down on one knee because I was shaking so badly and emptied it into the bear. The bear ran away and died a few hundred yards from our camp. We went and found the carcass. The client wanted the skin. I told him it was illegal. He offered me money to do this thing for him. So I started skinning it. This took days. A horrible job. Butchering even domesticated, farm-bred animals is pretty unspeakable, which is why we bring Mexicans to Iowa to do it,” said Richard, warming to the task, “but a bear is worse. It’s gamy.” This word had no punch at all. It was one of those words that everyone had heard but no one knew really what it meant. “It has almost a fishy smell to it. It’s like you’re being just steeped in the thing’s hormones.”

Vicki shuddered. He considered getting into detail about the physical dimensions of a grizzly bear’s testicles, but, judging from her body language, he’d already driven the point home firmly enough.

Actually, he had been tempted to rush the job of skinning the grizzly. But the problem was that he started with the claws. And he remembered from his boyhood reading about the Lakota braves taking the claws off after they’d killed the bear as a rite of manhood, making them into a necklace. Boys of his vintage took that stuff seriously; he knew as much about Crazy Horse as a man of an earlier generation might have known about Caesar. So he felt compelled to go about the job in a sacred way. Having begun it thus, he could not find the right moment to switch into rough butchery mode.

“The more time I spent — the deeper I got into it — the more I didn’t want the client to have it,” Richard continued. “He wanted it so badly. I was down there covered in gore, fighting off yellow jackets, and he’d mosey down from camp and size it up, you know. I could see him visualizing it on the floor of his office or his den. Broker from New York. I just knew he would tell lies about it — use it to impress people. Claim he’d bagged it himself while his chickenshit guide climbed a tree. We got to arguing. Stupid of me because I was already deep into the illegality of it. I’d placed myself in a totally vulnerable position. He threatened to turn me in, get me fired, if I didn’t give him the trophy. So I said fuck you and just walked away with it. Left him with the keys to the truck so he could get home.”

Silence.

“I didn’t even really want it that badly,” Richard insisted. “I just couldn’t let him take it home and tell lies about it.”

“Did he get you fired?”

“Yes. Got me in trouble too. Got my license revoked.”

“What’d you do after you lost your job?”

Put my newfound skills to work carrying backloads of marijuana across the border.

“This and that.”

“Mmm. Well, I hope it was worth it.”

Oh Christ, yes.

They reached the farm. The driveway was full of SUVs, so Richard, pulling rank as one who had grown up on this property, parked the Grand Marquis on the dead grass of the side yard.

THE VEHICLE RODE so low that getting out of it was like climbing out of one’s own grave. As they did so, Richard caught Peter scanning the place, trying to identify where the fatal clothesline had stood.

Richard thought about becoming Peter’s Virgil, giving the poor kid a break by flatly explaining all the stuff he’d eventually have to piece together on his own, if he and Zula stayed together. He did not actually do it, but the words he’d speak had been loosed in his mind. If there was such a thing as a mind’s eye, then his mind’s mouth had started talking.

He cast his eye over a slight bulge in the ground surrounded by a ring of frostbitten toadstools, like a boil striving to erupt through the lawn from some underlying Grimm brothers stratum. That’s what’s left of the oak tree. The clothesline ran from it to the side of the house — just there, beside the chimney, you can see the bracket. Mom was upstairs dying. The nature of what ailed her created a need for frequent changes of bed linens. I offered to drive into town and buy more sheets at J.C. Penney — this was pre-Walmart. Patricia was affronted. As if this were me accusing her of being a bad daughter. A load of sheets was finished, but the dryer was still busy, so she hung them up on the clothesline. It was one of those days when you could tell that a storm was coming. We were up there sitting around Mom’s bed in midafternoon singing hymns, and we heard the thunder rolling across the prairie like billiard balls. Pat went downstairs to take the sheets off the line before the rain came. We all heard the bolt that killed her. Sounded like ten sticks of dynamite going off right outside the window. It hit the tree and traveled down the clothesline and right down her arm through her heart to the ground. Power went out, Mom woke up, things were confused for a minute or two. Finally Jake happened to look out the window and saw Pat down in the grass, already with a sheet on her. We never told Mom that her daughter was dead. Would have made for some awkward explaining. She lost consciousness later that day and died three days after that. We buried them together.