“Ha ha ha,” said Lane.
“I’m not kidding.”
“Okay, so another tack. Frank. You’re a businessman. You share my climate.”
“I’ve become a worse and worse businessman.”
“I’ll lay you three to one it’s because of the negative climate that we operate in — workmen’s comp, et cetera.”
“No, it’s not. It’s something else. It’s closer to chronic fatigue syndrome.” He didn’t tell Lane about his flat-earth theory or the exhilaration he sometimes felt when he thought of the big, brusque, variegated planet going on without him, like a Spanish galleon leaving a swimmer who had just walked the plank. This vision always ended like an old comedy going into reverse, with him rising from a big splash to run through the air back up to the end of the plank, run back down it into the crowd of sailors on deck. He wouldn’t leave earth voluntarily, given the paltry stats on the other shit-planets with their faded canals, daffy moon rings.
“I’m very motivated toward having a pleasant relationship with you,” said Lane. “I’m very drawn to your daughter.” Frank got the awful feeling again. “I’m not getting much encouragement from her.” He laughed. “It’s a credit to you and your wife that she has grown into such an intricately developed personality. I wish she would give me stronger indications of our future together.”
“That’s good,” said Frank. “It’s an inappropriate relationship.”
“I think the principals, and the principals only, are entitled to that view.”
“Couldn’t you find a conservative American your own age?”
“I could.”
“You could?”
“But I don’t want to.”
“Ah.”
“And Frank, your daughter is getting more conservative by the minute. And that’s not bad. We’re the ones who look around our nation and want the same thing: swift, retributive justice.”
Frank thought about this alarming and obviously premeditated phrase, without picturing where it could lead. “Anyway, do you know when they’ll be back?” he asked.
“They won’t. Mrs. Copenhaver has gone down to Deadrock, I think, and Holly’s at class.”
34
The streetlamps streamed slowly past as he headed to a downtown Deadrock bar on foot, the lovely curves of automobiles with intricate paint jobs and personalized license plates displaying the state’s pride in the Big Sky. An elderly cripple made his way along the sidewalk with gritty determination and shouted at Frank, “Watch where you’re going, you crazy jerk!” This filled Frank with a reassurance of the indomitability of man. He stopped to look up and down a cross street, noting a conspicuous whistle from his nose and shadowy rings around his vision. He gave a loud laugh and a car slowed down to look at him. Wave to those people! They didn’t wave back. We don’t care! Another big laugh. Ha, ha! More waving …
Frank found himself in the bar. He didn’t know how long he’d been in here, or how many drinks he’d had, but he decided to make a request by tracking the bar to the dance floor, pushing through all those dancers to the bandstand and asking the singer, who was usually the leader of the band, to play something special. There was Lucy Dyer! Hey, talk about special!
Lucy sat at the bar turned around on her stool so that she could watch people dancing. There were men on either side of her when Frank approached to take her request. No matter how he pressed her, he couldn’t get her to name that tune. Finally, the man on her left, a tall and unsmiling cowboy in a black shirt, said, “She doesn’t have a song to request. Hadn’t you been listening?”
“Frank,” said Lucy, “I’d like you to meet my honey, Darryl Pullman.”
Frank was right in his face with a warm greeting and a handshake. “What do you do, Darryl?”
“I’m a spray pilot.”
“That’s all right.”
“And a big-game guide.”
“Well, what about you, Darryl, anything you’d like to hear?”
“If they knowed any Dwight Yoakam, be okay.”
“Dwight Yoakam it is.”
Frank hated the way he seemed so sprightly in the presence of these salt-of-the-earth types, but he succeeded in getting in the request and the band played “Guitars and Cadillacs.” Up till then, he thought Darryl was kidding him, requesting some relation of Mammy Yoakam. He went back to Lucy and Darryl and said, “Would I be pushing my luck if I asked Lucy to dance?”
“Whatever blows your dress up,” said Darryl.
“Thank you, Darryl. Thank you very much.”
It was crowded on the dance floor and seemed to be no more than a large disorganized group of people. Frank couldn’t detect any relationship between the music and the movements of the dancers. The large number of cowboy hats seemed to cut down on the available space. But Frank was enjoying the familiar weight and heat of Lucy in his arms. He knew it as common lust, a profound simplicity. The prominent bulge in his trousers spoke reams.
“You’ve got your nerve shoving that thing at me,” said Lucy.
“The worst hanging judge in the world doesn’t penalize folks for that which is involuntary.”
Frank danced her around the room, feeling loose enough to fall on her. It was swell. When the song finished, Lucy pushed off and Frank went back to the bandstand. The singer leaned over his guitar and moved the microphone away from his face to listen to Frank.
“Do you do ‘Happy Birthday’?”
“Sure do. Who’s it for?”
“Darryl Pullman. He is one hundred years old tonight and he came just to hear y’all play.” He had filched Gracie’s accent.
“Be tickled to death,” said the singer, reverberating the familiar six notes that punctuate the annual walk off the flat earth: “Happy bir-thday tew yew!” He leaned toward the microphone to talk out of the side of his mouth as Frank made his way back to Lucy. “Don’t often in our business get to celebrate somebody’s turning one hundred years old like we’re fixing to do right now. This one’s for Darryl Pullman, who’s with us tonight. Darryl, here’s to a hundred more!”
Frank looked Darryl right in the eye and said, “I didn’t think they’d even invented the name Darryl a hundred years ago.”
“They hadn’t,” said Darryl, who began to sing along with his own birthday song. “But this is a great opportunity for me to look forward to what it’ll be like, you sorry little shit.”
When the song came to an end and the applause died down, along with the back-pounding that forced Darryl to act happy about it all, Frank said, “Darryl, let me lay it on the table. This may be too much for you, and if it is, I don’t blame you. Can you reach me my drink?” He gulped it down. “But I have absolutely got to have a word with Lucy and it will not take but a minute. I’ve absolutely got to.” Darryl didn’t say anything. “Darryl, I gotta. I’ve absolutely got to. We’re right down the hall from each other. It’s not that whatever. Please.”
“Is this an emergency?”
“Yes! That’s exactly the word I was looking for. Emergency.”
“How long?”
“Six minutes, twenty-one seconds. There will be no time-outs or delays for commercials.”
“I ain’t too worried about it,” said Darryl, “if you want to know the truth.”
As soon as they stepped outside, Frank began to struggle with himself. He looked up at the theater marquee across the street and saw its perennial sign, “Closed for the Season.” He discovered the unsteadiness of his limbs. “Is there anywhere we can sit down for a moment?”
“Yes,” said Lucy in a firm and businesslike voice, “we can sit in Darryl’s truck. I know he wouldn’t mind because he is not petty. He is not petty and he is not inconsiderate.”