He made as if to prop one elbow on the rail of the pen — or corral, as it was called here — but then seemed to think better of it. “But they’re not actually hurt in any way, are they?”
“No,” she had to admit. “Aside from the odd nick and scratch, I suppose. I’m told that the shears get dull quickly here because there’s so much sand caught in the wool. Sand,” she said, letting her eyes drift beyond the rail and the commotion of bodies there to the distant rising slopes. “It’s the curse of the place. It’s in everything — your clothes, the bedding. Set the table half an hour before dinner and you’ve got to wipe the plates clean again before you can sit down to eat.”
There was a shout from one of the men, something in Spanish, a curse, and she saw that one of the sheep had managed to kick the shears from the man’s hand and break free. It came toward them, trembling, wild-eyed, until her husband, his face reddened with the exertion, managed to seize it from behind and drag it back to the dark little man who was still cursing in his own hermetic language. Puta, he spat. Puta. La reputa que lo parió.
“You see?” she said. “And the lambs must have their tails docked, of course. I couldn’t watch that. It seems so cruel.”
“So why do it at all?”
“Something to do with the meat.” She glanced up at him then. It came to her that he didn’t know the first thing about this, knew even less than she did. Either that or he was testing her. And if he was, she was destined to fail. “It would grow into the tail instead of on the body itself, where—”
“Where you want your lamb chops to be.” He gave her his thin smile. “You seem quite well versed.”
“Oh, no, not really. I’ve only been listening to what Will tells me, that’s all.” She let out a laugh. “I’m hardly a farmwife, or not yet, anyway. In fact, until now, I’ve never really been outside a city in my life.”
“I’d never have guessed,” he said, and it took a moment to realize he was making a joke. But was it a joke? Or a criticism?
More shouting from the pen, another animal breaking free to rush pell-mell from one side to the other, giving up its terror in a ragged choking cry of despair.
“All right,” he said, turning back to her, and again he made as if to prop an elbow on the rail and again thought better of it, “I concede your point. But each of these animals will live on for years, whereas with cattle or hogs the whole animal has to be sacrificed in order to get any value out of it. And there’s very little loss out here, or so I’m told. No wolves or dogs or bears or anything like that. No catamounts. And the only fences you need are to guide the animals in for shearing and keep them out of the pasture until the hay is mowed, isn’t that right?”
“Yes, I suppose so.” And then it came to her that she should be praising the place, trying to sell him on it so that he would come in as partner and she could go back to town and her things and live like a human being and either get well or not. She wouldn’t want to die out here, that much she knew. It was already like being a soul in limbo. She was bored. She was afraid. She wanted release, only that. “It’s a remarkable place,” she said. “Truly remarkable.” And she almost added, A once-in-a-lifetime opportunity, but caught herself.
He was studying her out of eyes that were too close-set, too small, as if his face had been pinched in the womb. His heavy mustache masked the expression of his mouth, but he might have been smiling, or at least she thought he was. “Seems like you’re trying to sell me on the place,” he said.
She wanted to deny it, but she gave him a smile instead, if only to cover herself. “I suppose I am. But it’s worth it, worth everything we’ve invested — the opportunity. I couldn’t be happier. I couldn’t.”
And now he was grinning, the mustache levitating above a set of stained lower teeth. “I’m flattered,” he said, “but there’s really no need. Hiram, Will and I signed the transfer papers last night.”
“Yes,” she said, “yes,” and she didn’t know what she was assenting to, her heart pounding, the blood rushing to her face. He shifted again and the full glare of the sun struck her so that she had to raise a hand to her eyes. There was a long expiring gasp from the pen as one of the sheep was released to clatter away on unsteady legs. “When—?” she asked, but couldn’t finish the question.
“Your husband hasn’t told you?”
“Well, I — he was up especially early this morning, because of the shearing, that is, and I must have overslept…”
“Everything’s fine,” he said, and he held out a hand to her as if to conclude a bargain, but she merely stared at it in bewilderment. “I’m pleased to be your new partner, yours and your husband’s. I’m sure we’ll all prosper together.”
“I don’t know what to say. I’m delighted. Truly delighted.” She was soaring suddenly, so elated she hardly noticed his embarrassment as he dropped the hand to his side, rebuffed, but then wives didn’t conclude bargains, husbands did. “It’s just — when will you be coming out to take over?”
“Oh, I won’t be coming out. I don’t think your husband would stand for it, do you? No, no, you misunderstand me: I’m to be a silent partner only.”
“Silent?” she echoed, and she couldn’t hide her disappointment.
“Yes,” he said, “in name only.” And here was that look again: was he mocking her, was that it? Was he intentionally trying to drive a stake through her, torture her, bring her crashing to earth like one of Ord’s wing-shot eagles? “Don’t worry,” he said, “you can plan on staying as long as you like.”
The Fog
And then they were all gone and the household went back to normal. The wool — a bumper crop of it, or so Will claimed — was stored in the barn, safe in the overstuffed canvas sacks, awaiting the completion of the final section of the road and the return of Charlie Curner’s schooner, promised vaguely for two or three weeks on. Ida put away the big stewpot and went back to setting the table for six, baking every third day instead of every morning. They saw the last of the tortillas, as if anyone had wanted them in the first place — tasteless scorched things as dull as the unleavened corn mush they were shaped from. Evenings were tranquil. No more watching Will, Nichols and Mills sit around jawboning at one another, no more pretense or show. They went back to the Ouija board, to whist, muggins, euchre, to the long silences and the quiet ticking of the stove.
The only thing that was off was the weather. It had held for the shearing, and she thanked God for that, but as soon as the schooner pulled out of the harbor it turned dismal, days of continuous rain giving way to a fog so opaque you couldn’t see ten feet ahead of you. When she went out to scatter feed for the chickens, one of the few tasks she actually enjoyed, she had to wait till they emerged from nothingness like the ghosts of chickens, which, she supposed, was what each of them would become in time, their eggs stripped from them, then their feathers and the sweet meat that clung to the bone — pecking ghosts, squawking dismally in the ether of another world. Ida got lost on the way to the spring, which couldn’t have been more than three hundred yards away, just above the spot where the road began to dip down into the canyon. The men went off to work the road and as soon as they stepped from the front porch they vanished like coins dropped into a well. Just finding the W.C. was a trial, and she trained herself to keep her eyes on the ground so as to pick out the thin muddy ribbon of a path leading away from the back steps and across the yard, through the gate and into the field where eventually the blistered vertical plane of the latrine’s door would loom into view. If your luck held. Two or three times, in the urgency of her need, she’d found herself lost in a damp dripping void, nothing visible but her skirts and shoes and a pulp of slick dark vegetation crushed beneath her feet.