I just didn’t feel like it.
“I think he’s turning around,” Ellie said, and I came out of my trance. The cable groaned next to us, and, across the river, I could see the ferry finally moving our way. Ellie was looking forward to this visit. I certainly was not. The ranch was where she had grown up, a nature lover. Despite all its deficiencies, it was her place on earth.
We watched the ferry tack across the Missouri, tugging at an angle to the cable, then landing with a broad thump on the ramp. The ferryman, who was far too young for the wide red suspenders he affected, motioned us forward, and I drove our piece-of-shit car onto the dock.
While we crossed, my wife stood on the ferry deck, looking out at the river, smiling and sighing at the swallows circling the current. I told her that they were just after the bugs. She said she understood that, but they looked beautiful whatever they were doing, all right? I’ve long had trouble with people picking outsome detail of the landscape and pretending it’s the whole story, as though, in this case, the blue light around those speeding birds could do anything to mask the desolation of the country north of the river, a land I traverse holding my nose.
“Aren’t you going to get out of the car?” she asked.
“Who’s supposed to drive it off the ferry?”
I looked away from my wife and turned on the radio: no signal. I thought about her peculiar cheer today. I supposed it was the prospect of seeing her mother and father, of revisiting the scenes of her childhood, which she had done often enough to prove the utter heroism of my patience. Though, in recent times, we had talked less and less, which begged the question: What was there to talk about? We worked and we saved. We saved quite a bit more than Ellie would have, had she been in charge of things. What was becoming a comfortable nest egg would have disappeared in jaunts to Belize or some other place, where Ellie could show more of the body she was so proud of to anyone and everyone. She once had the nerve to point out that all this saving up for old age was remarkable for someone who had so much contempt for the elderly. I said, “Ha-ha-ha.” She was going to have to settle for wiggling her butt in the school corridors until the inevitable day when the damn thing sagged.
At last we landed, and I drove off. Ellie was having a lively chat with the ferryman, and she took her time getting back in the car. I stared straight through the windshield until she got around to it. When she climbed in, with a sort of bounce, she exclaimed, “He grew up on the neighbor’s place, the Showalters’. He’s a Showalter. Graduated from Winnett, where I went.”
“Ah, so.”
The ranch was no more than half an hour from the ferry.Ellie’s excitement grew along the route. Here is a sampler of her exclamations:
· “Look at all the antelope! There must be a hundred of them!”
· “Oh, I can smell the sage now!”
· “This road looks like a silver ribbon!”
· “Those are all red-tailed hawks, just riding that thermal!”
· “Larkspur!”
· “What a grass year! Can you imagine what Dad’s calves will look like?”
To this last, I said, “No.” I honestly thought she was getting manic as we approached the ranch. Ellie is an enthusiast, but this went well beyond her usual behavior. I don’t know if she detected my concern, but she seemed to catch herself and clam up; she was talking less, but I could still feel her glee from my position at the wheel. I wondered if the situation called for a pill.
I drove under the ranch gate, with its iron brand hanging overhead—two inverted
V
s, known in the graceful local vernacular as the squaw tits. Dad, as I had long felt obliged to call him, and his wife, Mom, stood at the edge of the yard, framed from behind by their bitter little clapboard house. Dad was in full regalia: Stetson hat, leather vest, cowboy boots, and—this was new—a six-gun. Mom was dressed more
“I think he’s turning around,” Ellie said, and I came out of my trance. The cable groaned next to us, and, across the river, I could see the ferry finally moving our way. Ellie was looking forward to this visit. I certainly was not. The ranch was where she had grown up, a nature lover. Despite all its deficiencies, it was her place on earth.
We watched the ferry tack across the Missouri, tugging at an angle to the cable, then landing with a broad thump on the ramp. The ferryman, who was far too young for the wide red suspenders he affected, motioned us forward, and I drove our piece-of-shit car onto the dock.
While we crossed, my wife stood on the ferry deck, looking out at the river, smiling and sighing at the swallows circling the current. I told her that they were just after the bugs. She said she understood that, but they looked beautiful whatever they were doing, all right? I’ve long had trouble with people picking outsome detail of the landscape and pretending it’s the whole story, as though, in this case, the blue light around those speeding birds could do anything to mask the desolation of the country north of the river, a land I traverse holding my nose.
“Aren’t you going to get out of the car?” she asked.
“Who’s supposed to drive it off the ferry?”
I looked away from my wife and turned on the radio: no signal. I thought about her peculiar cheer today. I supposed it was the prospect of seeing her mother and father, of revisiting the scenes of her childhood, which she had done often enough to prove the utter heroism of my patience. Though, in recent times, we had talked less and less, which begged the question: What was there to talk about? We worked and we saved. We saved quite a bit more than Ellie would have, had she been in charge of things. What was becoming a comfortable nest egg would have disappeared in jaunts to Belize or some other place, where Ellie could show more of the body she was so proud of to anyone and everyone. She once had the nerve to point out that all this saving up for old age was remarkable for someone who had so much contempt for the elderly. I said, “Ha-ha-ha.” She was going to have to settle for wiggling her butt in the school corridors until the inevitable day when the damn thing sagged.
At last we landed, and I drove off. Ellie was having a lively chat with the ferryman, and she took her time getting back in the car. I stared straight through the windshield until she got around to it. When she climbed in, with a sort of bounce, she exclaimed, “He grew up on the neighbor’s place, the Showalters’. He’s a Showalter. Graduated from Winnett, where I went.”
“Ah, so.”
The ranch was no more than half an hour from the ferry.Ellie’s excitement grew along the route. Here is a sampler of her exclamations:
· “Look at all the antelope! There must be a hundred of them!”
· “Oh, I can smell the sage now!”
· “This road looks like a silver ribbon!”
· “Those are all red-tailed hawks, just riding that thermal!”
· “Larkspur!”
· “What a grass year! Can you imagine what Dad’s calves will look like?”
To this last, I said, “No.” I honestly thought she was getting manic as we approached the ranch. Ellie is an enthusiast, but this went well beyond her usual behavior. I don’t know if she detected my concern, but she seemed to catch herself and clam up; she was talking less, but I could still feel her glee from my position at the wheel. I wondered if the situation called for a pill.
I drove under the ranch gate, with its iron brand hanging overhead—two inverted
V
s, known in the graceful local vernacular as the squaw tits. Dad, as I had long felt obliged to call him, and his wife, Mom, stood at the edge of the yard, framed from behind by their bitter little clapboard house. Dad was in full regalia: Stetson hat, leather vest, cowboy boots, and—this was new—a six-gun. Mom was dressed more
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