forearm. He looked over at the Tetons, which is what everybody in the valley does when they’re thinking deep stuff. “Maurey, have you looked at the books since Buddy died? Sam financed the funeral and paid the inheritance taxes. He owns your mama’s house.”
“I don’t get it.”
“This ranch is supporting your mother, brother, me, and most of Lydia, and now it’ll have to do for you. That many people can’t live on horses.”
“Why didn’t anyone tell me?”
Hank looked right at my face, which, as I understand it, is a very un-Blackfoot thing to do. “You were preoccupied.”
“Drunk.”
He shrugged. “Sometimes you were just depressed.”
You know, when your dad dies you can’t simply stop functioning for six months. I mean, you can—I was the number one example—but you shouldn’t. Somebody has to pay attention. At her sanest, Mom didn’t know which end of a cow shits, and Petey was afraid of animals. That left me, and I’d flopped.
“I should surrender and give the ranch to Sam.”
Hank crammed the gloves in his back pocket so only the tips of the fingers stuck out. “Don’t do that, he might fire me and run the place himself.”
The thought made even Hank smile. I’d seen Sam in a cowboy hat once. He looked like Woody Allen gone hombre. The only time he ever got it up to ride a horse, Mae West threw him into a barbwire fence.
“Still, I’d rather do this without Sam,” I said. “He’s been saving me for ten years. It’s my turn.”
As Hank and I walked through the shin-high grasses up to the house, I thought about why I didn’t want Sam flying me down there. It was like, here in Jackson Hole people watched me. And in Greensboro Sam’s expectations would cause discomfort. If I got drunk, Sam wouldn’t preach or anything, but he would think. Shannon had never seen the Mom-gone-bad either.
I was worn out from disappointing people. I needed a gap, a rest between this and that where no one could pull me up, put me down, or tear off little pieces of my energy. Even though I’d just finished one, I needed a three-day nap, and being out of reach on the road with Laurel and Hardy might be the next best medicine.
***
Shane slid another cookie into his beak. “I don’t see cows. You said there were cows and all I see are horses.”
Hank nodded to the uphill side. “Cattle are on the Forest Service lease till October.”
“I don’t much care for horses. Never have since Katharine Hepburn insisted I copulate with her on one in 1942,” Shane said.
I was dubious. “You nailed Katharine Hepburn?”
“On a stallion. Sweet girl, really, although she went to extremes for sensory experience.” Shane lowered his voice. “She suffered from penis envy.”
“We’ve got a filly named Katharine Hepburn.” Hank waved his arm in the general direction of Frostbite and three or four quarter horse-Thoroughbred combinations.
Shane peered off toward the group. “Kate always was a bit horsey in the thighs.”
I didn’t for a second believe Shane had nailed Katharine Hepburn. Nobody—except possibly Spencer Tracy when she was underage—had ever nailed Katharine Hepburn. She wouldn’t allow it.
Lloyd backed out from under Moby Dick. Some gravel was embedded in his bare shoulder next to the overalls. “Big hole in the exhaust,” he said. “Thought I felt fumes inside.”
Hank dropped to a haunch-squat to peer under Dick’s guts. “Coke cans wrapped around the pipe will fix that. I’ve got some clamps in the barn.”
“Much obliged,” Lloyd said, and Bingo , they were male pals on the spot. Men can do that. “Carburetor’s clogged,” a man will say to a complete stranger, and instantly they’re connected by a common language. I don’t share a common language with women. Mildred Barber asked me what I thought of Final Net once and I had to say, “Huh?”
Lloyd and Hank wandered off for clamps and the trailer and left me with Mr. Delusions of Grandeur. Under the fat
“I don’t get it.”
“This ranch is supporting your mother, brother, me, and most of Lydia, and now it’ll have to do for you. That many people can’t live on horses.”
“Why didn’t anyone tell me?”
Hank looked right at my face, which, as I understand it, is a very un-Blackfoot thing to do. “You were preoccupied.”
“Drunk.”
He shrugged. “Sometimes you were just depressed.”
You know, when your dad dies you can’t simply stop functioning for six months. I mean, you can—I was the number one example—but you shouldn’t. Somebody has to pay attention. At her sanest, Mom didn’t know which end of a cow shits, and Petey was afraid of animals. That left me, and I’d flopped.
“I should surrender and give the ranch to Sam.”
Hank crammed the gloves in his back pocket so only the tips of the fingers stuck out. “Don’t do that, he might fire me and run the place himself.”
The thought made even Hank smile. I’d seen Sam in a cowboy hat once. He looked like Woody Allen gone hombre. The only time he ever got it up to ride a horse, Mae West threw him into a barbwire fence.
“Still, I’d rather do this without Sam,” I said. “He’s been saving me for ten years. It’s my turn.”
As Hank and I walked through the shin-high grasses up to the house, I thought about why I didn’t want Sam flying me down there. It was like, here in Jackson Hole people watched me. And in Greensboro Sam’s expectations would cause discomfort. If I got drunk, Sam wouldn’t preach or anything, but he would think. Shannon had never seen the Mom-gone-bad either.
I was worn out from disappointing people. I needed a gap, a rest between this and that where no one could pull me up, put me down, or tear off little pieces of my energy. Even though I’d just finished one, I needed a three-day nap, and being out of reach on the road with Laurel and Hardy might be the next best medicine.
***
Shane slid another cookie into his beak. “I don’t see cows. You said there were cows and all I see are horses.”
Hank nodded to the uphill side. “Cattle are on the Forest Service lease till October.”
“I don’t much care for horses. Never have since Katharine Hepburn insisted I copulate with her on one in 1942,” Shane said.
I was dubious. “You nailed Katharine Hepburn?”
“On a stallion. Sweet girl, really, although she went to extremes for sensory experience.” Shane lowered his voice. “She suffered from penis envy.”
“We’ve got a filly named Katharine Hepburn.” Hank waved his arm in the general direction of Frostbite and three or four quarter horse-Thoroughbred combinations.
Shane peered off toward the group. “Kate always was a bit horsey in the thighs.”
I didn’t for a second believe Shane had nailed Katharine Hepburn. Nobody—except possibly Spencer Tracy when she was underage—had ever nailed Katharine Hepburn. She wouldn’t allow it.
Lloyd backed out from under Moby Dick. Some gravel was embedded in his bare shoulder next to the overalls. “Big hole in the exhaust,” he said. “Thought I felt fumes inside.”
Hank dropped to a haunch-squat to peer under Dick’s guts. “Coke cans wrapped around the pipe will fix that. I’ve got some clamps in the barn.”
“Much obliged,” Lloyd said, and Bingo , they were male pals on the spot. Men can do that. “Carburetor’s clogged,” a man will say to a complete stranger, and instantly they’re connected by a common language. I don’t share a common language with women. Mildred Barber asked me what I thought of Final Net once and I had to say, “Huh?”
Lloyd and Hank wandered off for clamps and the trailer and left me with Mr. Delusions of Grandeur. Under the fat
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