“I’ve had a pretty good time the last few weeks,” I said.
“I’m not sorry I got in touch with you.” It was more or less true.
“It’d all be great if it wasn’t for that son-of-a-bitchin’ McKlearey,” he said bitterly.
“Yeah. What the hell’s got him off on the prod so bad, anyway?”
“Aw shit! He was the big-ass gunnery sergeant in the Corps — you know, a hundred guys jumped every time he farted. He was a big shot. Now he’s low man on the totem pole at Sloane’s used-car lot — a big plate of fried ratshit. He’s not in charge anymore. Some guys just can’t hack mat.”
“Institutional mentality,” I said.
“What the hell’s that?”
“It’s like the ex-con who gets busted for sticking up a police station two days after he gets out of the pen. He really wants to go back. They take care of him, do his thinking for nun. He’s safe inside. Guys in the military get the same way.”
“Maybe that’s it, Jack said.”When I knew him in the service, he was a different guy. Now he’s drunk all the time and shacked-up with a half dozen women and a real first-class prick. I wouldn’t be surprised if he’s been throwin’ the wood to Marg every time my back’s turned.”
I was suddenly very wide awake. Christ, had he been so drunk that night he couldn’t remember what he’d said? “Oh?” I said carefully.
“It wouldn’t be the first time she’s played around. Maybe I’ve given her reason enough. She was pretty young and simple when I married her, and I’m not one to pass up some occasional strange stuff. Maybe she figures she’s entitled. I don’t give a shit. Me and her are about ready to split the sheets anyway.” He slumped lower in the seat and lit a cigarette.
“Sorry to hear that,” I said. I meant it.
“I’ve been through it a couple of times already. I know the signs. I don’t really give a rat’s ass; I’m about ready to go the single route myself anyway. Marriage is fine for a while — steady ass and home cookin’ — but it gets to be a drag.”
“I’m still sorry to hear it.”
“But no matter what, I’m a blue-balls son of a bitch if I want to get cut out by that fuckin’ McKlearey while I’m still payin’ the bills. That’s one of the reasons I’m gonna outhunt that motherfucker if it kills me. Maybe if I rub his nose in it hard enough, he’ll get the idea and move on.” Jack’s voice was harsh.
“I don’t know,” I said. “As stupid as he is, getting an idea through his head might take some doing.”
“I suppose I could always shoot the bastard.”
“Not worth it.” I was about half-afraid he meant it.
“I suppose not, but he could sure use shootin’.”
“You know it, buddy.”
“Another beer?”
“Sure.”
The moon was slipping in and out of the clouds as we climbed higher, and the drops that hit the windshield were getting smaller. The rain was slacking off. The big fir trees at the side of the road caught briefly in our headlights had their trunks wreathed in tendrils of mist. I leaned forward and looked up through the windshield at the slowly emerging stars.
“Looks like it’s going to quit,” I said.
“That’s what I told you,” he said.
The High Hunt
15
Sloane’s Cadillac was still leading, and at the summit he signaled for a left.
“Where the hell’s he going?” I asked. “Off into the timber?”
“Naw. He probably wants to use the can. McKlearey’s been droppin’ back for the last ten miles anyway, so we better let the son of a bitch catch up.”
I turned Jack’s car into the lot at the summit behind Sloane, stopping beside his car and switching off the engine.
Sloane stuck his head out the window on the driver’s side and yelled, “Piss call!” The echoes bounced off down the gorge we’d just come up.
“Christ, Sloane,” Jack hissed, “keep it down. There’s people livin’ over in the lodge there.”
“Oooops,” Sloane said. He and Jack hotfooted it over to the rest room while Stan and I stood out in the sprinkling rain waiting to flag down McKlearey. It was so quiet you could hear the pattering drops back in the timber.
“Pretty chilly up here,” Stan said. His voice was hushed, and his breath steamed. He had his hands jammed down into the pockets of his new bright-orange hunting jacket. The jacket clashed horribly with his old red duck-hunting cap.
“It’s damned high,” I said.
“What time is it?”
“About three thirty,” I said.
“You think Lou’s car has broken down?”
“About right now I wouldn’t give a damn if that bastard had driven off into the gorge somewhere. I’ve had a gutful of him, and a steering post through the belly might civilize him some.”
“I’ve met people I’ve liked a lot more,” Stan agreed. That’s Stan for you. Never say what you mean.
“How are you and Sloane getting along?”
“Just fine. He’s a strange one, you know? He plays the fool, but he’s really very serious. He was telling me that he hates that pawnshop and all the sad little people who come in wanting just a couple of dollars for a piece of worthless trash — they know it’s not worth anything, but it’s all they have — but he can’t get his money back out of the place right now, so he has to stay there.”
“Yeah,” I said, “Sloane’s a really odd duck.”
“And he’s really very intelligent — well-read, aware of what’s going on in the world — all of this foolishness is just an act.”
“I wouldn’t want to try to outsmart him,” I agreed.
Cal and Jack came back. “Hasn’t that shithead made it yet?” Jack demanded. “Oh, hell, yes,” he imitated McKlearey’s voice, “I’m gonna drive my car. It’s a real goin’ machine. Cost me sixty-five bucks. I’d feel perfectly safe drivin’ from here to the end of the block in that car.”
“I think that’s his car now,” Stan said. He pointed far off down the mountain we’d just climbed. We saw a flash of headlights sweeping out across the gorge, flaring out in a sudden bright swipe through the mist.
Stan and I went to the rest room, came back, and joined the others watching Lou’s old car labor up the highway.
“Is this the fuckin’ top?” he demanded as he pulled up alongside, his radiator hissing ominously.
“This is her,” Sloane said. “Car heat up on you?”
“Aw, this cripple,” Lou said in disgust. “Is there any water here?”
“Over by the latrine,” I said, pointing.
He pulled over to the side of the rest-room building and popped the hood. He got out and threw a beer bottle off into the trees. The bandage on his left hand gleamed whitely in the darkness. He eased off the radiator cap, and the steam boiled out, drifting pale and low downwind. He poured water into the radiator, and pretty soon it stopped steaming. Then he fished out a can of oil from the trunk and punched holes in the top with an old beer opener. He dumped the oil into the engine and then threw the can after the beer bottle. He slammed the hood, unzipped his pants, and pissed on the front tire.
“Christ, McKlearey!” Jack said, “there’s the latrine right there.”
“Fuck it!” Lou said. “What time is it?”
“Nearly four,” I told him.
“Let’s go huntin’, men,” he said and climbed back in his car. The rest of us went to our cars, and we started down the other side.
Jack was driving again, and I slumped down in the seat. The sky was clear on this side, and the stars were very bright. I picked one out and watched it as we drifted down the mountain.
What in the goddamn hell was I doing here anyway? I was running off into the high mountains with a bunch of guys I didn’t really know, to do something I didn’t really know all that much about, despite what I’d told Clydine. Maybe I was still running and this was just someplace else to run to. But I had a strange feeling that whatever I’d been running after — or away from — was going to be up there. Maybe Stan was right. When you strip it all away, and it’s just you and the big lonely out there, you can get down to what counts.
Maybe it was more than that, too. Up until Dad died, I’d heard hunting stories — about him and Uncle Charles, about Granddad and Great-Uncle Beale — all of them. And I’d started going out as soon as I was old enough — alone most of the time. It was something where you couldn’t work the angles or unload a quick snow job or any of the crap I’d somehow gotten so good at in the last few years. There was no way to fake it; it had to be real. If you didn’t kill the damned deer, he wouldn’t fall down. You couldn’t talk to him and tell him that he was statistically dead and convince him to take a dive. He had too much integrity. He knew what it was all about, and if you didn’t really nail him down, he’d go over the nearest mountain before you could get off a second shot. He knew he was real. It was up to you to find out if you were.