That Old Ace in the Hole. Annie Proulx

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СКАЧАТЬ or empty buildings, the old school boarded up and wreathed in two-strand Wave Spread wire, past a decayed rock building with no roof and a dangling sign that read KELLY’S HOTEL – which he guessed was the home of the future “nice restaurant.” Bemused by curious rock formations that resembled dinosaur excreta standing on end, he thought of the storekeeper’s apparent ignorance that it had taken Santa Fe centuries to build up from its start as a trading town for Mexican hides and Indian silverwork. Several times he had gone with Uncle Tam and Bromo Redpoll to Santa Fe for the Art Plastic Society’s annual convention, and while the two men slavered over cracked polymer, he’d wandered around the town with one of the free guidebooks supplied by the hotel. So, thinking of the Santa Fe Trail from Independence, Missouri, to Council Grove in Kansas, to Pawnee Rock where the route split in two, the “wet trail” going south along the Cimarron River, the safer “dry trail” from Bent’s Fort westward to Raton Pass through the Sangre de Cristo range and on to Santa Fe, and thinking how he would soon be crossing that ghostly track, he took a wrong turn.

      He did not notice at first, for a road runner dashed in front of him. The road was paved, but soon it narrowed, and after fifteen miles plunged down a short hill to a bridgeless water crossing, then up and around a tight corner and onto level ground where it split away into three rutted dirt trails without signs. The mesas were out of sight, the rock formations had disappeared. He fumbled for his map but the one he had, a gas station cheapo stamped Central and Western States, did not show Teemu on it. He guessed that by turning right, which he took to be east, he would parallel the state line and, after a while, find a good road cutting south again.

      And so he maneuvered onto a set of dusty ruts dotted with manure, a primitive road wandering through uninhabited grazing land. There were no towns, no gas stations, no houses, no corrals, no traffic. He was the only person on an endless track without turnoff nor intersection. The fine dust got into the car and choked him and he wished he had bought gallons of water from the talkative store man. It was sultry for a day in March, even in Oklahoma, and gross clouds crowded the sky. After an hour of dry swallowing he came on a weather-beaten sign, the first he had seen. It read COMANCHE NATIONAL GRASSLAND. He looked at his map. There was a green square on the map bearing the same name. He was somehow back in Colorado and heading north.

      He could not bear to retrace his path to the fetal boomtown, so he drove doggedly on, believing that sooner or later there would be intersecting roads east and then south that would take him down to Oklahoma and Texas. Eight miles later he hit a right-hand turnoff without a sign but it surely headed east and gave him a view to the south of a massive wall of blue-black cloud slashed by lightning.

      With an abrupt twitch the dusty road butted onto blacktop and in the distance he could see semis racing along a busy highway. He had found the road but lost the day. A northwest slot in the clouds let a narrow ray of sunlight through. There was a heaviness to it as though its rich color truly bore the weight of gold.

      In another hour he was back in Oklahoma, a few miles outside Boise City, looking for a place to sleep. He found a bed-and-breakfast, the Badger Hole, where, on the front lawn, an enormous fiberglass badger stood with Christmas lights around its neck. In the tiny parking lot there was an unwashed white van with Arizona plates. A finger had written in the dust on the back door ON THE MOTHER-FUCKING ROAD AGAIN. It didn’t sound like the sentiment of an escaped convict, so he took the room.

      He was shown up the stairs by a heavy woman, young but fleshy, with yellow crimped hair and a beautiful face. When she spoke her mouth went up on one side as though she talked around a cigar. The room was hot and airless, the walls painted forget-me-not blue. The single bed was dainty and white, the bathroom obviously made over from a narrow closet. There was no air conditioner, but an electric fan took up most of the top of the painted chest. He pried a window open and with the cool evening air came a loose knot of mosquitoes. He turned on the fan, which roared hugely, the stream of air twitching the curtains, stirring the pages of a magazine on the bedside table – Decorating Your Mobile Home.

      Bob Dollar opened the smallest of the packages his uncle had handed him and inside found the tie his mother had painted showing the Titanic going down. There was an immense gash in the ship’s side and out of it tumbled people and beds and china; tiny figures struggled in the water. An iceberg shaped like a bundle of chef’s knives threatened to stab the ship again. Tears came to Bob’s pale eyes. He had heard his uncle say many times that the tie was his dearest possession. The other package felt like a book. Bromo always had given him books, great books, for he had an uncanny sense of what Bob would like. Inside was a slender paperback, Expedition to the Southwest, An 1845 Reconnaissance of Colorado, New Mexico, Texas and Oklahoma by Lieutenant James William Abert. There was a note from Bromo:

      Dear Bob.

      I thought the adventures of Lt. Abert might interest you as he was the first to systematically explore the region you are now in and at approximately your age. I hope you will take as much interest in what you see as he did. The broadly engaged mind is the source of a happy life. Good luck.

      P.S. Keep away from Oklahoma.

      He went down the street for supper, ate two scorched corn dogs and aged coleslaw at the Bandwagon diner and then called home collect from a pay phone.

      “Hi, Uncle Tam, it’s me.”

      “Well, I’ll be damned. Haven’t heard from you in twenty-four hours. How do you like it down there?”

      “I’m not there yet. I got mixed up on some back roads. I’m in Oklahoma. It got too late to keep going. Anyway, I want to look over the country in daylight. Thought I’d call up and tell you I’m really happy about the tie. I know it meant a lot to you.”

      “Well, seemed right you should have something from your mother. I was going to give it to you when you graduated from Horace Greeley, but something told me to wait. What did Wayne send you?”

      “A book by some guy named Abert. A lieutenant. I think he went through this country a hundred years ago. Looks pretty interesting. Bromo wrote I should stay out of Oklahoma but that’s where I am. What’s new with you?”

      “Not much the time you been gone. I cut my thumb opening mail – a paper cut. Hurt like hell. And my feet are pretty bad today. I’m thinking of going to the doctor. And I entered the Reader’s Digest Sweepstakes contest. First prize is two million dollars.”

      “How’s the vegetarian program going?”

      “Good. I got me some tofu and vegetables and fruit, about a ton of dried beans. Mrs. Mendoza down the block showed me how to cook them Mexican-style. Gave me some dried epazote. She told me where to get good chorizo but I left that out – not a vegetable. I feel a little better already – except my feet. And your old friend stopped by.”

      “What old friend?”

      “The big jailbird. Orlando.”

      “Orlando’s out?”

      “Well, he must be if he came by. I don’t know if he escaped or got released and I didn’t care to ask. Didn’t recognize him at first. You can tell he’s been working out. Wanted to know how to get hold of you. Said I didn’t know.”

      “I’ll send you an address soon as I find a place to stay and get a mailbox. If Orlando comes by again get a phone number or something. I’ll call you again in a couple of days.”

      “I hope you’re not going to take up with him again. He’s an ex-con now. Or worse, a prison escapee.”

      

      There was a television СКАЧАТЬ