Pale Harvest. Braden Hepner
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Shoving them off and that’s that. There comes a time when they’ve served their purpose, things get worn out, and death is the best thing for everyone. They’ve done you wrong to wait this long. What do you think you’ll get?
—No idea.
—They haven’t said anything?
Jack shook his head.
—And you haven’t asked?
—It’s a hard thing to ask about.
—How would you feel about taking a drive to town, refill on drinks? said Heber. I’ll fill up your tank.
—What’ve you got there?
Heber shook the box on the ground and five empty bottles rattled against one another. He stuck out a dry warm hand and Jack got up and pulled him to his feet. He walked tenderly to the truck, leaving the bottles beside the tree as if to save his place.
—Feet hurt, he said. I don’t know how much longer I can lay brick of a day.
The wind came to them across the desert and through the town like a clean hot exhalation and the trees sighed with it. As they got in a sudden gust rocked the truck on its springs.
—Storm coming, said Heber. From the heat. Could be the real thing, bring us some rain.
—Be only wind, said Jack. Heat lightning.
Jack drove them through the derelict town square, the two of them the only life in it. Heber said, What built this place? And why didn’t whatever built it keep it going? My old man was going to set fire to this square. When he found he couldn’t resurrect it a little, revive a business or two, he wanted it all gone. Burned to the ground and leveled. Thought it would never be reborn otherwise. I was poking around in the back of his little vet shop the other day and found forty gallons of gasoline under some canvas tarps. The town knows he was a fine mayor, whatever other problems they had with him, but they would’ve lynched him for that.
—That’s all the character the town has left, said Jack. You might see it come back.
—When things leave here they don’t come back.
—You did.
—Because I was kicked out of college. And out of the world in general.
—To hear you tell it.
—How does it go. Let’s see if I can remember. Had it once… In this town the last house stands as lonely as if it were the last house in the world. The highway, which the tiny town is not able to stop, goes deeper—slowly goes deeper out into the night.
He paused for a moment and thought.
—The tiny town is only a passing-over place, worried and afraid, between two huge spaces—a path running past houses instead of a bridge. And those who leave the town wander a long way off and many perhaps die on the road.
—Have you talked to her lately? said Jack.
—This thing is seven years running, broken and spliced as it is. It’s become tradition. She’ll be back.
—Who was the other one?
—You don’t know her.
—If you’ve lost her… Things ain’t as plentiful as they was once. I don’t know how you end up doing it time after time.
—Same as every man before me has done it and every man after me will do it.
Jack knew what Heber would speak before he spoke it, this holy hymn that fell often from his lips.
—But she was a strange woman at first, he pre-empted. And the one before was the familiar.
—Indeed. Heber nodded. That’s always been the trouble, and it always will be. There will always be other women. What to do about that stark fact is up to you.
He cracked the quarter glass and produced a cigarette and lighted it.
—They ain’t as plentiful as they once were, you say, he said. He squinted through wreaths of smoke and tried to wave them out the window. It is the opposite that’s the trouble. My old man knew it. Most men know it. Sometimes it takes a shift in perspective, but we adjust and see new beauty all around. But I’d be lying if I told you this one didn’t seem to hold more weight. I do indeed regret it. I think I love that girl.
—She was a good girl, said Jack. She probly just finally wised up. Saw what she was dealing with and lit out.
—Maria is back, too, said Heber. It’s just raining girls these days. Our own little Juniper Scrag renaissance. Plenty of things are coming back.
Jack reached forward and turned the large tuning knob and Dwight Yoakam became a murmur in the dashboard. Heber spoke with the energy of alcohol in his blood.
—It’s a revival of sorts. And she’s got the finest ass I believe I’ve ever seen.
They rolled along through the dark sage desert, the radio playing quietly, listening to and feeling the smooth growl of the truck beneath them. Driving in the old pickup at night with its rumbling motion on the road and the spacious cab and the dark all around felt right. The truck was comfortable. Jack slumped forward on the big wheel, his foot steady on the gas, and the whore lights he’d put beneath the dash in high school shone soft blue onto the floor.
—Every time I think I’ve got it, a stranger comes along, said Heber. And lo, there’s a stranger. He rolled his window down and let his arm hang out. There will always be other women, he said. My old man knew it. But he was tied up. So he broke the institution like a stick on his knee and started a flame with it that he couldn’t manage. Couldn’t keep it steady. He suppressed it too long. If you don’t pretend it’s not there, it can’t surprise you.
—I’d like to get tied up with that girl at the park, said Jack.
—Since I was a boy and began to notice the girth and curve of a girl’s thigh, or the perspiration on her chest in the summer, or the taint of spent air once it’s been in her lungs, I’ve studied them and loved what I’ve found. They are marvelous, beautiful creatures. I love them.
—No one questions that.
—I’m weak against beauty, said Heber. And it’s everywhere. But you can’t tell whether a girl is beautiful until you’ve watched her for a while and considered on her flaws. Let her grow on you. One of the most amazing girls I was ever with, a Mexican girl, she was a little plump and she had these stretch marks on her thighs where the skin was a lighter color, like tiger stripes. Couldn’t get enough of that. He shivered deeply. I wonder where she’s at now. When a woman has the native knowledge in her of what she has, that’s the true sublime. It’s her sex that makes the world go round. Not love, not money. The women who know this rule the earth, and the men that pretend to serve them. Everything men do is to get to the women—and it’s what’s between their legs that is the nexus of the universe, whether God likes it or not. Think on it a minute.
They did.
Jack’s eyes were raw and their lids heavy. He found the lighted liquor store on the close edge of Willow Valley and parked. Inside the store Heber looked haggard under the fluorescent lighting, his sharp blue eyes crowded with blood vessels, his hair thin and tousled, his beard scraggly, his clothes badly wrinkled and spotted with crust and stain. His shirt was outrageous.
—You okay? he said. He ran his finger along a shelf of bottles while Jack followed behind.
—Yeah.
—A beautiful store, this, said Heber. You want some?
Heber browsed the hard liquors and made his way to the refrigerators at the wall. He removed a pack of longnecks and carried it toward the front of the store where a tall balding clerk with a curved back stood behind the counter.
—That’s it? said Jack. We came all the way into town for a six pack?
—You’ve got to moderate your acquisition. That’s