Postcards. Annie Proulx
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to build. Lot of money changin’ hands. I’m gittin’ my share sure as dammit.’
Tired of getting up in the stench of unwashed clothes and working through the day into darkness again in the stink of burned metal and rank oil, the work never slowing, churning around through three shifts like a bingo tumbler spinning the numbered wooden markers until it slows and a lucky number falls at random. On New Year’s Eve he went to a bar. He went with Elton and Foote who worked the next stations on the line. The bar was jammed with drinkers, War workers with money burning holes, women in slippery rayon dresses, their rolled hair limp in invisible hairnets, powder between their breasts and the black-red lipstick that left soft prints of their lips on the beer glasses and the smell of cigarette smoke and dimestore ‘Evening in Paris’ perfume from tiny blue bottles. When someone came in from the street a broadsword of frigid air cut the smoke.
Loyal pressed up to the bar with Elton and Foote, ordered beer. Elton, a lean hillbilly with crooked arms and a weak bladder was spit drunk in half an hour. Foote nursed a whiskey, staring straight ahead. Loyal found himself between Foote and a woman with a red patent leather belt cinching in her black dress. Her hair was a mass of black-purple curls heaped on her head. The neckline of the dress, shaped like the top of a knight’s shield, presented the tops of her powdered breasts. She smoked Camels, one after another, gradually turning away from Loyal toward an unseen man on her left. Her back pressed against Loyal’s arm. Gradually she shifted her hot taut buttocks until they came up against his thigh. He felt his prick hardening, bulging the front of his good trousers. It had been a long time. Slowly he began to maneuver his hand until it cupped her firm behind and she pressed it against his palm, wriggling until his index finger fitted the gully between her buttocks. Heat came off the sleek rayon. He slid his hand up and down and, with the suddenness of a falling beam, the choking spasm gripped him with terrible strength. He could not breathe. He threw himself backward into the wall of drinkers, bucking and tearing at his throat as if the hangman’s rope cinched his neck. He smelted the char of a burning cigarette against cloth, the pressed tin ceiling with its remorseless design heaved, then fed on him.
When he came out of it he was on a table with a ring of faces staring down at him. The thinnest man pressed bony fingers on Loyal’s wrist. The skeleton’s hair, parted in the middle, was scraped back like a metallic cap. His teeth and eyes were rimmed with gold and there were gold rings on his fingers, a wedding ring and a signet ring on the little finger of the right hand. Loyal felt himself shaking and trembling with a thunderous heartbeat.
‘You’re lucky I was here. They’d have stacked you in the corner with the other drunks. Would have put your light out for good.’
Loyal could not speak his jaw was trembling so hard. His arms shook, but he could breathe. He sat up, and the crowd, disappointed he was still alive, turned back to their glasses.
‘It’s Adrenalin that’s making you shake. I gave you a shot of Adrenalin. You’ll calm down in half an hour or so. You’ve had these attacks before, I take it.’
‘Not like this.’
‘Allergic reaction. Probably something you ate or drank. Tell you what. Make up a list of everything you’ve had to eat or drink in the last day and come see me the day after tomorrow.’
But Loyal knew it wasn’t anything he’d swallowed. It was the touching. Touching the woman. If it wasn’t Billy it wouldn’t be anyone else. The price for getting away. No wife, no family, no children, no human comfort in the quotidian unfolding of his life; for him, restless shifting from one town to another, the narrow fences of solitary thought, the pitiful easement of masturbation, lopsided ideas and soliloquies so easily transmuted to crazy mouthings. Up there beside the wall some kind of black mucky channel that ran from his genitals to his soul had begun to erode.
A soft day, warm enough to grind down the window and get the smell of the country. The black fields stretched for miles, the furrows rising and falling like a calm sea. He thought about pulling into a place and asking if they needed a hand, but didn’t think he could work on another man’s farm, stand there with his hat in his hands asking to be a hired man. He passed a sawmill, tasting the spicy odor of new-sawn wood mixed with the musty smell of old sawdust piles. He smelled his own body on his clothes, even through the laundry soap and a day on the line, not rank, but familiar, the smell of tangled sheets on the bed at home, of his folded blue work shirts.
Corn and wheat farms spraddled out to the horizon, fields cut by white ruler roads edged with farms, everywhere the corners square, the partitioned earth hypnotic, the only relief in converging lines of perspective and distance and the angled flight of birds. Miles of cropland rolled between the rigid farmhouses. Far away he saw a tractor drawing multiple plows in black, contoured furrows as though the driver lay his pattern of curves and bends against the image of a sinuous river held in his mind.
The scale of the farms bothered him. The home place would be a joke to these birds, his twenty-acre field a turnaround space. As he drove he imagined the kind of place he half-planned to find and settle on, not like the home place with its steep rough fields and sour soil, its invading brush and trees, but not like these unrolled landscapes with their revolving skies. He hadn’t known Minnesota was so level. But it was not a quiet landscape. The rise and fall of wind made the land seem to move in slow shudders.
His own place would be a small farm, maybe two hundred and fifty acres, gently swelling earth like the curve of hip and breast, good pasture. He saw his Holsteins grazing, up to their hocks in good grass. The soil would be crumbly and stoneless. There would be a stream with flat rich bottomland on each side for corn and hay crops, and a woodlot, say fifty acres of tall straight hardwood, a sugarbush, low-branched sweet trees on a south slope. On the height of his land he imagined a stand of evergreen, and in the dark spruce a spring welling up from the earth’s pure underground water. Get a tractor, good machinery. He’d make it pay. His hands gripped the steering wheel, he looked in the rearview mirror seeing his steady eyes, the black springing hair. His strength pressured up in him, waiting to be used.
A few miles north of Rice he slowed down when he caught the hitchhiker’s silhouette, flaring bell-bottom pants and jaunty cap. The sun baked the hood. He was feeling good moving out again after the greasy shop, in the mood for company. He pulled up. The echo of the engine’s smooth beating sounded sweet to him. The sailor was a big, sandy-headed man, a potato face and needle eyes, his mood to talk entering the car before he did.
‘You’re a sight for sore eyes,’ said the man. ‘I been standin’ here and shufflin’ along and standin’ some more for about two days. I Jesus Christ swear I got to look like trouble, must put the fear of the old Harry in drivers. Ain’t this a nice spring day? Everybody picks up a serviceman, I get rides from Norfolk to here took me two days, three rides, but not in Minnesota! No sir, not here in my goddamn home state where Suspicious is everybody’s middle name. Goddamn scandahoovians. One guy slowed down, come on the brake so’s the gravel sprayed up a little, but the minute I put my hand on the door handle and he looked over at me he took off like there was a big prize for whoever got to Little Falls first, and he was in the back row.’
‘You headed for Little Falls?’ asked Loyal.
‘General direction, yes. Right on the spot, no. I’m goin’ to pay a surprise visit to my better half, to my little missus up in Leaf River, north of Wadena. About four people live there, and when I’m around I’m one of ’em, milk cows, cut hay, fight with the neighbor. When I’m not around I want to know if anybody is takin’ my place. Where I been I seen too many dear Johns came slippin’ in like the old knife and I got to thinkin’, what about Kirsten, see I know about the scandahoovians ’cause I married one, I think, what about Kirsten and Jugo. Jugo lives the next farm down, we work together, hay, fence, help out, whatever you have to do, I got a broken harrow Jugo lends, he’s got a hay rake the teeth fall out, he takes mine. So she writes to me, tells me Jugo’s wife died around the end of March, nice woman, good-lookin’, good full woman, I could of appreciated that. She was bit by a skunk, says the letter, tryin’ to clean out behind the woodshed, died from rabies. Doctor couldn’t do a thing for her. So I start thinkin’, what’s Jugo do when the axe handle breaks? He comes over and takes mine. What’s Jugo do when he