Gallatin Canyon (18 page)

It didn’t take much for this to seem like drudgery. He was displeased by the cereal rustling from the waxed paper liners of the boxes into the bowls. It looked like packing material. “You don’t have to sit here and stare at us,” said Judy pleasantly. Madeleine strayed back out to the yard sale, doubtless to warm things up with Cecile. Homer watched her go.

“I didn’t mean to stare. My thoughts were wandering.”

“Do you find us obnoxious?” Judy asked.

Now Homer was wide-awake and attentive. “Judy, how can you ask such a thing?”

This was too plaintive. Her gaze darted over his face. “You seemed off in the clouds, Grandpa, probably thinking about your new girlfriend.”

“It doesn’t mean I find you obnoxious.”

Jack poured his cereal into Homer’s lap and, when Homer jumped up, started wailing as if his grandfather meant to attack him. In a moment, while Homer knelt on the floor, a rag in his hand and an icy feeling in his crotch from the milk, Cecile came in with no particular look of concern, quieting Jack and organizing another bowl of cereal. She pushed Jack’s chair very close to the edge of the table, which seemed to make his movements less random. Jack just stared into his bowl, unsure what to do with it. Homer got up indecisively. Cecile said, “Your new friend is working the crowd.” Jack waved his spoon jubilantly and then looked around to gauge its effect.

“Let’s spruce them up and take them to the sale,” she said, “a little poignancy to drive up prices.”

A wet washcloth and extraordinary efficiency in lifting limbs or whole bodies into the apertures of their clothes had the two children spiffy in very short order, though it left them dazed. With Homer in the lead, Cecile herded the children from behind. Homer immediately mingled with amiable body language among the skeptics looking at the merchandise. Suddenly, Cecile cried, “Oh, no!” and whirled on Madeleine.

“What happened to the bottles?”

“A man came for them, a man in a wheelchair. He said they were his.” Madeleine suddenly looked her age, with something comic about the makeup she’d applied so carefully.

“Did he pay for them?”

“He said they were his.”

“Lady, I gotta tell you: this is a
sale.
You know, where objects are exchanged for money?”

“Yes, of course, I do know that.”

“Who do you suppose got them?” Homer asked rather lamely.

Madeleine said, “He was in a wheelchair. I can’t believe they didn’t belong to him. In fact, I thought he said they
were
his.”

“That cripple happens to be my husband. If you’re around here long enough, you’ll learn not to put anything past him.” Cecile looked at the scattered offerings of her yard sale as though seeing them for the first time. She said, “I’m breaking down. Take Jack and Judy to see the kittens. You can go with him, lady.”

“Her name is Madeleine.” Homer started to back toward the outside door, guiding Madeleine by the elbow, the rigidity of which let him know that she was getting angry. “Where are the kittens?”

“Judy, honey, please show Grandpa and his lady friend the kittens.
Now,
Judy, okay? Her name is
Madeleine.
”

When Homer looked back from the house, he saw that Cecile’s interrogation of the customers must have been somewhat accusatory: they were fleeing.

Once in the house, he clapped his hands together and rubbed them briskly, as though he had a pleasant surprise in store. Judy’s evaluating squint indicated his failure to convince. “Who would like to show me the kittens?” No answer. “Where are the kittens? ” Let’s try not making it a question. “I’ve been wondering how many kittens there are.”

“There are two,” said Judy, with authority.

“But I suppose Mrs. Hall and I can’t see them. That’s the feeling I’m getting from you, Judy.”

After a moment. “You can see them. Follow me.”

Towering behind Judy and Jack across the living room, in the unaltered light, past the gut-wrenching china cabinet, through the kitchen, into the pantry, and out to the garage, Homer tried to emanate modest obedience for fear Judy would change her mind, but she strode along, an algebra teacher of the future, until they reached a storage closet, where she pointed to a latch she couldn’t reach. Madeleine, who seemed to have lost all confidence, trailed behind, utterly lost. Jack tried to crowd in front of Judy but she moved him aside so that Homer could open the door. When he did, he felt around the inside wall for a light switch until Judy told him, “Reach up and pull the string.” He did as he was told and the resulting low wattage barely illuminated a room filled with discarded household goods: rugs, bath mats, cleaning rags, and worn-out towels. These formed a kind of rough nest next to which Judy sat, holding Jack’s hand to keep track of him. She looked up at Homer and said, “They’re in there.” Then she looked over at Madeleine and said, “You’re allowed to look.”

Homer had to get on all fours to make an adequate inspection, and when he peered around he quickly found a gray kitten with vivid black stripes and black ears. He cupped his hand over it and felt the little motor start as it lifted its head against his palm. “Here’s one,” said Homer, and Judy was at his side at once. He smiled up at Madeleine, hoping to draw her in, but her face projected only some indeterminate fear. His knees hurt and he was concerned that in getting back up he would stagger.

“Where’s the orange one?” Judy demanded.

“What orange one?”

Homer lifted the gray kitten to make way for Judy’s inspection and felt the needle claws pricking his palm. Judy crawled around, lifting wads of fabric and old towels, which cast shadows up the wall, all the way to the back of the closet, where she stopped suddenly. “Here he is!” she cried. “He’s dead!”

Judy was seated with her back to him for a long time, long enough for him to see her shuddering with silent weeping. He crawled over and pulled her into his arms, at which point the sobs became audible, and Jack, without any idea of why he was upset, joined in to make it deafening. Homer drew Jack to his side, and soon the quiet was broken only by Judy’s snuffling. Homer felt mucus run onto the hand that gripped her tight, and he looked up at Madeleine with an expression of helplessness. When Judy began to calm down, he spoke very quietly about how the kitten was in heaven and how we all hope to go there someday; thinking to close his argument, he said, “Kittens are like all creatures, including us, Judy. They don’t live forever, and neither do we.”

The effect of this was to amplify Judy’s anguish. “I know that,” she said, indignant in her grief, “but I thought we all went at the same time!” Strangely, Madeleine nodded in agreement.

Homer could think of nothing to say. He would have had to care about the kitten to have been inspired to the right remark; Judy seemed to see through his dissembling. Besides, nothing was up to Judy’s profound statement, which hung in the air. “I wish we did,” he said, “it would be so much better. I don’t know why we don’t all go at the same time but we don’t, and we have to accept that.” That’s that, he thought, take it or leave it. Besides, something troubled him about Madeleine’s nod of agreement.

To make things worse, Madeleine’s eyes began to fill, and Homer wondered if it was over that brute Harry Hall and his size-thirteen oxblood saddle shoes, ungainly even in death. Homer could almost hear his booming voice:
Come on in, Homer.
You like gin? I’ve cornered the market!

Judy no longer cried, but she was very somber and far away. “Someone is responsible,” she said.

“God!” barked Homer with exasperation. “God is responsible!” This yard sale was about to kill him. “Madeleine, is there anything I can do to make you feel better?” he inquired coolly. She was touching each of the children unobtrusively. She didn’t know how to comfort them. He didn’t know how to comfort her.

“Let’s go to the living room. Maybe we can think better there.” The children followed Homer, who, aware of his waning desperation to make anyone happy, followed Madeleine. In the living room, he looked around briskly, as though trying to choose among several marvelous possibilities. “Here, come sit here,” he said, and indicated the bench in front of the old player piano. Judy’s grief kept her from seeing through his various efforts to entertain her. They obeyed with dull bafflement as he loaded a roll of music and started pumping the pedals. “Pretend you’re playing!” he called out, over the strains of “Ida Sweet as Apple Cider.” Looking at each other, the children put their hands on the keys, which snapped up and down all around their fingers as Judy took over the pumping and Jack howled like a dog; soon they were caught up in it.

Inexplicably, Madeleine began doing a graceful if somehow cynical foxtrot with an invisible partner. Homer stared at her, arms hanging at his sides. The noise was unbelievable. Into the space between Madeleine’s arms, Homer placed Harry Hall and his big belly.

Homer darted out the front door to the yard sale, where Cecile was persuading a pregnant teenager that the light-dark setting on the toaster still worked. Four or five others grazed among the offerings, concealing any interest they might have had, though a middle-aged man in baggy khakis and an Atlanta Braves hat was bent in absorption over a duck decoy lamp that had never been completed. “Dark Town Strutters’ Ball” poured from the house, stopped abruptly, then resumed with “I Want a Girl Just Like the Girl Who Married Dear Old Dad.” Homer could hear Madeleine joining in with a sharp, angry contralto. When the teenager replaced the toaster on the card table and wandered off, Homer said, “One of the kittens died.”

Staring at the unsold toaster, Cecile said, “You’re shitting me. When it rains, it pours.
My God,
what’s with the piano?” Holding a cigarette in the center of her teeth she blew smoke out of either side of her mouth.

“Go in and comfort Judy. I’ll try to sell something till you get back.”

“No reasonable offer refused.” At this two or three browsers cocked their heads, which Cecile noted. “Just kidding, of course.” She went inside and Homer surveyed the prospects, holding his lapels like an expectant haberdasher. No one met his eye and, instead of rubbing his hands together, he plunged them into his pockets and considered the weather: low clouds, no wind. The player piano stopped abruptly and the shoppers all looked up with the silence.

Homer went over to the man still examining the duck decoy lamp. “Why don’t you buy it? It’s beautifully made. It works. I can’t imagine any home that wouldn’t be improved by it.”

“I’m just trying to picture the sort of people who wanted this in the first place,” said the man. “This doesn’t look like a duck, it looks like a groundhog. I hate it. I really hate it.”

“The people who wanted it in the first place are my daughter and her husband,” said Homer.

“My condolences,” said the man, before he turned to go.

Homer stared hard and said, “Go fuck yourself.” He could hardly believe he’d said it. It was like a breath of spring, such vituperation.

“Get in line, Pops.”

Cecile returned and muttered, “Bugs Bunny on low. Usually holds them. Your friend is resting on the couch with a washcloth on her head. She looks like she’s on her last legs.” A very thin older man in a navy-blue jogging suit with a reflective stripe down the pant legs was interested in the NordicTrack. He had an upright potbelly, bags under his eyes, and a cigarette in his mouth that made him turn his head to one side to examine the distance meter on the machine. Homer watched Cecile approach within a foot of the prospect, but the man went about his examination without acknowledging her. He knelt to examine the bottom of the machine, then sat back on his haunches, removed the cigarette, and bethought himself. When he finally stood, he said something very brief to Cecile. She seized her head in both hands while he puffed and looked the other way. When she came back to Homer with some bills in her hand, she said, “I got creamed but it’s gone.” The new owner was trying out his new machine, the cigarette back in his mouth. A gust of wind showered Homer and his daughter with cottonwood leaves. Wild geese creaked above. Soon there’d be ice on the river.

“You seem to have gotten over the bottle collection,” said Homer. He saw the American flag go up a pole across the street, a hedge concealing whoever raised it.

“Guess again.”

“Why don’t you go and ask Dean to give them back?”

“That’s what he’s trying to accomplish. The whole issue has been over him having anything I need.”

“Does he?”

“Yeah, the bottles.” She stared hard at him. “I know exactly what you’re thinking, exactly. You’re thinking, How can anyone lose themselves in such trivia?”

“Nope.”

“Well, I’m not going to dignify this by fighting over it. But don’t you ever look down your nose at me. Just because things haven’t exactly worked out doesn’t make us white trash.”

“It’s beyond me why you’d have such a hateful thought. Your mother would have felt the same way, if you had ever deigned to share your thoughts with her.”

Homer had already decided that he would retrieve the bottles. By that time the sale would be over and the awful things would be part of the desolation of the living room again. When he asked his daughter why none of the other customers had mentioned the theft, she said, “The only one he had to fool was your friend, and I guess that wasn’t too hard.”

Homer just let it go. It was hopeless.