“Fifty bucks,” Deuce said. “If we don’t make two hundred in Poplar, we’re not going to have money to get back home.”
“Tomorrow will be all right,” Emery said. “Everything will be all right. Donkey Basketball is coming back. With all this new technology shit, people are aching to get back to what really matters. They’re hurting to get back to the land. And Donkey Basketball is the land. Donkey Basketball is the good earth. And you and I are the good earth, too. I’m telling you, Deuce, we’re going to get rich the old-fashioned way and we’re going to get rich because we’re doing something old-fashioned.”
But Deuce knew that the old-fashioned never became the new thing, especially in this era when people changed their cell phones more often than they changed their pants.
And so in their truck, towing a trailer with twelve donkeys, Deuce, after much pain, self-loathing, and deliberation, told his father the truth about his military enlistment. And the shock of the news gave Emery a spiritual heart attack. He lost control of the steering wheel and sent the truck carrying the men and the trailer carrying the donkeys rolling into a fallow wheat field where both vehicles broke apart and rolled over four times.
Father and son survived the wreck with seemingly minor cuts and bruises and sprained fingers and knees. They crawled out of the broken truck and rushed to the trailer lying on its side fifty feet away.
Six donkeys — Dave Cowens, Tiny Archibald, Tom and Dick Van Arsdale, Artis Gilmore, and Billy Paultz — were obviously dead, torn into parts and pieces.
Four other donkeys — Dr. J, Connie Hawkins, Billy Cunningham, and Bob Cousy — were mortally wounded. Two were screaming somewhere in the wreckage and two were trying to walk away despite their injuries.
One donkey, Bill Laimbeer, seemed to be alive and well and just angry at the situation.
But George Mikan, the greatest basketball donkey in the world, was missing.
Seeing the carnage, and the end of his way of life, Emery attacked his son.
“This is your fault!” he screamed again and again, throwing punch after punch.
Deuce, younger and quicker, dodged most of the blows. In no world would he have struck his father so Deuce just defended himself as best as he could. The father, cursing the world, chased the son around the field until the old man lost his anger and collapsed to his knees and wept.
It was the first time that Deuce had seen his father cry. He kneeled beside him, and though Emery resisted at first, he soon accepted his son’s embrace, and they wept together.
“I’m sorry, Dad, I’m so sorry.”
After a while, Emery recovered and did the only thing a simple man could do in such a situation.
“We have to take care of the donkeys,” he said.
Deuce understood what his father wanted. So he climbed back into the truck, unbolted the rifle from its rack, pulled the box of bullets from the glove compartment, and carried it back to his father. Emery looked at the rifle and bullets.
“You do the first one,” he said. “I’m not ready for it yet.”
But loading the rifle, Deuce wasn’t sure that he could shoot the mortally wounded and suffering donkeys. He realized for the first time that perhaps he did love the animals. Or at least, he loved how much his father loved the donkeys.
“I’ll take care of everybody,” Deuce said.
“No,” Emery said. “Just let me catch my breath. I’ll help.”
“Half,” Deuce said. “We’ll each do half.”
“Okay, okay,” Emery said, and got to his feet.
Such are the compromises of grief.
Carrying the rifle, Deuce walked over to Billy Cunningham, desperately trying to walk on mutilated forelegs. Deuce could see white bone shining through red viscera in both. Billy was a dumb animal but was probably the most affectionate of the herd. Even in great pain, he leaned his head against Deuce’s chest.
“I’m sorry, Billy,” Deuce said, then stepped back, pressed the rifle against the donkey’s skull, and pulled the trigger.
Emery cried out at the gunshot, fell back to his knees, and buried his face in the dirt like a mourning pilgrim. Deuce knew then he’d have to do the entire killing. It was mercy, he guessed, but is there really such a thing as mercy with a bullet?
Connie Hawkins, quite intelligent and aware of what a gunshot meant, tried to run away. And she was moving pretty quickly for an animal whose lower jaw was broken in two and whose ribs were visible through a massive gash in her flank. Deuce, weeping hard again and gasping for breath, had to jog to catch up with Connie. And poor, smart Connie tried to defend herself. She weakly reared up and tried to head-butt Deuce but only tripped herself and fell heavily to the dirt. Deuce stood over Connie, who looked up at him with anger and fear. Deuce wanted to lean over and hug the animal but he knew that Connie might find the strength to hurt him. So Deuce aimed, held his breath, and shot Connie in the head.
Dr. J and Bob Cousy were still trapped in the ruined trailer. A piece of metal had pierced Dr. J’s chest, missing her heart, but had likely torn her lungs. She was coughing blood. Deuce could barely see through his tears as he shot the animal.
Deuce went to his knees again and tossed the rifle aside. He knew he couldn’t shoot another one of his animals, even though Bob Cousy was screaming beneath a pile of twisted metal. Deuce scuttled his way through the mess and lay down beside the dying donkey. As soon as Deuce held the donkey’s face in his hands, Bob Cousy stopped screaming.
Man and donkey had known each other for fifteen years. And they stared into each other’s eyes with a man’s regret and a donkey’s primal pain. But Deuce could see that Bob Cousy wanted to live. Considering how slow and clueless Bob had been as a basketball player, it was surprising to see such strength in him now.
“Just let go, Bob,” Deuce said. “Let go. It’s okay. Let go. It’s okay to let go.”
And so Bob took two deep breaths, shuddered, and died.
In that silence, Deuce could hear only his father’s quiet weeping. The son had no idea how long he listened to his father. But eventually, he crawled out of the trailer and walked over to his father, lying facedown in the dirt. Deuce rolled his wailing father over and saw that his face was covered with dirt turned to mud from tears.
“Dad, are you hurt? Do you feel anything broken inside you?”
“Where’s George Mikan?” Emery asked. “Go find George.”
“I will, I will, but are you going to be okay? Are you bleeding inside?”
“I’m okay, I’m okay. Just find George.”
But Deuce couldn’t leave his father looking that way. So he pulled off his shirt and wiped his father’s face clean and pulled off his T-shirt and wrapped that around his father’s bloody arm. Then Deuce pulled out his cell phone, but there was no signal.
“Dad, I’m going to have to walk to get us help.”
“No, find George.”
Deuce scanned the dark horizon. He could see lights out on the plains. Farmhouses, he supposed. Deuce thought he could easily walk close to one of those lights but that it probably wasn’t wise for a shirtless, bloody man to knock on a rural Montana door in the middle of the night. He had to walk into Cut Bank.
“Dad, we can find George in the daylight. I have to go get help for you now.”
“Goddamn you, goddamn you,” Emery said. He weakly punched and kicked at his son. “You do what I say. If it’s the last goddamn time, you do what I say. I’m your goddamn father and you’re going to obey me. Obey me, you little fucker. Obey me.”
Deuce again weathered his father’s blows. And then he handed the phone to Emery.
“Dad, keep trying to call for help. I’ll go look for George.”
Deuce was terrified to leave his father alone.
“Go get George,” Emery said. “I’ve got Bill Laimbeer. He’ll take care of me.”