“I’ll come join you in a little while,” Sims said. “I’m not sleepy yet. I’ll have another one of these, though.” He drank the last of his gin from his plastic cup and jiggled the ice cubes.
“Who’s counting?” Marge smiled. She had a pill in her hand, but she took a leather-bound glass flask out of her purse and poured Sims some gin while he jiggled the ice.
“Perfect. It’ll make me sleepy,” Sims said.
Marge put her pill in her mouth. “Snoozeroosky,” she said, and washed it down with the rest of her drink. “Don’t be Mr. Night Owl.” She reached and kissed Sims on the cheek. “There’s a pretty girl in the sleeping car who loves you. She’s waiting for you.”
“I’ll keep that in mind,” Sims said and smiled. He reached across and kissed Marge and patted her shoulder.
“Tomorrow’ll be fine. Don’t brood,” Marge said.
“I wasn’t even thinking about it.”
“Nothing’s normal, right? That’s just a concept.”
“Nothing I’ve seen yet,” Sims said.
“Just a figure of the mind, right?” Marge smiled, then went off down the aisle toward the sleeper.
The Army people at the front of the car all laughed again, this time not so loud, and two of them — there were eight or so — turned and watched Marge go back down the aisle toward the sleeping car. One of these two was the big guy. The big guy looked at Marge, then at Sims, then turned back around. Sims thought they were talking about the woman in the rest room, telling something on her she wouldn’t like to hear. “Oh, you guys. Jesus,” the remaining woman said. “You guys are just awful. I mean, really. You’re awful.”
All the worry was about Marge’s sister, Pauline, who was currendy in a mental health unit somewhere in Minot — probably, Sims thought, in a straitjacket, tied to a wall, tranquilized out of her brain. Pauline was younger than Marge, two years younger, and she was a hippie. Once, years ago, she had taught school in Seattle. That had been three husbands back. Now she lived with a Sioux Indian who made metal sculptures from car parts on a reservation outside of Minot. Dan was his name. Pauline had changed her own name to an Indian word that sounded like Monica. Pauline was also a Scientologist and talked all the time about “getting clear.” She talked all the time, anyway.
At four o’clock yesterday morning Pauline had called up in a wild state of mind. They had both been asleep. The police had come and gotten Dan, she said, and arrested him for embezzling money using stolen cars. The F.B.I., too, she said. Dan was in jail down in Bismarck now. She said she knew nothing about any of it. She was there in the house with Dan’s dog, Eduardo, and the doors broken in from when the F.B.I, had showed up with axes.
“Do you want this dog, Victor?” Pauline had said to Sims on the phone.
“No. Not now,” Sims had said from his bed. “Try to calm down, Pauline.”
“Will you want it later, then?” Pauline said. He could tell she was spinning.
“I don’t think so. I doubt it.”
“It’ll sit with its paw up. Dan taught it that. Otherwise it’s useless. It has nightmares.”
“Are you all right, honey?” Marge said from the kitchen phone.
“Sure, I’m fine. Yeah.” Sims could hear an ice cube tinkle. A breath of cigarette smoke blown into the receiver. “I’ll miss him, but he’s a loser. A self-made man. I’m just sorry I gave up my teaching job. I’m going back to Seattle in two hours.”
“What’s there,” Marge asked.
“Plenty,” Pauline said. “I’m dropping Eduardo off at the pound first, though, if you don’t want him.”
“No thanks,” Sims said. Pauline had not taught school in ten years.
“He’s sitting here with his idiot paw raised. I won’t miss that part.”
“Maybe now’s not the best time to leave Dan,” Sims said. “He’s had some bad luck.” Sims had had his eyes closed. He opened them. The clock said 4:12 A.M. He could see the yellow light down the hall in the kitchen.
“He broke my dreams,” Pauline said. “The Indian chief.”
“Don’t be a martyr, hon,” Marge said. “Tell her that, Vic.”
“You’re not going to make it, acting this way,” Sims said. He wished he could go back to sleep.
“I remember you,” Pauline said.
“It’s Victor,” Marge said.
“I know who it is,” Pauline said. “I want out of this. I’m getting the fuck out of this. Do you know how it feels to have F.B.I, agents wearing fucking flak jackets, chopping in your bedroom with fire axes?”
“How?” Sims said.
“Weird, that’s how. Lights. Machine guns. Loudspeakers. It was like a movie set. I’m just sorry” Pauline dropped the receiver and picked it up again. “Oh shit,” Sims heard her say. “There it goes.” She was starting to cry. Pauline gave out a long, wailing moan that sounded like a dog howling.
“Monica?” Marge said. Marge was calling Pauline by her Indian name now. “Get hold of yourself, sweetheart. Talk to her again, Vic.”
“There’s no reason to think Dan’s a criminal,” Sims said. “No reason at all. The government harasses Indians all the time.” Pauline was wailing.
“I’m going to kill myself,” Pauline said. “Right now, too.”
“Talk to her, Victor,” Marge said from the kitchen, “I’m calling 911.”
“Try to calm down, Monica,” Sims had said from his bed. He heard Marge running out the back door, headed for the Krukows next door. Death was not an idle notion to Pauline, he knew that. Pauline had taken an overdose once, back in the old wild days, just to make good on a threat. “Monica,” Sims had said. “This’ll be all right. Pet the dog. Try to calm down.” Pauline was still wailing. Then suddenly the connection was broken, and Sims was left alone in bed with the phone on his chest, staring down the empty hall where the light was on but no one was there.
When the police got to Pauline and Dan’s house it was an hour later. Pauline was sitting by the phone. She had cut her wrists with a knife and bled all over the dog. The policeman who called said she had not hit a vein and couldn’t have bled to death in a week. But she needed to calm down. Pauline was under arrest, he said, but she’d be turned loose in two days. He suggested Marge come out and visit her.
Sims had always been attracted to Pauline. She and Marge had been wild girls together. Drugs. Overland drives at all hours. New men. They had had imagination for wildness. They were both divorced; both small, delicate women with dark, quick eyes. They were not twins, but they looked alike, though Marge was prettier.
The first time he had seen Pauline was at a party in Spokane. Everyone was drunk or drugged. He was sitting on a couch talking to some people. Through a door to the kitchen he could see a man pressed against a woman, feeling her breast. The man pulled down the front of the woman’s sundress, exposed both breasts and kissed them; the woman was holding on to the man’s crotch and massaging it. Sims understood they thought no one could see them. But when the woman suddenly opened her eyes, she looked straight at Sims and smiled. She was still holding the man’s dick. Sims thought it was the most inflamed look he had ever seen. His heart had raced, and a feeling had come over him like being in a car going down a hill out of control in the dark. It was Pauline.