“We’ve got to think of something,” said Lucien more ingenuously than he usually was with children. “Something we could do for fun.”
“What do you want to do?” James asked. He looked ready for flight.
“Do you still like to fish?”
“I haven’t done it in a long time.”
“What do you do for fun?”
“I fly radio-controlled airplanes.”
“Radio-controlled airplanes! What fun is that?”
James was frozen silent. He pushed his jet-black hair sideways as if trying to remember where it was parted. “Anyway, that’s what I do,” he said in a small voice.
“I just don’t know what that is,” said Lucien. Then, to makes things better, he asked, “Do you think it’s something I’d like?”
“No.”
“Jamesie, let’s go fishing. Let’s try it. If we don’t have fun, we’ll just quit right then. We’ll stop right there and that’ll be it. We’ll try this radio-control stuff.”
“I don’t have my plane,” said James in terror. “It’s not here.”
“What’s happened to your mother? Go check and see what your mother is up to.”
James got up with an air of diffidence and of duty and went into the adjoining rooms. When he returned, he said, “She’s not coming out.”
“I beg your pardon.”
“She said she was sorry.”
“Well, I’m sorry too,” said Lucien, concealing his shock. “But tomorrow, let’s fish or something, okay? And uh, that’ll be good, okay? So, around eight o’clock, Jamesie. And you be ready.”
Lucien got up and left the White Cottage. He was stunned.
12
Lucien smoked for a while on the hillside and watched the moon rise, then continued his walk toward the spring. He had learned to gauge the day-use traffic and the activities of the bar merely by the sounds the building itself gave off. It was busy tonight and that was sufficient, though he felt quite sunk. He went alongside the main building, absentmindedly testing the height of the shrubbery plantings with his hand as he went. He could smell curing paint from the new siding, and the deep breath of the spring was everywhere. A high, hysterical laugh penetrated from the bar; then it was quiet again. Lucien wandered clear around the front of the building to the parking lot. It was nearly full, many local license plates; and among the cars was the station wagon.
Lucien walked to the rear window and looked in. No. Though all you could see was the shipping container, there was Kelsey. Lucien thought, Why have you sent me this? I’m serious.
He called Antoinette at home. “Where’s Zane?”
Quiet, then: “Why?”
“Kelsey’s still in the driveway.”
“Has he missed his plane?”
“Yes, he missed it. It was the Frontier five-fifteen to Minneapolis.”
“I guess Zane got scared.”
“Isn’t Zane your nephew?”
“Yes …”
“I’m in the mood to plow the little shit way back.”
“I’m sorry, Mr. Taylor.”
“The next time you ring in some kinsman, make sure he’s grown fingerprints. Now look, I’m going to haul Kelsey to the airport. When I get there I’ll call you with his schedule. Then the rest is yours and Zane’s.”
“I’ll take care of it. Do you want to give Zane a second chance?”
“Not at all.”
Huge birds of prey soared in the vague artificial light over the spring as in a very ancient time; the steam plumes reached to the birds and didn’t quite make it, though they showed wind shifts sooner than the birds did. I wonder if they know I’ve got Kelsey. Lucien started the engine and drove down to the stables. He yelled in to Roy to go ahead and feed Lucifer; he had to go to the airport with a guest. What did I do to deserve this?
He stopped in at the Deadrock Bar and Grill for a quick one, and had more than one. The back bar seemed as reassuring as a four-poster on a winter’s night. There was a playoff game on the hanging TV and Lucien shouted, “Hook ’em, Horns,” until someone next to him reminded him that Texas wasn’t in the game. It was Purdue and Somebody State. Nevertheless, there was a lot of handshaking. Here and there an enemy squinting with regal glee. Lucien set his empty drink down hard on the bar to indicate the end. Out with the wallet. “I’ve got to get my rear end to the airport.” The bartender turned to the register.
“The airport is closed.”
“What?”
The bartender made change blankly and Lucien left it as a tip. He tottered to the door, then swung abruptly to the pay phone. He called Antoinette and explained everything.
“I think you better get some sleep,” said Lucien with boozy, inappropriate affection.
“Mrs. Kelsey must be simply shattered beyond words. She’s already met one plane,” said Antoinette.
“She’ll be fine. Call her right now and find out what she wants us to do. Tell her the weather prevented us from getting to the airport today.”
Lucien went down the street and watched the teenage girls for fifteen minutes by the clock. Then he returned to the phone. Lucien had decided to lie. Antoinette picked it up.
“Mrs. Kelsey said bury him here. She said she’s sick of all this. She says she’s had it up to here.”
“Religious preference?”
“Nondenominational.”
“Can we use Dominic’s priest?”
Sacajawea Memorial Cemetery had been unsuccessful. Vault rentals were meant to carry the note, but locally it was viewed as citified, a meaningless luxury. Doing this at night took the curse off a death at the spa; so Lucien’s crew — his horseshoer Garby, Henchcliff the chef, the ever-considerate Dominic Armada, two waiters Sunshine and Farther, the trail boss Steven Thomas Castine, and Father Alerion — all stood around the viewless dynamite hole at the rear of Sacajawea Memorial, gone Chapter Eleven for its venturesome owner. One little roll and Kelsey seemed to leap into the next world, or at the minimum, the ergonomics of the grave. The staff immediately finished the job with garden tools from the hot spring.
“Our Father—” began Father Alerion, pulling down his Navy watch cap.
“Nondenominational,” Lucien reminded him. Alerion sent up weary eyes at him.
“Dear God in heaven—”
“Nope.” Lucien shook his head intransigently.
“How ’bout ‘Good luck’!” shouted Father Alerion.
So “Good luck” it was, and then a long spell as the earth reclaimed Mr. Kelsey, as the soil of the American West fell upon him; and suddenly, for all of them, there was something sad about this because, for example, who was he? The eight men stood in pyramidical silence.
And now it was very dark, yes, very solemn. Lucien suggested they go back for a small dinner, something, a note in a bottle, from eight strangers, to show that the immemorial balm of mourning was not something absolutely lost to mankind.
“Jesus Fucking Christ,” said Henchcliff. “I’ve been cooking since six this morning.”
“I noted some perfect breasts of mallards I shot, enough endive for a big salad, or you are at liberty to braise it. Those lovely new potatoes didn’t go unnoticed. Stir-fry the cauliflower as of yore. And I’d like a nice cigar in a number four ring size with a maduro wrapper.”
They sat at the long table in the kitchen while an exhausted Henchcliff slammed serving bowls with one hand and reeled around with an expensive cabernet in the other like some anomalous sailor with a family vineyard in Bordeaux. Dominic got tired of this noise and gave Henchcliff his homicidal grin with the veins of his skull in bas-relief: “Y’makin too much noise. Y’folla me?” Henchcliff quieted right down but resorted to breathing through his teeth. One cut of Dominic’s rheumy killer eyes and Henchcliff brought that to a stop as well. From Lucien’s point of view, Henchcliff was greatly improved.