The Mallomars’ exhaust had hardly cleared from the air before Jimmy descended on Buster as he saw to the horses in the loafing shed.
“How’d it go with them folks?”
“Perty good.”
“Oh yeah? What’d you make of the mister…dago or Hebe?”
“Ah don’t know.”
“Ah figgered him fer a Hebe at first, but ah changed my mind to dago. Both a those races’r bluebearded.”
“Don’t talk lahk that, okay?”
“Whatsamatter? He stiff you?”
“He do what?”
“Dint he tip ya, for Christ fuckin’ sake?”
Buster tossed Mallomar’s saddle onto the rail and started to brush his horse.
“Yeah, he tipped me,” he said laconically, patting his shirt pocket.
“Well, cough it up. All fer one, all fer all, amigo.”
Buster sighed and reached into his pocket extracting the two Benjamins. Jimmy snatched them, her yellow eyes popping.
“Well yor a cool customer! Sonofabitch give us two hundred dollars!”
“That a lot for somethin’ like this here?”
“Ah’ll say! Ah reckon the sonofabitch’s queer for ya!” Jimmy laughed and laughed until she ran out of oxygen and had to quickly stick the cannula back in her nose. “Tell you what ah’m gonna do. Ah’m jes gonna take jes oner these hunnerts and you can keep th’ other if you take me out to supper with yor share.”
“Ah already tole ya. Ah ain’t goin ta town.”
“Did any of them say anythin’ ’bout yor face?”
“No.”
“Course not. That’s what ah’ve been tryin’ to tell ya. It’s all in yor head. Yor mug’s fine. So let’s go and have ourselves an openin’ day celer-bray-shun!”
“Ah don’t feel like it.”
“Okay, don’t wanna drag ya,” she said. “Ah’ll jes take the Ford and go get us a couple of steaks…”
“Never mind,” he said quickly, knowing what that meant. “Ah’ll go.”
Jimmy arranged dinner with Sheriff Dudival at the High Grade. In the hopes that he would run into Destiny, Buster spent hours bathing, shaving, combing his hair, and finding cowboy clothes appropriate for a night out.
“Let’s head out!” She barked. “You’d think you were a damn girl the way you fuss ov’r yor ’ppearance so!”
The High Grade Bar was the only place in Vanadium that had both a liquor license and a kitchen that cooked non-microwaved food. To this point the locals, out of respect, took great care to not tear up the place if they could possibly avoid it. If they had to fight, they did it in the gravel parking lot. Other than the obligatory initials, hearts swearing devotion, or the occasional swastika carved into the Formica tabletops here and there, the place was exactly the way it had been fifty years ago—unlike its two original waitresses who had not held up as well.
Jimmy walked to the rear of the restaurant and slid into the back booth. It was her grandfather that insisted on sitting with his back to the wall for good reason. And Jimmy was never one to break with tradition. She signaled for the waitress to come and wipe off the table.
“Be a good girl now and bring us a coupla longnecks.”
She waited for Sheriff Dudival before ordering, Buster keeping his eyes glued to the front door for a flash of braided blonde hair. Quietly, the back door opened and Sheriff Dudival appeared, stood perfectly still, scoped every last person in the place then slid alongside her in the booth.
“He allus does that. Learnt that from Grampie,” Jimmy said, with a wink to Buster.
Dudival extended his hand to Buster.
“Welcome back. I see Jimmy’s been taking good care of you.”
“Yes, sir,” Buster said, not knowing what else to say. Dudival put on his reading glasses and perused the menu he already knew by heart.
“Everybody know what they want? Tonight is my treat.”
“You don’t have to do that, Shep. Buster’s payin’.”
“I won’t hear of it,” he said calmly.
“He got hisseff a big tip t’day. Let’m git it.”
“I said…I’d…get…it.” He didn’t quite shout, but he pronounced his intention adamantly enough to set Jimmy back on her opposing scrawny ass cheek and look at him oddly. Buster had never been around the sheriff when he was in her company. Strangely, for all the talk about them being such good friends, he wasn’t really relaxed around her—or she with him. However, that was not always so.
When Dudival was a green deputy and Jimmy a teenager, they couldn’t get enough of each other. Often, she would sit with him on stakeouts or join him with sandwiches at the speedtrap behind the John Birch Society billboard exhorting the US to get out of the United Nations. They giddily found themselves agreeing with each other on just about everything. Mayonnaise, good. Miracle Whip, bad. Segregation, good. Civil rights, bad. They both agreed that it was preferable to be shot, rather than stabbed. Property rights, good. Immigration, bad. The .45 auto, good. The 9 mm, bad. The death penalty, good. Gun control, bad. Personal responsibility, good. Welfare, bad. They talked about their dreams: his, wanting to get married and start a family. Hers, wanting to start a bounty hunter business. Never once did her dreams mention a man to share her life or the desire to have children—not counting her opinion of corporal punishment in public grade schools. Good.
One night after the completion of their Sunday dinner, Sheriff Morgan took Deputy Dudival up to the roof for a brandy and cigarette.
“You shared any form of sexual intimacy with my granddaughter?”
“Beg your pardon, sir?”
“For godsake, man, have you two done the business?”
“Uh…no.”
Sheriff Morgan took a thoughtful drag on his cigarette. “There haven’t been very many women in the life we’ve led. As a result, she’s somewhat tabula rasa in regards to sexual role-playing.”
“What are you saying, sir?”
“You may have to force yourself on her until she warms to the idea. You have my permission to do so. That’s what I’m saying.”
This kind of behavior, of course, ran counter to everything set forth in Manners for Men, but Dudival trusted the sheriff’s opinion and decided to take a stronger leadership role in making intimacy happen between him and Jimmy.
The opportunity provided itself at the town’s Fourth of July picnic. Jimmy was particularly buoyant that day having won the Olathe corn-eating contest. Deputy Dudival put his arm around her shoulder like a congratulatory pal and led her away from the crowds down a path toward a stretch of willow-lined river. Jimmy, for reasons even unknown to herself, was getting nervous. Maybe it was the sudden lack of confidence in Dudival’s face. He was up to something, and she couldn’t figure out what. She took a step ahead of him—sliding out from under his heavy arm. He went to grab her around the hips, but she giggled and pulled away. The game was now on. Dudival dove for her legs, but she slipped out of his grasp and ran into the river. He followed after her, sliding on the slick stream rocks and catching a mouthful of water that gave him fits of diarrhea for the next three weeks. Now, on his hands and knees, he pulled himself onto the bank. Jimmy was on the other side of the river, her hands on her hips, smiling.
“Shep Dudival! Are you crazy?” Dudival didn’t answer. He stumbled to his feet and threw himself across the river once again in hot pursuit. Using his head now, he herded her toward a patch of wild rose bushes. She tried to run through them, but found herself painfully caught. Dudival grabbed her, threw her down on the grass and put his full weight on top of her. She was still trying to catch her breath when he kissed her on the mouth like he’d seen Rosanno Brazzi do with Mary Martin in South Pacific. The kiss, despite all the sidespin and English he put on it, came in DOA. When he ceased and desisted, Dudival opened his eyes to find that Jimmy had had hers open the whole time. Her expression was of confused amusement, as if she had just seen a drunk, bare-assed Indian run down Main Street wearing his red long johns on his head as a headdress. This was exactly the problem her grandfather had warned Dudival about. It was time to be forceful. With shaking hands, he reached down to unbuckle her pants, but she started squirming around and giggling like he was trying to tickle her. He tried kissing her again, but finding her mouth now was like hitting the ducky at the carnival sharp shooting booth. Finally, he just stopped. He didn’t mind roughing up the occasional leftist at the uranium mine, but he couldn’t do this to a woman. Attempting to reintroduce decorum to the proceedings, Dudival performed a rigid military-style pushup, lifting his body off of hers then rolling off as if leaping from a moving car. They were both lying on their backs now looking up into the swishing willows.“Shep, what the hell’s gotten into you?”
“I don’t know.” Dudival was disgusted with himself and angry that he had blindly followed Sheriff Morgan’s advice. Jimmy leaned on one elbow, studying the tortured look on his face. She thought about kissing him on the cheek, but then dismissed the idea as being silly. Besides, she really didn’t feel like kissing him. She didn’t know why, but she didn’t. She only knew that, besides her grandfather, Dudival was her best friend in the world and she hated seeing him miserable.
“Shep…?”
“What?” he said after a long interval.
“If you had your druthers, you rather be shot or stabbed?”
“Haven’t we already gone over that one?”
“I didn’t know it was a matter of public record,” she said feigning huffiness. Finally, he turned to face her. She had an impish toothy grin—that still showcased the yellow remnants of her corn-eating victory. Pathetically, he couldn’t help himself from loving her.
“Shot,” he said. “I’d rather be shot.”
Now one of the waitresses brought their food and whispered something in Sheriff Dudival’s ear. He nodded. Buster was taking his first bite out of a double cheeseburger with grilled onions.
“Buster, the Stumplehorsts are here at the restaurant,” the sheriff said, not wanting him to have food in his mouth in case he choked.
“Is Destiny with ’em?”
“Yes, she is.” Buster blushed, composed himself and then started to get up. The sheriff held onto his arm.
“Here’s the complication, Buster. There’s still a restraining order against you. So, you have a choice and I want you to consider this carefully. I could go out there and say that you were here first, so they would have to leave or…you could leave.”
“But ah wanna see Destiny. See how she is and all.” Buster craned his neck around to the front door to see if he could catch a glimpse of her.
“They’re waiting outside for an answer. How do you want me to handle this?”
Buster didn’t really have to think about it.
“Ah’ll go.”
“I believe that’s the gentlemanly thing to do.”
“See how much damn trouble that gal is?” Jimmy offered, to make it worse.
“I’ll have them wrap up your dinner and bring it out to you.”
Buster started for the front door. The sheriff stopped him.
“Best to go out the back.”
Buster hesitated, then capitulated and skulked out the back door. “Jes cain’t figger it,” Jimmy said.
“He’s in love,” Dudival said, turning to make eye contact with her. “You’re capable of doing a lot of ill-considered things when you’re in love,” Dudival said pointedly. Jimmy shuddered, like ants had just crawled up the back of her shirt.
“Well, thank you, Ann Fuckin’ Landers!”
Dudival just stared at her. Defiantly, she put a big piece of chicken-fried steak in her mouth and chewed it open-mouthed, being intentionally obnoxious in a childish attempt to get him to pry his eyes off her. Finally, he shook his head and returned to his own supper.
“Ah need ya to run a name for me, compadre.”
“I’ll have to think about that.”
“He’s jes an old friend ah loss tech with.”
“I’m not doing that for you anymore.”
“C’mon now. But lookee here, a feller in my perzishun has to make shor he’s prop’rly said all his g’byes.”
“You’re not going anywhere, Jimmy. So don’t give me that bunk,” Dudival said, his eyes getting moist.
“So yool do this fer ol’ Jimmy?”
“This is the last goddamn time.” Jimmy gleefully reached into her shirt pocket and gave him a slip of paper. Dudival readjusted his glasses, having trouble reading her chicken scratch.
“What’s this say?”
“Flowers,” she said. “Beverly Flowers.”
b
Buster sat glumly in Jimmy’s truck. She had parked it in the back by the dumpsters so no one with bad intentions could identify her truck from the highway. She was always thinking of things like that. Mary Boyle, Buster’s third mother, came out the back with a tray of food.
“Hey, Buster. I heard what just happened so I made up a fresh burger and fries for you.”
“Much obliged, Mom, but ah kinder loss my apper-tite.”
“Just for the record, I don’t think it’s right what they’re doing. They should kiss your feet to have a nice boy like you be interested in their daughter.”
“’Course yood say that. Yor my mom.”
Their conversation was interrupted as the window to the ladies’ room suddenly screeched open. Buster and Mary watched as a woman’s leg dangled out of the opening followed by another leg. Someone in a dress was awkwardly attempting to exit through the window backward. Her dress got hung up over her head exposing sensible white underpants. The figure hung there like that for a moment.
“Who’s that?”
“Destiny.”
“I’ll leave you two to talk.” Mary gave Buster a couple of extra napkins from her waitress apron then went back inside the regular way.
Buster quickly got out of the truck to help Destiny down from the window.
“I told my mother I had to go to the bathroom.”
“That s’plains it,” Buster said.
They stood looking at each other—the parking lot’s yellow sodium light making the mayflies and miller moths swirling around her head look like a halo. They kissed.
“I shouldn’t do that,” she said, pulling away.
“Why not?”
“I’m seeing somebody.”
“Well, jes stop seein’ him then.”
“It’s more complicated than that.”
Destiny saw something over Buster’s shoulder that made her duck down behind the truck. She motioned to the ladies’ room window. Buster turned to see an irritated Calvina Stumplehorst craning her neck outside the window looking for her errant daughter. Buster and Mrs. Stumplehorst’s eyes met. He smiled at her. She gave him nothing back—then slowly closed the window. Buster helped Destiny to her feet.
“You just can’t come home and expect me waiting for you. I didn’t hear from you for almost two years.”
“But ah wrote you. Ah wrote you thirty-five goldarn letters.”
“Well, if you did. I never did get one of ’em.”
Buster considered that. He looked back to the restaurant. “Jimmy.”
Buster took Destiny by the hand and dragged her through the back door of the restaurant.
“What’re ya doin’?”
Sheriff Dudival and Jimmy had just been served their coffee and pie a la mode when Buster appeared before them with Destiny.
“Buster, you’re willfully violating the restraining order,” Sheriff Dudival said, getting to his feet to do his duty. Buster ignored him.
“Tell’er, Jimmy,” Buster demanded.
“Tell’er what, pard?” she said, as sweetly as the untouched pie in front of her.
“Tell’er ’bout the dang letters ah wrote.”
Jimmy leaned back casually addressing Destiny.
“The boy here wrote a shitload a letters.” She turned to Buster. “Satersfied?”
“What’d ya do with ’em?”
“Truth be tole, ah burned ev’r lass one them weepy cocksuckers.”
Destiny looked at Buster, burst into tears, and ran out.
Sheriff Dudival threw down his napkin in disgust.
“Jimmy, how could you do something that?”
“Ev’rbody’s mad at Jimmy.” Jimmy took a few sniffs of oxygen. “This gal’s no good. Ah coont wait fer a fuckin’ Act a Congress b’fore the doofus figgered it out for hissef.”
“You dint have no right!”
“You owe this boy an apology.”
“Doin’ the tough thang aint allus pop’lar. They’ll be no ’pologies forthcomin’.”
“Thas it fer us, Jimmy. Ah’ll pack my thangs and move off t’night!”
“Don’t be sech a ninny. Sit down and less disgust this.”
“Ah’m thoo with ya,” Buster said as he headed out the door.
“Ah was jes lookin’ out fer ya, ASSHOLE!” she yelled after him.