Authors: Stanley Gordon West
Under a plaid wool cap and steel wool eyebrows, the surly man projected a contentious hostility that was as accommodating as a coil of barbed wire. From George’s trajectory it appeared he had come from the bar across the street.
“Well, if it isn’t our hotshot basketball coach.” An old scar curled across Stonebreaker’s upper lip.
“How are the Geldings doing down at the glue factory, Pickett? Win any games lately?” the hulking rancher roared out of his soiled sheepskin-lined Levi jacket. Sam caught a whiff of beer.
“Not yet,” Sam said and attempted to continue on a beeline to his car. Stonebreaker cut him off.
“Not yet? not yet? Not
never,
Pickett! Don’t you think you’ve wasted
enough of my boy’s time? He could be doing something worthwhile, like helping me put bread on the table.”
“Tom told me that during the winter there wasn’t—”
“Tom’d say anything to get out of a little work.”
Stonebreaker crowded Sam back a step, and naked fear seized him by the throat. Stories of the men Stonebreaker had put in the hospital blinked like a neon sign in Sam’s imagination.
“If you’re not the lead sled dog, the view’s always the same, Pickett, and you and your horseshit team are always looking at someone else’s asshole.”
With a meanness on his burnished-leather face, Stonebreaker backed Sam against the storefront. His only chance would be to get a knee to Stone-breaker’s groin before the man made his move.
“You know my boy has a bum leg, could do permanent damage playing that damn game. You going to be responsible for that, Pickett? You going to pay the medical bills?”
Sam opened his mouth to explain, but the bully gave him no chance.
“I think it’s time you tell my boy he can’t play anymore, Pickett,” he said, jabbing an ironlike finger into Sam’s chest to emphasize each word, “or I’m holding
you
…
personally
…
responsible.”
“You and Tom have to—”
Andrew Wainwright squealed to the curb in his white Lincoln Town Car and slid out quickly. As though he sensed Sam’s predicament, he stepped up to George Stonebreaker and smiled with the confidence of a man who has a cocked.357 under his tailored topcoat.
“Morning, George. Hello, Sam.”
He never took his eyes off Stonebreaker, sliding between the two of them and pressing the rancher back a step.
“You two look like you’re having quite a discussion.”
Sam was overcome with relief and gratitude, though he attempted to appear unshaken.
“Don’t butt in, Wainwright,” George said, “this isn’t your—” “I’m making it mine, George.”
Stonebreaker puffed his chest and turned his eyes on Wainwright like the bore of a double-barreled shotgun. Andrew never blinked, revealing a cold steel side of himself Sam had never seen. He was surprised at how well
Andrew stacked up against Stonebreaker. He’d never considered the well-dressed executive’s physical size, though he now realized it must be at least 6'2" and a leanly packaged two hundred pounds.
“You see, I don’t take kindly to anyone crowding one of our teachers,” Andrew said, with the menacing smile anchored on his face and his eyes riveted on Stonebreaker’s. For a terrifying immeasurable interim the two men stared at each other unblinking, in a silence from some page out of the Stone Age, and Sam, unable to breathe, shrunk from the force field of their potential violence. Amid the terror Sam was impressed; Andrew stood like a man who had looked down the barrel of fear before. Finally, when Sam felt the atmosphere stand still—expecting the virulent explosion of human rage and fury, thudding skulls and cracking teeth—Stonebreaker backed off a step, then two. He paused and glanced at Sam.
“Remember what I said, Pickett.”
Then he snorted and stomped off like an angry rhino.
Andrew put a hand on Sam’s shoulder. “Are you all right?”
“Yeah, I always appreciate a madman getting my blood pumping to start the day,” Sam said, attempting to smile.
“What did he want?”
“He wanted me to tell Tom he couldn’t play basketball anymore, wants him to work or something.”
“Well, don’t worry about it. I’ll take care of Stonebreaker.”
Andrew half turned and glared up the street.
“Thanks, I’m really glad you came along.”
“The boys didn’t do too well last night,” Wainwright said with a mock frown.
“I never realized you had the gift of understatement.”
“Do you think there’s any hope for the Norwegian kid?”
“I don’t know,” Sam said. “There’s so little time and there’s so many fundamentals he doesn’t get.”
“It really hurt when the boys scored from outside and it got nullified because he was camped in the lane.”
“Yeah, and that’s just for openers,” Sam said.
“Well, you go get ’em tonight. I’ll be there, and hopefully they’ve shaken the moths out.”
“Or the butterflies,” Sam said, realizing his stomach fluttered with a newly hatched swarm.
Andrew went into the grocery store and Sam scurried to the safety of his Ford. He kept an eye peeled for Tom’s father while despising the garments of cowardice he wore, yet knowing he could easily give in to the madness and unleash the vengeance stored in the arsenals of his rage. He started his car and hightailed it out of Three Forks. For a fleeting moment he thought of buying a gun.
No, never give in to it, never.
It was Amy’s voice he heard, clear and strong, and he felt ashamed.
S
ATURDAY NIGHT AT
the Big Timber tournament had been more of the same. Diana massaged Sam’s shoulders and neck on the way home before he could suggest she drive. Olaf and Curtis had fouled out and, playing four against five, Willow Creek fell to Lavina, 61 to 50. She sensed the disappointment in all of them, but more acutely in Sam, and as was her habit, she tried to make things better. When they were locking up the equipment late Saturday, she suggested they go out to eat Sunday night.
“Oh … ah … that would be nice,” Sam said.
“How about the Land of Magic in Logan? I’d like to get away.”
“Sure, that sounds fine.”
“Okay, pick me up around seven. Do you know where I live?”
“Of course.”
She turned his
of course
over in her mind on the way home. Was it the response of people who live in a small community and know about each other, or was it the response of someone who took a personal interest in someone? She caught herself hoping it was the latter.
S
UNDAY NIGHT
, Sam’s headlights raked the deteriorating barnyard. He pulled up to the house and stopped, a once-thriving ranch site that had been left behind in the wake of modern expansion, the house a casualty, farmed out as rental property. Before Sam could get out of the car, Diana came bounding out of the house and into the front seat. She wore a white sweater and red skirt under her unbuttoned down coat, and beneath that crimson matador hat, her hair flowed freely over her shoulders, begging
him to touch it. She planted herself next to him and smiled. Sam swallowed hard and was sure he caught a whiff of lavender soap.
“I’m starving,” she said. “I could eat a horse.”
“Well, good … let’s go find a place that serves horse Wellington.”
“Horse Cacciatore.”
“Corned horse and cabbage,” he said.
“Horse Newburg?”
They laughed and he drove out of the yard.
The Land of Magic was a renowned restaurant in the valley, sitting in the little village of Logan, a once-thriving community now bypassed by all but locals, sheltered in a rock gorge along the Gallatin River that was only frequented from the outside world by passing freight trains on their journey to somewhere else. The brown-stained log building hardly stood out among the other dozen or so dwellings along old Highway 10, once the main artery across southern Montana between Chicago and Seattle.
At a candlelit table along the log wall, they ordered dinner.
“This was my idea, the treat’s on me,” Diana said.
“Oh, that’s good of you, but you don’t need to do that.”
“Is that hard on your male genes?”
“I don’t know, I haven’t had a woman offer to buy my dinner lately.” He tried to laugh.
When the waitress left with their order, Sam said, “The shrimp here is terrific, some special batter.”
“I love shrimp,” she said as Sam relished the natural pout of her lips and the seduction of her throaty voice.
“Why didn’t you order it?”
“I refuse to eat them.”
“Why?” Sam tried not to stare.
“The shrimpers of our country refuse to use devices in their nets that would prevent the drowning of sea turtles. They say it’s too much bother. It’s my way of identifying with sea turtles, while they’re still around. I’ll never
bother
to eat anything that has shrimp in it until they
bother
to stop the unnecessary killing.”
Her voice carried a weight he’d not heard from her before.
“Good for you, I think that’s great.”
Sam pushed his aviator glasses up on his nose and turned toward the kitchen.
“Ma’am!”
The middle-aged woman in a long Western dress and apron scurried to their table. She raised her eyebrows on her aiming-to-please face. “Yes?”
“I’m sorry to bother you, ma’am, but I’d like to change my order. Hold the shrimp. Give me, ah, the rib eye, medium well … no make that medium rare. Thank you.”
The woman nodded and headed for the kitchen.
“You didn’t have to do that,” Diana said.
“I wanted to, I admire your stand.”
“I’ve gotten seven people to quit eating shrimp.”
“Eight,” he said.
Throughout the meal he tried to concentrate on what she was saying and keep his eyes on her natural, unpainted face when they wanted to tippytoe the outline of her sumptuous orchard or trace the nape of her supple neck. She was ravishing in her soft, white sweater, and being with her sent testosterone mainlining through his body; he felt intoxicated, brave and strong and strangely happy.
“ … and the birds are the only living descendants from the dinosaurs,” she said as Sam caught up with the conversation.
“Have you seen the vultures?” Sam said.
“Yes, there were two more nests this summer.” She nibbled on a radish. “Dean told me about them just north of his place.”
“Are we going to keep him eligible?”
“I don’t know,” she said. “It’ll be close all winter, but I’d sure miss him on our trips.”
“Isn’t he God’s green creation?”
She nodded with her mouth full.
Sam finished the last slice of his steak. “You’ll have to learn to drive the bus, those long trips—”
“No, I can’t drive that thing,” she said and laughed.
“Sure you can, there’s nothing—”
“No! I don’t
want
to drive it.” She laid her fork on the table and looked
into his eyes. “Do you understand? And please don’t ask me to drive in front of the kids, it’s embarrassing.”
“I’m sorry, I didn’t realize you felt so strongly about it.”
“It’s all right,” she said, her voice calming. “It’s just something I have to get over. I’m sorry I can’t help with the driving.”
Sam was puzzled, she drove her Volvo all over the country. But he recognized the worm holes in his own peculiar history and he let it go.
W
HEN
S
AM PULLED
into the unused barnyard he floundered in the ambivalence of his emotions. He wanted to prolong this time with her, dreaded saying good night and going home, and yet feared giving in to his attraction to her and becoming involved. Before he could turn off the ignition, she rescued him.
“Would you like to come in?”
“Ah … yeah, thanks.”
Inside she took his coat and he began browsing through her front room. Her little farm house was a revelation: bookshelves crammed with volumes on birds and flowers and stars and insects and fish and mammals, a depository on nature, a museum of the earth’s creatures, with dolphins and humpback whales and passenger pigeons adorning the walls. Sam moved from shelf to shelf, from painting to poster, completely astonished and deeply impressed with this biology teacher who had come out of nowhere to teach in Willow Creek, Montana.
“Now I see why you’re always disappearing into the fields and woods,” Sam said, perching on the edge of her deep-cushioned sofa.
“I didn’t know anyone noticed.”
She regarded him with the warmth of her dark eyes. Sam felt his face flush and he glanced away. She turned on her television and slipped a cassette into a VCR.
“You might like this,” she said, settling on the sofa beside him. For nearly an hour Sam was fascinated by the documentary on the plight of the sea turtle: coming back to the beach where they were born after thirty or forty years to bury their eggs; the newborn, coming out of the shell and struggling for two days up through the sand, then racing across the beach for the ocean, instinctively knowing it was their home. Sam found tears blurring
his vision as the little hatchlings, about the size of a silver dollar, touched wet sand and scrambled like Keystone Kops for the surging waves, swimming out into the vast ocean, going where? A species that has survived for millions of years was presently being slaughtered for food, jewelry, wallets, and knickknacks, their existence threatened and their future in doubt.
When the documentary was over, Diana put on a cassette, Mozart he thought, and she lit several candles, dowsing the lights. They sat on the sofa facing each other, Diana with her shoes kicked off and her legs folded under her red skirt. He’d fallen into his most farfetched fantasy. He pulled off his shoes and they swapped chapters of their stories like cross-legged traders at a Turkish market. With the scene meticulously set in flickering shades of possible passion, Sam—sweating out this delectable perplexity like answered prayer—hadn’t a clue as to what was expected of him. His mouth went dry.
“Why are you teaching in Willow Creek?” he said.
“I’m an endangered species, hiding out in the backwaters of America. I’m not sure what I’m hiding from.” She laughed. “But it feels right.” She shook her hair back over her shoulder. “How about you?”