The Lonely Polygamist Part 10

You should have seen the look on her face! She got all her power from talking about G.o.d, saying she knew what G.o.d and Jesus wanted. So all you had to do was tell G.o.d and Jesus to take a flying leap into a garbage heap and where was her power now? "Thou shalt not shalt not take the name of the Lord thy G.o.d in vain," said Faye, which was exactly what you would expect her to say. take the name of the Lord thy G.o.d in vain," said Faye, which was exactly what you would expect her to say.

"Or what?" Rusty said. "Heavenly Father and his hippie son Jesus Christ are gonna come down out of the sky and give me a noogie?"

Rusty snorked. He hadn't really tried it before, but taking the Lord's name in vain was kind of enjoyable.

Faye sat back in her chair looking sad. "G.o.d have mercy."

"G.o.d have mercy on you too. With those huge nostrils of yours." He snorked again. "Good luck getting a date in high school."

And that was when Aunt Trish came back with more cookies. Faye got up and went somewhere, probably back to her prayer cave to ask G.o.d and Jesus to inflict Rusty with a bad case of cancerous leprosy or smite him with boils. Aunt Trish asked him how he was liking it over at Old House. She had heard about the underwear incident, which everyone thought was appalling, but to her seemed comical.

"Stinks, pretty much," he said. "It's not fair that I'm still doing it when no one else is."

Trish could not argue with the boy. The family exchange program had been inst.i.tuted with n.o.ble designs and high hopes: to unify a family that was, like so many overextended empires before it, coming apart along the seams. Trish kept her own little outpost, lived by her own rules, and was not much more than a spectator to the ongoing hostilities between the houses. As the children grew and the wives became more set in their ways, the differences between Old House and Big House were clearly deepening, becoming harder and harder to reconcile. Nola and Rose-of-Sharon, after years of trying to compete with Beverly's high standards and regimented approach, had largely given up. In fact, much of their hands-off parenting style seemed designed to spite Beverly, to let her know her control and influence had their limits. Five years ago they took the drastic step of sending their children to public school, thumbing their noses at Beverly's cherished home-schooling policy, which, she believed, kept G.o.d's most precious souls from the evil influences of relativism, evolution, communism, feminism, and amoral hippies masquerading as teachers. The sisters not only released their children out into the impure world, they allowed the impure world inside: on any given day you could walk through Big House and find the kids inside reading comic books, playing ping-pong, eating generic-brand fudgesicles and listening to Satanic music by the likes of Bread and Captain & Tennille. While the Old House children lived according to an exhaustive master schedule-twice-daily family prayer and scripture study, five hours of home instruction, two hours of ch.o.r.es, recitations of Shakespeare and Frost every Wednesday night, annual performances of The Sound of Music The Sound of Music or or Fiddler on the Roof Fiddler on the Roof-the children of Big House slept and ate according to their whims, hollered and fought and caroused, listened to the radio and conducted impromptu boxing tournaments in the bas.e.m.e.nt, and took great pleasure in corrupting the children of Old House.

During her first year in the family, she'd noticed these divisions-all families had them in one way or another, but lately they had become acute. More and more, the children were closing ranks according to their allegiances to the respective houses; even the younger children, sensing something beyond their understanding, were not mixing and playing together as readily as they once had. And now poor Rusty here seemed to be the last hope. If he, family terrorist and resident troublemaker, could be brought in line using traditional Old House methods (the prevailing sentiment seemed to go), then maybe there was hope for the family. If the experiment failed, and Rusty was sent back to Big House in disgrace, it would only reinforce the notion that the two families did not belong together, that their values could not be reconciled. Yes, it did seem a little unfair to put all of this on the head of an eleven-year-old boy.

Even though Nola and Rose were suspicious of Beverly's motives in inst.i.tuting the Exchange Program, Trish thought it was a wonderful idea, supported it wholeheartedly-she wished that she'd thought of it herself. Her first exchange child was Deeanne, who was supposed to be a playmate for Faye, to show Faye by example how a normal girl should act, to bring Faye out of her sh.e.l.l. Deeanne lasted two days. Faye, the girl insisted, gave her the w.i.l.l.i.e.s. She begged to be allowed to go back to Big House, cried herself to sleep at night, claimed that Faye pinched her when Trish wasn't looking and whispered into her ear that G.o.d was unhappy with Deeanne's bad singing voice and secret nose-picking habit. One afternoon, while Trish was doing the dishes, Deeanne ran out into the street, hailed a pa.s.sing pickup, and claimed she had been kidnapped by a drifter and needed a ride home.

Things went better, at least initially, with the next one. Em, Beverly's oldest, bonded with Trish immediately. The poor girl had spent most of her life as little more than an indentured servant, a nanny and washmaid and cook, a lieutenant-mother who never had the chance to be a true teenage girl. In the first couple of days with Trish her earnest demeanor and industrious habits dropped away and she became another person entirely: a teenager who slept in, took extra-long showers, stayed up late eating Oreos and playing Uno and gossiping with Trish, giggling into the night like sixth-graders on a sleepover. There was no scripture reading or poetry reciting or hymns sung around the piano for them; they pretty much let Faye pray on their behalf. Eventually Trish gave in, dragged her toiletry case out from under the bed and instructed the girl in Makeup 101: how to mix and apply base for proper skin tone, the basics of rouge and mascara and eyeliner. Trish loved the way Em's eyes grew wide when she saw her own face in the mirror. Somewhere along the line, Trish realized, she was closer in age to Em than to any of her sister-wives.

For both of them it was like a three-week vacation that came to an end a week and a half early. One Sat.u.r.day afternoon in July, Trish and Em were cleaning the kitchen and listening to the Bee Gees on the radio. They had been out back on the deck sunbathing, and they were both wearing clothes from Trish's suitcase: ribbed tank tops and cut-off jeans. The kitchen smelled like Pine-Sol and coconut oil.

Trish was doing a little microphone twirl with her sponge mop and straining to hit the high notes of "How Deep Is Your Love" when out of the corner of her eye she saw Em make a sudden lunge across the counter and pull the plug on the radio. Trish turned around to find Beverly standing in the kitchen doorway, holding Em's clarinet case, and taking in everything with a demeanor that said, Well isn't this nice Well isn't this nice. Reflexively, Trish saw the scene as Beverly surely saw it: Em, sweet and innocent Em, dressed up like a s.l.u.t and cavorting to perverted music made by grown men hee-hee-heeing like prep.u.b.escent girls.

Beverly quietly told Em to gather her things and get in the car.

"We're having a little fun, cleaning the kitchen," Trish explained, even though she knew there was no use. Beverly gave her a long, sad look while Trish's hips, despite everything, still twitched in disco-time.

It took Em only a minute to change back into her own clothes and to pack her bag, and it hurt Trish somehow that the girl didn't share a secret look with her, that she wouldn't glance her way. Even now, three months later, Em treated Trish with the polite deference she reserved for any other adult.

Out on the deck in the cool winter sun, Trish watched Rusty survey her yard and the fields beyond. He picked up his gla.s.s and pretended to take a sip from it even though there was no sip left.

He asked if he could use the bathroom. He didn't really need to use the bathroom but he wanted to go back inside the house, snoop around a little and take a look at things, maybe slip something into his pocket he could later claim to have found, which would give him an excuse to come back to return it before his next lesson.

"We've got a little problem on that end," she said. "Toilet's backed up. I was watching the second twins over the weekend and I think one of them dropped something in there."

"You plunger it? I can plunger it for you."

"I plungered it all right." She smiled. "Plungered the living heck out of it. Your dad was supposed to come over to fix it on Monday, but he didn't have time and now he's gone again-"

"He's always always gone." Rusty popped his lips and gave his head a little shake. gone." Rusty popped his lips and gave his head a little shake.

"Well, not to worry, the place next door's vacant and I've got the key, so we've been using the bathroom over there."

"It's all right," Rusty said. "I can hold it."

"It's no problem at all." Trish stood. "The key's right in the kitchen."

Rusty shrugged and squinted for a moment into the low sun. "I'm fine. I've been practicing my self-control. I can hold my breath for like five minutes, and sometimes I don't eat breakfast."

He gave her a quick look to gauge her reaction, walked to the edge of the deck and toed the tufted head of a dead thistle.

"If you want," he said, "I could, you know, do some work for you. For free."

"What kinds of things do you know how to do?"

"I can mow your lawn." He shrugged, and his voice seemed to tighten. "I could, you know, trim your bushes."

She thanked him, told him she was sure she could use his help in the future, when summer came and the lawn and bushes actually required attention. "You probably ought to get going, Aunt Beverly will be on the lookout for you."

"She doesn't care where I am, not really."

"I think she does. She seems to get rather upset when you're not where you're supposed to be."

"Everybody over there, they act like I don't even exist, it's like a big game. When I try to talk they say, Did you hear something? I didn't hear anything, did you? It must be the wind Did you hear something? I didn't hear anything, did you? It must be the wind. Like that."

"That's terrible," Trish said. "They shouldn't do that."

Rusty shrugged, stuck out his lower lip and said that he didn't care. Trish couldn't tell if it was eleven-year-old bl.u.s.ter or if he really meant it.

"Maybe I should tell Aunt Beverly what's going on."

"She knows. They all do it, even the little ones. And Aunt Beverly does it except when I break the rules, and then all the sudden I'm not invisible anymore. So being invisible isn't all that bad."

Trish wanted to tell him that, despite its immediate rewards, invisibility was not anything to aspire to; it got old very quickly.

She asked him if he wanted a ride home and he told her he'd ride his bike. He picked up a macaroon from the plate and walked to the barbed-wire fence. The turkeys, who where pecking their way along the irrigation ditch by the road, hustled over in one big mob, stood in front of Rusty, gave him their undivided attention.

"Will they eat a cookie?" he asked.

She told him they would eat pretty much anything, including newsprint and styrofoam peanuts.

With a sidearm motion he winged the macaroon over their heads and they made a mad dash for it, gobbling and thrashing their bony, clipped wings, climbing over each other to peck at the cookie with violent stabs of their heads.

Rusty put his hands on the fence wire and watched. He cleared his throat as if he had something important to say. He said, "What a bunch of stupid turkeys."

RUSTY TO THE RESCUE She washed her tea mug in an otherwise empty sink, looked out the window at a flock of sparrows wheeling and diving over the Gunthers' hay barn in the dawn-pink sky and thought, I am getting along fine. I am getting along fine. She was discovering the only way to make it through each day was to hunker down and wait it out, like in a hurricane or high drought, something to be survived. It had been, what, ten days since she had been alone with Golden, since he'd stepped foot in this house? She could handle it, she knew she could. She knew how to wait. She knew how to be alone. She was discovering the only way to make it through each day was to hunker down and wait it out, like in a hurricane or high drought, something to be survived. It had been, what, ten days since she had been alone with Golden, since he'd stepped foot in this house? She could handle it, she knew she could. She knew how to wait. She knew how to be alone.

In those ten days there had been only three or four nights when she'd slept badly and only one when she'd curled herself against the headboard and given in to a fit of whimpering. Mostly bearable nights visited occasionally by the same dream: Trish sleeping exposed on the edge of a rocky precipice, knowing somewhere in her sleeping mind that if she rolled over or shifted her weight even a little, she'd go over the edge into the bottomless dark.

And then last night a real curveball: a prolonged s.e.xual dream that woke her suddenly with its sweaty fervency, leaving her limp and trembling-and curious about who could have broken into her dreams and brought her to such a pitch.

She set the mug in the drainer and went to check on Faye, who slept with such an eerie stillness, her pale skin nearly the color of the sheets, her features so sweetly serene, that no matter how much Trish tried to tell herself, She's fine, stop your worrying, She's fine, stop your worrying, she could not restrain herself from putting her hand against the girl's neck to feel for the delicate vibration of blood under the skin. she could not restrain herself from putting her hand against the girl's neck to feel for the delicate vibration of blood under the skin.

She waited another hour for Faye to wake up, spent too much time preparing a three-course breakfast the girl hardly touched. She started the laundry, fed the breakfast leftovers to the grateful turkeys, and read scripture with Faye, only because Faye would become agitated if they didn't.

After lunch she vacuumed the hallway, folded the laundry, and sat down at the table to wait-she didn't know what she was waiting for. She had no idea. She thought-and it was not a thought that bothered her as it probably should have-that she might be losing her mind.

Around two o'clock she heard a faint clanking sound out front. She ignored it, but it continued, softly, a chorus of metal clanking, like someone rustling through a cupboard of pots and pans. She opened the door to find Rusty climbing the steps on the porch, wearing an overburdened tool belt and a rusted plumber's snake coiled crossways around his torso like a Mexican bandolier.

"Hey, there," she said, and he said, "Hey, there," back, huffing a little with the exertion of riding his bike across the valley loaded down as he was. He took a big breath and gave her a terse, professional-style nod. She couldn't have been happier to see anyone.

He said, "I've come to fix the, you know, the john."

She let him in and he moved purposefully across the room, holding the head of the long framing hammer that hung from his belt so it wouldn't bang his knee while he walked.

In the bathroom he put his hands on his hips and regarded the toilet.

"This the one?" he said.

He took out his tape measure, experimentally pressed its lock b.u.t.ton several times, put it back into its little holster.

"Okay then," he said, "this might take a while."

The only reason he had any idea what to do about a clogged toilet was because he'd seen his father trying to unclog the one in the bathroom on the second floor of Old House, the bathroom that Aunt Nola called the Black Hole of Calcutta. He wasn't sure why it was called the Black Hole of Calcutta, all he knew was that it was damp and dark and smelled like mildew, and that the toilet had a mind of its own. His father had tried to fix it many times, but there was something about the gigantic ceramic water tank that you emptied by pulling a chain, and the old pipes in the house that made it belch and mumble and groan, sometimes in a way that sounded like talking.

At least Aunt Trish's toilet, Rusty was pretty sure, didn't have anything to say, which would make it a whole lot easier to deal with. He uncoiled the plumber's snake and fed the end of it into the hole. He'd seen his father do this at least twice, but he couldn't remember how far the snake was supposed to go down the hole. He fed it in slowly, delicately, as if he were feeding something that might try to bite him.

Faye stood next to her mother and said, "What's he doing here?"

"He came to fix the toilet."

"That's Dad's job."

"If only Dad were here to do it."

Rusty looked at Faye and she stared him down until he had to glance away. He laughed and made a huge snork, which he tried to cover up by pretending to cough, which made him cough for real.

Aunt Trish asked him where he got the tools and he told her from the service truck his father kept in the old chicken pens. "That truck is full of tools, you should see it. There's like some kind of huge jack-hammer in there."

"Well," Aunt Trish said, "I'm glad you didn't have to bring that that with you." with you."

He laughed again, which produced another snork, but this time he didn't care.

He'd fed the snake in about two feet and it didn't seem like it would go any farther. The water, now exactly level with the lip of the bowl, trembled ominously. He said, "I think we've got something here."

"That's a nice shirt," Aunt Trish said, and Rusty couldn't think of anything to say, so he said, "Indeed." He stole a glance at Faye, who had managed to disappear without a sound.

Because he didn't have a nice shirt of his own, before coming over here he had swiped one of Parley's, a long-sleeved b.u.t.ton-up with a big collar and prints of motocross riders doing wheelies all over it. Where Parley had ever gotten such an incredible shirt Rusty had no idea. It was made of some kind of silky material that rubbed against his belly and produced instant static electricity that crackled all around him every time he moved.

He rotated the handle on the crank twice, giving off a slight crackle. He paused dramatically, as if listening for something only an FBI agent could detect. He gave it two more violent cranks and...nothing. What a gyp! He looked at his tool belt, which was starting to pull his pants down to dangerous levels, wondering if there was something in it that could help him. Maybe he could stick his hand down the hole? Pull out whatever was in there with some pliers? Would that be an act of bravery or something a stupid d.i.c.khole would do? He looked at Aunt Trish, whose arms were folded in a way that made it hard to get a good idea what her b.o.o.bs might be doing. She was smiling at him in a nice way and he had to look down because he knew he was staring. He put a little more pressure on the snake and cranked the handle like crazy, again and again, giving it everything he had until he was sweating from his b.u.t.t crack and generating enough electricity to power a Christmas tree.

"All right, then!" Aunt Trish called, which made him stop. "Looks like we're going to plan B."

"Plan B?"

"A plumber. Our only choice."

Rusty looked at her dumbly, as if the word plumber plumber were foreign to him, which was entirely possible. Though she'd meant it as a joke, she wondered if there was even such thing as a plumber in this valley. Generally, the people here did not rely on professionals; they were foreign to him, which was entirely possible. Though she'd meant it as a joke, she wondered if there was even such thing as a plumber in this valley. Generally, the people here did not rely on professionals; they were were the professionals. They fixed their own cars, machined their own parts, raised their own food, birthed their own babies. If they didn't know how to do something, there was always a neighbor, someone down the road, who did. She imagined the scandal it would cause if she paid some b.u.mbling fatso to do a job her husband could do in two minutes, if only he came around once in a while, if only he acted like he cared. She imagined the outrage, the gossip, the attention: Beverly's indignation, Nola's amazed delight, Golden's bewilderment, his slow recognition that she would not be taken for granted, that she had needs, that she mattered. Such a pathetic little fantasy, but she couldn't deny the small spasm of pleasure it gave her. the professionals. They fixed their own cars, machined their own parts, raised their own food, birthed their own babies. If they didn't know how to do something, there was always a neighbor, someone down the road, who did. She imagined the scandal it would cause if she paid some b.u.mbling fatso to do a job her husband could do in two minutes, if only he came around once in a while, if only he acted like he cared. She imagined the outrage, the gossip, the attention: Beverly's indignation, Nola's amazed delight, Golden's bewilderment, his slow recognition that she would not be taken for granted, that she had needs, that she mattered. Such a pathetic little fantasy, but she couldn't deny the small spasm of pleasure it gave her.

"Ee-yep," Rusty said, a.s.suming the casual stance of a professional: hip out, thumb hooked into tool belt. "I think I might know somebody who can help. I think I can probably take care of it."

"Really, honey, it's all right. Your dad will be home in a few days..."

"I'll take care care of it," he said and shrugged immediately, as if to excuse himself for being rude. He didn't like her to call him honey; it was a word she used for four-year-old Sariah or one of the Three Stooges. of it," he said and shrugged immediately, as if to excuse himself for being rude. He didn't like her to call him honey; it was a word she used for four-year-old Sariah or one of the Three Stooges.

He pulled the snake out of the toilet, wrapped it around his torso, checked his tools. Aunt Trish put her hand on his shoulder. "Thanks so much for your help, Rusty, you're a true gentleman. If you'd like to hang around for a few minutes I'll make us some instant pudding. I think I've got some graham crackers."

As far as Rusty was concerned, instant pudding and graham crackers with Aunt Trish was as good as it could possibly get, better than cherry popsicles on a yacht with Wonder Woman, plus she had touched his shoulder and called him a true gentleman. But some kind of romantic instinct, maybe one he had picked up from his favorite book, To Love a Scoundrel To Love a Scoundrel, told him that it would be best not to wear out his welcome. The Scoundrel never hung around for instant pudding and graham crackers. He always gave the s.e.xy d.u.c.h.ess a quick kiss on the mouth and then jumped out the window, holding on to his wig and landing safely on a haystack going by in a cart.

"I have things I have to do," he said as mysteriously as possible. It was true: he had plans, people to talk to. "Maybe a rain check on the pudding?"

"A rain check," Aunt Trish said. "You can cash it in anytime."

15.

CIRCLING BACK

TWO MILES NORTH OF HIS LITTLE AIRSTREAM HOME AWAY FROM HOME lay the Nevada Test Site, fourteen hundred square miles of emptiness, a void on the map: swales of sagebrush that went on forever, alkaline flats and deep arroyos and strange accretions of gla.s.sy slag in the distance, fields of crater-pocked hardpan edged by yellow sandstone bluffs streaked white with the guano of raptors and bats. On his late afternoon walks he would often climb the big north hill to a hummock of broken rock and look out over the expanse, a tingle in his legs as if he were standing at the edge of a cliff. When the clouds were right, low and moving fast, the heat rippling up off the mineral-green dust and bending long bands of smoky sunlight, the desert looked like what it had once been not so long ago: the bottom of a vast prehistoric sea. lay the Nevada Test Site, fourteen hundred square miles of emptiness, a void on the map: swales of sagebrush that went on forever, alkaline flats and deep arroyos and strange accretions of gla.s.sy slag in the distance, fields of crater-pocked hardpan edged by yellow sandstone bluffs streaked white with the guano of raptors and bats. On his late afternoon walks he would often climb the big north hill to a hummock of broken rock and look out over the expanse, a tingle in his legs as if he were standing at the edge of a cliff. When the clouds were right, low and moving fast, the heat rippling up off the mineral-green dust and bending long bands of smoky sunlight, the desert looked like what it had once been not so long ago: the bottom of a vast prehistoric sea.

At night he heard strange atmospheric whisperings, saw impossible lights that gathered and skittered across the surface of the darkness. The government had banned open-air testing years ago, but continued in its cheerful, efficient way to set off blast after blast underground. More than once he'd been brought out of sleep by a welling tremor, a roar that could be felt more than heard, clutching his pillow in terror, the blood stalled inside his heart.

It was hard not to be reminded of those early mornings he had spent with his father watching the bomb tests: a single flash against the dark sky, the incandescent cloud with its roiling platinum core, the delayed thunderclap. More and more, walking the game trails just a few miles from the wasted ground where these blasts were unleashed, he was taken by the feeling that things were spiraling in on him, everything he had left behind was in front of him again, his old life, his old self, it was all circling back.

And yet nothing was familiar, everything strange. He had ten thousand things to think about, a worry for every second of the day, but the only subject that truly interested him was Weela, and why he hadn't seen her since their embrace in the pond.

He'd spent what little spare time he had after work scouring the gullies and cracked riverbeds, venturing far out into the rocky wastes, but there was no sign of human life, only the obnoxious ravens, the coyotes who barked at him from distant ridges and then sat on their haunches and stared, as if waiting for him to leave. During his lunch break he would take up a position in a copse of dense mesquite behind the p.u.s.s.yCat Manor, where he spied on hookers sunning themselves topless in deck chairs or barbecuing with a hibachi, laughing and carrying on, once chasing each other through the brush screaming and arguing over, as best Golden could gather, a blow-dryer. He had even gone so far as to venture into the mysterious confines of the p.u.s.s.yCat Manor itself, hoping to catch the glimpse of Weela-he wanted only to know that she was okay, that nothing bad had befallen her-but all he'd gotten for his trouble was a piece of hard toffee and a condom, which, against all his better judgment he kept tucked safely behind his Visa card: a symbol of hope or self-delusion, he didn't know which.

Strangely, not seeing any sign of Weela in or around the p.u.s.s.yCat Manor had cheered him. Maybe she was not avoiding or ignoring him, maybe she was sick or on some kind of vacation (prost.i.tutes took vacations, didn't they?). He told himself he didn't care if she didn't like him or had no interest in him anymore, he only wanted to know that she was safe and that he might have the chance, once more in his life, to hear that laugh of hers again.

To Golden, it seemed that Weela's sudden disappearance was one more in a series of strange events precipitated and possibly created by that not-so-innocent embrace in the pond. First was his reckless foray into the forbidden confines of the p.u.s.s.yCat Manor, and then there was the long weekend at home in which he'd had some kind of argument or standoff with every one of his wives, in which the kids came at him in relentless waves, and everything he did or said seemed exactly and perfectly wrong, though he couldn't have said why. And then, driving back to Nevada early Tuesday morning after spending an awkward night with Trish, he'd felt a strange pulling sensation in his groin. The more he shifted in his seat, the worse it got, and he stopped off at a truck stop near Littlefield to see what the problem was. Standing in front of the urinal in the men's room he pulled down his underwear to find that he had an unreasonably large something something tangled in his pubic hair. "The heck?" he said, prodding the object, which appeared to be a wad of gum. He was spreading the hair with his fingers, trying to make sense of this new development, when he felt a presence next to him. tangled in his pubic hair. "The heck?" he said, prodding the object, which appeared to be a wad of gum. He was spreading the hair with his fingers, trying to make sense of this new development, when he felt a presence next to him.

Two urinals over a sunken old geezer in a Hawaiian shirt regarded Golden through a pair of thick-lensed gla.s.ses. He gave Golden a good once-over, shook his head and, holding up his unbuckled pants with both hands, shuffled sideways to the farthest urinal down the line.

Golden said, "Hey, no, I'm just-"

"Minding my own business here!" the man called, careful not to look Golden's way again. "Let's just all mind our own business, why don't we!"

Golden faced the wall and fiercely attempted to urinate so as to demonstrate he was here to use the facilities for their intended purpose, but on such short notice couldn't work up a stream.