The Lonely Polygamist Part 24

Huila's weight came suddenly forward and he went under for a moment, inhaling water through his nose. He came up coughing, snorting, and she put a hand over his mouth to m.u.f.fle the noise.

"Huila!" came a voice. "You down there?"

"Dios, dios dios," she whispered, frantically pulling him out of the water and pushing him toward the edge of the pool. "Go hide, now. Please, go."

He lurched out of the pool and hit the floor with a wet slap. He struggled the rest of the way out of his wet pants, which were tripping him up, yanking out one leg and shaking them off with the other as if they were a small, snarling dog that had attached itself to his ankle. He took a moment to look around and skidded and slid toward a rockfall at the back of the cavern.

"Yes!" Huila called, "I'm down here, please come down!" doing her best to cover up the sounds as she splashed out of the pool to retrieve his pants, shirt and shoes and toss them into the shadows. The sound of Ted Leo grunting and sc.r.a.ping his way down the narrow pa.s.sageway reverberated through the chamber with a sound like thunder from on high, making Golden flinch. He hunkered down, pink and steaming as a boiled shrimp, behind the pile of rocks and tucked his head between his knees. He clamped his nostrils tightly between his thumb and forefinger to prevent a catastrophic sneeze.

"What are you doing!" Ted Leo bellowed. "I get home and n.o.body's there and I go driving around, worried sick-"

"I'm enjoying myself!" Huila shot back with a vigor that Golden never would have been able to conjure under the circ.u.mstances. "Where do you go? When do you come home? I never know!"

For a good two minutes they argued. Mostly it was Ted Leo complaining about Huila's recent abdication of her wifely duties. He couldn't understand what had gotten into her, why she felt like she had to go wandering the hills like John the Baptist, washing her clothes in mud puddles and bathing in caves when they had all the modern facilities back at the house. Most of Huila's protests where in Spanish, so that Golden couldn't really follow, but at some point she made mention of "putas prost.i.tutas" and Ted Leo's voice took on an edge of real menace. "You do not do not talk about them that way! Those girls buy the clothes you wear, the food you eat! Now get your behind out of there and get dressed talk about them that way! Those girls buy the clothes you wear, the food you eat! Now get your behind out of there and get dressed now now."

Huila tried to tell him she'd be home soon, to go ahead without her, and Golden could hear splashing and Huila's sharp little swear words-cabron and and mierda mierda and and huevon huevon-as Ted Leo pulled her bodily out of the pool. The muscles in his legs clenched, and he reached around for a good-sized rock, wondering what he might do with it once he had it in his hand. There was no more splashing or talking, only the echoing tap-tap tap-tap of footsteps and the small, sharp sounds of the kerosene lamps, one by one being blown out. of footsteps and the small, sharp sounds of the kerosene lamps, one by one being blown out.

Golden peered over the rockfall, watched the waggling flashlight beam disappear into the pa.s.sageway, listened with great interest to the ominous dungeon sound of the door clanging shut. Half crouched, he remained frozen in place, hoping that by keeping perfectly still and not breathing he could suspend this nightmare or make it go away altogether. Through the layers of rock overhead filtered the sound of a motor starting and then dwindling into nothing. He felt the cold, moist darkness being absorbed into his body, like ink into a sponge, and he began not so much to shiver as to shake, his jaw rattling.

"h.e.l.lo?" he called out experimentally.

He didn't know who he hoped would answer-maybe some kind of forest ranger or a Good Samaritan who had wandered in from an adjoining catacomb. "Anybody?"

28.

RULE NUMERO UNO

IT FELT STRANGE, CROSSING THE BORDER. SHE HAD DONE IT THREE years before, made the same pa.s.sage but in the opposite direction, in search of something or someone to save her from the nasty little string of disasters her life had become. Now, moved by a similar desperation, she steered her clackity VW Rabbit down a wide, sweeping descent onto a scrubland plain as flat as the bottom of a skillet, leaving behind the glowing sunset cliffs of Utah and Arizona, her foot steady on the accelerator, both hands fixed tightly to the wheel. The sign, red and white and perforated with shotgun pellets, backlit by a theatrical sky packed with iridescent clouds, said years before, made the same pa.s.sage but in the opposite direction, in search of something or someone to save her from the nasty little string of disasters her life had become. Now, moved by a similar desperation, she steered her clackity VW Rabbit down a wide, sweeping descent onto a scrubland plain as flat as the bottom of a skillet, leaving behind the glowing sunset cliffs of Utah and Arizona, her foot steady on the accelerator, both hands fixed tightly to the wheel. The sign, red and white and perforated with shotgun pellets, backlit by a theatrical sky packed with iridescent clouds, said WELCOME TO BEAUTIFUL NEVADA! WELCOME TO BEAUTIFUL NEVADA! It gave her a juvenile thrill, as if she had left home for the first time to arrive in the exotic, spice-scented land of her dreams. It gave her a juvenile thrill, as if she had left home for the first time to arrive in the exotic, spice-scented land of her dreams.

Less than two hours ago she had been at home, getting ready for Golden's arrival. June Haymaker was there (as she had so carefully arranged him to be) to take a look at the leak in the roof and to accept her offhand invitation (as she knew he would) to dinner. More importantly, he was there to ill.u.s.trate to Golden, in the plainest way possible, that if Golden did not want to take care of her, to look after her most fundamental needs, then maybe there was someone else who would.

When Golden called to tell her, once more, that he wouldn't be home when he promised, she had just taken the chicken out of the oven and June was in the attic, creaking and clanking like a ghost, trying to trace the water stain on the ceiling to its source in the roof. Even before she hung up, something possessed her. It wasn't anger so much as a feeling of abandon, the hard snapping tw.a.n.g tw.a.n.g of release-she was letting go of all that had, for so long, been holding her back. What of release-she was letting go of all that had, for so long, been holding her back. What was was it that had been holding her back? she wondered now. Why had she given in so fully to this idea of patience and long-suffering? The it that had been holding her back? she wondered now. Why had she given in so fully to this idea of patience and long-suffering? The h.e.l.l h.e.l.l with patience. She was done with waiting, with standing around and wringing her hands. with patience. She was done with waiting, with standing around and wringing her hands.

She called June down from the attic and quickly packed overnight bags for Faye and herself. While June sat at the head of the table, befuddled, with clots of gray insulation caught in his beard, she laid out the dinner she'd prepared: ginger chicken and wild rice and sausage dumplings. She told him something had come up and she had to leave, but that he should stay and eat his fill. Then she grabbed Faye by the wrist, who was demanding to know what was wrong and where they were going, and pulled her out to the car.

After getting Faye buckled in, she went back into the house, where June seemed not to have moved a muscle, except there was now a fork in his hand where there hadn't been one before. "I'm sorry for this," she told him. "I'll call you when I get back." Realizing that this spasm of abandon might not last, she went with it. She put her hands on June's bony shoulders, bent down, and gave him a peck on the cheek.

She drove into town and pulled up in front of the Academy of Hair Design, where, it being the first Thursday of the month, Nola spent the afternoon and sometimes the evening giving free cuts and perms to the ladies of the Snow Canyon Senior Center and Retreat. The place was half-filled with women in various stages of decline, a couple in wheelchairs, all wearing their colorful smocks and new hairdos, which had them in high spirits; they chattered and laughed-mostly to themselves, it was true-with Nola in the middle of it all, pointing and flourishing her comb and scissors like an auctioneer.

It took a few seconds, but when the women detected Trish and Faye standing in the doorway, they hushed. None of them gave Trish any notice; they all focused on the girl, as if a child were something that had not been seen or heard from in years and whose existence was now a matter of question.

A couple of the more spry ones got up to get a closer look. "Oh dear," one said reverently, "look at this, look at this."

Faye glared at the advancing women and said, "Don't either of you touch me."

"People forget how mean children are," called one of the crones from the back.

"Ladies," Nola said, "this is Trish and her daughter, Faye."

Another one, who had the translucent skin and hooked claws of a wraith, commented, "Nothing better for a child than a nice juicy plum."

Trish asked Nola if they could talk in private and Nola looked around at the women, who had already gone back to talking to themselves or were absorbed with what drama might unfold if Elenore Peele gave the girl a pat on the head, as she was so clearly angling to do. "This is about as private as it gets, don't you think?"

"All right. I'm going somewhere and I'm wondering if you could look after Faye until tomorrow. You're the only one she likes."

Nola gave Trish her famous arched-eyebrows look. "You're going somewhere somewhere."

What was the use in hiding it? It would be widely known soon enough. "I'm going to Nevada, to see Golden."

Nola opened her mouth wide with genuine surprise. She released a high cackle that one of the women answered reflexively, as one bird answers another. Nola said, "You're not not."

She was. Yes, she was, though she could understand Nola's incredulity. She was about to break, as Nola herself called it, Rule Numero Uno, which stated that the wife does not go to the husband, she must wait for the husband to come to her. While Trish wasn't sure if it was the the most important rule of plural marriage, it was a vital one; it kept the more aggressive or needy wives from making unfair demands of the husband's time and attention, and put nearly all the burden of portioning himself-and of managing the jealousy and acrimony if he didn't do a good job of it-on his shoulders. most important rule of plural marriage, it was a vital one; it kept the more aggressive or needy wives from making unfair demands of the husband's time and attention, and put nearly all the burden of portioning himself-and of managing the jealousy and acrimony if he didn't do a good job of it-on his shoulders.

Two years ago the wives had taken the drastic and, for some in the church, controversial step of scheduling Golden's weekly sleeping arrangements, but when Trish married into the family he was still a free agent, allowed to drift from wife to wife, house to house, like the town drunk bar-hopping on a Sat.u.r.day night, every decision made out of convenience or faulty memory or according to some otherwise questionable whim.

Nola plied a lock of woolly hair between her fingers and snipped it off at the ends. She was swallowing a grin, enjoying in advance, Trish knew, all the talk and trouble this indiscretion of hers was bound to cause. Not only was she about to break Rule Numero Uno, but she was going to visit Golden on the job site, which had always been expressly off limits, even before he'd taken the project in Nevada; one wife bothering her husband at work was bad enough, but four wives-a workingman's good name could never survive such an a.s.sault.

"So this expedition you're about to take," Nola said, "it wouldn't have anything to do with Maureen Sinkfoyle now would it?"

"It might," Trish said, "and it might have to do with all kinds of other things. Rose just checked herself into the hospital, Nola, and what does he do? Runs right back to Nevada as if nothing happened. And now he's not even coming home when he's supposed to. I don't know what to think anymore."

Nola nodded, serious now. "Go on ahead, then, we'll take good care of your girl, right Miss Faye? We'll trim your bangs nice and neat, maybe give you a little bob at the back."

Keeping Elenore Peele at bay with a malevolent glare the way a hiker might use a stick to fend off a bear, Faye said, "Oh no you won't."

THE IMPORTANCE OF BEING IMPOTENT When she finally found the Airstream on top of the hill, she was nearly at her wits' end: cranky, blinking with fatigue, and nearly out of gas. After the three-hour drive across Nevada she had spent another hour driving up and down a ten-mile stretch of Highway 19, nosing across broken-down cattle guards and investigating private driveways and dirt roads that seemed to lead nowhere. Before leaving the Academy, she had called Sister Barbara to get directions to the construction site and Sister Barbara had informed her, in a tone of polite reproach, that such information was highly confidential and to release it would require Golden's explicit approval. Trish informed Sister Barbara, in a threatening and slightly hysterical tone that could not be construed as polite in any way, that she was Golden's wife, and if Sister Barbara didn't give her the information she needed she would break into the Big Indian Construction office-smash the window if she had to-and get it herself.

Sister Barbara didn't have the exact address on hand, but knew that the site lay on the stretch of highway between Indian Wells and the interstate-it was a major construction project, gotta be bulldozers and dirt piles everywhere gotta be bulldozers and dirt piles everywhere, she said, no way you could miss it, dear no way you could miss it, dear. Well, miss it Trish had, at least fifteen times pa.s.sing by in one direction or the other, hidden as it was two hundred yards off the road in the half-moon dark, a dark made all the more profound by the salaciously bright lights of the p.u.s.s.yCat Manor so close by. The brothel, doing a brisk business at this hour, was the only sign of life she had seen since Indian Wells, and though the idea of a brothel didn't shock her-she had spent much of her life in Reno, after all-the last thing she wanted was to have to step inside one of them to beg directions.

She was saved by a man jauntily pedaling a bicycle down the double yellow line in the middle of the highway, apparently in the direction of the p.u.s.s.yCat Manor. She stopped to ask if he knew where the new senior center was being built and he said, "Senior center? Around here?" Wet hair slicked back and gleaming, he had the freshly scrubbed look of someone on his way to a church service or a court proceeding.

"A big construction site," she said, "somewhere along this highway."

He pointed. "You mean the brothel."

She shook her head; apparently, the brothel was the only thing on his mind. Quickly she tried to explain again and he made a broad, wide-armed shushing gesture, the kind a rock star might make to quiet down an unruly crowd. "Easy," he said. "Slow up now. Tell me this: Are you looking for anybody in particular?"

She told him, and after the slightest hesitation he gave her the simple directions. One left, one right, and then up a little rise. "You'll see the trailer, no problem, a light upon a hill, just like the Bible says."

She thanked him and he gave her a smart, military-style salute before pedaling off toward the blinking fairy lights of the p.u.s.s.yCat Manor.

The sight of the Airstream, sitting in the middle of all that sagebrush, its windows darkened, spiked her through with a pang of guilt. All those nights alone at home she had imagined Golden living it up, eating junk food and playing cards with his hairy, good-natured construction buddies. But this sad little thing, it was no bigger than a cell in a South American prison-she couldn't imagine how he could fit in there to sleep, much less have a meal or take a shower or host a game of rummy. She pictured him now, tucked in like a dog in a pa.s.senger crate, sleeping off a long day's work, and she had to shake her head to keep from being waylaid by feelings of affection and sympathy. She had not come here to sympathize, she reminded herself. She had come here for answers, explanations-an apology or two at minimum. She promised herself she wasn't going to leave until she got them.

She rapped on the flimsy door and waited. Golden was renowned for his ability to sleep, nap and doze through every sort of clamor and unrest, from the shrieking scales played by an amateur oboist to the sneak attacks of three-year-olds, so she gave the door a good pounding that somehow degenerated into a jaunty version of shave-and-a-haircut shave-and-a-haircut.

When no response came, she opened the door, stuck in her head and knew by the silence, the deadness of the air, that n.o.body was there. The trailer's atmosphere had the musty tang of the inside of an old work hat. It smelled like belt leather and Bag Balm talc.u.m powder-Golden's smell. To take the full tour required only a few steps: a platform double bed with a Golden-shaped crater in the middle, an eat-in kitchen littered with tin cans and crusty Tupperware bowls; a phone-booth-sized bathroom whose floor, quite disturbingly, was covered with drifts of dark hair. Baffled, she stepped outside to stare blankly at Golden's pickup, parked parallel to the Barge, which looked surprisingly at home out under this big night sky, in front of the blackened remains of a campfire.

Where on earth was he? She tried not to think about the p.u.s.s.yCat Manor, pulsing lasciviously just over the hill. Having twenty prost.i.tutes as next-door neighbors was one of the details of his workaday life he had wisely kept to himself. She plopped herself down on the Barge, wallowed and sulked in its lumpy depths before sitting up to a.s.sume the defiant, straight-backed posture of someone braced for bad news and prepared to wait as long as it took for it to arrive.

It didn't take long. She heard it first: the sound of something dragging itself across sand, the rattle of dry brush. She stood, straining to see into the darkness, and then came a strange, low-throated groan, which gave her the encouragement she needed to abandon her post on the Barge for the relative security of her Rabbit, where she locked the doors, s.n.a.t.c.hed the ice sc.r.a.per from the pa.s.senger-side floor and switched on the headlights. Caught in the beams, not fifty yards away, stumbled a pale, ghastly figure that squinted into the light and made a quick squatting motion, as if readying to flee. It took a step back, lowering its head to shield its eyes, and in that small, almost bashful gesture she recognized Golden. She had a harder time making sense of the huge body, pale and glowing, naked except for some kind of dark cloth held bunched around its hips.

She gave the horn a short beep and Golden flinched as if it were a gunshot. He called out, "Who is it?"

She turned off the headlights and got out of the car. "Golden," she called, "it's Trish."

"Who?" As if this were a name he'd heard for the first time in his life.

"Trish, you idiot. Your wife." With the headlights off she could not see him anymore, but she had no problem hearing the crashing and snapping of juniper twigs and dry sagebrush as he thrashed his way toward her. "Trish! Where are you? What happened?"

Once they located each other, she helped him into the trailer, where the sixty-watt bulb confirmed it: except for the flannel shirt whose arms were tied at one hip in a loose knot, he was naked. The dusty, pink skin of his shoulders and forearms was painted with sc.r.a.pes and scratches and his feet, never much to look at in the first place, were rough with salty grit and spotted with blood. When he moved he gave off a sulfurous brimstone smell.

In that small kitchen they shared a few moments of blinking incomprehension. And then something seemed to wake him and he began to talk: the water system in the trailer had gone on the fritz, he said, and so he had walked down to the little cow pond to bathe-he'd had a long, dirty day-and somehow had managed to drop his flashlight in the pond, which ruined it, and then he couldn't find his clothes and shoes and got lost on the way back to the trailer. He gave a tired bleat of a laugh. "Look at me, got a few scratches here, don't I." He displayed his palms, which looked like they had been used to gather broken gla.s.s. "And my feet sorta hurt."

He looked at her expectantly, and Trish knew that it was her turn to explain herself, to make some excuse for her presence, but she told herself not to give in. Tonight, she had already decided, all the explanations were going to be his.

"What-" he said, leaning against the stove, forcing a smile, straining to bring a casual air to the proceedings. "So what brings you out here?"

"I came to talk to you," she said.

He took a breath, let it out slowly. "Okay," he said, "what about?"

"It might take a little while. Why don't you get cleaned up first."

He looked at his wrist and, when he did not find his wrist.w.a.tch there, nodded as if that's what he'd suspected all along. "So you're going to-to spend the night?"

"If you don't mind," she said. "If you'd rather, I could sleep outside on the couch."

"What? No. I'll go-I'll see if I can get the water running in here and I'll be right with you. There might be something to drink in the fridge." He limped into the bathroom, closed the door, and made a series of banging sounds. "Would you look at that!" he shouted. "Got the water going! Be right out!"

While he showered she tried to make the place habitable-picked clothes off the floor, swiped dirty dishes into the sink, straightened the bed. When she heard the water shut off, she shucked off her own clothes and crawled under the old quilt, pieced together from sc.r.a.ps by a pioneer ancestor long since forgotten, that was Golden's favorite; for many years, until it became too much of a ha.s.sle, he had dragged it with him from house to house, marriage bed to marriage bed, unable to sleep soundly without the smell of it in his nose, the soft worn fabric tucked under his chin.

When he came out of the bathroom-now clutching a towel around his waist instead of a torn flannel shirt-he approached her warily, walking tenderly on his damaged feet. With the dust washed off, the sc.r.a.pes and scratches stood out painfully bright on his pale skin, and it was difficult to resist the urge to get up and tend to him, to rustle up some band-aids and hydrogen peroxide and in the manner of a good frontier wife nurse his wounds. Instead, she calmly watched as he put on a spectacle of ridiculous modesty: he found an old pair of sweat pants in his duffel bag, turned his back to her and struggled into them while still wearing the towel, so there was no absolutely no chance of exposing himself.

He put on a clean T-shirt, filled a large gla.s.s with water from the tap, drank it down in three hard swallows. He stared into the empty gla.s.s and, after a long pause, said in a low voice, "Whatever you wanted to talk about, it must be important, coming out all this way."

"It's important. To me it is."

"Where's Faye?"

"Nola's got her. She's fine."

"I'm going home tomorrow, we could have talked then."

"I was tired of waiting for you. I don't want to sit around anymore, waiting for you to show up."

"I'm sorry-"

Her words had the sound of an argument rehea.r.s.ed at length, of grievances nursed in the dark hours of morning: "I don't want to hear how sorry you are. I'm sick of all the excuses. I just want things to change."

He nodded, risked a quick glance at her, resumed the staring contest with the bottom of his gla.s.s. She lifted a corner of the quilt. "Do you want to lie down next to me? I won't bite. I won't even touch you if you don't want me to."

With his eyes downcast, his head turned to the side like a bashful toddler, he walked slowly over to the bed and eased, grimacing, under the quilt next to her. The entire trailer groaned and reballasted under this sudden weight shift.

They lay there for a few minutes, Trish pressed against the wall with its tiny window, Golden on his side, facing away from her, the quilt pulled tightly over his shoulders as if for protection from the elements.

Trish said, "I have two simple questions, and I want you to answer me as honestly as you can. I don't care if you hurt my feelings or tell me something difficult. I just want you to tell me the truth."

"Okay," he whispered.

"Why have you been avoiding me? Why don't you want to make love to me?"

"I haven't-"

"You promised," she cut in, "the truth. You have have been avoiding me. I get to see you once every two weeks, which isn't a whole lot less than the others, but every time you're too tired, or there's some excuse-" She stopped herself. She didn't want the bitterness she felt, the anger, to scare him into silence. "It's been so long now, Golden, a whole year we've been going like this. For a while afterwards, you know, I didn't care, but now, what am I supposed to think? I don't know how to make sense of it." been avoiding me. I get to see you once every two weeks, which isn't a whole lot less than the others, but every time you're too tired, or there's some excuse-" She stopped herself. She didn't want the bitterness she felt, the anger, to scare him into silence. "It's been so long now, Golden, a whole year we've been going like this. For a while afterwards, you know, I didn't care, but now, what am I supposed to think? I don't know how to make sense of it."

"It's kind of hard to explain," he said.

"Then try," she said. "We have all night."

"Well, it's..."-there was a long silence in which he took two deep breaths and repositioned himself on the bed-"I'm...impotent."

"You're what?"

"Impotent," he said.

"You're important?"

"What? No. Impotent. It means-"

Something sparked in her head and she said, "Impotent. You mean you're im impotent."

"Impotent. Yes. Isn't that what I said?"

She choked out a laugh, which might have been the cruelest response possible under the circ.u.mstances, but she had no other way of expressing the countervailing impulses she felt: the first was relief, verging on elation, that it was not disgust or disinterest that had kept him from her, but a simple bodily breakdown, a health condition that, as far as she knew, was as common among men as dandruff or athlete's foot. And the second impulse, which came like a cold wind on the heels of the first, was fear, that his condition might not be temporary-he was a middle-aged man, after all-and that she would remain trapped in the life she lived now, unfulfilled in every way that mattered, a woman cursed to go without in a land of so much plenty.

He turned over to look at her. "Is it funny?" He said this without bitterness or anger, but with genuine curiosity, as if he were not at all sure whether impotence impotence, p.r.o.nounced correctly or not, implied comedy or tragedy.

"No," she said, "not at all. Just unexpected." Maybe, she thought, it shouldn't have been all that unexpected, not by her or anyone else. But back in the days when they were intimate, he'd never shown any signs of failure or breakdown, and she'd always a.s.sumed, without ever consciously thinking about it, that if he was having difficulties-especially those those kind of difficulties-the subject would have come up, in some way or another, among the wives. Surely, at the very least, Nola would have made a comment or two. kind of difficulties-the subject would have come up, in some way or another, among the wives. Surely, at the very least, Nola would have made a comment or two.

"How long?" she said.