“Maybe it’s time for you to do something else.” Shannon leaned forward to kiss my cheek and take the stick out of my hand. “See you in the morning,” she said. Then she was gone.
Dear Sam,
Shannon says you don’t conquer females the way my ex-husband did. She says you have an obsessive compulsion to save lost women, that you meet miserable women who need love which you translate as sex and you convince yourself their lives wouldn’t be miserable anymore if only you would do them the favor of sleeping with them.
According to your letter, you were planning to commit to me at some unnamed point in the future, but I don’t see how you can commit to anyone if you have an obsessive compulsion that forces you to sleep with sluts.
Atalanta Williams says you have never been loved by a good woman and if a good woman were to ever love you, you would straighten up.
My father says you are a truthless satyrmaniac and Skip Prescott says you’re a “pussy hound,” among other things.
I don’t know what I say. All I know is I miss our talks and you are a villain.
Sincerely,
Gilia
In the morning, I dropped Maurey and Shannon off in Jackson so they could Christmas shop for the boys. The plan was for me to drive back to GroVont, reconcile with my mother, then pick the women up around noon and go back to the ranch, where Maurey had a job lined up for me and Pud—something about elk in the hay.
The plan reminded me of when I used to write lists of what to do today:
It’s like if you sneak the big chore in, maybe you’ll check it off without noticing, only this would be harder because I’d written novels before; I’d never reconciled with my mother.
“Go to her with your heart in your hand,” Maurey said. “Lydia can’t deal with open vulnerability.”
“Beg her forgiveness,” Shannon said.
“Beg her forgiveness for what? She’s the one who lied.”
Shannon patted me on the back of the head. “Jesus, Daddy, you’re so naive.”
The morning was beautiful—fresh snow on the Tetons, royal blue sky above, robin’s-egg blue sky on the horizon. Winter can be real nice from inside a warm Suburban with two wonderful women by your side.
When I stopped at the Jackson Town Square, Maurey said, “Don’t lose your temper. Remember, she’s the childish one, you’re the adult.”
“Yes.”
Shannon giggled. “I’m lots more mature than Daddy, who’s lots more mature than Grandma. Our family must run in reverse.”
“The Callahan clan does everything backward,” Maurey said, opening her door. “Let’s go to the bank first so I can get some money.”
“No need, I still have Dad’s credit card.”
Instead of driving away, I sat with both hands on the steering wheel watching Maurey and Shannon walk toward the nearest tourist trap. From the backside, they not only could have been sisters, they could have been twins. Same dark hair—Shannon’s short, Maurey’s long—same shoulders, as they walked their arms swung the same distance from their look-alike hips. Maurey said something and touched Shannon on the elbow, then Shannon looked back at me and burst into laughter.
I imagine Maurey had said words to the effect of “What do you bet he’s still sitting there, mooney-eyed with sentimentality.” Words to that effect anyway. Women love to think men are predictable; I try not to let them down.
As I made my way across the frozen valley back along the highway to GroVont, I rehearsed possibilities of the upcoming scene with Lydia. What was I supposed to say? You don’t erase twenty years of pain by quoting the back cover of a self-help book.
“Gee, Mom, it’s fine you raised me thinking I was a child of rape when I wasn’t. I can validate the empowerment that motivated your disinformation response.”
“Thank you, Son, I accept responsibility for my actions.”
Then we would cry cathartic tears and join arms around a campfire and sing “Kumbaya, My Lord” in perfect harmony.
Fat chance.
You could tell from several houses down the street that something had happened at Lydia’s. Hank’s truck was backed in the driveway and the tailgate was down. Possessions were piled around the sides—skis, snowshoes, Lydia’s swivel work chair. When I pulled up next to the truck, I saw it was partially loaded with book boxes, a stereo, a painting of Martha Washington burning a bra over the Delaware, and Lydia’s computer.
The cabin door opened and Hank came out, carrying two file boxes. I stood between the Suburban and his truck while he carefully stacked the boxes against the back of the cab.
“What’s this?” I asked.
Hank studied the label on the end of a box. “
“Why is Lydia moving Oothoon?”
Hank turned to me and held his hands up, waist high, in a Blackfoot don’t-ask-me gesture. He said, “She’s joining the feminist underground.”
“Is it because of me?”
“A man from Federal Express telephoned. Said her lost overnight packet had been found under the short leg of a dispatcher’s desk in Hannibal, Missouri. Said the dispatcher is fired, Lydia’s money will be returned, and the packet will be delivered by ten A.M. today.”
“The poisoned chew toy.”
“We’ll hide out on the reservation until whatever happens blows over.”
“I don’t think assassination attempts on the President’s dog blow over.”
Hank shrugged. “Your mother always wanted to be an outlaw.”
“What about you?”
The door slammed and Lydia appeared with two pairs of boots and a lamp made from an elk horn and semi- translucent rawhide. One pair of boots was normal brown with dark stitching, but the other pair had been painted yellow. Lydia herself wore sneakers, jeans, and a Patagonia jacket.
She said, “I’m leaving the TV, the Atari, and my car. You better take good care of her—oil changes every spring and fall. You’ll need new tires if you plan on driving this winter.”
I looked at the lump of snow in the front yard that hid Lydia’s twelve-year-old BMW with something like
