She stormed out of the room, leaving me alone.
I stood there in the dark for a long time. When I walked out, the bar was nearly empty. Another bartender was cleaning glasses. He didn’t look at me. Sissy was gone. The front door was wide open. I stepped into the street and saw her sitting at the bus stop.
“I’m sorry,” I said.
“Whatever.”
“Can I give you a ride somewhere?”
“Do you really want to do that?” she asked.
“No,” I said.
“Finally, you’re being honest.”
I stared at her. I wanted to say the exact right thing.
“Go home,” she said. “Just go home.”
I walked away, stopped halfway down the block.
“Do you have any kids?” I shouted back at her.
“Three,” she said.
Without changing my clothes, I crawled back into bed with Susan. Her skin was warm to the touch. The house ticked, ticked, ticked. In the morning, my pillow would be soaked with my blood.
“Where did you go?” Susan asked me.
“I was gone,” I said. “But now I’m back.”
SOUTH BY SOUTHWEST
SEYMOUR DIDN’T WANT MONEY—he wanted love—so he stole a pistol from the hot-plate old man living in the next apartment, then drove over to the International House of Pancakes, the one on Third, and ordered everybody to lie down on the floor.
The lunch-hour crowd did exactly as they were told. This was the International House of Pancakes and its patrons were used to such things.
In control, and because he wanted to be charming and memorable, Seymour kicked open the door to the kitchen and told the cooks to keep flipping the pancakes and pressing the waffles, to make sure the bacon and eggs didn’t burn, and keep the coffee fresh.
This was Spokane, Washington, and he wanted the local newspaper to give him a name. Seymour wanted to be the Gentleman Bandit. He wanted to be the Man With Scotch Tape Wrapped Around His Broken Heart.
He was a white man and, therefore, he was allowed to be romantic. This ain’t going to take long, Seymour said to the cooks, and when it does end, everybody is still going to be hungry.
Seymour stood on top of a table. All of his life, he’d dreamed about standing on a table in the International House of Pancakes. He wondered if he would be remembered.
He wanted to be potentially dangerous.
Put your faces down, shouted Seymour to the diners, whose faces were already down. He said, I want you to put your lips on the floor and tell me what it tastes like.
He felt like he was capable of anything, like he might have to buy some bullets for his stolen pistol.
The money’s in the safe, the money’s in the safe, shouted one of the waitresses, but Seymour didn’t need his life to become more difficult than it already was. He didn’t want a thousand dollars or even a million dollars.
All I want is one dollar from each of you, said Seymour. He said, I know how hard it is to live in these depressed times, I just want a little bit of your hard-earned money.
He wanted to be kind.
From the floor, everybody held up a George Washington. On top of those human stems, the green bills bloomed and blossomed.
Good, good, said Seymour as he walked through the garden of money and collected forty-two dollars. Now, what I need, he said, what I need is somebody to run with me.
Where are you going? asked one of the cooks, a man who brought his own favorite spatula to work and carried it back home at the end of every shift.
Arizona, said Seymour, and the crowd oohed and aahed. He knew that everybody loves Arizona because Arizona is potentially dangerous. A man could strap a pistol to his hip and walk unmolested through the streets of Phoenix.
But I need somebody to go with me, said Seymour. He said, I aim to go on a nonviolent killing spree and I need somebody who will fall in love with me along the way.
From the floor, a fat Indian man raised his hand. He wore black sweatpants and a white T-shirt embossed with a photograph of Geronimo.
I’ll go with you, said the fat Indian.
Are you gay? asked Seymour. I’m not gay. Are you gay?
No, sir, I am not homosexual, said the fat Indian, but I do believe in love.
Seymour thought about that for five seconds. And then he asked, You’re an Indian, ain’t you?
Yes, I am, yes, I am. Do you have a problem with that?
Only if you’re one of those buffalo hunters. I can’t have a nomad in my car. You just can’t trust a nomad.
I come from a salmon tribe, said the fat Indian, and therefore I am a dependable man.
Well, then, you’re going with me.
Seymour jumped down from the table and helped the fat Indian to his feet. They stood together in the half-light of the International House of Pancakes.
This place smells like smoke, said the fat Indian.
Salmon Boy, said Seymour, giving the fat Indian a brand-new name, in this cruel world, we’re always going to smell like smoke.
Listen, said Seymour to the patrons still lying on the floor. He said, thank you for your kindness, tell them the Gentleman Bandit was here. Tell them it was the Man Who Was Looking For Love.
Seymour and Salmon Boy raced out of the restaurant and drove off in Seymour’s car, a 1965 Chevrolet Malibu that carried more than two hundred thousand miles on the odometer.
You ever been to Arizona? Seymour asked Salmon Boy.
Once, when I was a boy. I went to a powwow in Flagstaff and lost my moccasins in the river there. My auntie spanked me until I cried like ten Indians.
I am sorry for your pain, said Seymour.
They drove the speed limit down Third Avenue, past four hamburger joints and a liquor store. They stopped at a red light.
Do you think the police are following us? asked Salmon Boy.
If they’re not now, said Seymour, they soon will be.
Well, then, said Salmon Boy. He asked, Do you think we should kiss now?
It seems like the right time, don’t it? asked Seymour. He licked his lips.
Yes, it does, said Salmon Boy. He wished he had a mint.
They kissed, keeping their tongues far away from each other, and then told each other secrets.
Seymour said, When I was eleven years old, I made a dog lick my balls.
Did you like it? asked Salmon Boy.
No, I threw up all over that mutt, said Seymour, and then it ran away.
That’s what happens when you get too far into love.
That’s what happens.
When I was fifteen, said Salmon Boy, I stole eighty dollars from my grandma. My mom and dad never knew. But my grandma must have, she had to have, because she never talked to me again.
And then she died, said Salmon Boy.
Then the light was green and Seymour and Salmon Boy found themselves traveling south along a back road near Enterprise, Oregon. They had not slept in twenty-two hours.
They stopped when they saw a dead coyote nailed to a fence post.
That’s a bad sign, ain’t it? asked Seymour.
Yes, it is, said Salmon Boy.
What does it mean? asked the white man.
I have no idea, said the Indian.
They climbed out of the car and walked through the knee-deep snow to get to them: the fence post and the coyote.
They stared at the coyote the way the last two disciples stared at the resurrected Jesus.
The coyote had been there a long time, maybe for weeks, frozen stiff now, but certainly it had been freezing and unthawing, freezing and unthawing, during that unpredictable winter.
Seymour remembered the time, in the winter of 1966 or ’67, when he walked into his parents’ bedroom and caught them making love. Still naked, his father had jumped out of bed, taken Seymour by the hand, and led him down the hall. The hardwood floor was cold against Seymour’s bare feet. Back in his own little bedroom, Seymour listened as his naked father explained why he wa
s naked and why he’d been doing that strange and wonderful thing to his wife, to Seymour’s mother.
See-See, his father had said to him, I’m doing it the best I can, so that your mother, your beautiful mother, will love me forever.
Salmon Boy, said Seymour as they studied the dead coyote, as they noticed one of his paws was missing, cut off and tucked into somebody’s hatband maybe, or rolling around in some wild dog’s belly perhaps.
Seymour said, My father had ambitions.
Salmon Boy smiled.
Like a good Indian, he knew when to talk and when to remain silent. Like a good Indian, he knew there was never a good time to talk.
We need to find a farmhouse, said Seymour, and we need to terrorize an old man and his wife. That is, he added, if we’re going to do this nonviolent killing spree thing the right way.
Salmon Boy pointed out over the dead coyote’s head. He pointed at the horizon where a red farmhouse sat like an apple on the white snow.
There it is, said Seymour, and Salmon Boy agreed.
Are we supposed to kiss now? asked Seymour, and Salmon Boy shrugged his shoulders.
I’m not sure I want to kiss you again, said Seymour. He said, But I will kiss you if you want it, because I don’t want to hurt your feelings.
My feelings are my feelings, said Salmon Boy, they belong to me, and you don’t have to worry about them at all.
All right then, we won’t kiss no more. At least, not until we’re sure about it.
Salmon Boy said, I believe in love.
Seymour and Salmon Boy climbed back into the car and drove down the plowed road toward the farmhouse. On both sides of them, the snowbanks rose high into the blue sky until it felt like they were driving down a tunnel.
Salmon Boy remembered the time his father won a free trip to Disneyland. They got half of the prize money and the whole family jumped into their blue van and headed for California. They were supposed to get the other half once they got to Disneyland, but something went wrong. There was nobody there to greet them and nobody answered the telephone back home. Salmon Boy and his whole family walked up to the gates of the Magic Kingdom and peered through the bars.
Inside, white people were having more fun than any Indians had ever had.
Salmon Boy remembered how all his family members counted up all the money in their pockets and discovered they carried enough coins for one loaf of bread and a package of cheese, and maybe, just maybe, enough gas to get them back home.
For twenty-six straight hours, Salmon Boy’s father drove through the night and day, drove through a tunnel of sun, drove through a tunnel of stars, and laughed like crazy when he drove over that bridge that marked the entrance to the reservation.
My father loved me, Salmon Boy said to Seymour.
Well, then, said Seymour, that’s a good thing to tell the police when they finally catch us. It will explain everything.
You think they’re still after us? asked Salmon Boy.
The police are always, always minutes behind us.
They knocked on the front door of the farmhouse. Seymour held his unloaded pistol in his front pocket. He felt like somebody might know how to save him.
An old white woman soon stood on the other side of the open door.
Who are you? she asked.
We are two desperate men on a nonviolent killing spree, said Seymour.
And we’re doing our best to fall in love, said Salmon Boy.
With who? asked the old woman.
With each other, said Seymour.
Well, then, she said, you better come in and get yourself something to eat and drink. You’re talking about some hard, hard work.
Seymour and Salmon Boy sat at her table while she made them lemonade and ham sandwiches. Her husband had been dead for ten long years, years that hung like lace in the attic, like an old quilt on the bedroom wall, like a coyote nailed to a fence post.
My husband, she said, he’s buried out there, back behind the barn. You can’t see his grave right now, but it’s there, right there beneath the snow.
The lemonade was sweet and the ham was salty and everything was near-right with the world.
We only had one child, she said, a son, and he stood up one day, walked out that door right there, and has never returned.
The old woman’s eyes filled with tears. She asked, Didn’t you go to high school with my son John?
Which one of us are you speaking to? asked Seymour.
I’m talking to both of you, she said.
Well, then, I have to say, said Seymour, that I don’t remember anybody named John. I didn’t even go to high school.
How about the Indian? asked the old woman.
His name is Salmon Boy.
Surely, you didn’t go to school with my son, she said, because I would have remembered a crazy name like that.
She walked around on old legs and set an old coffeepot down over a blue flame.
My real name ain’t Salmon Boy.
Real or not, my son didn’t go to school with any Indians, she said. She stirred her coffee. All three of them stared down into its blackness.
Anyway, she said, I think I recognize everybody who visits me. I spend whole days with my visitors, thinking I know them, thinking I have to be a good hostess. They show up in the mornings mostly, and I feed them breakfast. I feed them lunch and dinner. Sometimes, at night, I get a bed ready for them, pillows and sheets and blankets, before I realize they aren’t real.
She looked at the men.
Are you real? she asked.
Seymour and Salmon Boy looked at each other. They weren’t sure.
But listen to me, she said, an old woman telling old stories. How about you boys? And this killing spree of yours, where are you heading to?
It’s a nonviolent killing spree, said Seymour, and we’re heading to Arizona.
So, she said, it’s a north-south killing spree. That’s a lot different than an east-west killing spree.
What’s the difference?
More killing when you’re moving west. More policemen when you’re moving south. East-west takes a lot more discipline, more preparation. North-south, you just got to have enough passion. Passion is all you need. Do you boys have passion?
Seymour remembered his second wife, how she had fallen in love with her gynecologist and run away to Ames, Iowa, taking all of their children with her, so Seymour had dialed up 411, found his first wife’s phone number, called her up at three in the morning, and had asked her to remarry him now, right now.
You’re crazy, she said, that’s why I never stopped loving you.
Then you’ll marry me? he asked. Again? he asked.
Oh, I love you, she said, her voice breaking apart like glass. Then she said, I shouldn’t have married you the first time, and then she hung up the phone.
It was five after three in the morning, so Seymour ran down the hallway with a twenty-dollar bill in his hand, and slid it beneath the door of the red-headed prostitute who lived in Apartment 7. He didn’t want sex—he wanted redemption—so he ran back to his room, climbed into bed, and cried until the sun rose and slapped him across the eyes.
Do you boys have passion? asked the farmhouse old woman. She placed her wrinkled hand on Seymour’s hand.
Salmon Boy was jealous.
The Indian remembered when he told his cousin she was more beautiful than any white girl he had ever seen. She’d taken off her shirt and bra to show him what she’d been hiding beneath. Small breasts, like birds with opened wings, sat down on her brown chest. He loved her. He thought she was beautiful and young and would grow up to be beautiful and old.
Salmon Boy looked at the old white woman, saw her blue, blue eyes, and wondered if she’d been beautiful when she was a girl. He wondered if she had any Indian blood.
My husband was a soldier, said the old woman. She said, He was a reluctant soldier. He shot a dozen men, a dozen of those Japs, on some island in 1943. He shot twelve of them, shot six of them in the he
ad, four of them in the heart, and two of them in the belly. He shot twelve of them without thinking, didn’t stop to wonder what it meant, but then number thirteen came running over the hill, over the grassy hill.
What color was the grass? asked Seymour.
What do you mean? asked the old woman. She asked, What do you mean what color was the grass? The grass is always green. Don’t you know that? Don’t you know the grass is always green.
But it was a different part of the world, said Seymour, I thought maybe the grass is a different color in a different part of the world.
The grass is green in every part of the world, said the old woman. She said, On Mars, the grass is green.
The grass is green on my reservation, said Salmon Boy. He was telling the truth.
There you go, said the old woman, there you go. Even the Indian knows the grass is green. What’s wrong with you? Didn’t you learn anything when you went to high school? My son went to that same high school and he learned a few things before he disappeared forever. You bet he learned a few things.
But what about your husband? asked Seymour. He was trying to change the subject.
What about my husband? Did you know my husband? He was a hero during the Good War. He was a hero, even though he was a reluctant soldier. He shot twelve Japs, shot them all dead, but there was thirteen of them running, and that last one came over the hill, running through the green grass, and my husband tried to shoot him, but he couldn’t pull the trigger, and that Jap ran a bayonet through my husband’s heart, right through the middle of his heart. And they buried him right there on the beach, right there in the sand.
But I thought, said Seymour. He said, I thought your husband was buried behind the barn.
You’re damn right, said the old woman. He’s buried. He’s buried in the snow out there, he’s buried in the sand over there, there are pieces of my husband buried everywhere.
Salmon Boy stared down into his coffee. In that darkness, he saw a white man with a rifle.
He was a hero, said the old woman. My husband shot twelve Japs on the island. Twelve of them! Can you imagine that? All by himself. My husband, he always said he would whisper in my ear in the middle of the night, he always said most men can kill eleven people, but only a few can kill twelve, and only the best, the very best, can kill thirteen.