The Complete Elizabeth Gilbert: Eat, Pray, Love; Committed; The Last American Man; Stern Men & Pilgrims (154 page)

“What about my dad?”

“Your dad? Why, he doesn’t bet. He just shoots the pigeons. Everyone bets on the shooters. You see? Everyone bets on your father, to guess how many pigeons he can shoot. Your dad don’t need to bet.”

“What about you?”

“I bet like a son of a bitch. What about you?”

Tanner shrugged.

“How much money do you have on you, son?”

Tanner took a handful of linty change from his pocket. “Dollar eighteen.”

“Bet it all,” Gashouse said. Then he laughed and yelled,
“Double it!” He slammed his hand on the steering wheel. “Double it! Triple it! Ha!”

Snipe barked once, a hound’s low
woof
. Gashouse spun his head and looked at Tanner, suddenly serious. “You say something, boy?”

“No,” Tanner said, “that was your dog.”

Gashouse leaned forward and wiped the inside of the windshield with his sleeve. “Son,” he said, “I was just kidding with you there. That was my dog barking. I knew that.”

“Sure,” Tanner said. “Me too.”

“Good boy. We all had a little joke, right?”

“Sure,” Tanner said. “Okay.”

On their way out of town, Gashouse stopped at Miles Spivak’s grocery store to buy shotgun shells. Miles himself was behind the counter, looking wintry and old. He found the shells that Gashouse asked for.

“Miles!” Gashouse shouted. “I’m shooting for Ed Rogers today. You should come on up there for once. You might have a good time, Miles! You might see some hell of a good shooting from me.”

Miles took a slow look around his store, as if expecting to see another person appear behind him. “Damn it, Gashouse. You know I’m the only one here. You know I can’t go.”

“But I’m shooting today, Miles! Worth closing early for. I used to be a hell of a good shot.”

Miles considered this.

“You know Ed’s boy?” Gashouse put a big hand on Tanner’s head.

“Have five boys myself. Just had the last one two months ago. By cesarean. You ever seen one of those?” Miles asked Tanner.

“For Christ sake, Miles,” Gashouse said. “He’s just a kid.”

“Tied her tubes right there. So we won’t have another kid. Now that’s something to see, to see your own wife laid open like
that. Women got some pretty tiny equipment inside. Ever seen those little things? Ever seen those little tubes?”

“Jesus Christ, Miles,” Gashouse said. “Wouldn’t you be surprised if the kid said yes?”

“Damnedest things,” Miles said. “Tiniest, damnedest things you ever saw.”

“Let’s get out of here, Tanner,” Gashouse said. “We got a crazy man!” As they walked to the door, Miles called after them, “She’s a wonderful woman, my wife!”

“I’ll tell you something about that one,” Gashouse said when they were outside. “He’s too dumb to bat both his eyes at the same time.”

When they were back in the truck, Gashouse took the box of shotgun shells from his pocket and read the label carefully. “Hell,” he said, “I don’t know.” He turned the box over and read it again.

Tanner waited, then asked, “What kind of gun do you have?”

“Twelve gauge.” He looked over. “Does that mean anything to you?”

“My dad has a double-barreled eighteen gauge.”

“Sixteen gauge,” Gashouse corrected, putting the shell box back in his pocket. “Ed’s got a double-barreled sixteen gauge. It’s been a long time, son. I’ll tell you that right up front. It’s been a hell of a long time since I shot a gun.”

Gashouse sighed, then slammed the steering wheel again. “Hey! But come on! It’s not even my gun! It’s Dick Clay’s gun! Ha!”

Snipe woofed again from the floor.

“I didn’t say anything,” Tanner said.

“Ha!” Gashouse slapped his own knee. “Ha! You got the joke, son! You got it!”

Gashouse started up the truck and pulled out of the parking space. He said, “Good thing you like a joke, because we’re on
the road to big fun today, that’s for sure. Any questions up there, you just ask me.”

“Why do they call you Gashouse?” Tanner asked.

“Farts,” he answered without hesitation. “Some real wood-chippers, too. Real ice-breakers. I’m better now, though, than I used to be. No more dairy.”

“Does my dad call you that?”

“Yes.”

“Does my mom call you that?”

“Tanner,” Gashouse said, “it was kind of a consensus. You know what a consensus is?”

“No.”

“Well,” Gashouse said, “that’s what it was.”

At the next stop sign, Gashouse rolled down his window and yelled to a red-haired woman on the sidewalk, “Hey there! Hey there, you little stack of pancakes!”

She smiled and tossed out a wave as if it were a candy wrapper.

“Hey there! Hey there, you little side of fries! Hey there, you little deep-dish apple pie!”

The woman blew him a kiss and kept on walking.

“We’ll see you later!” he yelled. “Cutie!”

Gashouse Johnson rolled up the window and said to Tanner, “There goes my girl. Can you believe she’s fifty? Who would guess?”

“I think I know her from school,” Tanner said, shyly.

“Possible,” Gashouse said. “It is possible, because she does teach there sometimes on a substitute basis. She looks great, don’t you think? A good-looking woman. You’d never guess her age, right? As long as she keeps her shirt on, right?”

Tanner flushed and leaned down to pat Snipe’s head. The dog woke up and panted gratefully, his breath hot and ripe.

The man and the boy drove on, quietly. They drove out of
town and past the dump, past the cemetery, past the farms, past a cornfield with a fire engine parked beside it. The road became dirt, and they passed loudly over a cattle guard’s wide grate. Gashouse drove farther still, up the forlorn road. He took a sudden left onto a mining road, driving slowly on deep ruts that might have been dug by tires, but might, too, have been dug by water. Where the wood line stopped abruptly, they came out at the edge of a wide, flat dish of rock and mud, the rough grave of an abandoned strip mine.

A few trucks were there already, lined up neatly, like cars at a drive-in. Men were talking in a small group, kicking at rocks, their dogs milling around beside their muddy feet. Gashouse and Tanner got out of the truck. Snipe followed, painfully.

“Hey!” Gashouse said to Dick Clay. “Place your bets!”

“Can’t,” Dick said. “No birds. Willis got shut down.”

“By who? By the hell who?”

“By . . .” Dick hesitated. “By the authorities.”

“Well,” Gashouse said. “Don’t I just feel like a slapped butt?”

“Happens.” Dick shrugged.

“Not in twenty years, it hasn’t happened,” Gashouse said. “Willis got shut down by the authorities, did he? Son of a bitch. By
what
goddamn authorities?”

The other men looked at one another. One of them coughed and said, “Just some officers of the law doing their job.”

“Just some good old boys,” another man said. “Just some fellas enforcing the law, for once.”

“It’s not against the law to shoot pigeons,” Tanner said.

The men looked at him.

“Gashouse?” Dick Clay asked quietly. “Is that Ed Rogers’s boy?”

“Sure is.” Gashouse again put his big hand on Tanner’s head.

“Ed don’t want his boy up here, Gashouse,” Dick said.

“That’s not true, Dick. It’s
Diane
who don’t want the boy up here.”

“What’d you do? Kidnap him?”

“I invited him,” Gashouse said. “I invited him to come up here and watch me stand in for his old man. I invited him to come up here and watch me shoot some birds for his old man.”

The men looked at one another, looked at their boots, looked at their dogs.

“I came here to shoot some pigeons, and by Christ, I’ll shoot them,” Gashouse said. “I’m calling up Willis. I aim to find out what the hell’s going on. See what this is all about. Authorities shutting him down. See if I can’t do something about it.”

“Actually,” Dick said, “actually, it doesn’t really matter. Nobody’s planning on showing up anyhow. On account of Ed being in the hospital. The pigeon shoots are pretty much canceled for now.”

“But
I’m
shooting for Ed,” Gashouse said, and smiled, as if he’d solved something. “
I’m
shooting for Ed, and any folks who normally bet on Ed Rogers, why, they can bet on me.”

Dick said nothing.

“For Christ sake, Dick. You know I’m shooting today. You lent me your goddamn gun, Dick.”

“I got to tell you something,” Dick said, “because you’re my good friend. The truth is, Gashouse, the authorities didn’t shut down Willis. That’s the truth, Gashouse.”

A few of the men started heading back to their trucks, in a sort of casual way.

“Dick?” Gashouse said. “Where the hell are people going?”

“Gashouse,” Dick said, “I will say this. And I’m only telling you what I’ve been hearing. This is not me talking. This is what the guys are saying. I told some guys that you wanted to shoot for Ed, and some guys said they would rather cancel the shoot. Some guys don’t think that a bet on you is much of a bet. Some guys think they might just want to stay home until we find someone else.”

The men stood quietly then, like mourners or surveyors.

“Well,” Gashouse said finally. “Well, well, well. We won’t fault anyone for that. Will we, Tanner? Will we, son?”

In Willis Lister’s barn, there were dozens of pigeons. The pigeons were caged, sitting in the dust of old feathers and shit. The sound of all those birds was a collective gurgle, like something thick about to come to a boil.

“Dick Clay told me not to show up,” Willis Lister was explaining to Gashouse Johnson. “On account of Ed. He told me they were canceling the pigeon shoots for a while.”

“See, now,” Gashouse said, “I realize that. But I thought Tanner here might want to see me shoot for his dad. Tanner’s dad is in the hospital, you know.”

“I know that.”

“And I thought it might be a special thing for the kid to see a pigeon shoot. On account of the high esteem that all the guys have for his old man. I thought he might want to see me shoot some birds for his old man. On account of the high esteem I have for his dad. And the high esteem that I have for his mother.”

The pigeon man squatted down and looked at Tanner. “I’m sorry,” he said, “about your father.” Willis was an old man. Still, his face was smooth and unmarked, except for a small scar the shape of a sickle, pink against his cheek and shiny as a fleck of mica.

“Thank the man.” Gashouse nudged Tanner.

“Thank you,” Tanner said.

Willis stayed squatting. “Son,” he said, “your hair is really kicking today.” He took a comb from the bib pocket of his coveralls and offered it.

“I’m okay,” Tanner said.

Willis kept looking at him, waiting.

Tanner said, “I already combed it today.”

“It’s really kicking, though. A boy should try to keep himself neat.”

“I went to sleep on it last night and it was wet. I can’t fix it.”

But Willis still held out the comb. Gashouse nudged Tanner once again. “Why don’t you use the man’s comb, son?”

Tanner took the comb from Willis Lister’s hand and ran it through his hair once. Then he handed it back.

Gashouse said, “Why don’t you thank the man for his offer of a comb?”

“Thank you, sir.”

“You’re welcome, son,” Willis said. “Don’t you look neater now?”

Willis stood up and faced Gashouse. “What do you need here?”

“Birds.”

“Nobody’s up there to bet, Gashouse. There ain’t gonna be no shooting today.”

“Don’t need betters,” Gashouse said, grinning. “I just need birds. I’ll shoot them right here.”

Willis didn’t answer, and Gashouse stamped his foot and laughed loud enough to send the pigeons into a boil of talk. “Hey! I mean—not
here!
I’m not going to shoot your pigeons
here
in their damn cages. The boy didn’t come here to see me shoot birds in a cage! I’ll shoot a few of them in your yard. Just so the boy gets an idea.” He stopped laughing, found the handkerchief in his pocket, and blew his nose. Willis looked at him and also at Tanner, who was patting down his hair with both hands. Willis looked at Snipe, who was licking the wire door of an empty birdcage.

“How many?” Willis asked. “How many birds for your little venture?”

Gashouse returned the handkerchief to his pocket and pulled out a wallet, from which he took a twenty-dollar bill. “Can you give me four birds for twenty dollars? Can you do that, Willis?”

Willis looked pained. “Four birds? What’s four birds? I lose more birds than that to rats in a week.” He turned to Tanner. “How many pigeons you want to kill, son?”

“Me?” Tanner looked nervously to Gashouse.

“I’m shooting, Willis,” Gashouse said. “I’ll explain it to you again. Point is, I want the boy to see how his dad does it. Want the boy to see how his dad got so famous.”

“How many birds?” Willis asked.

“I only need to kill one, I guess.”

“Hell, Gashouse, you can
have
one bird. What the hell is one bird to me?”

Gashouse looked at his thumbnail carefully. “Problem is, it might take me a few birds to kill one . . .”

“Christ, man.”

“Come on now, Willis. It’s been a long damn time. I might miss the first bird or so.” He paused. “You know, I used to be a hell of a good damn shot when—”

“You can have three birds,” Willis interrupted.

“I used to be a hell of a shot.”

“You can hit one bird in three, can’t you?”

“My God,” Gashouse said. “We’d all better hope the hell so.”

Willis went to the nearest cage, stepping over Snipe, who was still licking at a wire door as if it were gravy. He opened the trap and pulled out the birds one at a time—by a foot, by a wing—with a frown at the dust and down raised from the panic. He tucked a pigeon under each arm like a schoolbook and handed a third to Tanner. “Tuck his wings down,” Willis instructed, “so he don’t beat the hell out of himself.”

Tanner followed the men out of the barn, carefully carrying the bird away from his body, as though it were something that might spill on him. He waited in the field with Willis while Gashouse went to the truck for his shotgun. Snipe sat in front of Willis Lister, looking hopefully at his pigeons.