The Summer He Didn't Die Page 2
Coming down the hill after a brief snooze and another ample sip of the schnapps he paused for a moment of dread, mere seconds of understandable hesitation at the idea of returning to a domestic world for which he had had no real training. The option of at least a full year in jail reminded him of his grandpa saying, “Caught between a rock and a hard place.” When he had visited arrested friends jails were smelly, and full of the clang of gates and doors closing. The food was bad, there was no place to walk, no birds. His old girlfriend, the anthropology graduate student Shelley, had told him that way back whenever in the Middle Ages hell was thought to be a place totally without birds. Jail was also a place without women, an equally dire prospect, and more immediately punishing. Brown Dog was greatly drawn to women with none of the hesitancy of his more modern counterparts who tiptoed in and out of women’s lives wearing blindfolds, nose plugs, ear plugs, and fluttering ironic hearts. One warm summer morning when a damp sheet was wrapped around the knees of Shelley’s nude body Brown Dog had gazed a long time at her genitals and then began clapping in hearty applause. She was a little irritated to be awakened thusly, then warmed to the idea that this backwoods goofy thought a portion of her body about which she had some doubt was beautiful.
When Brown Dog reached his car, a ’72 Chevelle, the force of his aching teeth made him quiver. He took four ibuprofen with a swig of water from his canteen. Delmore had gotten the car in payment for a bad debt from a cousin over in Iron River, not remembering that the old brown sedan was powerful with a 396 engine, what Red from the back seat called “kickass,” so that when Brown Dog stomped the gas pedal to see what would happen it was a neck snapper. Delmore was amused saying the Detroit cops used Chevelles for chasing miscreants. Brown Dog was appalled. Rose had wrecked his beloved old Dodge van in a stupor, and after that had come the Studebaker pickup with no side windows. On his grandpa’s advice he habitually held his speed at forty-nine which, by coincidence, was also his favorite temperature.
On the drive home he found his irritation at Delmore rising. That day after making his way through Social Services past the frothy Stuhl and reaching his ally Gretchen’s office he had poured forth his tooth pain but found her less responsive than usual. Rather than her usual abrasive self Gretchen was morose. Since they were long acquaintances, almost friends, Gretchen confessed she had lost her lover of eight years’ standing, a “marriage” of sorts that had begun her senior year at Michigan State University. Despite her grief she arranged for Brown Dog to have a free consultation with a dentist friend of hers. There was no public money available for actual treatment. Gretchen was sure, however, that she could find a way to get the money out of Delmore by bringing up his failure to adequately cover Brown Dog’s accident when a tree bucked back and shattered his knee. She could also legally force Delmore to install full plumbing in the shabby mobile home. Delmore loathed Gretchen, huffing and referring to her as a “daughter of Sappho,” an old-fashioned term of opprobrium for lesbians. Rather than listening to Gretchen’s invective Brown Dog had drifted off remembering the diner waitress he had made love to on Gretchen’s living room floor when he was supposed to be painting the walls yellow. The waitress had one short leg but he had decided many mornings at breakfast in the diner that this short leg had become attractive in its own right. He hadn’t realized that Gretchen’s lover was upstairs, presuming her to be at work. From snooping in Gretchen’s undies drawer and finding photos, Brown Dog knew that lady was a real looker. Sad to say that on hearing the love racket downstairs she had called Gretchen’s office and Brown Dog had been caught in the saddle, though in fact he was underneath. This event had cooled the friendship which gradually warmed up, mostly because Gretchen liked this preposterous fool, so unlike her father and his cronies. She’d grown up in a modestly posh suburb of Grand Rapids where all the men were middle or higher management in Steelcase (purportedly the world’s largest producer of office desks, file cabinets, and folding chairs) or Amway, a super version of the old Fuller Brush Company. She actually loathed her bully father, not to speak of his friends and their veiled but implicit condescension to all things female from the Virgin Mary to cats and dogs. If they were to fish with female worms the worms would be chuckled at with the curious sense of superiority many males in this culture feel their weenies entitle them to.
Brown Dog cooled his heels for a full hour in the office of Gretchen’s high-end dentist chum. The waiting room reminded him of fancy hotels in Chicago though he had only looked through the windows of such places. There were three women and two male patients also waiting who were clearly members of what Delmore called Escanaba’s “upper crust,” though that designation might also include successful car dealers and their wives. None of the others returned B.D.’s friendly nod but he thought perhaps they were also in pain and therefore uncivil. He did note that the pine sap on his trousers had stickily attracted dirt and that the Mexican chicken stew he had made from Dad’s Own Cookbook the evening before had splattered a goodly amount of grease on his camouflage T-shirt, a discontinued item from the back corner of a discount supermarket, twelve of them in fact for a dollar apiece. He did recall that in his earlier days rich people greeted poor folks on the street and were now less likely to do so.
The dentist was chunky indeed with a mottled beige complexion but B.D. couldn’t help but feel thrilled during the cursory examination when her green-smocked pelvis brushed against his knees. She was genuinely appalled when she learned he had never in his life been to a dentist. He was embarrassed enough to try to change the subject by asking her why she wore the thin latex rubber gloves. “AIDS prevention, you goof.” She was not so much angry as dumbfounded by the fact that this man beneath her fingers had never been to a dentist. Besides, Gretchen had used the term “goofy” when referring to B.D., saying also that she had heard around town that he was quite the lover. The dentist, Belinda Schwartz, had found slim pickings among the men of her own social set, the “upper crust” as it were, including Stuhl, Gretchen’s boss, who was an implement freak, two car salesmen, and an alcoholic who worked for the newspaper who had shit his pants after collapsing in her bathtub. Belinda who had a decided nonresemblance to fashion models had taken to driving north to Ontonagon on weekends where her randy spirit had easily won the affection of a number of young Native men, two Finnish miners, and a mulatto logger who had sent her to body heaven. On questioning, Brown Dog had admitted his career as a bare-knuckle fighter early in life and she advised that this was the reason his teeth were permanently loosening from their deadened roots outward. Before leaving she gave him a few dozen Percodans and Percocets recognizing his pain, and then, as advised, called Gretchen to say she would need a deposit of three thousand for starters. Gretchen called Delmore with the news and the threat that she could force him to install proper plumbing. Delmore called her a “vile rug muncher” and she, unfazed, merely said, “I’m going to win this one, kiddo.”
Two weeks later, the pain drugs long gone, Brown Dog’s sore teeth were still being held hostage to the war between Delmore and Gretchen. When he had returned from the dentist late that afternoon he expected a shit monsoon but instead Delmore wept quietly on his porch swing, then was kind enough to offer B.D. a drink of his rationed Four Roses whiskey. When B.D. patted Delmore on the shoulder Delmore said he was weeping for the youth of America. This surprising announcement was allowed to stand alone in the coolish April air for at least five minutes. B.D. had heard most of the “youth of America” material many times before but was attentive to new additions. On the way home he had taken a Percodan with a warm can of beer found under the car seat which had made him as impervious as a stone Olmec head to Delmore’s caterwauling about the toughness of the cinema hero John Wayne in Red River, the manliness of the football coaches Woody Hayes and Vince Lombardi to which B.D. always replied, “It’s easy on the sidelines,” at which point Delmore added Bobby Layne, the old Detroit Lions quarterback, and the brave young men at Iwo Jima and on Pork Chop Hill, not
to speak of the Ojibwa warriors, Delmore’s own ancestors, who had repelled the Mohawk invasion in the eighteenth century in a battle in the eastern Upper Peninsula.
The upshot of Delmore’s mournful speech was that in the old days when “men were men” they pulled their own teeth rather than spend someone else’s hardearned money. B.D. knew this was true having watched out a back window as his grandfather pulled his own molar. He also knew that Delmore had full dental insurance in his retirement from the auto factory negotiated by the AFL-CIO. The next day Delmore had brought home new GripLock pliers and a fresh quart of whiskey as a further challenge, a bargain compared to the cost of dentistry, or plumbing for the house trailer.
The stalemate had continued with one long evening spent in the woods with the pliers and whiskey, but when the coolish metal of the pliers touched a sore tooth he recoiled. There was a profound sense of body attrition so that when he took out his weenie to pee he addressed it: “Someday you’ll wear out, old friend.” But not yet, of course.
* * *
When Brown Dog confessed Delmore’s pliers and whiskey ploy to Gretchen she delaminated, irrationally calling the county prosecutor to see if there were any criminal ramifications which there weren’t. She got a casual Republican chuckle and the information that self-dentistry was a holdover from the “good old days” when “men were men.” She fairly howled over the phone, “You fucking moron,” at which the prosecutor hung up with a “Tut, tut, cutie.”
Gretchen looked out her office window at B.D. who was evidently talking to a crow at the top of a young maple and the crow seemed to be listening attentively. She called Belinda and struck a deal for the worst of the three teeth. Gretchen would front the money though her ex-girlfriend had cleaned out their joint account. Despite love people like to set aside secret money and Gretchen had a stash that would cover the first tooth. Gretchen was abrasive indeed but was a woman of wide social conscience and had read everyone from Simone Weil to yesterday’s freshest social alarm. Her five-year-old Subaru had a longish bumper sticker that read 5,000,000 AMERICAN CHILDREN ARE HUNGRY. She took a hidden cigarette from a desk drawer having put it there for such an occasion. This would be her first cigarette in three full weeks plus two days but she was needy.
Brown Dog was a little startled when Gretchen came out the back door of the Social Services building. He was swimming in a murky sea of seven Motrins but his senses were alive to the forsythia blooming in the reflected heat of the sunlight on the east side of the building, also the crow that had fled when Gretchen had come out the door. He was sure he recognized the crow from the woods behind Delmore’s house and both he and the crow were wondering what the other was doing in downtown Escanaba. It was nearly lunchtime but it was hard to take his stomach anyplace interesting that his teeth were capable of following save chicken soup. Gretchen in her habitual gray skirt and black turtleneck suggested an unattainable alternative. He took her hand and kissed it in the manner of the old movies Delmore favored. Delmore would crow that Charles Boyer got more ass than a toilet seat.
“We’re going to the dentist,” she said.
“I’d go anywhere with you.” He bowed.
“Stop it. I mean now.”
He followed Gretchen to her car thinking he caught ever so slightly the sound of her compact butt cheeks squeaking. There also was the scent of hair spray and Dial soap. His organ fluttered like a nesting grouse though he knew making love to Gretchen was less likely than his becoming the pope or president. He was disappointed when she merely dropped him off at Belinda’s office rather than coming in and holding his hand.
Belinda was a clear-cut trencherwoman and was irked that she was giving up most of her lunch hour to yank a tooth. She’d have to settle for a couple of hurried Big Macs or Whopper Juniors rather than the hoped-for Chinese Buffet, all of which would defile the diet she had begun the evening before after a mayonnaise frenzy, an addiction she blamed on her parents who had taken her to France when she was twelve and where near Arles at a restaurant called Paradour she had discovered aioli and had never slowed down. She made her own and after devouring it with any other foodstuff handy she was invariably in tears.
While waiting for the nitrous oxide to take effect on B.D. Belinda for the hundredth time wondered how Gretchen’s attractiveness went to waste. She was surprised when she turned from her equipment tray, cursing her assistant who was on lunch break, and discovered her patient had an obvious growing erection in his trousers and was smiling. Normally men were far more frightened in the dentist’s chair than women. She took a protective smock from a cabinet and brought it up slowly so her hand touched his protuberance before she attached the smock. B.D. greedily kissed her hand leaving a little slobber on her latex glove. She stepped back with her pliers trembling. If you bought him some clothes he would be more than acceptable and the way his sexuality overcame the fear of pain made him a hot number. She felt a tingle herself as she leaped toward his mouth like a tigress and pulled all three of the bad teeth after which she led him to the small recovery room with its cot and vase of forsythia blossoms mixed with pussy willows. She then trotted across the highway for her Big Macs, deciding at the last moment to add a small order of fries. The very idea of sex made her ravenous.
Getting up from her desk after her first very large burger bite she took a peek in at her patient who tried to smile seductively though blood was leaking from his mouth. Belinda patted his mouth dry then couldn’t help herself and gave him a hug, massaging his strong shoulders and letting a hand stray down toward his fly. He nuzzled her breast leaving a telltale smear of blood, but their love was not meant to be, at least for the time being. Belinda was thinking of hoisting a leg over the cot, no mean feat for her, when a buzzer went off on the office’s front door which meant her assistant was returning five minutes early from lunch, a rare event. She quickly composed herself and told Brown Dog to be at her house at nine P.M. sharp, then left the recovery room only to see it was Gretchen who had come to fetch her client. Gretchen glanced at the red smear on Belinda’s breast without comment, noting that her friend was breathing as if she had jogged up a ski slope. Love is certainly where you find it at this latitude, she thought.
“I jerked three for the price of one,” Belinda said in a croak.
“Thank you.” Gretchen counted out five hundred bucks on Belinda’s desk.
“We agreed on seven,” Belinda said coming back to real life. “I got a car payment.”
“I’m tapped out.” Gretchen glanced disapprovingly out the window at Belinda’s black Mercedes convertible, an SL500R, and doubtless the only one of its kind in the Upper Peninsula, a vehicle of ghastly cost bought at wholesale through an uncle who was a dealer in Detroit. Given Belinda’s sexual habits she would have been better off with a Chevrolet Suburban with a water bed in the cargo space and black satin sheets with stirrups purchasable through sex magazines. Gretchen quelled her unkind thoughts. After all she had got three extractions for the price of one. Belinda was a good egg though it was unfortunate that she was shaped like one.
B.D. emerged from the recovery room beaming with a wad of pinkish gauze against his mouth. “My head feels a pound lighter,” he slurred. In truth his spirit soared. His mouth was now without the throbs he’d felt for over a month and he was looking at an afternoon off. The sun shone, it had to be nearing fifty degrees, trout season was open, and though his mouth was sore indeed, the fact that his throbbing pain had dissipated made him childishly happy as it does for everyone in the human race. On the way out Belinda slipped him a card with her phone number and home address and “9 p.m.” scrawled at the bottom. Gretchen caught this exchange and found herself admiring Belinda’s vitality, her ability to close the deal. Unlike former President Carter “lust in the heart” was a piddling abstraction. When Gretchen turned on the sidewalk and saw B.D. kissing Belinda’s hand she felt no urge toward the film rights of the coming escapade, quite forgetting that ninety-nine percent of the people making love on earth
aren’t particularly pretty, and if we are to believe Hollywood alien couplings are even less winsome.
The difference between physical and mental pain was not a matter that Brown Dog had pondered greatly. The exhausting reality of physical labor each day tended to winnow the diffuse nature of mental pain into smallish knots in the psyche, thus when cutting pulp, felling trees to be trucked to paper mills, the pain of Shelley’s betraying the secret location of the Indian graveyard to the academic predators at University of Michigan isolated itself to the size of a dried pea in his brain and could generally be avoided like most bad memories. It reminded him of the fifth grade when on a cold dark winter morning after peeing on a snowbank he had caught his pecker in the zipper of his trousers. His best friend David Four Feet had flopped around in the snow howling with laughter. When David’s crippled legs tired he would scamper along like a chimp so when he received his true ceremonial name it recognized his permanent infirmity. The tribal shaman had forecast a great future for David but he died in a fight in Jackson Prison at age twenty-five. B.D. supposed that every boy at one point or another had zipped up his weenie but when Doris had told him of David’s death he had simply fallen to the ground in a whirling nexus of grief, his heart curdled. A month later over in Sault Ste. Marie an acquaintance who was half Chippewa and a prison guard had checked on the matter and discovered that David’s opponent had also died of stab wounds which meant eventual vengeance was out of the question, leaving B.D. to question the usual galaxies when he slept outside on summer nights.