Author: Larry McMurtry
Category: Literature
Go to read content：https://onlinereadfreenovel.com/larry-mcmurtry/page,2,33830-moving_on.html
Patsy was silent, hoping he would simply go away, but his face remained squarely in the window.
“I’m probably gonna get bucked off a bull tonight,” he said finally. “Here I am drunk as dawg shit, I’ll probably get my stupid ass stomped. Least you could do is be friendly.” At the thought of his own peril his tone grew slightly husky and his frown more melancholy.
Patsy didn’t melt with sympathy, but what he said did make it seem funny again. She had been about to get scared.
“That’s a pity,” she said. “We all have problems. Now please listen—the point is that I don’t want you to get in and sit down. Just please go on away. If you’re planning to get stomped maybe you better not refill your bladder after all.”
Ed Boggs drew back. He had reached his wits’ end. “What’s my goddam bladder got to do with it?” he asked loudly. “That’s twice you done mentioned it. I just want to get in and sit down.”
He paused. “You’re a good-lookin’ thing, you know,” he said, remembering that a compliment had got him his only smile.
“No,” Patsy said, suddenly scared. He was terribly big and loud and she didn’t know how to get rid of him. “You leave me completely alone! Don’t you know better than to urinate on people’s cars? It’s very rude. I’m married, I told you. You ought to sober up instead of standing there trying to think of some way to seduce me.” She started crying and began to roll the car window up.
At that Ed Boggs stepped away from the car. “Well, good snoozin’,” he said angrily. “I’m glad I ain’t the one that’s married to you. I got better sense than to screw a woman as wordy as you are, anyway.”
Patsy stopped the window halfway up and they regarded each other for a moment through the deepening dusk. Then Mr. Boggs stalked off, his dignity secure, and Patsy rolled her window back down and sat crying. Tears ran off her cheeks, into the hollows of her throat, down her chest. She could never find a Kleenex when she was crying and could only wipe the tears away with her fingers. Soon enough she stopped and felt more calm. She cried easily—absurdly easily, she felt. Half the things she cried about were merely silly. Her cheeks stung a little from the tears, but that soon stopped too and they felt cool.
By the time she was through crying it had grown quite dark, so dark that she could barely see the sorrel horse. She wished Jim was there so she could tell him about Ed Boggs. To her left, across the parking lot, she could see the glow from the circle of lights above the open-air dance floor, and she tried for a moment to imagine what it would have been like to go to a dance with such a man. Crushing, she imagined, but then she felt a little annoyed at her own fastidiousness. He might have been a good dancer. The remark about her being too talkative to sleep with rankled, though. It had obviously been sour grapes.
Far to the northwest there were flickerings of lightning. The quietness was broken by a splashing near at hand, a steady splashing that carried with it an odor like wet hay. The patient sorrel horse was pissing too. Patsy looked and saw the arena lights faintly reflected in the spreading puddle. In an instant it lifted her spirits, and she wished again that her husband was there. It was just the kind of coincidence he loved—the kind that might happen in life but that could never be made to work in a novel. Jim had tried to write a novel the first year they were married and had made it over a hundred pages before he got diverted.
When the splashing stopped, Patsy felt even fonder of the horse than she had originally. She decided to get out and pet him. He was good company, and he seemed to have a sense of the absurd. Just as she was opening the car door she thought she heard someone call her name. She saw no one and was puzzled, until she realized that her name had come over the public address system. The rodeo announcer had called her name.
“WILL MRS. JAMES CARPENTER PLEASE COME TO THE JUDGES’ STAND. MRS. JAMES CARPENTER.”
Scared, aflutter, she started off immediately and got two pickups away before she remembered her purse. She might need it. Jim was hurt, she knew. Her chest felt tight. She hurried back and got her purse, looked futilely for some Kleenex, and then turned and ran through the cars and trucks toward the arena. Perhaps he had tried to take a picture of a bull and been gored. She began to cry and a few strands of hair stuck to her wet cheek.
As she came dashing out of the parking area, a roper who was warming up his roping mare came within a foot of running her down. Patsy hardly saw the horse, but she felt the rush of its body past hers. She was out of breath and slowed to a walk. The roper whirled his mare and came back—he was unnerved and furious.
“Let’s look where you’re goin’, lady,” he said. “This ain’t no damn track meet. I coulda broke your neck.”
“I’m sorry,” Patsy said, sniffing and trying to get her breath. “I’m afraid my husband’s been gored. If you could show me the way to the judges’ stand I’ll try and stay out of your way.”
The roper was a thin young man, no older than Patsy. When he saw how pretty she was, and how distressed, he cooled off at once and got down from his horse to help. He held a rope in one hand and had a contestant’s number pinned to the back of his shirt.
“I’m Royce Jones,” he said. “Sorry I blew off. You scared the daylights out of me. How’d he get gored, bulldoggin’?”
He spoke quite calmly, as if a goring were something that came to one occasionally, like a toothache, and his spurs jingled lightly as he walked beside her—a comforting masculine sound.
“He’s probably just got raked alongside the ribs,” he added, to soothe her. “Always happens sooner or later, doggin’.”
“Oh, no, no,” Patsy said. “He’s a photographer, sort of. I don’t really know what’s happened to him.”
Royce Jones grinned at her in the tolerant way men of experience grin at the folly of women. Distressed as she was, it annoyed her a little.
“I doubt he’s gored,” he said. “Them steers wouldn’t take after a photographer. He probably just wants you to bring him some flashbulbs. Ask the clown, he’ll know. That’s him there with the cop.
Patsy saw the clown and the cop and turned to thank Royce Jones, but he had mounted his mare and was already riding away. When he was halfway across the dusty road he stood up in his stirrups and turned and waved his rope at her, as if to acknowledge the thanks he hadn’t waited to receive.
As Patsy turned back toward the arena she bumped smack into a little girl who had been racing along carrying a Sno-cone. The Sno-cone popped out of its cup and fell on Patsy’s foot, and the little girl looked at her angrily and neglected to hold the cup upright, so the lump of ice was followed by a stream of strawberry-colored water, part of which splashed on Patsy’s ankles.
“Oh, damn,” she said. “Why can’t anyone see me coming? Don’t worry, I’ll buy you another one. I’ve got some money right here.”
“Okay,” the little girl said smugly. She knew the world owed her a new Sno-cone. “My name’s Fayette,” she added in a chummier tone.
Part of the ice Patsy managed to kick off, but most of it slid into her pump and began to melt beneath her instep and trickle between her toes. She dug in her purse but could find nothing smaller than a dollar. It made her feel a little desperate. Jim was somewhere, probably hurt, and the world was coming to an end amid an absolutely ridiculous mess involving her. Something in her rebelled against giving the little girl the whole dollar. She had taken a dislike to the little girl, and she hated to be exploited by anyone she disliked. She felt that her nerves were beginning to split and curl like the ends of her hair sometimes did, and she was on the point of raking things wildly out of her purse when she looked up and saw the clown approaching. He had on baggy overalls, a ridiculous derby hat, and red and white greasepaint.
“I bet you’re Mrs. Carpenter,” he said in a quiet, agreeable voice. It was in complete contrast to his garish appearance.
“I’m so rattled I’m not sure,” Patsy said. “Do you have any change?”
But he had squatted down and was already holdin
g out a dime to the little girl. “I seen your plight,” he said, glancing up at Patsy.
Fayette was slightly awed by the clown, but not too awed to be practical. “They cost fifteen cents now,” she said. “Do you still have your skunk?”
Patsy would have liked to kick her, but the clown stood up and pulled a quarter out of his pocket. “If you got a nickel you can buy one for your little sister too,” he said.
“I only got brothers. Did your skunk die?”
“No, it got stolen in Tucumcari.”
The quarter grew bigger in her mind and Fayette said a perfunctory thanks and rushed off to find her best girl friend and tell her about the skunk.
“Thank you so much,” Patsy said. “I guess I’m scared—my legs are shaking. Could I lean on you for one second? I’ve got a Sno-cone in my shoe.”
She handed him her purse, quickly emptied the water out of her pump, and, with one hand on his shoulder, slipped the shoe back on. “How did you know me?” she asked.
“Kind of an educated guess,” he said. “You don’t look like nobody else here. Your husband met with a little accident, not very serious. Let’s go see if he’s come to yet.”
His voice was low and unworried and sure of itself, and it made her feel better. She snapped her purse shut and he took her firmly by the arm, his hand above her elbow, and they hurried into the bright dusty arena. Sand stuck to her wet shoe. A crowd of cowboys stood near the heavy wire fence, all of them looking healthy and very cheerful. They parted for the clown, and she saw Jim lying stretched out on the ground, his head on a pair of brown chaps. She had never seen him stretched so flat. His lower lip was split, and there was dirt in his blond hair and a raw skinned place on one temple.
“Was he run over, or what? What’s wrong with him?” Patsy asked, tears starting in her eyes. It was terrifying to see her husband lying with his eyes closed amid a crowd of cowboys.
“Just knocked out,” the clown said. “He was in a kind of fight, he’s not hurt bad. We’ll get him in an ambulance in a minute.”
“But Jim never fights,” she said, kneeling and brushing awkwardly at the dirt in his hair. He was very blond and she could see the dirt against his scalp. “We don’t even know anybody here—who could he have wanted to fight?”
The clown squatted beside her and silently took off his bandanna and handed it to her. “He ain’t hurt bad,” he said calmly. “You don’t need to have no hysterics. What happened was a couple of bronc riders beat him up. He snapped ’em at the wrong time, I guess.”
When Patsy looked up, all she could see was the legs of cowboys, long legs in blue Levi’s, and large hands with the thumbs hooked in the pockets of the Levi’s.
“Where is the ambulance?” she asked. “I won’t be hysterical, but can’t it come on?”
“Oh, it’s right out there,” the clown said. “Its the driver we can’t locate. He went off with some woman and took his keys with him.
“Pete’s my name,” he added.
“But that’s awful,” she said. “That’s awful.” Jim’s face seemed waxen to her. She had an urge to feel his pulse but was afraid to for fear she wouldn’t be able to find it. The clown’s hair was sandy and curly at the back of his neck, and only the fact that he seemed genuinely unworried kept her from breaking down completely.
Then, to her relief, there was the sound of a motor, and a white ambulance spun into the arena, cut sharply their way, and skidded through the knot of cowboys, almost to Jim’s feet. It scared Patsy terribly, but the cowboys jumped gracefully out of the way and seemed amused at the driver’s recklessness. Suddenly several of them converged on Jim. Pete helped her up, and in a moment Jim was in the ambulance and Pete was helping her in after him. When she looked around to thank him all the cowboys were standing behind him, arranged like so many wooden-faced sculptures, all of them staring at her. It embarrassed her, and she blushed.
“Have you to town in no time, ma’am,” the driver said. Patsy turned and saw that he too was watching her. He was a balding man, with such hair as he had slicked down. His shirt wasn’t buttoned.
“Couldn’t you come?” she said, turning back to Pete. “I don’t know what to do.”
“No, got to work,” he said. “He’ll come to in a minute.” He nodded kindly as he shut the ambulance doors.
She realized then that she had his bandanna in her hand, but it was too late to give it back. The ambulance was already spinning around in the soft dirt, and a cloud of dust hid the clown and the cowboys. “We’re off,” the driver said cheerfully, as if it were a race. The ambulance came out of its curve and almost plowed into two black Shetland ponies that had wandered into the entranceway to the arena.
“Shit-toody,” the driver said, braking hard. “Get them goddamn ponies out of the way,” he yelled, leaning out of the window. “I got a hurt man in here.” A cowboy ran up and yanked the little ponies unceremoniously aside and the ambulance shot through the entrance-way, only to brake abruptly again when confronted with the milling crowd of children and horses and men. The starting and stopping seemed to wake Jim up. He blinked and made a restless movement.
“He ain’t hurt, he’s already movin’,” the driver said, looking back again. They passed out of the rodeo grounds, accelerated down a short dirt road, and lurched onto a highway. The rodeo pens were three miles outside the town. “Nothin’ to worry about,” the driver said, speeding into a curve. He kept looking back at Patsy, with more interest than he seemed to be able to muster for the road. She could see the lights of the little town, bright in the darkness, but the ambulance was going so fast it seemed to her they might not be able to stop even if they got there safely.
Jim suddenly raised up on his elbow. “Got to vomit,” he said.
“Get the pan, get the pan,” the driver said, and Patsy got it just in time. The sharp smell of the vomit made her feel nauseated herself.
“I hope you got my cameras,” Jim said when he was finished and lying back. “I feel bad.”
“Oh, I didn’t,” Patsy said. She started to explain, but her voice broke on the first word and she began to cry again. Jim had wiped his mouth on the clown’s bandanna and it seemed that for the hundredth time in an hour she had nothing to cry into but her bare hands. Jim was white around the mouth, whether from weakness or from anger about the cameras she couldn’t tell. As they flashed into the little town she lifted her husband’s arm and wiped her face on his blue shirt sleeve. He cupped his hand behind her neck a moment affectionately, and she felt relieved. A few street lights were on and some frazzled-looking rodeo flags were strung between the streetlight poles. The ambulance driver began to grow irritable, even baleful, as they neared the end of the run.
“Ain’t hurt a goddamn bit,” he muttered. “I knew it. Made a trip for nothin’ and was interrupted besides.”
“Oh, please be quiet,” Patsy said. “He is hurt. We’ll pay you for your trouble.
“I know your kind,” she added melodramatically, because the driver glanced back at her again.
“I wish you’d got the cameras,” Jim said.
They squealed to a stop behind a small dingy-looking brick hospital with a big television antenna on the roof and a swarm of moths and insects around the yellow light bulb that lit the back door. Jim gamely sat up, but he didn’t look mobile. The driver honked impatiently and they all sat waiting for attendants to run out with stretchers. None came. The driver sighed and stretched his arm across the back of the seat. He seemed content to wait, since he was there, and turned on the radio. A hillbilly song came over the air, plaintive and nasal.
Oh, my baby’s not in town tonight,
This ole town just don’t seem right,
Even my old friends don’t seem the same to me . . .
Well my baby’s not in town tonight,
These ole lights don’t shine so bright,
And I’m cryin’ tears till I can’t hard-ly see . . .
“Can you walk if I help you?” she asked Jim.
“I don’t think there’s anybody in there, but maybe we can at least find you a bed.”
“Oh, there’s somebody in there, most likely,” the driver said, waxing friendly. He looked back at her with robust admiration. “I’ll help you drag him in, ma’am,” he offered.
He got out and opened the ambulance doors and the two of them helped Jim ease to the ground. Once on his feet, he waved them off and wobbled unsteadily toward the hospital, leaving Patsy to pay the driver. He stood watching her, scratching his stomach happily.
“We’re sorry we bothered you,” she said acidly. “I hope you can pick up where you left off, approximately at least.”
The driver, nothing abashed, took out an old billfold and stuffed the money in it. “Ain’t too likely, ma’am,” he said. “Somebody else probably done already has, if I know that gal. Besides, I’ll have to be hauling in them stomped-up bull riders before long. Such is the times. Glad to help you out, ma’am.”
His complacency and the way he kept calling her ma’am were almost too much. “Oh, I’d like to kick you,” she said hotly.
The driver was amazed, and silenced for a moment. “You sure you ain’t crazy?” he asked after a pause, unable to arrive at any other explanation.
“I don’t like being called ma’am,” she said and walked away. The driver continued to scratch his stomach, but a little less happily.
Jim was in the waiting room alone, sitting on a couch with his eyes shut. “No one’s here,” he said, but no sooner had he said it than a fat implacably jolly nurse walked in and stood with her hands on her hips looking at Jim. She was as rouged as any harlot, but no one could have looked less like a whore.
“I see the bloodshed’s begun,” she said. “Doctor’ll be out in a minute. He’s pumpin’ out a kid who had himself some rat poison for supper. It’s a wonder to me any of us survive.”
She gave Patsy a card to fill out, and they sat alone in the empty waiting room for twenty-five minutes waiting for the doctor to come. The bright overhead light was so piercing that Jim had to keep his eyes closed. Patsy hunted through his billfold and found their insurance card. The beige leatherette couch they sat on seemed to her the ugliest piece of furniture she had ever seen.