Angle of Repose - Wallace Stegner [105]
Shelly by that time had moved back to her family’s house. I assumed she thought he had gone, and so I warned her that he was still around. “I know,” she said. “I’ve seen him.”
“You’ve seen him?”
“Yes, twice.”
“Talked to him, you mean.”
“Yes.”
“No problems?”
“Not really. I’m not going back, but he’s all right.”
“Have you told your family?”
“What for? They’d just get uptight and try to have him arrested or something.”
“Why’s he hanging around? Still trying to persuade you?”
“He likes it here,” she said, and shook her hair back, laughing her ho ho ho. “Isn’t it a gas? He loves the country. Why didn’t you tell me about Grass Valley?’ he asks me. This is a place, this isn’t just Anywheresville. This is a place where a man could live.’ He might just settle down here. Wouldn’t that be great?”
“Would it?”
“No,” she said. “He’s just talking that way to bug me. You know, if he can’t make the mountain come to Mohammed, he plays like Mohammed will come up on the mountain. It’ll wear out. He’ll go back to where it’s at. This isn’t his scene.”
She read him right, he did go back. But he wasn’t through laying down cannibal tracks, as witness that business yesterday afternoon.
I was on the piazza, just getting back into my chair after my nap, when this Parcel Delivery truck pulled into the drive. The driver hopped out with a clipboard in his hand and started up the steps. He saw me before he punched the doorbell.
“Rasmussen?” he said. “Care of Hawkes?”
“You should have turned off this lane at the next driveway down,” I told him. “What is it? Mrs. Rasmussen works here, she’ll be up in a few minutes.”
“Canaries,” the driver said.
“Canaries?”
“Twenty-four canaries.”
Just at that moment Shelly came up behind him, around the corner. “Hi,” she said. “What is it?”
“Man says he has twenty-four canaries for you.”
“What?”
“Don’t look at me,” the driver said. “I’m just the delivery boy. Twenty-four canaries from the Emporium in the City. Where do you want ’em?”
“I don’t want ’em at all,” Shelly said. “This is some God-damned joke.” She went to the idling truck and looked in. The driver opened the back doors and reached out a lightweight, paper-wrapped parcel five feet high and three feet through. He pulled off the paper and there they were. From where I watched from the top of the ramp there looked to be more than two dozen, in a wicker cage.
“Who sent them?” Shelly said.
“The Emporium.”
“Let me see the bill.”
He handed her the clipboard. The canaries were beginning to trill and chirp, now that light came into their cage.
“Oh, that son of a bitch,” Shelly said. She handed the clipboard back. “Take ’em back, it’s a bum joke.”
“Jeez, I don’t know.”
“Take ’em back,” she said again. “I’ll call the Emporium and straighten it out.”
Shrugging, the driver put the cage back into his truck and drove off. Shelly came up on the piazza to where I sat–I have to admit, laughing. I said, “It seems a shame, they might have brightened up the house. One for every room.”
“Oh, man!” She flopped on the steps beside the ramp and took a strand of hair in her mouth and scowled down into the roses. She spit the hair out. “Didn’t I tell you? His jokes draw blood. A present. A little gift from my loving man. Charged to me. The son of a bitch stole my charge card when I gave him my purse to get himself some cigarettes. He’ll flood me with presents! I’ll be straightening out his God-damned cute tricks from now till Christmas.”
I suppose she may, at that. I wiped the smile off my face and suggested that she make her telephone call so we could go up and get to work. After an incredulous instant in which she looked as if I had suggested she bring her typewriter to somebody’s funeral, so we could get off a few letters while we waited for the praying to begin, she did just that.
I wonder what Grandmother would have done with such a husband? Answer: She would never