G.o.d, I had to pee. I ran from store to store in the shopping center, begging for a bathroom. My bladder felt knitting needle pain, my thighs quivered, but at each stop the hollow-faced cashiers shook their heads and said, "No restroom." Liars. a.s.sholes. Somewhere, every store hid an employees-only closet with a commode, sink, pink powder soap in a dispenser, and a sign that said workers must wash their hands before returning to the job. I ran into the central plaza, searching for a place to go. People were all around. They flew kites; they threw Frisbees. They watched from the edges of their eyes. I stood in the courtyard and shook as ravens landed on the church roof in a ma.s.s of squawking black. Staring people circled me. They held their children back so I couldn't affect them. Shannon placed her hands over her mouth while next to her Pud Talbot pointed at my feet. The crowd broke into jeers and threw garbage at me-banana peels, used condoms, the centers of golf b.a.l.l.s. From beneath my bridal gown, a pool of pale yellow liquid spread across the concrete floor into an ever-expanding half-moon. Dothan stepped from the crowd to wrap my face in Saran Wrap, over and over. Through the layers I saw Shannon and Auburn turn to leave, then my lungs burned and I woke up.

G.o.d, I had to pee. I came awake in morning light in an empty ambulance. When I raised myself to look at the day a metal pressure stuck me above the bladder. Somebody'd fastened a seat belt on me. I wasn't used to seat belts.

The ambulance was parked beside a brick building with a red roof. My guess was church. The building was set down in a wide prairie of low juniper and big, round boulders that seemed sprinkled from the sky. In college we used to cross the pa.s.s to Fort Collins, Colorado, for basketball games and parties at Colorado State, although more often they came to us since the drinking age was nineteen in Wyoming and twenty-one in Colorado.

Anyhow, bushy junipers meant Colorado to me. Church. Colorado. Not bad reasoning for someone about to pee their pants. The part I didn't know was the whereabouts of my crew. The back end looked like a bomb had gone off, same as it did yesterday, but Shane's chair was missing. Lloyd should have left a note.

I took Scout with me, more for security and companionship than a drink. A lot more, actually, because he was empty and the ambulance floor smelled of Yukon Jack. I hate careless drinkers.

The church door opened into a hallway with two doors on the right and one on the left. Left proved to be the side door to a sanctuary, the door for the priest or reverend or whatever. The casket-looking altar was covered with a green rug but the cross didn't have anybody dead on it, which ruled out Catholic. My guess was Episcopal or Presbyterian. The lectern came with an attached pencil-thin reading light, and Fundamentalists don't go in for reading lights. Gets in the way of Bible thumping.

I can't say I was still drunk, but early morning equilibrium was a problem. Back in the hall, I lurched left, grazed the wall, then got up momentum and more or less fell sideways through the second door and into an AA meeting.

Even though I'd never been to one, I knew right away what it was. Drunks in bars had told me how well lit the room would be and how everyone would be smoking cigarettes and drinking coffee from Styrofoam. Eight or nine people stopped whatever interesting thing they'd been doing to go into those blank-faced stares that strangers do when you show up somewhere unexpected. Lloyd sat on the left in his overalls with no shirt. Shane was at the head of the table in his chair. He was leaning toward a pregnant woman who looked about seventy years old. Maybe I'd get pregnant at seventy to balance off having been pregnant at thirteen.

"Toilet." My voice was a crack.

"Through there on the left," said a man in a Century 21 gold blazer.

I pointed at a door by the coffee urn and he nodded.

What a leak! Sometimes the pain is almost worth the release. About twenty seconds into the deal I realized how it must sound in the meeting room, so I leaned forward to turn the cold-water tap in the sink. No lie, I went two full minutes of continuous stream. That's one of the dangers of drinking to unconsciousness.

Afterward, when I leaned over to splash water in my face, I glanced up at the mirror and flinched. We're talking gruesome. I tucked in the left side of my shirt where it'd come out, but that didn't help much. I still projected degeneracy.

On my return to the little extended family of formerly lost souls, none of the faces had changed-same who-is-this-deadbeat-with-the-Yukon-bottle stares. They looked infringed upon.

"Thank you," I said.

"Would you care to join us?" the man in the gold blazer said. He seemed to be group leader. "Have some coffee."

"No, thank you. I can't drink out of Styrofoam."

"You're welcome here."

"I just had to use the restroom." I turned to Lloyd. "We'll be waiting in the truck." He blinked.

Outside the church, the day was pretty and fresh smelling, like real spring. Real spring doesn't come to Jackson Hole until June, and then it only lasts like two days. Our falls and winters are glorious, and summer is a short paradise, but spring is mostly mud.

I breathed deeply a couple of times, then dropped the dead Scout in a trash can, crawled into Moby d.i.c.k, and went back to sleep.

I dreamed I was an alligator.

Interstate Stuckey's. The more lanes on a road, the lower the standards in curbside cafes. Once through the Safe-Tee gla.s.s double doors you could turn left and throw money away on "The Traveler's Prayer" decoupage plaque, five-pound boxes of pion nut brittle, b.u.mper stickers to announce where you've been and how your profession does it, or coffee mugs for the World's Greatest Mom. I didn't qualify.

Or you could turn right for food that would start a riot if they served it in prison. How do you make hash browns out of fiber-board, anyway?

The waitress with fire-colored hair and a name tag that read Howdy on top of a peanut and Dorothea on the bottom said we were in Raton, New Mexico, gateway to Capulin Mountain National Monument. Right off she accused Shane of being a hypochondriac.

"I bet you can walk fine."

"Bless you, my good lady, I only wish it were so."

"Let me see the bottoms of your shoes."

Shane pulled an ankle up over one knee, and Dorothea examined his sole. She didn't comment on what she saw.

"My cousin Glenna is a hypochondriac in a wheelchair. When Mr. Delvins got killed by a c.o.ke truck, the moment Glenna found out she collapsed on the floor and hasn't walked a step since."

"Maybe she has a psychosomatic disorder," Shane said.

"Not likely, Glenna's from Dallas. We took her to four kinds of specialists and Oral Roberts's 'Hour of Faith,' and nothing helps. Reverend Roberts got her to stand and fling away the chair, but then she fell on her face right on camera."

Dorothea sucked the tip of her pencil as she examined Shane for signs of health. "Glenna broke her nose on TV. Goes to show there's times you should let well enough alone."

Lloyd ordered coffee, I had a chocolate shake, and Shane pigged on a cheeseburger and French fries so greasy they dripped. When he bit down on his burger the side facing me spit juice.

"Trouble with Wyoming," Shane said, "is no one there can cook meat properly. This excellent morsel reminds me of a cheeseburger I ate one August afternoon in San Bernardino, California. An Italian woman named Lucy cooked it on the sidewalk to show how hot the concrete was. She asked me to father her child, but I was in a religious order at the time that forbade impregnation. Needless to say, the pressure was too great and I eventually fell from grace."

Lloyd blew across the surface of his coffee. "We need a water pump. One we got won't last two more days."

The radio finished a Goodyear tractor tire commercial and went into the noon farm-to-market report-hogs down, sheep up. A woman from the next booth dragged a little boy towards the ladies' room while the kid yelled, "I'm a big boy, I don't have to go in yours." The father or whatever he was chewed three toothpicks and stared out the window at a Peterbilt with the engine running.

I signaled Dorothea over to our table. "Do any radio stations around here carry Paul Harvey News and Commentary?" I asked.

She chewed her lead a moment, then said, "My husband, Donnie, used to listen to him, but he can't find it anymore."

She'd have gotten away with that if not for a Spanish-looking busboy who was hovering nearby. He said, "KRMC."

"Pardon me?"

"KRMC has him just before 'Lobo Sports Shorts.'"

I turned back to Dorothea. Notice how polite I came on with the pardons and pleases. "Please, would you mind changing the station for a few minutes? I'd like to hear Paul Harvey."

"Yes, I mind."

"You're interested in alfalfa futures?"

"I'm not interested in changing the station."

From polite, I moved to understanding. "I notice you are varicosed. Being pleasant to customers might increase your tips and you could afford to have your legs stripped."

She pointed the wet pencil tip at my face. "Don't be getting snappy with me, little girl. You're from out of state."

Lloyd and Shane chose not to partic.i.p.ate in the exchange. Intrusive son of a b.i.t.c.h that he was, even Shane knew not to step between two irritated cat women. But I was more than irritated, I was fed up. Last-straw city. People had been pushing me and stepping on me and tearing at me for weeks, and Stuckey's was the place to stop it.

I said, "I demand Paul Harvey."

"You can demand all day, honey, but you can't have him."

As Dorothea turned back to the kitchen, I screamed.

Remember Estelle Parsons in Bonnie and Clyde? She was subtlety personified compared to my howl. All activity on the dining side, the curio side, and, I'd bet, out in the parking lot came to a halt. Even the little boy in the ladies' room shut up.

I didn't stop with the scream, either, but kept up a series of bloodcurdlers. I learned my scream from Dothan's father, who used to call in coyotes by cutting toes off rabbits. Rabbits can really scream.

Dorothea dropped her pencil and covered both ears with her hands. She shouted, "What's wrong with her?"

Shane stopped gorging himself long enough to raise his voice. "Hysterical digitalis. Her mind must be fed Paul Harvey's voice once daily or she goes insane. If you have some liquid Demerol handy, we might be able to calm her down."

"We got no liquid whatever you said. Shut her up, she's scaring the customers." Which was true. All except the man with three toothpicks. He looked bored, a seen-it-all type with a reputation to uphold.

Shane wiped the grease off his mouth with a napkin. "The alternative would be to tune in Paul Harvey."

Paul wasn't worth much that day, anyway. All Watergate and a pithy story about his crusty neighbors in the Ozarks-one of those wisdom-of-simple-rural-folk deals. He didn't even give a daily b.u.mper snicker.

14.

Dear Dad, The Indians in the picture are Navajo or Zuni or something, one of those tribes Hank calls Blanket Boys. He says anyone whose ancestors didn't charge bareback across the plains killing buffalo is a wimp. Whatever they are, the sight of turquoise gives 'em a hard-on. They're like pickup truck-driving dope dealers, only these guys deal blue rocks.

It takes all kinds.

Maurey ***

"You want to try your hand at driving?" We stood-or Lloyd and I stood while Shane sat-in the Stuckey's parking lot, looking upwind at New Mexico. About all I could see between us and the mountains was brush and highway and used Pampers. Sparkles from broken beer bottles lined the road, giving a bleak fairy-tale look to things.

"Sure, I want to drive. Listening to his blather could bore a person back into a coma."

Shane smiled up at me. He was relieving his fluids bag on the rear tire of a white Thunderbird with California plates. I took it as a political statement. Shane was smug because he'd hustled me for a bag of Chips Ahoy cookies based on that hysterical digitalis rap. I'd have gotten Paul Harvey without his help.

"You ever drive a stick shift?" Lloyd asked. "Moby's steering is somewhat loose, takes muscle on the turns, especially to the right."

"I can turn d.i.c.k. You're worn out. Hop in back with the pervert and take a nap."

"Sharon used to love this ambulance. I can understand why she left me. I was a drunk like you are now, but I'm still surprised she left Moby d.i.c.k."

"Women don't marry cars," Shane said as he wheeled over to the side doors for load-up. "You think houses and drapes and dinette sets mean more to them than people, but get down to it, and men are the only gender can have meaningful relationships with objects."

"It has a manual choke," Lloyd said. "Are you familiar with the manual choke?"

Driving Moby d.i.c.k was a trip. Where the ignition should have been there was nothing but a blue wire, a red wire, and a switch. The stick shift was a four-foot rod with a hollowed-out nine ball stuck on top. Made changing gears into a sport. Reverse was where I expected first, which led to initial grinding that almost lost me the wheel. Lloyd would have taken it back, but he really was worn out from driving all night. The Jesus eyes were more puppy-after-electroshock. Or what I imagine puppy-after-electroshock would look like.

He didn't nap in back with Shane but took over the pa.s.senger seat to keep an eye on me. Maybe he thought I had a hidden bottle and would drink on the job. If so, Lloyd was wrong. After a bottle makes me good and sick, I swear off forever, which generally becomes ten or twelve awake hours. Not long by AA One-Day-at-a-Time standards, but for most of those ten hours, sincerity is my middle name.

Every now and then after Dad died I took a shot at quitting completely. I didn't tell anyone because they'd give me guff and know if I failed. If you can't do something, it's best to pretend you don't want to. The extended sobriety spells were generally kicked off at the end of a several-day binge-out when I did something so disgusting, so bottom-of-the-slime-barrel, that I turned on myself.

The last time was in March when I was faking constipation so I could drink behind a locked door, and I dropped my Yukon on the bathroom floor and broke the bottle. Without even thinking, I grabbed an old hand towel, soaked up the liquid, and proceeded to suck that dirty rag dry. Cut the c.r.a.p out of my tongue on broken gla.s.s.

After that I made a deal with G.o.d, but he let down his end of the gig, which was to give me strength, so I let down my end, which was don't drink.

"Where'd you learn to scream like that?" Lloyd asked.

I told him about Garth Talbot and the coyotes and rabbits. "He sold the coyote pelts for bounty and used the rabbits to make jackalopes. You may not have noticed, but every jackalope in Teton County is missing two or three toes."

Shane was popping cookies like he was in a compet.i.tion. "Are you aware that if you slice the big toe off a person you effectively cripple him just as completely as I was crippled when that semi-truck jackknifed on Monarch Pa.s.s?"

"What semitruck?" I asked, but it was too late. Shane was already off on the woman from Montana who'd lost a toe in a Sears Roebuck lawn mower. She liked doing it in apple trees or some-such nonsense. Taking my lesson from Lloyd, I was learning the tune-out technique. I didn't acknowledge the words but let Shane's sound float over me like a TV in the next room at a motel. Or say you live next to a motocross racetrack all your life, pretty soon you won't be able to hear it. Park said the sun makes a loud roar, but we've all heard it all our lives and no one has ever not heard it, so no one knows it's there. Except him.

When I met Park he was sitting under a tree in the snow, crying. His childhood dog had died back in Maine, and his mother used an ink stamp to record the dog's paw on the letter telling Park what had happened. So, I'm bopping along and there's this boy with curly blond hair and pretty fingers holding a letter. I sat down next to him but kept it cool by not saying anything.

He showed me the letter with his dead dog's footprint at the bottom. He said he hadn't cried in years and it felt kind of good to finally let go. Since then, I've discovered that's what they all say when you catch them crying. "I haven't been able to for years and it feels kind of good to finally let go."

Sam Callahan says the cowboy code allows for tears on two occasions: when your horse dies or when you hear "Faded Love" played on twin fiddles.

With Park I took it as vulnerability beneath the hard, society-imposed sh.e.l.l of manhood. I was nineteen.

Park and I talked for ten hours, first in the snow, then in the student union over countless cups of coffee, then on a lobby couch at my freshman dorm. After the Dothan-Rocky Joe fiasco I guess I was ripe for a sensitive man. He told me he'd read Siddhartha by Herman Hesse, he listened to jazz, and my hair was the color of dolphins dancing off the New England coast. He showed me a poem about G.o.d and death that he'd never shown anyone.

I told him about a man I saw die. I told him about Frostbite and my secret warm springs and that I had a five-year-old daughter named Shannon.

We met the next day for breakfast, then we both skipped morning cla.s.ses. I wanted to touch his hair and feel his lips, but after my recent history I thought it best to let Park make the first move. We must have been together two hundred hours before he held my hand. In the dark, watching Butch Ca.s.sidy and the Sundance Kid-he yawned and pretended to accidentally b.u.mp my fingers during the bicycle scene.

That same night he asked permission to kiss me, and I said okay.

Two weeks later he showed me a poem and asked permission for another kiss. Maurey is a nickname. My real name is Merle-after the actress Merle Oberon-and Park had rhymed Merle with pearl and girl about thirty times.

"This poem proves I love you," he said.

"I love you, too," I said, which was a first.