The Triggerman Dance

Valerie holds open the bag. John looks down at the pigeons waiting in feathered plumpness at the bottom. He lifts one out with both hands and Valerie ties the bag and places it back in the shade. The bird is warm and heavy and looks at John with alert but unfrightened eyes.

"So, are you enjoying your stay?" she asks.

"It's a beautiful place, but I'd like to get back to work soon."

"Dad wants you around for a while longer."

"He's overly generous."

Valerie lifts a little Remington 28 gauge from where it leans against a small oak tree. "I think he might offer you some work."

John tucks the bird against his chest with his arm, like a football, but gently. He strokes its smooth back.

"Something with Vietnamese home invaders."

She looks at him. "Really? What did you say?"

"I said yes. He took me up to meet your mother, then handed me over to Fargo, who grilled the living hell out of me for an hour with two idiot goons by his side. It was weird."

Valerie cradles the gun and looks at John. To him, she seems so odd a sight, this young, bright, beautiful woman standing golden-skinned in a meadow with a shotgun in her arms. He watches her dark eyes watching him, a wholly analytical expression on her face.

"Lane's a . . . riddle. But as for Dad, he's taken a liking to you."

"Well..."

"No, really. You remind him of my brother. Did he tell you about Patrick?"

John nods. "Your mother thought I was Patrick."

"Oh, I'm sorry."

"No, she was just fine, but. . . well, it's hard to know what to say. I ended up kind of playing along. At least that's what your father seemed to be doing."

"He's been forging letters from Patrick for four years now. Mom just wouldn't accept that he was dead, kept on wanting to believe he's away at college. Dad finally broke down and started feeding that illusion. You should see how happy she is to get a postcard or letter from her . . . son."

"Isn't there anything at all they can do for her?"

Valerie shakes her head and looks away for a moment. "No, there isn't. Okay, go set that bird, John."

John walks across the meadow toward the razor grass. He holds the bird in both hands again, head down, swinging it in a wide circle. As he walks he tightens the circle and accelerates the rotation until the bird's head relaxes and the animal is unconscious. At the razor grass he rights the animal and gives it a moment to recover a little. Dazed now, the pigeon will sit still on the ground until its head is clear—five or ten minutes, maybe—or until something as frightening as a dog scares it into the sky. He sets it behind the clump of grass with a final stroke to its feathers and mutters "good luck."

John sees that Valerie has been diverting Lewis and Clark, with food treats, making them do simple sits and stays for bits of kibble. When John approaches, she looks at him and smiles. Beneath the dull throbbing in his ear, courtesy of Snakey and Lane Fargo, John hears the ringing again, and he feels that giddy little shiver in his stomach.

You're very beautiful, he thinks, but this settles nothing. He has been around beautiful women many times and only once felt as if his body was receiving a constant, subtle, electrical prod. The first—and last time he felt that way—was with Rebecca. It must be the pressure, he decides. It must be circumstance.

There will be times, John, when you will long for a friend, a confidant, a lover. You will know a loneliness you cannot imagine. The desire to confess will grow inside you. You don't have a friend. You are alone. You must contain yourself—you must stay within your own skin.

I will try, he thinks. For Rebecca.

"What kind of a look is that, Mr. Menden?"

"Admiration," he says, before he can stop himself.

"Of what?"

"Your dog skills,"

"Why thank you. Coming from a dog man, that's nice to hear."

"Pigeon ready," he says with a grin, his ears a banging cacophony now, the throb and ring, surge and flow, rush and eddy of blood.

"You're perspiring, John."

"It's only about eighty-five out."

"Wasn't eighty-five in the house, and you were sweating there, too."

She's still smiling. It is a prying thing, her smile, but not ungentle.

"Sweat is sweat," he says.

"Can I ask you something? Is it only my dog skills you admire?"

"Mainly."

No.

She studies him, then looks toward the bird.

"There's a funny taste in my throat right now," she says.

"Then maybe you should work the dogs."