All My Relations Read online

  All My Relations

  Winner of the

  Flannery O’Connor Award for Short Fiction

  ALL MY RELATIONS

  Stories by Christopher Mcllroy

  © 1994 by Christopher McIlroy

  Paperback edition published in 2008 by

  The University of Georgia Press

  Athens, Georgia 30602

  www.ugapress.org

  All rights reserved

  Designed by Erin Kirk

  Set in Berkeley Old Style Medium by Tseng Information

  Systems, Inc.

  Printed digitally in the United States of America

  The Library of Congress has cataloged the hardcover edition

  of this book as follows:

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Mcllroy, Christopher.

  All my relations : stories/by Christopher Mcllroy.

  189 p.; 23 cm.

  ISBN 0-8203-1602-4 (alk. paper)

  I. Title.

  PS3563.C3689 A77 1994

  813’.54 20 93-23006

  Paperback ISBN-13:978-0-8203-3309-0

  ISBN-10: 0-8203-3309-3

  British Library Cataloging-in-Publication Data available

  Cover photograph: La creación (The Creation), Tiacuitlapa,

  Mexico, 1987, © Flor Garduño

  ISBN for this digital edition: 978-0-8203-4285-6

  For Karen

  and

  for Buzz

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  “All My Relations” first appeared in TriQuarterly (Winter 1985) and was reprinted in Best American Short Stories 1986 and in TriQuarterly Fiction of the Eighties (Spring/Summer 1990); “Simplifying” was first published in TriQuarterly (Fall 1989); “Hualapai Dread” in Puerto del Sol (Winter 1994); “The March of the Toys” in Puerto del Sol (Spring 1991); “From the Philippines” in Sonora Review (Spring 1984); “In a Landscape Animals Shrink to Nothing” in Fiction (1985); and “The Big Bang and the Good House” in Missouri Review (Winter 1992).

  The author gratefully acknowledges the assistance of the National Endowment for the Arts, the Arizona Commission on the Arts, and the Pryor, Montana, School District.

  CONTENTS

  All My Relations

  Simplifying

  Hualapai Dread

  The March of the Toys

  From the Philippines

  In a Landscape Animals Shrink to Nothing

  The Big Bang and the Good House

  Builders

  All My Relations

  ALL MY RELATIONS

  When Jack Oldenburg first spoke to him, Milton Enos leaned over his paper plate, scooping beans into his mouth as if he didn’t hear. Breaking through the murmur of O’odham conversation, the white man’s speech was sharp and harsh. But Oldenburg stood over him, waiting.

  Oldenburg had just lost his ranch hand, sick. If Milton reported to the Box-J sober in the morning, he could work for a couple of weeks until the cowboy returned or Oldenburg found a permanent hand.

  “O.K.,” Milton said, knowing he wouldn’t go. Earlier in the day his wife and son had left for California, so he had several days’ drinking to do. Following his meal at the convenience mart he would hitch to the Sundowner Lounge at the edge of the reservation.

  After a sleepless night Milton saddled his horse for the ride to Oldenburg’s, unable to bear his empty house. As he crossed the wide, dry bed of the Gila River, leaving the outskirts of Hashan, the house ceased to exist for him and he thought he would never go back. Milton’s stomach jogged over the pommel with the horse’s easy gait. Two hours from Hashan, Oldenburg’s Box-J was the only ranch in an area either left desert or irrigated for cotton and sorghum. Its twenty square miles included hills, arroyos, and the eastern tip of a mountain range—gray-pink granite knobs split by ravines. The sun burned the tops of the mountains red.

  Oldenburg stood beside his corral, tall and thin as one of its mesquite logs. First, he said, sections of the barbed-wire fence had broken down, which meant chopping and trimming new posts.

  Milton’s first swings of the axe made him dizzy and sick. He flailed wildly, waiting with horror for the bite of the axe into his foot. But soon he gained control over his stroke. Though soft, his big arms were strong. Sweat and alcohol poured out of him until he stank.

  In the afternoon Milton and Oldenburg rode the fenceline.

  “Hasn’t been repaired in years,” Oldenburg said. “My hand Jenkins is old.” Oldenburg himself was well over sixty, his crew cut white and his face dried up like a dead man’s. He had bright eyes, though, and fine white teeth. Where the fence was flattened to the ground, Milton saw a swatch of red and white cowhide snagged on the barbed wire. He’d lost a few head in the mountains, Oldenburg said, and after the fence was secure they’d round them up.

  “One thing I’ll tell you,” Oldenburg said. “You can’t drink while you work for me. Alcohol is poison in a business.”

  Milton nodded. By reputation he knew Oldenburg had a tree stump up his ass. Milton’s wife C.C. had said she’d bring their son Allen back when Milton stopped drinking. For good? he’d asked. How would she know when was for good? For all anybody knew tomorrow might be the first day of for good, or 25,000 days later he might get drunk again. For a moment Milton remembered playing Monopoly with C.C. and Allen several weekends before. As usual, Milton and Allen were winning. Pretending not to be furious, C.C. smiled her big, sweet grins. Milton and the boy imitated her, stretching their mouths, until she couldn’t help laughing. Milton clicked them off like a TV set and saw only mesquite, the rocky sand, sky, and the line of fence. After his two weeks, Milton thought, he’d throw a drunk like World War Ten.

  At the end of the day he accepted Oldenburg’s offer: $75 a week plus room and board, weekend off. Oldenburg winced apologetically proposing the wage; the ranch didn’t make money, he explained.

  They ate at a metal table in the dining room. Milton, whose pleasure in food went beyond filling his stomach, appreciated Oldenburg’s meat loaf—laced with onion, the center concealing three hard-boiled eggs. Milton couldn’t identify the seasonings except for chili. “What’s in this?” he asked.

  “Sage, chili, cumin, and Worcestershire sauce.”

  “Heyyy.”

  Inside his two-room adobe, Milton was so tired he couldn’t feel his body, and lying down felt the same as standing up. He slept without dreaming until Oldenburg rattled the door at daybreak.

  Milton dug holes and planted posts. By noon his sweat had lost its salt and tasted like pure spring water. Then he didn’t sweat at all. Chilled and shaking at the end of the day, he felt as if he’d been thrown by a horse. The pain gave him a secret exultation which he hoarded from Oldenburg, saying nothing. Yet he felt he was offering the man part of the ache as a secret gift. Slyly, he thumped his cup on the table and screeched his chair back with exaggerated vigor. Milton was afraid of liking Oldenburg too much. He liked people too easily, even those who were not O’odham—especially those, perhaps, because he wanted them to prove he needn’t hate them.

  Milton worked ten-, eleven-hour days. The soreness left his muscles, though he was as tired the fourth evening as he had been the first. Thursday night Oldenburg baked a chicken.

  “You’re steady,” Oldenburg said. “I’ve seen you Pimas work hard before. What’s your regular job?”

  “I’ve worked for the government.” Milton had ridden rodeo, sold wild horses he captured in the mountains, broken horses. Most often there was welfare. Recently he had completed two CETA training programs, one as a hospital orderly and the other baking cakes. But the reservation hospital wasn’t hiring, and the town of Hashan had no bakeries. For centuries, Milton had heard, when the Gila flowed, the O’od
ham had been farmers. Settlements and overgrazing upstream had choked off the river only a few generations past. Sometimes he tried to envision green plots of squash, beans, and ripening grains, watered by earthen ditches, spreading from the banks. He imagined his back flexing easily in the heat as he bent to the rows, foliage swishing his legs, finally the villagers diving into the cool river, splashing delightedly.

  “I don’t think Jenkins is coming out of the hospital,” Oldenburg said. “This job is yours if you want it.” Milton was stunned. He had never held a permanent position.

  In just a week of hard work, good eating, and no drinking, Milton had lost weight. Waking Friday morning, he pounded his belly with his hand; it answered him like a drum. He danced in front of the bathroom mirror, swiveling his hips, urging himself against the sink as if it were a partner. At lunch he told Oldenburg he would spend the weekend with friends in Hashan.

  When he tossed the posthole digger into the shed, he felt light and strong, as if instead of sinking fence posts he’d spent the afternoon in a deep, satisfying nap. On the way to the guest house, his bowels turned over and a sharp pain set into his head. He saw the battered station wagon rolling out the drive, C.C. at the wheel, Allen’s tight face in the window.

  Milton threw his work clothes against the wall. After a stinging shower, he changed and mounted his horse for the ride to Vigiliano Lopez’s.

  Five hours later the Sundowner was closing. Instead of his customary beer, Milton had been drinking highball glasses of straight vodka. He felt paler and paler, like water, until he was water. His image peeled off him like a wet decal and he was only water in the shape of a man. He flowed onto the bar, hooking his water elbows onto the wooden ridge for support. Then he was lifted from the stool, tilted backward, floating on the pickup bed like vapor.

  Milton woke feeling the pong, pong of a basketball bouncing outside. The vibration traveled along the dirt floor of Lopez’s living room, up the couch he lay on. The sun was dazzling. Looking out the window, he saw six-foot-five, three-hundred-pound Bosque dribbling the ball with both hands, knocking the other players aside. As he jammed the ball into the low hoop, it hit the back of the rim, caroming high over the makeshift plywood backboard. A boy and two dogs chased it.

  Seeing beer cans in the dirt, Milton went outside. He took his shirt off and sat against the house with a warm Bud. The lean young boys fired in jump shots, or when they missed, their fathers and older brothers pushed and wrestled for the rebound. Lopez grabbed a loose ball and ran with it, whirling for a turnaround fadeaway that traveled three feet. He laughed, and said to Milton, “When we took you home you started fighting us. Bosque had to pick you up and squeeze you, and when he did, everything came out like toothpaste.”

  “Try our new puke-flavored toothpaste,” someone said, laughing.

  “Looks like pizza.”

  “So we brought you here.”

  Milton said nothing. He watched the arms and broad backs collide. The young boys on the sidelines practiced lassoing the players’ feet, the dogs, the ball. When he finished a beer, Milton started another. Later in the afternoon he sent boys to his house for the rest of his clothes and important belongings.

  When the game broke up, some of the men joined the women in the shade of a mesquite. Saddling a half-broke wild colt, the boys took turns careening across the field. Lopez drove a truckload to the rodeo arena, where a bronc rider from Bapchule was practicing. Compact and muscular, with silver spurs and collar tabs, he rode out the horse’s bucks, smoothing the animal to a canter. Two of Milton’s drunk friends tried and were thrown immediately. For a third, the horse didn’t buck but instead circled the arena at a dead run, dodging the lassos and open gates. From the announcer’s booth Lopez called an imaginary race as horse and rider passed the grandstand again and again—“coming down the backstretch now, whoops, there he goes for another lap, this horse is not a quitter, ladies and gentlemen.”

  “Go ahead, Milton,” Lopez said. “You used to ride.”

  Milton shook his head. Allen, thirteen, recently had graduated from steers to bulls. In both classes he had finished first or second in every start, earning as much money the past months as his father and mother combined. Would there be rodeo in California? Milton wondered. In school, too, Allen was a prodigy, an eighth grader learning high school geometry. If he studied hard, the school counselor said, he could finish high school in three years and win a college scholarship. Milton didn’t know where the boy’s talent came from.

  Tears filled Milton’s eyes.

  “Aaaah,” Bosque said. His big hand gripped Milton’s arm. They walked back to Lopez’s house and split a couple of sixes under the mesquite until the men returned. Audrey Lopez and the other wives prepared chili and cernait dough while the men played horseshoes and drank in the dusk.

  By the end of dinner everyone was drunk. Milton, face sweating, was explaining to Audrey Lopez, “Just a few weeks ago, Allen wins some kind of puzzle contest for the whole state, O.K.? And he’s on TV. And C.C. and I have got our faces up to the screen so we can hear every word he’s saying. And we can’t believe it. He’s talking on TV, and his hair’s sticking up on the side like that, just like it always does.

  “I can see them so real,” Milton said. “When C.C. plays volleyball she’s like a rubber ball, she’s so little and round. She dives for those spikes, and her hair goes flying back.”

  Lopez slid his leg along Audrey’s shoulder. “Good song,” he said. “Let’s dance.” The radio was playing Top Forty.

  “Wait. I’m listening to this man.”

  “Milton talks you into tomorrow afternoon. Come on.” Lopez pulled her shoulder.

  Audrey shrugged him off and laid her hand on Milton’s arm. “His wife and son are gone.”

  “Dried up old bitch,” Lopez said. “C.C.’s too old for you, man, she’s way older than he is. You lost nothing.”

  Grabbing a barbecue fork, ramming Lopez against the wall, Milton chopped the fork into Lopez’s shoulder. A woman screamed, Milton heard his own grunts as the glistening tines rose and stabbed. Lopez ducked and his knife came up. Milton deflected the lunge with his fork, the knife blade springing down its long shank. Milton shouted as the knife thudded into the wall. His little finger had bounded into the air and lay on the floor, looking like a brown pebble.

  Bosque drove both men to the hospital. The doctor cauterized, stitched, and bandaged the wound, and gave Milton a tetanus shot. If Milton had brought the severed finger—the top two joints—the doctor said, he might have sewed it on. The men refused to stay overnight. When they returned to the party, couples were dancing the choti and bolero to a Mexican radio station. Gulps of vodka deadened the pain in Milton’s finger. He and Lopez kept opposite corners of the living room until dawn, when Lopez pushed Audrey into Milton’s arms and said, “Get some dancing, man.”

  Sunday Milton slept under the mesquite until evening, when he rode to the Box-J.

  “That’s your mistake, Milton,” Oldenburg said. “Everyone’s entitled to one mistake. Next time you drink you’re gone. You believe me?”

  Milton did. He felt like weeping. The next day he roamed the fenceline, his chest and neck clotted with the frustration of being unable to work. The horse’s jouncing spurted blood through the white bandage on his finger. Finally he rode out a back gate and into the midst of the granite mountains. Past a sparkling dome broken by a slump of shattered rock, Milton trotted into a narrow cut choked with mesquite. As a boy, he would hunt wild horses for days in these ravines, alone, with only a canvas food bag tied to the saddle. He remembered sleeping on the ground without a blanket, beneath a lone sycamore that had survived years of drought. Waking as dawn lit the mountain crests, he would force through the brush, gnawing a medallion of jerked beef. Most often when he startled a horse the animal would clatter into a side gully, boxing itself in. Then roping was easy. Once when Milton flushed a stringy gray mustang, the horse charged him instead; he had no time to uncoil the rope bef
ore the gray was past. Milton wheeled, pursuing at full gallop out the canyon and onto the bajada. Twig-matted tail streaming behind, the mustang was outrunning him, and he had one chance with the rope. He dropped the loop around the gray’s neck, jarring the animal to its haunches. It was so long ago. Today, Milton reflected, the headlong chase would have pinned him and the horse to Oldenburg’s barbed-wire fence.

  The sycamore held its place, older and larger. Though encountering no horses, Milton returned three stray cattle to Oldenburg’s ranch. For a month, while the slightest jolt could rupture the wound, he hunted down mavericks in the miles of ravine, painted the ranch buildings, and repaired the roofs, one-handed. Even as the finger healed, the missing segment unbalanced his grip. Swinging the pick or axe, shoveling, he would clench his right hand so tightly the entire arm would tremble. By the second month a new hand had evolved, with the musculature of the other fingers, the palm, and the wrist more pronounced. The pinky stub acted as a stabilizer against pickshaft or rope. Milton had rebuilt the fence and combed the granite mountains, rounding up another two dozen head. Oldenburg’s herd had increased to 120.

  In late August Milton rode beyond the granite range to the Ka kai Mountains, a low, twisted ridge of volcanic rock that he had avoided because he once saw the Devil there. Needing to piss, he had stumbled away from a beer party and followed a trail rising between the boulders. Watching the ground for snakes, he had almost collided with a man standing in the path. The stranger was a very big, ugly Indian, but Milton knew it was the Devil because his eyes were black, not human, and he spoke in a booming voice that rolled echoes off the cliff. Milton shuddered uncontrollably and shriveled to the size of a spider. Afterwards he found he had fallen and cut himself. Cholla spines were embedded in his leg. The Devil had said only: “Beware of Satan within you.”

  The meeting enhanced Milton’s prestige, and Allen was impressed, though not C.C. “You see?” she said. “What did I always tell you?”