Cowboys Are My Weakness
COWBOYS
ARE MY
WEAKNESS
Stories
PAM HOUSTON
W. W. NORTON & COMPANY
Independent Publishers Since 1923
NEW YORK • LONDON
This is for Michael
With thanks, also,
to my mother and father,
and to Carol Houck Smith
CONTENTS
How to Talk to a Hunter
Selway
Highwater
For Bo
What Shock Heard
Dall
Cowboys Are My Weakness
Jackson Is Only One of My Dogs
A Blizzard Under Blue Sky
Sometimes You Talk About Idaho
Symphony
In My Next Life
COWBOYS
ARE MY
WEAKNESS
HOW TO TALK TO A HUNTER
When he says “Skins or blankets?” it will take you a moment to realize that he’s asking which you want to sleep under. And in your hesitation he’ll decide that he wants to see your skin wrapped in the big black moose hide. He carried it, he’ll say, soaking wet and heavier than a dead man, across the tundra for two—was it hours or days or weeks? But the payoff, now, will be to see it fall across one of your white breasts. It’s December, and your skin is never really warm, so you will pull the bulk of it around you and pose for him, pose for his camera, without having to narrate this moose’s death.
You will spend every night in this man’s bed without asking yourself why he listens to top-forty country. Why he donated money to the Republican Party. Why he won’t play back his messages while you are in the room. You are there so often the messages pile up. Once you noticed the bright green counter reading as high as fifteen.
He will have lured you here out of a careful independence that you spent months cultivating; though it will finally be winter, the dwindling daylight and the threat of Christmas, that makes you give in. Spending nights with this man means suffering the long face of your sheepdog, who likes to sleep on your bed, who worries when you don’t come home. But the hunter’s house is so much warmer than yours, and he’ll give you a key, and just like a woman, you’ll think that means something. It will snow hard for thirteen straight days. Then it will really get cold. When it is sixty below there will be no wind and no clouds, just still air and cold sunshine. The sun on the windows will lure you out of bed, but he’ll pull you back under. The next two hours he’ll devote to your body. With his hands, with his tongue, he’ll express what will seem to you like the most eternal of loves. Like the house key, this is just another kind of lie. Even in bed; especially in bed, you and he cannot speak the same language. The machine will answer the incoming calls. From under an ocean of passion and hide and hair you’ll hear a woman’s muffled voice between the beeps.
Your best female friend will say, “So what did you think? That a man who sleeps under a dead moose is capable of commitment?”
This is what you learned in college: A man desires the satisfaction of his desire; a woman desires the condition of desiring.
The hunter will talk about spring in Hawaii, summer in Alaska. The man who says he was always better at math will form the sentences so carefully it will be impossible to tell if you are included in these plans. When he asks you if you would like to open a small guest ranch way out in the country, understand that this is a rhetorical question. Label these conversations future perfect, but don’t expect the present to catch up with them. Spring is an inconceivable distance from the December days that just keep getting shorter and gray.
He’ll ask you if you’ve ever shot anything, if you’d like to, if you ever thought about teaching your dog to retrieve. Your dog will like him too much, will drop the stick at his feet every time, will roll over and let the hunter scratch his belly.
One day he’ll leave you sleeping to go split wood or get the mail and his phone will ring again. You’ll sit very still while a woman who calls herself something like Janie Coyote leaves a message on his machine: She’s leaving work, she’ll say, and the last thing she wanted to hear was the sound of his beautiful voice. Maybe she’ll talk only in rhyme. Maybe the counter will change to sixteen. You’ll look a question at the mule deer on the wall, and the dark spots on either side of his mouth will tell you he shares more with this hunter than you ever will. One night, drunk, the hunter told you he was sorry for taking that deer, that every now and then there’s an animal that isn’t meant to be taken, and he should have known that deer was one.
Your best male friend will say, “No one who needs to call herself Janie Coyote can hold a candle to you, but why not let him sleep alone a few nights, just to make sure?”
The hunter will fill your freezer with elk burger, venison sausage, organic potatoes, fresh pecans. He’ll tell you to wear your seat belt, to dress warmly, to drive safely. He’ll say you are always on his mind, that you’re the best thing that’s ever happened to him, that you make him glad that he’s a man.
Tell him it don’t come easy, tell him freedom’s just another word for nothing left to lose.
These are the things you’ll know without asking: The coyote woman wears her hair in braids. She uses words like “howdy.” She’s man enough to shoot a deer.
A week before Christmas you’ll rent It’s a Wonderful Life and watch it together, curled on your couch, faces touching. Then you’ll bring up the word “monogamy.” He’ll tell you how badly he was hurt by your predecessor. He’ll tell you he couldn’t be happier spending every night with you. He’ll say there’s just a few questions he doesn’t have the answers for. He’ll say he’s just scared and confused. Of course this isn’t exactly what he means. Tell him you understand. Tell him you are scared too. Tell him to take all the time he needs. Know that you could never shoot an animal; and be glad of it.
Your best female friend will say, “You didn’t tell him you loved him, did you?” Don’t even tell her the truth. If you do you’ll have to tell her that he said this: “I feel exactly the same way.”
Your best male friend will say, “Didn’t you know what would happen when you said the word ‘commitment’?”
But that isn’t the word that you said.
He’ll say, “Commitment, monogamy, it all means just one thing.”
The coyote woman will come from Montana with the heavier snows. The hunter will call you on the day of the solstice to say he has a friend in town and can’t see you. He’ll leave you hanging your Christmas lights; he’ll give new meaning to the phrase “longest night of the year.” The man who has said he’s not so good with words will manage to say eight things about his friend without using a gender-determining pronoun. Get out of the house quickly. Call the most understanding person you know who will let you sleep in his bed.
Your best female friend will say, “So what did you think? That he was capable of living outside his gender?”
When you get home in the morning there’s a candy tin on your pillow. Santa, obese and grotesque, fondles two small children on the lid. The card will say something like “From your not-so-secret admirer.” Open it. Examine each carefully made truffle. Feed them, one at a time, to the dog. Call the hunter’s machine. Tell him you don’t speak chocolate.
Your best female friend will say, “At this point, what is it about him that you could possibly find appealing?”
Your best male friend will say, “Can’t you understand that this is a good sign? Can’t you understand that this proves how deep he’s in with you?” Hug your best male friend. Give him the truffles the dog wouldn’t eat.
Of course the weather will cooperate with the coyote woman. The highways will close, she will stay another night. He
’ll tell her he’s going to work so he can come and see you. He’ll even leave her your number and write “Me at Work” on the yellow pad of paper by his phone. Although you shouldn’t, you’ll have to be there. It will be you and your nauseous dog and your half-trimmed tree all waiting for him like a series of questions.
This is what you learned in graduate school: In every assumption is contained the possibility of its opposite.
In your kitchen he’ll hug you like you might both die there. Sniff him for coyote. Don’t hug him back.
He will say whatever he needs to to win. He’ll say it’s just an old friend. He’ll say the visit was all the friend’s idea. He’ll say the night away from you has given him time to think about how much you mean to him. Realize that nothing short of sleeping alone will ever make him realize how much you mean to him. He’ll say that if you can just be a little patient, some good will come out of this for the two of you after all. He still won’t use a gender-specific pronoun.
Put your head in your hands. Think about what it means to be patient. Think about the beautiful, smart, strong, clever woman you thought he saw when he looked at you. Pull on your hair. Rock your body back and forth. Don’t cry.
He’ll say that after holding you it doesn’t feel right holding anyone else. For “holding,” substitute “fucking.” Then take it as a compliment.
He will get frustrated and rise to leave. He may or may not be bluffing. Stall for time. Ask a question he can’t immediately answer. Tell him you want to make love on the floor. When he tells you your body is beautiful say, “I feel exactly the same way.” Don’t, under any circumstances, stand in front of the door.
Your best female friend will say, “They lie to us, they cheat on us, and we love them more for it.” She’ll say, “It’s our fault; we raise them to be like that.”
Tell her it can’t be your fault. You’ve never raised anything but dogs.
The hunter will say it’s late and he has to go home to sleep. He’ll emphasize the last word in the sentence. Give him one kiss that he’ll remember while he’s fucking the coyote woman. Give him one kiss that ought to make him cry if he’s capable of it, but don’t notice when he does. Tell him to have a good night.
Your best male friend will say, “We all do it. We can’t help it. We’re self-destructive. It’s the old bad-boy routine. You have a male dog, don’t you?”
The next day the sun will be out and the coyote woman will leave. Think about how easy it must be for a coyote woman and a man who listens to top-forty country. The coyote woman would never use a word like “monogamy” the coyote woman will stay gentle on his mind.
If you can, let him sleep alone for at least one night. If you can’t, invite him over to finish trimming your Christmas tree. When he asks how you are, tell him you think it’s a good idea to keep your sense of humor during the holidays.
Plan to be breezy and aloof and full of interesting anecdotes about all the other men you’ve ever known. Plan to be hotter than ever before in bed, and a little cold out of it. Remember that necessity is the mother of invention. Be flexible.
First, he will find the faulty bulb that’s been keeping all the others from lighting. He will explain, in great detail, the most elementary electrical principles. You will take turns placing the ornaments you and other men, he and other women, have spent years carefully choosing. Under the circumstances, try to let this be a comforting thought.
He will thin the clusters of tinsel you put on the tree. He’ll say something ambiguous like “Next year you should string popcorn and cranberries.” Finally, his arm will stretch just high enough to place the angel on the top of the tree.
Your best female friend will say, “Why can’t you ever fall in love with a man who will be your friend?”
Your best male friend will say, “You ought to know this by now: Men always cheat on the best women.”
This is what you learned in the pop psychology book: Love means letting go of fear.
Play Willie Nelson’s “Pretty Paper.” He’ll ask you to dance, and before you can answer he’ll be spinning you around your wood stove, he’ll be humming in your ear. Before the song ends he’ll be taking off your clothes, setting you lightly under the tree, hovering above you with tinsel in his hair. Through the spread of the branches the all-white lights you insisted on will shudder and blur, outlining the ornaments he brought: a pheasant, a snow goose, a deer.
The record will end. Above the crackle of the wood stove and the rasp of the hunter’s breathing you’ll hear one long low howl break the quiet of the frozen night: your dog, chained and lonely and cold. You’ll wonder if he knows enough to stay in his doghouse. You’ll wonder if he knows that the nights are getting shorter now.
SELWAY
It was June the seventh and we’d driven eighteen hours of pavement and sixty miles of dirt to find out the river was at highwater, the highest of the year, of several years, and rising. The ranger, Ramona, wrote on our permit, “We do not recommend boating at this level,” and then she looked at Jack.
“We’re just gonna go down and take a look at it,” he said, “see if the river gives us a sign.” He tried to slide the permit away from Ramona, but her short dark fingers held it against the counter. I looked from one to the other. I knew Jack didn’t believe in signs.
“Once you get to Moose Creek you’re committed,” she said. “There’s no time to change your mind after that. You’ve got Double Drop and Little Niagara and Ladle, and they just keep coming like that, one after another with no slow water in between.”
She was talking about rapids. This was my first northern trip, and after a lazy spring making slow love between rapids on the wide desert rivers, I couldn’t imagine what all the fuss was about.
“If you make it through the Moose Creek series there’s only a few more real bad ones; Wolf Creek is the worst. After that the only thing to worry about is the takeout point. The beach will be under water, and if you miss it, you’re over Selway Falls.”
“Do you have a river guide?” Jack said, and when she bent under the counter to get one he tried again to slide the permit away. She pushed a small, multifolded map in his direction.
“Don’t rely on it,” she said. “The rapids aren’t even marked in the right place.”
“Thanks for your help,” Jack said. He gave the permit a sharp tug and put it in his pocket.“There was an accident today,” Ramona said. “In Ladle.”
“Anybody hurt?” Jack asked.
“It’s not official.”
“Killed?”
“The water’s rising,” Ramona said, and turned back to her desk.
At the put-in, the water crashed right over the top of the depth gauge. The grass grew tall and straight through the slats of the boat ramp.
“Looks like we’re the first ones this year,” Jack said.
The Selway has the shortest season of any river in North America. They don’t plow the snow till the first week in June, and by the last week in July there’s not enough water to carry a boat. They only allow one party a day on the river that they select from a nationwide lottery with thousands of applicants each year. You can try your whole life and never get a permit.
“Somebody’s been here,” I said. “The people who flipped today.”
Jack didn’t answer. He was looking at the gauge. “It’s up even from this morning,” he said. “They said this morning it was six feet.”
Jack and I have known each other almost a year. I’m the fourth in a series of long-term girlfriends he’s never gotten around to proposing to. He likes me because I’m young enough not to sweat being single and I don’t put pressure on him the way the others did. They wanted him to quit running rivers, to get a job that wasn’t seasonal, to raise a family like any man his age. They wouldn’t go on trips with him, not even once to see what it was like, and I couldn’t imagine that they knew him in any way that was complete if they hadn’t known him on the river, if they hadn’t seen him row.
I watched him put his hand in the water. “Feel that, baby,” he said. “That water was snow about fifteen minutes ago.”
I stuck my foot in the water and it went numb in about ten seconds. I’ve been to four years of college and I should know better, but I love it when he calls me baby.
Jack has taken a different highwater trip each year for the last fifteen, on progressively more difficult rivers. When a river is at high water it’s not just deeper and faster and colder than usual. It’s got a different look and feel from the rest of the year. It’s dark and impatient and turbulent, like a volcano or a teenage boy. It strains against its banks and it churns around and under itself. Looking at its fullness made me want to grab Jack and throw him down on the boat ramp and make love right next to where the river roared by, but I could tell by his face he was trying to make a decision, so I sat and stared at the river and wondered if it was this wild at the put-in what it would look like in the rapids.
“If anything happened to you . . .” he said, and threw a stick out to the middle of the channel. “It must be moving nine miles an hour.” He walked up and down the boat ramp. “What do you think?” he said.
“I think this is a chance of a lifetime,” I said. “I think you’re the best boatman you know.” I wanted to feel the turbulence underneath me. I wanted to run a rapid that could flip a boat. I hadn’t taken anything like a risk in months. I wanted to think about dying.
It was already early evening, and once we made the decision to launch, there were two hours of rigging before we could get on the water. On the southern rivers we’d boat sometimes for an hour after dark just to watch what the moon did to the water. On the Selway there was a rapid that could flip your boat around every corner. It wasn’t getting pitch dark till ten-thirty that far north, where the June dusk went on forever, but it wasn’t really light either and we wouldn’t be able to see very far ahead. We told ourselves we’d go a tenth of a mile and make camp, but you can’t camp on a sheer granite wall, and the river has to give you a place to get stopped and get tied.