Ain’t nothin better than a cold Coke on a hot day, he said.
Amen to that, Grace said, toasting him and taking a long swig.
Damn, she said, bringing the bottle down to the table. That’s better. She belched.
Sorry, she said.
A skinned jackrabbit hung by a hook above the kitchen sink, pink flesh glistening in the low light. A pile of muddy potatoes sat piled on the side, waiting to be washed and peeled.
Nice of you to drop by, Mac said. I always told Rose this place was centrally located.
Middle of nowhere, Grace said, smiling and raising the bottle to her mouth.
I’ve said that one before, haven’t I?
I think it’s a common refrain.
Hell, I like it out here, Mac said. Rose, well, she weren’t no rancher; she was too good for that.
To the wives, Grace said, holding up her drink again.
The wives.
They clanked bottles together.
So, Mac said. What can I do for you?
You still got those pups for sale? I saw the sign out front.
Only got the one left, he said. Half-thinkin on keepin him for myself.
Where’d you bury ol Sophie anyway?
Out back, under her favorite tree. Hell, I’m just a sentimental ol fool.
No you’re not, Grace said. Least, no more than I would be.
Fourteen years, Mac said. Like havin another kid.
You see much of Johnny?
Not as much as I’d like. He’s a cattle rancher down in Riverside County now. Got himself near-on thirty thousand acres in the Temecula Valley. Good grazin land. Leases most of it out. Smart kid. He got that from his mother.
So you gonna keep the pup?
Hell, probably not. He’s a handful. You can have him if you want.
I’m just thinking about it at the moment, she said. Always saw myself with one, y’know? Growing up, a little girl … Guess that’s just the way God made me.
She sighed, looked down at the table.
You ever had the feeling the future’s become the past while you were busy being scared? she said.
Mac looked at her.
All the damn time, he said.
She looked away.
You wanna come see him? Mac said. He’s out back.
Lemmie give you a call in a few days.
Sure, he said. No sweat.
She smiled.
Thanks, Mac.
How’s that fine-lookin husband of yours?
Oh, fine, she said. His usual self.
Flyin today?
Just a few times.
Man’s gotta work.
Think I saw more of him when he was flying over occupied France during the war, Grace said. Sure worried about him less. But I guess he knows what he’s doing. At least in the air. It’s down on the ground that’s the problem.
Mac chuckled.
I heard they workin on some new type of airplane or somethin? he said.
They’re trying to break the sound barrier, Grace said.
Why in the hell would anyone want to do that?
Jim says someone’s gonna do it eventually. Better that it’s us. Old allies aren’t lookin so friendly anymore.
The Russians?
Grace shrugged. She drained her Coke, saw a deck of cards on a shelf near the table.
You wanna deal a hand? she said, nodding toward them.
Seems like you’re in a good mood, he said, smiling and fetching the cards. Sure be a shame to spoil it.
Pipe down, old man, Grace said. You got anything proper to drink?
Shuffle, he said, handing her the deck. He walked through a side door and returned carrying a plain glass bottle, three-quarters full, and two glasses. He sat down.
Here, Grace said, passing Mac the cards. Now deal up, you ol cowboy.
It was just six and Pancho’s was busy. A sloppy Cole Porter melody warbled, lost, into the desert night. There were already men on the veranda, surrounded by Virginia creepers, moonlight and girls, drinking scotch and laughing. Inside, the place looked like a cathouse, the piano smelled like a beer.
Pancho stood behind the bar, holding a framed six-by-four of Rick Bong in her hand.
Bing Bong, she said as she hammered it to the wall above the radio. You stupid bastard.
She turned and faced the crowd.
You know the problem with you sons-of-bitches? she shouted. You’re all going crazy being horny and sober. We can fix one of them for you, but the other, hell, you’re on your own.
There was laughter and cheering. Harrison dug out a cigarette and lit it; the match flared in his face. He walked through the crowd and sat down at a table in the far corner, where a man sat chewing gum.
Pancho wanted you to have this, Yeager said, pushing a glass toward him.
Scotch?
Rum.
Rum?
Best she’s got, so she say.
Harrison tried it.
Ain’t bad, he said.
Heard they dropped you in a nose-up stall, Yeager said.
You heard right, Harrison said. Thought they’d have to name an ass-shaped crater after me.
Yeager chuckled. He was short, with wiry hair and thin, blue eyes. He had a slow, West Virginian drawl and looked like he’d been left out in the desert for too long.
So how’d it go? he said.