Crow Fair by Thomas McGuane Page A

hole!”
    “Jesus Christ, do you have to challenge everything?”
    “Oh. Oh. Oh. Say, I don’t like the way this is heading at all.”
    “People, people,” Nell implored, “let’s just simmer on down.”
    My head was full of a picture of my wife, random and dangerous as a Scud missile. I told the waitress about my emergency, and we soon had the pizzas, packed to go. I grabbed a menu from the counter. Neither of the Jewells spoke as I drove hell-bent back up the dirt road, trees rushing through the side windows, nor when I shoved their pizzas across the seat at them as I parked in front of the darkened house. Jewell said, “Thanks, neighbor,” as he got out. “Thanks, a bunch.” Nell already in flight across the pea rock that served as a lawn. I was soon home with a drink in hand and thinking, perhaps too much, about Ann with someone else, intimate, of course, but also covered with sweat. How much did I want to know? I seemed to be doing all right with bourbon and abstraction at least not having seen her yet. Fortunately, there was a built-in time frame, since last call at Rascal’s would dictate the faux chronology. In this sense, I felt I had my ducks in a row and relaxed for the time being, perusing the Rascal’s menu.
    As part of financing her education, Ann had served in the navy, where I have no doubt she was the darling of the fleet. When we were courting, I could hardly avoid colliding with one of her amatory enthusiasms, especially the one called Shelley, with his collar-length hair and crew-neck sweaters. Shelley was no seaman; Ann believed him to be a filmmaker. It turned out he was a drug dealer, which remained unclear to Ann until formal charges had been filed. I don’t know how that would have turned out if Shelley hadn’t gone to prison, where he was rehabilitated as a nurse. He’s now at a regional hospital outside Omaha. I refilled my drink and started killing moths to pass the time. Atthe edge of my consciousness, the mystery of Ann’s whereabouts reared its head as often as I could chase it away. I couldn’t tell if the whiskey was helping or not; on the one hand, it seemed to numb me to the escalating misery; on the other hand, it made the drama of it more florid. I was like a dog trapped in a hot car. The temptation was to drink more and throw the matter into greater relief on the theory, masquerading as fact, that I would thereby handle the situation with more equanimity, or at least not start a fight that could only enlarge my suffering while making sure Ann shared it. In the end, I realized it wouldn’t pay to be drunk, and I dumped my latest refill, taking up instead some microwave popcorn, which I ate from a bowl in the armchair I had positioned to face the front door. I pictured this as a prosecutorial touch, which it might well have been if I’d had any guts. I was still at some remove from recognizing that I was terrified of the truth, and when I thought of the way Ann used emery boards as bookmarks, I felt myself choking with emotion.
    Ann came in the door with a blaze of energy and a wildly insincere “Honey, I’m home!” She was a little taken aback to find me hunkered down in the armchair, bowl of popcorn and pizza menu in my lap. And there must have been something in my tone when I asked her about the evening, since she paused with the coat halfway off her shoulders. I could have pressed my face to her crotch and busted her on the spot, but this was not my way. “It was okay,” she said. “How good could it have been with the Clearys?”
    “Did you stuff yourself?”
    She paused before saying, “I’ve never been that excited about pizza.”
    “Mozzarella and pepperoni? The usual?”
    “Yep.”
    I raised the menu to my eyes. “Didn’t feel like trying the sundried tomatoes, anchovies, porcini mushrooms, prosciutto, eggplant—”
    “Where’d you get the menu?”
    “Rascal’s. I thought I’d join you.”
    Ann finished hanging her coat and came over to where I