Free The Bushwacked Piano by Thomas McGuane Page A

when she could not think of any place she wanted to go. Sometimes, too, she stayed because she felt that suffering was good for an artist, the source of his wisdom.
    So, then, ever since the grave of Cristobal Colon, and intermittently before, her escape had been to think of Payne. She could not, in her thoughts even, avoid the very beastly and useless things he did. But somehow the thought of his bad drinking, the spilling train of cigar ash always on his front, the ardent nonsense and volcanic cascade of lies and treachery, seemed now, as it had not when the two had been side by side to compare, unobjectionable next to George’s calculations.
    George was planning another trip now. Starting in Sicily they were going to follow thermoclines all worked out on a thin pad of tissue maps so that they would stay at a temperature and humidity least likely to rouse George’s sinuses. Only the scenery would change.
    But George was everybody’s dream. Once her father and George were talking in the den and Ann listened in.
    “How are they treating you at G.M.?” her father had asked.
    “Oh, God,” George grinned.
    “That’s a boy!”
    “Trying to work me to death,” George allowed.
    “You ought to know why!”
    “Trying to do five jobs at once. They think I’m—”
    “You’re going to go, George! You’re going to go big!”
    “—think I’m
atomic powered
or some damn thing.”
    “
Atomic powered!
Oh, God kid, you’re gonna go.”
    Unable to think of it any more, Ann went out onto the terrace in the dark. Overhead, the standard decal moon of Spain hung under the auspices of the Falange. Under such circumstances, it was scarcely a bustle of nard.
    She had fallen in love with Payne; or at least with the idea of that.
    • •
    Payne dozed achily in his wagon, the roar of Bangtail Creek nearby. When Ann had come home from Europe she found Payne crazy. They rented a little house for a week. And stayed together.
    Payne dozed and woke in completely unspecific exhaustion. Every night the dogs had come into the house. He knew they were down there. He always knew. He watched them for months. He looked for heads but could only see a glitter of eyes in his penlight. He never knew their number. He was not afraid. He let them drink from his toilet. He kept it clean for them. He left food but they wouldn’t take it. He was never afraid. One week. She stayed and saw them. She held the penlight and they both saw them. They figured twelve feet and they divided that into four dogs. It could have been three dogs. They thought with terror that it could have been two dogs. Sometimes they giggled and talked about it being one dog. They heard them drink. They didn’t know. It made them fastidious about the toilet. They didn’t forget to flush in times like that. They knew the dogs were coming. They kept it clean. They made love and talked about the dogs. Payne was trying to put his suspension system back in order. For quite a while there it was okay. He needed to get in touch there again though. It was like some kind of middle ear trouble. He woke up and couldn’t tell which way he was pointing, whether it was his head or his feet that were pointing toward the door. When the dogs came he would really start whirling. Maybe he should have shooed them out. He didn’t see the point of that. Neither did Ann. He was awfully crossed up and the dogs didn’t hurt and later Ann said that there had not been any dogs. He was fielding grounders. It had been hot all day. He imagined that all the leaves had turned.That everything outside was bright with frost. That winter was not far away. He did not know about that. It wasn’t that he wanted winter. He wanted to get his white Christmases off a bank calendar.
    “It’s all in your head,” Ann said. Which was exactly right. Not that anyone was ever helped by that kind of idle information. But she tried so hard, so awfully hard. No she didn’t. She didn’t try all that hard. She always nailed