Sandra downed a third of her drink, took a deep breath, and launched into a series of complaints about Jasper. It wasn’t even part of the twent-first century. No cellular service. Internet access, if you bothered (and most didn’t), was dial-up only. There was no cultural life, and not even a movie theater. The nearest “big town” newspaper came from Bend—hardly a big town—and it was hopelessly provincial. Jasper had two bars, and women were not encouraged to frequent either of them. They were served, but grudgingly. The ladies’ bridge club she described as “a nightmare of tedium. In a trailer park. A trailer park, I ask you!”

  “How about the rodeo?” Aunt June asked. “That sounds like fun.”

  “If you like baking in the hot sun and watching a lot of macho dilettantes wrestling cows,” Sandra said. Her syllables were slurring together.

  “Dilettantes?” Perry asked.

  “The Jasper rodeo is a piddly little thing, attracts mostly amateurs. They’re as likely to lasso themselves as the bloody calves. Anyway the whole thing is barbaric. Cowboys! You see them hanging around the bars, cocky in their Stetsons and boots, hand-rolling Top tobacco and getting drunk. Their idea of country recreation is to run their jeeps all over the hills chasing the antelope, run them down with their damn snowmobiles in the winter, ruining the scenery… . Bunch of idiots.”

  “But don’t they work on ranches?” Perry asked, feeling silly when he realized he was disappointed.

  “A few do. Mostly the Indians. The Indians are all right, when they’re sober. The rest of the so-called cowboys work at the feed mill, or at the slaughterhouse, or—or at the strip mines ripping out bauxite, boron, things like that. A little gold and silver. Not miners, really—just twits who work all day clearing away gravel with machinery and all night—” She shrugged. “All night working up their courage to go into Bend to chase the fillies.” She took a deep breath and said, “The saloon contains two WCs with signs on them that say, on my word of honor, Pointers and Setters.” She stood to make another drink.

  When she returned from the kitchen and sat staring into the middle distance—into the little negative galaxy of droning flies near the ceiling—Perry asked, “Well, it’s none of my business but after all that I can’t help asking—”

  “Why I stay in this benighted place?” Sandra interrupted, smiling bitterly. She exhaled a sigh that was also a name: “Tetty.”

  “She can’t travel?” Aunt June suggested.

  “No. No, she cannot. And even if it was wise to move her, I’d have to have her taken out in some kind of ambulance. Complications, complications. Anyway—” Sandra hesitated, glancing at the stairway, to the right of the couch, leading to a second-floor landing. “Anyway, I have some hopes. There is…” She lowered her voice again. “A gentleman.”

  Aunt June smiled. “I’m pleased to see that you haven’t entirely changed.”

  Sandra looked at her with a blankness that was also a warning. “Entirely? You mean I have, mostly? How?”

  “Well.” Aunt June swallowed. “My God, how many years has it been? Fifteen? We’ve both changed. But you’re really the same person, in essence… .”

  Sandra snorted. Smiling crookedly, she glanced again at the shadowy stairway. “Now then, as to this gentleman: he is my ray of sunshine. He is just a very sickly little ray of sunshine so far, but I have my hopes. He lives at the Chemeka Village. He owns a bit of it too, quite a bit. It’s one of those condominium housing projects with lots of trees and an artificial lake, thirty or so houses. Some retired people, charming petite bourgeoisie with their seascapes from Sears, come down for the summer. And some bachelors who come for the fishing season. And I have gained admittance to that charmed circle. I have joined their nightmarishly tedious bridge club. That’s where I met Mr. Finch and Professor Nearing and…”

  Her voice trailed off when the call came from upstairs. “Mama.” Just one word, the two syllables so compressed they were almost indistinguishable. A childish voice, though Perry knew that Tetty was seventeen. To Perry’s surprise. Sandra picked up where she’d left off, but more loudly. As if in defiance. “…I was just thinking about graduation, how disappointed I was when you said you were going to stay and take your master’s, June. I was all jazzed up to take you to Manhattan. But I wish I’d stayed, to be honest.”

  They talked about their days as roommates, and the ensuing years, so that, in bits and pieces, Perry caught the general outline of Sandra’s life. Sandra had majored in art and political science, June in psychology. They’d seen one another on holidays for years after school, even touring Europe together. Sandra’s parents worked in a New York branch of Lloyd’s of London. Sandra had planned it all out: American citizenship, law school, volunteer work for the ACLU, commissioner of something-on-other, some sort of bureaucratic underdog-advocacy niche.

  But just after graduation, she’d met Roy Cummings, a mining engineer. They’d married six weeks later, and spent their twenty years of marriage “lurching around the country with Roy’s transfers.”

  Two years ago he’d died in a boating accident on the artificial lake… and Sandra had stayed in Jasper, because Tetty’s problem had started almost immediately after Roy’s death.

  “Mama.” More insistently now, and with a touch of fear in it. Sandra, June, and Perry glanced at the ceiling. “I wonder,” said Sandra abstractedly, “if she’s slipped her restraints again.”

  Perry felt a chill. Restraints.

  “Perry dear,” said Sandra abruptly, smiling at him sunnily. “I wonder if you’d think I was too much of a sot if I sent you to the liquor store for me? I’m just out of gin. I know you’re tired, but if you’ll do that I’ll fix dinner for you while you’re out.”

  “I don’t mind at all,” Perry said. “But I’m only twenty.”

  She gave him a ten-dollar bill from a haggard alligator handbag and said, “Just a pint, I think, please. You can’t miss it, the state liquor store, down the road on the left. And don’t worry about your age. That place doesn’t much care about selling booze to minors if you look close enough to twenty-one.”

  “Down the road?”

  “Main Street.”

  He smiled awkwardly, tucked the bill in a shirt pocket, and said, “Be right back.”

  He was relieved to go. There was a quiet but insistent pressure in the house now.

  He went out through the squawking screen door; the afternoon sunlight fell like something molten on the back of his neck. He stuck his hands into the pockets of his khaki trousers. It was too hot to keep his hands there, but he always put his hands in his pockets when he felt like he was under scrutiny. And he imagined he felt someone watching him… from the bedroom window above the porch.

  He moved quickly to the shade of the pines and, slipping a little on the layer of fallen pine needles, trudged to Main Street. He turned left at Main, walked by a deserted souvenir shop called The Hitchin’ Post, past the Jasper Bar and Grill, over a culvert channeling an anemic creek haunted by mud daubers, and up to the clusters of wood and imitation-stucco concrete buildings. He was glad to see that the shadows from the telephone poles were long; evening, and escape from the heat, was on its way. He could smell the sun-heated tar bubbled on the telephone poles and in the softer spots on the asphalt road. Ahead, pasted to the side of a leaning wooden building next to a vacant lot, a poster said, INDIAN RIGHTS RALLY AT BROKEN TREATY ROCK. CHEMEKA RESERVATION, AUGUST 7. Over the poster someone had spray-painted a swastika in red—they’d got the swastika backward—and the words White Power.

  The defacing swastika annoyed Perry. So when he noticed four rawboned men staring at him from the Land Rover parked across the street, he did something he wouldn’t normally do: he stared back at them.

  Three teenagers, he amended, and one man. Permanently sunburned. All four wearing nearly identical sunglasses. He almost said, You guys just come from a 3-D movie? but thought better of it. The older man wore a straw cowboy hat and no shirt: gray-black hairs bristled from his chest and down the red flab of his belly. The others were hatless. They sat in the shade of the jeep’s canopy drinking Olympia from bottles and staring at him.

  What do they think when they, look at me? Perry wondered. A tall, skinny young man? Would they call him “Stretch”? Or maybe “Slim”? Did they think his sandals and khaki trousers and powder-yellow shortsleeve shirt were out of place? At least, he had a darker tan than theirs. And he’d opted for short hair this year—around here that should make him less conspicuous.

  But he hurried silently past the Land Rover to the liquor store.

  The liquor store wore the Oregon state seal, painted in gold on the window. He was about to go in when someone hissed at him from the corner of the building, to the left. A girl blinked at him there, half hidden by the building’s edge. She crooked a finger to say, Come here! and smiled.

  Perry didn’t hesitate. The girl was a knock-out.

  “Hi,” he said, as casually as he could manage, stepping into the dusty vacant lot with her. The liquor store hid them from the Rover half a block down the street.

  She’s a golden girl, he thought.

  She had blonde-brown hair—the color of dark honey—a tan that, so far as he could see, was perfectly uniform. She had large gold-flecked brown eyes, dimples that were too good to be true, and long, wide, resilient lips. She wore no makeup; there was a jade stud in each earlobe. She wore a white blouse, sleeveless and low cut, showing the golden swell of small, widely spaced breasts. Her long legs were emphasized by her white short-shorts, and she was almost as tall as Perry. Her narrow feet, in worn-out blue thongs, were tipped with pink nail-polish, a shade he associated with young girls. He guessed her to be about eighteen. She shaded her eyes with a flattened hand, squinting at him in a way he found endearingly kidlike. At that moment, she could have spat messily on his shoe and he’d have found it endearing.

  “Could you kindly do me a favor?” she asked, smiling softly. Pronouncing kindly kandly. Her accent was native central Oregonian.

  He kept himself, with an effort, from saying Anything! and said, “And what would that be—ma’am?”

  Her smile widened. Her voice became conspiratorial. “Now, me and some friends are going to have us a lake party tonight. And to do that, we need to get us some of the necessary party juice, you see. Now the gentleman who runs this liquor store knows my guardian—my uncle Marv is my guardian—and he won’t sell me liquor. And anyway Uncle Marv is down the street, waitin’ for me, and he’s got his eye on this store, because he knows I’m trying to get a party going and he knows we need the juice and he don’t allow me none.” Something about her—maybe the humorous way she phrased her sentences convinced him that she could speak with perfectly standard English if she chose.

  “Now then,” she went on, “I have this bag here—” She patted a large white canvas bag jammed with books and candy wrappers and unidentifiable odds and ends. “And if you would be so kind as to take this money and purchase for me a fifth of Jack Daniel’s, I would be most obliged, and then I can hide the bottle in my bag here, you see, and trouble you no more.”

  This, Perry told himself, is a rare opportunity. A golden opportunity. For once, untie your tongue and get to know her.

  “Sure,” Perry said, “on one condition. You tell me your name, and how old you are, and if you live around here.”

  She tilted her head to one side and this time compressed her lips to keep from smiling. “Oh, an operator, hey? Big-city wiles, huh? I saw you come in on the bus.”

  He said, “Hey. I’m harmless.” He hoped his smile was disarming.

  “You are? I’ll tell you my name anyway. Lois Rutherford. I’m nineteen, I’ve live at Chemeka Lake since last April—we lived on the reservation before then, because my uncle was director of the reservation. But then the government fired him. That enough?”

  “My name’s Perry. Perry Strandman.” They shook hands. Hers was soft, surprisingly dry.

  “Perry?” She dropped his hand. “No kidding? Because my name’s Lois and I know a guy named Jim Olsen. So if we meet Clark Kent, I start watching the skies.”

  He laughed, a little too much.

  “Hey,” she said, with mock asperity, “it’s hot. I was supposed to meet my girlfriend Judy here and give her the money, but she didn’t show up—and I’ve been standing in this hot place for half an hour… .”

  “Really? You’ve really got, uh, endurance.” He took the ten she handed him and went into the liquor store, an air conditioned enclave of coolness and stately bottles.

  He bought a pint of gin and the Jack Daniel’s from the sour-faced man behind the counter, and returned, hastily, to the vacant lot. She bounced a little on the soles of her feet with pleasure, seeing the brown-paper sack. “Oh great!” She hid the bottle at the bottom of her bag and stood, the canvas straps looped over one arm. She looked at him quietly, expectantly.

  It’s now or never, he told himself.

  “Um, which way you walking?” he asked.

  “Back the way you came,” she said… the way yew cai-um. Her countrified accent sounded deliberately heavy, too, and he hoped she was putting it on to charm him. Was there such a thing as a western belle?

  They walked along the gravel alley behind the liquor up between a barber shop and a service station, and to the sidewalk. To his relief, she continued with him toward Second Street. They were on the side of the road the Land Rover sat on, walking along the sidewalk toward it. Four pairs of dark glasses watched them approach.

  Perry pictured the men in the Rover jumping out to impose themselves on Lois; he pictured them jumping up and down on his back in their cowboy boots when he protested.

  He glanced at the books in her canvas bag. There was one by Thomas Pynchon and one that said, The Autobiography of W.B. Yeats: Western belle. Right.

  “How long you here for?” she asked, as if she were only asking to be polite.

  “Anywhere from a month to… maybe till October. It depends on how long my aunt wants to stay. She’s a doctor. We’re here to, um, help out a friend of hers. Sandra Cummings.”

  “Over on Second Street?”

  “That’s her. You know her?”

  “Know of her. In a town like this, everybody at least knows of everybody else. More’n they want to know, most the time. Your aunt’s a doctor, huh? I expect you’re helping out with that girl of Sandra’s?”

  “I’m, uh, doing a kind of secretarial thing for my aunt.”

  “Hey, now I like the sound of that: doing a kind of secretarial thing. That sounds real Southern California. That’s it, right?”

  “You got it. San Diego.”

  “I always wanted to go to Southern California, I hear it’s really grotesque. Your aunt’s a psychiatrist? For that girl with the Problem? What’s her name—Betty?”

  “Tetty. Yeah, my aunt’s a psychiatrist. You go to school with Tetty?”

  “Why sure. Didn’t really get to know her much. She seemed okay, but after her Dad died she got real pushy, I heard—” She hesitated.

  “Go ahead, I’d like to get the story on her.”

  “I don’t know much of it. Just that she got kind of weird after she went to Doctor Rofocale.” She said it Roffo-calley.

  “Who’s Dr. Rofo—?”

  “Dr. Rofocale, he’s not a doctor really, he’s one of those self-made therapist guys playing doctor because he’s got a Ph.D. Writing those self-help books about how to find your real identity, how to keep from being intimidated and all that. I met him. Lordy, what a creep. You ever been to Portland?”

  “Sure. I’ve got friends there.”

  “I’m going to Portland State in the fall.”

  “Maybe I’ll see you there—I visit my friends sometimes. You said something about a lake party… what, uh, happens at a lake party?”

  “Why don’t you come on out tonight and find out? You’re invited ’cause you got the Jack. We play music. Drinkin’ and dancin’ and that sort of adolescent ritual.” She grinned, then whispered out of the side of her mouth, “Shh, this is my Uncle Marv, don’t say anything about the party.”

  They’d walked up to the Land Rover, and to his horror, she stopped beside it and said, “This is my Uncle Marv. Marv, this young furrener is named Perry Something.”

  “Strandman,” Perry said, swallowing.

  The older man in the Rover was Uncle Marv.

  To Perry’s astonishment, he said, “Well, how do you do!” His accent was softly western. His smile was something more urbane.

  “Find out who did it?” Lois asked her uncle.

  “The damn swastika? No, nobody’s talkin’. When I find out, I’ll wring the bastard’s neck.”

  She turned to Perry. “Don’t listen to that macho talk, he couldn’t wring anybody’s neck. But he’s pissed off because he put up that poster himself—he’s one of the guys behind that Indian rights rally—and the next damn day somebody—”

  “You?” Perry blurted, turning to blink confusedly at Uncle Marv.

  “Correct you are, boy, I put it up myself. You had me pegged differently?”

  The three boys with him—they turned out to be Marv’s sons, Lois’s cousins—cawed with laughter while Perry reddened.

  “I could tell,” said the oldest boy, wearing a T-shirt, a pack of Marlboros rolled into one sleeve. “I could tell when he looked at us, it was written all over him, he thought we were some rednecks out of Easy Rider.”

  Embarrassed and a little ashamed, Perry pretended to laugh too. “I guess I did, sort of.”

  “You need a ride, chief?” Marv asked, chuckling, starting the engine of the Rover.

  “No—I’m just going a block more. Thanks. Nice meeting you. Bye, Lois.”

  She got into the Land Rover, between two cousins, and nodded austerely. But, soundlessly, she mouthed, Lake party.

  He nodded. The Rover U-turned from the curb, rumbled grudgingly a half block up the highway, then swung onto a gravel road and took off as if somebody had counted down to blastoff. He watched Lois’s hair flutter in the wind. The vehicle raised a plume of dust.