by KT Sparks
Martin settled in to wait for the council to act on the Dewitty matter. He sat, less and less placidly, through thirty-two votes on thirty-two separate proclamations on the wit and beauty of the thirty-two Pierre County city, township, and village Blossomtown princesses. Martin wondered if this is what it would be like to cover the Politburo.
It was past two a.m. when the final princess, who had been snoring into her green tulle neck ruffle for the last hour, stumbled up to the front for the vote on her resolution and picture with the mayor and the council. As the members returned to their seats, shuffled their papers, and retrieved their coats from their chair backs, Councilwoman Judy Marietta caught Martin’s eye.
“Dewitty?” he said.
“Aw, shit,” she answered. “One more thing, folks.” A few of the council members groaned; one looked wildly about, as if a gaggle of unfeted princesses might be hiding behind the Michigan and U.S. flags.
“I move that we put off the decision on Earl and the parade until the official council visit to his farm on…whenever that is,” said a councilman with a stringy black comb-over. He was already in his car coat and halfway out the door.
“May 22nd,” said Judy. “And I second. All in favor?” A bunch of raspy ayes. “Then so moved, meeting adjourned.”
“Wait,” Martin shouted. “What visit?”
The councilwoman slipped on her pink raincoat and belted it. “Arnie asked us to put it off until we could go see the place for ourselves. Seems fair enough.”
Martin just stared at her.
“You should have asked me before the meeting, honey. You could have avoided all that princess rigamarole.”
“Shit,” Martin whispered.
“Unadulterated Blossomtown shit, dear. Give my best to your mother.”
Over the next two weeks, Lattner editorialized a few more times on the scandal, the last piece to remind readers there was a scandal. The Blossomtown festivities kicked into full gear with the usual craft fairs and the usual drunken teen formal dances and the usual-yet-still-shocking teen deaths in car accidents after the drunken teen formal dances.
At home, Dottie continued to keen, sometimes for hours at a time, for her Chopo. “I saw him; he’s alive. Bring him to me,” she wailed, grabbing at her sheets and scratching at her arms until they bled.
Amoya begged Martin to call in a Hoodoo root worker for an exorcism. Martin consulted Dr. Broad instead and asked whether his mom might be better off in a hospital.
“They’ll tie her down, Martin. She’s more on the dead side of the ledger than on the alive. But I’ve seen this before. They wait for one last thing, their brother to make it to the bedside or a baby to be born or a spinster daughter to be married off. Is there any way you can get a visit from this Chopo? It’s a horse, right? Her horse? I think she might go then.”
“Chopo is a literary fiction circa 1908,” said Martin. “But she saw a picture of a horse she thought was Chopo. One of Dewitty’s.”
“Ah,” said Dr. Broad. “Well, could you hire him to bring it over? He did my daughter’s birthday party, it’s got to be twenty years ago. He was very reasonable.”
“I don’t think that’s a possibility.” The doctor clearly hadn’t read Martin’s story.
“Well, that’s too bad, because a few minutes with this Chopo, whether it is the real one or not, might be all she needs to pop her over to the other side,” Dr. Broad said. “Pop her peacefully,” he added.
“Please, Martin,” Dottie moaned from her bed. He had thought she was asleep. “Please bring Chopo.”
Lattner twisted the wheel of Mr. Trinkle’s extended cab F-250, on loan for what they were calling “Operation Chopo,” and dodged a deep scar in the dirt road leading to Dewitty’s stables. A metal piece of the undercarriage scraped on a rock, and Julie’s temple smacked audibly into the passenger side window. Martin could smell horse manure and something else, smoke, maybe a neighbor barbecuing. He experienced a moment of longing for the comfort and certainty of Beaufort’s well-ordered tack room, the leather and horse dung tang of the corral, the hardy back slaps of the hands, the sight of Ginger, one long leg swinging over her mare. What you got going today, city boy?
But as they got closer, the tableau dissolved, like in a movie when the lover’s face melts off to reveal a Russian spy or, in this case, a junk-filled barnyard reeking of sulfur and tar. The shadows blurred the jagged lines of the piles of trash dotted throughout the yard: naked bed springs, a rusted freezer door, a broken black plastic bag spilling open cans, rye bottles, McDonald’s wrappers, and rotting lettuce. Martin’s nose tingled with the scent of seared meat. It could be the smoldering remnants of trash burned a day or so earlier, though it didn’t look like Dewitty had been engaged in much trash disposal recently, or ever. The place was devoid of poetry and hope. Also devoid of people, which was fine as far as their mission went, and devoid of ponies, which was not.
“Do you think he ran for it?” Martin asked. “Cut and run before they found out how bad it really was?” The council’s inspection tour was scheduled for the next afternoon.
Lattner shook his head. “The rumor at The Silver Dollar is that he’s gone out West to pick up some healthier horse flesh.”
“What did he do with the ones he had?” Martin asked. Julie opened her window, sniffed at the smoky air, looked at Martin, drew a finger across her throat.
The smell. Against his better judgment, Martin said, “Smudge pots?”
“Okay,” Julie answered. “If that’s what you want.”
Martin slumped back in his seat. Of course, it would be a relief if Earl Dewitty was out of town. What would not be was if Dewitty had offed the Chopo lookalike on his way. Hard to rustle a dead horse. And they needed to rustle Chopo, or a reasonable facsimile, if Dottie was to go in peace. Martin would carry her into the sunset on his own back if he could, but he couldn’t. He had tried for ten months. Ten months of walking her to death’s door, holding her hand, urging her along, assuring her it would all be fine, wiping the snot from under her nose, and making sure she didn’t wet herself along the way. He had done it as well as he knew how, he had tried and sacrificed and not been thanked nearly enough, and yet she would not go, not without Chopo. He needed Chopo. He hated Chopo.
Unbidden, a verse from “The Cowboy’s Lament” popped into his head, and he mouthed the words as Lattner navigated around the potholes and fallen branches and pulled onto a patch of bare dirt next to Dewitty’s barnyard.
My curse let it rest, let it rest on the fair one,
Who drove me from friends that I loved and from home,
Who told me she loved me, just to deceive me.
My curse rests upon her, wherever she roam.
Julie jumped out of the truck and strode toward the barn for a few steps, stopped, turned.
“Are you coming?” she said.
“I think breaking and entering violates my parole,” said Lattner.
“And horse theft doesn’t?” said Julie. “What parole? Oh, forget it. God.”
She stood, hands on hips that were significantly narrower than they had been last March. She’d been drinking less, eating better, playing tennis with Frank several times a week after work. She’d even spoken to Bitsy, quickly and by chance, but without fisticuffs. Martin had witnessed the encounter from across Main Street where he had just picked up tuna sandwiches for their lunch from Dino’s Deli. He couldn’t hear what words were spoken but saw Julie bend her head to her mother’s hand, and Bitsy raise her hand to her daughter’s cheek. He didn’t ask, and Julie didn’t give him details, just berated him for forgetting to request extra garlic dills. The scene had made him feel the impending loss of his own mom more keenly than he ever had before.
“You don’t have to do this,” said Martin.
“I want to,” said Julie. “Your mom is kind of my hero. I’ve never met anyone like her
before, who knows who she’s supposed to be and goes for it.”
“She’s delusional, you know,” said Martin.
“I guess,” said Julie. “Anyway, it is an honor to do something for her.”
Julie was braver than he was, Martin thought, part in admiration, part in irritation. Was she the one to whom the poem referred, the fair one who had deceived him? She had abandoned his mom, despite her revived interest now, and tried to steal his job. She was losing weight, which felt like an unspoken reproach. She was enjoying Frank’s company, finding the good in him, another reproach. Martin couldn’t deny she had helped him, was helping him. But he had never loved her. Lusted, yes. Liked, yes. Loved, no.
She resumed her march to the stables. Lattner and Martin got out of the truck. Lattner leaned on the back bumper and hooked his thumbs in his belt. Martin watched Julie enter the dark barn. Her blonde hair disappeared into the gloom of a half-opened wooden door, like a candle snuffed at fifty yards.
“Hope she took a flashlight,” said Lattner.
The deceiver couldn’t be Ginger either, thought Martin. They had never talked of love, or really of much at all but cowboy poetry and his University of Chicago elitist and, he now realized, ridiculous views on philosophy and utopic world order. If anything, he had deceived her, eschewed her company, and maybe the start of love, for the immediate gratification served up by Julie. He had no reason to curse Ginger, and maybe she had some reason to curse him, though he suspected he had not made that much of an impression.
“Found him.” Julie’s muffled voice carried from inside the dark stables.
Oh, why fight it? Martin knew who the fair one was, had known it for a while now. Cowboy poetry. Sweet, singing, always promising more, more for Martin, more sky, more air, more love. Always promising, always singing in his ear of a place where wit and honesty and a strong handshake and a way with rhyme was enough to get you the girl and a plot of land where you could husband your own destiny. Cowboy poetry and its lies and its false, false promises trapping his poor, shallow, grasping mom in its soft leather riding gloves, choking the old woman to death, making him an accessory to the crime. Cowboy poetry was the whore. The callous whore. Her heart was as cold as the snow on the mountains.
“I suppose we ought to go help,” said Lattner and moved not an inch.
Once they figured out the horse was starving, they had no problem moving ersatz Chopo. Julie held a Red Delicious from the bag she had brought along in front of the snorting animal’s nose. She did a slow, and to Martin’s eye, dangerous dance, waving the fruit, then jumping back as the pony bared its yellow teeth and lunged at her outstretched fingers. He flashed back for a moment to the beach at Twin Bluffs, when Julie risked her life to save Buster and Martin did naught. This time, he’d be an equal partner in the equine rescue and maybe even the hero he could not be four years ago.
As Julie inched her way across the dark and open paddock toward the truck, Martin joined Lattner and prepared to load the beast. They pulled out the two-by-fours that Mrs. Trinkle had thought to add to the pick-up bed to serve as a makeshift ramp.
“Shit,” Lattner barked. “Splinter.”
Martin hushed him, and Lattner answered, “No need, James Bond, we’re the only ones here. Us and that probably rabid nag waltzing with Julie.”
Julie worked her way to the end of the plank leading into the truck bed. The pony dove at her, and she jumped behind the wooden boards.
“How are we supposed to get it up there?” Julie asked, crouching lower as the pony snarled. “It would help, Mr. Cowboy Poetry, if you had some idea how to get the harness on.”
Martin sighed. “The body of work with which I am familiar is heavier on lyricism than on practical advice. It’s got a lead rope on.” He nodded toward the noose around the animal’s neck. Lattner, a finger to his lips, tiptoed to the side of the horse and made a grab for the loose end of the rope. The pony kicked laterally and viciously at Lattner’s hand, missing it, but just barely.
“Wow, he must be double-jointed,” Lattner said.
Julie tossed the apple to Martin. “Throw it in the cab. Maybe he’ll go after it.”
Chopo’s rectangle of a head swung toward Martin and a rope of spittle from its foaming mouth slapped his shoulder. The pony’s eyes were bleeding red, and it gurgled and growled. Amoya had been right: the demon Keshi. Martin relayed the apple into the back of the truck, and the pony leapt up the ramp in two hops. Lattner kicked the boards away and slammed the tailgate.
“He’s so hungry,” said Julie. They watched the pony finish the apple in one bite then submerge its snout into a bucket of water.
The pony’s back glistened. Someone had put some sort of salve on his saddle sores, the ones that had made a front-page appearance over Martin’s story, and they looked a little better. But the animal had had no food for days, it seemed.
“Why do you think Dewitty left just him?” Julie asked, tossing another apple into the truck bed.
“He was on the front page and not looking too good,” Martin said. “It’s going to be kind of suspicious if he’s not around for the big inspection.”
Martin watched the pony drain the bucket and wondered how long he had been without water. Dewitty was a cruel man and a stupid man. If whatever he had cooked up to fool the council was this half-assed, Martin could count on penning a nice dénouement to the first expose within the week. That is, of course, unless he was busy planning a funeral. That was the point of this, after all, sending his mom off to the “Grand Roundup, where the cowboys with others must stand.” Maybe after, he would adopt Chopo, find a nice stable near town to house him, let him eat apples and rest out his days, which, given that he looked about three-hundred-years old and not well, had to be numbered.
Julie dumped the rest of the bag of apples in the back of the truck and Faux Chopo rooted around for them, snarling and sneezing.
“Not too grateful,” she said. “Let’s get out of here while he’s occupied.”
Lattner bumped the truck down Dewitty’s long driveway and back onto paved roads, though not the main ones, lest some night owl catch sight of the captive in the rear, who was not going along with the caper quietly. Having finished off the last of the apples, the pony had taken to kicking at the tailgate with his back hooves.
Julie maneuvered on the back seat’s cracked plastic bench and peered out the rear window into the cab. “He’s putting some nice dents in there. Won’t Mrs. Trinkle be angry?”
“She hasn’t driven this since Mr. Trinkle went,” said Lattner.
“When did he die?” asked Martin, as always, amazed at his own self-involvement. He had never thought to ask.
“He didn’t die. He moved to Cabo,” said Lattner, “with his lover, Maurice McJunkin.”
“The Harley guy?” said Martin.
“Yeah,” said Lattner. “She goes down there for vacations, stays with them. Nice condo. I’ve seen pictures.”
Martin nodded, struck speechless by one of those glimpses of the great chasm of complications and connections that are other people’s lives. The rest of the ride passed in silence, save for the clang of hoof on metal and the putter of the F-250’s engine.
When they reached Martin’s, Lattner backed into the driveway. The plan was to bring Dottie out through the garage, open the door, give her a quick look at Chopo in the back of the truck, settle her back into her deathbed, return the horse, and get back in time for Saturday Night Live. Martin went around to the front door and was surprised to find it locked and the house lights off. Carroll was away on business, as he was most of the time these days, and Martin had not wanted Amoya to stay for this. He was pretty sure that witnessing Keshi in the flesh might push the kind woman over the edge. That left Frank to babysit while they were gone, not much to ask, Martin had thought.
He found his key and was jiggling the lock when Julie came around the corn
er. “Hurry up, the beast is getting restless,” she said. Martin heard a loud whinny.
“Frank, the asshole, isn’t here.” He pushed open the door and picked up the note on the hall rug.
mom a
sleep at
rons
Julie looked over his arm at the scrawl. “A regular ee cummings, our Frank,” she said.
“He couldn’t spare a couple hours from his busy life of skipping class and smoking pot? Mom could have died,” said Martin.
“Well, that’s the point, right?” said Julie.
Martin winced. So maybe it was. He didn’t want his mom to die. He didn’t want her to live. He felt a molten sphere of anger form underneath his rib cage. It was unspeakable, all this. Unspeakable and unfair. Even the cowboy poets had nothing to say. How was he supposed to know what to do? Where was the trail map that showed him how to live, or her how to die, on this forsaken mountain route, so cruel and so hopeless?
“Is that you?” Dottie’s voice floated from the dark living room.
“Yeah,” Martin and Julie answered in unison. She probably hadn’t meant either of them.
“Time to meet your Chopo,” said Julie, pulling the wheelchair out of the front hall closet, unfolding it, and pushing it to the hospital bed.
“C’mon, Mom, let’s go see Chopo.” He lifted her from the bed and set her in the wheelchair.
She started to cry. “Thank you, thank you.”
She kept up a sort of sobbing, laughing, and chanting as they pushed through the hall, the den, and out the door into the garage. Martin wanted to slap her. He wanted to hold her. He wanted to be held by her. He punched the garage door opener.
The door let out a last groan and settled into its overhead berth. Faux Chopo’s head hung over the tailgate, and a gray tongue lolled out between black lips. A little in front of that stood Lattner, looking quite pleased with himself, holding the end of the rope around Faux Chopo’s neck.
“Impressive,” said Martin.
