Thunder and Rain

by Charles Martin

  I finished my coffee and woke him at daylight. When the trailers pulled into the drive, we were saddled and moving cows through the pasture. We bunched them, eased them toward the fence, and used the fence to route them to the corral. Then we combed back through the mesquite and picked up a few stragglers. I watched Brodie, working his way through the brush and trees. Cutting cows. Cinch and I held back, letting him work. He was a natural on a horse and more cowboy than many of the men I knew.

  By midmorning, we had them loaded. Art paid me with a certified check, then he and his two cowboys drove off with my and Brodie’s herd in three gooseneck trailers. It’d taken me twenty-three years to build it up from a bull and three cows. It was more than half my life’s work. Dust swirled behind the trailers as they rattled away.

  Brodie mounted up and spent the rest of the morning with Mr. B. I walked Cinch to the barn, pulled off his saddle, and brushed him down. An hour later, Dumps poked his head around the corner. “You brush him any more and he won’t have no hair left.”

  I’d lost track of time. I nodded. He said, “What’s got you so tied up?”

  An empty pasture spread out before us. “That’s a lot of hard work that got pissed away at the craps table, shopping trips, and wherever else she blew the money.”

  “Yeah, it is.” He nodded, then spat. “Question you got to answer is ‘Do those circumstances dictate your attitude?’ ”

  I looked at him out of the corner of my eye. “You learn that in prison?”

  “Yep.”

  “Sounds like something my father would have said.”

  He patted me on the back and walked off. “That’s ’cause he’s the one that first said it to me.”

  “Figures.”

  I scratched my head most of the afternoon trying to figure out what kind of cowboy doesn’t own cows. It was like a pair of boots that did not fit. When I finally landed on the answer, it did not soothe me. I knew the rest of this equation was going to hurt almost as much so I decided to get it all over with at once. Sort of like pulling off a Band-Aid. Without giving myself time to chicken-out, I called Mike Merkett at home. He answered. I asked him to meet me at the Bar S. When he stepped out of his Escalade, I handed him the check. He nodded, approvingly. I said, “Mike, I still owe your bank seventy-nine thousand dollars.”

  I knew more about Mike than I let on. I knew he liked old cars. Even kept a warehouse where he spit and polished about twenty or so rotating beauties depending upon what he’d bought or sold at the latest Barrett’s auction. I also knew he had a weakness for Corvettes, and of the seven he’d bought, he’d never sold a one. That meant something to me. I may have owed Mike money, and a lot of money, but that didn’t make him a bad guy. He didn’t drive a truck, he didn’t wear a hat, he didn’t look like what I thought a banker in Texas ought to look like. He was just different. But different ain’t wrong. It’s just different. I tried to remember that as I walked to the barn.

  I pulled open the barn door and let the sunshine fall inside. Mike’s eyes caught the dustcover and the shape underneath. I pulled it off slowly. “My father gave this to me a few days shy of my eighteenth birthday. After he was shot in your bank…” I paused and let that sink in. “I set it up on blocks and it gathered dust for a few years. Then, slowly, I began taking it apart. Every bolt. Every nut. Every speck of paint. Took me four years. The odometer is true. Twenty-seven thousand original miles.” He walked in a circle, his fingers tracing the lines. “To the right buyer, this is worth somewhere between fifty-five and sixty-two.” He nodded in agreement. “At the right auction, maybe a bit more.”

  He nodded again. This time the smile growing.

  “You know how you hear stories about guys who meet some old widow with a car she ain’t driven in twenty years and then how they buy it and bring it home and show it off to all their buddies who can’t believe what he found and stand googly-eyed in lustful, covetous amazement at their friend’s good fortune?” He knew where this was going. He was no dummy. “Well, this is your day and I’m that old woman.”

  I lifted the hood and his jaw dropped. He managed, “It’s beautiful.” He sat in the front seat, his hands rubbing the wheel. After several minutes, he stepped out and clicked the door shut. “Sold, and I’ll take good care of her. It’s obvious she means a lot to you. If I ever sell her, you get first right of refusal.”

  “I’d appreciate that.”

  When he climbed back into his Escalade, he asked, “Am I mistaken or are you now completely out of debt?”

  I stared across an empty pasture. Cow patties dotting the trails beneath the mesquite. Paths to the river where I’d picnicked with my wife. Where Brodie was conceived. “Mike, I may not owe your bank, may not owe any man, but that don’t mean I don’t owe nothing.”

  Mike promised to return that night with his wife and drive it home. I handed him the keys. “Whenever it suits you.”

  I walked out across the sea of blue, beneath the gnarly scrub oaks, and stood over Dad’s grave. Ringneck doves were working their way north. A few scurried across the ground or lit in the trees. Their wings whistling with each flap. The river shone silver below me. One of the oil derricks sat rusty and unmoving down the hill to my left. A scrub oak grew up a few feet from Dad’s marker. I sat next to it and leaned back, staring west across the river. For the first time in my life, I owned, outright, a piece of land. It had no oil, no cows, and I had no wife to share it with.

  It was a wide stretch of dust set down behind the sun.

  I rolled a cigarette, lit it with Dad’s brass Zippo, and inhaled deeply. I turned and exhaled into the breeze. I did that several times. The smoke exited my mouth, hung suspended before me, was caught by the breeze and returned, washing my face.

  And while it filled my lungs and senses, it did not dry the tears.

  And there were a lot of them.

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  I pushed back from the table. Stuffed. Not even Al Pacino, Robert De Niro, or Marlon Brando had eaten spaghetti that good. Brodie had liked it, too. Had sauce all over his face. I turned to Sam. “Don’t know when I’ve had better.” She smiled. Hope, too. “I need to check some fence.” Obviously, I didn’t ’cause I had nothing to contain but that didn’t seem relevant. I needed an excuse. “You want to go?”

  Sam lit. “Sure.”

  “Can you ride?”

  “Don’t know. Never done it.”

  I shook my head. “What is the world coming to?” Hope chuckled, which I thought was a good sign.

  Andie liked her stirrups long. Hole number seven. While their legs were close to the same length, Sam wanted the feeling of more control. I shortened it to the sixth hole. I ran my fingers across the worn leather around the seventh hole. I’m not sure if they’d ever been at any other length in the ten years we owned the saddle.

  I walked us out of the barn, leading her by the reins. Brodie had spent three years here without his mom. Prior to that she wasn’t in all that great shape emotionally. For that matter, neither were we. It’d been a while since he’d lived in a healthy home. While he hoped to have her back, he had gotten used to her not being here. In the same way I had gotten used to it with my dad. His problem, and it was the same problem I would have had, was the introduction of a woman into this equation that was not his mom. And while he liked Sam, and was in a small sense becoming a big brother to Hope, he didn’t like the picture of Sam and me riding down toward the river. Especially since Sam was riding May. I turned, saw him standing next to the barn door. When I waved my hat, he disappeared into the barn.

  Sam picked up on it. “Is this okay?”

  “Yeah.”

  The best way to see Texas is on the back of a horse. It’s also a good place to do some thinking. I pushed open the gate and locked it out of habit. Sam spoke. “Since you don’t own any cows, do you really need to check fence?”

  “No.”

  “Then, is this a date?”

  I laughed. “No.”

  Hand
s on the saddle horn, she said, “Tell me what you love about Texas.”

  “Everything, I suppose.”

  She shook her head. “Nope. You’ve got to do better than that. Use words.”

  I thought about that. Finally, I gave her what I could, pointing at what my eye could see. “I love the 183 men who died at the Alamo; the fact that we fly the Texas flag the same height as the American; the Brazos that flows from the Great Plains and the Llano Estacado to the Gulf of Mexico some eight hundered miles later; the hill country that’s rolling and green and covered in deer; farm-to-market roads where men pull to the side to let others pass; men who tip their hats at ladies and boys who tuck in their shirts; brisket that falls off the bone; the Fort Worth stockyards; Black Baldies; Santa Gertrudis; sunset skies blackened by a million ringneck doves headed south to Mexico; Wrangler-clad boys who value a farmer’s tan and a crew cut; the fact that we have our own power grid; that we were first a republic and could be again; handmade boots; the way the sun sets over there and… I guess you get the point.”

  “Those are some impressive words.”

  “I’m one little piece of a great big ole piece called Texas.”

  “I like the way you say that. How’d you become a Ranger?”

  Good question. I tipped my hat back and wiped my forehead with the sleeve of my shirt. “I don’t ever remember not being one. Even when I was little. I mean in my heart, and in my thinking. Growing up, all my heroes were lawmen. That they happened to be cowboys didn’t hurt either. John Wayne topped the list. Still does, I guess. Around my house, we took seriously the ideas of right and wrong. I remember carving my own cinco peso out of wood. I remember seeing my dad dress every day for work. Starched jeans, starched shirt, shiny buckle, shined boots, white or gray Stetson. He used to tell me that he knew he’d put enough starch in his clothes when they could stand up on their own. For a long time he told me the department didn’t issue bulletproof vests ’cause no bullet made could make it through all the starch.” I shrugged. “That upbringing bred in me a strong sense of justice.” I paused, rested my hands on the saddle horn, and pushed my hat back.

  “High school was tough for me. With little female influence in my life, I was unsure of girls and how to interact. I skipped my senior prom ’cause I was afraid to ask anyone and I knew sure as shooting I didn’t want to have to dance.” She laughed again. “I avoided love in high school by keeping to sports. Did some rodeoing, and lettered four years on the shooting team. I finished local college in three years with a degree in criminology and then attended the academy. I spent seven years in local law enforcement from sheriff’s office to highway patrol, did a stint in narcotics, then, on the second best day of my life, I received an appointment to serve as a Texas Ranger joining Company C making me one of, at the time, 104 Rangers. My territory covered a sizable piece of West Texas.”

  “What was the best day?”

  “The day Andie gave me Brodie.”

  “Tell me about her.”

  “Still not shying away from the tough stuff, are you?”

  “Well, I want to know what kind of girl you like.”

  “Andie was, is, a pretty girl. Big, round eyes. Medium height. Freckles on her upturned nose. Loved jeans that had been worn—maybe frayed at the edges and a good pair of boots. I can’t tell you how many times I saw her cook breakfast in boots and a nightgown. She liked the smell of a horse, reading stories to Brodie, didn’t mind mucking the stalls, liked a good sweat, didn’t worry about her nails but liked getting them done when she could. A good momma. At one time, she was a good wife. Tender, but not afraid to tell me what she thought. There was a time when she fought for me… that passed. Always good on a horse. Probably better than me when it comes down to it.”

  “Do you value that in a woman?”

  “I do, although, it’s not like it’s a deal breaker.”

  A few minutes passed. She turned to me abruptly. “Are you ever scared?”

  “Of what?”

  “Being shot. Dying.”

  I shrugged. “Every man dies.”

  “Yeah, but not every man gets shot.”

  “Maybe not with bullets, but we all get holes poked in us.” I turned around, looked at our trail, then laughed at the two of us. “We went from superficial to not-so-superficial in a rather short distance.”

  Moments passed. She pressed me. “You don’t seem like the kind of guy to quit on anything so, what happened? Why’d you stop being a Ranger?”

  “My wife would argue I’ve never stopped being a Ranger.”

  “Would you?”

  I sucked through my teeth. “Yes.”

  “So—?”

  “Some folks have a hard time with the way I think and talk. I see black and white and few to no shades of gray. ’Course, those critics grow silent when the man on the bridge is holding their kid two hundered feet above the water or wrapping duct tape around their mouth.”

  She waited. I pulled back on the reins, turned Cinch. Folded my hands across the pommel. Unfolded my handkerchief and wiped my face. “I’m no scholar. No expert. But, I’m told that every culture has the stories they tell their young. We call them fairy tales. Whether they admit it or not, every girl grows up dreaming of Cinderella. Dancing at the ball with a handsome prince wearing silver slippers.”

  “They’re glass.”

  “See what I mean?”

  She smiled. I continued. “Other day I was driving somewhere, song came on the radio. Pretty good beat. Girl singing. Something about Romeo and Juliet and some guy throwing pebbles. I started singing along. I liked it.”

  She burst out laughing. “You were singing, ‘Love Story’?”

  “I don’t know what it’s called but I walked in the door singing it and Brodie listened about two seconds, then revoked my man card.”

  She started laughing. “He revoked your what?”

  “My man card. Brodie said any man caught singing that song—I think the girl’s name was Tyler Fast or—”

  Sam was doubled over. Barely got the words out. “Taylor Swift.”

  “Yeah, that’s it. Anyway, he said any man caught singing that song suffered a mandatory revocation of his man card and that I could reapply in ninety days but I’d be on mandatory probation for at least a year. Any further infraction would result in a year-long suspension.”

  She still couldn’t talk. “Anyway, the point is that we still buy into the fairy tale. We love them. They are the stories that feed us and thank God they do. Lord knows we need something to feed on ’cause the nightly news sure ain’t doing the trick.” I gently bumped the pommel with my fist. “Cinderella ain’t wrong to want to dance, to be swept off her feet, live inside the castle. I just think she ought to be able to do so without being raped or murdered or made to fear.” I spat and shook my head. She was listening now.

  “Greatest trick ever played on mankind is that somewhere, somebody sold us a bill of goods convincing us that evil ain’t real.” I nodded. “Evil’s got a face. I’ve seen it. Many a time.” I pointed south toward Abilene, and west toward the Cap Rock. “It’s walking around—wearing white collars and tattoos, SWAT vests, badges, standing behind pulpits, hiding behind every manner of disguise. Evil is as real as that cactus right there and it wants your head on a platter. My daddy described it as a roaring lion, prowling around looking for someone to devour, and in my experience, that is true.” I fell quiet a minute. “But, no matter how it dresses, and no matter what disguise it takes, it’s still evil.” My tone of voice dropped. “And there’s only one way to deal with it. It ain’t by playing defense. You can only play defense for so long. My father told me that when I was a kid, but it didn’t start sinking in until I held his head in my hands. So, when I got my chance, I went on offense. I pulled on my boots, cinched down my hat, clocked in and never clocked out.” I nodded, staring at her. “I was always ‘on.’ I arrested a lot of people, put many a man in prison, confiscated truckloads of drugs. That made me a very good Rang
er. Decorated. Then somewhere in there I met my Cinderella, we married and she gave me a son.” I paused and shook my head. The admission painful. “But, in my experience, marriage and law enforcement aren’t all that compatible. Oil and water. That part of the fairy tale didn’t make the finished book. Didn’t end up in the song.” She watched me. Studying me. I took off my hat and wiped my brow. “That made me a bad, even incomplete, husband. So, when you ask ‘What happened?’ Well”—I waved my hand back across the story I’d just told—“that happened.” I folded my handkerchief and set my hat back on my head. “Now, I haven’t spoke this many words to a woman in I don’t know how long.”

  “I like hearing you talk.” She stood up in the stirrups, staring out and down, stretching. The saddle creaked. A familiar sound made by an unfamiliar rider. “Your voice is soothing.” She rolled one thumb over the other.

  “Can I ask you something?”

  “Ask away.”

  “What do you dream?”

  She chuckled. “That’s easy. To live with and alongside… rather than without and alone.”

  I nodded. “A good dream.”

  “Yeah, well, I’m not really holding my breath.”

  We rode up a small hill and stopped on a high bluff some thirty feet above the river. A chuckle. She ran her hand through the ponytail bobbing on the back of her head.

  “Why’s that?”

  She looked surprised. “You serious?”

  “Yeah.”

  “We must not be looking at the same me.”

  “Well, what ‘me’ are you looking at?”

  “The one in the mirror.”

  “Which one is that?”

  “The one that looks like a walking disaster. The one who’s made a string of bad choices followed by another and another. I’m the poster child for ‘don’t do this.’ I see a high-mileage woman who chased dreams, got close, but got passed over. Whose dreams got shattered. Then ’cause it hurt too much, she forgot how, or worse yet, quit trying and buried them. And now she’s resigned to settling for less and living that way ’cause anything else is too painful. And whenever she thinks that maybe she can put the past behind her, she remembers that there are awful images of her daughter that have probably circulated the globe by now. Let’s face it, I’m a mess.” She turned the question on me. The crow’s-feet had returned. “What do you see?” There was a lot embedded in her question.