by Kent Haruf
Then the sheriff’s deputy led the inmate next to Hoyt up to the lawyers’ lectern. The man’s name was Bistrum and he moved forward in his little shuffling steps. He was charged with possession of marijuana and the bouncing of checks, but due to a complication in his case the judge ordered him to return to court on the eighteenth of January. The man swung around to look at a tall girl sitting in the third row and mouthed words to her, and she whispered back to him, then he shook his head and shrugged his shoulders and the deputy led him shuffling back to their bench.
When the judge announced People of the State of Colorado vs. Hoyt Raines, the deputy nodded at him and said: You’re up, asshole. Hoyt gave him a grin and stepped forward. The young public defender stood up beside him and addressed the court.
Your Honor, we wish to advise the court that Mr. Raines has decided to enter a plea of guilty to the charge of misdemeanor child abuse. He is fully aware of the charges and he has been advised of his rights. We submit to the court this copy of the Advisement signed by the defendant.
She stepped to the bench and handed the judge the form. He reached down and took it, then she returned to her place beside Hoyt.
The judge looked at the form. Mr. Raines, do you understand your rights in this courtroom?
I understand them, Hoyt said.
And you understand the charges against you?
Yeah. But that don’t mean I like them.
You don’t have to like them. But you do have to understand them. And you’re telling the court that you do want to plead guilty to the charge of child abuse?
I guess so.
What do you mean you guess so.
I mean yeah, I do.
The judge looked at him for some time. He glanced at the papers in front of him, then addressed the district attorney: You agree that there is a factual basis for this case?
Yes, Your Honor.
What is your recommendation regarding Mr. Raines here?
Your Honor, we believe that since Mr. Raines has already served a month in jail, no further jail time is required. We recommend that there be a period of not less than a year of probation and that Mr. Raines accept without dispute whatever the probation officer reasonably recommends for treatment. We further recommend that the defendant refrain from any contact with the children in question and that he not be permitted to live in the Wallace household any longer.
The judge turned to the young lawyer. Do you concur with all we’ve just heard?
Yes, Your Honor.
Mr. Raines, have you yourself got anything to say?
Hoyt shook his head.
Am I to take that as a no?
No. I haven’t got anything more to say. What good would it do me anyhow.
That might depend upon what you said.
There ain’t nothing to say.
Then you will be remanded over to the sheriff and he will release you from custody today. You will contact the probation officer within twenty-four hours. The court orders you to serve one year of supervised probation. Further, you are ordered to pay full court costs, plus a fine of two hundred dollars, and to do ninety-six hours of public service. You will refrain from any contact with the Wallace children and you will no longer reside in the Wallace household. Any question?
Hoyt looked at the young public defender beside him and when she shook her head he looked at the judge. I heard you, he said. I haven’t got any question.
Good, the judge said. Because I don’t want to see you in here again. This court has seen all it ever wants to see of you, Mr. Raines.
The judge signed the Advisement and handed it to the clerk, then pulled another file out and called the next case.
Hoyt turned and walked to the rear of the courtroom. The deputy rose and escorted him and the other inmate into the hall and on downstairs to the sheriff’s office, where the other man was returned to his cell.
The deputy stood before Hoyt and unlocked his handcuffs. You can gather up your belongings now, he said. And report to the probation officer.
I have twenty-four hours till I have to see him.
That’s the way you’re going to do this, is it? Make it difficult for everybody, like you been doing all along.
It’s none of your fucking business anymore what I do, Hoyt said. The judge released me. I’m free to go. And you’re free to kiss my ass.
23
ON A SATURDAY MORNING IN DECEMBER TOM GUTHRIE and the two boys, Ike and Bobby, drove out to the McPheron place just after breakfast. It was a clear cold day. Only a little wind was blowing up out of the west.
They got out of Guthrie’s old red faded Dodge pickup and entered the horse lot where Raymond was waiting for them next to the barn. The two boys, twelve and eleven, were slim and lank, dressed for the cold day in jeans and lined jackets and wool caps and leather gloves. In the horse lot Raymond already had the horses brushed and saddled, and they stood loose-tied at the pole fence, swinging their heads to look as the Guthries approached.
You fellows are right on time, Raymond said. I’m about ready for you. How you boys doing this morning?
They looked at each other. We’re okay, Ike said.
Hell of a deal having to come out here on a Saturday morning so early, isn’t it.
We don’t mind.
Did he feed you any breakfast before you left town?
Yes sir.
That’s good. It’s going to be a long time till noon dinner.
How do you want to go about this? Guthrie said.
Oh, about like always, I guess, Tom. We’ll just ride out amongst them and bring them all in together to the holding pen there and start separating them. How’s that sound to you?
Sounds fine to me, Guthrie said. You’re the boss.
They mounted the horses and rode out into the pasture. The horses were fresh and a little skittish, a little high in the cold weather, but soon settled down. Far across the pasture the cattle and two-year-old heifers and big blackbaldy calves were spread out in the sagebrush and the native grass, their dark shapes visible over a low wind-blown rise. As they rode on, Guthrie and Raymond talked about the weather and the lateness of the snow and the condition of the grass, and Guthrie thought to inquire about Victoria Roubideaux. Raymond told him she had called the night before. She sounded pretty good, he said. Seems like she’s doing real well in her studies there in Fort Collins. She’ll be coming home for Christmas.
The two boys rode alongside the men, not talking. They looked around at all there was to see, glad to be out of school doing anything on horseback.
When the four riders drew near, the old mother cows and heifers and calves all stopped grazing and stood as still and alert as deer, watching them approach, then began to move away across the grass toward the far fence line.
You boys go turn them, Guthrie said. Don’t you think, Raymond?
That’s right. Head them back this way.
The boys touched up their horses and loped off after the cattle, riding like oldtime cowboys out across the native grass on the treeless high plains under a sky as blue and pure as a piece of new crockery.
THEY GATHERED THE CATTLE AND DROVE THEM BACK TO the home corrals and then shut them up in the holding pen east of the barn. Then they dismounted and loosened the cinches and watered the horses and tied them at the pole fence. The horses stood and shook themselves, resting with one back leg cocked. They each were dark with sweat at their necks and flanks and lathered between their back legs.
Raymond and the two boys began to work the cows and calves now, pushing one cow-calf pair at a time out of the holding pen into the high plank-sided alley where Guthrie stood at the far end ready with the swing gate. One of the boys would trot behind with a herdsman’s whip, heading them down the alley. The calves stayed close to their mothers, but when they reached Guthrie he shoved the head of the gate between them and closed it, sorting the cow out to pasture and the calf into a second big pen. As soon as they were separated both cow and calf began to bawl, crying and c
alling, milling in a circle. The dust rose in the air out of the unceasing noise and commotion and hung above them in a brown cloud that drifted away only gradually in the low wind. And all the time the cattle kept stirring, shoving against one another, then standing still to set up to bawl, and the calves in the pen kept raising their heads and bawling and crying, their mouths thrown open, showing pink like rubber and roped with slobber, their eyes rolled back to rims of white. Now and then a cow and its calf would locate each other along the plank fence and stand breathing and licking at the other through the narrow spaces between the rough boards. But when the cow would move away, milling along the fence, the calf would lift its head to bawl once more. It all grew louder and dirtier as the morning hours passed.
In the holding pen Raymond said: Here now, you want to watch this one. She tends to be a little snorty. Stay back from her.
A tall black cow came trotting out from the pen with her calf close behind. The boys succeeded in turning them both into the alley and got them headed toward Guthrie. At the end of the alley she came rushing at him, tossing her head as if to hook him. He climbed quickly up the fence two or three boards, and when she reached for him with her horns he kicked at her head. Then she and her calf dodged into the pasture before he could jump down and swing the gate. Ike called: You want me to go get them, Dad?
No, I’m going to leave her. We’ll get a rope on the calf later. That all right, Raymond?
That’s exactly right, Raymond said.
They went on working cattle in the bright day in the dust-filled pens. The day had warmed up a little, the wind had stayed down and they grew warm in their lined jackets. By half-past noon they were finished.
You better come up to the house for some dinner now, Raymond said. I believe these boys here could use something to eat.
Oh, we’ll just go into town, Guthrie said. We’ll get us something to eat at the café. But let us get that calf in first.
No, you better come up to the house. We’ll get the calf later. I got some of that good ground beef thawed out from the locker. It’s going to waste if you don’t come in. I ain’t going to eat all of it by myself.
They left the corrals and walked across the gravel drive to the house and porch where they slapped the dust off their jeans and stomped their boots and went inside and took off their warm jackets and hats, and Raymond washed his hands and face at the sink and started to cook at the old enameled stove. Guthrie and the boys washed up at the sink after him and dried off on the kitchen towel. You boys can help me set the table, Guthrie said.
They got down plates and glasses from the cupboard and set them on the table and laid out silverware, then looked in the old refrigerator and took out bottles of ketchup and mustard. Anything else? Guthrie said.
You can open this can of beans, Raymond said, so I can heat it up. Maybe one of you boys can find some milk.
They stood about in the kitchen watching him cook, and when he was finished at the stove they sat down at the table to eat. He carried the big heavy frying pan to the table and forked two hamburgers onto each plate, the meat was badly overcooked, black and hard as something poked out of a campfire. Then he set the pan on the stove and sat down. Go on ahead and eat, he said, unless somebody wants to pray. No one did. He looked around at them. What are you waiting on? Oh hell, I forgot to buy hamburger buns, didn’t I. Well shoot, he said. He got up and brought a sack of white bread to the table and sat down again. You boys can eat these hamburgers without buns, can’t you?
Yes sir.
Okay then. Let’s see if any of this is worth our attention.
They passed the dish of heated beans around the table and poured ketchup on the hamburgers. The ketchup soaked through and made pink circles on the bread. The bread turned soggy and came apart in their hands so that they had to lean over and eat above their plates. There was not much talking. The boys looked once at their father, and he nodded toward their plates and they ducked their heads and went on eating. When the beans came around again they each spooned out a second large portion. For dessert Raymond got down four coffee cups and opened a big can of grocery-store peaches and went around the table to each place and spooned out bright yellow quarters into each of the cups and poured out the syrup in equal quantities.
Meanwhile Guthrie was looking about the kitchen. There were pieces of machinery and bits of leather and old rusted buckles collected on the chairs and in the corners.
Raymond, he said, you ought to get out of the country now and again. Come into town, have a beer or something. You’re going to get too lonesome out here.
It does get kind of quiet sometimes, Raymond said.
You better drive into town one of these Saturday nights. Have a little fun for yourself.
Well, no. I can’t see what I’d do with myself in town.
You might be surprised, Guthrie said. You might find some manner of interesting trouble to get into.
It might be some kind of trouble I didn’t know how to get out of, Raymond said. What’d I do then?
AFTER LUNCH THEY WENT OUTSIDE AGAIN AND THE TWO boys mounted their horses and rode into the pasture among the cows and located the tall black cow and dropped a rope on her calf and dragged the stiff-legged calf back into the big pen with the rest. The cow made a run at them there, but they were able to turn her away and take the calf inside.
The cattle were all still bawling as before. They would go on bawling and milling for three days. Then the cows would grow hungry enough to move farther out into the pasture to graze and their bags would dry up. As for the calves, Raymond would have to fork out brome hay in the long row of feed bunks in the holding pen and bucket out ground corn on top of the hay, and he’d have to watch them carefully for a while or they might turn sick.
WHEN GUTHRIE AND THE BOYS DROVE OUT TO THE county road to return to Holt, they could still hear the cattle from a mile away.
They’re all right, aren’t they? Bobby said.
Yeah, they’re all right, Guthrie said. They’re going to have to be. It happens every year like this. I thought you knew that.
I never paid it any attention before, Bobby said. I never was a part of it before.
Those cows and heifers are already pregnant with their next year’s calves, Guthrie said. They’d have to wean these calves themselves if we didn’t do it for them. They’ve got to build up their strength for next year’s crop.
They make an awful lot of noise, Ike said. They don’t seem to like it much.
No, Guthrie said.
He looked at his sons riding beside him in the pickup, headed down the gravel road on this bright winter afternoon, the flat open country all around them gray and brown and very dry.
They never do like it, he said. I can’t imagine anything or anybody that would like it. But every living thing in this world gets weaned eventually.
24
THE RAILROAD PENSION CHECK HAD COME AND THE OLD man wanted to go out despite the bitter cold. The temperature had begun to drop every night into the teens and below. You don’t have to come, he said. I can manage without you.
You can’t go by yourself, DJ said. I’m coming with you.
He went back to his bedroom and got into heavier clothes and returned to the front room and took down his mackinaw and mittens from the plank closet in the corner and put them on and then stood at the door holding his stocking cap in his hand. You better dress warm, Grandpa. You remember last winter when you got frostbite.
Don’t you worry about that. I been out in more freezing weather than you ever heard of. Goddamn it, boy, I worked out in this cold all my life.
He put on his old heavy black coat and pulled a corduroy cap down over his white head, the flaps hanging loose beside his big ears. Then he slipped on leather mittens and looked around the room. Turn that light off.
I will, as soon as you go out. I’m waiting on you, DJ said. Have you got your check?
Course I got my check. It’s right here in my wallet. He patted the chest pocket
of his overalls under the heavy coat. Let’s go, he said.
They stepped out and immediately the south wind blowing down on them was enough to take their breath away. Above the lights of town the sky was hard and clear. They walked along the street toward downtown. There was no traffic. The lights were on in Mary Wells’s house but all the blinds were pulled down tight. Patches of snow lay scattered in the yards and ruts of ice were hardened in the road.
At Main Street they turned south into the wind and walked along on the sidewalk. A car drove by, its exhaust as white and ragged as wood smoke, before the wind snatched it away. They crossed the railroad tracks and the red signal light shone at the west. The grain elevators loomed over them.
In Holt’s small business district their paired images walked beside them in the plateglass storefronts. The old man went limping bent over in his heavy coat, his head down, and the boy was a good deal shorter in the windows.
At the corner of Third Street they crossed Main and stepped into the tavern, entering the long hot smoky room with its clamor of loud talk and country music and pool games going on in the back and the television playing from the bracketed shelf above the bar. His grandfather peered about while he stood beside him, waiting. Old men were sitting against the wall at a round wooden table, and they went over there.
Who’s that you got with you? one of them said. Is that DJ? Cold enough for you, boy?
Yes sir. Just about. He took a chair from the next table and sat behind his grandfather.
Just about, he says. Hah.
Don’t tell me you walked over here, another old man said. Walt, you must of about froze your tail off coming down here.
I’ve seen colder, he said.
Everybody’s seen colder. I’m just saying it’s cold.
It’s December, ain’t it, the old man said. Now where’s that waitress? I need something to drink here. I want something to heat up my insides.
She’ll be here. Give her a minute.
Watch her when she comes over, said a red-faced man across the table.
