Desert Discord

by Henry D. Terrell

  “Chris, can you just tell us how it went, from the beginning?” said Carr.

  “Nothing really happened,” muttered Chris, head down. “It was a couple of weeks ago. We just got in a fight with some guys in the park.”

  “Raise your head when you’re talking to Mr. Carr,” said Sam.

  “I’m sorry. Yeah, we just saw these guys, and then we got in a fight with them.”

  “And you never said a word about it,” said Sam. “Not even a mention to me. I had to hear about it from the police a week later.”

  “Wait, Sam, let’s see if we can get the facts straight here,” said Carr. “We need to know what happened before we decide what to do next. Now, Chris, tell me how it started. Were you walking in the park?”

  “No, we were driving by, and we saw them. Joe shouted at them, but he was just kidding around.”

  “Shouted what?” asked Carr.

  “Nothing really. Just, ‘Hey, give me a kiss,’ or something like that. He was just kidding around. We weren’t looking for trouble.”

  “Did they shout back?”

  “One of them might have said something, but we didn’t stop. We drove over to O’Bannon’s and got milkshakes, then went back by the park.”

  “Did you go back looking for them?”

  “No, we were just riding around, looking for girls and stuff. We saw the queers … I mean, we saw the two guys walking up the street, away from the park, and I slowed down so Joe could yell at them. He was just kidding around.”

  “What did he yell?”

  “He just said, ‘Hey, there’ or something. I think he just made kissing noises, and one of them made a smart-ass remark, so we stopped to ask them about it.”

  “What did the guy say to Joe?”

  “I don’t know,” said Chris. “Maybe it was, ‘You’d like that, wouldn’t you?’ or something.”

  “And then the fight started?”

  “Yeah. We realized they were definitely queers … homos. I mean, they were in that park. Where those kinds of guys hang out.”

  “Who started the fight?” asked Carr.

  “It was definitely one of the two guys. He threw the first punch. He punched Joe really hard, so we figured we had to get them back. It was self-defense.”

  “Did he hit you?”

  “No, he just punched Joe. He hit him really hard in the stomach and nearly knocked him down, so we couldn’t let him get away with it.”

  “What did Joe say to the guy before he hit him? Did he try to egg him on in some way?”

  “No. Joe just told him to put down his fiddle and be a man, but the guy just threw his fiddle over the fence and punched Joe.”

  “The police said that man in the park could have easily died. You fractured his skull. Kicked him in the head. You know, he’s in real bad shape—in a coma, last I heard. It’s a lot more serious than a little bruise. He might have brain damage. I hope you realize how serious this is.”

  “That wasn’t me!” said Chris. “I was having words with the other queer. I mean the other guy. He tried to hit me, so I took his horn out of the case and broke it, and he ran across the street, so I chased him.”

  “How far did you chase him?”

  “Just across the street to that little store. Then I came back, and the other dude was on the ground.”

  “And Joe was kicking him?”

  “No, Joe was trying to stop it. He was yelling, ‘That’s enough! That’s enough!’ It was Del Ray who was kicking the guy. On the ground. He was going crazy, just crazy. Joe was yelling, and I was yelling too. We were saying, ‘Stop, Del Ray! You’re gonna kill him. Stop!’”

  “Then what happened?”

  “Del Ray stopped. We left.”

  Carr and Sam looked at each other, silent. Finally Sam spoke quietly.

  “Ben, would you mind leaving us alone for a minute? I’m sorry. But if you’re going to be his attorney …”

  “I get you,” said Carr. “Actually, I need to scoot. What time do you want me there in the morning?”

  “They said nine.”

  “Okay. Meet me in front of the station about ten minutes early. We’ll get your story straight. Wear a nice shirt, with a collar.” He left.

  Chris sat with his head down and his hands folded. Sam stood over his son, glaring.

  “I’m sorry, Dad. I really …”

  Sam smacked him hard with the flat of his hand across the side of his head. “You dumb little shit,” he said.

  Chris ducked his head lower. “Dad, it was not like …”

  “You just had to go running across the street where that store clerk could see you. She goes to our church, you know. Your mom knows her. What a genius you are.”

  “I was just … the queer ran away, so I chased him.”

  “To do what, exactly, Mr. Genius? If he runs away, you won the fight. What’s the point? If you hadn’t chased him, nobody would have recognized you, and it would all be over.”

  “I don’t know. Dad, they were queers! They were in the park doing queer stuff. We just thought somebody needed to step up and do something.”

  “Like what?”

  “I don’t know. Learn them some manhood, I guess.”

  – 18 –

  Tim Left the Milk out Again

  Ramona slept late on Saturdays, which for her meant seven o’clock. The clock radio clicked, and she rolled over and rubbed her eyes. The radio wasn’t tuned to a station—all it took was the click to wake her—and now she lay in bed listening to soft static. For the first time in ages, Ramona thought about punching the snooze button. Just a few more minutes.

  But no, it was time to get up. Ramona sat up and ran her fingers through her hair, then scratched herself under her right armpit. She was getting nubby and needed to shave, but there probably wasn’t time this morning. Ramona pulled off the covers, stood up, and stretched, standing on tiptoes and reaching for the ceiling.

  Do I still look cute and sexy? she wondered. Ramona slept naked. She did that every night except for in the dead of winter, when freezing desert winds blew so hard that black microdust found even the tiniest openings in tightly shut windows. Last night, she and Reggie had made love after midnight. That wasn’t something that happened so often anymore, so she took it when she could get it. Reggie worked evenings a lot, especially now that his pest-control company had more and more commercial accounts. At thirty-two years old, Reggie still had the stamina of a young man. For him, getting home at eleven, eating a late supper, and then going to bed feeling frisky was normal. As for Ramona, life was leaving her feeling more and more worn out, like a transistor radio with its battery gradually running down.

  Ramona got out of bed and looked over at Reggie, at peace with his hair in a comical tangle on the top of his head. He had an uncanny way of knowing somebody was looking at him and opened his eyes. He smiled dreamily.

  “Hey, pretty girl,” he said, and reached for her. “Come back and snuggle a minute.”

  Ramona looked at the clock radio—ten minutes past seven.

  “Five minutes,” she said and crawled back into bed to push her body against his. He nuzzled her hair and kissed her softly on the forehead.

  How many forty-year-old married ladies get to lie in bed with a young boyfriend, with the full knowledge and consent of her lawful husband, off in his own bedroom? (Actually, Apollo was almost certainly gone already. Saturday was his golf day, and he had expressed an eagerness to try out his new eyesight on the links.) Ramona cuddled with Reggie and began to drift off.

  Damn. Got to get Janey up. She was supposed to help with the Unitarian semiannual rummage sale for the UU Youth and had signed up for a nine to ten a.m. slot. Ramona had her own appointment to be on the east side of town by nine, so she had to get her daughter moving early.

  Ramona pulled on a bathrobe and went down to the end of the hall, knocking on Janey’s door.

  “Janey! Rise up!”

  A moan from inside.

  “Listen, I’m
going to take a shower first,” called Ramona. “But when I get out, you be ready to take yours. I’ll make it quick so there’s still hot water. Now, get up!”

  Moan.

  Ramona took her shower in the little bathroom at the end of the hall rather than the large one beside the master bedroom. The large bedroom was hers, though now she often shared it with Reggie (who had his own house but seldom slept there). She wanted to give Janey a chance to start her morning ritual without waiting for her mother.

  Years ago, Ramona and Apollo had decided that separate bedrooms might be a solution to excessive proximity. The Piedman house, although a single story, was sprawling, with six bedrooms. Apollo had volunteered to take the little guest bedroom near the kitchen, the one with a single small window facing the side yard. It was dimly lit, made darker by panels of rosewood veneer, but he seemed to like it dark. It had a small bed that couldn’t possibly accommodate more than one person, and the room was crammed to the ceiling with his books and teaching materials. Ramona had helpfully pointed out that, in contrast to the tiny bedroom, the room Apollo used for his home studio was quite large. It had been built originally as an add-on apartment for somebody’s elderly relative, judging from the presence of grab-bars. It was spacious enough to hold even a queen-size bed, while still giving Apollo ample room for his art. But he preferred to sleep in the cave by the kitchen. It certainly facilitated brooding.

  Ramona kept the shower time under five minutes. She toweled off, then looked at herself in the mirror, trying to suck in her poochy abdomen. No amount of vegetarianism or sit-ups could rid herself of the pooch. It wasn’t fair. She had recovered from her first two pregnancies with enviable ease, and had been for several years one of those women who caused other women to remark, “You’ve had babies? You’re kidding me!”

  But her third child was a big baby, born a week late, and was the final blow to her girlish physique. Jane the Surprise Baby. To be honest, none of Ramona’s babies had been planned, but Janey was the least planned of all, and the hardest on Ramona’s waistline.

  Ramona sighed and struggled into a tight pair of support underwear. She wanted to look as fit and as vital as possible today when she met with Bobby Dulman and his wife, Pixie. Bobby was the president of Jeff Davis Savings, and the deepest pocket on the theater’s board of governors. Ramona needed to reassure Bobby that Oscar’s Wallpaper was on schedule and that casting was sailing along smoothly, even though it wasn’t. Bobby was still hesitant about bankrolling a new play by an unknown playwright, though he’d already voted to do so. Pixie was fully won over, but Bobby still needed pep talks. The Saturday brunch meeting had been Pixie’s idea.

  The shock of Andy Zamara’s brutal assault had left Ramona reeling, but she had to adapt. She let herself imagine that he would still be able to play Oscar, fully recovered and triumphant. But from what she’d heard, Andy would need time and therapy just to be a normal person again. She hoped that the men responsible for the crime would pay for it, with jail time, hopefully. The paper mentioned that some young men were being questioned, but that was the only hint of any progress by the authorities.

  Ramona was almost ready to leave, and Janey was in the middle of her usual morning slowdown strike. She hadn’t even started her shower, and there was no way Ramona would have time to drop her by the Unitarian Center and still make her brunch date.

  Blessedly, Reggie stepped up.

  “Don’t worry, honey,” he said. “I have a job at noon out in McCamey today. If Janey can get a ride back, I can take her out to the church as soon as she’s ready.”

  “Oh, baby, thank you!” said Ramona. She leaned over the bed and gave Reggie a little peck on the cheek. “You’re a lifesaver.” She gathered herself and put on a little lipstick, though she normally prided herself in not using makeup, except on stage.

  Ramona hurried out. Reggie climbed out of bed slowly, dressed, and walked into the kitchen, where he found that the milk had been left out. He picked up the carton to return it to the refrigerator. It was room temperature. Damn! Probably left out last night by Tim, Erycca’s useless boyfriend. He did stupid stuff like that even when he wasn’t stoned, which was seldom.

  Reggie walked down the hall, paused in front of Erycca’s bedroom, and listened. He opened the door quietly and peeked inside. It was dark, and Erycca and Tim were both in the bed, sound asleep. He closed the door quietly, then walked back through the kitchen to Apollo’s room, where the door stood open. The bed was made and Apollo had already left for his golf game.

  Reggie heard the door to the large bathroom shut. He walked back and stood outside the door, listening. When he heard the water start running, he walked quietly back to Ramona’s bedroom, went inside, and closed the door. He opened the large walk-in closet and walked all the way to the back. The closet was lined with planks of cedar that had been tacked to the walls to discourage moths. Reggie had nailed them up himself as a favor to Ramona. At the back of the closet, Reggie scooted aside some hanging blouses, gripped the center plank with both hands, and tugged it gently straight back. It came off the wall easily because it was held on by two straight nails driven into the Sheetrock. The other four nail heads on the edges of the plank were just dummies, blunt nail heads tapped in to the board to make it look solidly fastened.

  Behind the board, about three feet off the ground, a square ten-by-ten-inch hole had been cut in the Sheetrock, and on the other side of the wall, another smaller hole had been drilled, exposing the back of the wall mirror in the master bath. There, well below standing eye level, the silver coating on the mirror had been carefully scraped away with a razor blade so that, when the light was on in the bathroom and off in the closet, it became a two-way mirror with a clear view of the shower and vanity.

  Reggie shut the closet door to keep it dark, and pulled over a couple of boxes stuffed with winter blankets to give himself a place to sit.

  Janey was in the shower with the curtain pulled. From the pipes in the walls came the steady whoosh of running water. The only light in the closet was from the viewing hole. Reggie watched and waited.

  – 19 –

  Andy Has Strong Role Models

  Andy is eight years old. His brother Gray is fifteen and fighting in the Golden Gloves Basin Tournament for the first time. The rules say you have to be sixteen years old on or before December 31 to qualify, and Gray’s birthday is in July, allowing him to sign up for the spring event. Last year, fighting in the Silver Gloves youth tournament, he placed second, just missing a chance to go to San Antonio and compete at the state level. This year, he’s fighting with the big boys. His coach and friends are starting to call him Punchy, a nickname he pretends to resent but secretly loves.

  Mom and Dad won’t call him anything but Gray, but little Andy loves calling him Punchy. The other big Zamara brother, Paul, thirteen years old, either ignores Andy or is pointlessly mean to him. Punchy is nice and patient, at least when his friends aren’t there. He can’t be sweet to his little brother in front of his pals. Andy doesn’t know why.

  Today Punchy has a surprise for him. He’s borrowed a pair of Everlast youth-sized boxing gloves from Blossom Street Gym and is determined to teach Andy to fight. Even though the gloves are small, they look comically big on little Andy. Punchy has set up the heavy bag in the backyard, where he prefers to work out when the weather isn’t too hot or cold or dusty. Now he goes to work with his little brother.

  “Keep your gloves up!” yells Punchy. “Your gloves are your shield. Now jab! With your left! When I say jab, you use your left. Not just once. Go jab-jab.”

  Andy jab-jabs, or tries to. Even these eight-ounce gloves feel heavy. Within a minute, his skinny arms ache and he’s winded.

  “Now punch! That means use your right. Punch hard! Keep ’em up! Punch! Go for the body, Andy!”

  Andy flails away, sucking air. He isn’t wearing a shirt, and sweat runs down his back, tickling. He thumps the bag as hard as he can with his right hand.

  “Now,
circle to the right!” yells Punchy. “Always make the other guy turn to meet you. Keep moving your feet. Let’s try a combination. Jab, jab, punch … jab, jab, punch! Then circle, circle. Keep your gloves up!”

  Andy tries. He is so exhausted he stumbles over his own feet.

  “DING!” yells Punchy. “Okay, go to your corner and take a breather. But keep moving, always keep moving. Don’t tighten up. Bounce. Bounce.”

  There is no actual corner, but Andy stands breathing hard with his long, skinny arms hanging limp. He tries to bounce. This might be fun if it weren’t such hard work. Punchy laughs.

  “We’re gonna have to work on your en-dur-ance,” he says. “You think that was hard? In Goldens, every round lasts three minutes, and there are three rounds. Three minutes doesn’t sound like a lot until you’re in the ring. Then it goes on forever.”

  Punchy works him some more, but his little brother is staggering, so he lets him stop. As he unlaces Andy’s gloves, he talks to him the way Coach Peterson talks to Punchy.

  “Always keep your gloves up,” he says. “Jab for the head, and use your right to go for the body. ‘Go for the body, and the head will die.’ Remember that.”

  Andy doesn’t want anybody’s head to die, but it’s an interesting thought, that punching somebody in the stomach or chest makes them goofy in the head. With the gloves off, Andy’s hands are bathed in sweat. Punchy towels him off.

  “Remember,” says Punchy, “if you ever get into a real fight, and some guy is standing there giving you bullcrap, you throw the first punch. Don’t wait for him to hit you. Clobber him first.”

  “I never been in a fight,” says Andy.

  “Well, I’m in high school,” says Punchy. “When you get to high school, it’s full of guys who want to fight, to prove how tough they are. You know how many fights I been in?”

  Andy shakes his head.

  “Six,” says Punchy. “I won every one of ’em. The last one was over two years ago, and it was with Randy Slator. He was giving me bullcrap and told me to meet him in a vacant lot after school. He thought I wasn’t going to show up, but I did. He was there with all his tough friends, and they were surprised to see me, you can believe it. He comes right up to me and stands this far away.” Punchy stands close to Andy to illustrate the point. “He said, ‘I’m gonna count to five, and you better take a swing at me! After I count to five, I’m gonna kill you.’ You know what I did?”