South of Bixby Bridge

by Ryan Winfield

  Paul sits like a wraith in the shadows. Next to him, a video camera points at the bed from a tripod. The camera’s red record light glows like an unblinking alien eye.

  Tara removes my tuxedo jacket, pushes me back onto the bed. She unlaces my Ferragamos and pulls them off my feet. The models wiggle free of each other. They slide toward me. Tara points her finger at me. She says,

  You can do anything you want, except fuck them!

  The brunette model pounces on my mouth and kisses me. I pull away and sit up. Tara stands before me with an aureole of golden hair surrounding her sequined curves. I want her, not the other women. I pull Tara down and kiss her. Another mouth joins ours. Tara slips her tongue into the brunette’s mouth. Then the blonde joins. The three women hover over me kissing—tongues darting from one pair of red, swollen lips to the next.

  Tara slides down to my waist. In the shadows, I catch a glimpse of Paul’s hand jerking up and down. I try to stand but can’t.

  I want another blue Curaçao.

  The man-in-waiting presents a bottle of Champagne.

  No, I want the blue stuff.

  Paul nods from his dark corner.

  The man-in-waiting disappears.

  The models crawl over my face.

  They lick their way down my belly.

  Tara unbuckles my belt.

  I hear someone say,

  La galette des Rois.

  29 Wake Up, Shooter

  A blasting horn blows me awake. I’m lying in a big brass bed. Blades of sunlight cut through wooden shutters illuminating dust particles floating in the dark room. A dresser stands against a wall. The wall is papered green. A light knock. The door opens. A plump Mexican woman holds clothes folded in her arms. Her lips move. Her voice fades in.

  . . . I send esmoquin for cleaning. Here are pantaloons and shirt from Señor Paul.

  She lays the clothes on the foot of the bed. Then she returns to the door and comes back carrying something else that she sets next to the bed before leaving the room and closing the door.

  I roll over, swing my feet off the bed and sit up on its edge.

  On the floor in front of me, the glistening red scales of Paul’s Mark Anthony cowboy boots catch the light slipping in through the shutters. They look like bloody, gutted crocodiles—a shimmering nightmare pair of Dorothy’s ruby slippers.

  ~~~

  I remember stepping on these boots. I remember feeling embarrassed. I remember apologizing if I scuffed them. I remember Paul smiling at me and saying, They’re cowboy boots, kid, they should be scuffed and besides, I walk on ’em, why shouldn’t you?

  ~~~

  The horn blasts again. Paul yells from somewhere below—

  Wake up, shooter! Wake up!

  I part the shutters. A titanic luxury-tour bus idles in the drive. The horn blows again. Paul appears in its open door, looks up at the window. He says,

  Wake up, shooter! You’re holdin’ up the show!

  What day is it? How did I get here? I remember last night, Paul shouldering me onto the bed. Hands tucking me in. Voices arguing. Give his cock a rest. I own him. You’re jealous. You’re drunk.

  I grab the pile of clothes. Stepping into Gucci jeans, I pull them on and button them. They fit. I slip a Brioni polo shirt over my head. It’s tight in my shoulders but the fabric stretches. My Ferragamos have disappeared along with my tuxedo. I guess I’m supposed to wear Paul’s boots. No socks, so I stretch out my naked feet and pull Paul’s boots on left foot first. My foot catches in the vamp. I yank the tabs and force it through. When I get both boots on, I stand up. I’m taller. I feel different. Like I could walk over people in the street and stand on top of buildings.

  Paul is still looking up toward the bedroom window when I step out onto the drive wearing his clothes. He sees me and says,

  Racy boots, chief!

  Tara walks from the house behind me. She smacks my ass with her riding crop as she passes. They look better on you! she says.

  Paul’s smile disappears. He says,

  Get on, Trevor—you’re holding us up.

  Tara grabs my hand. He’s riding with me, she says.

  We have business to discuss, babe.

  Tara ignores Paul. She pulls me toward a long, silver horse carrier attached to a white dual-wheel crew cab truck idling beside the stables. She climbs in the backseat. I slide in next to her. A young Mexican sits in the driver’s seat. He smiles at us with a missing front tooth. All set, Miss Tara? he says.

  All set, Carlos.

  Carlos puts the truck in gear and eases us down the drive. We pass through the gates and turn down the mountain. I watch the bus follow us in the side mirror of the truck. Paul stands next to his driver in the window. We pick up speed and the distance grows between us until Paul is just a shadow against the windshield with the dark mountain rising behind him as we descend.

  Tara relaxes back in her seat. She blows a hair away from her face. She watches me. It looks like she’s deciding something. She twists her diamond wedding ring off her finger and holds it out to me. Confused, I hold out my hand. She drops the ring in my palm. Then she pulls out a pair of leather riding gloves and stretches them on. She says,

  How’s your head this morning?

  It could only feel worse if you backed over it with this truck.

  Tara leans up to Carlos. Botella de whisky, she says.

  Carlos opens the center console and hands Tara a tarnished silver flask. She opens it and sniffs the contents. Then she plucks her ring from my hand and passes me the flask. She says,

  Here, drink this—it’ll help.

  It must be homemade hooch because it tastes like a mix of gasoline and nail-polish remover, but it does the job and dissolves my headache before it hits my stomach. Tara winks. She says,

  Carlos’s secret family recipe.

  Where we going? I say.

  I have a little show today.

  Horse show?

  First event of the season, she says. This time last year we had a rare snowstorm but the fixture went ahead and we placed second. Today we’re going to win. Aren’t we, Carlos?

  I think yes, Miss Tara.

  I look through the back window of the truck, but there’s no window into the carrier. I say,

  Is Conan back there?

  No, she says, Conan’s not jumping well. He’s not ready. I’m riding Tabitha, my mare. Besides, Conan’s going to be a daddy any day now. Ava’s about to drop his foal.

  I take another swig of whiskey. Tara says,

  Do you wanna have a baby, Trevor?

  I nearly spit the whiskey out. I swallow, catch my breath. I say,

  Well . . . I mean, I never really gave it much thought . . .but, you know what, yes, I think I do want kids.

  Was your family into horses, Trevor?

  Nope. We sure weren’t.

  Well, what are they into, Trevor?

  Guilt mostly. Why do you keep saying my name?

  I like your name, she says. I gave guilt up for Lent when I was 12. Are you Catholic, Trevor?

  My mom was. She liked the music—you know, the Gregorian chants they do. Anyway, she didn’t take it too serious because she sent me away to a Protestant summer camp.

  Tara looks out the window for a moment. Then she looks back to me. She says,

  You said was.

  Yeah, she got cancer.

  And your dad?

  He’s not around.

  I don’t want Tara to see my eyes get wet so I turn away and watch the scenery roll past out my window.

  The rest of the drive is hushed. Carlos points out several farms and orchards where he says he has relatives working, but during the long stretches in between, he just drives and grins at the road with his missing front tooth.

  NORTHWEST OF NAPA, just on the other side of Hood Mountain, Santa Rosa spreads out in a plain east from Highway 101 to the Valley of the Moon. The highway glides past and when the mountain fades to a distant hill, Carlos pulls us off the road and we
pass beneath a wooden arch into Fox Hollow Showgrounds.

  As we circle the grounds to Tara’s tent, we pass horse trailers and RVs spreading in a wide circle around the showground center. It reminds me of the way carnivals would set up behind tilt-up fences when they came to town.

  At the tent, Tara gets busy setting up her tack with Carlos. Inside the canvas tent, it smells like fresh-cut grass and when Tara sets her saddle on its stand, the smell of oiled leather reminds me of my Porsche. The bus pulls up and eases to a stop. The door opens and Paul hops off. Tara opens the horse trailer and a hot wave of manure hits me in the face. I cough and fan the air with a sour expression. Tara laughs. Then she turns to Paul and says,

  If you really have business to discuss with Trevor, why don’t you go discuss it now in the stands?

  LIKE A BULL’S-EYE in the center of the showground, tall white fences enclose the riding arena. Inside the arena, colorful bar jumps set at different heights make a course. On the far side of the arena sits a panel of judges above a golden table-banner that reads NOR CAL WINTER CLASSIC. Behind the judges, bleachers rise to a tall tent top that shades spectators from the sun.

  Paul and I climb the bleachers and take a seat. We watch riders perform. One after another, they zigzag jumping the course. Some jerky and unsure, some powerful and energetic, some tired and going through the motions—but all with an attitude of disdain directed up at those of us watching from the comfort of the bleachers. Paul leans over and taps me on the arm. He says,

  Don’t marry a girl who’s into horses, kid.

  Why do you say that?

  They cost a fortune, he says, and then when you’re done with them, you can’t get rid of them. They just hang around and get old. You can’t even milk the fuckers. Paul slaps my knee. But you won’t have to worry about that for a long time. Ain’t that right, buddy?

  I force a smile. Paul looks back to the arena. He says,

  How was the ride over with Tara?

  It’s pretty country, I say.

  Paul nods, smiling. Yes, sir, he says, pretty country indeed.

  We sit silent watching competitors jump the course. My mind keeps drifting back to that cavernous warehouse of flesh that Paul and Tara pulled me into last night.

  ~~~

  I remember I was lost. I remember bouncing from hand to mouth. I remember the New Year’s countdown. I remember Tara kissed me, dragged me back to that final room, offered me up to those naked nymphos. I remember sinking into the bed in a tangle of arms and legs and hungry mouths. I remember Paul’s shadow watched from the corner. I remember the unblinking red eye of his video camera.

  ~~~

  The camera makes me think of what the video would look like to me now, sober and in the light of day, and I wonder what Paul does with the tapes and then I remember Benny Wilson’s face when I handed him the pictures. I look over at Paul. I say,

  Hey, Paul. Something Benny said has been eating at me.

  Oh, yeah, what did Benny Boy say?

  He said you sent me because . . . I’m young and attractive.

  Paul smiles but keeps his eyes on the arena. Is that so? he says.

  I’m asking you.

  Asking me what, sport?

  He also asked me at that lunch how we get those big returns. I made up an answer but I really don’t know.

  You did fine, he says.

  How do we though?

  How do we what, sport?

  Invest for those returns?

  Paul turns to me, his eyes hard, searching. He says,

  What’s your problem, kid? I’m not paying you enough? You want a jock-mount fee every time you ride my mare too?

  What are you talking about, Paul?

  Hey, there’s my little coquettish mare!

  Tara trots into the arena on Tabitha, an ink-black mare. Tara’s seat is proud and sure, she’s in complete control of the animal she’s straddling. All the other riders wear green or dark-brown hunt coats but Tara wears a black shadbelly coat with tails in the back and a white ratcatcher shirt with a tie and pin. Her hair tucked up under her helmet makes her look like a perfect gentleman, except I know what’s underneath the outfit.

  Tara smiles right at me. Then with a slight lift of her eyebrow, she starts her mare moving. She leads Tabitha through the course with the confidence of someone playing easy with the younger kids. I watch in a trance as she jumps three perfect passes in two minutes. She is grace in the saddle.

  When she finishes, the spectators in the bleachers let out a collective breath. Then when one person cheers her, they all join in. Tara halts Tabitha in the center of the arena. She bows, strips off her helmet, and then she throws her head back and her long blonde hair spills out behind her. Then she trots from the arena toward the tents.

  Several other riders complete the course but none captures the admiration of the crowd the way Tara did. I want to go congratulate her but Paul says to stay put and let her be until the ceremony.

  THE LAST COMPETITOR finishes and bows as dusk is draping itself over the showground. The horse and rider just clear the arena on their way to the tents when crews rush in like ball girls at a tennis match and dismantle the jumps. I wonder why the hurry but when I turn to ask Paul, he’s gone.

  As crews exit with the jumps, another crew wheels a collapsible stage into the center of the arena. They set up the stage, unrolling a deep-red carpet to cover it. A five-piece band appears humping instruments up to the stage and they prop themselves up to play in a corner. A red-faced announcer, sweating in a poorly fit tuxedo, drags a microphone stand to the stage while an electric boy untangles the cords behind him.

  The murmuring crowd drifts from the bleachers down to the arena where they surround the stage. Several young men dressed in horse-head costumes trot through the crowd with saddlebags full of Champagne bottles filling plastic flutes for any takers. Someone throws a switch somewhere and faerie lights strung overhead from the tent above the bleachers blink once and then stay on.

  The whole thing unfolds so fast nothing seems real and I feel like I’m watching roles cast for a play. One minute I’m sitting next to Paul on crowded bleachers as the sun sets on a rider and horse jumping the course. The next minute dusk drops down like a curtain and stage lights pop on. Now, I’m sitting alone on empty bleachers looking down on a celebrating crowd surrounding an announcer on a red-carpeted stage backed up by a band.

  I don’t feel part of the show.

  I stay put and watch from the dark.

  A young boy canters onstage carrying a trophy in both arms. When the boy wrestles the trophy upright, it’s as tall as he is. The trophy is a golden horse leaping from the top of a platinum cup. Without looking, the announcer reaches down to pat the boy on the head and pats the trophy instead. Then he clicks the microphone on, taps it twice, and yells something to the electrical boy. He taps it again. Then taking in a deep and serious breath, which he holds in for effect, he lets it out in a stream of fanfaronade—

  And now, Ladies and Gentlemen, hating hyperbole and platitudes myself as much as I know you all do, and knowing how anxious we are to hear the band and enjoy the night—especially after so many stunning performances today that escape description with mere words—I will give to you, without further ceremony, fuss, or ado, the winner of our prestigious Winter Cup, with an unheard of score of 42, our very own hunt seat queen, the lovely Miss Tara Loudon Bourdage!

  Tara strides onstage and leans into the microphone. Oh, three names! she says. Thank you.

  She takes the trophy from the boy and kisses him on the cheek. The boy blushes and kicks at the stage carpet. Tara lifts the trophy. The crowd chants—speech, speech, speech! Someone whistles.

  Tara leans up to the microphone like a cat caressing its owner’s leg and her voice purrs,

  All right then. Well, I really have to thank my mare, Tabitha. She was even a bit sharper—in a good way—than she was last year. But there were so many good riders and good horses here today—I thought to be honest
that I would be doing well to finish in the top three. But I guess I was a bit sharper myself too!

  Everyone applauds. Tara bows. She exits the stage with her trophy and then the crowd swallows her.

  I watch from the bleachers as the band warms up and the audience drains Champagne glasses. I scan the crowd for Tara but I can’t find her. I walk down to the stage. Paul’s boots pinch my feet and the joints of my big toes ache. A Champagne boy trots by. I take two glasses, one for me and one for Tara. Balancing the Champagne, I pinball through the partyers looking for her. I can’t find her. At the edge of the arena, on my way to the tents, I drink both Champagnes and toss the plastic flutes away.

  Propane lanterns hang from poles hissing light into the night and as I pass from tent to tent my shadow rises against canvas sides, lurking over me before slipping down into the darkness again as I pass the breezeways.

  Nearing Tara’s tent, I see a horse silhouetted against a canvas wall and as I get closer, I recognize Tara’s truck and Carlos’s voice as he coos and then cusses corralling Tabitha into the trailer.

  I see Tara’s shadow too and Paul’s shadow perched over her and then I hear them arguing so I slow down my pace in order to listen. Paul says,

  Well, they shouldn’t have used your maiden name!

  I hear the clink of metal as Tara tosses something into the tack box. Cut it out, Paul, she says. They used my family name because that’s what’s on my membership card.

  Why haven’t you changed your card?

  I like my name.

  You got a new name when you married me.

  Tara’s shadow straightens, hands on her hips. Maybe, she says, but Bourdage just sounds so much more elegant, don’t you think?

  I step into the light. Paul startles. Jesus, kid, you spooked me.

  I laugh, trying to lighten the mood. Yeah, I say, you’re like a horse that way.

  Paul doesn’t think it’s funny. I hope you got a kick out of the show, he says, nodding toward the shadows. Then he sighs and claws a hand through his hair. He turns back to Tara. Let’s load up in the bus and go celebrate, he says.