For Patrick it began as a year of growing confusion. The more forgetful he became, the more of his painful past he remembered. One late morning out of nowhere, after waking from a dreamless nap, the sudden realization hit him of what a god-awful, sullen, angry child he’d been, refusing to show any appreciation or affection to the father who’d searched for and rescued him, or for Cal Doran, the man who ultimately raised him. He pictured watching John Kerney die in that terrible wagon accident while he stood by mute and unfeeling. The image was immediately replaced by a stab of self-loathing for falsely damning Cal Doran at the time of his death for his acts of great kindness. The truth of his meanness clutched his heart like a vise.
Several times in early summer he’d mistakenly confused names, thinking Kevin was CJ, Marge was his second wife, Evangelina, and Mary was Anna Lynn. His slipups earned him worried looks and questions from the womenfolk as to the state of his health. He briskly brushed aside all such inquiries as silly, unnecessary pestering.
Embarrassed by his blunders, he took to writing their real names on a piece of paper every morning before breakfast and practicing them so as not to forget. Still, he lapsed occasionally, especially with Kevin, which made him more and more cautious about saying anything that might cause additional probing into the state of his well-being.
He took to mentally measuring his words twice before speaking, much as a carpenter would before sawing a board. It made him appear slow and dull, which drew more thinly veiled looks of sympathy and worried expressions of forbearance from Mary and Marge that only served to further depress him.
One day when he called Kevin CJ by mistake, he had to swallow tears as the memory of his drunken fight with CJ in the corral stampeded through his mind. He’d driven CJ forever from the ranch that day and ultimately to his death in the trenches of France. Pure meanness had killed that wonderful boy just as it had earlier ended his marriage to Emma, the only woman he’d ever truly loved. Fortunately, successfully lying to a nine-year-old about a grain of sand in his eye was easy enough to do.
Since her death, Emma had been fixed like a center post in his head. The woman had endured more pain and suffering than anyone he’d known and yet she’d died impeccably, if there was such a thing, slipping away with love in her eyes and a beautiful smile on her face.
Until recently, he hadn’t given much thought to his own demise, but now he wondered if he could do it as well. In the back of his mind, the idea of nothingness had always annoyed him and he’d quickly shucked it off, but the growing aches and pains in his creaky old body told him that leaving the world might not be such a bad thing.
In preparation, he consoled himself with reminders that he was no longer a drunk, no longer violent in word or deed, that he’d made permanent peace with Matt, had a lady friend in Marge, who genuinely seemed to like him, a grandson who willingly and regularly sought his company, and a daughter-in-law who had shown him only kindness from the very first day they met.
Surely that counted for something in his otherwise self-inflicted ruin of a life. In the shadowland of his existence, he was a better person than he’d ever been before or ever thought he could be.
On one summer morning, a writer fellow came to visit unannounced, hat in hand, uttering apologies and asking for a bit of Patrick’s time. He was a professor of some sort at Texas Western College in El Paso with a foreign-sounding last name Patrick couldn’t pronounce, and he was interested in interviewing old-timers on the Tularosa for a book he hoped to publish about the territorial years after first putting together a pamphlet for the army on the history of the missile range. Patrick almost sent him packing but changed his mind at the chance to tell a bit of the family story for Kevin and posterity, especially some of the tales maybe he’d forgotten to recount. He also warmed to the idea of setting the record straight about misconceptions folks might have about his life and times.
But it got hard once the questions started coming. To begin, he couldn’t remember if he was born in 1872 or 1875, so he picked the earlier date, which made him eighty-seven years old. He got confused about the location of Double K, thinking it was some forgotten ranch John Kerney had started before the 7-Bar-K. When the writer asked, he couldn’t recall that Eugene Manlove Rhodes had ever worked for the spread until he found the copy of the story Gene had written about Emma and let the fellow read it. He did get a story out correctly about meeting up with Oliver Lee when he was chasing down cattle rustlers and coming upon one of the dead men Lee had killed fair and square out on the far reaches of the Tularosa.
The writer really liked that one. It was a good one all right, as was the one about Gene Rhodes hiding some of his pals on the ranch who were wanted for murder. He tried to recall who Gene had sheltered from the law but the names escaped him. However, much to Patrick’s relief, the writer knew who he was talking about.
He was asked about the Rough Riders, and Patrick allowed he’d known Teddy Roosevelt and had killed a few men on San Juan Hill, but refused to say more, as the image of Jake Jacobi dying at his feet—an image never far from his mind—choked him up. He still missed that old boy and the good times he had with him wrangling in Arizona.
When talk turned to more recent past events, such as the mysterious disappearance of Vernon Clagett, the killing of army deserter Fred Tyler, and the accidental death of treasure hunter Dalton Moore found trespassing on the ranch, Patrick clammed up tight, thinking the damned army would try any trick to get information of wrongdoing and use it to seize the 7-Bar-K.
No matter how hard the fellow tried, Patrick refused to budge, but when he switched to asking about old-time neighbors now long gone from the basin, Patrick obliged, rambling on about this and that person. He also talked a lot about the atom bomb that was exploded out on the Jornada, a subject of keen interest to the fella.
After the writer closed up his notepad, put away his pencil, expressed his appreciation, and left, Patrick sat on the veranda wondering why he and Matt had never talked about going to war or what it had done to them. To his way of thinking, it didn’t seem unusual; war talk never made for polite or easy conversation.
All told, Matt seemed to have done a good job of getting over it, but you never knew about another man’s private thoughts. Patrick still had an occasional Technicolor nightmare about the bloody fighting he’d witnessed in Cuba with shells exploding and body parts flying, and he still got phantom shivers about the terrible stateside hospitals where he recovered from his wounds watching hundreds of scared, delirious men die morning, noon, and night. All that was clear as a bell from more than sixty years ago.
He imagined the same would hold true for Matt. Memories etched in killing and obliteration are indelible, eternal.
As the summer edged on, Patrick took to sleeping more and more, sometimes in the sun on a mild day like an old hound dog spread out to cool his parts in a gentle breeze. He napped pretty much out of boredom. When he felt drowsy he tried to stay awake by tinkering at some easy odd job that needed doing. Sometimes it worked and sometimes it didn’t. Reading didn’t help at all; it just put him to sleep faster and he could never remember where he’d left off anyway.
About all he managed to do day in and day out was get himself dressed, clean himself up, eat his meals, putter around a bit, take naps, and stay out of everybody’s hair. Even that wasn’t enough to keep worried looks off Mary and Marge’s faces or stop them from constantly trying to look after him.
With Matt and Kevin it was different. To the almost-ten-year-old Kevin he was just Gramps. Young’uns by their nature just don’t have the time or inclination to worry about old folks getting older. Patrick appreciated that. And Matt’s approach of simply checking in to see how he fared, done usually without comment, was a helluva lot more evenhanded than all the unnecessary fussing. He appreciated that as well.
Late in the summer, a week before Labor Day and the start of school for Kevin, Patrick woke with a start in
the dark of the night in great need of the bathroom. When he discovered that his legs didn’t want to move, he remained motionless and tried not to panic, his eyes fixed on the sliver of moonlight knifing through the open window. Slowly, he threw the bedsheet back, sat upright, and rubbed his hands over his legs, relieved to feel the sensation.
Figuring he wasn’t paralyzed, just slow to get things working, he waited a spell before swinging his legs to the floor and standing. He chuckled with delight until he took his first step. His head spun and he almost crashed to the floor. Only his hand on the bedpost saved him.
He waited until the dizziness passed before starting out again, this time on steadier legs, taking small steps but still managing to bump his shoulder against the door frame as he made his way out of his bedroom. He got to the bathroom just in time, happy to have avoided embarrassing himself, and sat on the toilet far longer than he needed, wary his legs might fail him again when he got up.
Finally ready to risk it, he returned to his bedroom feeling ancient, creaky, and out of sorts. He sat on the edge of the bed and practiced standing up until he was satisfied everything was working as it should. But it didn’t relieve his anxiety. He stayed awake until it was time to get up, wondering when his body would fail him next, which part would cause him to take a nosedive.
With Matt at the ranch for a week on vacation from his job with the college, everyone was gathered at the kitchen table for breakfast when Patrick arrived. Of course, other than a smile and a howdy to all, he didn’t say a word about his nighttime troubles.
His hopes that the incident with his legs was nothing more than a one-time episode rose throughout the day. His head stayed clear, he walked without difficulty, neither shuffling nor stumbling, and by evening time he was encouraged that it had been merely a freak event.
He turned in for bed optimistic that all was well. Except for one trip to the bathroom, he slept throughout the night, getting out of bed with both legs working, pausing for only a second to remember his name and where he was. Another good day followed. He helped Matt clean and oil saddles in the tack room, rehang several loose railings on the corral, and prune some low-hanging, dead branches on the windbreak cottonwoods. By dinnertime he was tired and hungry, but he felt useful and like his old self. The day had been his best in months.
After supper with the dishes done and put away, Mary asked him to go on a stroll up to the family graveyard. Patrick figured it was mostly to see how he was doing, but he didn’t mind at all. They left Matt and Kevin listening to the radio in the living room and Marge relaxing on the veranda, and walked up the hill. He’d been deliberately avoiding Mary lately, scooting around her at a distance so as not to get her worrying about him. But today he felt so damn good, she could badger him with questions about his health to her heart’s content and it wouldn’t bother him at all. He felt lucid and energized—hell, even sprightly. The day had eased his aches, pains, and worries.
It had been some time since his last visit to the family plot, and he was pleased to see that Kevin had been keeping up with his chore of maintaining everything in good order. All the markers were upright, the fence enclosing the graveyard had been touched up with paint as needed, all the weeds had been pulled, and the native grass was trimmed back a bit. For his work, Kevin received one dollar a month cash money paid straight out of Patrick’s pocket. It pleased him to see how reliable the boy was and how well he met his responsibilities.
Outside the fence next to an old tree was a grassy mound where long ago Patrick’s pa had buried one of his favorite ponies. A big rock near the mound served as a bench and they sat looking out on the Tularosa. When once it was a serene desert just beginning to come alive at dusk, the modern world now intruded and disturbed it. Electric lights winked at seemingly random locations across the basin. Concrete buildings, blocky and blind to the outside world, sat on bare unadorned ground surrounded by miles of scrub and sand; signposts of hush-hush research dedicated solely to blowing up cities, maybe even the world, if a few powerful men decided it necessary.
Born well before the marvel of airplanes that touched the sky, Patrick saw little value in the modern world other than for a few conveniences such as his pickup truck, electric lights, and the radio.
They sat together in silence as darkness gathered.
“You seem to be in fine fiddle today,” Mary finally said.
“I am.”
“That’s nice to see.”
“It’s nice not having you fretting over me.”
Mary laughed. “You’d be happier if I just didn’t care?”
Patrick chuckled. “Now, I didn’t say that.”
“Earlier today, Kevin told me that years ago you’d been to prison. Did you make up that story for him?”
Speechless, Patrick froze. Nobody alive in the world but Matt knew about his time in the Yuma Territorial Prison. Nobody. “You say Kevin told you?”
“Yes.”
“Well, that’s a load of bull,” Patrick snorted, trying to understand how the boy had found out.
“Kevin’s not the kind to make things up,” Mary replied calmly.
“He’s lying,” Patrick thundered, figuring Kevin must have snooped through his things and found the governor’s pardon. He grunted in dismay. The boy he believed to be so decent and respectful was nothing more than a worthless, thieving, snot-nosed kid.
Mary got to her feet. “Why would he lie about it?”
“I don’t know, but I’ll have no further truck with him.”
“Let’s go talk to him together,” Mary suggested, touching Patrick’s arm.
He pulled back and rose up. “Leave me be, woman.” Then he slapped her hard across the face.
Stunned, her cheek stinging from the rough blow, Mary retreated. She couldn’t see his expression in the darkness, but his breathing was harsh and labored.
He lurched past her down the hill. “What did I just do?” he wailed mournfully to himself, his voice full of distress.
With tears in her eyes from his blow and startled by the unprovoked attack, Mary waited until she heard the screen door slam shut before starting down the path to the house. The time had come for the family to face the hard reality of Patrick’s diminished capacity.
Matt met her halfway. “What happened?” he demanded, short of breath.
“Didn’t he tell you?”
“He says he doesn’t know what he did.”
“He hit me, slapped my face.”
“Why?”
“There wasn’t a sane reason for it.”
Matt opened his arms. “Are you hurt?”
Mary leaned against him, felt his warmth and protection as he embraced her. “Not really, but I’ll probably have a shiner in the morning.”
“We have to do something about him,” Matt said with a sigh.
“Yes, we do.” She lifted her face and searched his eyes. “And we have to do something for ourselves as well.”
Moonlight through a rolling bank of clouds dappled the ranch. It never looked lovelier. “I know,” he replied sadly.
26
Although the cause of Patrick’s condition was unknown, perhaps the result of a brain tumor or simply the process of degenerative aging, the doctor’s diagnosis was severe dementia. There was no cure, no medicine to treat it, little hope for remission, and no way of predicting how long Patrick would live in his present condition; it could be months or years.
Forced by the situation to take leave from their jobs, Matt and Mary spent two weeks investigating nursing homes around the state and finally got Patrick admitted to a church-run facility in Albuquerque that was going to cost a whole lot more than his monthly veteran’s pension would cover.
Housed in a thick-walled adobe near the Old Town area of the city, the facility was clean, the staff polite and helpful, and the residential rooms, although rather small, were adequate
for two. After reading the physician’s medical report and diagnosis, the administrator explained that Patrick could live in the home as long as he didn’t become violent or run away. If that happened, he’d have to go elsewhere, perhaps to one of the state institutions.
Not sure where they would get the money to cover the additional costs, Matt and Mary signed the contract anyway, packed Patrick up, and moved him in with a chipper ninety-year-old man who smiled and talked mostly gibberish. While Matt arranged Patrick’s few belongings on the nightstand and hung his clothes in a small closet, Mary settled him into a padded armchair next to his bed and promised they’d come to visit at least monthly. Patrick, who’d completely stopped talking days before, looked at her with empty eyes, said nothing, and stared out the window at a dirt lane at the rear of the home bordered by a dry arroyo.
Kevin took Patrick’s removal from the family the hardest. Unwilling to believe that his gramps would never be the same, he’d begged Matt and Mary not to send him away, and got angry when they did. He’d bunked with Dale at the Rocking J so as not to miss the start of school, and when they came to fetch him he was still fuming. Their explanations about Patrick’s illness had no effect on him. It took a visit to the nursing home the following weekend for Kevin to realize that his grandpa wasn’t the same person anymore. Seeing Patrick in such a reduced mental state sucked the visible anger out of him. He sat sullenly in the truck on the way home to T or C looking out the window, his usual good spirits deflated.
During the rush to get Patrick the care he needed, Marge Crowley, the housekeeper, agreed to stay on until everything got settled. With Patrick gone, Matt wasn’t surprised when Marge expressed a desire to leave the ranch. Without kin to turn to or friends to lean on, she decided to move to Albuquerque, find work, and look in on Patrick as often as she could. Her obvious affection for the old man touched Matt’s heart, and he gave her three months’ salary and spent a Saturday driving her to Albuquerque, where she settled into a small, furnished apartment on Central Avenue near the high school, close to a convenient bus route to Old Town.
The Last Ranch Page 28
