I asked him about it once and he said, “In the city, they never look at you when you walk by. To get a friendly smile or a civil greeting, you have to buy something.”
I hear Grandma and Grandpa and Ernesto on the front porch, talking about tomorrow's work. I head back to the kitchen, put on a pot of coffee for them, and grab a handful of cookies for me. I sit down at Grandma's computer and log on to the chat room the brothers have on Sunday nights.
FRANKenstein: Hey, Brother, what's the news? How are the Grands?
I wipe the cookie crumbs off my fingers and type in an answer.
IGuanodon: It's calving this week. The Grands are tired but fine.
PyroPETE: Hola amigos, what's the news? I'm the staff duty officer tonight for the battalion. It's hotter than habaneros down here.
IGuanodon: I pulled a calf just now. It was great! How are your soldiers? Did you blow anything up today?
PyroPETE: Nope, land mines were last week.
JOHNBronco: Good job on the calf, Brother. Your arms are going to be killing you tomorrow.
PyroPETE: Didn't you and Jim have a college rodeo this week?
JOHNBronco: We medaled in team roping. I took third in bronc riding, but Jim tanked. Dead last. Bad horse. He made up for it at the dance afterward. Now he's got a bunch of city chicks on his MySpace. Like that's going to work out.
Jim is a better dancer than all of the rest of us put together. For one thing, he can remember both steps of the two-step. Plus, he's brave enough to ask a girl to dance. I'm never going to do that. Not in a million years.
IGuanodon: Hey guys, we should talk about branding.
JOHNBronco: What's to talk about?
IGuanodon: I think we should go with acid branding this year. It's easier, cheaper, and not so hard on the calves. I'm just saying because some of the calves will be yours.
FRANKenstein: Still afraid of that hot iron? Get over it. You're not a little kid anymore.
JOHNBronco: You should have a branding party, Brother. You never have any fun. How are you going to get a girlfriend if you don't get a chance to impress the ladies with your roping and tying?
As if!
PyroPETE: Dad likes the hot brand better. I think we should stick to his way. He's counting on us to get it right while he's gone.
IGuanodon: Dad always had 5 sons and a dozen neighbors. I've got nothing!!!
I shouldn't have said that. That was a stupid thing to say.
IGuanodon: There just aren't enough men around here to do a regular branding. Are you guys going to be home in June?
PyroPETE: Sorry, Brother, come summer we've got orders to train up soldiers heading to Iraq. Nine months straight. All leaves canceled.
Oh man, if Pete doesn't come it just won't work, because Jim and John will fight over who's in charge and Frank will spend the whole time assigning the icky jobs to me.
IGuanodon: The army's supposed to give you 30 days leave a year. What happened?
PyroPETE: I wish I could be there, but a training mission is still a mission. Sorry.
FRANKenstein: Buck up, Brother. We don't need Pete to babysit us. John, when are you and Jim home for the summer?
JOHNBronco: Hate to tell you this, but Jim and I have Cadet Advanced Course up at Fort Lewis for a month in June. Same deal. No way to weasel out.
IGuanodon: Wait, who's going to take the cattle up to the mountains?
JOHNBronco: We'll be back in time for cow camp. It'll make for longer days with just me, Jim, and Frank up there, but we'll manage.
FRANKenstein: I'll be there, Brother. I'll be done with school in three weeks.
This is the other half of Frank's extreme bossiness— extreme loyalty, which is why I don't hate his guts. Trouble is, it doesn't solve the problem. There's no way you can round up, rope, brand, and castrate every calf who needs it with one teenager and one kid, even with Grandpa and the hired man helping out.
PyroPETE: You've got good neighbors out there. When I was your age, we went to a half dozen branding parties a year. Those folks will help us now.
He just doesn't get it. Nothing is the same with Dad gone. Pete hasn't lived at home since he went away to board at the high school.
IGuanodon: Mr. Haskle's been pulling double shifts at the gas station so Arnie won't have to close it down while he's in Iraq. Mr. Egan's got back trouble, and he's already taken on the Jasper ranch next door. You can't ask people for favors they aren't able to give you.
There's a long pause, and I know my brothers are kicking table legs and muttering swears, but I don't care. They aren't in combat. It's their job to worry. They're not the ones who have to look at the Grands after they've worked for ten hours straight and the gate's still not fixed and the wood's not split or stacked and the tractor engine is still in eight pieces on the back porch. I'd ditch school myself and do it, except Grandma would murder me on the spot.
PyroPETE: That's enough. Brother is the one boots on the ground at home. This branding decision is entirely his call.
IGuanodon: Thanks, Pete. Don't worry about it, guys. We'll do a good job. Grandpa and I are a pretty good team.
I put the computer on standby, drop my dishes in the sink, and head outside. It's almost dark, and the ground still holds some heat from the day. I stop at my tire swing and sit. The air is cool on my bare arms, and frogs are singing love songs down by the water. There are a few clucks and flaps from the hens settling into the chicken shed for the night, and Ike gets in the last word with the rest of the horses just so they all remember who's the boss horse in the morning. Sheep have got nothing to say at night on account of there are things out there that eat them. But our sheepdog, Donner, has started his night patrol around the edge of the flock, sniffing the wind and watching the shadows.
I think about Dad standing upside down to me on the other side of the world, with the sun just coming up. He's got a cup of coffee and a desk stacked a dozen deep in maps. His driver, Arnie, is there, and the company captains, planning the day's business. I bet my dad turns away from them for a minute to take in the sky and picture me sitting here, taking good care of his land. I love knowing that we are imagining the same thing at the same time, and I send him the hug of knowing his home is here, right here, safe and green no matter how hot the wind blows where he has gone.
JUNE
The thing I love about having Frank home from school is that I can beat him at chess at least half the time. The thing I don't love is that he drives. He just got his permit and now he needs a hundred hours behind the wheel, so Grandma is letting him drive us down to the VFW hall in the next town over. She chats away with him while he's driving, like this is perfectly safe. Grandpa actually falls asleep. Obviously these two have never played Matchbox cars with Frank; otherwise they'd know how much he loves to crash into things. I keep a close eye on the traffic and the speedometer from the backseat. I'm exhausted by the time we've gone twenty miles. At least when he goes up to cow camp in a few weeks, he'll be off the road. The social event of the season around here is the Memorial Day dinner down at the local VFW. They changed it to June this year to make it a welcome home party because Mr. and Mrs. Ugarte are back from Iraq. We aren't going to see the rest of them for ages because Dad's unit got extended until the end of November.
I wish I could say the Ugartes are back safe and sound, but Paco and Rosita's dad left a fair piece of himself behind. He's been at the army hospital in Washington, D.C., getting fitted for a leg, and Mrs. Ugarte was treated for burn injuries right alongside him.
They got back to town a week ago. Paco and Rosita took the whole week off from school to be with them. Tonight's the first time I'll see them as a real family again.
Bald truth is, I felt a lot better about the Ugartes being home before I found out that Dad's tour in Iraq will be extended. It's stupid. I know it's stupid. It's probably even a sin, but ever since I heard a week ago, I've been thinking, It's not fair. They've got somebody home with them. Every other kid in the battalion's got on
e civilian parent. It's just me who's doing this alone.
But now that I see the local veterans rolling in, with the shoulder-slapping and the way they look at each other, like they're better than brothers, it's not so bad. It loosens me up to hear the rumble of their talk.
The hall's nearly full when Mr. and Mrs. Ugarte step into the room. Conversations drop off, and one after another, the veterans stand up and clap. There isn't any shouting or cheering. I don't even see smiles. In fact, it's the saddest applause I've ever heard in my life. And then, one by one, with plenty of space in between, the old vets come up and shake Mr. and Mrs. Ugarte's hand and say, “Welcome home, soldier.”
I head to the chow line to help serve up. Rosita is already in the kitchen, in a pink summer dress, hustling plates back and forth. I'm ready to give her the “good to see you again” slug on the shoulder or maybe flick a chunk of potato at her, but she's deep in the flock of her aunties, and it wouldn't be worth my life to do her a kindness now. I stand beside Grandpa, who is cutting up pies, and serve warm squares of corn bread.
Most of the veterans are already in line for the chow, and the little kids are cutting in. Father Ziegler is standing off to the side of the room with Mrs. Ugarte, his head leaning close to listen to her. Mr. Ugarte is getting ready to sit down when he unbuckles something from his belt and his whole leg drops out of his pants and clunks on the floor.
I feel that clunk deep in the pit of my stomach. Knowing someone has lost a leg is not nearly the same as seeing a fake leg come off of a real person's body.
Mr. Ugarte slides his leg onto the table, slaps a stirrup down beside it, and sits down. In minutes, he's hard at it with Nathan, the saddlemaker out of Pendle-ton, and McTigue, the bronzesmith from Wallowa Lake. I hear “fitting” and “torque” and “safety release” in their talk, and they fiddle with the wires and rods on the leg like it's some wayward tractor part. Grandma is in the thick of that conversation, sketching out ideas on a paper napkin. They must be figuring out how to get Mr. Ugarte up on a horse.
I keep scooping up pieces of corn bread and plopping them on plates, but I can't stop looking at Mr. Ugarte's empty pants leg dangling under the table. I know whose fault it is that he's crippled. My dad gave those orders. He looked at that map and approved the route and assigned the driver. I see that swinging pants leg shaking a finger at me: Your fault, your fault, your fault.
What does Paco think? I didn't see him come in with Rosita, and he hasn't come through the food line, either. It's not like him to hold back on eating. The last time I saw him was the day he left school early to get his folks from the airport. That last recess he pushed me down, said a Basque swear, and kicked me. Then he just walked away. I don't even know what to say about that. We've been friends since before kindergarten and we fight all the time, but kicking and cussing aren't the same as fighting. Maybe he just didn't want to come tonight. Can't say I blame him. I don't think I could force food down at gunpoint now
I slide away from the serving table and head out the back door. I sit down on the steps and stare at the gravel parking lot, which isn't much of a view. But then I see Paco's mom.
She's smoking. Paco's mom does not smoke.
She's pacing at the edge of the parking lot and talking to herself. She has her sleeve pulled all the way down to her fingers to cover up the bumpy part of her burn scar, and I can see that her arm doesn't go all the way straight.
I wonder if my dad smokes. I try to picture him lighting a cigarette with his hand cupped around the match like in the old cowboy movies. It doesn't fit the dad I remember from eleven months ago. He always had something else in his hands—the reins, or the steering wheel, or a tool and something that needed fixing. In the morning it was coffee in the blue mug, and at night the newspaper or a book.
I don't even know what he does all day now. His e-mails are full of nothing—a sandstorm one day, kids playing street soccer the next. What if he comes back different and I don't recognize him? What if he doesn't know me and … I turn those thoughts right around, because it's bad luck to think scary things.
I lean my elbows back on the step behind me and take in the sky. It's only just getting dark, but maybe I'll stay and look for my stars. I almost don't hear Mrs. Ugarte walk up.
“Hey, Brother,” she says. She snuffs out her cigarette on the bottom step, examines the remaining two inches, and puts it in her shirt pocket. I don't know what to say to her, so I smile and try to ignore the cigarette smell.
“Can I sit?” she says. I nod and she looks under the stairs and up at the roof and down the road. I scoot to one side of the step and she joins me. I want to ask about how my dad is—not the news, but what is really happening to him. I'm trying to think how to start when she says, “It's pretty here.”
I just nod, because there's nothing to see but a gravel parking lot and empty level sagebrush. You can't even see the mountains.
“It smells good too.”
“I like to watch bats sometimes,” I say, and I point to the live oak at the edge of the parking lot. The bats have woken up in the last few minutes, and now they are swooping out of the branches and tumbling and twirling around the parking lot light. “They must be so strong to fly like that, but they're tiny.”
“They never crash into each other,” Mrs. Ugarte says, “even when there are hundreds of them. That's pretty great.”
“Were there bats in Iraq?”
Mrs. Ugarte shakes her head. “I never saw one, but maybe they live out in the country. Most of the places we drove to were close to Baghdad.” She reaches into her pocket and takes out the cigarette. She rolls it in her fingers for a minute and puts it away. “Where we stayed, there were bright lights all night long and the sound of engines and the smell of diesel.” She wrinkles her nose at the memory of it.
I remember that smell on Dad's uniform when he used to come home from field exercises.
“I love that smell,” I say. “But I guess I'd get tired of it if there was nothing else.”
“You remind me of your mother,” Mrs. Ugarte says. “She was easy to talk to. I miss her.”
I only have little-kid memories of Mom.
“You are like her, you know. She saw beauty in things other people missed. She didn't just make art, she looked for it, you know? She made it part of her life.”
I turn and look at her. “I can't draw or paint like Mom. I can barely color in the lines.”
Mrs. Ugarte takes out the cigarette again and lights it. She takes a long pull and blows a smoke ring.
“Whoa, how did you do that?” I say, and then right away I regret approving of smoking.
She says a word that I'm pretty sure is a Basque swear, on account of I hear it all the time at branding when someone drops one of the hot irons or when some calf kicks a person in the head. Not that I've heard a direct translation or anything.
“The thing about war,” she says, “is that most of the time it's just brain-killing boredom. The terrifying parts only last a few seconds. Smoking is what they invented to fill up the boring parts.”
I have to smile, because this is what I've always liked about Mrs. Ugarte. She has a reason for things, and she's not afraid to tell you about them. On my first day of first grade, when she brought Rosita to kindergarten, she said, “Don't you slug my Rosie, now, because she's going to slug you straight back.”
I tested it out anyway. She was telling the truth. You can count on her for that.
“Your mother wasn't much of a gal for coloring inside the lines either, as I recall. I don't claim to know all of your mom's business, but I'm dead sure she'd tell you not to worry about the lines. ‘Make your own lines, son.’ That's what she would say.”
I don't really like to talk about my mom, since she up and moved to New York to sell her paintings when I was five. And then she moved all the way to Rome. That's practically Babylon, to hear folks in town tell it.
Mrs. Ugarte puts her hand on my sleeve, but only for a second. “She's good at b
eing an artist, like your dad's good at being a commanding officer. When you have a gift like that, it kills your soul not to use it.”
“He's good at being a rancher. He's good at being my dad. Why isn't it enough for him to stay home and be my dad?”
Mrs. Ugarte leans forward, resting her elbows on her knees. The smoke from her cigarette rises in a thin curl. I can see her burn scar up close. It looks like dragon skin.
“Don't confuse the right thing with the easy thing, Brother. Sometimes choosing what's right for you breaks your heart.” She crushes out her cigarette on the step. Her hand retreats back up her sleeve and she gives a little shrug. “A person can live a little bit broken,” she says. “Most of us do, I guess.”
I throw bits of gravel from the step back into the parking lot. I can't say as I know what's right for me. Being Paco's friend is all I can think of. Maybe he needs to punch me a few more times before we are friends again. I guess I won't die of it. I hop up and head inside to look for him. If Paco is here, he'll be in the kitchen with the rest of the guys on KP I grab a stack of dirty plates and head in there.
Paco's already got the cool job of blasting the goop off the plates with the sink hose, so I take the sweaty job of pulling steamy dishes out of the washer and stacking them in the cupboards. It's too noisy to talk, so we work side by side while the long-haired Nam vets with the scary tattoos wash pots. Frank and some of the other high school kids wipe tables and clear the hall. Once the dishes are put away, I break out the last of the home-brewed root beer I've been hiding in Grandpa's cooler. I get one for Paco and we lean on the kitchen counter, looking out into the dining hall.
Heart of a Shepherd Page 7
