The rosy glow evaporated. An involuntary shudder ran the length of me as I recalled the times she had risked her life for me. I prayed, as I sat in the midst of luxury, safe and warm, that she would get out of her situation some way, somehow, alive.
My eyes closed and I lay back, basking in the sunlight, only vaguely aware of the laughter and shrieks of the skinny-dippers.
Blue smoke curled around me and my mind drifted back to the last face I had seen before the hay covered me, the strained smile like a bad photo on his face as he frantically piled the hay over my prone body and prodded the sheep back. Juan had shielded my body with his to stand terrified and defiant against Carlos’ murderous hand. But what was Juan’s future? Surely Carlos had better plans for his only son, now imprisoned in that hellhole.
I felt humbled and ashamed to know in my heart that I had been so paralyzed with fear that strangers had done for me what I couldn’t do for myself.
I lay there half asleep, my roach pinched off, when I sensed someone flop down in the chair beside me. I heard him inhale deeply, then ask, “Hey, Cowboy. How about a drag?”
Called back to reality, I opened my eyes to see that dude who’d driven the car in which I’d sneaked a ride.
“Sure, help yourself,” I answered and closed my eyes again.
“Damn, Cowboy, you always get the good stuff. Where you scorin’ this primo? I think we were smokin’ shoelaces last night. I’d give anything for a bag of this.”
I felt a stirring in my hazy mind. “Yeah? What have you got? What will you give for two bags?”
“All I’ve got are the clothes on my back, that old Buick you stunk up, and three hundred dollars. That car never used a quart of oil all the way across the country. It was my grandmother’s and she hardly ever drove it. It’s only got ten thousand miles on it and the rubber’s good, too.”
“Yeah? Who put the other ninety thousand on it—grandpa? And I saw the rims showing through what rubber there was. I’ll bet it would take a crane to lift the oil you’ve got in it right now.”
“Well, if you know so damn much, why did you ask? Might have a few miles on it—long ways from Maryland, you know. Guess I’ll go for a dip and show these girls what a real man looks like.”
“Wait a minute. Have another drag—might be your last one before they drown you. Tell you what—put new tires on it, add your three hundred bucks, and you’ve got two bags of something that will make you think you hear the angels singing. You can probably sell some of it and get all your money back. And you’re rid of that junk heap. Make your grandma happy, too. This offer is only good for twenty-four hours, dude.”
Before the deadline had passed, I had a bill of sale and some other papers tucked away with the remaining green stuff in the Baggies, a 1940 Buick with two new retreads, and a hundred dollars in my pocket.
I went over to the Diggers’ tent to find Alfie. I gave him a hug and told him I was going home.
“Damn good idea, Cowboy.” He hugged me hard enough to dislocate my shoulder. I offered him a bag, but he gave it back.
“Don’t use that shit. I’m goin’ to the university studyin’ to be a doctor so don’t need that shit to mess up my mind. If you’re smart, you don’t, either.”
“Fine. I’ll sell it to someone who’s gonna be a shoe salesman.”
“Do that,” he laughed, “but look me up when you need your appendix out.”
I had already changed the oil in the Buick and cleaned it inside and out. It sure smelled better—of course, so did I. I know that the angel riding on my shoulder on that fateful day nearly three months ago was grateful. I shuddered, remembering the insane crossing of four lanes of speeding traffic to reach the exit marked “San Francisco.”
Now that it was known that Cowboy had the good stuff, I stuffed my three remaining Baggies back in the lining of the jacket and used it as a pillow. I planned to leave right after breakfast, but I couldn’t sleep. I was up before daylight.
Everybody was zoned out except for a couple of fellows wandering around in the hall. One asked me if I’d seen his bed go by; the other one said, “Hey, man, are we still in Saint Louis?”
“Yeah, I guess so,” I said, and ran down to the kitchen. I drank a cold cup of black coffee, but couldn’t bring myself to eat a forlorn roll that looked older than I.
The Buick purred like a Cadillac. Traffic was light as I found my way back to the bridge and got on the freeway for home.
As I pushed the old car as fast as I dared, my thoughts wandered back to the five-acre farm where we had lived most of my seventeen years. All these years in that little faded frame house with one bath—and a privy outside that we used in summer. The house where my grandmother was born, that she had deeded to my mother as a wedding gift in a grandiose effort to impress the well-to-do family Ma was marrying into. Lace-curtain Irish, they were, from a thousand-acre wheat farm in the Midwest. Needless to say, they were unimpressed both with the gift and their son’s choice, a wife they considered to be of the wash-and-wear variety.
Guess I was about nine years old, Sis almost two years younger, when our father was killed in a tractor accident. That event seemed to remove us from their Christmas mailing list.
I thought of Ma and the hardship of a young widow with two kids trying to make ends meet on a meager insurance check. She supplemented it by taking in washing, hoeing the neighbor’s garden, doing their housework, and even milking their cows.
She joined a church, determined that Sis and I were going to be raised as Christians, and sent us to the church school—a very strict and expensive education.
Grandma said that Ma had loved to dance, but now she had traded her dancing slippers for boots and bib overalls. She was always so terribly tired, her curls were gone, and the fourteen-hour days showed in the lines on her face and the droop of her shoulders.
I think she married again because she thought Sis and I needed a father. I was twelve and becoming as rambunctious as I dared.
He was Dad’s buddy, medically discharged from the Army. A war hero. Sis and I never did discover the exact location of his wounds, but later we laughed ourselves into hysterics when we figured he’d been shot in the ass when he ran the wrong way when the command had been to advance. Ma said I aggravated him. I sure tried.
He promised me a bike, and Sis all manner of good things that young girls love. Even brought Ma some roses that wilted overnight. Ma perked up and curled her hair.
I think he married her because she was a good cook, a hard worker, and owned her own home.
Then the justice of the peace declared them man and wife.
The honeymoon was over when Ma said, “I do.”
I never got the bike, of course. Sis was told to shut up about crap she didn’t need. Ma was told in very uncertain terms to forget that damned foolishness about church school and put some new tires on the pickup.
Ma hung tough on the church school.
He drank a lot of beer and never seemed to hold down a job very long. His every conversation was laced with obscenities.
He shoved Ma around. And without a moment’s notice, one of his big paws would catch me beside the head and knock me sprawling.
Ma was a Sunday school teacher for years and never missed church; it was her only escape from the hell that was our home. She asked the pastor to speak to him. His response was, “You know your husband is the head of the house and you are to obey him. Are you sure you’re doing as you should? Divorce? You’re a Sunday school teacher. I’ll pray for you, sister.”
Nothing ever came of that conversation. I recall the verse that says, “Faith without works is dead,” so I didn’t think the pastor put in any overtime.
Sis and I quit church, but we prayed fervently every night for the head of the house—prayed he’d get leprosy and die, slowly.
Well, enough of these tender memories, I thought. It’s a beautiful day, I own my own wheels, and I’m going home. I looked to see a McDonald’s signboard flash by and realized
I was ferociously hungry. I pulled off the freeway, found the golden arches and ordered a meal. I stuffed myself with food I hadn’t tasted since I’d left home, and topped it off with a double-malt milkshake.
Back on the road, my gaze wandered to the low hills as I listened to the hum of the tires on the asphalt. I wondered what the date was. July, I think—have I missed my eighteenth birthday?
I smiled as I thought about the cakes Ma had baked for me. Always the same—two-layer chocolate with thick fudge frosting and the appropriate number of candles. Sis gloated—she always got to lick the spoon.
Then, as the wheels brought me closer, I could feel my stomach tighten, that breakfast threatening to make a quick exit. I wondered if I dared to chance a toke. No, I’d smell funny. Bad enough I’d again hidden what was left in the lining of my jacket.
I slowed to a crawl, but as I neared the turn-off, my foot pressed down on the accelerator as though it had a mind of its own. As I drove up the driveway and turned, the house came into view.
Everything looked the same. Well, almost. I laughed to myself as I saw the pickup that stood almost sideways in the door of the garage. Sis never could park that truck right. Tied to the front wheel was her old dog.
Sis’ love of that animal had always been a mystery to me. All he’d ever done was whine and scratch at the door, eat, then retreat under her bed to sleep, snore and fart.
At last I was home.
The curtains were drawn, the dog barely looked at me—it was too quiet.
I gave the horn a tentative honk with no response. Worried, I gave a couple of real sharp toots. I saw the curtains move and a face peer out.
I stepped out of the car.
Then the front door flung open hard enough to crack the hinges, followed by a wild shriek, “Ma, Ma. It’s Stevie.”
Then it was a race to see who could get to whom first, a tangle of arms, sobs and laughter.
Ma’s crumpled face pressed into my chest. I could feel the wet through my tee shirt.
“Son, son. What happened to you?”
Brushing away the tears from her face with fingers that shook almost as badly as my knees, I said, “It’s a long story, Ma.”
Then they were pulling me in. Sis kicked the door shut and, with hands on her hips, demanded, “Where in hell have you been?”
“Not now, Sis,” Ma said. “Put the coffee on and I’ll bring out the birthday cake.”
Tears streaming, Sis crowded me into a chair, waving the coffee pot and shooting questions with the speed of a machine gun—despite Ma’s admonition.
Ma came out of the pantry to place the cake with eighteen blue candles on the worn chrome table.
I glanced around quickly to see if there was any sign of this man I both feared and hated. “Where’s what’s-his-name?” I ventured.
There was a silence as Ma sliced into the cake. The sweet aroma almost made me drool. Sis handed me a fork as Ma pushed a plate toward me heavy with a huge piece of cake and said, “Son, this cake is three days old. You’re late.” She added, almost as an afterthought, “Oh, he isn’t here anymore.”
“I shot the son of a bitch,” Sis said.
Ma added, “I buried the gun in the garden. We’ve been digging potatoes so the ground’s all tore up anyway—just in case anybody ever asked about it.”
My fork clattered to the floor. Nobody moved to pick it up.
I nearly choked. “Oh my God, Ma.”
I leaned back; my eyes rolled upward and fastened on three flattened cardboard box tops taped to the ceiling. I stared mesmerized at the fine dust as it sifted down through the cracks and jagged edges of the exposed lath and plaster. One box top read “Rio-Visa Peaches.”
Dumbfounded, almost speechless, I could only point.
Ma said, “Oh, that’s just when the wind gets under a corner. I didn’t get it taped very well. Probably a few dents in the roof, too, plus I found a couple of shingles in the yard.
“Sure had a hard time with the blood on the floor. Sis poured a couple of gallons of bleach on it and ruined the linoleum.”
I looked down to see about half the floor splotched white.
“Yes, Sis shot that son of a bitch,” Ma said, “but her aim was off.”
That information wasn’t half as shocking as the sound of my Ma using that kind of language. My Ma, a Sunday school teacher and a stickler for proper English, had never even uttered a “gee whiz” or a “gosh darn.” Sis and I had our mouths washed out with soap more than a few times.
“He went down and lay there—bled like a stuck hog. And I kicked the shit out of him.” Ma laughed, leaned over, and started to pull the candles out of the cake.
I finally found my voice and croaked, “Sis, did you really, truly shoot him?”
“She sure did,” Ma said with pride in her voice. “Only I was going to say I did it. Sis, you never did make the coffee—I’ll do it. Tell Stevie.”
“Okay, Ma,” Sis said. “Last Sunday we were dressed for church and just walking out the door when he got up, bleary-eyed, hair hanging in his face, and put his pants on. Like always,” Sis began.
“He blustered to Ma, ‘Where’s my breakfast? You’re not goin’ any place till I’ve had my breakfast.’ ”
“Ma said, kinda easy, trying not to make him mad, ‘That will make me late. I can’t keep my class waiting. There’s cereal, eggs…’ Then he slapped her, knocked her back on a chair. Then he said to me, ‘You damn well better get to cookin’ my breakfast before I lose my temper.’
“I said, ‘Sure, I’ll do it. Let me get my apron.’ I stepped back into the bedroom. Ma just sat there real quiet, holding her Bible, her hat all crooked.”
Ma interrupted. “Yeah, I knew in my heart she was going for the gun.”
Sis continued, “He was walking toward Ma, talking ugly, when I stood in the doorway holding Dad’s shotgun. Ma told me, looking right past him, ‘Go ahead, Sis, shoot the son of a bitch.’
“He turned his head and when he saw the gun he started to beg. ‘Please, honey, Sis, put that gun down. Put it down—it’s loaded.’
“I said, ‘Of course it’s loaded. I’m going to kill you for slapping Ma around, always making her late for church, running Stevie off. You’ve broken her heart; you’ve made our life hell. No matter what happens, life will be better.’
“Now the tears are flowing and he’s pleading, ‘Honey, please, I’ll never do it again.’
“ ‘I know you won’t, you bastard—not where you’re going.’
“I put the heavy gun to my shoulder and brought it up. He’s shaking till I thought he was going to fall. I spread my feet like you’ve showed me, Stevie, my finger on the trigger. Then that damn old dog staggered out from under my bed to chase the cat and knocked me off balance. My finger just tightened on the trigger and there was a terrible boom—I was almost deaf for three days—and he fell on his face. Blood flew everywhere. I thought I was going to faint. I never saw a dead man before.
“The air was thick with the smell of gunpowder and blood splattered way up to the ceiling, where I saw a big hole with lath sticking out. Plaster was falling everywhere.
“Ma said, ‘That was real good shooting, Sis,’ took off her hat, and laid it with her Bible on the table. She stepped over the blood and plaster and gave him a good hard kick in the ass. She said, ‘What are we gonna do with him, do you s’pose?’
“I said, kinda dazed, ‘Ma, you’re gonna be late for class,’ and leaned the gun up against the wall.
“Ma looked kinda funny and said, ‘I guess I’m not a Christian anymore—no need to hurry now.’ Then she walked back and gave him another kick.
“That’s when he sat up. I screamed, ‘Ma, he’s been resurrected,’ and fell back against the wall.
“ ‘Oh, shit,’ Ma said. ‘He isn’t dead after all. You were standing too far away, I guess.’
“ ‘You damn near blowed my arm off and my head, too. I’m blind—can’t see a thing,’ he blubbered. It was the
truth—his face was covered with blood and there was a big hole in his upper arm. Blood was running down his naked belly.
“Ma got some towels, wrapped one around his arm real tight and with another, wiped his face, none too gently, and discovered he wasn’t blind. A four-inch flap of hair and scalp hung over his ear. She sent me for an old bedsheet with yellow flowers on it, and we tore it into strips and wound it around his head and arm till he looked like a mummy. She stepped back and I snickered when she said, ‘I think he looks kinda cute in yellow—don’t you?’
“He crawled to a chair and I helped him up.
“ ‘Just a little head bump,’ Ma said.
“ ‘Yeah, one inch to the right and that little bump would have been in my brain.’ The tears made streaks down his face.
“Ma said, ‘Head wounds always bleed a lot—not life-threatening. And that’s only a flesh wound in your arm. You’ll live. Too damn bad.’ Her tone of voice chilled me.
“She started to clean up the mess—all the plaster and blood, but I sank down in a chair, too weak to stand anymore.
“ ‘You two crazy women.’ He pointed his good arm at Ma. ‘You took a butcher knife to me and now Sis has tried to blow my head off.’
“He dabbed at himself with a towel. Ma planted herself in front of him, looking him dead in the eye. ‘Too bad Sis missed. I won’t—if there is a next time. Now I’m going to clean you up, pack a few things, call a cab and you can go to the hospital and get stitched up. Cause any trouble with the police and one of us will find you. You were cleaning your gun. Accidents happen—understand me?
“ ‘You are two crazy women,’ he repeated. ‘I want out of here. Don’t forget my shaving gear.’
“ ‘Before you go,’ Ma said, ‘I want you to repeat after me in your own refined language that we’ve been subjected to all these years.
“ ‘I am a foul-mouthed bully and a piss-poor lay.’
“He hesitated and fussed with his bandages. Ma picked up the gun.
“ ‘I am a foul-mouthed bully and a piss-poor lay,’ he sniveled.
And Yesterday Is Gone Page 9
