Into the Free

by Julie Cantrell

  But now, after learning some secrets from Mama’s box and seeing the cowboy on my porch, something stirs in me. I want to understand Mama. And Jack. I want to know who they really are. Who I am.

  “I want to see Jack ride,” I say to Mama as she stays in bed.

  Mama just shakes her head.

  “I’m tired of all these secrets, Mama. Jack will be back in two weeks. I’d like to watch him compete.”

  “The rodeo’s no place for a girl like you, Millie.”

  CHAPTER 16

  I’ve tried to get Mama to tell me about the other item in the box. But every time I ask her about the ring, she rolls over and goes to sleep. She does the same when I mention going to the rodeo.

  Waiting these two weeks for Jack to come back to town has been excruciating. I don’t know what I’ll do when I see Jack again. There’s too much I want to say about what he’s done. Too many feelings left raw. I’ve spent the last two weeks trying to convince Mama to go with me to the rodeo. Now that the big day has finally arrived, I am not surprised that she decides to stay home. I can’t blame her.

  “Millie,” she says, tapping the crumpled bedspread for me to sit beside her, a signal that she has something very important to say. “It’s time I explain a few things about Jack.” She pulls the tips of her fingers together to form a hollow sphere, an imaginary bubble between her palms. I am afraid to move, for fear of breaking the surface. I figure she’s about to tell me I can’t go to the rodeo, so I plant a row of excuses in my head.

  “You probably wonder why we’ve never gone to see him ride,” she says.

  Of course I’ve wondered this for years. I sit still and wait for words.

  “I don’t know how to explain it to you, Millie. But, well, the truth is, Jack should never have married a girl like me.”

  Out the window, a murder of crows perches in my sweet gum, cawing so loudly I can hardly hear Mama talk. Sweetie’s branches are bare, except for a few battered leaves that refuse to yield to winter wind. They cling to what they know.

  “The rodeo, it’s its own world. They’re a different breed out there, with their horses and cows. Bulls and ropes. All kinds of things I never understood. Those people,” she lets out a long, hard sigh, “rodeo people. They do better when they stick to their own kind. We tried our best, Jack and me. I’m glad we did, Millie. If I hadn’t chosen Jack, then I wouldn’t have you. And you know I wouldn’t trade you for the world.”

  I have never doubted Mama loves me, but I wouldn’t blame her if she wanted to trade her whole life in for a new one. Me included. I don’t dare say that. I just keep quiet.

  “I know it’s not easy on you, Millie. Jack and me. You shouldn’t have to see such things. Or hear such things. We should do better for you. I keep thinking it will get better.”

  I blink back tears and make a terrible sniffling, snorting sound trying to fight down the flow of emotions gushing in my gut. All these years Mama has told me to pray. She has defended Jack, taken his side, brushed off my fears. I think of those nights she scrubbed away bloodstains and told me to forgive and accept. Like she was always saying, “Jack’s not wrong, Millie. It’s not Jack’s fault.”

  Over the years, each and every time Mama defended Jack, she was choosing him over me. Saying, to me, “Don’t fight back. Love him anyway. It’s not his fault he hurts us. He can’t help it. Whatever you do, please, please don’t make him angry.”

  After sixteen years, Mama is finally admitting that things haven’t been easy. For me. The noose around my neck feels loosened.

  Mama is sweating. She has the shakes. I fluff her pillow and say, “Let me bring you some water.”

  I bring her the water, and she takes a long drink, catches her breath, and continues, squeezing her hands into fists to stop her fingers from twitching.

  “I never wanted things to be like this, you know. I wanted to be a good wife. A good mother. Lots and lots of children. I pictured it all in my head. We’d sit in the stands at the rodeo. Watch Jack win grand prize. Then we’d go for dinner. Somewhere nice, like Tino’s. Order anything we wanted. Money wouldn’t matter. We’d eat rib eyes and seafood and salad. Not worry about the bill. Jack would order dessert, and I’d hold the baby. You and your brother and sister and me, we’d blow out sparkling candles, silver ones. Wish for a big pink house or a shiny black pony. We’d laugh and everyone would stare, wishing they were us.”

  She takes another sip of water. “Take your time, Mama.” I hold her hand. “Rest.”

  “That was my dream, Millie. I was just too young. I’d never fit into Jack’s world. I thought, if I tried my best—which I did, Millie, I always tried my best—I believed that’s all it would take to make things right. Make dreams come true. A happy family. Happy home. I thought it would be so easy. I should have had a backup plan, Millie. A way to handle it when all those things didn’t work out. That way, I’d never have been disappointed. Never hurt. Instead, I just learned to stop expecting anything at all.”

  “Mama, please take a nap. This can wait.” She is breathing fast. Sweating. Fanning herself. Her heart is racing through her thin blouse, and she is looking at her dresser. Probably searching for her stash.

  “Pretty pathetic, to tell you the truth,” Mama continues, sitting tall. “I don’t want you to end up like me, Millie. Never expecting anything good to come your way. You’ve learned happiness isn’t a guarantee. I want you to do better than I did, Millie. Better than this.” She looks around the bedroom, as if she’s finally seeing all the dust and books and aging linens. “Now, go to that rodeo. See your daddy ride. And then, after Jack’s won the prize, go somewhere nice. Tino’s. Order anything you want. Tell the waiter you’re celebrating. Ask for candles. Big, bright, sparkling silver candles. Make a wish. Believe without a single doubt it will come true. I mean it. Believe it. Then blow out the candles, and laugh loud. So everyone will turn to look at you and Jack and smile because you are so happy, the two of you, father and daughter. The way things should be. That’s what I really want, Millie. You and Jack to be happy.”

  I am shaking. I squeeze Mama’s hand. “Come with me, Mama,” I say. “Let’s go together to watch Jack.” But there’s no changing her mind. She doesn’t belong in the arena, and I have to find out for myself whether I do or not.

  “Mama,” I ask. “Please. Tell me more about the box. Why’d you bury these things? Whose ring is that?”

  “There’s a lot left to tell you, Millie. We’ll talk more when you get back from the rodeo. For now, you better hurry. You’ll be late.”

  I give her a hug, dry my tears, and head out alone. Half believing that Mama’s expectations of the day might actually come true.

  CHAPTER 17

  At the rodeo, I find a mix of roughnecks and plowboys standing shoulder to shoulder with wealthy land owners and stiff-shirted businessmen. Kids gallop around on stick horses, testing their roping skills on wooden calves. Vendors call out, “Pickles! Popcorn! Fresh cold root beer!”

  I look around and realize that, in stark contrast to me, Jack spends his time in places that are full of life. While I’m stuck at home watching Mama breathe, swallow, blink. At first, I am spellbound by the scene, but it doesn’t take long before I’m just plain mad. Furious that Jack has the nerve to live this life, leaving me to clean up all his messes.

  I pay my entrance fee and storm through the gates. I spot Jack standing in a back corner behind the bucking chutes, quiet and focused. Like a prizefighter. He doesn’t see me.

  By the looks of it, Jack is the oldest bull rider in the event. Shiny-faced cowboys, barely older than me, strut in and out of wooden gates, wearing polished spurs, tight pants, and new hats, plus leather gloves on their riding hands. Girls, too, with studded shirts and chaps. I’ve seen rodeo guys in town all my life—moving their skinny cows and bony horses through the streets from the stock car rails to the Cauy Tucker arena. But never women. That’s new. And I have never seen women in pants, except for a few photos of Amelia Ea
rhart and Calamity Jane.

  The sights here are as wild and wondrous as the gypsy camp. And the smells! Popcorn and cigar smoke. Sawdust and wood shavings. Leather and steel. Not to mention the animals. So many creatures in one place! Sheep and horses and bulls and calves all corralled in holding pens. Blue heelers and border collies guard the stock. The entire place is pumped full of apprehension. Adrenaline steams through the sultry air, from both the men and the beasts. They’re all ready, waiting for the gate to pull.

  I climb the stands and find a seat among the sticky-faced kids and freshly powdered ladies. “The fans center on Jack,” Mama used to say. She could always tell if the crowd had been for him or against him. “It’s all in the sound of his boots when they hit the porch,” she said, not admitting that her own fate hung on that same dangling string.

  Today, the crowd roots for Jack. He’s a local, a familiar face the farmers and mill workers have grown to admire. He’s one of their own. The announcer calls, “Jack Reynolds of Iti Taloa, Mississippi, riding Lucky Number Seven, Wildflower.”

  The crowd’s roar works as an undertow, dragging me into the scene against my will. No matter how much I resist, I am drawn to Jack and to the feelings I have buried. My heart pulses between disgust and pride as he gallops around the arena on a quarter horse gelding and tips his hat to more than five hundred fans.

  I stand with the crowd, hoping Jack will notice me. I am surprised by how I feel. Here, surrounded by Jack’s fans, I am not afraid of my father. I don’t hate him. Instead, I want him to send me a tilt of his head, or a dip of his hat, some simple sign that I am his and he is mine, and that somehow, despite all the craziness in our worlds, we can find each other and know that we are loved. Just like in the photo that hangs above my bed, where the glow from my lamp shines up on it every night.

  Now, Jack circles the arena. Pulses of light pass through the worn patches in his hat. For a moment, I catch his eye and hold my breath. Hoping that in the white void that spreads between us, fear will dissolve, and there will be more proof, that yes, Jack loves me.

  But if he sees me, I can’t tell. It’s just like Jack. To look right through me.

  Riders trail in Jack’s dust. Younger, more handsome, stronger, but none compares. Jack is clearly the master of this domain, the one we have all paid to see. All at once, I understand what Mama has always known. Jack’s not all bad. Despite his rage and violence, here, in his own world, Jack is a hero.

  Soon enough, the grand parade ends, and I watch in awe as each event unfolds before me. Saddle Bronc Riding, Bareback Riding, Steer Wrestling. Four more events to go before the highlight of the rodeo: the bulls.

  I want to see Jack. I slide from the stands and return to the holding area. The loud neighs of horses echo off the cold tin walls like gunshots, and their breath falls wet and warm against my neck. I am mesmerized by their massive size, by the power in their heavy breathing, and by the families who care for them, who work together to ration food and water and to clean the stalls. One girl, who looks to be about eighteen, sits on the back of a wagon, legs swinging. A tall, slender cowboy leans into her. A piece of hay dangles over his lips like a straw, as if he is drinking her in. She giggles softly at his whispering, pushing him away.

  My mind goes to River. To the time we spent together, when I learned how his lips tasted of wine, how his arms curved to hold me. I can hardly wait for spring. For River to return to Iti Taloa. To me.

  I wander around, stopping to examine rows of black-and-white photos that line the walls. They show images of rodeos from around the country, places I’ve read about, but certainly never been. All those women in pants. Unacceptable in Iti Taloa, even in the fields. In the underworld of the rodeo, all rules seem made to be broken.

  Around the stock area, girls flirt with boys behind wagons and hay bales. Women brush dust from their embroidered shirts and smooth their hair in miniature mirrors. These women look nothing like the women in the photos. These rodeo women are glamorous and wealthy. I’m pretty sure that the real rodeo women are the ones pictured on the wall, strong-spirited cowgirls. I imagine them out West, slinging shotguns and packing pistols.

  All of a sudden, Bump appears. He props himself up against the wall to face the photos. “Mabel Strickland,” he says, pointing to a woman full of smiles on the back of a bucking bronc. “Queen of the Pendleton Round-Up. Nineteen twenty-seven.” He taps the engraved plaque beside the photo.

  I give him a look to tell me more, ashamed he’s been delivering groceries and money to us for months, hoping he doesn’t bring up anything about Mama. Or Jack.

  “That girl sure could ride,” he adds. “Till she went and asked to compete for all-around cowboy. Folks done took offense.”

  “Who’s this?” I ask, pointing to a frightening image of a woman being thrown from a horse, crashing to the ground, her feet toward the sun and the back of her head about to hit. The horse bucks, both front hooves in the air.

  “Bonnie McCarroll,” Bump says. “Quite a rebel, that one. Till she got herself bucked and stomped to death. That’s how come women don’t do broncs no more. Just want y’all to parade around and look pretty.”

  “They won’t let women compete?” I ask.

  “Oh, there’s still a few doing trick riding,” he says. “A bunch getting into this barrel stuff. But no more broncs. No more bulldogging. Cryin’ shame, you ask me.” He extends his hand for a shake and says, “Glad you came.” He treats me like one of the boys, and I like it. Now I feel guilty for never inviting him in when he brought deliveries from Jack. “You ride?”

  “I wish,” I answer, ashamed to admit I’ve never had the chance, despite years of watching Mr. Sutton’s horses in the pasture, pretending my branch was a saddle. “It’s my first rodeo.” I hold up my ticket.

  Just then, Jack’s voice creeps around the corner and hits me like a stone. I’m afraid if he sees me, I’ll anger him and he’ll force me to leave. He is coming closer, so I dart for a bale of hay and crouch.

  “Get ’em ready. Bulls are next,” Jack says. His voice is deep and full of grit.

  “Yes, sir.” A group of cowboys scatter, clearly eager to serve Jack and to do it right.

  I peek out from behind the hay. Bump is standing by the photos, looking at me like he’s entertained. I hold my finger to my lips to warn him.

  That’s when a bulky cowboy walks by and shoves the smallest of Jack’s helpers out of his way. Jack stops in his tracks, turns around, and says, “Is that any way to treat a friend?”

  The bully, who was probably trying to impress Jack in the first place, looks to the ground and mumbles, “No, sir.”

  “Come with me,” Jack says to the undersized cowboy who has been the target of the attack. “Need a guy like you to be my right-hand man.”

  The others look at one another in disbelief. The small, bullied cowboy fights a grin. Jack rips the numbered competitor’s tag from the pocket of the bully’s shirt and gives it to his right-hand man. “Let Mr. Tucker know that Number Twelve just pulled out.”

  Although he’s already competed for the night, Number Twelve understands the power of Jack’s decision. He walks off sulking. The chosen cowboy bows his head in humble respect of Jack Reynolds, my father.

  The heels of Jack’s boots press prints in the dirt as he walks straight past me. Little swirls of dust curl behind him. I keep my eyes on the ground.

  Another pair of boots comes into view and stops. Bump reaches his hand down to me and says, “You all right?”

  I turn hot-pepper red and let him pull me up. An Adam’s apple pokes against his unbuttoned shirt collar. “Got some photos of Jack over here,” he says.

  I follow to a cabinet packed with trophies, belt buckles, ribbons, and photos. Bump points to a section dedicated to Jack, by far the biggest collection of them all. I can’t stop staring at one photo. Jack is standing in the arena waving his hat. It’s strange to see him smiling. He looks young. And happy. “He’s got quite a record,” Bump says
. “Reckon you’re right proud.”

  “Not really,” I say, knowing I should just say yes and let it be. Instead, I add, “I’m about as proud of Jack as he is of me.”

  CHAPTER 18

  Andy Riggins is the first bull rider to leave the gates. He’s aiming for eight seconds tied to the back of a bucking beast. Three more riders fight for glory before Jack is announced. Meanwhile Jack prepares his rope, stretches his legs. Then Jack’s name is called. My heart races. I stand on my seat to see every wrinkle, every grimace, every shadow, every bead of sweat.

  Jack’s left glove is wrapped tightly with the bull rope, which is tied snug behind the bull’s front legs. A bell hangs beneath the bull’s thick chest. The big black beast must weigh close to two thousand pounds. He barely fits into the chute. Jack’s right arm is free, and he uses it to pull the bull rope tighter around his left hand. A current of dust rises as he settles himself onto the bare back of the bull, adjusting his legs around the creature’s belly. Concealed beneath the brim of his western hat, his eyes take a quick glance at the crowd. They match those of the bull. Angry. Ready to fight. A younger cowboy leans into the chute and tightens the rope, pulling four or five times to reduce the slack. Jack nods his head to signal “Go.” A tight-lipped man clicks a stopwatch as the gate is pulled open.

  Adrenaline rushes and I can’t hold still. I try to keep balanced as I stand on my seat. I bite my nails and bounce up and down with the nervous jitter of a squirrel. Eight seconds. Eight seconds to watch Jack in a way I have never done before.