My Cowboy Freedom

by Z. A. Maxfield

  Bible study was mandatory, like court-ordered rehab for convicted drug addicts. My parents may have given in and sent me to live at the Rocking C with Elena, a woman who knew me, loved me, and had my best interests at heart. But it was conditional—among other things, I had to attend church and Bible study every single week without fail. And they had spies that would narc on me if I didn’t go.

  It’s been way easier to go to Bible study than to tell my folks they’re wrong.

  Plus I couldn’t afford medical insurance and Maisy’s expenses without my parents and they knew it. I did what they wanted me to do, just to keep my monthly allowance checks coming.

  And they loved me; I knew they did. They didn’t like me. But that was okay. I didn’t like them very much either.

  The pastor, Aiden Everett, met me and Maisy at the door. “Hey, Rocky. Good to see you, man. Maisy girl. Shake?”

  Goddamnit. He knew better than that. Maisy knew better than to let herself get distracted when she was on duty, but with a look and a nod from me, she did as he asked. She couldn’t help herself around Pastor Everett, any more than any human could.

  Aiden Everett was obscenely attractive.

  In the way of charismatic pastors everywhere, all he had to do to open up a wallet, or win over a convert, or plant a flag in a dog’s heart was to show those big, capped teeth of his.

  Aiden was so good-looking it was hard to even take him all in at once. Each week, I picked something specific to look at. That day, I noticed that he had three or four visible golden-brown hairs between the perfect arches of his brows. It was almost as if he left them there so you wouldn’t think he’d plucked, but he obviously did so maybe they were new.

  Maybe his wife had gone AWOL from hair patrol.

  Between them, the Everetts were the perfect youth ministers. The girls were all passionately in love with him, and the boys all wanted her pert pink ass. They were perfectly in love. Perfectly appropriate. They were what my dad, Pastor Elliot McLean of the Oklahoma Christian Pathways megachurch would have referred to as aspirationals.

  Perfect role models for impressionable Christian kids.

  I let Pastor exclaim over me, and then me and Maisy went inside to help set up chairs and refreshments.

  Bible study at the Evangelical Free Church of Bitterroot lasted for two hours. In the first hour, we broke into groups and studied scripture. The second featured a brief sermon, song, and witness. For whatever reason, I’d gotten myself lumped in with Everett’s group. They were the oldest boys, and I guess everyone assumed I’d be more comfortable with them. I’d brought my scriptures and my pencils. I mechanically marked the passages we were discussing, this time, Acts 9, the part that tells the story of Paul’s epiphany on the road to Damascus.

  And there . . . I had to be honest. Paul’s epiphany had come up so often in Bible study that I was starting to think it was a conspiracy—like maybe my dad was trying to send me subtle messages through Pastor Everett, using the Bible’s flip-flopping apostle as an example of how this struck-by-lightning kind of thing was done.

  I was, in fact, exactly like Paul, but backwards. I was a believer when I got hit by my lightning strike. Paul is the dude my parents were hoping I would be when I woke up in the hospital afterward. Paul, who survived his bolt-from-the-blue experience to become the pillar of the Christian faith.

  I didn’t give two shits about religion anymore. I didn’t know if it was because I was hit by lightning or not, but I woke up and I just couldn’t make myself believe any of it anymore.

  If I could have believed, or if I could have lied about it, I’d probably be in Oklahoma right now, singing inspirational music onstage at Christian Pathways with the rest of my brothers.

  If I could have lied, we’d all be on speaking terms. My nieces and nephews would still be climbing me like a big tree, calling me Uncle Doofus and loving me harder than I deserve.

  My mother would call me for something other than to make sure I got my monthly check.

  And in the quietest moments, I told myself I didn’t want all that back, but I did.

  Christ, how I wanted it.

  The belief. The spirit. The magic of home and family. The myth that is unconditional love. I want it all back, and I can’t have it because it never existed in the first place.

  Struck by lightning, my ass.

  My eyes were opened to the truth that day.

  I never liked the Apostle Paul anyway. He was one of those smug bastards. It’s like he quit selling tobacco products and afterwards, all he wanted to do was make life miserable for everyone who still smoked.

  Maisy eyed me like she knew what I was thinking. Maybe she’d heard Paul’s story one too many times too.

  That night, I strummed the intro to the Chris Tomlin song, “I Lift My Hands.”

  Next to me, Maisy stretched out, putting her head on my foot. She liked the way I tapped my toes. I don’t know why. That’s her spot.

  It was fascinating to watch those kids from the pulpit, some of them were focused, some bored. Some had shiny, lit-up faces, as if they were tuned in to something the rest of us couldn’t see or hear. During the chorus, they stood, lifting their hands and singing along.

  Maisy nudged my foot. She started licking. I guessed I’d tapped the tempo wrong or something. Everybody’s a critic. Then the song went somewhere wrong because Maisy pulled on my sleeve.

  I glanced down, unable to understand why she would do such a thing while I was obviously playing a song in front of people.

  But I wasn’t playing anymore and neither was Maisy.

  She carefully took my wrist between her jaws and tugged until I had no choice but to slide off the chair and lay down.

  “Maisy—You dick . . .”

  Wait. Are my words slurred?

  I blinked. Opened my eyes wider, like that would help. I knew what I was experiencing was an aura—but my mind rejected the idea. I tried to blink away the wavy, snakeskin lines in my field of vision. Sniffed to identify some strange smell . . .

  This cannot be happening to me. Not now. Not here.

  Goddamn it. This can’t be . . .

  I’m sure it’s just . . .

  And that’s when I tasted metal.

  As if I touched my tongue to the strings of an electric guitar.

  Then there was something more elusive, something that tasted like metal and spark.

  Ozone.

  The scent of lightning itself. I tasted the scent, or . . . no . . . that’s not what you do with smells . . .

  I gave in, because that’s what I do.

  When the lightning comes, I let Maisy do the thinking for both of us.

  ***

  “You’re okay, Rock.”

  I have no idea how much time has passed.

  I have no idea what my body did while it wasn’t taking orders from me.

  I’m confused and I’m angry and I’m scared all at once. It’s all fucking bullshit.

  I’m raging mad now. Raging.

  I smell pee.

  Pastor Everett wiped my face with a damp towel.

  So I was laying there, and everything hurt. Everything. And that was so very not good, because it meant what I had wasn’t a complex partial seizure but a full tonic-clonic seizure. I’d foamed at the mouth and pissed myself in front of an audience of teenagers.

  And somebody had probably already uploaded the video to YouTube.

  I had no illusions. Once upon a time, I would have done exactly that.

  “Rock?” Pastor Everett leaned over me, backlit by the track lighting on the ceiling.

  He looked like an angel and suddenly I hated him for that.

  Hated him for his perfect life and his perfect wife.

  Hated the fact that my dad would have given anything to have him for a son instead of me and everyone knew it
. . . I pulled my face out of the spatter of foamy saliva and vomit I’d left all over the indoor-outdoor carpeting and shoved him out of the way.

  This is the part where I’m lying like a giant among Lilliputians, as disoriented as a drunken bull rider who has been kicked one too many times in the head.

  I’m ashamed and I’m still full of rage.

  It’s not safe for me and it’s not safe for these other people whose only desire is to help me.

  Cecilia was talking on the wall phone, probably calling for paramedics. Maisy was going berserk trying to get my backpack to me. She was dragging it over, but people were crowded around me blocking her way.

  “My . . . pack,” I managed.

  Aiden grabbed it, unzipped it, and pulled things out willy-nilly. “What do you need?”

  I grabbed for a water and an emergency glucose tube, because my blood sugar is always for shit after a tonic-clonic episode like that one.

  It had been a long, long time since I’d had one of those.

  This means doctors and tests and managing meds again.

  I let myself sag back onto the floor and reviewed where things stood.

  The pain was overwhelming.

  Every muscle was exhausted.

  The pressure of those muscles contracting during my seizure could possibly have fractured my bones, but I didn’t feel anything that said “broken.”

  It felt like I’d run a marathon, barefoot, over broken glass.

  It was pissing myself, not the generalized loss of muscle control or the vomit or the ugly stares I got from those entitled little shitlings watching me that bothered me most.

  Pee should be the last thing on my mind. Everyone pees. But to me, it feels like the end of the world. I saw two kids, holding a phone between them, tittering nervously. Okay, I hate that almost as much.

  “Get away.” I shoved at all the people trying to help me.

  I needed to find space to breathe, to recover.

  I thrashed and crawled, and dragged myself away from the pile-up with the help of Maisy, who wasn’t afraid to lunge at anyone to get them to move.

  Good girl, baby. Go!

  By now I’m thoroughly panicked.

  I’m shouting. “Get away from me, goddamnit.” But it sounds all garbled.

  They’re still on me. I’m flailing my arms. I’m starting to black out.

  “Leave. Me. Alone.”

  I am shouting now and fear has replaced worry in everyone’s eyes.

  Good.

  That’s good.

  Chapter 15

  Sky

  On the way back to the pick-up point where the trucks were waiting, Jason and Robbie talked about their days working one of those massive beef cattle spreads where they herd with helicopters and ATVs.

  I was glad men still worked cattle from their horses at the Rocking C, because that’s what I needed. I’d been thinking about my dad—hoping to feel his presence.

  I figured that once I started chasing Chandler’s Brangus cattle on Rocking C land, I’d find something of him out there. I thought that if I walked in his footsteps, I’d get some kind of window into the kind of man he was, that we might even be able to connect out there on the range, man to man.

  I missed him so much.

  Despite my family, despite ‘Nando, I felt like I’d been alone forever. Out on the land there, I felt less alone. Maybe I needed to brood over the idea of my dad and grieve.

  Mourn the fact he’d never meet the man I could still become.

  Or maybe I only wanted a do-over that ended with me not letting the memory of my father down.

  Once we walked the horses off and loaded them back up, we practically fell into the trucks ourselves. We shared bottled water and trail bars. As soon as the wheels started humming beneath me, I fell asleep.

  I don’t know how long it was before a hand gripped my shoulder and gave it a shake. I startled the way a man who’s been in prison startles at being wakened roughly.

  “Shit!” Tad jumped back to avoid my fist. “Chill, man. You were asleep. We’re back.”

  “Christ, sorry. Sorry . . .” I slid out and hit the ground, barely keeping my knees from buckling. “Shit.”

  “Welcome to ranching.” He shot me a wry grin and waited while I pulled my gear out before slamming the door behind me.

  Just then Elena burst out of the ranch house and hurried down the steps toward us.

  “Tad, can you come with me to pick up Rocky, he had an episode at church and—”

  “Okay if you take Sky?” He was already behind the trailer, opening the gate so he could unload the horses. “The boss is waiting for my reports.”

  “Tad, it’d really be best if—”

  He eyed her. “Maybe it’d be a good idea for Sky to go this time.”

  Something passed between them I didn’t understand.

  “It will help him understand, don’t you think?” Tad’s brows lifted.

  “I-I guess so.” She appeared to hesitate before turning to me. “Will you come with me? I need to pick up Rocky from Bible study, but he’s had a seizure. He’ll be in a very weakened state so he’ll need help.”

  “Sure.” I glanced down at the state of my clothes. “But I’m a mess. I should wash up and change first—”

  “There’s no time for that. I’m sorry to impose. It’s just that—”

  “I’m happy to help, ma’am.” Despite my exhaustion I wanted to make a good impression. “What do you need?”

  “Thanks.” She nodded tightly. “Chock the wheels and unhitch the trailer. We can just take this truck.”

  “I’ll get that, then.” I did as she asked.

  Once we were on the road, I rolled the window down a bit. If I could smell myself it had to be real bad for her.

  Elena glanced over. “Don’t worry on my account. I’m not very delicate.”

  “I wouldn’t want to make your eyes water, though.”

  “I’d hardly work at the Rocking C if stinky cowboys made me cry.” She smiled and I smiled back.

  That was our first genuine smile.

  There was hope.

  We rode the rest of the way to Bitterroot—over half an hour—in a comfortable silence.

  Rock’s church turned out to be one of those big, old-fashioned white wooden deals with the spires. Behind it, there was a social hall of some sort. We drove around and pulled up in front of that.

  A fire truck, an ambulance, and Sheriff’s Department SUV all sat there, lights going like a block party.

  As soon as we parked, a good-looking guy ran over and opened Elena’s door for her.

  “Rockne’s had a really bad episode. He’s locked himself in the office and he won’t let anyone inside not even his dog, and—”

  “Do you have a key?” asked Elena.

  “Yes, but there’s a way to bolt the door from the inside.”

  I muttered, “That doesn’t sound sketchy at all.”

  “It’s not what you think.” He flushed deeply. “I smoke sometimes. My wife goes ballistic if the kids see.”

  “Sorry.” He took Elena’s arm and led her inside. I followed.

  “There’s a deputy trying to get Rock to come out but she’s not having much luck.”

  The scene was chaos, but my heart immediately went out to Maisy. The poor thing was pawing desperately at the door to the pastor’s office, trying to dig her way through to Rock. Chips of paint flew every which way.

  “Leave me alone.” We all heard despair in Rock’s voice.

  Even the teens still hanging around trying to look like they weren’t watching got quiet.

  “Most of the kids are gone, honey,” Elena called through the door. “Just let the medics check your blood sugar—”

  Something hit the door. “I know what I need and I
’ll come out when I’m goddamn ready.”

  Elena managed to calm Maisy down, and then the dog and the deputy waited to one side while Elena tried to talk to Rock.

  “Skyler’s here, honey.” Silence from inside. “He can help you dress and get you to the car, if you need him to. The sooner we get home, the sooner you’ll feel better. Don’t you think?”

  “I’m not being an asshole on purpose. God. Why can’t everyone just leave me the fuck alone?” Maisy started scratching again.

  “You’re freaking Maisy out,” I said. “She’s going to hurt herself, she’s so agitated. You want to be responsible for her losing a toenail?”

  The sound of movement from Rock made Maisy stop and stare at the door. A deeply troubled sigh could be heard from the other side.

  “I don’t want Maisy to get hurt.” I heard the bolt slide back before the door opened a crack and Maisy slithered inside. How she squeezed her whole body through a crack that wasn’t wide enough for my foot was a wonder but watching it, it looked like she just yearned herself in.

  No man should take advantage of love like that. Rock knew better.

  A couple minutes later, the doorknob turned again.

  Rock whispered, “Skyler? Can you help me for a minute?”

  “Sure, man. What do you need?” I poked my head inside the dark, cramped office room and found Rock sitting on the floor next to the door with Maisy draped over his outstretched legs. For his part, Rock looked pale, sweaty, and exhausted.

  He’d pissed himself, you could smell it. His eyes were a little spacey too, as if he was having trouble keeping up. He blinked at me slowly. Licked his lips like he was thirsty.

  First things first, I guessed he needed water.

  “You want something to drink?”

  For whatever reason, that made him laugh.

  “I’ll have a double shot of the boss’s Milagro Select Barrel Reserve.”

  “Probably not a good idea right now.” I squatted down next to him. “But I could get you a can of Coke. I saw a machine. I could make one of those entitled punks out there with the smartphones get you one. Or I could collect all those phones and throw them in the toilet.”