Desert Blues

by Bill Albert

  He strolled over to the right side of the horse. The others watched him, saying nothing.

  When he got right up next to it, could smell it, see its muscles twitch, Harold realized with a jolt what an enormous animal a horse actually was. It was at least twenty times bigger than any dog, and he was scared to death of dogs. Holding down his terror as best he could, Harold reached up tentatively and grabbed the pommel. The horse snorted and tossed its head. Harold let go and stepped back hurriedly. All his fears were coming home. He wanted to run. Instead he farted, a loud, half-squeezed-back double report which sounded like the distress call of wild goose.

  “Holy shit. Big Red!” shouted Garf, “you’re after taking the seat out of your fucking pants!”

  “Or scaring the darned horses,” Chester added flatly.

  “Wait up now, cowboy,” laughed Earl, affably, ignoring Harold’s unique bird imitation.

  He walked over, took Harold’s arm and led him to the other side of the horse.

  “You got a better chance if you start from over here.”

  “Oh, sure,” said Harold.

  He ducked his head, hoping the big straw hat would hide his crumbling and less than hard-eyed expression. Alternating currents of humiliation and panic cut through him. He wished he had stayed safe in Palm Springs. Then he remembered his grandfather and his aunt’s angry words. Not Palm Springs. That wasn’t safe either. No, what he really wished is that he’d stayed in LA, but that wasn’t possible. He looked up at the vast expanse of the horse’s twitching flanks. Surely that wasn’t possible either. His stomach heaved, but he managed not to fart again. A small victory. He figured under the circumstances, maybe a large victory.

  Earl stood beside him. He patted the horse’s leg and muttered something. Then he turned to Harold.

  “Don’t worry, Harold,” he said, low and confidential. “Don’t mind them others. Come on, let’s get you up. OK, put that left one in here.”

  He guided Harold’s foot into the stirrup.

  “Now, just sorta hop on your right and swing it up and over, and . . . right, you’re up there. Easy?”

  “Yeah,” Harold said, relieved for the moment to be safely in the saddle.

  He held on to the pommel, not knowing what to do next.

  Earl adjusted his stirrups, pulled the reins over the horse’s head and gave them to Harold.

  “Now you just relax, Harold. This here is a dude horse, used to kids and such. Ain’t that right, Chester?”

  Garf and Earl got on their horses, and they all began to ride slowly around the corral. Earl rode next to Harold telling him how to sit, where to put his feet, how to hold the reins. At first he was stiff and unsure, scared about making another mistake and being thrown off. But after ten minutes or so he began to enjoy it. The bulk and power of the horse under him felt good. He liked the view. It was as if he were suddenly four feet taller. And, best of all he wasn’t frightened. Not in the least. That surprised him. It isn’t so difficult, he said to himself, I can actually do it. Damn if I can’t!

  “Don’t fight it, you just go with it, Harold,” Earl cautioned as they began to trot. “It’s like being part of the horse. You stay loose and stay right with it. Let your body sorta flow. That’s it, flow right along just like you’re doing.”

  It took him a few minutes to find the flow in the midst of the bouncing jolt of the horse’s trot, but in the end he did, getting just the right pressure with his legs against the horse’s side, the right weight on the stirrups, letting his body rise and fall slightly in time to the rhythm of the horse’s movement. When they cantered it was even better. He felt so right, so exhilarated that he had to stop himself from shouting out.

  After half an hour they stopped. Still sitting on the horses. Earl rested his hand on Harold’s thigh and looked at him questioningly.

  “You sure you ain’t never been on a horse before, partner?”

  “Only when I was little, about six or something like that.”

  “Well, I’ll be damned. You sure didn’t start off too good, but I think we got us a natural cowboy here. Wadda you think, Garf?”

  “Damn straight! Viva el vaquero Colorado Grande!”

  Harold grinned. So what if he had a Mexican nickname. It sounded sorta neat anyway, he decided. For the first time since he had been in Palm Springs, Harold felt he had achieved some kind of balance. He realized that he hadn’t minded Earl touching him on the leg. Even Aunt Enid’s re-designed hat seemed OK.

  Harold’s room was empty. He was nowhere in the house. Enid was perplexed. It wasn’t like him to wander off without saying anything. In fact, it wasn’t like him to leave the house at all. She glanced out into the backyard. The old man was bent over slowly tying his shoelaces.

  In the end it had been easier than she had imagined. Once she said it, had told him no, he backed off. Now she just had to stay calm until he left. Say as little as possible. The old bastard had gone down fighting, but seemed to have accepted defeat more or less gracefully. Enid had taken some punches, however, including the last low blow he threw before going down. A well-timed combination. Guilt and anger, anger and guilt. She had braced herself and had ridden it out pretty well. Now there was Harold to worry about.

  Where the hell was he? Had he run off because of what she said the night before? In her frustration she had momentarily forgotten that his inert unresponsiveness was a sign of vulnerability, not disinterest, and that despite his size he was still just a kid. The accident, the deaths, the new surroundings. It would be tough for anyone, even if they weren’t going through adolescence. She felt terrible. Poor Harold. When he came back she would have a talk with him, explain about her father and why she had been so upset. She lit a cigarette.

  The phone rang. She picked up the receiver, expecting to hear her nephew on the other end. Instead there was a loud hissing and clicking, a gabbled overlay of voices.

  “Hello, yes!” she called. “Hello!”

  “Enid?” a voice was shouting trying to break through the static. “Enid, can you hear me?”

  “Yes, I’m here. Archie?”

  “I can hardly hear you, babe. Listen . . . changes . . .”

  Archie’s voice was sucked back into the pool of static.

  “Archie? Archie?”

  “ . . . after tomorrow. Got that?”

  “What, I couldn’t hear. The day after tomorrow?”

  “I’ll be there . . . call from LA . . . give . . .”

  The voice faded away completely. There was a click, the line went dead.

  Enid listened to the dial tone for a few seconds before putting down the receiver. She crushed out the cigarette, grinding it absentmindedly over and over again into the glass ashtray. The hot ash burned her fingers. She didn’t notice.

  So that was that. Two days and he would be there. At least her father would be out of the way by then and she would have only Harold to explain. Sure, only Harold to explain, she thought, smiling to herself. A piece of cake. Archie was going to love it.

  “You think this is bad,” she would say. “Well, let me tell you what a fortunate guy you are, Archie Blatt.”

  She tapped her teeth with the ends of her fingernails picturing the scene. It wasn’t a nice picture. It was also out of focus. That was because in seven years Enid and Archie had not had a serious fight. A few minor disagreements about where to eat or what movie to go to, but that was it. They had never shown their fangs to each other. Maybe, thought Enid, it was that they were never together for more than a couple of weeks at a time or maybe because they were wary of each other, scared to upset what for both of them was a cozy arrangement. Was, thought Enid. Two more days and maybe I’m out on the street again. Me and Harold and a lousy 700 bucks.

  And, where the hell was Harold? What if he really had run away? If he didn’t come back until after Archie arrived? That would be even wors
e than his being here. Not only is he living with her in Palm Springs, Archie would think, but he’s a problem kid as well. He throws tantrums, runs away from home.

  She rushed into Harold’s room. The records were still there and, as far as she could tell, all his clothes. The bed hadn’t been slept in, though. Could he have left last night? Where would he have gone? He didn’t know anyone in Palm Springs except the kid from the stables. She’d have to go down there and ask.

  Out by the pool her father was still sitting, staring at the water. She slid open the door.

  “I’m just going down the road for a couple of minutes. Will you wait here till I get back?”

  He swung his body around in the chair.

  “Do you think I could have maybe another cup of coffee?”

  Why the stupid maybe, thought Enid? Why not just, “Do you think I could have another cup of coffee?” The old bastard’s still in there trying. She would have to sort it out later. Harold’s whereabouts were a more immediate problem.

  “Help yourself,” she said. “It’s on the stove. And close the door when you come in. I don’t want the house full of bugs.”

  “Sure, Enid honey. Don’t you worry about a thing.”

  “Casey Tibbs? Who’s Casey Tibbs?”

  “Come on, Harold, ol’ son, you ain’t gonna sit there and tell me you don’t know who Casey Tibbs is?”

  “Honest, Earl,” said Harold, “I never heard of him.”

  On the way back from Pioneertown they had stopped for lunch in Yucca Valley. AL and Betty’s Place. An old railway wagon beached on the side of the road. A clapboard building tacked on at the back served as a kitchen. Betty, pinched-faced and fifty, stood behind the Formica counter, looking vaguely out at the empty highway through the row of dirty windows. Besides the three boys there was only one other customer, a bony-shouldered man in a black coat, long white hair sticking out from under a flat-brimmed hat. He sat at the far end of the counter, head down, concentrating on his coffee.

  “World Champion Cowboy, is all,” Garf said indignantly. “Don’t they learn you anything at school?”

  “Mission Ridge, South Dakota,” added Earl, reflectively.

  He cupped his hands to his mouth.

  “Now coming outta chute number 4 on Billy Boy. Hailing from Mission Ridge, South Dakota!”

  Garf took up the announcement

  “1949, World Saddle Bronc Cham-pee-on!”

  “1951, 1952, 1953, and 1954 World Saddle Bronc Cham-pee-on!” Earl continued.

  “1955 All ‘round World Ro-deo Cham-pee-on!”

  Garf put his arm around Earl’s shoulders and they shouted in unison.

  “K. C. TIBBS!”

  Betty glared at them, her mouth pursed in wrinkled disapproval.

  “You boys wanna hold it down?” she scolded, “We got us other people here, you know. Don’t wanna have all that carry-on! Now hush-up!”

  Earl and Garf shifted uneasily on their stools, trying not to look at each other, trying not to laugh. Harold ducked down behind his hamburger. He wished his new friends were less conspicuous.

  “Sorry, ma’am,” said Earl.

  “It’s no bother, Betty, leave ‘em be.”

  The man at the counter stood up and came over to the boys.

  “Like the rodeo, do you?” he asked, smiling at them.

  Earl nodded.

  “From down below?”

  “Yes, sir,” replied Earl. “Palm Springs.”

  On hearing the name Palm Springs the man stiffened, threw back his shoulders and seemed to loom up, filling the space in front of them. He waved a thin, accusing finger at Earl.

  “Sodom of the Desert! The City of Satan!” he declaimed with passion, his eyes flashing. “Judgment Day is at hand for all those sinners down below who worship Mammon! All those sinners who indulge themselves in Lust, Fornication, and Adultery! All those who debauch themselves with strong drink! Mark it well!”

  Choking on a wad of half-chewed hamburger, Harold swayed back, away from the unexpected onslaught. It was just like at Alvin’s, he thought. On Sundays Alvin and his mother would listen to the radio. He could hear it through the floor. Bible thumpers screaming about Hell and Damnation, about Repenting and Redemption, about the healing power of Christ’s merciful love. On and on it went. And all the time Alvin and his mother shouting “Yes, brother!” “Tell it, brother!” “Amen, brother!”

  The man leaned down and continued in a softer, more confiding voice.

  “Out of the sky it will come down upon them.”

  He pointed up. The boys’ eyes followed the movement. Then he threw his arm straight down.

  “And up, up from the bowels of the earth! Fire and ice, boys! Fire and ice!”

  “Amen, brother!” responded Betty, her eyes closed, mouth set tight.

  “FIRE and ICE!”

  That’s all I need, thought Harold.

  After having gone about fifty yards, she suddenly realized that she had never walked down the road before. She’d been outside to get the mail and the newspaper, but it hadn’t occurred to her actually to go for a walk. In fact, she didn’t know anyone in Palm Springs who walked, except on Palm Canyon Drive or on the golf course. Everyone drove. If she went to visit Charlene, who lived only half a mile away, she took the car. Maybe that’s why there were no sidewalks, she thought, and as she did she stumbled, her high-heeled slippers catching in the sand by the side of the road. She considered going back to change her shoes, but not wanting to face her father again so soon, she kept moving toward the stables.

  It had been difficult to walk on the road in high heels, but it was almost impossible on the soft dirt track inside the stables. She had to watch the ground carefully and take short mincing steps. It was like being on a tightrope, and she put her arms out to her sides so as not to lose her balance.

  “You alright, ma’am?” a deep voice boomed.

  “Wha . . . !?” Enid squealed, surprised by the sudden intrusion.

  She stopped, wobbling slightly on unsteady legs, and looked up. A very tall man in a cowboy hat, hands on his hips, was standing a few yards in front of her. It was as if he had appeared out of nowhere. She squinted, but the sun was directly behind him and she couldn’t see his face. He was completely still, like a colossal statue.

  For a few long seconds it was very quiet. She heard herself breathing, felt her heart thumping. She was aware of the smell of horse manure, unfamiliar but unmistakable.

  “Ma’am?”

  She realized he must have been watching her inelegant struggle across the stable yard. She felt embarrassed and out of place. Not more than a few hundred yards from her own house and in another country. She pulled at the hem of her halter top, suddenly very self-conscious, wishing she had worn something less revealing.

  “Excuse me, I’m sorry to bother you, but I live just up the road here, and I’m looking for my nephew, Harold, Harold Abelstein.”

  “It’s no bother, ma’am,” said the figure.

  She put her hand up to shade her eyes. The man hadn’t moved and hadn’t answered her question. But then again, she realized that she hadn’t actually asked him a direct question.

  “Have you seen him? Harold that is.”

  “Can’t rightly say. What does he look like?”

  “Yeah, I see, of course, yes, how silly. Well, let’s see, he’s tallish, sort of heavy-set, red hair. About sixteen years old.”

  “Nope. Sorry.”

  “You see, I know he’s friendly with a boy who works here.”

  “That’ll be Little Earl.”

  “That’s right, he said his name was Earl. I remember now. Maybe if I could speak to him?”

  “Gone.”

  “Gone?”

  “Yep.”

  It was very hot in the sun and Enid was getting increasing
ly flustered and frustrated. The man was hoarding his words.

  “I see. When do you expect him back?”

  “Can’t rightly say.”

  This is too much, she thought. Too goddamned much! First that old man who says he’s my father running off at the mouth like there’s no tomorrow and now this half-assed jerk I can’t even see giving me monosyllabic Gary Cooper.

  “Listen, you . . . you,” she exploded, taking a reckless step toward the still figure, “will you stop with this ‘Yep-Nope’ crap and give me a straight answer to something? He’s lost and I’ve got to find him! God damn it to hell! I’ve got to!”

  She staggered forward in the soft ground, felt her ankle give. She started to fall. A hard hand grabbed her arm. She tried to shake it off, but couldn’t.

  “Just ease up a tad now, ma’am.”

  “You let go of me!”

  The grip loosened. The man was standing next to her. Now she could see his face. A desert face. Flat cheeks weathered hard, deep-set blue eyes, and thin lips, the bottom one blistered by the sun. He smiled at her, not showing his teeth.

  “Sorry if I riled you, ma’am,” he said, gently letting go of her arm, “but I really ain’t seen your boy, and Little Earl, well he went off first thing. Didn’t see him.”

  She felt the sun, too hot on her face. She closed her eyes. Should have worn my hat, she thought. Never go out in summer without a hat. Told Harold. Gave him one as well. Never brought it back though. The hell with this man anyway. Making a fool of me. Myself. Making a fool of myself. Smells awful here. Awful. Got to get away. Ankle hurts. Jesus! Old man’s sitting there spitting in my bushes, drinking my coffee. Making himself at home. Harold playing his records, watching television. Making himself at home. Just so he can run away. And Archie. Archie on the way. Sitting in the plane expecting. Always expecting. Paying for it and expecting it.

  Enid took a few deep breaths and tried to compose herself. She didn’t want to cry there in the stables, in front of someone she didn’t know.