Billy Goat Hill

by Mark Stanleigh Morris

  I am mesmerized by this man. “Those are real fine tattoos, sir.”

  Rodney flexes his forearms and cackles again. The cat hunches low on his shoulder watching the bird nests for the slightest sign of movement.

  “I can hear her right now. ‘Rod-neee!’” he screeches. “That’s just how she’d say it. ‘Rod-neee!’”

  Rodney is something to behold—the bald head, the bowling ball belly, and the cat on his shoulder—all the while cackling like a chicken that just laid a three yolker. The cat, annoyed by Rodney’s screeching, gives me a salty look, as if to warn me that the eyebrow nests are all his, and then refocuses on his potential prey. I need to sit down before I fall down and scoot onto a stool next to the sink full of bobbing potatoes.

  “‘Rod-neee! You don’t know which way you’re going unless you’re on a crazy horse running in a circle! Rod-neee! Those darn horses are smarter than you!’ She was right about that.” He grins and takes a deep breath. ‘“Rod-neee! You love those horses more than you love me!’ Lordy that woman could hurt a man’s feelings when she wanted to. Well, you know what?”

  “What?” I am holding my breath to suppress my laughter.

  He calms himself and returns his fingers to the backs of the cat’s ears. “Old Rodney always knows where he’s going now. And once in a while, when I feel just a little bit lost or lonely, I hold up an arm, right or left, left or right, and my sweet Lord Jesus points me in the right direction.”

  The eyebrows wiggle again, and this time the cat is ready. It flicks out a hard left jab, followed by a right cross, then another hard left jab, and then leaps from Rodney’s shoulder to my lap, where it promptly curls into a tight ball of purring fur.

  The pummeling leaves Rodney’s bushy gray-brown eyebrows in a muss. I can’t contain myself and slide to the floor in a heap of laughter, the stool toppling over to the floor beside me. The cat rides down with me, unflappable in his prowess and victory. The Sergeant is practically gagging he is laughing so hard.

  Rodney, with no loss of dignity, casually spits on his fingers and smoothes his eyebrows back into place. He gives the cat a respectful look. “You can see why I named the feisty little palooka Rocky. Only the boldest of rodents come around with a cat named Rocky Mouseano in the ring, uh—” cackle—“kitchen I mean.”

  I roll on the floor as months of repressed emotion burst from me in a geyser of joyful release.

  Composure comes slowly to the raucous gathering. The Sergeant and I sit on the floor as Rodney keeps us all acting goofy and silly. I look at the Sergeant sitting next to me, and he’s laughing and smiling as much or more than I am. It’s been a year and a half, yet the strange bond I previously felt with him seems as strong and mysterious as ever. When that motorcycle gang thundered to the crest of Billy Goat Hill I was scared half to death, only to be mesmerized when he ripped the latex prop from his face as we stood in the dark at the top of the Crippler. I was stunned when he appeared at Eagle Rock like a ghost from the past, then captivated by his cryptic message of caution and responsibility. Now he shows up like only a guardian angel could and whisks me off of the bridge of no return, only to five minutes later introduce me to the kindest most fascinating person I have ever met. How can this be?

  It’s a magical moment here in this kitchen with these men. I am alive. I want to be alive. I am grateful to be alive. And I feel sure, looking at the Sergeant and not seeing the police uniform but only the man, that our special bond has now been forged of iron. He looks at me and smiles. Is he reading my mind? He gives me the thumbs-up. I return the signal. To me, the deal has been sealed.

  As Rodney lays out the fixings for an incredible breakfast feast, I privately wish for the courage to tell the Sergeant about the dead man.

  Rodney Bernanos, by his own account, cooks better than he ever raced horses. Already well past seventy, his riding career occurred long before I was born. But he certainly proves his mastery of the culinary arts this morning.

  The Sergeant hangs back and lets me and Rodney get better acquainted. I learn how to make horsecakes—buttermilk batter with a palm of oats, diced apples, and four sugar cubes mixed in thoroughly, tail up when you plop them on the preheated griddle, and a whinny when you flip them over. The entire procedure is carried out while dancing in place to an adolescent rhythm closely resembling the great American classic, “The Hokey-Pokey.” Rodney’s demonstration is priceless.

  He explains that his secret horsecake recipe helped him woo Doris. “She fell in love with my horsecakes first, and then she fell in love with me.”

  While he supervises me at the stove, he shares stories from the racing world, critiquing some of the more famous jockeys like Eddie Arcaro, Bill Hartack, Willie Shoemaker, and Johnny Longden. He claims to have taught Longden everything he knows about jockeying, plus some. When he moves on to the horses, his heart swells with pure passion and his little eyes glow like flares. He lauds mounts with odd names such as Kelso, Round Table, Nashua, and Citation, none of which, he makes very clear, he ever had been blessed to ride. He particularly raves about a newcomer named Carry Back, making news for his sensational late rushes in the stretch.

  But his all-time favorite is a magnificent horse named Silky Sullivan, which he claims is the greatest come-from-behind thoroughbred of all time. “Silky Sullivan has heart, Wade. More heart than most men I have known.” His glowing eyes shine with moisture. “Sometimes in my dreams I hear Doris telling me that I have a heart like Silky Sullivan. Imagine that, me with a heart like Silky Sullivan.”

  “Well, actually my old heart isn’t so strong anymore. I tell you, as hard on me as Doris sometimes was, that woman also knew how to make a man feel proud. She had good points and bad points, like all of us, I guess. Yes, my one and only Doris was a very special woman. When you grow up, Wade, I pray God will bless you with a wife just like her.”

  “Does her name have to be Doris?”

  Cackle. “What would you like it to be?”

  “How about…Cherry?”

  “Oh, so you’ve met Cherry, have you?”

  “Yes, sir, just once.”

  Rodney gives the Sergeant a strange look that I don’t understand.

  The three of us sit in an upholstered leather booth in the main dining room of the Den. I catch on that we are special guests when I realize there are no other customers or employees present. The Den is strictly a dinner house open for business at 4:30 p.m. seven days a week. It’s an upscale place catering to the type of clientele who appreciate candlelight and fancy napkins. Stylish but well broken in, a decor of thematic elegance sits like bait in an alluring trap, ready to capture the fancy of artful equestrians and rueful horsemen alike. Horse racing memorabilia sets the ambience, each booth a shrine to a specific famous horse or jockey as evidenced by spotlighted photographs and oil paintings.

  We sit in the Sir Gordon Richards booth and enjoy our horsecakes smothered with apple butter and hot maple syrup. With Rodney’s permission, I taste coffee for the first time in my life. I pretend I like it.

  Halfway into the meal, my thoughts drift during a lull in the conversation. Maybe an hour has passed since I leaned over the bridge railing and watched that tear drip from my nose and fall like a tracer bullet leading the way. I envision myself lying in a bloody mangled mess, cold meat and crunched bones waiting for some hapless mortal to come along and be marred for life by the grisly discovery. I shiver and try to shake the image.

  I should have been bothered with thoughts of Lucinda. I should have thought about how she would have second-guessed every child-rearing decision she ever made, how she would have tortured herself with self-blame—the very affliction I know so much about. And poor Luke, how he would have floundered through years of resentment, his broken heart festering, raw, the wounds of desertion and betrayal refusing to heal.

  And then there is Mac, my trusted confidant, my noble protector. Loyal beyond death, he would have faithfully waited for the boy who said “stay” and then never came hom
e. A day, a week, a year—however long it took—he would have followed my scent through a thousand nuclear battlefields to get to that point on the bridge, from where, with his tail wagging and his heart filled with love, he would have jumped. I close my eyes. Thank You, God, for not letting any of this happen.

  Not only am I still alive, I am being fed and entertained by a jokecracking ex-jockey restaurateur who almost needs a booster chair to see over the stack of horsecakes piled on the plate in front of him. I sit here in amazement, radiating energy like a crystal in the sun. Instead of recrimination, I feel perfect, in harmony with the universe, my symmetry complete, as if molded from the purest of elements by the hands of a loving and forgiving Creator. A short ride in a slightly used Buick captained by a Sergeant named Lyle has delivered me from the balustrade of despair to the open gates of the future. I feel special. I feel chosen.

  Rodney covers his mouth to belch, then shovels in a last big forkful. “Want some more horsecakes, Wade?”

  “Just one more—please.”

  Cackling with delight, he gets up and heads for the kitchen. Rocky trails after him, his tail straight up in the air like an antenna alert for important signals.

  “Pretty neat guy, isn’t he?” the Sergeant says once Rodney is out of earshot.

  “He’s really wild, sir. How did you meet him?”

  “Rodney kind of saved my life a long time ago.”

  “Really, how did he do that?” If the Sergeant says, “He saved me from jumping off a bridge,” I’m leaving.

  “It’s a long story. Maybe I’ll tell you about it sometime.”

  “So, you’ve known each other for a long time?”

  “I’ve known Rodney all my life. He knew my mother and father. They died in 1934 in a fire. After that, Rodney raised me. I lived with him except for a couple of years during World War Two.”

  Something in his voice makes me think he doesn’t want to talk about his parents. “Did Rodney save your life by pulling you out of the fire?”

  “No. Rodney had nothing to do with the fire.”

  What an odd answer. I didn’t think Rodney set the fire. No way would I think that.

  Rodney reappears with a final horsecake big enough to choke a horse. He sets the large platter down in the middle of the table. “That’s the last one, gents. Eat what you can.”

  The three of us pick at the pizza-size horsecake and talk some more.

  Rodney feeds small pieces to Rocky, who sits on the floor performing for his master. “He’s not as smart as a horse, but he’s a good animal. Do you have any pets, Wade?”

  “Yes, sir, I have a dog named Mac. He’s very intelligent.”

  “What kind of dog is he?”

  “Shepherd and Doberman mix.”

  Rodney thinks for a moment. “Does he still have his ears and tail?”

  “Yes, but he doesn’t like us to tease him about it. We couldn’t afford to get him clipped and cropped.”

  Cackle. “No, I guess he wouldn’t appreciate being teased. Boy, did I ever learn the hard way not to bad-mouth horses.” He grins. “Well, not to their faces anyway.” Cackle! “I caught a ride once on a hot-blooded three-year-old named Abdulla. She was fighting the gate real hard, and we were about to get disqualified. Out of frustration, I told her she wasn’t fit to make dog food.” Cackle! “She threw me in the mud two lengths out of the gate and won the race without me. It’s best not to antagonize animals. Isn’t that right, Rocky?”

  He gives the cat another morsel and thinks a little bit longer. “This dog of yours, Mac, you say?”

  “Yes, sir, Mac is his name.”

  “Well, your Mac wouldn’t happen to have a noticeable scar on his right hindquarter would he?”

  “Why, yes he does. How did you know that?”

  “I heard a racket in my neighbor’s backyard one night some months back. I knew my neighbor wasn’t home so I grabbed my flashlight and went out in my pajamas to investigate. I saw your dog, Mac, playing connect the dots with a lovely young Dalmatian by the name of Antoinette. Unbeknownst to me, my neighbor paid a stud fee the next day hoping for a lucrative litter of mascot pups for the Glendale Fire Department.”

  We are laughing again, this time on a full stomach.

  “You should see the little buggers.” Cackle! “They look like Picasso’s worst nightmare. I told my neighbor he ought to try to sell them to the police department instead. Maybe they could use them as undercover dogs.” He gives the Sergeant an accusing look. “They should make fine cop dogs. They’ll probably change their spots.”

  I do not get Rodney’s meaning, but I read well enough between the lines to know it can’t be good. His odd reaction to my having met Miss Cherry combined with this comment about the puppies has me feeling a little tilted and confused. I glance at the Sergeant. He looks uncomfortable, maybe even a little pale. He doesn’t respond to Rodney’s jab. Rodney turns back to face me and replaces a cold look with a warm smile.

  “I might keep one pup for myself though, now that I know they were sired by your dog Mac.”

  “So, you live in Glendale, sir?”

  “I sure do, right below Adventist Hospital.” Cackle! “Your Mac covers a lot of ground doesn’t he?”

  “Sometimes Mac is a very busy boy.”

  Rodney crows like a rooster. “I couldn’t have put it more delicately myself!”

  The Sergeant just shakes his head and remains quiet.

  For the next few minutes Rodney’s crack about the puppies making good cop dogs rolls back and forth inside my head.

  The time comes for Rodney to get on with his workday. I wish we could stay longer, but I settle for his promise that we will get together again soon. We say our so-longs and load our full bellies back into the Buick. I have started to worry about Luke being home alone, even with Mac on guard, and gladly accept the Sergeant’s offer of a ride home. I wave to Rodney as we pull out of the parking lot and hope that I really will see him again. Earl always said he would see me again, too.

  The sun is out in full glory. The mist in the Arroyo has retreated back to wherever it comes from. And as we cross back over Suicide Bridge, I feel queasy about beating the odds.

  Why am I still alive? I don’t understand it, but naively I believe some understanding will come to me later. I watch uneasily as we pass by the spot that nearly claimed my life barely two hours earlier. A lifetime ago. I turn and look over the seat through the rear window.

  “Never look back, Wade.”

  I let go of my thoughts and look at his face. “What do you mean?”

  The corner of his eye crinkles as he gives me an all-knowing smile. I’ve seen the expression before. He understands more than he is saying. He must have realized why I was there on the bridge and what I was about to do.

  In placid silence, we drive on, the soft vibration of the big Buick engine gradually settling my emotions back to neutral. I sense his eyes on me several times, but I can only look straight ahead and watch the street signs go by in reverse order of the litany I had earlier chanted to the dismal death-march sky.

  I had not expected to see any of this again, and now in the healthy light of this glorious new day, every tree, every house, every beautiful blade of grass sparkles with the invigorating shine of renewal.

  Meeting Rodney Bernanos has borne a tonic effect, but the Sergeant literally saved my life. I would have jumped if he had not come along. His showing up on the bridge at that critical moment couldn’t have been a simple coincidence. It had to be part of a plan. It just had to be.

  Ruby Place. Before, the name of our street always conjured up visions of a loud and obnoxious woman who chewed gum and wore bright lipstick. Now the word whistles from my lips with reverence for the precious gem that it is. I am filled with a strange new appreciation for everything. Wow! Imagine that. I am privileged to live on Ruby Place.

  My imagination soars as the big stately Buick ascends the hill. I am a prince returning to my castle. Regal curb feelers fore and aft t
rumpet the arrival of my royal coach.

  “Queenie,” I say.

  The Sergeant gives me a puzzled look. “Queenie?”

  “She is a girl, isn’t she?”

  “Who?”

  “I thought you were a trained investigator.”

  “I am.” His forehead scrunches.

  “You asked me to think of a name for something.” I pat the seat to give him a hint.

  “Oh yeah.” He grins. “Queenie—I like it. Queenie she is.”

  Hah! I named his car! Cool!

  The screen door slams open, and Luke bounds off the porch like he is greeting rare company. His spirit seems miraculously lifted as well. “Hey, you big dumb donkey! Where in the heck have you been?”

  You’d think I was the ice cream man giving out free Popsicles the way he’s grinning at me. “I went for a long walk this morning. The Sergeant gave me a ride home.”

  “How come you didn’t take me?”

  “I don’t know. I guess I needed to be by myself.” I am hoping he’ll let it go at that. I don’t want to have to lie to him.

  “Hi, Mister Scar. Cool car.”

  “Thanks, Luke. You can call me Lyle or even Mister Cavendish, if you like.”

  “Okay, Mister Crabfish.” He is in a rare mood.

  “Say. What do you guys think about letting me take your picture in front of Queenie?”

  “Queenie is the car’s name,” I inform Luke, proudly adding, “She’s got great traction.”

  The Sergeant gets out of the car and opens the trunk. He removes a camera case and ushers Luke and me to the front of Queenie, where he positions us standing in front of her massive grill. He makes us feel special, like two little Buick Specials posing with the Queen Mother herself.

  Lucinda could never get us to stand still and have our picture taken, but Luke and I pose for the Sergeant like professional models.