by Alex Cord
He was quiet, alone in his hotel room. He thought about calling Holly Marie but no, not until it’s over. He opened his wallet and took out a flattened tinfoil square and unfolded it. He looked at the contents and then slowly picked up a small ribbon-tied lock of pale blond Damien hair and brought it to his nose, then to his lips. Then he put it back, folded the wallet, and put it back in his pocket.
25
The Finals
Holly Marie had sent him a small gathering of aromatic prairie grasses and wild herbs to bring him luck. They were pressed in a small plastic bag in the left pocket of his shirt.
He buckled on his spurs, swung his chaps over the colt’s withers, and stepped up into the saddle to walk him toward the warm-up pen.
Abbie’s thoughts were a ticker-tape checklist on a loop in her brain. She was sure she’d done everything in her power to contribute to the success of Buckshot’s run. This was it. This was what he was bred for. Now all she could do is watch…and pray and jiggle her foot as she stood at the rail separating the judges’ stands from the warm-up area.
Near the entry to the working area, Jesse sat quietly, Buckshot’s neck extended and relaxed. They were ready to work. Blood raged through a tangle of twisted nerves, a heart pounded like a locked up beast while his mind remained a void enduring the chaos within that was Jesse Burrell. An unconcerned vacancy in his eyes gave the lie to the turmoil inside. There was one more horse before him, a daunting combination of spectacular breeding and a gifted trainer. He would be the last to go.
He was watching the finest of his peers, Bill Waterman, a twotime Futurity champion, the man who could dash his dream, ride like slow-moving water toward the herd. The two turn-back riders converged to encourage the cows to return to the herd, leaving Bill with the one they knew he wanted in front of him. There exists among good cutters and their ‘turn-back help’ an uncanny wordless communication that seems telepathic.
Bill wiggled in the saddle. His horse locked on to the cow, and the gleaming mahogany bay went to work. He and the horse had all the flash and the tricks to provoke a cow. The buzzer sounded, ending his two-and-a-half minute run. Bill patted him twice on the neck and turned him toward the exit. The announcer called the score. “Timothy’s Smart Clock, ridden by Bill Waterman, gets a two-twenty-three-and-a-half which puts him in the lead, with one horse left to work.” The packed coliseum rocked with screaming applause.
Jesse filled his lungs and blew it out, wiggled his feet in the stirrups, and tilted his head from side to side. He twisted at the waist from left to right, reached up and pulled his black hat down tight and squeezed the colt toward the herd. He focused on the cattle as he felt himself merge with the colt, sharing the same lungs and heart. A hushed stillness filled the coliseum as he entered the herd like a burglar with residents at home.
The colt squared off with his first cow, crouched like a lion and pinned his ears as if he just might roar. When the cow finally quit and Jesse turned back to the herd to cut another, the crowd roared. When the buzzer went off, Buckshot was demoralizing his third cow. The audience raged in appreciation as Jesse lifted the reins and reached up to apply that finger-tip, feather-light, lover’s stroke to the colt’s neck. He said something only the colt could hear.
The announcer’s resonance filled the stadium. “The score for Bueno Bar Tab ridden by Jesse Burrell is two-twenty-three-and-a-half.” The sound from the audience threatened the foundations of the building. The announcer tried to speak over it. “Ladies and gentlemen, I believe that is the first time in the thirty-three year history of The Futurity that there is a tie for first place.” The din continued as the microphone went silent with the promise of more to come. In less than a minute, an amplified click sounded and the big voice continued, “Ladies and gentlemen, there will be a work-off to determine the winner. The order of go to be determined by the toss of a coin.”
Bill Waterman rolled his shoulders and rode into the herd. The glossy bay had all the chrome, a white blaze down the middle of his face, three white socks, and a glistening black mane and tail full and flying. His moves were quick with a lot of snap, giving the heart-stopping impression that he might be waiting too long to make them.
Their second cow wanted to be a runner rather than work in the center with quick changes of direction. Bill used his skill to head the cow, forcing changes while looking for an opportunity to quit and cut a better cow and still beat the clock so as not to have the buzzer sound while entering the herd. It’s a better impression on the judges to end your run with your horse working a cow, not standing flatfooted in the herd. While those thoughts tugged at his brain the cow shot to the wall with the horse in pursuit and squeezed right under the horse’s nose and back to the herd. And that is cuttin’…the worst happening to the best. Bill would get a score, but losing a cow is a five-point penalty. A serious blow. The judges gave him a two-fourteen.
Jesse joined the audience applauding a great champion as Bill rode out and stopped next to the judges’ stands to watch Jesse’s go.
Buckshot stood still as death, neck long and low, eyes soft, the merest flick of an ear showing he lived. Jesse pulled down his hat and picked up the reins. Instantly the colt came up on his toes and the force began to flow. Jesse squeezed him into a lope for about forty feet behind the stands and slid to a stop, hocks in the ground. He spun him once to the left and once to the right. He lengthened the reins, stroked his neck and rode into the working area.
Buckshot splattered out in front of the cow and blew a blast of hot sweet breath in its face that scared the piss out of it and made it want to return to the herd more than anything in the world. And that was just the start. The cow turned inside out trying to get past Buckshot but never got to see anything but the fire in the colt’s eyes glaring into its soul. Six thousand people screamed, whooped and hollered the roof off the place. Buckshot’s dominance over the second cow, even bolder than the first, had the audience cheering every footfall. They knew they were watching the making of a myth. Jesse and the horse were one celestial creature.
The colt jammed so deep into the ground on a stop, that Jesse felt his boot touch the earth as flecks of dirt flew in his face. The cow lunged to the left. The colt’s spine twisted under the saddle like a wrung towel as the front legs swept a fifteen-foot arc and he drove his full weight forward with the thrust of his hocks. This was the move that would win the gold. The crowd howled in joy at the perfect synchronization of the horse with the cow, foot for foot.
Jesse couldn’t be sure later whether he actually heard a sound, or did he sense it? In the instant of that all-powerful thrust, his entire universe exploded like a cataclysmic collision of planets.
In the midst of that storm of hooves and hair and leather and sweat, the colt faltered and Jesse felt the pain, he felt the colt’s valiant determination to continue. He also felt the limits of bone and flesh and heart and mind as the hip sank and a shudder iced his soul.
The cacophony of sound fell to a murmur, then deadly silence as Jesse lifted the reins and stepped off the colt. The cow ran to the herd. Buckshot stood quivering, wide-eyed. Runnels of sweat ran through his eyes and dripped from the soft muzzle to the red dirt. His left hind foot, he held limply off the ground. He would never know that the reason his leg could no longer bear his weight was a fracture of the third phalanx of the pastern, shattered like a crystal goblet thrown at a fireplace. And no power of mind or will, no matter how determined, could make it whole again. Six thousand devastated people sat stunned, having just witnessed the making and the breaking of a champion in two and a half minutes.
Abbie was at the colt’s head, tears spilling as she wiped his face and whispered to him and cupped his eyes softly, murmuring hopeful comfort. A veterinarian quickly administered a shot of painkiller. Someone opened a back gate and beckoned as Jesse coaxed the colt to hop agonizingly out of the arena on three legs. One or two attempts at applause died quickly entombed in the solemn silence.
The veterinarian se
t up his portable imaging system to view the ravaged ankle. The pictures told a grim tale. Abbie stayed at the colt’s face, whispering. After a brief somber discussion between the vet, Jesse and Dr. Nalls, it was decided that Buckshot could not be saved. Jesse grabbed his upper lip between his teeth and bit hard as he felt a sword slice through his heart. A pain-filled, “Oh, nooo…” escaped from Abbie. No time was wasted in administering the lethal injection that would end the life of Buckshot…the brave.
In Jesse, the rage howled in silence before turning to unwitting desolation.
26
A Tough Call
He walked into the bedroom with two inches of scotch and swallowed half. He flopped back on the bed and breathed deeply. Then he reached for the phone and put it beside him.
She knew what time it was in Texas. She’d been waiting. She had a phone next to her old Victorian bed. Naked, under a frilly sheet pulled to her chin, she had one arm under her head and her right hand between her legs. The half moon had just moved into the frame of the open window. As she turned her head, a soft breeze fluttered the curtain. The phone rang. She answered with buoyant expectation. Instantly, she knew something was wrong. Try as he did to get above the gloom, she knew. He started by saying, “Well, we didn’t win…” But she knew it was more than that, much more. “Oh, Jesse, tell me…what happened?”
He couldn’t remember anything she’d actually said but somehow found comfort in her heartfelt words. He could feel her sharing his anguish and like a mother’s kiss on a child’s bruise, it lessened the sting. She wanted to know everything. What happened, how it happened. He heard the pain ragged in her sweet voice as she said, “I’m so sorry,” over and over. “It sounds so useless to say…I feel so badly for you.”
He told her hearing her voice was a big help. Then he tried to lighten the mood, asking about her parents, their horses, and how the video was coming. The small talk wound down under the color of tragedy.
“Well, I guess I’d better let you get some sleep. I’m sorry I called so late…but it took us a while to…”
“It’s not late. Jesse…I’m so sorry about Buckshot.”
“Thanks. Anyway…I’ll look forward to getting that tape and I am gonna send you a book on cuttin’.”
After he’d hung up the phone, he poured another whiskey and put on his headphones. Bach was soothing but you had to be still enough to listen to get soothed. He took off the phones, rose from the bed, walked to the window and stared out at nothing. He looked up and saw the moon.
A cold loneliness crept about and invaded his being. And not Bach nor Steinbeck nor Patsy Cline, nor John Coltrane was going to take it away.
27
A Treasure Chest
As they stood in the barn near the stall where Buckshot had lived, Jesse wrapped his arm around Abbie while she sobbed and soaked his shirt. He cooked her dinner and they drank a little whiskey and he got her to giggle. Then they went out to the porch and he watched her walk to her quarters in the trailer. She climbed in and shut the door.
The United Parcel truck drove up to the barn to deliver a carton from Colorado. With a feigned lack of concern he took it into the tack room and placed it on the floor in a corner under a wall of hanging bridles. When he came out, Abbie’s antennae were quivering as she brushed a horse as if to strip its hide. She had determined not to ask, kill her though it might.
That evening after she’d left for town he fetched the box to the house and placed it on the dining table. He opened his pocketknife and cut the tape. Beneath a layer of plastic peanuts, he fished out the boxed video. He scooped out more white pods and found a jar of popping corn bearing a hand-made label that said, “For pleasurable viewing, pop this, add butter, then sit back and watch the tape.” He rummaged further and came up with a card. It read, “For Jesse dear, We are so sorry to hear of the great misfortune that has come to you. To lose such a treasured friend, such a valiant beautiful creature. One can only try to imagine. We hope and pray you will find another with which to share your love and your special talent. Holly has helped us to understand and appreciate the unique bond that you have with horses. We hope some day to see you work with them firsthand. Meanwhile, please know that we feel for you and our hearts are with you.” It was signed individually, “Walk in love, Bear and Ruby.”
At the bottom of the carton was one more box wrapped in kid’s cowboy paper. He untied the grass twine. He was smiling at the whimsy and care that had gone into this treasure chest. Cramped in the box was a stuffed brown rabbit, more of a rascal than a bunny. One soft ear flopped forward over a twinkling eye. He wore a sly, mischievous grin. Around his neck, a small white folded card was tied with a blue ribbon. In the same careful script, it said, “This is Rabbie the rabbit. He knows you are sad and he wants to make you laugh and pretend you are happy. And then you will be happy. He has left his girlfriend to come and see you. Her name is Bunny Bunny. You might have to fluff him up a little after his journey.” And then a simple one-line sketch of a bird in flight, a falcon, and beneath it the words, “Holly Marie.”
He popped the corn and put in the tape. It touched him deeply to watch the kids so young, bent, and twisted before they’d had a chance to live. The boy he’d put on the horse, Daniel, expended more energy to walk twenty feet than Jesse would to unload a hundred bales of hay. He wondered if God gave them an extra measure of strength and courage, or did it come in the same package as the ailment? He looked at the wall clock and wondered if it was too late to call her. What would he say? He could thank her. Tell her what a great job he thought she had done with the tape. Just pick up the damn phone. He swore he’d do it in the morning. He wanted to think about it.
He held the book cover open with a pen in his hand. He clawed at his head as if the plowing would produce an inspired inscription certain to cause her to think of him as a person of value. At last the pen began to move. He drove to the post office, special. Then he went back to the house and stared at the phone as if it were a rattler.
Her voice like warm honey sweetened his mind. She was delighted to hear him tell what a treat the treasure chest was. “I thought the tape was really inspirational. It made me want to send you money.”
“Well, thank you. That is very nice to hear.”
“I was amazed. The way you put together the most beautiful moments out of the whole event. How’d you learn how to do that?”
“Oh, I’ve always been interested in film…and writing. I took some classes in New York.”
“You’ve sure got a talent.”
“Thank you. Did Rabbie cheer you up?”
“I smile every time I look at him. I’ve got him set up where he can keep an eye on everything.”
“Make sure you keep him fed on that popcorn.”
“Oh, I will. He’s lookin’ good. I sent you a book on cuttin’. When you get everything in that book down, you can teach me.”
“That’ll be the day.”
“How are Bear and Ruby doing?”
“They’re fine. I might be bringing Bear some business. One of the big car dealers who was a sponsor of the event saw my tape and was quite impressed. We had a meeting to talk about me creating a commercial for him. So I got Bear involved and it looks real good so far.”
“That is wonderful. It’s good to hear that things are working out for you.” He was running out of talking steam and didn’t want to keep her on the phone too long to where she might be wanting off and too nice to say so. “If…if…uh…if it’s okay, I’ll…call again and see how you’re…doing…with the book and the horses and…everything.”
“That would be nice…”
“Okay. Well…take care then. And thanks again for everything. It was really neat.”
“You, too. Bye.”
“Bye…” Whew. He felt as if he’d been holding his breath. Why did she make him so damn nervous? Anyway, he walked with a lighter step when he left the house to go to the barn. He tried to think about what she might be wearing and how sh
e had her hair fixed. He tried to imagine her room as he stepped into the saddle and turned toward the arena.
It was a girl’s room with redwood walls. Ancestral portraits in antique silver frames, straw hats dangling ribbons on wood pegs, an old steamer trunk with brass hardware, miles of shoes and boots by European craftsmen, and a pair of worn, lug-soled hiking boots. Pale cotton curtains rippled in the night breeze. A candle flickered in an old pewter holder. Dried prairie flowers sprouted from a porcelain vase on the marble top of an old English chest of drawers. A silver hand mirror and hairbrushes had belonged to Grandmama. Bunny Bunny, Rabbie’s girlfriend, sat next to the brushes with her back against the wall.
Holly had her elbows on the windowsill, gazing at the darkened prairie night, smelling the grass and listening to coyotes yapping on a hill. The wind had lost its warmth. She shut the window, pulled off her jeans and her brother’s flannel shirt. She stepped out of lacy white panties and unhooked her bra. She stretched her arms over her head walking to the oak-framed mirror on the wall and looked at herself sculpted in the candlelight. With her left arm reaching for the ceiling, she stroked its length from fingertips to her shoulder. Trailing her fingers across the back of her neck under her hair and then down to her breast, she cupped its small weight and circled the pink nipple with her thumb. She stroked the flat smoothness of her belly till her fingers felt the soft fringe along the humid grotto. She rotated her head slowly letting it fall back and roll to the side feeling the silky stroke of hair across her shoulders. She shivered and turned to the bed.
28
Memories
He walked from stall to stall stroking and murmuring seductive whispers to velvet ears. He climbed slowly up the stairs to Zack’s loft.
Dozer watched him lie back on the bed then flopped to the floor with a groan, fixing his head on a paw. Jesse closed his eyes and let his mind wander in the darkness.
