by Alex Cord
A bunch of friends and neighbors came to the ranch for a potluck screening of the finished product and cheered when it was over. Jesse had to deal with a ceaseless barrage of gibes about being a movie star. He gave total credit to “my writer, my producer, my director, and my cinematographer, Holly Marie Bassett.” She bowed elaborately to applause, cheers, and whistles.
73
A Chasm
In the warm pink evening, a red-hot ball of sun slid down the sky for a last bloody glance at the day. Ribbons of clouds purple and white streamed along the rim of the hills. Dozer lay at Jesse’s side, enjoying the probing fingers in his scalp. Holly pointed her wineglass toward the sky where a hawk wheeled on motionless wings, scanning the pastures with laser eyes for a dinner of flesh.
The hawk squealed and spiraled tighter, once, twice, then folded his wings and plummeted like a rocket. He disappeared in the distance behind the barn. “Dinner is served,” said Jesse.
“What do you suppose it is?”
“He’s got a good choice on this menu, prairie dog, field mouse, squirrel, and there’s Bunny Bunny.”
“That’s not funny.” But she smiled anyway. They fell silent as the sun sank behind the jade and garnet hills. He looked at her profile and wondered what was in her mind. He wanted to come right out and ask her, what does she want. What does she see for her life? How does she feel about the difference in their ages in terms of the future? Where does she think this can go? Had she thought about it? Something was occurring, a change, an uncertainty. They surely were not focused on one thing together. They hadn’t talked about anything like that. Then the voice within went silent. He reached across the small distance between their chairs and touched her arm. She smiled and put her hand on his.
74
Fury Unleashed
The fan above the bed churned the steaming stillness of a summer morning that would soon become a torrid afternoon. “Maybe you could keep an open mind.” She was sitting up in the bed, not looking at him, knowing she had his attention.
“About what?” He said it even though he knew.
“Having children.”
He breathed in tensely through a bitten lip. A sudden rush of anger filled him. Couldn’t she understand what he’d tried to explain about his feelings regarding children? Couldn’t she at least give him some time, a chance to think about it? He wanted to scream out, “No, I don’t want to keep an open mind. I am not prepared to even consider what it takes to bring a baby into the world and keep it safe and raise it up to be a decent, worthwhile human being. And I’m too damned old. No!” is what he wanted to say.
This is it, he thought, I’ve known it from the start. The end is here. She has the right, of course she does, to be fulfilled as a woman; and a lot of women feel that comes with bearing a child. He was not about to try to talk her out of that. Instantly, he saw her clearly: full-ripened, round, blooming pink and peach and lily white, glowing in exquisite loveliness. No way could he discourage that or even try. He loved her so and knew she deserved happiness and wanted her to have it.
Her eyes began to fill as she listened to his silence. He stood and went to the window. Her eyes would not release him. “You won’t answer me. You won’t say anything. You just stand there like stone.” She sprang like a leopard from the bed, naked but for his opened shirt flying like a cape as she lunged at him, tears splashing her darkened cheeks. She rammed her palms into his chest and shoved him back along the wall. “You said I mean more to you than the blood in your veins. You said you loved me.” She screamed at him, “But not enough to have a child with me.” She beat at his chest. “Why don’t you hear me?”
He offered no resistance, stepping back with the blows. Her rage appeared from out of nowhere, without a cause from him that he could tell. An anger of such dimension demanded an attempt at understanding. Still, he had no voice. “Look at you,” she spat the words, her face scrunched and furrowed in frustration, red and white and glacier blue, “you’re so tough…”
“I’m not tough. I don’t know what to say. I’m trying to understand. I want to be honest with you. I don’t know what you’re seeing…or what you think you’re seeing.”
She continued to shove at his shoulders till he locked her wrists in an iron grip and she thrashed like a netted tiger. He could feel her breath on his face inches from her tightened lips and glaring eyes. “You think you’re a brave, macho cowboy, risk your life to save mine. It takes more courage to risk something you have to live with, something that forces you to rethink your beliefs. You’re doing what you decided was best for you yesterday. You might be wiser today. You need to come out and see.”
“You need to quit screaming in my face. I can’t hear what you want me to hear.”
“You don’t want to hear anything.” For a moment her energy waned and she seemed to melt in a pool of tears. Like a mournful child’s lament, she said, “I want my brother…I want my mommy…”
“A child isn’t going to bring your brother back…” He knew it was stupid as the words left his lips and wished he’d remained silent.
She instantly flared anew, “I know that!” She screamed. “I never even thought about having a child until I met you. I wanted a child with you. You. How stupid I am.” She slammed her clenched fists against his chest. “Do you want me to leave?”
He stood stunned in disbelief. Minutes ago, he was bringing her breakfast and kissing her neck. Now a beast he didn’t recognize was snarling in his face. He tried to think, to gather his wits and not react with anger but so relentless was her assault, he could not.
Reddened and trembling, she repeated her demand with a challenge in it. “Should I leave? Is that what you want?”
A rope twisted in his guts. An instinct lunged forward, he heard himself say, “Yes. Yes, I think you should. You’re far too unhappy to stay here. I don’t want to be the cause of such unhappiness. I’m feeling real bad right now.”
“Okay. If that’s what you want.” She turned and blew into the guestroom.
He stood there looking at the floor, shaking his head, his heart pounding unreliably. He muttered, “I don’t believe this. Yes, I do. Just as well.” He felt the air being crushed from his lungs.
The ride to the airport was a torturous experience, thick with storm-clouded thoughts racing without direction on violent winds of emotion. Anger, shock, insults battered reason, love, and compassion. A thousand thoughts and feelings raged within the confines of the Ford. A hundred impulses to speak were crushed by confusion, stubbornness, and pride. And so they rode in silence. There was no turning back.
He watched her vanish in the jetway and thought he would die right there where he stood. He lacked the strength to turn around, to walk to the truck. He drove in a world obscured by torment. By the time he got home, he was exhausted from trying to put the pieces together, to somehow come to terms. His brain was fried, his heart shattered. He went straight to the house and shut the door. He flopped on the sofa and put his feet on the table. Amid the chaos that churned within, his own existence came into question as something unreal as if he had not actually lived this life but had died a long time ago and has ever since been a being with no history and no thinkable future.
It was only midday. There was work to be done. The phone rang. It was Abbie calling from the barn. She wanted to know what she and Mason should do. He told her and said he’d be there pretty quick. He went to his bottle of scotch and pulled the cork, looked at it, recorked it, put it back, and walked around in a circle like a dog choosing a spot to lie down. He went to the kitchen, poured a coffee, placed it on the counter and stretched his arms to the ceiling and let out a bellowing roar that would have sent a lion cringing. It penetrated the thick walls of the house and traveled to the barn where all labor ceased. Heads turned, they looked at each other, and then resumed their tasks.
Everyone gave him the berth granted a leper. Abbie, nearly disintegrating with curiosity, spoke not a word. He rode six horses, working their butt
s off. When he got to Soot, a softening calm overcame him. Soot was not a guy you could be on edge around. He stroked the black’s face whispering something salacious to him and led him out of the barn. The colt was beginning to look more like rubbed ebony than soot.
He cut three cows and then schooled the colt on his turn to the left. He wasn’t quite as pretty going left as he was to the right. Jesse helped him find it, then ran his hand along the sleek black neck and whispered lavish praise. He gave him the full length of the reins and the colt stretched his neck long and low and shook his mane. Jesse just sat there quietly, part of the horse.
75
The Real World
He crawled out of bed, a wreck in a storm of passion. The dogs greeted him on the porch to escort him to the barn. Dozer ambled at his side, tall enough to have his head scratched without a bend from Jesse. Blizzard scooted ahead.
He was reaching for a saddle when the tack room phone rang. “Jesse Burrell.”
Larry Littlefield said, “Butch Logan told me they ran your video at the magazine. Said it’s real good. Congratulations, boy.”
“Thanks.”
“Holly Bassett did a good job for you, huh?”
“She did a helluva job.”
“So everything is looking pretty shiny.”
“Everything is looking pretty shitty.”
“Why? What?”
“She was here. We had a fight. She’s gone. It’s over.”
“What did you fight about?”
“Damned if I know.”
“I hear you got a colt.”
“Where’d you hear that?”
“I hear everything. Some folks have a pacemaker, I have a telephone. Hear you got a good one.”
“He’s a wild little bugger. If I can just stay out of his way and let him do it, he’s got a lot of natural ability.”
“I want you to win that damn Futurity this year.”
“I want me to win that damn Futurity this year.”
“Well, good luck, son. I’ll see you. Hey. I was you, I’d patch it up with that little gal. She’s a dandy. You were probably an asshole. Adios.”
Like patches of black crepe tossed in the wind, the ravens swirled as he stepped from the truck. Holy Rood had been recently groomed. Flowers formed in clusters against the moist green lushness. The gray stones sparkled in sunlight.
He looked at the name carved in stone and knelt on the yielding sod, feeling the wet come through to his skin. He bowed his head, closed his eyes and began to pray. He hoped, when he opened his eyes, to see his son. He wondered if he’d ever be there again. The thought scared him and the emptiness within grew quickly vast and desolate. He breathed deeply and slowly let it out as he lowered his face to the cool wet grass and wept into the earth.
76
A Date
Every time the phone rang he wished it had never been invented. Why should she call? He’d practically kicked her out. It’s over. It is what needed to be. But it shouldn’t end ugly.
Everybody had asked about her saying how much they liked her. She’s such a wonderful, warmhearted person. Where is she? And when is she coming back?
Kevin and his wife Carley were just pulling out the driveway after a schooling session. Jesse leaned against the fence as if he didn’t know what he was supposed to do next. He could not have told how long he stood there before he heard Abbie say, “Hey, Boss.” She had come up behind him and stood there with her impish grin and bright eyes looking up at him.
“Yeah.”
“I never ask you for anything, do I?”
“Are you kidding? You never stop. What do you want?”
“I want to take you out to supper.”
He grinned at her for a long time. She stood there smiling. Then she said, “There’s a great Cajun band playing at the Yellow Rose. I want you to hear them. And I don’t want you to say no. The food’s good, too.”
“When?”
“Friday night.”
“You got a deal.”
“Cool.” She brightened even more and bounced away.
The Yellow Rose was upscale country western, stripped pine logs with high cathedral ceilings above a raised dance floor and a sound system to rattle the heavens. It was packed, but Abbie knew the host and had taken care of everything. They sat in a booth not far from the dance floor. A beautiful, black-eyed, black-haired Mexican woman with satin cinnamon skin served them. She flashed a smile that would make a bishop kick a hole in a church window.
Jesse didn’t know when was the last time he danced. He didn’t know if he ever danced. But, by crackie, Abbie got him out there and they whirled and twirled and he laughed. He knew that she’d thought up the whole thing out of pure love and that the restraint she exercised to keep from asking what had happened with Holly damn near killed her. It made him feel good to know that this little package of perpetual energy was a part of his life. He looked across the table at her and knew that he loved her.
Jesse had spotted them at the bar. Coarse and loud, they were looking his way over the shoulder of a flossy, painted tart in a skirt tight enough and thin enough to count the stitches in her panties. They were dickheads on the prowl, damn near drooling down the front of her tube-top while eyeballing Abbie forty feet away. He could feel the birth of a problem. Sure enough, here comes one of them. A big stupid cocky grin pasted across the front of a head bearing a brain as dense as the iron he pumped to produce biceps like legs dangling from a tight black T-shirt. His buddy was watching back by the bimbo. He wheeled up to the table without a glance at Jesse, spread his legs, and leaned down in Abbie’s face, startling her. Smiling mockery and breathing beer, he put his damp hand on her wrist and with counterfeit politeness, said, “May I have this dance?”
Abbie moved her head back to avoid his breath. In a tone of absolute dismissal, she said, “No, thanks. We’re talking.” She turned away, assuming that was it.
It wasn’t. He tightened his grip on her wrist and tugged, “C’mon, let’s dance.”
“Hey. I don’t want to dance. Thanks.”
“Yeah, you do.” He pulled harder.
“She said no,” said Jesse quietly.
He glanced at Jesse, “I’m not talking to you, dad.” He turned back to Abbie and hauled her halfway out of her seat as she struggled to wrench free of his grasp. From where he sat, Jesse’s clenched fist came up like a hammer between the husky’s legs, slamming into his sack and lifting him a foot in the air where he howled and doubled over. As his face plummeted toward the table, Jesse cupped the back of his head to accelerate the impact. His buddy was flying to the fray, diving over his collapsing pal with outstretched claws aimed at Jesse’s throat. Jesse’s hand closed around his bottle of Coors and shoved it into the flyer’s gut to his backbone. The guy crumbled, harpooned across the table, slick with beer and blood.
Abbie’s manager friend got them out before the toughs recovered. “If it comes to anything, I’ll just say you threw down some cash and left. I don’t know who you are.”
He rolled the window down and let the warm night blow in a soothing balm. Abbie was silent. Suddenly, he laughed. “You sure know how to show a guy a good time.”
She hadn’t been breathing for a while then exploded with a giggle. “Is there something about me that brings out the killer in you?”
“I was wondering the same thing. Maybe it’s the hair.” He reached out and ruffled her head. “Thanks. I had a great time. Sometimes it’s just so good to kick somebody’s ass.”
The sparkle of a billion stars brightened the Colorado sky. Holly lay in her bed, rigid, awake, her slender arm across her eyes to shut out the terrible beauty of the night. Unbidden, his face was there, the sound of his voice, his big, brown, long-fingered hands fluttered, detached, in the darkness behind her eyes. Such as that would not be shut out with the folding of an arm. Yesterday’s dreams blooming with promise now lay fallow. Her love shivered in her heart like a child unsheltered in the cold. She was filled with yearning
and hopelessness. She longed to be dead.
77
A Stroll Through Austin
Taxes were the issue this time. Jesse would rather have strolled barefoot over hot coals than sit across the desk from his accountant, watching him fingering his computer as easily as Jesse worked his reins. He left after a torturous two hours, having placed a Band-Aid on the Titanic and trying to ignore the battering sea.
He couldn’t remember when he was last in Austin and if ever he’d walked the streets alone. He looked in store windows and bars and restaurants. He stopped at a shop window and looked for a time, then switched focus to his face in the glass and wondered who he was. He entered the shop. When he left, an hour later, he clutched in his fist, a small, wrapped parcel.
Gut-shrunk and wolfish, he walked into Callanan’s. The bass was grilled to perfection and two pints of stout put a polish to it. A sharp loneliness came upon him. His head went down and he wondered what she was doing right then. The longer she was gone, the greater grew the emptiness.
The fan-stirred air blew warm across his skin. The seeping scent of honeysuckle through the parted curtain drifted in the room. What am I to do? The answer was prompt, filled with dread. Leave it alone. Don’t call. It’s done. But then came the weakness that said no, I can’t do that. I cannot toss away this thing of beauty as if it had no value. But then another voice told him that he could, he should, he was too old, and she needed things he couldn’t give or wouldn’t give. He left his bed and went to the porch.
He curled his arm and leaned his face against the rubbed surface of the cedar post and wished for a way to be shut of it all. But wishing ran before memory as he heard the screen door clack shut in the Colorado afternoon and saw her smiling, walking in ripples of pale blue silk among beards and spurs, denim and flannel. He felt again the harsh beating of his rapid heart followed hard upon by damn near every moment he’d spent with her and every thought and feeling he’d ever had, until his brain became a bowl of cold Quaker Oats. He went back to bed.
