The Tie That Binds

by Kent Haruf

  “I couldn’t get any,” he said. “Not where I been. New York never heard of them.”

  “See there?” I said. “Marvella’s doing Lyman and all of us a service. They ought to give her another ribbon.”

  “Don’t be funny,” Mavis said.

  “They could stick it to her belly.”

  “Yes. And you’ve already got one girl eight months pregnant with child. Isn’t that enough?”

  “I don’t know. I can’t tell yet.”

  “Come on,” Edith said. She took Mavis’s arm and they started to walk away. “These men,” she said, “have been out in the heat so long they’re getting plain mushy. They’re not as strong as we are.”

  To cool off after the pickle exhibits we went back to the food concessions and had cold drinks. Lyman and I each drank a beer. While the others stayed there in the screened-in shade, I went over to the ticket booths to buy reserved seats in the grandstand for the rodeo. People were starting to file in; there was going to be a good crowd. I stood in line to buy the tickets, watching the people dressed up western for the day in new boots and straw hats. Then Doub Ragsdale, a farmer I knew south of town who had irrigated circles of corn and was doing all right with them, came up behind me. “Hot, isn’t she?” he said.

  “Ought to make the corn grow,” I said. “You can’t fault it.”

  “Yeah, but it wants to rain.”

  We moved forward a step.

  “The wife and kids with you?”

  “Over there.” He pointed towards the gate. Louise, his wife, was standing with their two boys in the sun in orange stretch pants and a flouncy blouse. She waved at me when she saw I was looking at her.

  “Your oldest boy going out for football this year?”

  “Maybe,” he said. “He’s still awful scrawny.”

  “He’ll be all right. Just keep feeding him.”

  “Yeah, he eats. That’s one thing he knows how to do. But he’s soft like his mother. Look at them orange pants. It’s not like when you and me was little shits.”

  “No,” I said. “Some ways it’s worse.”

  “I don’t know,” he said. “I don’t like it.”

  That was always Doub. He had that big house and all that irrigated corn, but he complained worse than any wheat farmer will. A wheat farmer will tell you how he’s lost his crop five times to dust, flood, drought, hail, and rust before he finally admits that he’s harvested it. But I have never understood what Doub had lost. Maybe his perspective.

  Anyway, I bought the rodeo tickets and went back to collect the others to go up into the grandstand. The seats were in the center section high up under the roof. We climbed up the aisle steps past all the people we knew, stopping to talk and joke some as we worked our way towards the seats. Edith, I recall, was especially lively that afternoon. It made her feel good to be among all the people, and everyone felt it, enjoyed seeing her, was glad she was happy; it was like she left a wide ripple of pleasure behind her. The women along the aisle took her hand, and the men slapped Lyman neighborly on the back.

  When we reached the seats I settled Mavis and the Goodnoughs in their places with cushions to sit on, then I went back down to help with the calf roping. I had agreed to run the roping barrier, but that was all. I wasn’t going to rodeo anymore myself; at thirty-nine I was at least four years of marriage past the time when I still had thoughts of being a cowboy. Besides, I didn’t want to break my neck bucking off some horse or bull and leave Mavis to bury me. I had doubts about how much spadework a pregnant woman would do. The way I figured it, she would probably only plant me a foot under, then the dogs would dig me up and chew my toes and chase one another for my arm bones. The thought didn’t appeal to me. I was satisfied to watch somebody else break his neck while the people in the stands applauded.

  The rodeo started as usual with the grand entry. A bunch of guys and girls galloped their horses in figure eights in the arena, then there were some introductions so the rodeo marshals and the fair queens and all the notables could spur their horses forward and lift their hats to the crowd. Afterwards, the national anthem was blared over the loudspeakers; the cowboys held their hats, and the people in the stands rose up and sang; then the invocation was given by the Baptist preacher, who found enough cause to praise God for twenty minutes. When that business was finished, they all stampeded out of the arena and it was time for the first event, the bareback riding.

  The rodeo went about as usual that afternoon. There were five or six pretty good young cowboys from different parts of the country, but only about two or three first-class horses. It was getting harder every year for a stock contractor to find good bucking horses; the horses weren’t as big—they didn’t have much of that raw plow-horse build anymore—so they weren’t as rank as they had been twenty and thirty years ago, which meant the scores weren’t as high, and I seem to recall only once when they had to open the gates and bring the ambulance into the arena. That was when this long-necked goosey kid from Valentine, Nebraska, stayed on his saddle bronc the full eight seconds. He was still on after the buzzer rang, riding with both hands now and hollering and still trying to hook his horse for some reason, while the pickup men kicked up beside him to take him off, but he didn’t seem to know how to grab onto one of them and get off. Then the trouble was they all got to racing too fast, and when they came helling up to the end of the arena the pickup horses knew enough to stop but the saddle bronc didn’t. He jumped the fence. I mean he tried to. I suppose he might have made it too, only there was a three-quarter-inch strand of cable strung along the top of the fence posts to discourage any steeplechasing or impromptu fence jumping; so at the last second the horse decided to stick his big raw-boned head under the cable like he thought maybe he could snake through that half foot of empty space between the cable and the top fence rail, like maybe he thought he was some form of circus lion doing the hoops in the center ring. He didn’t make it; he slammed to a loud, solid stop. Meanwhile, the kid from Valentine sailed headfirst over the horse’s neck and ran his face up against the steel cable. The cable didn’t give a lot, but his face did. They called the ambulance in and rode him off to the hospital to rebuild his nose and sew up his cheek. Afterwards some of the cowboys were riding the pickup men pretty hard about losing a horse race that it appeared they were going to win. Until it came down to the wire, that is. The pickup men felt kind of foolish about it.

  “Hell,” one of them said. “The knothead wasn’t even trying to turn his horse. He acted like he never saw fences in Nebraska.”

  “Well, you introduced him,” somebody said.

  “That’s a fact,” he said. “I doubt he forgets it.”

  I stayed down there in the arena for the duration of the rodeo, drinking warm beer behind the chutes with the boys and running the barrier for the calf roping when it was time for that event. It wasn’t anything onerous. I had to string the rope barrier across the open-ended stall when the roper had his horse backed up inside it, then check to see that the horse didn’t break the barrier before the calf was released from the near chute. If the barrier was broken I was supposed to wave a red flag at the judge. I did that twice when a couple of boys got antsy and couldn’t hold their horses back. The judge looked over at me from the center of the arena where he was watching the dallying and saw the flag, so the two boys got ten seconds added on to their times. The times weren’t anything to blow about anyway. Booger Brannon, a big heavy-set cowboy from south Oklahoma, won the calf roping with a nineteen-seven. Ordinarily he wouldn’t have placed.

  It was late afternoon by the time the bull riding, the last event, was finished and the final quarter-horse race was contested and won. There would still be a good three hours of sunlight because of daylight savings, but I felt as tired as if I had worked. I suppose all that warm beer contributed to the feeling. At any rate, I was ready to go home. I still had evening chores to do and I wanted to see Mavis seated in a easy chair with her feet up. I believed she must be tired.

&n
bsp; The crowd was coming down out of the grandstand, so I waited beside the gate for my wife and the Goodnoughs. I didn’t see them. I saw Doub Ragsdale and Louise come by with their two boys, all of them looking miserable and hot, like they weren’t satisfied, and then Pace Givens stopped to talk a minute. Pace was a dirt-poor farmer who was trying to hang on to a couple of dryland quarters east of town. His teeth were all rotten and gone to hell.

  “By God,” he said. “Sanders, by God.”

  “Yeah,” I said.

  He was slapping me on the back. I could smell the whiskey on him. “You’re all right,” he said. “Didn’t I ever tell you that?”

  “Once or twice,” I said.

  “Well, don’t never weaken.”

  “That’s right.”

  “Don’t never weaken, Sanders.”

  “Take care of yourself now,” I said.

  “Hell, I’m all right,” he said. “You know why?”

  “Because you never weaken.”

  “I never weaken. That’s why.”

  He was talking at me from about six inches distance from my face; he smelled strong of cheap whiskey, and there were people watching us and smiling as if it was a joke, but I liked Pace Givens nonetheless. He was going to lose those dryland quarters too. They just weren’t enough anymore for him to survive on. He slapped me again on the back and walked out the gate in his droop-seated, rag-cuffed overalls.

  My wife hadn’t come down from the grandstand with Edith and Lyman. I climbed up into the stands; there was no one there except a young woman trying to get a little boy to wake up enough so he would walk and not have to be carried. I began to feel a little worried. I knew this entire opening-day program would be too much. I went back through the gate, looked around, didn’t see them, and walked out to Lyman’s car. It was still there, green and dust coated now with the afternoon traffic. So I returned to the buildings, walked through the exhibits and the show barns, and finally found the three of them drinking pop in the concession area. They didn’t appear concerned. Mavis and Edith were laughing at Lyman. They were giving him some kind of silly shit about something, and Lyman wasn’t altogether pleased. “What’s the joke?” I said.

  “You don’t want to know,” Lyman said. “Just buy me a beer. These damn women won’t allow nothing but soda pop.

  “Don’t you dare,” Mavis said.

  “That’s right,” Edith said. “He has to admit it was a good system first.”

  “What was?”

  “The system we had for the races.”

  “Don’t listen to them,” Lyman said. “Just buy me a beer, will you?”

  “Of course. But what happened to your money?”

  “I don’t have any money. Would I be drinking this damn stuff if I had any money?”

  “What happened to it?”

  “He lost it.”

  “The hell I did.”

  “But we know where it is. Don’t we, Edith.”

  “It’s right here,” Edith said.

  “Listen. If you ain’t going to buy me a beer, at least loan me a goddamn dollar. Is that asking too much?” “You have to admit it was a good system first.”

  “Damn your damn system.”

  “I think he’s getting mad now.”

  “All right, here.” Lyman stood up and drew a checkbook from the pocket of his dress pants and sat down to write in it. “Here,” he said, “I’ll sign you a check if you don’t think you can even trust me for a goddamn dollar.”

  “Just a minute,” I said. “I trust you. But what the hell are you talking about?”

  “I’m talking about that goddamn fool up at the counter that won’t take my check. They got him in on this, too.”

  “Who?”

  “These women. Look at ’em, laughing like two cats.”

  I looked at them again. Mavis was smiling; her hands were folded comfortably on her swollen stomach, and Edith’s eyes were snapping bright brown. They were delighted. So I made them a little speech.

  “I don’t understand any of this,” I said. “But I believe Lyman here is in need of a drink. So I’m going to buy him one, system or no system, whatever the hell it is. And I’m going to drink one myself. Now do either of you ladies object to that?”

  “I believe Sandy is getting mad too,” Edith said.

  “No, he’s not. He never gets mad. Do you, sweetheart?”

  “Of course not,” I said. “I just get thirsty.”

  “But I guess we’ve had our fun,” Mavis said. “What do you think, Edith?”

  “I think so,” she said. “And let us pay for it. We’ve got all the money there is.”

  That set them off again. They were giggling like teenagers and digging in their purses to stuff my hands with bills. I took the money and bought Lyman the beer he wanted, the beer he in fact needed bad now, the beer he was even beginning to get a little mad about not having sooner. I brought it back from the counter in paper cups. I still didn’t understand it, but it seems they had made side bets with one another during the quarter-horse races. Edith and my wife bet each of the six races against Lyman, betting their system against what he knew was good sense. I don’t claim to understand that either—perhaps no man could—but their system had something to do with how the color the jockey was wearing complemented the name of the horse the jockey was riding. They gave this as an example: a horse named Cajun Scoot was ridden by a jockey wearing chocolate and peach. That made it a sure winner. It was like ice cream. I didn’t see it. But anyway, five of the six horses the women bet on came in ahead of Lyman’s horses, and as a result they had won all the pocket money Lyman was carrying. To clinch the matter, they resolved to spend all their winnings—all of Lyman’s money—spend it all right there under his nose before they went home that evening. They started by buying that paper cup of beer Lyman wanted but which they weren’t going to allow until he agreed it was a good system. You can’t tell me women don’t have a complicated sense of fair play.

  Their resolution to spend all his money, though, meant we weren’t going home yet. I would have to do chores in full dark, and Mavis wouldn’t have much opportunity to put her feet up. Before we could drive home, we had to do the carnival: throw darts for stuffed monkeys, lick the cotton candy off our fingers, play bingo, toss nickels, drink more beer, ride the Ferris wheel. They got a lot of mileage out of his money. I remember the Ferris wheel best.

  Now I’m not big on Ferris wheels. I suppose I feel a little funny riding up and around in a continuous circle with my gut squeezed tight against the locked bar so I won’t fall out, while below me on the ground a crowd of kids are waiting in line for me to get off and give them a chance. The kids can’t see why I’m doing it and I can’t either. But it wasn’t too bad that evening. Mavis and I were holding hands over the little boy in her stomach, and we rode up together in the rocking seat in the near dark. The colored lights were on all over the carnival, outlining the booths and the rides; over the loudspeakers they were playing some scratchy rock-and-roll music. From the top we could see far out over the fairgrounds, the grandstand and buildings and across the arena to the bucking chutes where the bucking horses were grazing in the paddocks, and to the south the town, the streetlights on at the corners and the mass of dark trees and rooftops. Edith and Lyman were in a seat in front of us. That’s what I mean when I say I remember the Ferris wheel best. It’s the picture I hold in mind when I think of that period in their lives.

  If Lyman had every really been mad about the beer, he was over it now; he had his arm around his sister. They weren’t talking much but just enjoying the late evening. As we came down on the back side of the wheel we could see them below us, rocking a little in the flicker of the colored lights, the music playing, his hand tapping time on her bare arm and her head relaxed a little toward his shoulder. If you didn’t know them, you might have believed they were an old couple who still had reason to ride a Ferris wheel together. I hold that picture in mind. We went home afterwards.

 
ON THE HIGHWAY south of Holt is a short wooden bridge called the Five Mile Bridge. No creek or river runs under it, just a weed-choked wash that fills for a day or two in the late spring, when we get most of our annual rainfall. The bridge is not much to speak of, but in this country where there’s not much call for bridges of any kind it serves as a landmark. People use it when giving directions to outsiders. Also, it’s been the site of two accidents.

  One of them involved Buster and Barry Wellright, two brothers who live ten miles farther south of me in the sandhills. There is a story that goes with it. The Well-rights are middle-aged boys and poor, almost as poor as Pace Givens but with less reason for it, except that they have a habit of drinking too much; they stay too long at the tavern. Consequently they don’t always get themselves organized very early the next morning when they get up. The proof of their nightly habits is their big beer bellies and Buster is missing an ear where a corn picker chewed it off. But that’s another story. There are a lot of stories about Buster and Barry. They provide a good deal of entertainment for the entire county.

  Anyway, this particular story goes that they were driving south on the highway one Saturday night after Tom Bowland finally quit trying to coax them out of the tavern and just turned the lights off. So it was about three o’clock. They were driving in their pickup and they had just about reached that Five Mile Bridge when Buster happened to look up from his drunken slouch and noticed that they were off the road. The pickup was bouncing along in the barrow ditch with the summer weeds flying up over the hood like cornstalks. He punched his brother. “Barry,” he said. “Barry, get this son of a bitch back where it belongs.”

  Barry kind of lifted his head and looked around him. “Nah,” he said. “You do it, Buster. You’re driving.”

  It’s never been fully established who was driving—the Wellrights dispute it themselves—but whichever brother it was didn’t make it. The pickup smashed into the end of the bridge. When they were satisfied that they couldn’t back up or for that matter move at all, since the bumper was wrapped hard around a steel post, one of them turned the engine off so they wouldn’t be blown to bits and they both settled down in the cab for a nap. The next morning people going to church found them sound asleep with horseflies buzzing in their open odoriferous mouths. The people thought they were dead, until they stuck their heads in the window and smelled. Buster and Barry weren’t dead; they just didn’t want to bother anybody for help at that time of night and they were too contented for the moment to walk home. It would have been a good twelve miles, and walking that far they might have had to go to bed sober. They didn’t want that.