The Sweet Spot

by Laura Drake

  “Jimmy cut that tree down, then cut it up, with nothing but an ax. Got to where I heard it in my dreams. Then I’d wake up and someone would be there with a pill. The doctor said I’d get too ‘worked up’ if I didn’t take them.” She closed her eyes and lifted her face to the soft caress of a stray westerly breeze. “I thought I’d go mad with that sound. Thunk. Thunk. Thunk. It went on for days.

  “Until it stopped.” Char opened her eyes. “Then I thought I’d go mad in the silence.” Something pricked her memory. She frowned. Something about the accident. Her brain could touch the edge of what bothered her, but she couldn’t quite…

  “Hey, Char.” Bella held her elbow and waved a hand in front of her face. “Come on, Hon, let’s put the horses up. We’re gonna have a heat stroke if we stand here much longer.”

  After shooing Bella home, Char unsaddled Bar B first. She’d just finished currying and putting him up when Jimmy walked into the barn’s breezeway. He sidled up to Pork Chop and loosened the cinch.

  “What are you doing?” She pulled the sliding stall door shut behind her.

  “Unsaddling the horse.”

  She strode over. “I’ve got it.”

  “This saddle’s heavy. I’ll—”

  He released the leather strap when she swatted at his hand. “I’ve got it, Jimmy.” She tugged at the stubborn knot.

  He stepped back a pace. “Suit yourself.”

  Jittery from his scrutiny and a lack of personal space, she finally wrested the strap free. Now came the hard part. Pork Chop’s back seemed ten feet tall, Char was short, and the saddle was heavy. On a good day, she barely managed without sprawling in the dirt beneath it.

  Please, God, let this be a good day. She took a deep breath and pulled.

  The saddle and blanket cooperated, sliding off the horse and onto her. Jimmy stepped closer but flinched at her glare.

  Stifling a grunt, she got her arms around the sweaty, bulky weight and leaned back. The stirrups slid off the horse, thumping to the packed dirt.

  Jimmy raised his hands in the universal sign of surrender and retreated to a straw bale outside the stall door to watch. Between the heavy strain and her embarrassment, Char imagined her face to be an attractive shade of eggplant.

  Now all she had to do was haul the saddle to the tack room without dropping it or tripping over the dangling stirrups. She waddled away slowly, knowing that from the back, she must look like a bear humping a football. Despite the trouble, she managed it, with only one heart-stopping toe-stub at the door to the tack room.

  She returned, snagging a bucket of brushes and her stool along the way. Keeping her back to Jimmy, she set the stool next to the horse, stepped up, and started brushing.

  Jimmy’s comment came from the cheap seats. “Well, now that you don’t have to pay the trainer, I expect you’ll be off to buy that four-wheeler Bella mentioned. You won’t have to mess with Pork Chop anymore.”

  With a two-handed grip on the currycomb, she leaned in to penetrate the horse’s coat. Pork Chop grunted with pleasure. “I’ll have you know, this happens to be the best cutting horse in Fredericksburg.” She pointed the brush at Jimmy. “She and I are a team, so show a little respect. And she’s Buttermilk to you, Bucko.”

  Jimmy snorted a laugh. Charla turned back to the horse and smiled.

  Silence spun out as she bent to her task, working up a sweat. This was one of her favorite times of the day. Grooming allowed her mind to wander, assess her progress, and cross completed items off her mental list. Yet today she couldn’t focus.

  His deep voice intruded on her stuttering thoughts. “You’ve changed.”

  She stepped off the stool and held it in front of her. “Not as much as you, I’ll warrant.”

  She walked around Pork Chop’s head, set the stool down, and began brushing the other side.

  He colored. “No, I mean your hair. You’ve worn it the same since high school.”

  “Then I guess it was high time.”

  “Takes some getting used to, but I like it.”

  She glanced over the horse’s back to see Jimmy, leaning against the stall door, feet crossed at the ankle, head cocked, looking her over. She felt like a prime heifer. “You’re assuming you still have a vote.”

  “A vote? Nope. Only an opinion.”

  She ducked her head and whispered into Pork Chop’s side, “Yeah, after all, you’re still breathing.” Dropping the brush into the bucket, she hopped down and moved under the horse’s head. “We need to talk, Jimmy. Things are different around here. I’m different.”

  “I noticed.”

  His tone gave no clue to how he meant that. “I’m not the little housewife anymore. I intend to stay involved, out here, in the business.”

  He thought a moment, squinting up at her. “You sure you wouldn’t rather get a job in town?”

  Her anger hit the end of its leash, biting and snapping. “I have as much right to the business as you do, Jimmy. I’ve worked my butt off these past months to keep this place running, and if you think I’m going to tuck tail for the kitchen because you’re on the property, you can just—”

  “You’re off the pills, aren’t you, Little Bit?”

  She pulled a rag from her back pocket and wiped down Pork Chop’s face. The concern in his voice and calm, assessing look had her nerves dancing like water drops on a hot skillet.

  “Well, good on you.” He stood, the shadows gathering in the hollows of his face. He looked old, gaunt, tired. “Look, Char, I’m not trying to chase you off. There’s plenty enough work to go around. I just thought a job in town would bring you more money. Take some of the worry off you.”

  With a last look at her, he settled his hat and walked for the barn door, head down.

  She stood in the middle of the aisle, left holding a squirming bag of emotion. Damn you, Jimmy. How dare you make me feel bad for you?

  CHAPTER

  15

  You gain strength, courage, and confidence by every experience in which you really stop to look fear in the face. You must do the thing which you think you cannot do.

  —Eleanor Roosevelt

  People go to cemeteries every day.” Char gritted her teeth as she reached for the car keys, hanging on a peg next to the back door. But saying it didn’t make it happen. Resolve, so carefully gathered, dissolved. Dropping her hand, she glanced out the storm door to the few puffy clouds the dawn revealed. There’s nothing saying I have to go today.

  Besides, it would do her heart good to work in the garden—to finish the job she’d begun that awful day she’d fired Gandy. But she also knew the disappointment of letting herself down would bleed into whatever delicate peace she found in the garden.

  She didn’t even have her father as an excuse; he was at the feedlot with Junior.

  Char glanced down at the pantsuit she’d so carefully selected. I’m already dressed. Might as well get it over with. Her stomach did a roller-coaster drop and a shiver of longing ran through her as she pictured the box in the garage where she’d stashed the Valium.

  Before her capricious mind could change again, she snatched the keys, opened the door, and marched for the car. Remember what Bella said about crutches. If you never let go, you’ll never know if you still need them.

  Rounding the corner of the house, the bedraggled flower beds caught her eye. In spite of her neglect, those trusty glads had managed to bloom again this year. The memory of planting them, with Benje, stopped her in her tracks.

  He’d been five and had wanted to help. She’d dug the first hole, carefully explaining which end of the bulb went in first. Convinced he had the concept, she worked on the rose bushes. Returning a few minutes later, she caught him planting a bulb upside down. When she corrected him, he told her he’d done it on purpose; he wanted the people in China to have pretty flowers too.

  Char brushed a tear that threatened to ruin her makeup and inspected the plants. The red flowers had some brown edges and looked a bit bug-eaten. She’d plann
ed to stop at Walmart and pick up a bouquet on the way to the cemetery, but… Her stomach settled a bit. “These are Benje’s flowers. He’s not going to care about a few bugs.” She headed for the tool shed to find her clippers.

  Later, she drove past Saint Mark’s, wondering why the church parking lot bristled with cars, parishioners trailing to the front door. Women flitted like pastel finches around their coat-and-tied husbands.

  Oh my gosh, it’s Sunday! How could she have forgotten? Char hadn’t set foot in church since the funeral. She hadn’t planned on not going, but… She winced at a lancet stab of guilt. She still hadn’t called Reverend Mike to thank him for referring Rosa. Her mama had taught her better.

  She imagined sliding back into the social current of Fredericksburg—the questions from her neighbors, the pitying looks from her friends—the starting over. I’m not strong enough for that yet. She loosened her death grip on the steering wheel. Let go of one crutch at a time.

  A mile down the road, on the outskirts of town, she forced her trembly hands to turn the car at the wrought-iron gates to Roseland. One good thing about coming on Sunday morning; the cemetery was deserted. Thank God. The gallop of her heart pounded in her ears as she rolled slowly past acres of dead people.

  Although she’d never been to Benje’s grave, she knew exactly where it lay. Generations of Enwrights rested in the farthest corner of the cemetery. She pulled up and shut off the engine, keeping her eyes straight ahead. Memories swirled in her mind like an out-of-control film, faster and faster, until everything blurred, a background to the roaring in her ears. She couldn’t breathe. Char grabbed for the door handle and opened it, afraid she was about to be sick.

  Resting her head on the elbow rest, she waited as gravity pulled blood back to her brain. Shaky, she straightened and shut the door. But in a scant few seconds, the pressure of silence and heat closed in. Damp, hot claustrophobia crawled over her skin. Not yet ready to face the marching row of headstones, she lowered the car window and fell back against the headrest. Slowly, sounds slipped into her jangled awareness: the ticking of the cooling engine, the sloughing breeze in the maples, sparrows twittering. It’s just a plot of grass, Charla. Get over yourself. She forced herself to pick up Benje’s wilting flowers and exited the car.

  Her dressy flats swished through the manicured, shade-dappled sod. Char focused her attention on the everyday sounds around her to quiet the panic welling in her stomach.

  “Hi, Mom.” She brushed her fingers across the rose marble of the headstone. Her father had his name carved on it too when he’d bought it for her mother. The blank space after his birth date dangled, reminding her that, someday, there would be a date etched there as well. She shook off the picture in her head of herself, growing old, alone on the ranch.

  “Don’t worry, Mom, I’m taking good care of Daddy.” She patted the marker and moved on.

  A low, crystal-white marble headstone stood next, the dates under Benje’s name proclaiming God’s travesty. Her knees let go, and she fell to all fours, half sprawled on the grave, the pain writhing like a large snake in her chest. Mouth contorted, she gasped for breath through the violent, terrifying sobs.

  She had no idea of how much time passed until pain’s grip ebbed. Her chest felt hollow, her heart a papery husk.

  The grass under her palms felt cool, and she leaned on one arm, to catch her breath. She pried her eyes from the headstone, noticing a small bouquet of wildflowers before it. Wild phlox, bluebonnets, and yellow primrose, so fresh that Char shot a quick glance around to be sure she was alone.

  Small, dark objects dotted the top of the gravestone. She crawled closer to inspect them. She lifted the first. Benje’s Cub Scout Gold Arrow point. He’d been so proud to bring that home to her. She ran her finger over the tarnished brass, then put it back, before picking up the next bit, his attendance pin from Sunday school. The next in line was a circular pin, featuring an enameled bucking bull, foreground to the PBR logo. It looked familiar.

  Jimmy. He’d always worn it on his hat band.

  She carefully laid the pin on the cold marble, imagining Jimmy, hat in hand, placing it there. A guilt stiletto slipped through the tight muscles of her solar plexus. In all this time, she’d never thought about Jimmy’s pain. Jimmy’s grief.

  Her vision blurred and she brushed a hand across her eyes. Those damn pills had blinded her to everything outside of her own skin. Yes, but after the first week, when there was no one standing there to hand you one every few hours, you managed to take up that duty for yourself, didn’t you?

  “Oh, stop it, Charla.” Today wasn’t for self-recrimination. Today was for Benje. A fresh breeze cooled her wet face, bringing the rich smell of life in the hayfield bordering the cemetery. She took a cleansing breath, letting the familiar scents and sounds settle her.

  It’s peaceful here.

  “Benje? Are you all right, son?” The wind took her words. Birds cheeped in the tree overhead. As the restless, dappled shade slid over her, calm loosened her tight muscles.

  After a few minutes, Charla gathered herself and stood. All this time, she’d dreaded this for nothing.

  Her son wasn’t here.

  The pounding drum solo of Kenny Chesney’s “Big Star” slammed into JB’s brain. The stool in front of the damn jukebox had been the only one vacant, and now he knew why. Tipping back his Miller Lite, he attempted to squeeze his ears shut with the muscles of his face. Surely the band would be back from break soon.

  I shoulda listened to Wiley and gone back to the hotel. But his bulls had been exceptional at the event tonight, and Denny Bucking Bulls was celebrating—even if he was the only employee on the roster. Well, make that one and a half—maybe.

  He looked through the bottles of booze on the back bar to watch the crowd in the mirror. It showed a different perspective of the churning crush; as if his bar stool were a seat in a movie house. Stetsoned cowboys strutted around glittery ladies in a barroom mating dance.

  The females flitted and flirted, choosing their mates for the evening.

  Jaded tonight, aren’t we? JB shook his head. Months ago, he’d been a part of the scene, swaggering with the best of them. Guess that makes me hypocritical too. He widened his focus, taking in the gouged cinder-block walls and pockmarked, blacked-out ceiling tiles that booze, raucous music, and vibrating hormones usually rendered invisible.

  A large-breasted, forty-something waitress brushed past him, and he caught her look in the mirror. Her tired, sardonic smile telegraphed “How’d we end up here?”

  He raised his beer an inch in salute and turned his attention back to the show.

  “Are you JB Denny?”

  He swiveled his stool to the high-pitched voice. A curvy little blonde stood, too close, behind him.

  “Yes’m.”

  “I just wanted to meet you.” Bracelets jingled as she stuck out a hand with bloodred talon-tipped fingers. “I think you and Wiley are the best. You have such a sexy voice.”

  He stood, sucked in his gut, and took her fingers in his hand. “Pleased to meet you.”

  “I’m Courtney.” She turned toward two twittering girls behind her. “And this is Jennifer and Lacey.”

  He tipped his hat.

  The blonde cocked her head and smiled, in a move he somehow knew she’d practiced in a mirror. “Could we buy you a drink?”

  He looked past the cosmetics and bravado. No way the bouncer is carding tonight. “Thank you, miss, but I’m on my way out.” He relaxed his gut and tossed back the last of his beer.

  Her bottom lip protruded to a practiced pout. “Oh, come on, JB. The night is young!”

  He reached for his wallet. And so are you. Dropping bills on the bar, he shot her what he hoped passed for a disappointed look. “I’m sorry, ladies, but this old guy is flat tuckered. Y’all have a big time tonight.”

  CHAPTER

  16

  Learn from yesterday, live for today, hope for tomorrow.

  —Albert Einstei
n

  JB whistled “High Cotton” along with Alabama as he made the familiar turn onto State Highway 87, stretching a hand out to steady the bouquet of roses on the truck seat. Char had always loved the white ones best. They cost him dearly, but he wanted her to know how much it meant to him, her letting him back on the ranch.

  He’d gotten the idea from Wiley. Since he was living there, he couldn’t miss that Wiley was always bringing home flowers to Dana, and she lit up, every time. He glanced down at the flowers. Maybe they’d be the peace pipe that would get them back on comfortable speaking terms. He’d enjoy seeing Char happy for a change. He hardly remembered what her face looked like wiped clean of worry.

  A few minutes later, his arms full of conciliatory roses, he strolled into the welcome shade of the barn. Charla’s trim backside confronted him as she shuffled and strained, dragging a bale of alfalfa down the middle of the aisle.

  “Here, let me get that.” He trotted up and, as she straightened, thrust the flowers in her gloved hands, then bent and lifted the hay bale. “Where do you want it?”

  Her face drained of color, and she swayed on her feet.

  He dropped the hay, grabbing her arm to steady her. “What’s wrong, Char?” He lowered her to sit on the bale. When she stuck the roses out, he took them, shocked at the look of raw pain on her pallid face. He pushed her head down, lower than her knees. “Breathe. Just breathe.” He patted her back.

  “The funeral,” she whispered.

  Oh, shit. The flowers on Benje’s casket had been white roses. “Here, keep your head down a minute.”

  He looked around, not knowing what to do with his offending armload. He tossed them into the stall behind him, to get them out of her sight. Damn, how could I have forgotten?

  When she sat up, a minute later, some color had returned to her face. He patted her shoulder.

  “I’m fine.” She shrugged him off, stood, and stepped away. Her eyes narrowed, watching him as if he could be poisonous. “What are you up to, Jimmy?”