A Gentle Rain

by Deborah Smith

  When not watching the seasonal choice of football, baseball, basketball, or rodeo specials the ranch crew watched movies on DVD. Their film selections leaned heavily toward action-adventure, PG-rated comedies, and feature-length cartoons.

  TV nights were joyful. Everyone jostled for favorite spots on the couches, sipped beer, ate popcorn, hooted, laughed, yelled at the TV good-naturedly, and dozed off with their heads on each other's shoulders as the evening wore on.

  Lula snuggled between Cheech and Bigfoot. Dale and Roy held hands. Mac and Lily propped Joey up between them when he napped. Mac had the duty of carrying Joey up and down a flight of rough-hewn stairs to the rec room.

  And Ben? He sat in an aging, upholstered chair in the shadows, apart from the group, watching his brother sleep with his handsome chin steepled on one fist, his eyes dark. What went through his mind? What worried him? His gaze met mine at times. I couldn't read him. He watched me in the shadows, and I watched him.

  Miriam and I whispered in a corner near the humming refrigerator. "Joey says you and Lula were friends of his and Ben's mother," I said to Miriam. "That's a wonderful legacy. You're part of the family."

  She nodded. "Ben and Joey are like our own sons. We had bad husbands, two for me and three for Lula. Well. And Lula never could have kids."

  "And you?"

  Her face sagged. "I had three. Sweet boys but wild as buck rabbits. All three died in a head-on with a telephone pole. The oldest was eighteen. He was driving. He was on drugs."

  "Miriam. I'm sorry."

  "I couldn't give `em enough time. Always working. Me and Lula got our LPN certificates after we got too old to work as mermaids. Worked at nursing homes, hospitals, private sitting for rich old people."

  "You and Lula have worked for Ben a long time?"

  "Ten years. Since he and Joey come back from Mexico. Helping him take care of Joey and the others."

  "How bad is Joey's heart?" I asked.

  Miriam chewed a fresh toothpick harder. "Worse than I think Ben wants to admit. But Ben ain't saying. He lives for that boy. Can't picture Ben without him."

  "How did Ben manage after their parents died?"

  "Ran to Mexico so Joey wouldn't get taken away from him. Ben was sixteen. Joey was seven. They came home when Joey was almost eighteen and Ben was mid-twenties. Bought this ranch."

  I leaned closer. "Just out of curiosity, what did Ben do in Mexico? What kind of work?"

  She darted a look at Ben. His attention was on the television. An Atlanta Braves game. Miriam whispered, "He was a wrestler. He hated it. Don't ever ask him about it."

  "What name did he use?"

  "The Devil American. El Diablo Americano."

  It was true. I'd found him.

  My heart turned back the clock. I was sixteen years old, watching television during a family trip to Sao Paulo. We traveled to that major Brazilian city regularly. Mother and Dad owned a large townhouse there, where they entertained the royalty of the environmental movement.

  As usual, I'd sequestered myself in my bedroom with stacks of books, magazines, a bag of diet candy, and my deliciously lowbrow passion: Latin soap operas. The telenovas were broadcast in Spanish and occasionally dubbed in Portuguese for the Brazilian audience. I could speak both languages.

  From the moment I saw El Diablo, I needed neither. He spoke to me in the silent, powerful language of teenage puppy love.

  He was a minor character in a dishy melodrama. The plot made no attempt to clarify the line between El Diablo Americano, real-life wrestler, and El Diablo Americano, soap opera character. They were one and the same.

  He was young and tall and strong, and he spoke excellent Spanish with an American accent. His acting style was awkward, but then, the telenovas didn't lend themselves to Shakespearean performances.

  He was a bad guy, dangerous and sultry. His dark eyes flashed inside the polyester eyeholes of the mask, which was blue with a spray of red-andwhite stripes on one side. He wore it with everything from soccer shorts to tuxedoes. He wore it in bed. He seduced good girls. He seduced good women. He broke their hearts.

  All while wearing a mask.

  There were no sex scenes, or nudity, just a lot of scenes involving his bare chest. I never saw his face, but I saw his handsome chest regularly. It was a wonderful bare chest.

  What sounds ludicrous now was then, to me, the most mysterious, sensual, desirably forbidden male persona on the entire planet. That teenaged night, thinking about El Diablo Americano in bed, I discovered the joy of, hmmm, self-love, I'll call it. I was a late bloomer in that regard. Thanks to El Diablo, I bloomed constantly after that.

  "Karen?" Miriam asked. "You okay? You're turnin' real pink."

  I blinked. Back to the present. "Yes. Just absorbing this fascinating information."

  "Like I said, don't bring it up. He purely hates to talk about it."

  "Why? Professional wrestling is respectable entertainment. And very athletic. The Mexican version is based on agility instead of brawn. Some of the lucbadores are as graceful as gymnasts. Throw in a few dazzling martial arts moves and ... well, so I've heard."

  "Yeah, I agree with you, but Ben don't see it that way. First off, he didn't like playing the evil American. He says it made him feel unpatriotic. Secondly, he's a piss-poor actor, and he knew it. Third, he despised parading around in a mask and tights. Last but not least, people whispered and snickered about him the whole time, `cause his career was set up and managed by this rich woman he lived with in Mexico."

  "Lived with?"

  "Yeah, him and Joey. She took `em in, she doted on Joey, and she had connections in show business. She got Ben into wrestling, and then into soap operas. He was like her big, prize, show dog. She kept him on a short leash."

  My heart sank. I cast another furtive look at Ben, to guarantee he was still looking at a baseball game on television. "Are you saying he was romantically involved with this woman for ten years?"

  "That's the polite way of describin' it. He was sixteen when she took him and Joey into her household, and she was a good-looking forty-five. I've seen pictures of her. Ben's got some files in his office. That's why he keeps it private."

  "She molested him."

  "That's not how people saw it back then."

  "Is he still in contact with her?"

  "Naw. She died a few years' back. She used to call him here, chattin' about little bits of money he was owed, you know, his little cut of video sales or something."

  "Hmmm. The DVD collections ofall his telenovasand the highlights of his wrestling career are available. He must still get occasional residuals."

  "His what? They're out on DVD? How do you know?"

  "Well ... I assume. That's how this kind of thing works. Isn't it?'

  She stared at me oddly. I fidgeted and feigned innocence. I had the DVD's. Sentimental reasons.

  Miriam shrugged. "Anyhow, I've heard Ben talk to her on the phone. Her name was Cassandra. He was always polite. But every single time, once he got off the phone with her he'd go drink about four swigs of bourbon. Straight. Right out of the bottle. Ka-boom. Then he'd take a long ride on a slow horse. Then he'd come back and take a shower. That oughta tell you what kind of memories she brought up."

  "He was abused."

  "He'll tell you himself she gave him a choice, and he took it. And he made a lot of money, and Joey got good care, and when Ben was ready to move on, she wished him well and let him go. He got to keep his dignity. Sorta."

  "There's no dignity when money and seniority take advantage of poverty and youth."

  "Hon, tell me something I don't know. But it's the way of the world. That's just how it was."

  I felt sick. I would never be able to look at El Diablo Americano the same way again. Now I felt protective of him. And angry on his behalf. No wonder he was a bad guy, a rudo.

  He was Ben. And Ben had suffered.

  "Don't you tell Ben I told you all this," Miriam whispered. "Our secret?"

  "Our s
ecret."

  "Don't let it put you off him. He's not some traumatized soul. He's done fine. He's a good man, good to women, a sweet person. He's had some good girlfriends, and they worship the ground he walks on."

  "None currently?"

  She looked a little shifty, but I ascribed that to our public circumstance. "Naw. He's been a loner, as far as fallin' in love goes. But I think he's decided to look for Miss Right and settle down." She turned her shrewd gaze back to me. "Why, maybe bere's Miss Right, right in front of me."

  A commercial for the national beef council came on the television. Everyone cheered.

  When I caught Ben eyeing me I applauded, too, but using just the tips of my fingers against the palm of one hand. I smiled at him gently, fighting tightness in my throat.

  He frowned. Mixed messages.

  I quickly reformed my expression and applauded the beef industry heartily. No man wants a woman to feel sorry for him because he's been wounded and humiliated by other women.

  Not even El Diablo.

  "Payday," Ben announced one evening, as Lily and I set the table for dinner. The moment everyone was seated he handed out pristine envelopes to each man and woman, including Joey. And me. I had been there two weeks.

  "Eighty hours plus overtime," he said.

  I shook my head. "I really don't need that much-"

  "Nobody works here without pay." His tone was edgy. "You got a problem with your job?"

  "No, of course not. I just ... "

  Everyone looked at me worriedly. I put the envelope in a pocket of my shorts. "What I was attempting to say, is: Perhaps I shouldn't be paid overtime before you taste my latest experimental side dish. It's a sweet potato casserole with soy cheese and yogurt topping."

  Smiles. Everyone relaxed. Even Ben's broad shoulders eased their stiff posture, though he kept scrutinizing me as he sat down. "Possum, tell Karen what we say about money around here."

  Possum recited, "The only good money is earned money."

  Miriam smiled. "That's what Ben says. I say, `Everybody should get stinkin' rich any way they can, and more power to `em."

  I looked at Ben carefully. "Do you dislike rich people?"

  "Nope. I'd like to be one."

  "But you're wary of them."

  "I'm wary of the ones I'veluiown. Sure. I'm wary of anybodywho has power over my life or the life of these folks here. It's not just about money. It's about influence. Sometimes I've even give Oprah the stink eye."

  Dale scowled. "I told you, Ben, Jesus forgave her for sayin' bad things about beef."

  I tilted my head and regard Ben somberly. "Is it appropriate for a woman to accept money from her husband, and a husband from his wife?"

  "Sure. Anybody who's got a good marriage will tell you it takes both sides to earn a living and make a life. As long as they're equal partners."

  "So your definition of `earning' isn't literal?"

  Lula chortled. "Any woman who puts up with a husband earns every penny she gets."

  Ben tapped a finger on the table. "It all depends on what you have to give up to get the money. Pride, dignity, self-respect."

  "What if someone, say, for example, inherits a great deal of money. Should they simply give it away?"

  "Give it to me, Si!" Cheech said.

  Everyone laughed and nodded.

  Ben leveled a dark gaze at me. "Depends on how they earned it."

  "I said 'inherited."'

  "The question is how the person came to inherit it, and what he does with it next. Or she." He frowned. Being politically correct was arduous. "A person isn't free if he's chained to money he don't feel he's earned. Or she."

  "Under your rules, then, gifts of money aren't acceptable? No matter how sincerely and lovingly bestowed?"

  "I've never seen a case where a gift of money didn't have some kind of strings attached."

  "So you don't abide by the saying, `Never look a gift horse in the mouth?"'

  Joey nodded. "It might bite ya, like the gray mare."

  Ben smiled grimly. "Yeah. Anything free, it'll usually bite you." He spooned sweet potato casserole onto his plate and lifted a glob of whitish goo from its midst. His mouth quirked. "Let's just say this about money, Karen. If you inherit a whole bunch of it, whatever you do, don't invest in no soy cheese."

  Laughter.

  I had to let the subject go.

  Ben

  The saying goes that, `God helps those who help theirselves.' Well, the way I see it, way too many people have helped themselves to way more than God intended them to take, and those people are all too happy to take what the rest of us got from God, too.

  "God's a banker," I heard a preacher say, once. "He loans us mortal life and gives us eternity as the interest rate."

  Naw. God ain't a banker. God runs a pawn shop, and He sits there waiting to see what we're will n' to sacrifice. How low we'll go before we lose everything we hold dear.

  I was determined not to hand Him anything I couldn't redeem later.

  When I came home from Mexico I swore I'd never be beholden to anybody-man or woman-again. Then I took on a bunch of ranch hands who needed a whole lot more help than an ordinary job provides if they were gonna live with any dignity. Sure, there's government help for folks like my hands, but it makes people beg for crumbs. They needed help, not to be kept helpless. So I paid `em real wages for real work, and I built `em homes, and I got `em medical insurance.

  Before I knew it I needed a loan here, a second mortgage there. Throw in a couple of bad years for beefprices, and I was about busted. But by God, I'd hang on as long as I could, and I'd take as little help as I could.

  And I'd keep away from the pawn shop of the Almighty Dollar.

  "Fair warning: Karen's only buying organic veggies at the farmer's market in Fountain Springs," Miriam told me one afternoon, poking her head into the door of my office. "I don't know exactly how she decides what qualifies," Miriam went on, "but she's got a system."

  I looked up from my desk and grunted. "Maybe there's such a thing as a'free-range' string bean. One that was let to run wild up the bean pole before it got picked."

  "And she's workin' out a deal with Louisa Crocker to trade chicken manure for Louisa's homemade pickles and sugar-free muscadine preserves. You know how Louisa loves good chicken shit. Oh, and Karen's negotiatin' a barter with Keeber Jentson. You know, the old hippie with the goat herd."

  "Barter? Unless she's got some marijuana plants to trade him-"

  "Palmetto berries. He wants to pick your palmetto berries when they come ripe this August."

  "Keeber must be smokin' more weed than I figured. Any man who'd go into the palmetto scrub in August to pluck a few berries must be stoned out of his mind."

  "He says he can sell `em by the bushel to a health food company. They make `em into pills. Good for the male prostate and all-around pecker performance. Proved true by real doctors. Not the usual horseshit herbal snake oil. Karen can give you a whole run-down on the statistics."

  A conversation with Karen about medicinal pecker enhancement? Naw, I didn't need any help in that area around her; in fact, talking to her about the general subject would likely prove that my pecker was working just fine, now.

  I cleared my throat. "Well, Miriam, my grandpa's people swore by saw palmetto, but I didn't realize-"

  "Karen says you need to diversify your revenue streams."

  "Well, I ain't got prostate trouble yet, so just tell her not to worry about my streams. Besides, what would we get from Keeber in return for the berries?"

  "Homemade goat cheese."

  "Keeber makes goat cheese?" There were a lot ofrumors about Keeber and his love for goats. Cheese wasn't among `em.

  "Hell, yeah. He's got a contract with gourmet restaurants and health food stores from Tallahassee to Jacksonville. He's selling goat cheese as fast as he can milk his nannies."

  "Do tell. And he'll keep us supplied in return for wild berries?"

  "Yep. Ain't that a hoot?"
r />   No, it wasn't. "Does she think I'm too broke to buy groceries?"

  "Ben," Miriam said quietly. "I see that look on your face. Your worst trait is stubborn pride. Ben? Any fool can see you're worried about money. Take the damn goat cheese."

  "I'm all for budgets and barter and berries and whatever, but-"

  "She says these are baby steps towards your ranch becomin' a selfsustaining, community-oriented co-op. Leave her be, Ben. She's a smart girl. She can save you some money. People in town think she's good for you. They like her."

  "Awright, awright."

  Miriam grinned. "You know, back in the sixties, your mama and I stood on the beach at Key West looking toward Cuba and wondering ifwe were gonna get blown up by Castro and the Russians. Back then, people woulda said Karen was talkie' pinko Commie talk."

  "Well, Karen may be pink, but I don't think she's a Communist."

  Miriam leaned close and prodded my chest with a fingernail. "She's a Godsend, that's what she is. And you need to lure her into staying here, permanent. Stock up on some saw palmetto pills, if you know what I mean."

  She grinned and left me to my thoughts.

  Berries, peckers, and Karen. A heady mix.

  Kara

  One half of the world cannot understand the pleasures of the other, Jane Austen said.

  I believed that wholeheartedly. Until now, my life had been an education in appreciating `the other,' but without actually experiencing `the other.' It's one thing to live among people different from yourself, observing but separate; quite another to live with people, sharing their problems as your own. The ranch wasn't a theoretical environment. It was the real world, with everyday issues, surrounded by encroaching development, pounded by economic issues. This was a place in immediate jeopardy. This was the place I had been searching for, and the people. Perhaps this ranch was the small corner of God's good green Earth I could save.

  There is nothing more wonderful than being needed.

  I had never known the feeling, before.

  Chapter 8

  Ben

  Every meal was an event, now. We just waited to see what Karen was gonna do, next. As me and the hands trailed into the kitchen for lunch one day she said, "Whoops. I need more raw eggs for the Caesar salad dressing."