Wounded

by Percival Everett

  “Berkeley?” Robert asked.

  “You find that odd?”

  “John studied art history,” David said. “Right?”

  I nodded, a bit surprised that David knew and remembered that fact.

  “So, why are you here?” Robert asked.

  I looked out the window, then to Robert. As my father would have said, there was a tone to his question. “Did you notice the landscape when you drove in?” I asked. “This is a beautiful place.” I pulled back some. “I love horses. This is where I grew up. Well, down in Colorado.” I shrugged. “Where are you from?”

  “Vermont,” Robert said.

  “Pretty state,” I said. “I went to school in New Hampshire.”

  “I thought you went to Berkeley.”

  “I went to prep school in New Hampshire. Phillips Exeter.” I felt bad for enjoying the confusion and disappointed assumptions reflected in Robert’s face. “Sometimes they let us country boys out. Anyway, it’s too green back there in New England for me.”

  “How big is your ranch?” David asked.

  “I’ve sold half of it and the BLM leases since I don’t run cattle anymore. So, there’s about fifteen hundred acres. Not so big.”

  Robert asked, “How many black people live out here?”

  I was a little startled by the question. “Good question. I don’t know. How many black people live in Chicago?”

  Robert stumbled.

  “I’ve never counted people around here, Robert. Black or white. A whole bunch of Indians live over that way.”

  “Ever have any problems?” Robert asked. “With race, I mean.”

  “Of course I have, son. This is America. I’ve run into bigotry here. Of course, the only place anybody ever called me nigger to my face was in Cambridge, Mass.” I let that sink in. “There are plenty of stupid, narrow-minded people around. They’re not hard to find. There are a lot of ignorant people, a lot of good, smart people. Is it different where you come from?”

  Robert laughed nervously, but avoided my question by drinking some water.

  I felt a little like a bully and I didn’t like it. I was a bit on the defensive and I liked that even less. I made myself relax, as when on a nervous horse. I viewed it as good practice.

  “I’m here because I like the West,” I said.

  The waitress returned.

  “I’ll just have the burger,” David said.

  “Same for me,” from Robert. He dropped his hand on top of David’s on the table.

  The waitress couldn’t help but see this and it registered slightly on her young face. “Cheese on those?” she asked.

  “No, thanks,” David said.

  Robert shook his head.

  “Becky, I’ll have the BLT without the B and with avocado,” I said. “And I’ll have cottage cheese instead of the fries.”

  “Be right up,” Becky said.

  “Don’t tell me you’re a vegetarian,” Robert said.

  “Okay,” I said. “So, what do you think of our little town?”

  “Not much to it,” David said.

  “That’s for damn sure,” I agreed. I looked out the window and saw that the SUV was gone from in front of the sporting goods store.

  “So, why did you study art history?” Robert asked.

  “I like art.” I emptied my water glass and set it back down. “What are the two of you studying?”

  “Undecided,” Robert said, somewhat sheepishly.

  “There’s plenty of time,” I told him.

  “I’m majoring in English right now,” David said. “So, how did you and my father get together? He was a business major.”

  “I don’t remember. Probably some anti-war protest or something.” I leaned back. I felt slightly sleepy. “You two should come out to my place. I’ll put you on a couple horses and you can really see this country.” I considered that I was forgetting why they were there and I felt a little stupid. “So, when is the rally again?”

  “Tomorrow at noon,” David said.

  “You think folks would mind if some straight cowboys showed up?”

  “I don’t think so,” David said.

  The waitress brought the food and we began to eat.

  I looked at the two young men together. They were handsome, bright. I thought about Howard.

  “How does your father feel about your being gay?” I asked.

  The directness of my question caused David to glance at Robert. “He doesn’t like it.”

  “He hates it,” Robert said.

  “Sorry to hear that,” I said.

  “How do you feel about it?” David asked me.

  “I don’t feel one way or the other about it,” I said. “Should I?”

  “No,” David admitted.

  “I hope I didn’t offend you,” I said.

  “You didn’t.” David fiddled with his napkin.

  “Would you like to come to my place for dinner tomorrow? It’s a bit of a ride. I’ll drive you out and you can stay over if you like.”

  David questioned Robert with a look.

  “Listen, no rush,” I said. “You can let me know tomorrow.”

  “Okay,” David said.

  We finished lunch, which turned out to be a dragging, boring affair. Still, I liked Howard’s son. I tried not to dislike Robert. I wasn’t put off by the men’s homosexuality, but Robert’s display for the benefit of the waitress seemed mean-spirited. I didn’t feel bad for thinking that, as I considered I would have been as put off by a heterosexual man or woman similarly marking territory.

  I was in my Jeep, pulling off the highway and headed up the hill to Morgan’s house.

  Morgan’s mother was on her knees in the garden in front of the house. She pushed herself to standing as I approached.

  “Good day, Emily,” I said. “New knee pads?”

  “What I need is new knees.”

  “You wouldn’t like the new ones,” I told her. “What are you up to? Dividing irises?”

  “Yes,” she said with disgust. “I’m sorry I ever put them in. They’re pretty but every time I turn around I’m dividing them again. How would you like to take a hundred home with you?”

  “I don’t think so. Not with that testimonial. Is that wild, good-for-nothing daughter of yours around?”

  “Barn,” Emily said.

  I left Emily to her irises and walked around the house, across the corral to the barn. I found Morgan in the tack room, cleaning her bridle.

  “I heard some people really do that,” I said. “Me, I like to let my tack get all cracked and brittle.”

  She put down the sponge and stepped close, stood there, arms at her sides. “So, what are the ground rules? Do we kiss when we greet now?”

  “I reckon. Till you get tired of me.” I put my hands on her shoulders and kissed her lips. Her mouth was soft, sweet. I liked kissing her.

  Morgan turned away and went to hang her bridle on the wall. Again facing me, she said, “I guess we’re going to have to have sex soon.”

  “Sounds reasonable,” I said. “It’s been on my mind.”

  “Well, I’m glad to hear that, Hunt. I’ve been trying to figure just how retarded in these matters you are.”

  I looked around at the neat room, the clean saddles and tack arranged in a way that made sense. “You sure you want to get tied up with a slob like me?”

  “No.”

  I laughed. “Your mother looks good.”

  “The man-stealer,” she hissed.

  “Hey, guess what I’ve got at my house? I’ve found a baby coyote.”

  “Where’d you find him?”

  “Over in the desert. Some asshole torched a den and killed the mother. I found two, but one died. I hope this little girl makes it. She has a burned leg.”

  “I hate people,” Morgan said.

  “They’re no damn good, that’s for certain. I was so pissed off.”

  Morgan was silent.

  “Anyway, I came over—”

  She cut m
e off, “For sex?”

  “Well, no.” She’d caught me off guard, which apparently was not difficult to do. “I came over to ask you out on a date, sort of.” I sat on a stool.

  “Sort of?” she said. “Already I don’t know how I can resist.”

  “Give me a break, sweetie.” The “sweetie” just came out. It felt easy saying it and I could see it soften Morgan. “There’s a memorial service for the kid who was murdered. “I just had lunch with an old friend’s kid and his boyfriend, partner I guess, and I’m going to go to this thing. Rally.”

  “How was lunch?”

  “It was fine,” I said. “At one point I felt a little defensive and I feel bad about that.”

  “People are usually defensive when there’s something to be defensive about,” Morgan said.

  I nodded.

  “His being gay bother you?” she asked.

  “You know, that’s the thing. I don’t think it did, but I’m not sure. I don’t care at all about that stuff, but I have to admit I wasn’t completely comfortable.”

  “Yeah, but you’re uncomfortable around me most of the time,” she said.

  “Point taken,” I said. “Anyway, they were okay. I’m just an old fart who doesn’t get out much.” I slid off the stool. “I’d better get moving. I’ve got a few horses to work yet.” I stepped to the door. “So, tomorrow?”

  “Sure.”

  “Dinner, tomorrow night as well. Emily’s invited, too.”

  “She’ll like that,” Morgan said.

  We walked back to the front of the house. Emily was talking to the white-haired kid who delivered her groceries while he leaned over the exposed engine of his little truck.

  “What’s up, Cotton?” Morgan asked.

  “Oh, I’m looking for this damn leak,” he said. “I gotta put antifreeze in this thing every time I turn around.”

  “I told him to check his water pump,” Emily said.

  Cotton ran a hand through his hair and left a streak of grease. “It’s got to be leaking, but I can’t find it. I put newspaper under it every night and nothing, not a single drip.”

  I looked in the back of the truck and saw the gallon jugs of antifreeze. “Hey, Cotton, you ever see white smoke come out your exhaust?”

  Cotton looked up from his engine and at me. “Yeah.”

  Morgan, Emily and I said, together, “Blown head gasket.”

  With that, Emily turned back to her gardening.

  “Pick you up at eleven,” I said to Morgan.

  I arrived home to get the latest coyote puppy update from Gus. He was sitting on the floor by the pup and Zoe. I knelt beside him.

  “She’s taking more of the warm milk and she’s a lot stronger. She’s moving more but not much. She tires pretty quickly then drifts back to sleep. Still sounds like her breathing is labored. Smoke.”

  “Thanks, doc.”

  “She’s a cute little thing.” Gus was in love with her.

  “She is that,” I said.

  “I wish I could get my hands on those bastards,” Gus said.

  I nodded. “I guess I’d better build a kennel crate of some kind next week. In case she makes it.”

  “She’s a fighter,” Gus said. “She’s going to make it. And Zoe won’t get ten feet from her.”

  “I wonder how this is going to work,” I said. “After all, this is a wild animal, Gus.”

  “Right now she’s just a pound of misery,” he said.

  “Okay, Gus, I read you.” I stood. “Well, I’m going to work. You’re in charge.”

  “Hell, I’m always in charge. Sometimes I’m the only one who knows it, but I’m always in charge.”

  I was on Felony and things were going pretty well. I felt good about the animal after the last long and desperate ride. The big horse was at ease in the open field, loping along, then coming to a jog trot.

  It began with a twitch just behind the girth. I sensed it more than I felt it and I thought to turn the horse, to distract him and disengage his hind end, but my thought was slow finishing. Felony planted for a second then took off toward the fence of the big pasture. I seesawed the reins with increasing pressure, pulled on one rein and then the other, but I couldn’t pull him up or slow him down. I had another hundred yards before the fence and so I let the horse run, gave him his head and even urged him on. I just went with it. About thirty yards from the fence, and a real back wreck, I gently squaw-reined Felony left and the animal went with me, even slowing some. I kicked him a little and the horse opened up again. I let him run the length of the open area. I didn’t let him burn his tank though, but he was good and ready to stop when I asked him to whoa. I walked him some, let him lope, then took him back to the same spot where he had spooked. I had no idea what had gotten into him, but I’d made a breakthrough.

  As I rode the horse in a walk back to the barn, I considered the fact that I didn’t have many wrecks left in my old body. I felt a wave of fear and then I felt the horse respond, felt the big muscles tense. I let my body melt and immediately the horse relaxed. I tightened my muscles on purpose and got no reaction. I tried to think back to what I was thinking just before Felony had blown up. I’d had an unpleasant memory, maybe of my wife’s death, I didn’t really know, but I’d had something bad go through my mind. I couldn’t believe that the horse had sensed it. I thought about Susie’s death again. Nothing. I thought about calling Wallace Castlebury’s brother. Nothing. I thought about having sex with Morgan. Felony tightened. All I could do was shake my head. I had to train this horse to tolerate the troubling thoughts of his rider. This was too much.

  I took Felony back out into the field and thought through as many scary things as I could find. I thought about Gus getting sick, about getting thrown, about sex, about lunch with David and Robert, about bad snowstorms. I was confusing the hell out of the poor horse, but that was what I wanted. I’d clear my mind and he’d relax. I’d have to do this everyday for a while. My fear was, however, that all these things would cease to bother me. I gave Felony a rub on the neck, got off, loosened his girth, and walked him back to the barn.

  FIVE

  WEATHER WALLY on the radio called for periods of heavy rain, but it was the stiffness in Gus’s knees that had me believing it was coming. The breeze was bracing out of the northwest and I remembered seeing snow this early. I spent the morning getting the barns and paddocks ready for wet weather, digging trenches along the perimeters of shelters, filling in low spots, pretty much trying to forestall anything that nature was going to do anyway. The mule had gotten out again and spent the wee hours munching at the alfalfa bales. I put him in a stall in the barn and gave him a half feeding.

  Back in the house, I found Gus sitting at the kitchen table, sewing a ripped shirt pocket. I absently studied the project over the old man’s shoulder. “You sew like I weld,” I said.

  “Yeah, but I’m old.”

  “Are you sure you don’t want to ride into town?” I asked. “I don’t plan to be there very long.”

  “I’m sure. I’m gonna stay here and crank up the heat. Maybe that will make my knees feel better.”

  “Sounds good,” I said. “Well, I’d better make myself presentable if I’m going to pick up a young lady.”

  “Good luck,” Gus said. “With the getting-presentable part.”

  The sky teased as I drove to Morgan’s. Emily was standing in her garden, surveying. She wore an apron that read Born to Be Old.

  “Morning, Emily.”

  Emily nodded.

  “What are you doing?” I asked.

  “Saying good-bye to everybody, my flowers,” she said. She looked at the sky. “Because as sure as dogs are smarter than people, it’s gonna snow.”

  “Why do you think that?”

  “It ain’t because of Weather Wally, I can tell you that. That idiot is calling for rain. That sky is full of snow.” She pointed up. “The hawks tell me. They’ve been circling all morning.”

  Morgan came from the house and down
the porch steps. “Don’t listen to her,” Morgan said. “Those hawks are always up there.”

  “Yes and no,” Emily said. “So, where are you two off to?”

  “We’re going to a rally in town,” I told her.

  “What rally?”

  “A gay and lesbian rally.”

  Emily frowned. “What will they think up next? Well, have fun. Of course, that’s my general advice about everything.” She turned back to her garden. “Good-bye, gaillardia.”

  In town, I parked my rig on a street off the main drag and we walked a short block to the square. Only a few people had begun to assemble. There were some blankets laid out on the lawn where box lunches waited. A couple of deputies stood near the entrance to the Town Hall, but they didn’t give the appearance of guarding the place. Deputy Hanks was strolling the sidewalk. The air had turned cold and most were wearing jackets. A podium was set on the landing halfway up the Hall steps. A television news crew from Casper was lazily putting together equipment, laying out cables and setting up tripods. Morgan and I were the first to sit on the thirty or so chairs that had been set up in uneven rows at the bottom of the steps.

  “We’re early,” I said.

  “We’re not that early,” Morgan said.

  I shrugged. “This is really sad, isn’t it? For someone to get killed like that. To kill somebody any way is sad.”

  Morgan looked around. “There are just few enough people to make this creepy. Maybe it’s the weather.”

  “Maybe,” I said.

  David and Robert came into view, turning onto the block.

  I pointed with my eyes. “There’s David.”

  Morgan turned to see. “Good-looking boys.”

  The men were huddled together, in only light sweaters against the cold. They had come in September expecting the summer warmth to persist the way it might in other places.

  “They must be freezing,” Morgan said.

  “I suspect so.”

  “Which one is David?”

  “On the right.”

  “Handsome,” she said.

  “Well, he’s attached,” I said. “What am I? Chopped liver?”

  “More or less.”