"What are you doing here?"
"I came to be with you."
"Why don't you go on home?"
"But you love me. You said—"
"I don't want to talk about it. Just go on home." He leaned over the engine block, his head turned away. Someone started up the lugnut impact wrench, and the noise cut across her brain like a chainsaw. Dennis concentrated fiercely on the engine of the car, a blond lock of hair dripping onto his forehead. How she wanted to hold him! The screaming throat of the wrench stopped—as if it had been cut. Silence bled out into the garage, and Joelle tried again.
"You love me, don't you? Don't you?"
He didn't answer.
"We were going to get married!"
"No," he said. "I don't love you anymore."
Joelle worked quickly, wiping down tile, mirrors, fixtures. Her mind moved as quickly as her hands, racing over the intervening years. When had she stopped loving Dennis? Just when had the strong lines of his youth rounded and blurred, leaving a slackness of face and body in the wake of his natural good looks?
Hoping to change his mind, she had taken the job at the Hi-Way Cafe to be near him. A few years later Mrs. Rucker became ill and died. She had no family, except for Joelle, whom she had grown to love like a daughter. It was no surprise to anyone when Mrs. Rucker left the cafe to Joelle. Her wish had been that Joelle would sell the cafe and get away. Years later, when Joelle finally realized her pursuit of Dennis was fruitless, no one was interested in buying a shack on a stretch of road better forgotten. She was stuck with it. Looking back, she was glad that she hadn't been stuck with Dennis as well. Joelle could carry herself, but his added weight would have been crippling. He lived from hand to mouth, content to pump gas and drink his paycheck away.
Joelle finished wiping down the sink and came out of the restroom. The cowboy was talking as if she'd never left.
"Of course, a good-looking woman like you seems kind of wasted out here."
"I saw your truck outside. Are you moving cattle?" she asked to change the subject.
"Not cattle. Ponies."
"You shipping them for someone?"
"No, they're mine," he said. "Bought and paid for."
"What do you do with them?"
He flicked an ash from his cigarette onto his pants leg and rubbed it into the worn denim. "What's your name?"
"Joelle."
"Joelle." He spoke it slowly. "That's a pretty name. Well, Joelle," he said, laughing at the rhyme. "For four bucks a throw, a kid can pretend he's the Lone Ranger. I sell dreams. That's what I do."
Joelle remembered her parents taking her to the pony ride concession in Benson. The carnival had stayed three weeks,and every weekend, she had ridden a white pony named Snowball.
"You can't make much of a living doing that, can you?" she wondered aloud.
"Enough to keep me going. I got my fingers in a lot of pies, but right now I'm taking what you might call a sabbatical. Just going where the wind blows me. If I like a place, and I can feed and water the livestock, bang!"—he snapped his fingers—"I just set right up and stay awhile. A rolling stone, that's me." He leaned back and rubbed his stomach. "Ain't much of a living, but it beats busting your bones. Used to travel the rodeo circuit. Wound up in the hospital so many times I just pulled the plug. Quit while I was ahead. An ounce of prevention's worth a pound of cure, so they say."
"Don't the ponies get bored, walking around in circles all day?"
"They got to make a living, too." He looked at her quizzically. "You aren't one of those Animal Rights people, think all the pretty little horsies should get turned loose, are you? You have any idea what a mess that would be? In this world, horses have to earn their living just like people. That's just the way it is." He got up and went to the cash register.
"I remember when I was a kid I rode a pony named Snowball."
"I've got a Snowball." He counted on his fingers. "Brownie, Blackie, Thunder, Lightning, Rocket, and Snowball. Names came with 'em." He pulled out a five-dollar bill.
"Many people come through here?"
"Some. This is the turn-off for Cordite."
"I don't have to be in Odessa till the thirty-first." He nodded to the window.
"I notice you have a lot of empty land out there. Mind if I set up for awhile? I might bring you more business, too. You know how kids are, they'll be draggin' their parents in and pretty soon you'll be turning them away by the carload. I could use those corrals by the back fence."
"I guess you can." The corrals were there before her time; they came with the property. "But there's no place to stay. The nearest motel's in Deming."
"I'll sleep in the cab. I'm used to it." He walked to the door. "Thanks a lot, Joelle," he called as he went out into the bright sunlight.
They went to the dance together Saturday night. It was held every week at Ken Stevenson's Save-Mor Used Cars in Cordite, in a back lot cleared of customer parking on the weekends.
Joelle had her hair colored and cut at the Empress Beauty Shoppe in Deming. It turned out nice, puffed up in generous curls and soft as cotton candy. She had a makeover at the new Merle Norman's, too. All day she took furtive peeks into her compact mirror, and didn't eat or drink anything so as not to wipe off her lipstick. She wore jeans, a pink blouse that flattered her coloring, and a hand-tooled leather belt, buckstitched with her name on the back.
The cowboy talked a lot, mostly about his rodeo exploits and his three wives. He had no children—none he knew of, anyway. She liked his arm around her waist and the easy way he bantered with men he didn't know. To her surprise, he was a good dancer. His first wife, Lonnie, had made him take ball dancing.
Small men were light on their feet.
Only once, when he left Joelle to get them some beer, did she feel remotely uneasy about his company. Watching him, she noticed his bowed legs, and the way he held his elbows out from his body as if he were used to lifting grain sacks all day.
Around one o'clock the band broke up. The locals piled into their American-made pickup trucks, their merriment diffusing into coldly glittering stars out on the old highway. Joelle and her cowboy were the last to leave. Light bulbs shuddered on strings and moths played crack-the-whip around them. The cowboy stood facing Joelle in the wavering light and ran the back of his hand along her cheek. "You're so pretty," he said solemnly. It might have been the weightiest statement in the world. When he kissed her, his breath smelled of beer. She touched her lips self-consciously afterward, hoping he hadn't smeared her lipstick.
As they drove home, Joelle glimpsed horses in a field. She thought back to the afternoon, how small and dejected the ponies had looked as they'd plodded on the hotwalker, eyes sealed shut by dust and flies. She spoke her thoughts aloud to the cowboy.
"They've got food and a place to sleep. Better'n a lot of people. Me, for one. I remember—"
"Have you ever thought of getting a real job?"
"I have a real job. I'm my own man, that's all. I pay my way, you don't have to worry about that."
"But haven't you ever wanted to do anything else?" Joelle insisted.
"Like what?"
"Well, maybe work for a company—"
"A company!" He laughed. "Maybe even wear a tie and some shiny Italian shoes, huh? No sir. Not me. I make an honest living."
When they arrived at Joelle's trailer, the pony man got out of the car and walked over to the fence behind her property. The tilt of his head and the way he stood spelled resentment. Joelle went over to him. "Henry—"
"Don't call me Henry. My name is Hank." He stared straight ahead. "You going to leave this place, Joelle?"
"I don't know. It's listed with a realtor, but it's been years and I haven't had an offer."
"As I see it, nobody should live the way they don't want to, not if they can help it."
"What do you mean?" Joelle asked.
He reached up and rubbed his chin, the glow of his cigarette bobbing with his fingers, and studied her face. "You d
on't fool me. You don't like people like me, any more'n you like living out here. So why, Joelle? Why don't you just pack up and go live in a city where guys drive those imports and work in offices? What the hell are you doing out here?"
She didn't know what to say.
"I don't like you thinking you're too good for me." He stood with his hands on his hips, thumbs hooked into belt loops, cigarette between the second and third fingers of his right hand. Genitals foremost, his legs were slightly apart as if straddling a line. You're right, she thought. I don't think you're good enough for me. I could go to the El Rey Tavern right now and pick up half a dozen men just like you . . .
He reached for her. His hands slid over her as he kissed her. In spite of herself, she responded. He drew back and looked at her gravely. She knew what to say and the awkward pause prodded the words to her lips: come in for a while.
Like a horse given its head toward home, she knew every stone and gully of the landscape; she knew the way things went. When he left, Joelle was grateful. She thought of the ponies, their duty done, bedded down for the night. Just waiting to trample out another radius of dust.
It was kind of like that.
The next morning the cowboy, his rig, and the ponies were gone.
A rush at lunchtime kept Joelle busy, but every time she passed the window she couldn't help looking at the place where the ponies used to be.
Real good, Joelle. Even a down-on-his-luck cowboy doesn't want you.
The day passed slowly. Her ears tuned to every semi rig that roared by. He was gone for good. He'd seen her for the snob she was, and she'd never see him again.
Around five o'clock, Joelle heard a big truck shift down, the engine whining before dropping to a throaty rumble. Dust swirled and air brakes hissed. The truck backed up to the corrals, and Joelle was gripped with an emotion she did not expect. Her knees went weak with relief.
The cowboy hopped out of the canted cab, full of high spirits and whistling.
"Where have you been?" she asked curtly.
"Getting new shoes."
"What?"
"Nearest smithy's in Deming. The fella there wanted to charge me an arm and a leg just to come out here." He dropped the ramp and the ponies streamed into the corral. "So, the mountain came to Mohammed."
That night they went to the El Rey Tavern. After the bar closed, they went back to her place for awhile. Joelle told the pony man about Dennis, and how she came to be here. She even told him about Bill Lacey.
After a few years of waiting for Dennis, Joelle started going to the bars in Deming. She met a lot of men and went home with a few, but she always found a reason to reject them. They were all alike, from their gimme caps with ARIZONA FEEDS and CAT on them, to their high school education, to the beer they drank.
Then she met Bill Lacey, a salesman at Bud Thomson's Mercury. Joelle was twenty-five and Bill was fifty. He had silver hair and a year-round tan. He always wore a suit, drove a brand new Lincoln Continental, and left the air conditioning on all the time.
He took her out to dinner every Saturday night without fail, and they went in to Deming for dancing twice a month. He opened the door for her and lit her cigarettes and sent her red roses on her birthday.
One day he asked Joelle to marry him. She said yes, even though she wasn't sure she was in love with him. The odd thing was that even when they became engaged, he never tried to make love to her. It was nice being on a pedestal. Of course they would have a good marriage—not passionate, but based on mutual consideration and respect. She threw herself into preparations for the wedding.
One day Joelle went to Lynette's Bridal Shop in Las Cruces for the last fitting on her white organdy wedding dress. It looked beautiful on her, against her tanned skin and blond hair. She turned around in front of the three-way mirror, watching the skirts whirl about her like white rose petals opening up.
Joelle bought a slip, a camisole top, a garter, and some white embossed hose. She walked out of the shop, loaded down with packages.
Across the street stood Bill Lacey's Continental. Thinking that he had come to meet her, she stepped off the curb and walked toward him. Bill didn't see her; he came around to open the passenger door and a handsome young man stepped out. He had the hard, carved look of an Adonis. Even where she was, Joelle could see the naked adoration in Bill's eyes.
"Why did you want me to marry you?" she screamed at him that night.
Bill had brought her some orchids for her dress. He stared down at the box in his hands, turning it over and over as if he'd never seen it before, his smooth hands white on the pretty blue and green wrapping. He shook his head helplessly. She'd always remember the way the green and blue paper crinkled in his manicured hands. "It won't happen again. I'm getting help for it—from the church, there's a group, please, Joelle, I love you—"
Her laugh was sharp-edged with hysteria. "Is that why you never tried to make love to me?"
"I need you, Joelle. Don't turn your back on me now. You—you're my salvation." He stepped toward her, holding out the box of orchids. He pressed it into her hands. "Take it. Let's go to dinner, talk about this. It's just a little setback, that's all. We can work it out."
"Get out! Get out of here. I never want to see you again!" The box just missed him as he dodged out the door. It smashed against the wall and slid to the floor, orchids spilling out like white entrails.
Joelle had tied herself to Bill Lacey for two years. Since then, she must have changed her mind a half dozen times about selling the Hi-Way Cafe. She put it on the market. No one was interested. She spruced it up, decided to make a go of it, maybe expand. It was impossible to get the loan; the cafe went back on the market. Back and forth. It didn't seem to matter if the cafe was listed or not; no one wanted it. Joelle had saved some money. She could move. There was no reason why she couldn't. You could wait for property to sell just as easily in Deming or El Paso as here.
"Why don't you go?" asked the cowboy.
"I guess I'm just used to it here," Joelle replied. She was a little embarrassed about the ugly story of Bill Lacey, but the cowboy seemed to understand.
He held her all night long.
He stayed past the thirty-first. Joelle found herself falling into a routine with him. They made love when it suited them; mostly he was just company. She really didn't know much about his other dealings besides the pony ride concession, but didn't feel it was her place to pry. For now he seemed content to stay with her at the Hi-Way Cafe, and Joelle felt a lulling satisfaction that dovetailed nicely with the warm, Indian-summer days of September. She would look out the window and see him counting out change form the money-changer on his belt or lifting children onto the ponies' backs, and would think, sometimes it's not so bad to settle. She still felt sorry for the ponies, though. It was so hot, and the flies were worse. Sometimes in the evenings, she would got to the corrals with carrots or apples, so that the ponies came to look forward to her treats. She loved the sweet smell of their alfalfa breath, and it felt good to tangle her fingers in their long manes. Snowball was her favorite.
"It sure gets to me, Joelle," the cowboy said one evening after dinner. "I purely do hate to see you wasting away out here. Why don't you sell up?" His expression brightened. "That money could be a down payment on a real restaurant, maybe in Deming."
"No one wants this place, that's why."
A few days later he came in with a picture of a restaurant in Deming. It was called the Lariat Bar and Grill. "Sure would be nice to have a restaurant in midtown. Look, it's right across from the K-Mart. We could buy it for a song."
Joelle noticed the "we" and colored a little.
"Reason I'm showing you this," he said, stopping to clear his throat. "Met this fella today, wants to start a little business. Kind of a hobby—he's pretty rich and just looking for a little project, so's I suggested he come out and take a look at this place. Told him it's a great fixer-upper." He looked ruefully at the faded 7-Up mural on the side of the cafe. "We'd mak
e a great team." He stepped up and hugged her from behind.
"You be the head cook and bottle-washer, and I'll run the business end. United we stand, divided we fall."
The following day Joelle went over to the Texaco to fill up her car. The bell rang, but no one was around. She went around back to look for Dennis.
"She says she's listed the place with a realtor," Hank was saying. Joelle stopped at the corner of the building and leaned against the cinderblock.
"That don't mean nothin'. She'll never leave," Dennis Taylor said. "To tell you the truth, she's stayin' on for me."
Revulsion climbed up into the back of her throat. She was staying for him?
"Her and I had a thing, once. Why do you want a hole in the wall like that, anyway?"
"I've been scouting out places for this guy to buy up cheap—kind of a side line of mine. He wants to put in a string of truckstops all over the west. Full-service—you know? Food, general store, places to sleep and take a shower, video arcade, even a movie theater. I get a finders fee—stand to make a bit of change."
"Well, you can forget this one."
"I don't know. You know what they say, it ain't over till the fat lady sings."
"Huh?"
"All's I'm saying is I think she'll sell. I can be pretty damn persuasive with the opposite sex. Just got to find the right button to push, is all. She'll come around."
Joelle walked out into plain view. Dennis' mouth dropped open in surprise. His teeth were like corn nubs.
She knew she was smiling. It threatened to crack her face. "I'll sell," she said through the rictus of her teeth. She turned to the pony man and gave him a maxim of her own. "But you can be sure as God made little green apples, it won't be to you."
Everything was done. It had been a rough couple of weeks, but things were beginning to sort out. Today the man would come out to shut off the electricity. The Hi-Way Cafe was boarded up. No need to spruce it up; her new realtor had suggested she sell this piece as suitable for development. Even now, new subdivisions were popping up, and it wouldn't be long before there'd be a market. Not long at all. In the meantime, she was getting out. She'd cook off the butane tonight. There was merit in being self-contained.
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