Colleen opened her eyes slightly. “I have a headache.”
Joan kissed her forehead and smiled weakly. A tear ran slowly down Colleen’s right cheek. “You do?” Joan asked with a sniffle.
“Tequila,” Colleen replied meekly, and then closed her eyes again.
“Yeah… tequila,” Joan repeated.
“Seepy,” whispered Colleen.
“I know, honey,” said Joan. “Go to sleep. I’ll be here when you wake up.”
“Ma?” Colleen said more audibly without opening her eyes.
“I’m right here, baby,” Joan said as she continued to brush her fingers through Colleen’s hair.
“I love you.”
“I love you, too, honey,” choked Joan as the lump in her throat grew.
Colleen fell fast asleep. Joan placed Colleen’s right hand at her side, stood up and wiped her own tears again. Leah re-entered the room and approached the opposite side of the bed.
“She’ll be in and out for the next few hours,” said Leah. “There’s a recliner right there for you. If you’re hungry I can find a snack or something.”
“I’m fine,” said Joan.
“Well, I’ll be here until about seven. I’ll check on her periodically throughout the afternoon.”
“Okay,” replied Joan. “There might be a few people stopping by to visit Colleen. Is that okay?”
“That’s fine. She should rest as much as possible, though.”
“Okay,” Joan replied blankly.
“See you in a little while.”
“I’ll be here.” Joan made her way to the recliner, which looked more like a dentist’s chair. She set her purse on the floor and then sat down, exhausted. She closed her eyes and rubbed her forehead with both hands. Joan had a headache of her own.
†
The headache Sheila Jones was suffering from was self-induced, just like the rest of The Four Musketeers. The pillow top mattress that her husband bought a few weeks before was too comfortable for words on such a hung-over morning. She swore that the new mattress called to her, beckoning her to return to a deep slumber. “I can’t,” she said aloud to herself. Something on the nightstand caught her eye as she sat on the edge of the bed. Taped to the brushed nickel touch lamp was a folded piece of paper. SJJMB was written in pen on the outside.
Sheila leaned forward, grabbed the folded piece of paper and sat back down with a short grunt. She massaged her forehead with one hand and opened the note with the other. The edges of the paper shook as she held the note with uneasy fingers.
S,
Got paged for an open heart at 0415. Cleaned the toilet for you. You OWE ME! Hangover remedy in the fridge.
Love,
J
“Cleaned the toilet?” Sheila asked herself aloud. “Shit.” She let the note drop to the floor and let herself fall backward on the bed. She massaged her aching stomach and ribs. Her husband was a skilled cardiac surgeon, but she swore that he could make millions from his hangover remedies alone. The one she liked best was the Banana Peel Water Remedy. He boiled two banana peels in a cup of water, removed the peels and left the water in the fridge to cool. That one never failed.
“Up,” Sheila said aloud as she sat up again. She found herself wondering how she got into her silk pajamas. She didn’t remember putting them on, much less getting into bed. She also didn’t remember throwing up, but assumed that’s what her husband meant by “I cleaned the toilet.”
She picked up the phone and dialed Musketeer number three, thirty-two-year-old Karen “K.P.” Phillips, and then Musketeer number four, thirty-three-year-old Jesse “Jezebel” Troutdale. Both were in a similar condition to Sheila’s. They agreed that Sheila would go to the hospital, and then call them once she knew Colleen’s condition.
The new mattress finally let go of Sheila as she stood up and headed for the kitchen. The leg of one of the chairs at the kitchen table caught Sheila’s right pinky toe as she stumbled lazily toward the stainless steel fridge.
“Owie!” Sheila screamed as she hopped up and down on her left foot, grabbing her toe in pain. “Son… of a BITCH!” She bit her lip and steadied herself against the kitchen counter. She let go of her foot and opened the fridge. She took in a deep breath through her nostrils. “Nan-nuh,” she said with a smile as the aroma of boiled banana peels filled the kitchen. Her white ceramic Snoopy cup was perched in front of the carton of orange juice, right where it found itself the morning after the last gathering of The Four Musketeers a month before.
She downed the ice cold banana-infused water, set Snoopy in the sink and limped for the shower. She just knew it was going to be a long day.
†
Joan lounged sleepily in the recliner. Colleen’s steady heavy breathing comforted her. She replayed the events that happened earlier that morning, and thought about how Colleen struggled for air as she lay helplessly in the middle of the show ring. She stared out the picture window in the same kind of hypnotic trance she fell into while sitting in the waiting area earlier.
The large, room-length window overlooked a parking lot full of construction trailers arranged randomly amongst tall pines and oaks. Joan felt the heat of the day radiate through the double-paned glass like a brick oven in an old pizzeria.
She thought about Carlos. She wondered how he could blame himself for what happened. Nobody was to blame, except perhaps a black filly full of rage in the California heat. Carlos seemed to be the only one who could handle the filly’s temper tantrums effectively. For that matter, she thought to herself, Carlos was the only one who could handle her own temper tantrums. Chase used to clam up and avoid her when rage got the best of her.
Back then she tried to keep her rage to herself, but eventually it was Carlos who bore the brunt of it. He was the only one who could calm her during her tirades – and there were many – especially whenever Chase’s father was caught with one of his Hollywood whores.
Carlos had what Joan referred to as a wet shoulder. Not only did he get the brunt of her verbal onslaughts, he shouldered buckets of tears resulting from episodes of loss and guilt over the years. The loss of Joan’s daughter from Sudden Infant Death Syndrome brought waterfalls to Carlos’s shoulders time and time again in the months following her death.
Thoughts of Carlos brought peace to her aching heart. He never said much when Joan needed a shoulder to cry on. He never needed to. The warmth that she felt from the picture window took her back in time. She stared sleepily at the pines and oaks that swayed in the hot summer breeze.
The heat made her think of the warmth one feels after drinking wine. It had been years since she felt what that was like. Beer, which she loved and drank more than regularly, was different. Beer numbed her emotions and provided more of an escape, but wine was a different kind of warmth. Wine gave her the courage to feel the way she wanted to feel without remorse. She closed her eyes and searched her memories for the last time her body was filled with such fiery exhilaration.
She wondered if it had really been fifteen years since she felt so toasty. She sighed deeply. The images of long ago flooded her and danced against her eyelids. She had drunk more in the three days following her husband’s death than she ever had before.
She needed something to keep her calm for Chase’s sake, and red wine was that very thing. It helped her hide the emotions of near-jubilation she felt when Carl Caldwell, philanderer, alcoholic, and owner of the Double C Ranch let out his last living breath. The well-stocked wine cellar dwindled quickly in the three days leading up to his funeral.
Countless bottles of liquid courage disappeared as Joan hid her emotions from Chase, who adored his father. She hid what she felt deep inside from the constant flow of visitors and mourners that dropped by with condolences. Family, vendors, friends, and even some of the whores that Joan knew to be Carl’s conquests attended the memorial service.
The wine also fueled a flame of a different kind later that night. Joan sat alone in the soft leather high-backed chair in Car
l’s study, a place where she was never invited. It was well after eleven o’clock, and the last of the mourners had gone from the Double C. A near-empty glass of Château Pétrus Merlot sat on the table, waiting for Joan to finish the last swallow.
The smell of an intoxicating combination of Dominican Onyx cigar smoke and vintage port wine filled the study as she slipped her high heels from her aching feet and let them drop to the Persian carpet below.
“Joan?” Carlos said in a meek voice from the open doorway.
“Hi, Carlos. Come in,” she slurred as she sat up uneasily.
“I just came by to see if you need anything,” said Carlos, holding his straw hat respectfully over his heart.
Joan stood slowly and stumbled a few steps to where Carlos stood in the doorway. Her glassy eyes welled with tears as Carlos placed his hat on the coffee table and opened his arms invitingly.
“Carlos,” Joan said as she wrapped her arms around the Double C ranch foreman’s neck and pressed her left cheek to his. He hugged Joan tightly and joined his fingers together in the small of her back.
“It’ll be okay,” he said softly.
Joan began running her fingers through his thick black hair. He pulled back slightly and pressed his lips to Joan’s forehead. He took in a deep breath. Her perfumed hair filled his nostrils.
“I know,” whispered Joan as she closed her eyes.
Carlos felt the heat emanating from the forty-six-year-old woman in black. She returned her cheek to his and resumed running her fingers through his hair. He felt her hot breath on his neck as she pressed her body firmly to his.
“What would I do without you?” Joan whispered, pressing her lips against his left ear.
“I’m not going anywhere,” said Carlos reassuringly.
Joan’s fingers explored Carlos’s hair more quickly as she tilted her head slightly and kissed his neck. Carlos unlocked his fingers and moved his hands away from the small of Joan’s back. Shivers made their way down his spine.
“Thank God for you, my friend,” Joan whispered as she breathed heavily into his ear.
Carlos placed his hands on Joan’s waist. He began to feel the pressure build deep in his loins as the beautiful widow touched and kissed his neck softly.
“Joan,” Carlos said.
“Carlos,” Joan whispered in a soft moan as she continued her soft kisses to his neck and ear.
“Joan,” Carlos repeated. “I don’t think—”
“Don’t think what?” she interrupted. She leaned back and looked deeply into Carlos’s eyes. She stood on her toes and gently brought her moistened lips to his.
Carlos tilted his head back slightly, breaking the kiss. “I don’t think—”
“I need you, Carlos,” Joan interrupted again and then pressed her lips more forcefully against his.
The mounting pressure inside Carlos’s loins pressed against Joan’s dress as she hugged his neck tightly. She moaned softly. She opened her mouth slightly and brushed his lips with the tip of her tongue. He tried with all his might to resist her, but was quickly losing the battle. She met his lips forcefully with hers.
He pushed Joan’s hips away. She clung to him tightly, but let go as he pushed with more force. She dropped back to her heels, breaking the kiss, confused. Carlos grasped her strong arms. Joan searched his face. Her desire for him consumed her. He stepped back and let go of her arms. She wanted him with every fiber of her being.
Without saying a word, he turned and took a step toward the table that held his straw hat. He leaned over slightly and adjusted the uncomfortable erection caged tightly in his dress pants.
“Carlos,” she called softly.
“Si,” he replied without turning around.
“Carlos, please,” she pleaded, slurring her words badly.
Carlos grabbed his hat, held it with both hands at his waist and turned slowly again to face her. He took in a deep breath and swallowed hard. Joan stood before him with her hands at her sides. Her dress was on the floor, in a circle around her feet. Her long brown hair, which was usually tied up and pinned tightly to the back of her head, flowed loosely about her bare shoulders. Her vivacious, braless breasts heaved as Joan stood breathing deeply in the dimly lit den.
“Make love to me, Carlos… please?” she pleaded.
He stood uncomfortably a few steps away without saying a word. Joan stood with her right leg bent slightly. She began caressing her tummy suggestively with her fingertips. She was wearing black, French-cut panties that rode high on her narrow, smooth, creamy white hips. Her panties were darkened slightly with dewy moistness between her firm thighs.
Carlos turned away again, paused for a moment, and placed his hat gently back on the table. He took in a long, deep breath and turned to face the beautiful woman who so eagerly yearned for him. Joan gasped as he approached her, put his left arm under her and around her bare back, and leaned to put his right arm behind her knees. She clung to his neck as he lifted her effortlessly from the black dress at her feet.
“Oh, Carlos,” she moaned.
He carried her to the soft leather couch which sat invitingly against the dark, trophy-filled wall of shelves. Carlos gently placed Joan’s glistening body onto its soft cushions. Joan’s breasts teetered heavily back and forth as she let go of Carlos’s neck and positioned herself suggestively. Her erect nipples ached in anticipation.
Carlos stood up and looked down at Joan, who was ready for the taking. Joan lifted her right hand and began to gently caress his large, bulging erection through his dress pants. Carlos stepped backward a step, just out of Joan’s reach. She sat up slightly and reached drunkenly for his belt, but missed.
“No more wine,” said Carlos plainly, which surprised Joan.
“What?” Joan asked as she sat back on her elbows, confused.
“You drink too much wine,” replied Carlos.
“That’s horseshit, and you know it,” she slurred.
Carlos turned away, walked slowly back to the table, and retrieved his hat. He combed his hair backward with his fingers, and then placed the hat atop his head. He pivoted on his heels and faced Joan for the last time that evening.
“Good night, my friend,” Carlos said as he touched the brim of his hat, bowed, and then turned and left the study.
Carlos and Joan never spoke again about what happened that night. Unlike Carl Caldwell, Carlos Guzman never made her feel guilty. About anything. Carlos Guzman was a Saint.
†
Ventura County Sheriff Jeff Lohr knew his way around the hospital. Too many times he found himself choking down a dry piece of banana-walnut bread from the coffee cart outside the waiting area. The coffee there was better than the bitter dregs he usually served himself from the cafeteria, but the coffee cart was closed on Sundays. On days that MaeBelle didn’t work in the office, she usually sent him on his way with a thermos full of the good stuff. MaeBelle made the best coffee in the county as far as Jeff was concerned.
“Knock knock,” Jeff said softly as he rapped the heavy wooden door and peered into Room 258.
Joan opened her eyes and sat up in the recliner. “I can’t believe MaeBelle still lets you wear that damn thing,” she said as she stood up and stretched her back.
“She knows I’d get out the whip again if she ever threw it away,” Jeff replied matter-of-factly. He removed his “Indiana Jones” Fedora and entered the room. “How’s the patient?”
Jeff stood at the foot of Colleen’s bed. He held his hat in both hands and stroked the fur brim with his thumbs, which was a habit of his. Jeff Lohr was a handsome man at sixty-four. His thinning peppered hair was combed backward and not one strand was out of place. His beige, long-sleeved uniform shirt was well-pressed and the bottom of his brown tie met his belt buckle perfectly. His wiry six-foot-tall stature had seen plenty of action in thirty-plus years in law enforcement. His reputation was known as “firm and fair” by anyone who had dealings with him over the years.
“She’ll be okay,” replie
d Joan. “She’s pretty beat up, but you know her. She won’t be in that bed for long.”
“You’re probably right,” Jeff said with a sigh. “How about you? How you holdin’ up?”
“I’m exhausted… Good to see you, Jeff.”
“Good to see you too. Too bad about the circumstances,” he said as he looked down and gave her a shoulder-to-shoulder hug.
“I know. I don’t get out much these days. Now you’ll see even less of me for a while, I ‘spect.”
“You’ll be fine,” he said. He gave Joan’s shoulder another squeeze. “Your Carlos will keep things hoppin’ over there. He’s a good man.”
“One in a million,” sighed Joan.
Jeff let go of her shoulder and turned to face her. He resumed stroking the hat with his thumbs. “So what happened?” he asked, going into detective mode.
“I don’t know a whole hell of a lot,” she said and turned squarely to Jeff. “I was washing dishes. Colleen was already up and out when I got up, so I cleaned up a little. She came in late last night. Girls’ night out, I think. Anyway, I was cleaning up, and I heard yelling. I didn’t recognize the voice, but there was lots of yelling. I went to the front door and saw that the new filly was goin’ crazy in the ring. It was like a tornado out there, and I couldn’t see Colleen at first. All I saw was the filly and this cowboy in a blue shirt.”
“What kind of a blue shirt?” asked Jeff as Joan paused for a second.
“It was like flannel. Long-sleeved.”
“Okay. What else did you see?” Jeff asked.
“The cowboy was holding the filly’s rope, and he was trying to get her under control. She was going ape shit. Colleen was lying in the dirt and she wasn’t moving. I could barely see her. I ran for the show ring, but the cowboy stopped me short. He yelled and told me to call an ambulance, so I ran back in and called 911.”
“You referred to the guy as a cowboy. What made him look like a cowboy other than the blue flannel shirt?” Jeff continued with his line of questioning.
Remembering August (Triple C Ranch Saga) Page 5