by Andy Schell
icolo is driving me into the country in his old Ford pickup truck. Instead of driving east from the city, we’re driving west, to where there is nothing but the legend of “West Texas.” It’s an August morning, hot as Texas can be, and since the truck has no air-conditioning, we have the windows rolled down all the way to let the wind fly in as we soar past parched mesquite trees, rusty fences, huge wheels of hay, and an occasional naked mobile home. Our hair is whipping around, our eyes are dry, and we’re having to yell to understand each other, but it’s plain we’re both as happy as two guys can be. Nicolo has brought a bota filled with sangria wine, and when he opens his mouth wide, like a baby bird, I shoot the citrus wine into his throat until he laughs and closes his mouth and the wine dribbles down his chin. I lick the remains from his chin, his short whiskers puncturing my tongue, and take a drink of my own from the bag.
“General Videla was indicted last week. They’re detaining him for his part in all the disappearances,” Nicolo tells me. “Who’s that?” I ask as we pass a dead armadillo on the road.
“Our former president in Argentina. Evil man. He’s going to be on trial. Things are getting better in my homeland.”
“I’m glad,” I tell him. I’m also worded that he’s going to leave the U.S. and return to his native country.
We drive for over an hour, passing a new corrugated barn standing next to an old splintered dead one, a satellite dish larger than the moon, a dry creek yearning for rain, and he still hasn’t told me where we’re going. Finally, following directions on a piece of paper he’s taped to the dash, he pulls the truck off the highway and heads down a two-lane road that runs through a little town, then out into the countryside. He turns through a gate, where a Texas flag is flying, the entrance to a ranch. We drive down a dirt road for half a mile until we see the ranch house. He slows down, swings around the house, and stops the truck at an old green barn behind it. “Estamos aqug hombre,” he says, turning off the ignition.
An old man comes out of the barn wearing dirty overalls and a dirtier T-shirt. There’s shit on his work boots. As he approaches the pickup, he drawls, “One of you guys Nick?”
“That’s me,” Nicolo answers, reaching back behind the seat. He exits the cab with two cowboy hats in his hand, the bota around his neck.
“They’re all saddled up, ready to go,” the man says, itching an eyebrow. “Remember, I wanna see your ability ‘fore you take ‘em out on the land.”
“No problem,” Nicolo says. We follow the guy into the barn and Nicolo whispers, “Now do you understand why I say to wear your cowboy boots?”
Theresa palomino and a bay waiting, bridled and saddled, both good-looking horses with fine conformation. Nicolo lets me choose, and naturally I pick the bay because he reminds me of Cinnamon. We walk them out into the sun, put on our hats, and let the old man hold them while we mount up. He directs us into the small arena next to the barn and puts us through a few paces. Walk, trot,
canter. Turn them around. Do it all the other direction. As the man watches me ride, I feel as if I’m in a horse show, like when I was a little kid, and I remember my father as a good guy who stood on the side of the arena and gave me an approving nod of his head when I sat up correctly in my saddle and cantered on the correct lead. I look over at Nicolo, who has spaced himself across the ring, and I’m more in love than I ever could be watching my own handsome gaucho sit the palomino with ease and confidence.
“OK,” the man yells. “Guess you were tellin’ the truth. You both sat a horse ‘fore. Take ‘em on out. Just don’t cross any boundary lines. Marked by fences all around, ‘cept the west boundary that’s marked by the creek.” He pronounces it crick, like a Kansan. “Don’t taunt the cattle, and be back ‘fore noon or thereabouts, ‘cuz we got work to do with ‘em later.”
Nicolo tips his hat, I do the same, and off we ride, through the gate, into the pasture land. Los gauchos son libres.
We’re dressed alike. Jeans, white T-shirts, and boots. Hats on our heads. Nicolo’s muscles are bigger than mine, but I’ve been working on my body, and the results are coming in. I’m not at all the guy I was when the year started. I’m feeling, dare I say it, confident. Happy. Not without edges, but smoother than before.
We walk our horses steadily, through the prairie grass, toward what will be the sunset ten hours from now. The hot wind blows like a furnace, and a gust causes us to quickly reach for our hats and hold them on. “Are these your sombreros?” I ask.
“My brother’s. I told him what I was doing and he dug them out of his trunk. We wore them as teenagers when we visited Tia Angelica and rode her horses.”
“You don’t speak much of your brother,” I point out.
“I don’t have to. He is my kindred spirit. We seldom need words between us, so I think that is why I don’t speak of him so much. He’s very special to me. What about you? You also never talk of your brother.”
“My brother and I don’t talk much either,” I say, stroking my horse’s mane. “But not because we’re kindred spirits. We’re more like Elizabeth and Mary.” “Who.”?”
“A couple of bitchy English queens. Liz was vicious and ugly that’s Winston.”
He wrinkles his brow. “That’s disturbing.”
“Sorry. I wish I could tell you we’re great pals, but we’re not. If I could get the American government to disappear Winston, I would.”
Nicolo stops his horse. His face tightens. “Don’t ever joke about that,” he dictates. His words are controlled, but discharged with force. Even his horse stomps his foot, as if to punctuate the point.
How fucking flip can I be? How inappropriate, as Matthew would accuse. “I’m sorry,” I say, halting the bay horse. “I’m so sorry. I won’t do it again.”
“I believe you,” he answers generously. “But why do you say these things, Harry?”
“I don’t know,” I sigh. “It’s like I can’t turn my brain off sometimes. It gets me into trouble, I know. Please know that I don’t mean to be disrespectful. I really like you, Nicolo. A lot. I don’t ever want to hurt you if I can help it.”
Nicolo says seriously, “Then I hope you will think before you speak.”
We spur our horses into a trot and let the breeze wash our confrontation away as we ride. In minutes we’re cantering, our horses enjoying the gait as much as we. In the distance we see a clump of cottonwoods, which tells us there must be a creek. We slow our steeds and approach the small creek at a walk, stopping to let them drink. After they’re full, we cross the water, dismount, and lead them the hundred feet to the cottonwood trees, where we tie them to a tree with the rope from my saddle and let them graze.
We take off our hats, lean against the trunk of a tree. “This is incredible, Nick. Thank you, hombre. I haven’t ridden a horse in years.”
He takes my hand in his and slips his fingers gently through mine. We hold hands and stare ahead, the way Amity and I did at the movie only we’re looking not at some manufactured world on a screen, but at the wide-open Texas sky that supports a cluster of thunderheads in the far distance. Below the clouds and sky is the infinite horizon of prairie and cattle land. In front of us, the creek moves slowly, like syrup. No sound. I realize now that my hand-holding with Amity while at the movie may not have been a political statement, but it was a statement as much as my hand holding with Matthew during college. They both took on sociological meaning, and whether with Matthew or Amity, I looked to the outside world for some kind of reaction or non reaction But at the moment, I’m holding Nicolo’s hand because he’s reached for mine, and we simply like the intimate feel of our fingers being interlocked while the clouds grow taller and the creek slides by.
“How long did you have your pony Cinnamon?” he wants to know.
“Eight years. Until I was seventeen.” “And you say he’s retired?” “Not exactly.”
“Did you sell him?” he asks, using his free hand to take the bota from his neck.
“No.”
“Did he die?”
“No. I didn’t sell him and he didn’t die. When I was seventeen
I told my family that I was gay. They didn’t take it so well. My mother wanted me to get therapy, to turn myself straight. My father just wanted to punish me. So he did the worst thing he could think of: He took Cinnamon away. He didn’t even tell me. I went out to the barn, and he was just gone. I swear to God, Nick, I never cried
harder over anything in my life. I wanted to kill my father. I drove straight to the hospital and found him. He was so humiliated that I was crying in front of his peers that he threw me into an empty room and backed me against the wall and told me that, as soon as I was ready to be a normal man, I could have my horse back. He made me choose.”
“You never saw your horse again, did you?”
“Why do you say that?”
“Because you have integrity. That is why I like you.”
For a moment I’m silent. I think about Amity and how much my lack of integrity has cost me. And I wonder how I’m going to tell him I’m engaged to her. “I never saw my horse again,” I continue. “I knew I was gay, and there was nothing I could do about it. Nothing I wanted to do about it other than just be it. I never found out where my father took him. Whom he sold him to. Or whether he gave him away. Or even if he just turned him loose. And I never forgave my brother for not telling me because I know he knew. I wanted to run away. I used to dream about the year before, when I was sixteen that I would be riding on him and he would fall while jumping a creek and we’d die together and spend eternity in heaven, like those brothers in Greek mythology, Castor and Pollux.” I recite, by memory, the last seven stanzas of my poem I attempted to read to Amity.
Till the day arrived when off the trail
A shoe came loose, a broken nail.
It happened as they jumped the creek,
So quick that neither one could speak,
And down he went, onto the rocks.
The last he saw, his pony’s hocks
And when he woke, the steed was gone And light had washed from dusk to dawn.
Anuy c,uJ
Then lightning flashed, a cloud bore down
And took him high above the town.
And with the view of soaring birds
He searched the land for errant herds.
But nowhere did his pony run
Not on the earth, nor moon, nor sun
And when the boy did cry a tear
He heard a whisper, “I am here.”
Upon the cloud, his horse stood by.
The two embraced, within the sky.
The boy climbed on and said, “Let’s go”
The pony’s words: “One thing to show.”
And back they rode, to the fateful creek
And hovered o’er to steal a peek. ” And there they lie, in blood and stone, . Their bodies cold, no cry no moan.
And when he understood the sight
He grabbed the reins, and held on tight.
O’er wheat fields, and farms, and creek beds stony
He flew to heaven on his cinnamon pony.
Nicolo pats my leg. “Very nice, hombre.” He lifts the bag of wine, and he fills my mouth with sangria. And this time, when the dribble falls down the side of my cheek, he gently laps at it with his tongue. I close my eyes and let him move his mouth to mine. He closes his lips over my tongue and softly pulls back, scraping the leftover wine into his own mouth. Then he gives it back to me, and we intertwine our lips and tongues and breathe. It’s minutes before we separate and lie back against the tree again.
“Jesus,” he says, pronouncing it the Spanish way.
“SI,” I whisper, exhaling every ounce of my breath. “You’ve been driving me crazy.”
“I know,” he laughs softly. “I’m going crazy too. But this is how I am when I truly like someone. If I don’t care, I’ll sleep with you fight away.”
“Don’t care,” I order.
His eyes grow wide.
“I’m only kidding,” I tell him. “I’m glad that you care. But at this point you’re never going to live up to the fantasies I’ve created of you.”
He laughs again. “Do I have a ten-inch dick and an ass like Pele?”
“Yep. And beautiful brown huevos,” I claim, taking my own sip of wine. “So when am I going to see them?”
“I know. I’m dragging this out. I’m sorry, Harry. Sometimes Latin men are old-fashioned, even the queer ones. I’ve always dreamed that I would get married one day … when I found the right guy. And… well …” He turns shy, even red in the face. “It’s weird, but that night in the restaurant, when you defended me, I knew we would be together. Forever.”
The victory I feel when he says this to me is so complete that I’m speechless. Me. Harry Ford. It isn’t like when Amity announced our engagement and I knew everyone was watching and that I was validated in their eyes and now free to be comfortable in their presence. No, this victory is personal, whole, undiminished by any one’s thoughts but my own. The roar of approval this time is silent and in my heart.
“You have not said anything,” Nicolo says.
“I’m happy,” I assure him. “More than you know. It’s just that my brain is taking a ninety-degree turn again at a moment when it shouldn’t.”
“What is it, Harry?”
“Well, can two guys get married?” I ask, ever the cynic even in my brightest hour.
“I first realized I was gay right before we left Argentina. The only person I told at that time was my sister, Graciela. I was so sad because I told her that I have always known that I wanted to be married one day, and now I couldn’t be because of my homosexuality. She told me that was nonsense. That if I want to be married, then I must marry another man. She was sure of my rights. That was the last conversation we had before she was disappeared. I have never forgotten. And I know she is right.”
“Well then,” I say, laying my cheek next to his, “maybe some day, after we have sex, we’ll get married.”
A flock of enormous crows flies in, not intimidated at all by our presence. Some land in the cottonwoods, some next to the creek. “After we have sex, huh?” he asks. “You are too modern.” “Hey, man, what if we suck in bed?”
“I hope we do,” he laughs, hitting me on the thigh.
As I jerk, a couple of the crows look over, but none fly away. “You know what I mean. What if none of the parts fit? What if the smells are all wrong? What if we don’t like the taste of each other?”
“We already know our mouths fit perfect,” he says, running his thumb over my bottom lip. “I guarantee that every part of my body tastes like dulce de leche.”
“Sweet milk?” I ask, translating.
“It is the thick, sweet caramel that Argentinos pour on everything for dessert,” he whispers suggestively. Then he looks at his watch. “Uh-oh. We have to have the horses back,” he says, sobering up. “The rancher said by noon.”
“Or thereabouts,” I stress, ready to strip off my clothes. “Whatever that means. Anyway, it will be past noon when we get back, even if we run. And I planned this ride for the morning because I have to return for my afternoon classes.”
“I thought you took the day off from school?” I ask, disappointed.
He shakes his head. “Not the whole day.”
Foiled again. “Mount up, eunuchs, mount up,” I moan, dragging myself up, untying the horses.
He grabs our hats. “What are eunuchs?” he asks, recoiling the rope.
“Dudes who don’t have the problems we have,” I say, positioning the bay gelding. He sticks the hat onto my head, and I climb onto my horse and take off like a rocket, spurring the cinnamon colored bay over the creek. We jump it together and land on the other side. Alive.
At home, we climb out of the track and head for the house. Because we smell like a couple of sweaty gay caballeros, Nicolo has agreed to take a shower with me, and I figure if I can’t get him to sleep with me I’ll at least soap his back. We’re pure dust, grime, and
sweat as we walk into the house and smell food. Cooking. Food cooking. I know if you combine Diet Dr. Pepper, champagne, and nail polish on the stove, they don’t smell like chicken, so I’m completely stumped. I’m additionally confused because I thought Amity was supposed to be out on a trip. I yell, “Hello,” and as Nicolo and I round the corner into the kitchen, there stands Amity, wearing a gingham apron. She’s stirring something in a pot on the stove.
And beside her is my mother.
“Harry!” Amity-shouts nervously. “Look who’s here: Susan!” “Mother, what are you doing here?” I ask, friendly yet cautious.
“Well, I was supposed to fly down tomorrow on the airline as yOU know
.. .”
No, I didn’t know. And Amity told me she was working today and tomorrow.
My mother continues. “But Alexandra called to say she had to
An0y Gfluii go down to Dallas to market to find fabric for some drapes, and she offered me a seat in her King Air, so here I am, a day early!”
Before I can say anything, Amity butts in. “P’yew-eee, Aunt Bea! I can smell that horse fertilizer! Thank you so much for your work today, Raul.” Raw-ool. She’s talking to Nicolo, calling him Raul, motioning for him to take off. “Fertilizing the rosebushes is all we need for now. You can go ahead. We’ll call you if we have anything else.”
My mother smiles at me, nods to Raul. “I’d hug you, dear, but it looks like you’ve been giving the gardener a hand. Why don’t you have shower? Amity has made chicken and dumplings.”
Only Nicolo’s eyes move. He looks at me with anger and warning.
I can’t let this happen. He’s too Latin, too proud. The insult could be a thorn forever embedded. “Mother…”
“And after that, we’re going shopping for Amity’s wedding gown. You don’t want to miss that, do you?”
“Really, Raul. You can go now,” Amity states, not unkindly but with great urgency.
“Oh, for heaven’s sake, what am I saying!” my mother says, aghast. “We can’t let you see your bride in her dress before the wedding day that’s bad luck.”