Crybaby Ranch

by Tina Welling

  She asks, “Do you know me?” She sounds small and faint, like a lost child with alarm causing a wide place in her eyes. News stories of Alzheimer’s patients wandering away from home crowd my thoughts. But no, she must be home, calling from the kitchen phone where my number is on memory dial. How else could she have reached me? It’s my father, then. He must be hurt.

  “Momma, I know you. And you’re just fine.” But she’s not fine. Somehow she is alone in the middle of the night. I check the kitchen clock and add two hours: one in the morning on the East Coast.

  Bo holds my hand in both of his and watches my eyes.

  “Momma,” I say as calmly as I can, “where is Daddy?”

  “I can’t find my…you know.”

  “Momma, holler, ‘Addie.’ Like this.” I yell my father’s name. “Do that, Momma.”

  I hear her call my father’s name; then she says into the phone, “Oh,” as if surprised by the strength in her own voice.

  A screen door bounces in the background, and my father says, “Lizzie, good God, what are you doing out of bed?” Footsteps approach nearer. “Couldn’t you find me? Here, I’ll take the phone. Let’s tuck you in the sack.”

  I sense he is about to hang up and I holler, “Dad.”

  The line goes dead.

  I can’t dial fast enough. At the same time, I say to Bo, “Everything’s fine, I guess. I just have to check.” While I wait for the call to go through and my dad to answer, I explain to Bo what seemed to have happened. He removes his coat and sits on the edge of the kitchen table. He takes my free hand back in both of his and holds it in the gap between his legs.

  My father’s surprised voice answers the phone.

  “Dad, it’s Suzannah. That was me on the line earlier. Mom called somehow. She couldn’t find you.”

  “I fell asleep on the porch. I’m just beat. The orange trees are blooming…. Come here, Lizzie. Stay with me…. The whole world smells like your momma’s shoulders used to. Isn’t that right, Lizzie? We’re getting goofy down here, Suzannah. We’re running out of steam.”

  “I’ll come down.” I’ve never heard my father sound overwhelmed before. I feel panicky, like I need to keep him on the line while at the same time head for the airport.

  “Yes, do that. Your mother would like to see you real soon.”

  “Day after tomorrow. They’ll need notice at work.”

  “You hear that, Elizabeth Taylor? Your little girl is coming. We get tired of eating alone, don’t we, Lizzie? One more night and Suzannah will join us.” I know how he feels. I count the nights I have to eat dinner alone with Mom when he goes on one of his trips, though I’ve never had to count higher than seven.

  When at last I hang up, I feel both exhausted and anxious to start leaving. I say to Bo, “He needs me.” Though in his typical manner Dad attributed his need to Mom, instead of himself. I look at Bo. That’s what I’ve been accusing him of doing—dumping his unclaimed emotions on me. Instead of feeling irritated by that as usual, I feel competent to deal with it. In a way it makes Bo more familiar. And I’ll just learn to hand his stuff back. I say to him, “I have to get down there right away.”

  “I’m coming with you.”

  “But you and I are a mess,” I wail. “We have so much to clear up. My parents are a mess. I’m a mess.”

  “We can’t wait on this, Zannah.”

  “But we don’t know what’s going on with us.”

  “We know exactly what’s going on with us. Besides, I’m in remission on putting things off, Zann. I don’t want to do that.” Bo cups the side of my head and looks me in the eyes. “We’ll sit on the plane and neck and argue until we see ocean below our wings. I’ll come with you to Florida to meet your parents. Then later you’ll come with me to Ireland to meet my father.”

  That sounds wonderful, and I give a laugh from the pure joy of it. Then I cry.

  Bo releases me reluctantly when I pull away to get a Kleenex from the bathroom.

  My father will not rejoice over Bo coming with me. I can’t even picture his response. I blow my nose. He was always rude to my boyfriends and not very chummy with Erik. I splash handfuls of warm water over my face. Suddenly I register the rest of what Bo said. I step out of the bathroom. “You know who your father is?”

  “I know how to find him.”

  “We have a lot of catching up to do.” I return to the bathroom and dry my face with the hand towel.

  One night this past week, I dreamed I walked in a meadow where a poppy grew all alone. I picked the flower and skies darkened and the whole earth shuddered. Sounds of the planet breaking up roared around me. Shaken, I woke. I feared that if I took what I wanted the world would shudder to an end.

  “Okay.” I return to the kitchen and to Bo’s arms. “Let’s go to Florida together.” Bo and I hold each other.

  Somewhere inside a voice exults, “It begins, it begins.”

  Bo smoothes back all the fine hairs from around my face. “I’ll help you pack. Where are your suitcases?”

  “Under the bed.” I lead the way to my bedroom; I open a drawer and begin making little piles of panties and bras and socks. I try to picture Bo in Florida with me.

  My mother, if she were well, would adore Bo. She would monopolize the conversation. She would drink too much and show a bit of extra thigh while crossing her legs in the hope that I might report later that Bo had said, “Your mother sure has good legs for a woman her age.” Despite all that, Bo would be charmed. People were always charmed.

  I feel a bit crazy, thinking about my mother and wondering how much worse she has gotten since I saw her last. And all the while my heart tries to catch up to its abrupt fullness with the presence of Bo. My brain is working like a Hitchcock movie in which the camera swings suddenly to the commonplace as a reprieve from tension buildup. Abruptly, I open my closet door and get into a welcome snit about what to wear on the plane.

  I tuck my pants into my cowboy boots and button a big, warm nubby shirt over my turtleneck and belt the whole business with wide leather. I pose for Bo. “Do I look like a Cossack?” My father’s term for my fashion sense.

  Bo is dusting off my suitcases with a dirty sock he also found under my bed. “No,” he says, checking me out. “You look more like a hassock.”

  Laughter quickens my body, head to foot, like fast wet licks. I have missed how Bo sneaks inside my head with humor and triggers a coupling between us. He’s quite knowing of that trigger’s location and sensitivity.

  We stand grinning on opposite sides of my bed. Bo’s eyes seem to adore me for accepting his joke. So many times we have stood, kitchen linoleum spread like a patterned sheet between us, and reached across it with our words and laughter like a conjugal embrace.

  “Meet you halfway,” I say and nod toward my bed.

  We begin our lovemaking with laughter, and later, much later, we end with soft, exhausted smiles. I feel as though Bo’s hands have redesigned my body, that alterations occurred beneath his touch. My nipples elongated, moisture gathered, lips swelled. I am more beautiful now.

  Bo lies flat on his back beside me, staring up at the ceiling. He says, “This is the thing I’ve been suspecting.”

  “What’s that?”

  “That falling in love makes a person disappear.”

  “You feel gone?” I’m surprised. “I feel so here.”

  “I got so here that I fizzed up and am gone.”

  I shift up on an elbow and look at him. “Is that bad?”

  “I can’t tell yet if it’s bad, it feels too good.”

  I start to laugh and soon Bo joins me.

  He turns sideways and looks at me. “I wouldn’t go through this for anybody but you.”

  “I feel like you’re equating love with a root canal.”

  “A root canal with laughing gas,” Bo says.

  twenty-four

  “Darling Suzannah.”

  “There’s our dear girl.”

  Oh, not the aunts in the bookst
ore, not today. I’m frazzled, trying to get my projects done so I can leave for Florida early tomorrow morning.

  “We’re terribly sorry to hear about your mother, dear. Bo told us everything.” Violet pats my shoulder.

  “This is a sad time for your family,” Maizie says.

  “Thank you.” I smile and turn slightly so I can still slip a book from the pile in my arms into the M-N-O-P row of natural history authors.

  “We did hear some good news, though.” Violet smiles coyly and plucks the top book off my listing stack.

  “What’s that?”

  “Why, the plans you and Bo have for marriage.” Violet bends down to place the book on a lower shelf while she speaks, so I am left staring at her curved back. “What?”

  Maizie says, “See, sister, it didn’t work. I told you she wouldn’t fall for it.”

  Violet apparently feels it is safe to stand upright again. She scans my face, looking apologetic.

  “Fall for what?” I wonder if I have ever spoken to the aunts except in the form of questions. Often with a startled look on my face, as I have now.

  Violet says, “Sister and I can’t get a thing out of Bo, and we thought we’d try you.”

  Maizie shifted her embossed leather purse to her other shoulder. “Can’t you just give us the teeniest hint?”

  “Sister and I always wanted a daughter, but we couldn’t bring ourselves to upset Pop again. His ears turned purple when sister surprised him with Bo.” Violet lifts three more books out of my arms and scans the shelves for the proper place to put them.

  Maizie watches my face.

  “Oh,” I say stunned. “Oh.”

  “Yes,” Maizie says. “Bo believed we should all tell each other the truth. Though Pop covered his ears and said he wouldn’t talk about the foolishness, we just kept it up till he gave in.” Maizie continues talking while Violet roams the shelves placing books she lifts from my arms. “We just hope you’ll love our Bartholomew,” she says, then ducks beneath Violet’s arm to finish, “and come be our little girl. Don’t we, sister?”

  Violet says, “We would be honored if you’d consider joining our family.”

  “Is this a proposal?” I joke. Being someone’s little girl sounds appealing right now.

  “Well, I guess it is,” Violet says.

  “I guess it is,” Maizie agrees.

  The two sisters nod to each other. “It is,” they say.

  “There is no other family I’d enjoy more,” I say. “But,” I hurry to add, “Bo and I need lots of discussion before making any plans. It will be a long time.”

  “Oh, darling, don’t let talk hold you up,” Violet says. She lifts the remaining four books out of my arms and proceeds to find their placement. “Men are frightened of talk.”

  “My, yes,” Maizie agrees. “If the military used women’s words instead of guns, we’d have ourselves armies of men cowering in their foxholes.”

  “Sister, it’s not fashionable to talk like that anymore. We women are supposed to show kindness, now that our superiority is out in the open.” Violet dusts off her hands. “Now I’ve finished my job. I think we need to let Suzannah get back to work.” She leans over and kisses me on the cheek. “You and Bo have as much pleasure as you can manage on your trip to Florida.”

  “Yes. Sister and I will be thinking of the two of you.” Maizie hugs me.

  From the shop doorway, Violet calls back, “I shelved your books by title, Suzannah, dear. Hope that helps.”

  I groan and turn toward the shelves to look for a dozen misplaced books.

  Though it’s her day off, Tessa pops into the bookstore. She has some news.

  “You won’t believe what the universe has sent me. He’s a triple Sag—all in the twelfth house. Physically gorgeous. But this is a person so leery of commitment he refuses to use turn signals when he’s driving. Should I ask him out, if he doesn’t call soon?”

  I say, using a lazy Mae West voice, “Tell him to put a pickle in his pocket and come see you sometime.”

  Tessa laughs. I tell her about Florida.

  She says, “Luck to us both. Stories when you get home.” A quick kiss and a strong hug and she’s gone.

  I forgot how I hate leaving on trips. I always look forward to them until they get close. Then I wonder why anyone would try to stuff her life into a suitcase and leave such nice people. I check my watch; it’s way past lunchtime, but I have a stack of SPOs—special orders—I want to clean up.

  “My boy’s been looking kind of gant.”

  I jump under my clothes and turn from the microfiche I’m scanning, toward the surprise of O.C.’s voice. “Oh.” I smile as if he drops in to see me at work every day. “Gant?”

  “Lost himself some weight.”

  “Oh,” I say again. Does he mean gaunt?

  “Well?” O.C. demands, leaning with both hands on his ski pole for support.

  “You want me to fatten him up?” I hope no one is listening to this exchange. I’m afraid to look.

  “Wouldn’t hurt none.” Like an owl, O.C. turns his head in a half circle without moving his shoulders, checking out the bookstore. “The girls tell me I’ll scare you off if I say what I think about all these books and the people that waste good time reading and writing them. So you just tell your folks I’m sorry to hear about their hard times.”

  “Well, thank you.” O.C. nods. Then as if an afterthought and not the reason he came, he says, “I sent them girls to find out some things and all they do is come home with some wee notions about working in this store someday. Say they learned how.”

  I say, “No plans for now.”

  “Well, it’s okay by me if you want to go ahead with some.”

  “Thank you,” I say. “I’ll let you know.”

  O.C. nods again. “Me and my boy are making new creations full-time now. Maybe we’ll work up something together for your yard.”

  “That would be nice,” I say, and though I can’t picture how that would turn out, I’m pleased about this truce between Bo and O.C.

  “You come back home real soon.”

  A crack forms between the earth and sky and the yolky glow of sun spreads brokenly beneath low, thick clouds. We load our suitcases into Bo’s Suburban. In the bare cottonwoods above us, three ravens sit big as Labrador puppies.

  As we drive to the airport, the sky brightens. A rounded cloud, hanging low, floats along the ridge of a butte like a benign whale swallowing up scrub pine and boulders as it moves past. I hear myself transferring my thoughts to Florida, conjuring beach images in the clouds, the same way I set my watch to a different time zone, in preparation for the change. The two places are so different. Wyoming is made up of spires: the Tetons, the slender, tapering pines, antlers, prairie grasses. Florida shapes resemble fans: palm fronds, the crescent ripples of a wave, scallop shells, fish fins, the curve of beach itself.

  On the plane from Jackson to Salt Lake City, Bo and I sip coffee and read the old magazines I stuffed into my backpack in hopes of catching up with them. I notice Bo chose an old issue of Time.

  I say, “I wonder how many men would pick up the special women’s issue of Time and read it like you’re doing.” I sound full of admiration.

  With feigned surprise, Bo flips to the cover. “I thought this was the swimsuit issue.”

  I’m not used to laughing before breakfast. But no use putting off any fun. It’s barely eight o’clock now, and we have three more planes to catch before we finally land at six o’clock this evening in West Palm Beach. Then we rent a car for the drive up the coast, another hour. Dad was surprisingly gracious about Bo coming along. “Never been to Florida, eh?” he said last night on the phone. “Guess I’ll have to show him how we fish the big water.”

  The Dallas-to-Atlanta run is the longest leg of the trip. A man sitting across the aisle from me has his boarding pass stuck under the latch holding the table up against the seatback in front of him, as if a train conductor will soon come along and punch his ticke
t. And the lady two rows in front of him has her special-meal sticker stuck to her hair. It’s a pink Post-it that is supposed to be on top of her seat back.

  Last night, Bo took me to the barn he uses as a studio and showed me his new work. Spirit Posts, he called them. Tall as I am, these figures were made of thick, rectangular metal tubing. Head shapes were cut out and designs etched into the metal bodies. One post sprouted horns wrapped in long streamers of red trade cloth with feathers. Spikes haloed the head of another with extravagant details cut and bent into the metal body. Horsehair hung down the shoulders in beaded strands on my favorite and each of them sat on an old cultivator disk. That place behind the bridge of my nose stung and made my eyes water when I saw them. They stirred me deeply. If I could see one of these Spirit Posts every day, I might not forget my interdependence with all living things.

  I ask Bo now, “How did you get started working again?”

  He looks past me, sitting in the middle seat, and out the plane window for a long moment. “I felt like such a goddamn coward.”

  An attendant interrupts to ask for our drink orders and puts our trays down, laying a napkin and bag of peanuts on each one. I order Bloody Mary mix without the vodka. Bo gets the same.

  “A coward?”

  “I didn’t have the courage to get on with my art, and I threw up roadblocks when it came to you. I never even asked who my real mother was. I spent forty years just glancing off my life.” An arm reaches across to set down our two glasses of juice. “I said to myself that if I couldn’t grab ahold of these things, I would start to die. I’d start leaking.”

  “Leaking what?”

  “Life force or energy or whatever your friend Tessa might call it. I’d leak until I got so weak that problems would gang up on me and illnesses would cut me down. Soon I’d have so few resources, I would have every reason in the world not to do anything.”