by Lass Small
As he opened the door, he looked down both sides of the hall and saw only a few people who paid no attention to him at all.
For a man who had once been paid to be on TV to tell tales of his adventures, it was very strange not to be noticed by those people there.
They treated him as if he was—average.
The use of the word average caused Andrew to be pensive. He would despise being labeled as average. He was an adventurer. An explorer.
Andrew arrived in the dining room as the tables were being cleared. Those doing that, nodded cheerfully to the lagging person who was almost too late for the meal. They offered serving plates that had been almost cleared off, but there were tidbits still available.
The laggard guest was so hungry that he didn’t mind taking the last of things. That made him seem ordinary to those clearing the tables. To them, he was an ordinary man who’d overslept. He was just from the hospital, wasn’t he? And his timetable might be a bit odd for a while, but he was healing quite well. There was no reason to indulge him.
The crew was tolerant. Someone brought fresh orange juice; another brought in fresh coffee. They all spoke to him. He nodded rather formally. They assumed he was starving and therefore hadn’t the time to chat. They didn’t mind.
One said, “Your dog came down and ate, then he asked to go out. Since you allowed him from your room, that way, we figured you didn’t mind if he went out by himself.”
Coldly, Andrew replied, “He is a stranger here.”
Another said in passing, “We’re keeping an eye on him.”
Andrew’s eyes lowered in irritation. How could they keep an eye on a dog that was outside? Buddy would be lost. Well, maybe not. He did pretty well by himself.
Sullenly, Andrew rubbed his stomach and felt isolated clear out there, alone, with no entourage. Being alone and traveling was very different from being in a large house where he wasn’t known. They were treating him as if he was like everyone else. How rude.
He ate enough to live on without gorging himself with food. He felt like gorging, but he knew better than to be that stupid. He did not speak or smile as any reply to those around. No one had asked if they could speak. He had not asked it of them. They were just help. He did not need to tolerate any familiarity from anyone.
He lay his napkin next to his plate and pushed his chair back to rise.
One of the crew asked, “Enough? We have some lovely fruit cobbler.”
Andrew looked coldly at the man and replied rudely, “No.”
“Good. Then I get it!” He laughed easily. Then he explained, “We flipped a penny. If you didn’t want it, I won!”
But Andrew didn’t even wait to hear what was said by who all. He’d walked out.
One of the crew said, “I’d guess...and it’s just a guess, you know, but I’ll bet some really elegant, feisty female just ditched him.”
Another considered and then nodded. “That could well be. He’s in a snit.”
But somebody else said, “He could just be a selfish bastard.”
Since they all laughed, and did know him slightly, the fact that Andrew Parsons was one, was soon known through all the Keeper help.
The house crew had already been told that Andrew Parsons was capable of walking, of eating downstairs. He could shower alone and shave himself.
While he’d slept days at the hospital, and been awake all night watching TV and visiting with the nurses, he could now walk well enough to get around on his own.
The more he did that—walking—the better his leg would be.
He selected a cane from a collection the Keepers had in a cylinder at the bottom of the stairs, and he gently, perfectly used it.
Then the staff was further cautioned that Andrew, Parsons was just about completely healed. He was capable of dressing alone and of walking by himself. The selected cane was all drama. Ignore it.
The staff was told that Andrew could share his time with other people. He was not to be pampered. That was underlined. At the hospital, the nurses were so kind they had just about ruined him. At the Keepers’ place, he was to take care of himself with minimal attention or assistance.
The crew could assist him only if he fell and could not manage to get up by himself—they paused and then aided him—only after he’d tried three times.
Andrew was not ignored. Everyone talked to him. But no one...helped him. No one arranged his plate or cut his meat or...fetched things for him.
With such obvious lack of attention, Andrew was as sulky as a spoiled child.
Of course, when any of the crew went from the Keeper Place into town, they did manage to report progress to the hospital crews. And at first, they chided the people at the hospital for corrupting Andrew Parsons so carelessly.
But those at the hospital retorted, “He was that way when we got him!”
The Keeper crew chided, “He is rock-bottom spoiled.”
The hospital staff admitted, “Well, we did let him sleep when he wanted, and he just got his days and nights mixed up a little.” They figured that admission would be enough.
The Keeper bunch said, “We’d never in the world allow something that dumb out there at our place.”
Since that hospital was where any harmed person was taken, the medical crew then said, “He was spoiled before you all ever got ahold of him. His parents didn’t even come to see him. We figured they’d abandoned him, he was so difficult. Then we found out the grandparents had been in a terrible wreck and lingered for a long old time. His daddy is now weird about hospitals.”
One of the ranch crew said softly, “Ahhhh. I don’t think I knew that. Parsons wasn’t that harmed.”
Thoughtfully the ranch crew shifted as they looked at the vast space around as if to be sure that it was still there. Then they mentioned, “He is strange. Most outdoor people really hate being trapped inside.”
So the hospital crew shared, “Readjusting him will be a challenge to you all. Good luck.” They were leaving the crew, but they all hesitated and one cautioned earnestly, “Don’t send him back to us.”
“You gotta know how much the Keepers’ve put into that pile of bricks you all call a ‘hospital’?”
“Careful. You might need us. We can attach legs backwards.”
“Uh-oh. Uhhhhh... We was just warning you all about that strange Parsons person. You could get him back without wanting him again.”
And the intern shook his head. “Don’t fret about us. Our Admittance Office is cold and sly. We only get people who actually need us. We wouldn’t have taken him, but he had a bad leg. That got him inside. Then the nurses didn’t care which shift got him. It don’t make no nevermind to them.”
One of the ranch crew asked, “Where you from again?”
The intern started out: “Uhhhh. How come you want to know?”
“You’re getting the swing of talking TEXAN pretty good now.”
And another of the hospital crew mentioned, “It’s the sunshine and the food. Any man and most women are susceptible to being TEXAN. It’s in the climate. And other people around and about talk thataway. It’s catching...like a cold.”
One of the ranch crew was fascinated. “I hadn’t ever been told that. Do you suppose it’s the climate that makes us thisaway?”
“Wouldn’t be a-tall surprised.”
So being gossi—communicators, the critical words about Andrew Parsons’s conduct did slide along all around the area. It was just a surprise that it didn’t go on to other states and foreign countries.
They finally figured the reason the word hadn’t spread on beyond was because the TEXANS are not gossips and only mention odd conduct to good, closed-mouthed friends. They smiled at one another. It was good to be able to trust other people. They were all TEXAN, born and bred.
So Andrew Parsons had been discarded and ignored. At the Keeper Place, he was where he could recover. He had a room. His sister, Lu, visited him. He assumed she was still at the hospice, in town, near the hospital. He hadn�
�t been interested enough in her to find out what she was now doing, or why she hadn’t gone on back to Houston?
And the thought came to Andrew that she was still around! He was out of hospital. There was no need for her to be there! Why was she still hanging around? Hmmmm.
But when he went to the dining area, he didn’t see his sister anywhere. Had she left? How strange. No farewell? Well, it didn’t bother him at all. She was useless anyway. She’d insisted the family pay his hospital bills.
The Parsons had done that. It was only right that they did. It had been their son and his horse that had been shot. No one had mentioned replacing his horse. That would come...the time when he could mention his dead horse.
What had become of his faithful dog?
Using the cane, Andrew ventured carefully onto the porch and whistled the call for the dog. It did not appear. Where was he? Not that Andrew cared much one way or the other. To whistle for the dog was an excuse to get out on the terrace. He didn’t want to appear physically ready for prodding around the area.
After his horse had been shot, Andrew hadn’t felt any urge to again go out onto the land...at all. So it was no surprise that right away he went back inside the Keepers’ house. No one was anywhere around. There was no one to entertain him.
That didn’t mean someone for him to watch. It meant someone who would ask him questions and then listen to what he had to say.
Of course.
All of the world was anxious to know what reply Andrew Parsons would give. He’d wondered why he hadn’t been asked back to the Oklahoma town’s television station. He asked. They said there had been no response...at all.
When Andrew demurred, they searched for and found and gave him one postcard that had said, “Good gravy, man, can’t you find anything else for us bed-bound guys?”
Andrew had said the obvious: That was only one person’s opinion. But he hadn’t gotten through to even one of the blank heads confronting him.
One had said, “Do you know how many people have been on the places where you’ve ridden?”
Andrew had replied, “Think of the people who have walked in the path of others?”
“Most of those paths have been made by celebrated, intelligent travelers. Most of that time is past. There is nothing in your presentation that is either new or different.”
“Then...why did you accept my interview?”
“Desperation. We are cured of it. We are changing the concept.”
“How will I fit in?”
“No way. Not here. Good luck.”
And they’d escorted him out of the place...and closed their door on his heels.
What was it about adventure that had faltered? And his mind gave him the view of loaded cars on interstate highways. People traveling. A whole lot didn’t even look at the countryside. They read. Played games. Slept. The driver watched the road and noted the speed and maneuvering.
Times had changed when Andrew hadn’t noticed. He was a throwback to another time. Out of it? How strange.
If he was obsolete, then why did people go to museums? And he remembered being a child when an old cousin came to visit with them. He didn’t really visit. He read the paper and watched TV. Andrew’s own mother invited the elderly cousin to go to the museum, which was one of the eleven best in the country.
The old cousin said, “I’ve seen a museum.”
He indicated that if you’ve seen anything once, it was enough. It wouldn’t change. Museums did.
Think of the people who go to see the paintings and stand and just stare at them, absorbing the lights and shadows, the colors, the genius of it.
There are people who have such paintings or photos or drawings in their homes. They smile at them or stand and allow their eyes to draw the drawings into their brains and feel fulfilled.
Andrew really wasn’t such a person. He was not a viewer. He felt he, himself, was enough for any audience. He was unique and precious and worthwhile. He was there for them to regard and admire.
Yeah. Sure.
Two
Late that evening, Mrs. Keeper was sitting on the wide stool before her vanity mirror. She rolled her hair onto small wire rounds and pinned them with odd, bendable, plastic hairpins. She looked as if she’d just landed from some faraway planet.
Her husband came over and sat on his side of the stool, which had been custom-made for that very reason. His legs were on either side of her and his arms were around her body, nicely, but his hands were not in control. He asked, “What are we going to do about Andrew?”
She sighed with his “we” comment because what he actually meant was: What was she going to do about Andrew.
She fiddled with the lengths of hair tightly wound up in all those plastic doodads. She mentioned, “I’ve called Mark’s daughter JoAnn?” That’s the TEXAS questioning do-you-understand statement. “She’s coming to see us and she’s going to smooth Andrew... out.”
With his eyes closed, Mr. Keeper’s hands were exploring his wife’s front chest He mentioned, “Women terrify me.”
She turned her head slightly and looked at him loftily over her shoulder from under hooded eyes. She said, “—you are terrified—with reason. You brought me out to this raw place and, even now, you expect me to adjust.”
“You’ve done that very well.”
“Hah!”
Indignant, he reminded her, “I let you go in to San Antone twice a year to shop.”
“You go along and shake your head over anything I put on!”
“That’s how well you make a rag look when it’s on your body. I’ll not have you wearing rags.”
She was patient. “If they look good on me, then they’re not rags.”
And he said, “Oh,” as if he’d learned something.
“Why are you clutching my breasts? Do you think you’re going to fall off the stool? You had it made so that you wouldn’t.”
“I’m being helpful.” He breathed on the back of her neck and his hands cupped her breasts closely. “It’s nice you have two. One for each hand. No quarreling of hands. Each is content.”
She sighed with some drama. “You’re groping me again.”
That shocked him for her lack of understanding. “No, no, no! I’m keeping them from jiggling!”
“How kind.” Then she told her husband, “I can’t think of anything else to do with him.” She didn’t even have to say the name of Andrew Parsons.
So her husband solved everything. “Let’s take him back out on the tableland and just dump him. We could shoot a horse to put on top of him.”
“Not any of our horses.”
He accused, “You’re picky.”
She moved her mouth around as if she was searching out food caught in her teeth, then she sighed impatiently, “He’s human.”
“No! Really?”
And they were then silent. He relished her body and neck. She went on winding up every damned little curl.
She mentioned, “Your parents will be here in about three more days.”
Her husband chuckled in his throat.
“Why do you laugh?”
“How young they are. My daddy’s just barely twenty years older. My momma is only twenty-one years older than you. They really hurried. I was born exactly nine months after they were married!”
“—and your daddy was in Europe, fighting in that awful war.”
“Yeah. He didn’t think he’d get back.”
“I’m glad he did.”
“Me, too.” Then he looked at her in the mirror, and they smiled at each other. But he told her, “I have only one eye.”
She was patient He did that all the time. She told him, “Move your head over to your right. You will see that you have two eyes.”
He did that and exclaimed in lousy surprise, “Glory be!”
He continued sitting astraddle her hips, and he gently moved his evening beard on her shoulder giving her erotic goose bumps. But he was very diligently holding her breasts to keep them from w
iggling.
When she finally finished winding her hair and had captured all of the curls on her head, he asked, “Ready?”
“For what?”
“Me.”
“Don’t joggle my hair.”
He chided, “I never have! The hair on your head isn’t one of your sexual lures.”
“I’ll take out the pins.”
“Naw. I’d never notice.”
“You just like my body.”
“I like you, your body, your essence, the way you laugh, and that sneaky little smile when you want me.”
She was indignant. “I have never wanted you. I’m just a used sex slave.”
“Wow.” He laughed. “How come you clutch me and writhe and move around and gasp.”
“Endurance.” But she licked her smile with a naughty tongue and her eyes were wicked.
So two days later JoAnn Murray drove up to the Keepers’ door with two suitcases, which she judiciously left in her car. She was redheaded. That meant that she was independent. Redheads always are.
Redheaded people had to endure a lot of discussion about the color of body hair, and teasing. That sort of thing solidifies their character. They’re unique and they live as they damn well choose.
After greeting Mrs. Keeper, JoAnn said, “Mother ruthlessly sent me here to cope with your obvious problem and get rid of him. I am skilled in getting rid of males. Mother loves you. This will clear her books with your kindness in helping her. She underlined that. You are to agree with her clean record now, before I do anything about this leech you’ve acquired.”
Mrs. Keeper replied, “Well, hello, JoAnn. How is your dear mother?”
“Dramatically relieved you’ve asked me to do this and not asked her. She says she’s too old to deal with young men anymore. She only watches them in the Soaps.”
“Your mother is dear to me.”
JoAnn was tolerant. She advised in a mature manner, “We all have our moments. Tell me about this male burden who made you send out an S.O.S. for the first time since mama’s known you in college. She is so curious.”