by Jory Sherman
10
ROY KILLIAN FINISHED milking the Guernsey, flexing his fingers to take away the hurt and the stiffness. A pair of flies performed aerial acrobatics as the cow switched her tail from hip to hip. Roy slid the stool away and picked up the bucket. Old Nellie gave five gallons a day when she came fresh, and Roy’s mother made butter which she sold to townspeople.
He carried the bucket to the house, listening to the trill of a meadowlark beyond the empty clay field across the road. In the distance, spirals of smoke from chimneys in Fort Worth hung in the sky. His mother, Ursula Killian, was already at her day’s washing behind the house. A black kettle sat on the fire, the water boiling, steam rising in the air to join the morning mist.
Suddenly Roy stopped. Across the flat black plain, he saw a lone rider emerging from the mist. The rider looked vaguely familiar, but a person wrapped in the cobwebs of memory, well out of range of Roy’s remembrance.
“Ma, somebody’s comin’.”
“Probably more washing.” Ursula stood over the kettle, stirring the clothes through the hot water. A chunk of lye soap kept bobbing up in the froth, then disappearing into the steamy depths. She looked up, shaded her eyes from the rising sun.
“I don’t see no wash,” Roy said.
“Maybe someone come to buy a pie,” she said.
Ursula and Roy eked out a sparse existence from the worthless land her husband had bought fifteen years before. Fort Worth was growing and building, and people needed their clothes washed and bought her apple pies. The orchard covered better than two acres, but the trees were stunted and gnarled and only pretty when they blossomed. The pies she made now were from apples harvested the previous fall and kept in the storm cellar, where spring water seeped through the cracks in the adobe brick and kept it cool.
“Well now, I wonder who that could be,” she said to no one.
“Something familiar about him, that’s for sure.”
“I don’t recollect that horse,” she said. Then she saw the dog and something stirred in her, caused a pang deep in her stomach. “Nor that hound.”
“Looks like a mongrel dog,” Roy said.
The two stood there and watched the rider approach. He seemed in no hurry. As he drew closer, Ursula squinted her eyes as if to pierce the veil of mist and see the man’s face.
“Lordy, who can that be?” she asked, not expecting an answer.
“Some stranger,” Roy said.
Ursula stared at the rider, watching the way he sat his horse, a dark sorrel she had never seen before. Then she gasped and her breath caught in her throat. “It’s a stranger, all right, Roy. May I be struck plumb dead if that ain’t your daddy.”
“My daddy?”
Roy’s memory stirred. He conjured up a red-haired man from long ago—fifteen years, he guessed—who had a soft, deep voice and who came and went and brought him toys and clothes from town. He had not thought of his father much in the past few years. His mother thought his father might be dead. Someone had told them that his uncle had died, hanged by some Mexicans in the Rio Grande Valley, a few years back. Ten years, maybe.
“It ’pears to be. Lordy, I can’t believe my eyes. But I know the way Jack sets his horse, and he’s always got him a dog or two. Wonder what he’s come back for. Back from the dead, likely.”
Roy stood there stunned, frozen into immobility by the specter of his father, a man he hardly knew.
“Urs,” the man said as he rode up into the backyard.
“Jack.”
“You must be Roy,” Jack Killian said. “Don’t you recognize your daddy?”
“I reckon he don’t know you, Jack,” Ursula said. “We thought you was dead.”
“Damned near, a time or two.”
Jack swung out of the saddle, fished in his saddlebags, brought out a pair of bundles. He handed one to Ursula, one to Roy. The dog lay down underneath the horse, its tongue lolling between its teeth.
“Nice dog,” Roy said.
“I call him Dab.”
“Dab?”
“’Cause he’s got a dab o’ this and a dab o’ that in his blood.”
At the sound of its name, the dog retrieved its tongue and cocked its head.
“What happened to them other three dogs you had, Jack?” Ursula asked.
“An Apache kilt ’em.”
“Seems you lost a lot the past few years. Your folks and all.”
At the mention of his parents, Jack’s face darkened for a second and he swallowed hard to keep his feelings down. “Seems like,” he said.
“Where’d you get Dab?” Roy asked.
“He got me. Started follerin’ me out of Waco one day a year ago, comin’ up to my campfire at nights.”
“He looks as bedraggled as you do,” Ursula said without rancor.
“Brung you something from Fort Worth,” Jack said, changing the subject. “Some cloth for you, Urs.”
Ursula did not open her package. She just kept staring at her husband, shaking her head. “Well, I swan,” she said. “You ain’t changed a bit.”
“Some,” he said. “Hardy’s dead.”
“I know. Hanged.”
“Yes, hanged. For stealing horses.”
“Same as you, Jack.”
“I don’t do that no more,” he said.
Roy hefted the bundle in his hands. It was heavy. He opened it eagerly and his eyes widened when he saw what his father had brought him. He lifted the holster from the wrapping and smelled the new leather, marveled at the gleaming pistol.
“Gawdamighty,” he said.
Jack grinned. “That’s a brand-new Colt Army .44,” he said. “I’ve got powder, cap and ball for you in my kit.”
“My own pistol,” Roy breathed. “To keep?”
“Jack,” Ursula said, “what have you gone and done?”
“I met a man down on the Brazos who’s going to drive cattle up from Texas to Fort Sumner. He hired me on and I wanted to come and get Roy to go with me. He’s growed now, and time he got to be a man.”
“Just like that, huh?” Ursula said. “You go off to God knows where and don’t write nor come by and you just ride up and want to take away my boy.”
“I’ll leave you some money, too, Urs. I know the boy’s probably a help to you.”
“You sonofabitch,” she said. Then she threw the bundle of cloth at Jack and ran toward him, fists clenched. She began striking him on the chest as he held her arms. He did not duck or try to avoid the blows.
“Ma, don’t,” Roy said. “Leave him be.” He looked at the pistol again and strapped on the holster. “Daddy, I’m a-goin’ with you.”
Ursula stopped beating on Jack’s chest and turned to her son, her face contorted with disbelief. “What did you say, Roy?”
“I want to go away with my daddy.”
“You fool,” she said. “You’re both fools. Crazy, to boot.”
Jack stood there, his face devoid of expression. The years dropped away as he looked at his grown son.
“You ride into town with me and you can pick out your horse and saddle, Roy.”
“Boy, I’d like that,” Roy said.
Ursula looked at her son, then at her husband. “Before you go, you bastard, do you want to come inside and have some breakfast? I’d like to hear what you done with yourself all this time away.”
“Why, sure, Urs, I could put away some fodder. Maybe some of that good coffee you make.”
“Oh, you remember my coffee, do you?” she snorted, ending the phrase with a “humph.”
“I remember a lot of good things, Urs.”
She blushed then and turned away, walking toward the house, still shaking her head.
“That iron looks good on you, Roy,” Jack said. “Feel comfortable?”
“It feels real good, Daddy. Thank you. I’m much obliged.”
“Can you ride a horse?”
“I sure can.”
“Well, we’re going to ride a long way, you and me.”
R
oy smiled. His father turned and strode toward the house. The horse stood there, reins drooping, and Roy looked at the horse for a long moment before he ran to catch up with his father.
11
CAROLINE BARON SAT on the divan in the front room, staring blindly at nothing. She was only half listening to Martin. Her mind had started to drift when he started talking. She knew it was important to hear what her husband was saying, but she could not quell the thoughts that rose up in her mind, the guilt she felt, the insistent flap of remorse like a loose shutter in a rainstorm banging the window frame.
She had relived that day in her mind over and over and still had no explanation of her behavior, why she had succumbed to an urge so elemental it surprised her. Some dark place in her heart had been illuminated that day, some deep longing for the forbidden, she supposed, that had lain dormant all her life and had so suddenly risen up inside her that she had no defenses. A man and a woman. Alone with each other. Martin gone and Anson as well, and the closeness of him, the musk of his manly scent. The overwhelming longing to give herself to this man. The secrecy of it and the desire to taste the forbidden fruit.
So sudden. So achingly beautiful. As if the two of them were locked away in a garden out of time and space, just the two of them, and who would ever know? Just a man and a woman. Wanting each other and taking the chance in the quiet of her room, in the softness of her bed. Martin’s bed, too. Filled with roses for a time and full of his scent and Martin’s and the exquisite scent of them both in her nostrils made her dizzy and faint just to think of it, the wickedness of it, the sheer delight of that wickedness even now and the shamelessness of infidelity. Even for that brief moment, just that one time. That one sweet time and now her head swam with it and she could feel the warmth in her loins, the touch of him, his fingers on her shoulders and back, his lips caressing her neck, and the perfect shape of them together on her bed, one into another and then just one—one being, one soul, one long flow of honey—and the raw words of sex humming in her ears, the liquid Spanish and the harsh English, and just the words made her back arch and pull him deeper inside her and lose all sense of decency and faithfulness, for that was what a man could do to a woman. She had lost all will, all shame and all pride just to give herself to such a man and to take from him until she swam in a dark warm sea and dug her talons into his back like some beast of prey, wanting to hold him and to keep him, to make him die in her arms so she could hold on to him long afterward and just keep him, keep him, oh, and she burned for him again and again in her dreams and in Martin’s arms.
“Caroline? Caroline? What’s the matter?” Martin’s voice, breaking through the terrible reverie. Her hands flew to her face and she knew she had broken out, that the blood rush of her lust had flashed on her face like some crimson stain.
“I—I feel faint,” she said.
“You haven’t heard a word I’ve said, have you?”
Caroline shook herself back to the present, calmed the rolling seas of her mind until she could feel the hotness flow out of her face and neck and descend finally to her breasts, and she pulled her dress tighter to her so that her shame would not show through the buttons and Martin would not be able to see his handprints on her bosom, the handprints of a thief and a lover, the handprints of a savage, like she.
“I—I’m sorry, Martin. I—I had some discomfort.”
“Are you all right?” Martin asked in a worried tone.
“Yes, yes, just fine. What were you saying?”
“I said I’ve decided to sell the boat. We need the money and I’ve little time for freighting anymore.”
“Why, that’s good, Martin. You’ve been talking about smelling your boat for some time.”
“I’m taking Anson with me. I’ll teach him to sail while we try and find a buyer for the Mary E.”
“Anson?” Her heart seemed to flutter like some soft moth caught against the windowpane. “Both of you?”
“Yes,” Martin said. “Why? Is there something wrong with that?”
Caroline struggled desperately to compose herself. Suddenly her world seemed to be turning upside down. She fought for control of her emotions, battled to gain some lost ground.
“I—I just thought you weren’t going to go away again.”
“Not to New Orleans. Not right away. I’m just going to sell the boat. I think I can find a buyer real quick.”
“But if you take Anson … .”
“Juanito’s going with us, too.”
“Juanito?”
“Yes. We’ll sail up to Galveston, maybe to Corpus. Let Anson get his sea legs.”
Caroline felt claustrophobic, trapped. She would be left all alone again. She searched for something to hold on to in the raging sea of her emotions. She looked up at the set of longhorns above the front door, remembered when Martin had brought them into the house, all polished up by Carlos, the butt ends wrapped in colorful swatches of a Mexican blanket. He had put them up there to remind himself of why he had come to this country. Now the room was filled with mementos of the hard days they had endured on the ranch: a branding iron by the fireplace, branches of dried mesquite in a vase on a hand-hewn table by the window, a pair of old spurs hanging next to a worn bridle and bit, her first straw broom leaning in a corner, ashtrays made of longhorn hooves and brass, Martin’s old rifle on the mantel with its huge Spanish lock and frayed pouch for lead balls, a powder horn from a longhorn tip. So many things that belonged to the land and none from the sea—no compass, no sextant, no barometer, no ship’s wheel.
“Martin, you’re just not thinking,” she said. “I’m going to have this baby and here you go, traipsing off again.”
“The baby’s not due for some months, Caroline. Besides, this will be a chance for me to show Anson something about sailing. He wants to learn.”
“I don’t want Anson to be a sailor,” she said flatly.
“Something wrong with that?” Martin bristled.
“No, of course not. It’s just that he—he’s not like you.”
“What in hell do you mean by that?”
“I mean, he—he’s different. He doesn’t know the sea. I don’t want him to go where it’s dangerous.”
“Jesus Christ, Caroline. It’s dangerous anyplace he might be. This is just nonsense.”
“No, it isn’t, Martin. I don’t want you to leave me alone.”
“Carlos will look after you. The Mexican women. You won’t be alone.”
She wanted to scream at him, to shake him until he understood the terror she felt in her heart. She wanted to make him see the darkness welling up in her, the fear that gripped her whenever he went away. The storm had stopped him from taking cattle up to New Orleans and he had promised that he would not leave her again, at least until after the baby was born. But now he was ready to go out to sea and play with his boat like a little boy.
Caroline clenched her fists in rage. She glared at Martin and hoped he could see the murderous light in her eyes. Was he so blind he could not see the terror in her heart, the dread that stalked her day and night?
“Carlos is barely able to speak English,” she said tightly.
“So? You speak enough Spanish to get by. Caroline, look, we’ll only be gone a week or so. I promise. The Mary E is a sound boat and she’ll bring a quick sale and a good price.”
“Can’t you just send Juanito to sell your old boat?”
Martin’s face twitched as if she had slapped him. “I built that boat from scrap with my bare hands, Caroline. It was just a hull and I made her into a sloop.”
“I know your feelings about your boat, damn you.”
“I’m trying to make the best of a tough situation, Caroline. Can’t you see that?”
“You promised you wouldn’t leave me alone anymore.”
“I never promised you that. I can’t be underfoot every minute of the day.”
“You can be a husband,” she said, blurting it out before she had thought it through.
“What do
you mean by that?” he said, a perilous edge to his voice. “You got a complaint about me?”
“I—I didn’t mean it that way, Martin. It—it’s just that, with the baby and all, I’m—I’m afraid to be left alone.”
Martin rose from his chair, the anger showing on his face. The muscles of his neck bulged, the veins in his throat pushing against the skin like blue snakes ready to strike.
“God damn you, Caroline, grow up. You ain’t got your mamma to tuck you in no more. I’ve been a good husband to you and now you make me feel like I’m a prisoner, that I can’t go anywhere unless I have your permission. Well, it doesn’t work that way and it’s not going to work that way. I’m taking Anson and Juanito to Matagorda and I’m going to sell my boat and pay some of these men who’ve been breaking their goddamned backs for me these past few months, and if you don’t like it, you can run right back to Mama and Papa where you’ll feel safe and protected.”
She felt the fury of his displeasure and the force of his words drive her back inside herself, into that corner of her being where she felt safe, where she could hide from the dread.
Martin stalked from the room. She heard a door slam in the kitchen and then the silence rose up about her and she heard a board creak and tick for a second and she sat there numb and broken inside, more afraid than ever, desperate to cry out to Martin, to draw him back to her and have him hold her and caress her and whisper into her ear that he would never leave her, that he would stay with her, even though the child she was carrying inside her was not his.
A few moments later, she heard the plaintive notes of a guitar and then the voice of one of the vaqueros singing a son huasteco, one of the folk songs that told of a man gone wrong for the love of a woman, arrested and put in jail, then hanged before his weeping lover in the town plaza.
Caroline wished she had a song to sing that would tell of the hurt she felt inside, of the guilt she felt over what she had done and could not speak of for fear of losing all that she had, all that she ever cared about. Martin is not the father of my child. She heard the words uttering silently in her mind. And then she began to weep until the night filled up with her sobbing and became an undertone to the sad notes strummed on a faraway guitar.