“Clifford?” Ellen all but screamed the name.
“Yes. He was the only one I told and he said he wanted to come with me,” Debbie explained. “He kept acting like everything was okay, but I could tell he was scared about what was going to happen. He kept saying, ‘I better come in. I better come in.’”
Ellen could barely breathe. Each word hit her like a slap.
“I’m okay, though.” Debbie touched her hand again. “Everything is okay. I promise. I am glad I can tell you. It means so much to me.”
“Oh, Debbie,” Ellen’s breath finally came. “I wish I had known.”
She did not wish she had known. She didn’t want to know now.
“Was it Jason’s?”
“It doesn’t matter,” stated Debbie.
“Of course it matters, and it was, wasn’t it? That son of a bitch bastard.”
The anger made Ellen feel strong again.
“No, I’m the one who got pregnant,” Debbie insisted.
“And he had nothing to do with it? That man has been getting away with bloody murder for years.”
Even as she said the words, she worried about them. Was it bloody murder? Is that how Debbie felt about the abortion. Is that what she would hear, a reminder of what she had done?
“I’m sorry. That didn’t come out right. It just makes me so mad.”
“You don’t have to be mad,” Debbie told her. “I don’t even have to be mad. I’m just so ashamed.” The tears started to fall. “It wasn’t right for me to do that. Nope. It wasn’t right.”
“Ah, Debbie,” Ellen reached to touch her. “It’s okay. What does your doctor say about this?”
“He thinks I should go into group therapy. I don’t know why but I said I would.”
“And you and Jason haven’t talked to each other about this?”
“No,” she said loudly. She stood up and began to pace, her arms crossed over her chest. She stopped to examine a painting on the wall, to look at the silver-framed photographs on the end table. She straightened and paced again.
“About the abortion,” Ellen said quickly. “A lot of women have them. It happens.”
“You?” Debbie demanded. “Did you ever have one?”
“No,” Ellen said. “There were times I had to think about it. Who hasn’t? I got lucky. I don’t know what I would have done.”
“Whatever you did would be right,” Debbie pronounced. “Everything you do is right.”
“Me?” Ellen laughed. “You must be kidding. I hardly do anything right. I hardly do anything period.”
“You are the most together person I have ever known,” Debbie stated. “You know what you want. You know where you are going. You’re not afraid of anything. I wish I were like you.”
“Debbie, that is crazy. I don’t know what I am going to eat for breakfast, much less what I am going to do for the rest of my life.”
“Oh, yes, you do.” Debbie smacked her right fist into the palm of her left hand. “And, everybody knows it. Everybody looks up to you.”
“You are wrong.” Ellen laughed again. “Most people can’t stand me. They’re forming a club.”
“Oh yeah? And what about me?” Debbie’s face was bright red with emotion, her eyes large and demanding. “I come here, get pregnant and have an abortion. That’s really somebody to look up to. That’s why nobody can ever know, ever.” She collapsed into a chair. “I don’t know what I am going to do.”
“About what?” Ellen asked, truly confused.
“About anything. I don’t know what I am doing here. I keep dragging other people into these things. Poor Clifford. Even Jason and now you.”
Ellen wondered when Debbie would reach up and wipe at the tears that were running down her face.
“And my father. What am I supposed to say to him? Hey, Dad, how’s everything? Oh, yes, I had an abortion. Something else you can be proud of.”
“You’re not dragging anybody in,” Ellen interrupted. “That’s what friends are for. Forget Jason, and Clifford needs a little excitement in his life.” She smiled.
Debbie gave up her own small smile and reached for the tears.
“Here, drink,” Ellen ordered and lifted the newly filled glass. “What the hell.”
It worked. It always worked when Ellen was on a story.
29
The three group members sat in the waiting room and greeted her with short nods.
“Hi,” she said and smiled.
The older woman smiled back, the younger woman nodded. The boy in the sunglasses breathed out a quick, “Hey.”
Dr. Waddell moved through the room carrying his coffee mug.
“Let’s go in,” he said. “Bob is going to be late and I don’t know where Alan is.” He opened the door to the meeting room. “Have you all met Debbie?”
Debbie waited until the others took their seats before choosing one of her own.
“I’m Maynell,” said the older woman
“Carol,” said the younger one.
“I’m Terry,” said the boy with the sunglasses.
A tall black man came into the room.
“Sorry, I’m late. Hi, I’m Bob.” He offered his hand.
“Debbie,” she said with a shy smile.
“Well,” the doctor said to them all.
No one spoke. Debbie could feel her fear growing. They would ask her first. She knew that much.
“Does anyone have anything they want to talk about?” the doctor asked.
“Well,” the black man said, “I guess we should find out about Debbie.”
The younger woman lit a cigarette, turning away from Debbie as she did so.
“We might as well ask it now,” the older woman said. “Why are you here, Debbie?”
“Doctor Waddell felt I should go into a group.”
“That’s simple,” the younger woman said.
“You came because he told you to?” the older woman pressed. “That’s all?”
“I guess because I was afraid not to.”
“Afraid not to come to group? How’s that?” the black man asked.
“Afraid if I didn’t, I would get scared again.”
The younger woman looked up, a sharp interest in her eyes.
“Scared of what?” she asked.
“I mean sad.” Debbie corrected herself. “I cry at silly things.”
The boy with the sunglasses nodded sympathetically. Debbie smiled at him.
“You said scared. That’s what you said. Scared of what?” the younger woman demanded.
“I don’t know. I guess that’s why I’m here, to find out.” She looked at the doctor who busied himself lighting a cigarette.
“You know, Stan,” the older woman said to him, “I really think you should give us more warning when a new patient is coming into the group. I think you should let us know a few weeks ahead of time.”
“Why is that, Maynell?”
“I think we should know, that’s all.” Her arms were folded across her chest.
“What difference does it make?” the younger woman snapped.
“Well, maybe Alan would have come. I mean, he should be here.”
“Who cares?” the younger woman snapped again. “He’s hardly here anyway.”
“I think it would make a lot of difference.” The older woman seemed to be holding onto herself, her arms hugging her ribs.
“I don’t think it makes any difference at all,” said the younger woman, stabbing at the ashtray with her cigarette. “I think this room is too crowded, anyway.”
Debbie inhaled deeply as the attention turned away from her. From her chair, she could see the room’s one small window high on the wall across from her.
“I’m an addict,” the boy on the couch said suddenly.
She felt her stomach clinch. “Yes?”
“I get frightened too.”
He took off the glasses. The brown eyes were strangely vacant.
“I’ve been off it for a month. Heroin, that’s
what I use. Heroin.”
“That’s great,” she tried to smile. “I mean about being off drugs. It must be hard.”
What was she supposed to say?
“Yes, Terry is working hard. That’s why he’s here. He needs our support,” said the doctor.
All the faces in the room now turned to Terry. Debbie nodded at him and tried smiling again. She felt the rush of fear, the wave of it rising in her as everyone else seemed to sigh and reach for a cigarette or cup.
She would have to tell them the truth. Even though the doctor said she didn’t have to if she didn’t want. No, she did have to tell them. It was part of getting better. She would have to tell them everything, about the abortion and the breakdown and the counting. Yes, she would. She would have to tell them everything, these people who seemed angry she was there, except for Terry the addict.
No, how could that be? They weren’t angry. She just didn’t understand them yet. They would help her get better, yes. All she had to do was tell them the truth about everything and they would help her.
The younger woman puffed at another cigarette, the older woman sighed deeply, Bob shrugged and Terry put the sunglasses back over his eyes and melted back into the couch.
*
“Are you ever afraid?” she asked Ellen on their late night call.
“Of course, who isn’t?”
“You don’t ever act like you are.”
Ellen took a puff on her cigarette.
“Oh, everyone is at one time or another. They better be. Being afraid keeps you safe. Makes you watch out for what may be coming at you. If you’re normal,” she exhaled the stream of smoke, “you’re afraid of something.”
As Ellen talked, Debbie could feel herself becoming safe again.
“Like what?” she asked.
“Circus clowns, absolutely. They are the most terrifying thing I can imagine. Think about it, big red noses, crazy hair, floppy feet, horns honking all the time.”
Debbie giggled.
“I went to that group thing today,” she told Ellen. “It was interesting. Only a few people but they seemed nice. Someday I’ll be tough like you and I won’t need doctors and groups.”
“Right.”
“Tell me why you like New Mexico so much,” Debbie asked, not wanting the phone call to end.
“Beautiful land, interesting people.”
“That’s all?”
“That’s enough for starters.”
“Maybe I’ll go there,” Debbie said, “and meet someone and get married and be happy.”
“Sure, why not?” Ellen agreed.
“Did you ever want to get married?”
“Oh, there was this guy once, but it didn’t work out.”
“You going to tell me about him?”
“Nothing to tell,” Ellen said. “Believe me, nothing at all.”
30
She didn’t tell people about Ronnie McBain. She left that story in Albuquerque. She had stories about other men, Sam the reporter in Florida who made her roar with laughter and the surfer she met in Paris. Leave it to her to spend a year in Paris with a blond from California.
She could talk about the public relations man for the electric company in Albuquerque and the photographer who would take her on the shag rug in her apartment before leaving her for the redhead with the Brooklyn accent.
“Isn’t it cute? I think it sounds so cute,” he gushed about the girl who sat outside in his car.
“Want to come with us? We’re going to Rosie’s for a drink.”
“You and me and her?” she demanded.
From the car came a loud redheaded Brooklyn laugh.
“Are you crazy?” Ellen shouted at him.
“What?”
“You think I’m going to go with you and her? You must be out of your mind.”
She suffered her way through that one for about a month. Then, she met Ronnie McBain, the tall, slow-talking cowboy who pulled his boots on with a huff and a sigh.
“Are you sure these are my boots?” he once questioned her with a sheepish grin. “I can’t see that these are my boots.”
He struggled to pull one on as he sat on the edge of the bed. She burst out laughing.
He once stood naked at the hotel window in San Francisco, staring down at the street.
“Why don’t the police come?” he asked. “They’ve been down there for five minutes. Can you explain this?”
“What?” she called from the bed.
“The accident. Where are the police?”
“Does it look like anyone is hurt?” She joined him at the window.
“Can’t tell.”
For him it was a few days off in a big city. For her it was a trip to find another job.
“You really are ashamed of living in New Mexico,” he said after a visit to an art gallery where she had been quick to tell the gallery owner that she lived in Albuquerque but came from Boston.
“Ah,” the owner nodded. That made a difference.
“You leave Albuquerque,” her mother told her. “You don’t move there.”
“It’s not for me,” she told Ronnie.
“I like it,” he said simply.
Not her. She had no ties to the city. She could move at the drop of a hat and she would. Tempting as he might be with all that ah shucks talk, Ronnie McBain wasn’t going to change that.
She met him while covering a fundraiser for the city’s art museum. His sister Sara was the assistant to the museum director.
“It looks like you’ve got yourself an interesting job,” he said after watching her do a stand-up.
“It has its moments,” she said.
She liked his family. Sara was sweet and smart. The oldest brother, Bob Junior, spent most of his time at the family ranch down south. She liked what she had seen of him. Phillip, the youngest, was a student at the university in Las Cruces. They were loved and owned by their mother, Joan McBain.
She lived in the north valley in a house as big and comfortable as the woman who built it. She had short brown hair, beauty-parlor streaked with blond, a hard weathered face, narrow slate-blue eyes, the lashes spiked thick with black mascara. She wore polyester pants over her ample rear and sipped her chilled vodka from a shot glass.
Sara also lived in the house. Ronnie lived in the guesthouse. Bob Junior came up on weekends. Phillip visited every so often.
“I always dreamed about being in business,” Joan McBain told Ellen over an early morning cup of coffee.
“Father and Mother spent their whole lives together working the ranch and, I’ll grant you, they had a good life but and I never wanted any part of it. I wanted to be in business, to have a clean office and air-conditioning. Not that we knew much about air-conditioning back then, but that’s what I wanted. I wanted to go to work every day and have my hair done and have long red nails.”
She held up one big hand and examined it. The short manicured nails were a blazing Revlon red.
“That’s what I wanted, a business. After two years up north I said, hell, Bobby, let’s go to the city and make a living. I had Bob Junior and Ronnie was coming and Bobby had some money put aside and Lord knows we weren’t getting fat up there. And really, he never did anything but say yes to me.” She laughed.
“So, you came to Albuquerque?”
“Yup.” She took a deep pull on her Benson & Hedges. Her red lipsticked mouth left its mark on the filter. In another hour the lipstick she wore would be nothing but a pink blur.
“I had some cousins here and they owned this empty building out on Twelfth Street. We made a deal and worked our behinds off for five years building the store. Bobby went back to his folks’ ranch to help bring in more money. Me and the kids lived behind the store, if you could call it that. We sold feed, some saddles, ropes. Not much more to start.”
She was warming to her subject. Last night had been a long, good drinking night. Ron’s new girl obviously slept in the guesthouse even if everyone made a big deal about her usin
g one of the spare bedrooms. Joan figured this girl slipped out of the big old four-poster a few minutes after the house quieted down and ran the few hundred yards to the guesthouse. She like the girl and where she slept was of no-never-mind to her except it was only natural she would go to Ron’s bed.
“I decided I needed to go to school to learn more about running a business and I was pregnant with Sara. It sure was a busy few years.”
Her head wasn’t bad this morning even with only five hours of sleep and all that vodka.
“Coffee?” she offered.
They were sitting at the long wooden stretch of an eight-person kitchen table that ended at the desk in front of the wide bay window. From the desk, Joan McBain could see her land and her horses.
“I didn’t get into the horses, breeding and selling them, until I saw all these folks around here start buying Arabs,” she explained.
“I heard there was big money in those Arabs but I wasn’t interested in them. I kept thinking about horses, though. I took some courses at the university. I knew some already, growing up on a ranch, but bloodlines and new methods of breeding was something I was short on.
“My first real good quarter horse, well, real good for me, cost me four thousand. Bobby thought I’d lost my mind.”
She chuckled.
“Bobby died a few years ago,” Joan McBain told her, “fast, the way he would have liked it.” She sighed and reached for another cigarette from the small metal box.
“Heart attack. One minute here,” she snapped her fingers, “and bang, he’s gone. God, I do miss that man.” Her eyes sought Ellen’s. “There’s a lot of him in Ronnie, you know. In all my children.”
*
“I can’t see raising cuttin’ horses,” Ronnie said about his mother’s business. “I mean, they’re the best for working, but how long is somebody gonna pay fifteen or twenty thousand for some cow pony?”
They were almost the same words spoken by his father when Joan McBain told him her idea about raising quarter horses. No matter what he thought about the plan, he found the money for her first horses. He loved his woman as much as he loved life.
The Best in the West Page 16