My Cowboy Freedom

by Z. A. Maxfield

  Country ballads played on the radio. Elena’s pine-tree air freshener dangled below the rearview mirror. As the miles passed, inadequate air-conditioning and motion-sickness made me sleepy and slightly sick.

  Rock hummed, the sound more of a rumble emanating from low in his chest. A light breeze played with the front of his hair. Maisy’s solid body rested heavily against my thigh, leaving a swath of yellow dog hair on my trousers.

  I drifted off.

  Rock woke me when we pulled into the parking lot of his church.

  “Andi, Declan, and Ryder go here?” I asked, still groggy from my nap. Rock’s church didn’t seem like a modern-family affair.

  He shook his head. “They’re meeting us at Earl’s after. We’ll have lunch and then go back to the doc’s place to talk.”

  I got out of the car. Then Rock sort of fell out, complaining he had no feeling in his legs. That left me to get the wheelchair out of the trunk.

  By that time, Rock had recovered enough to help the boss from the car. Elena pushed Chandler, while I grabbed my Bible and Rock’s backpack, shut the trunk, and followed them in.

  I didn’t expect to like the service since Rock told me Cecilia Everett was the one who caused him all that trouble with his mother. In fact, I kind of expected everyone to stand up, point at me, and say I didn’t belong there. I was grateful for Elena, who found a row with a place on the end for Boss’s wheelchair. We took the seats on the aisle.

  The building was a big rectangle, featuring two rows of pews and a wide center aisle. Sun streamed through the stained-glass windows, leaving rosettes of light on the wooden floor. There were no kneelers. Rock picked up a flyer to read it.

  Program. In church that’s called a program.

  I was pleased to see Rock would be singing a solo. Not a song I knew, but whatever, I always looked forward to hearing Rock sing.

  As people filed in, so many of them stared at Chandler. A dull flush crept up his neck as he endured it. One after another, people put their hands on his shoulders, leaned in, and spoke some words. Whether they were inspirational or humorous or just plain nonsense, people were trying, you had to give them that. He clasped hands with some, let others pat his back, his knees.

  But it was like sitting next to a hungry polar bear just biding his time. Or a volcano building up pressure.

  A man like Chandler doesn’t want anyone’s sympathy.

  I glanced at the altar and happened to catch Rock watching me. His head gave that lazy tilt, and he smiled. I smiled back.

  Then the service started, and we sang. Someone said a prayer. Someone else read scripture. More singing. More talk.

  Then came the homily. Sermon. Whatever.

  It wasn’t the youth pastor from the night of Rock’s seizure. This guy was talking about looking forward to the harvest, and he was wrapping a lesson about cause and effect into that.

  You can’t plant tomatoes and expect to harvest green beans.

  I let the words fall. The music. My mind was busy replacing all of that with a memory of better times.

  Of bees humming, and the call of larks, scrub jays, and warblers. Of my dad laughing at something my mother said, while Sterling Chandler told us kids all about the prodigal son.

  At the piano, Rock started playing the intro to “His Eye Is on the Sparrow.” I opened my eyes in surprise.

  I was deeply touched.

  I knew what that song meant to Rock.

  I know I am the sparrow he’s talking about.

  He leaned into the mic and sang, every note carrying me to a place of warmth and safety. A place of belonging. A place where even the memory of prison disintegrates around me and I am whole, and I’m not my stepfather’s plaything or Nando boy. I am no one’s boy because I finally have a real man I can look up to—Rock.

  Rock wanted me to have faith in the future. He wanted me to invite my sister to spend the summer in Texas. He wanted me to call my mother and give her “the opportunity to surprise herself.”

  He was not religious. I didn’t know what he expected me to have faith in. The time we’d had together since he’d gotten back was so limited, we agreed to disagree about everything in favor of fucking.

  He’d told me I would find something to believe in. He’d sent me half a dozen links to church websites. And also, something about Freemasons. I think that was a joke.

  Still, I swore there were more goddamn churches in that part of Texas than there were people.

  While the pastor said the final prayer, I felt nothing. Or rather, I felt nothing you had to dress up and go inside a fancy building for.

  As we left the church, Elena’s smile was so wide and happy. She wheeled the boss along the receiving line. Chandler shook Pastor’s hand.

  Rock joined us.

  While we waited for Elena and the boss, Rock detangled Maisy’s leash and slipped his backpack onto his shoulders.

  The pastor waved good-bye, and Rock waved back. We all walked out to the parking lot. Rock helped Chandler into the car. I was just about to shut the trunk when Rock paused to give me a soft pat on the shoulder.

  I winked.

  Then I heard skidding tires, a shout. Curses in Spanish and English.

  I stumbled around with no idea where to look first.

  I hear barking.

  Maisy! Oh Christ. Thank God, Maisy’s fine.

  Then I saw Rock’s face go purple with rage.

  And realized Elena had been hit by a car.

  “Hijo de puta!” Elena was screaming at the driver. Dragging herself off the pavement in front of a late-model Chevy truck. “You hit me.”

  She limped over, legs covered in road rash, bruises already mottling her golden skin—all along one arm. The truck had skidded to a stop. Now it hissed like a monster.

  “You motherfucker!” Thud. Wham. Rock kicked a massive dent in the passenger door. “You ignorant, redneck motherfucker. You could have killed her just now!”

  The driver and I exchanged angry glances and my whole world went on tilt.

  Lefty Wheeler jammed his foot down on the parking brake and flung open the driver’s side door.

  “Did you just kick my car? Is there a dent in the side of my truck? You retard motherfucker! Imma kill you.”

  “Wait. Rock.” Elena’s voice held shock.

  She’d probably never seen him angry like that. I couldn’t have imagined his fury if I’d tried, but this was Rock protecting his godmother, and Lefty didn’t stand a fucking chance in hell.

  “It’s okay, baby.” Elena tried again to get Rock’s attention. “I’m fine. I’m just rattled. I’ll be fine.”

  “He hit you!” Rock shouted, still kicking Wheeler’s door. “You could have been killed by that”—wham!—“that”—wham!

  “Calm down, honey. I’m okay,” she said desperately.

  “Don’t talk to me about calming down,” Rock hollered. “I am not going to calm down until that inbred fucking—”

  “Jee-zussss!” The boss had somehow opened his door and he was now standing, swaying, clinging to the car’s roof. Grinning widely with only half his face. It was awful hard for him to talk, but apparently he needed to repeat the word. “Jesus!”

  This time, he thumped his fist on the roof of the car for emphasis.

  Bam, bam, bam!

  “You wanted a piece of me, Lefty Wheeler?” Rock was in a blind rage. “I am right fucking here. Come and get it.”

  “Rock, c’mon.” I tried distracting him. “We need to take Elena to the ER.”

  “I appreciate your support,” Elena said over me, “but I don’t need anyone to tell me to take some ibuprofen and that I’m going to feel like shit tomorrow.”

  “You’re paying for that dent,” Lefty shouted at Rock.

  “I’ll pay it,” I offered. God, I’d let Rock burn Lefty�
�s POS fucking truck to the ground. Even if I had to pay for a new one out of my wages forever.

  Lefty turned to me with a sneer. “I don’t need your fag money.”

  “My fag money spends just as well as your asshole money,” I shouted.

  Not helping, I know.

  Rock’s pastor hurried over, all breathless and out of sorts.

  “Elena, my gosh. I called nine-one-one. Are you all right?”

  Elena wasn’t looking at him. She was looking behind me, eyes wide and full of fear. I spun around.

  Lefty Wheeler was coming straight for Rock holding an aluminum baseball bat. The look on his face was murderous.

  Chandler paled.

  Elena screamed.

  Lefty took a swing at Rock. Rock, who had been too busy worrying about Elena to notice he was even in any danger.

  Chandler called out something unintelligible, Pastor gave a horrified squawk, and Lefty roared, charging like a bull with a hornet’s nest up its butt.

  “You faggot motherfucker. This is the last fucking time—”

  I stepped between them.

  “Ow. FUCK.” The blow meant for Rock hit my left forearm and broke it, instantly.

  Blinding, bewildering pain left me speechless with rage.

  Then came those goddamn reflexes. Reflexes never lead anywhere good.

  I knew I was going to regret anything I did without giving myself a solid ten minutes of deep-breathing before I considered a course of action, appropriate or otherwise.

  But they’re called reflexes for a reason.

  Lefty Wheeler may have broken my left hand.

  But I hit him with my right.

  Lefty’s chin gave a very satisfying crunch. Blood spurted from his mouth and nose and he fell like a broken doll. He was breathing. But he wasn’t going anywhere.

  Rock’s pastor had already called the EMTs for Elena, so I stood there, panting. Wondering what was next.

  No . . . not wondering.

  Dreading, because I knew exactly what was next.

  The sheriff’s deputies drove up, lights on, no sirens—two cars positioned at an angle to us, officers behind the engine block, just like they were trained. Doors open. Weapons drawn. They screamed at me to lie down and place my hands behind my head, and somehow, despite my broken arm, I assumed that awful, familiar position.

  While I screamed in agony, they cuffed me. Cuffed Lefty. Cuffed Rock. Now there were sirens. Maisy barked, Elena was telling her side of the story, Rock hollered, and Lefty, who’d come to, was screaming at me, screaming I was a menace to society and I needed to be put away for everyone’s own good.

  Pot. Kettle. Black. What the fuck ever.

  I knew what was really happening.

  Unlike Rock. Unlike Elena. Unlike the pastor and almost everyone there.

  I knew everything I cared about was now beyond my grasp.

  Chandler pounded on the roof of the car. He seemed to be saying something. I couldn’t hear him, because one of the deputies had hooked me under the arm and was pulling me up and someone was howling.

  “Ow. Jesus, Fucking Christ. Ow.”

  “Stop.” Rock had tears streaming down his cheeks now. He was inconsolable. “Stop hurting him. Take me. This is all my fault.”

  Chandler’s banging became strident, rhythmic: Bam. Bam. Bam.

  Everyone looked his way.

  “Car hit!” He pointed at Elena and then at Lefty Wheeler. “Hit. Her.”

  Everyone started talking at once.

  Boss got spitting mad again.

  Bam. Bam. Bam.

  Whoo-boy. You could sure tell the boss was used to hearing, “How high?” when he said jump. And I loved him for trying to straighten things out. I really did. But whatever Sterling Chandler said, I’d hit Lefty Wheeler and I was going back to prison.

  It hurt too much to think about that just then.

  I kept my eyes on Rock, who sat on the ground, heartbroken, while Maisy and Elena tried to comfort him.

  “Listen.” Chandler’s expression was thunderous as he hammered dents into Elena’s car. “Listen!”

  Boss pointed at Rock, at Elena, and at Maisy and me, and he said—clear as anything, “Family.”

  Elena covered her face with her hands and sobbed.

  “Family.” Chandler repeated, thumping the car’s roof with his clenched fist. “My. My . . . Mine. Mine. Family. Family.”

  “All right, sir.” One of the deputies came forward and took Sterling’s arm in a gentle grip. “All right, Mr. Chandler, sir.”

  He held steady as the boss carefully lowered himself back into Elena’s passenger seat.

  “We’ll look after your family, Mr. Chandler. I promise.”

  “Mine,” Boss said, over and over, as he sat there. “Mine. Mine.”

  “Please stay seated here. We’ll get to the bottom of this.”

  Chandler shook his head.

  He thumped his chest like a half-paralyzed gorilla, just to remind everyone he was the biggest sumbitch in the Hill Country, and then he pointed right back at me.

  “Protect.” He spat the word happily, nodded with satisfaction, and then he narrowed his eyes before turning back to scowl at Lefty Wheeler. “Asshole.”

  Despite the pain, I snorted a laugh.

  “Yessir. That’s what I’m talking about.” Rock gave a little fist pump, even though his cheeks still glistened, damp and red.

  The boss did look mighty pleased with himself. He’d spoken up. He wasn’t going to put Rock’s pastor out of the talking business, but he’d gotten his point across.

  And apparently people would still jump to do his bidding.

  He must have been so relieved.

  Elena muttered more curses in Spanish, but she looked relieved too.

  Didn’t they understand? Hitting anyone, even a filthy bigot like Lefty Wheeler, even in self-defense, was a one-way ticket back to prison.

  But they were so happy.

  When the sheriff’s deputies put me into the back of a squad car, cupping my head like they weren’t trying to bang it on the door frame this time, Elena and Rock still looked like they’d won.

  I didn’t have the heart to tell Rock there wasn’t going to be any celebration.

  I was a coward, but . . . I’d let him find that out for himself.

  Chapter 38

  Sky

  In the ER, I waited. One arm was wrapped in a soft cast and the other handcuffed to the bed frame. A sheriff’s deputy stood outside the door.

  No one had come to my room since they’d finished fixing up my arm.

  Somewhere, Elena was getting looked over. Probably Chandler as well, He’d worked so hard, trying to tell everyone what was what, he probably needed his blood pressure checked.

  The nice thing was they gave me the good kind of painkillers. My arm throbbed dully but the wrenching, truly sick-making pain was a memory. I’d always been kind of glad you can’t remember physical pain. You remember feeling pain, but it can’t hurt you anymore.

  Good thing. Otherwise, our memories would be harmful to our health.

  Physical pain is awful. But then it leaves.

  Emotional pain does encores.

  I heard loud voices in the hall. Laughter as someone passed by the door. She was heading to Labor and Delivery, judging from her very pregnant body and the way she was saying, “Fuck this shit. I don’t wanna do this no more.”

  Rock was out there, somewhere. In trouble for what he’d done to Lefty’s truck. He had to be sick with worry over Elena. He was already under so much strain, what with his parents’ home-conversion therapy and Chandler’s health. Elena was his touchstone and without her, he was probably feeling alone.

  I wonder if he’s going to think I abandoned him.

  If he’s going to think
I left him because hitting Lefty meant more to me than he does.

  I wanted to tell him nothing could be further from the truth.

  I’d never do anything to make Rock sad, except . . . Goddamn reflexes.

  Andi and Ryder and Declan had arrived earlier. I’d seen them walk past. Maybe they were taking care of Rock. Probably they were.

  I shouldn’t think I could do a better job than them, but I did.

  Nobody could ever take better care of Rock than me.

  I got him.

  He didn’t need babysitters and rules about how to save his soul. He just needed someone to clear away everything that kept him from being Rock.

  And I was a little proud because I saw that from the very beginning.

  Precious gems just need a little love to shine.

  The chance to be Rock’s man, the guy who gave him what he needed, was what the temporary satisfaction of punching Lefty Wheeler was going to cost me.

  Plus, it was going to cost me even more time. Not just my stretch, but an added sentence for losing control and hitting. More time, worse time because it was a second offense. Unprotected time, because ’Nando wouldn’t know me no more.

  The one thing that made it worthwhile was knowing Lefty Wheeler was going to do time too.

  Between Elena’s accident, and the assault on Rock. Maybe they’d even charge him with a hate crime. If I knew about those, then Declan surely would. Rock was going to see to it that Lefty got punished, because once Rock got ahold of himself, he’d started laying out every awful, bullying thing Lefty’d done since Rock came to town.

  A lot of it, even Elena didn’t know anything about.

  Tripping. Spilling drinks. Pushing.

  Once, according to Rock, Lefty’d even made veiled threats against Maisy—something about meat, laced with poison and how that would be real easy for someone to do. How they’d never get caught.

  I’d wanted to leap out of the patrol car and kill Lefty when I heard that. What kind of sick motherfucker talks about poisoning a service dog?

  I wanted to hit Lefty again and again, until he just never got back up, even if I got the needle for it.

  Thank God Rock was making his case. The deputies were sympathetic. You could see they all knew Lefty Wheeler was trouble. They’d been waiting for an excuse to pull him in.