At the first pawnshop, she sold the ornate glass paperweight and two gold-tipped onyx fountain pens from the desk in the den, and the earrings that went with her string of pearls. (She intended to hold on to the string of pearls if possible.) When the spark in the shop owner’s eyes—a woman with thick eyeliner and blue lids—was much more than the offer she made on an item, Etta declined to sell. The money the fountain pens brought astounded her. Although the shop owner was a woman and very cool acting, Etta noticed she took note of Etta’s condition. She said, “Guy up and leave you, honey?”
“He died,” Etta said. She saw pity flash across the woman’s face, although it was quickly gone, and the woman said she was sorry, but she was after all a businesswoman.
At the second pawnshop, Etta succeeded in selling Roy’s watch, the gold cuff links she had bought him on their second anniversary—getting more than she had originally paid—and her wedding rings.
“Are you sure you want to sell these?” the proprietor asked her, when she struggled to get them off her finger, which had picked that inopportune time to swell.
“Yes,” she said, and handed the rings over. He peered at them with his eyeglass, made an offer she found generous, and she accepted.
As he swept the rings from her sight, she experienced a sadness so deep as to be frightening. Watching him count out the money before her, all crisp bills, helped considerably.
When she went back outside, she waved the money at Johnny, who had been waiting right beside the door, and who gave the appearance of being a little anxious. His concern warmed her heart.
“Well now, you’re doin’ right well, Miss Etta,” he said, giving a slow grin.
“Yes, I am,” she said proudly. Some instinct caused her to take care to keep her ring hand out of plain sight.
Johnny suggested the shop of antiques and fine used furniture, pointing out the silver tea and coffee service in the window was very much like Etta’s. Here she sold the silver tea service, the silver platter, and the crystal serving dish. As the man handed her a check, she mentioned that she had a number of pieces of furniture which she might be willing to sell. He passed her a card which read: Robert Lamb, Appraisals and Estate Liquidation.
Johnny worried that the check Mr. Lamb gave her might not be good and drove her directly to the bank upon which the check was drawn. The streets were busy and parking limited, forcing Johnny to let Etta out in front of the bank, while he circled the block.
Etta watched the wooden stock rails of his truck lean as he pulled out into traffic, then she looked at the building rising up into the sky and went inside. Never in her life had she seen such a bank, with ceilings rising two stories and ornate lamps and frescos and marble everywhere. She was looking so hard that she ran into a pillar.
Considering that Roy had taken her to Tulsa and Dallas and Houston, and that she had stayed in the best hotels, it seemed strange that she never once had been inside such a bank. After marrying Roy, she rarely had even gone into the bank back home. In time he had quit taking her with him to the cities, too, and her world had become the stately house and waiting for Roy to come home. She had not even realized it.
Etta counted the money the cashier gave her, then went back outside and down the wide sidewalk to where Johnny had pulled into a no-parking zone. He saw her coming, jumped out, and helped her up into the seat. When he got back inside, she looked at him for a breathless minute.
“Here’s what I owe you for the groceries,” she said, quite proudly bringing forth the money from her purse.
Johnny’s silvery eyes went wide. He looked at the money and then at her. An angry expression crept over his face.
“I don’t want your damn money.”
She had never heard Johnny swear, not once, not even when he dealt with the most stubborn horse. He turned straight ahead, with his jaw hard as frozen meat.
Somewhat confused, Etta dropped her hand into her lap and stared at the money, while silence thick as heavy fog filled the truck.
“You sold your rings,” he said.
Etta looked down at her hand, at the finger where she had worn her rings. There was a white place there, and the finger was thinner than the rest.
“Yes,” she said, then added, “I think I got a good price.”
Feelings were trying to rush in, and she pushed them out. She thought she would be crushed if she allowed them in.
“Look,” Johnny said, turning to her. “You should have told me that you and Latrice needed money for groceries. I’ve been eatin’ them for weeks now. It’s only right I help pay. I could spare the money—and I wanted to do it.” With each word, his voice got angrier.
She lifted her eyes to him. “Why?”
She watched his scowling face. Shifting his seat, he looked out the windshield, squinting.
“Well, you and Miss Latrice have been real generous with me,” he said at last. “You let me use your barn and corrals and are feedin’ me and doin’ my laundry. I figure it’s only right for me to chip in. I should have offered a long time ago.” His eyes came around to her, and he added, “You saved my life the other night, too.”
Disappointment washed over Etta. She didn’t know why . . . what he said was very sincere.
She said, “I don’t know if we saved your life. You probably would have rolled over or somethin’ when you couldn’t breathe. People do that naturally.”
He shook his head, “I was drunk as a skunk and dead to the world.”
“Well . . . you’ve done so much for us. Our deal was for you to use the barn and corrals as payment for my husband’s IOU. Use of those barns for a couple of months won’t add up to eight hundred dollars, not to mention you fixing the fences and everything else. I’ve felt that by feeding you, we come closer to coming out even.”
His jaw got tight again. “Ma’am, I was raised up to look out for ladies, if I was in a position to do so. It hasn’t cost me nothin’ to do a little work, and I could afford to pay the dang grocery bill, so I did. It’s no big deal.”
He reached out and turned the key, starting the truck.
Etta said, “That’s very fine, but I cannot let you pay my bills. It will make me indebted to you”—she tried to steady her lips and her voice—“and I do not intend to be relying on a man to pay my bills ever again.”
With his hand on the gearshift, he gazed at her for a long moment while he seemed to be thinking very hard.
“Friends help friends,” he said at last. “I figured we’re friends. You saved my life, like I was a friend.”
Etta nodded. “Yes . . . we’re friends.”
“Okay then,” he said flatly. “You just keep your money and go on feedin’ me for a few more weeks. I guess we can call it even after that.”
He shifted into gear and pulled out into the street.
Etta gazed at Johnny's strong tanned hands on the steering wheel, and then her gaze dropped to the money she still held in her hand. She had been gripping it so hard that her palm had grown moist.
If Johnny insisted on being foolish, there was nothing she could do about it—she couldn’t very well dash him in the head and stuff the money into his pocket. And she could use it, she thought, as she opened her handbag, slipped the bills deep inside, and closed it with a snap.
Her gaze lit on the pale skin of her finger where the rings used to be. She saw herself and Roy in the small office at the courthouse that had smelled like oiled wood, and the judge who’d kept blowing his nose in a handkerchief, and how when Roy had put the wedding ring on her finger she had known a terribly frightening feeling, like knowing she was about to get hit by a car but that she could not do anything about it because she was already in the middle of the road. There was no going back, only going forward and hoping for the best.
That’s exactly how things were now, she thought.
Lifting her gaze from her empty finger and empty memories, she looked out the window at the city buildings and lots reflecting brightly in the sunlight and the peop
le walking along, each with his or her own troubles and pain that could not be seen from the outside, each going onward.
* * * *
On the outskirts of the city, Etta spied the familiar sign with the flying red horse. “Would you pull into that station? I need to use the restroom.”
Johnny turned into the gas station, saying, “Geez, Etta, you can sure startle me with those requests to turn. Would you start givin’ me a little warnin?”
“I’m sorry, but I just now saw it.”
He had called her Etta again.
She slipped from the truck before Johnny could come around and open the door for her, and hurried away to the ladies’ room. When she came out, she found Johnny sitting at one of the picnic tables at the edge of the parking lot. He had them each a hot dog and drink—an Orange Crush for her, root beer for himself.
“Oh, gosh, we never did have lunch, did we? Thank you—I’m starving!”
Johnny looked highly pleased.
She adored hot dogs with only mustard, and when she remarked on this, he said, “I remembered once that you said that.”
He had remembered that.
She gazed at him. It was nice to sit in the shade beneath the minuscule awning above the picnic table, nice to feel the cooling breeze and look across into Johnny’s bright silvery eyes.
As she bit into the warm hot dog, it struck her that no matter the blows one took, life—appetites and distractions and annoyances—went on. There was a certain comfort in this.
Stretching out beyond a barbed wire fence was a pasture in which several horses grazed. Gazing at the sight, Etta asked, “How many acres do you suppose I’d need just to operate a stable? Maybe raise and train good riding horses?”
She was a little shy about bringing up the subject, since she had initially thwarted the idea when Johnny had suggested it.
He didn’t seem bothered. “Depends,” he drawled. “If you kept grazing pasture, you’d save some money. If you weren’t using your grazing pasture, you could always rent it out. I’d say you could manage easily with twenty acres, but you’d probably want forty, so you could keep that alfalfa field.”
“I’d need enough property for people to ride on, if I rented boarding space.”
“That’d be nice, but what would bring renters is an arena for training.”
“I don’t think I’ll make enough money to go sinkin’ it into building an arena.”
“Well, not at first, but later,” Johnny said, warming to the subject.
He then went on describing the various setups of stock ranches he had seen and worked for, in the manner as only Johnny could, talking endlessly yet interestingly. Etta listened and ate her hot dog and watched Johnny’s eyes and voice grow intense with his subject. He had a way of really drawing out his words when he got intense; she liked to listen to his tone.
She ended up eating two hot dogs. She might have had another Orange Crush, but she didn’t want to keep having to stop to go to the bathroom. The public restrooms between Oklahoma City and Chickasha were not of the quality she preferred.
“How ‘bout a Fudgesicle?” Johnny asked with a tempting grin.
“Well . . . okay,” Etta said, grinning shyly at the quantity of food she seemed to be able to consume these days.
Together they went into the small store. While Johnny paid, Etta stepped back outside. Inside the store smelled heavily of tobacco and pickle vinegar, making her feel a little sick.
As she stood beneath the portico and unwrapped her Fudgesicle, an old, battered Dodge pickup pulled up to the gas pumps. The man and woman in the cab looked used and worn out. The woman stared out the windshield, looking neither right nor left. She didn’t even blink when the man got out of the truck and slammed the door. She looked like one of those living dead in the horror shows, Etta thought.
Etta caught a whiff of the man, about a week’s worth of sweat, as he passed her going into the store. The woman continued to stare out the windshield. She gave no sign of hearing the children fighting in the back of the truck.
The woman so disturbed Etta that she started to move away. Then her gaze connected with a girl in the back of the truck. About seven, stringy hair not combed in a month of Sundays, snotty nose and dirt-streaked face and shirt torn at the shoulder. A child neglected and forgotten. She stood holding on to the side of the bed and stared at Etta with big eyes, while two younger boys wrestled behind her.
For an instant Etta was a child again. She recalled riding in the back of her father’s pickup, how hot the steel got in the summer, how the wind batted her ears until she couldn’t see, and the dust choked her throat. She would cry, but her father and mother never paid any attention.
She blinked and saw the little girl again.
Slowly Etta extended her Fudgesicle. The child gave the frozen chocolate a startled look. Her eyes, hazel, darted back at Etta, and Etta smiled. Just as the little girl reached out her grubby hand to take the Fudgesicle, Johnny came out the door. Clutching the treat, the little girl looked at him.
Etta turned and walked quickly away. Johnny followed.
“That mother doesn’t care for those children,” Etta said. She was shaking. “She never once looked back at them. Why does God allow things like that?” She peered up at Johnny and then looked over at the children.
The three were now solemnly sharing Etta’s Fudgesicle.
“There’s a lot of mysteries in this world, and that’s one of ‘em, I guess,” Johnny said. He didn’t quite know what was required of him. The sight of the poor couple and the children had definitely unsettled Etta.
The old pickup pulled away, and the little girl waved. Etta waved back. Then she looked up at Johnny. “I was like that little girl, but I had Latrice. I wonder if that child has anyone.”
“Well, she has your Fudgsicle,” Johnny said and was relieved when she smiled.
He held the remaining half of his melting chocolate ice toward her. “I’ll share mine with you, Miz Etta.”
Her grinned widened, and then her eyes sparkled. Leaning forward, she licked the frozen chocolate. Then he watched her suck it into her mouth and slowly release it, her blue eyes sparkling up at him the entire time. Keeping his eyes on hers, he took his turn at sucking on the frozen chocolate, and gave Etta another lick. He watched her tongue move on the sweet ice, then watched it move over her lips.
Feeling things he didn’t think he needed to be feeling, he tossed the now empty Fudgesicle stick away. “Guess I’d better get you home, or Miss Latrice will come after me."
He rested his hand on her back as they walked to his truck. She seemed to like his nearness. He put her in the truck from the driver’s side, and she didn’t scoot over to the passenger side, but sat next to him.
“Johnny,” she said, after he got in beside her. She looked at him with a shy expression. “Thanks for all you did for me today . . . for drivin’ me up here and waitin’ for me. It helped to know you were just outside those shops, waitin’ if I needed you.” Her cheeks got very red.
He wanted to kiss her.
“It was no trouble . . . glad to do it,” he said and started the truck to give him something to do, while inside he was jumping around, excited to have finally pleased her.
Once out on the road, he slipped his arm behind her on the seat. Then he slipped it onto her shoulder. She glanced at him and looked a little hesitant, but she didn’t move away.
The next thing he knew she was drooping against him. She had fallen asleep.
* * * *
When Etta awoke, she found she was lying against Johnny’s shoulder. The scent of him, of warm male and starched cotton, was all around her.
Coming fully to herself, she jerked up straight, smoothing her hair and clothes. “I hope I didn’t bother you.”
“Nah. I didn’t have to shift.”
Etta’s gaze fell to his shoulder, and she wished she could put her head back there . . . and rest there for days and days. Jerking her eyes away, she looked out the w
indow, watched the farmhouses and little roadside stores flash past.
When she saw the curve of the cemetery arch approaching, she said, “Oh, could you turn in here?” and pointed.
Johnny cast her a surprised look, braked, and turned quickly with a squeal of the tires.
As they drove beneath the white stone archway and the cemetery was spread out before them, Etta suddenly wished she hadn’t asked him to stop. Her spirit did not feel up to looking at Roy’s grave. But Johnny had gone to the trouble of making the turn, and she couldn’t tell him to just drive out again.
The grave site looked so different without the canvas awning and stacks of flowers. Etta felt a little guilty for not coming earlier and putting fresh flowers on the grave. Then she noticed that there was a small bouquet. Corinne, no doubt.
She sat there, gazing at the grave from the truck. She might not have gotten out, but Johnny came around and opened the door for her, took her arm to help her to the ground.
“Are you all right?” he asked, his eyes anxious. She nodded. "I’ll just be a few minutes.” She pressed a hand on his forearm, feeling the strength and warmth of him.
Slowly she walked across the deep green grass; it had still been brown when they had buried Roy. Bermuda sod had been carefully placed over his grave, and it was taking hold, as if sealing Roy there with his family. She gazed at the little bouquet of wilted daisies and reached down to toss them aside. She stopped and drew back. Throwing them aside seemed disrespectful and callous.
Kneeling, she put her hand to the ground, trying to feel something . . . wanting so much to feel something warm, not the cold of guilt and resentment.
She gazed at his headstone, for long minutes at the words: Roy J. Rivers, Beloved Son, Beloved Husband. Pain came across her heart. She squeezed her eyes closed, and when she opened them her gaze fell upon the headstone several yards away. “And forgive us our debts, as we forgive our debtors.”
If Wishes Were Horses Page 19