Blue Rodeo

by Jo-Ann Mapson

She shook her head. “It makes me a little sad, Owen. Here we’ve been getting along so well as neighbors. Now we’re going to screw everything up by throwing sex into it.”

  “Despite what movies would have you believe, one kiss don’t automatically mean sex will follow.”

  “It’s never just one kiss. Not with people our age.”

  “Our age what? I’m fifty-two, but I call myself a gentleman. How old are you?”

  “I’m forty. You’re still a man.”

  “Forty? That’s a grand age. All the nonsense of your thirties is behind you. You got ten long years before fifty hits and scares you into spending every day you’ve got left like it’s your last two bits.”

  He let go of the limb, moving closer through the dark water until she felt the warmth of his bare thigh graze hers.

  “All this fretting over something we haven’t even done yet.” He placed his arm around her shoulders, drew her in, kissed her full on the mouth, his lips closed, as he promised, a gentleman’s kiss. He held her to him, breathing naturally, his hands solid against her back, then kissed her cheeks, her ears, and tilted her chin back so that he could bend down and kiss the length of her long, white, wet neck.

  That was the place—if she’d been a spy captured by the enemy in wartime, if she’d embezzled money from her employer, or if she was some kind of international art thief—all anyone would have to do was send in a handsome man to kiss her neck and she’d spill her secrets as easily as this river water flowing between her legs.

  He held her there, her breasts grazing his chest, their ankles touching, hands staying like good children in the careful territory of arms. “You’re making me wish I still drank. About now I’d down the better part of a fifth to give me courage.”

  “To do what, I’m afraid to ask?”

  “Kiss you again.”

  She thought that over a moment. She knew what her sister would have done—kissed him back first. But she wasn’t Nori, and for all she’d lost, she still retained the power of speech to say no when she felt like saying no. “I don’t think we need liquor.” Taking hold of his right hand, she moved it slowly up her body until it came to rest on her left breast, that mound of flesh made nearly weightless by the water. She felt him shiver the length of his body, felt the shock of his response through his lips as he kissed her again, the quick darting movement of his tongue inside her mouth.

  That kiss said something she had needed to be reminded of—outside this river, on dry land, where contiguous states bumped each other at their borders and telephone systems chattered all night with orbiting satellites, nothing really mattered except two people in a river, making a night pass by holding on to one another.

  When they came apart, breathing as shallowly as if they’d been swimming under rock toward a small pocket of air, Margaret said soberly, “Your dog the day we met. Is he some kind of mind reader?”

  “Just a clever animal who makes the most of what little he’s got.”

  “Maybe you ought to enter him in the Blue Dog competition next year.”

  Owen grinned, a flash of shining white teeth in moonlight. “He’s already got too high of an opinion of himself.”

  She shivered. “I’m glad you talked me into swimming, but I’m really starting to get cold.”

  “Me, too. It’s going to be a bone chiller of a race between this water and your farmhouse, but if we cut through the trees, my bunkhouse is closer.”

  She shook her head. “No way. You get me in there, start playing love songs on the radio, I’m doomed. A couple of kisses and swimming in my underwear is as far as I go tonight.”

  “Warm blankets and a hot cup of tea, nothing else. You have my word, Maggie.”

  Somehow, in two kisses, without alcohol, he’d executed the name change, baptism by river. Half teasing, she said, “How do I know your word’s something I can trust?”

  “It’s the only thing about me that hasn’t sold itself at one time or another. You take that to the bank. Folks there’ll vouch for me.”

  Not believing him, beyond caring what that meant, she went.

  6

  IT TOOK MOST OF OWEN’S INNER STRENGTH AND ALL HIS REASONING to wrap Maggie’s bare shoulders in the faded rainbow-colored Mexican serape when what his body told him to do was strip away the blanket, the wet underwear, and what was left of his resolve. She sat shivering in a rickety birch chair at his kitchen table, dripping river water onto the cement floor, three feet from his single bed with the overly soft mattress. Depending on how you arranged your bodies, wouldn’t be hard to make room for two.

  But even if you only got so far as stepping into natural water, you still could learn plenty about a woman. Whether she could swim, for example—she could—or if she was the type not to want her hair getting wet—dunked it under, first thing—or best of all, leaned her graceful neck back and let water wash over her in some kind of elemental pleasure. That was the way he would commit to memory the end of this year’s summer—when he christened Maggie Yearwood in the Animas River, the water touching her everywhere, the way he wanted to but wouldn’t, because he’d given his word, and tattered as it was, he stood by it.

  “You call this Indian summer?” she said, rubbing her hands over her arms in an attempt to get warm. “I could see my breath all the way up to the barn!”

  “Coffee,” he said firmly. “I’ll make us a fresh pot.”

  She shook her head. “No thanks. I’ll be up all night.” The chill pebbled her flesh and blued her lips. Owen offered her a dry shirt and she turned her back, letting the blanket drop long enough to ease her arms inside. The sleeves were five inches too long. On Maggie, a flannel shirt took on all kinds of impractical significance.

  He watched her wring her wet things out at the sink and dry her feet on a towel. Then she said, “We probably ought to talk about what happened down there in the water.”

  “Why?”

  “Because kissing changes everything.”

  “Now, see, that’s the trouble with you Californians, always wanting to talk everything into a corner, paying some lunatic a hundred dollars an hour to give you a theory on why or why not to kiss a man who takes you swimming on a hot night. We’re human, Maggie. What we did felt good, that’s all there is to it.”

  But that wasn’t all there was to it. Kissing her, then, with her permission, touching her breast—the last time his heart had such a workout was when he’d met a Colorado state trooper in downtown Farmington. He’d smiled to the man, tipped his hat, and gone about his business, but he couldn’t eat the entire day thinking about it, not even after Lulu Mantooth explained there was a convention of badges over at the Holiday Inn, and sure enough, they were a bunch of agarrado cheapskates who tried to argue her down on the price of turquoise keychains.

  He got up and went to Maggie, taking her by the arms. “Let’s get you home. I’ll drive you. That way you won’t catch a chill.”

  She looked at him uncertainly, as if she didn’t believe he’d let her go without forcing the issue.

  Up close, her skin smelled slightly sweet. She knew good and well what he wanted, and as much as he wanted it now, it could wait until they were of a similar mind. “Go on, get in the truck.” He gave a whistle for the dog.

  “Such a worthless day, might as well cut wood,” Owen said outside Rabbott’s Hardware, where there was a sale on insulation and microwave dishes. The former was selling well; the latter they couldn’t give away, not even below cost. But Joe Yazzi was being as silent as his white mule, Lightning. The mule had never been much to look at, but since the Police Department had impounded Joe’s truck—a fish they were willing to throw back only if Joe paid his outstanding fines—the mule took Joe where he wanted to go and seemed to tolerate the city streets of Blue Dog. Owen gave the well-fed animal a pat. Sometimes when Joe was low on cash, the animal grew thin and poor in the coat, but if you looked closely, Joe always looked worse. What Joe’s sheep hadn’t trimmed down to nothing, the mule ate.

&nb
sp; Thanks to the year’s ample rainfall, there had been forage this fall, but even that was meager as they headed into November. Owen suspected Joe fed the mule instead of feeding himself. All through the months of September and October, when the colors were fading from the trees and grasses, and the tourists came in fewer droves, farther between, you could find Joe just about anywhere, being Mr. Goodtime. If he wasn’t making fun of the line dancers in the Trough, or holding a female body close against his own for a slow dance, he was driving a couple of pretty girls around, in search of team-roping practices.

  Lately, Owen thought, it seemed like Joe was retreating, inch by significant inch. He didn’t go out much, he missed a few Thursday nights, the entire truck incident seemed off. At the core of things, something felt so wrong it vibrated through the quiet like an alarm. “You’re not drinking, are you?” he asked, but Joe’s ready answer was to whip him at gin rummy, add the year’s tally of points, and remind Owen how many hundreds of dollars he owed. When he did remember to meet Owen for Thursday suppers, they chatted, but Joe’s smile, like his storytelling and his come-and-go pretty girlfriends, was like the sun, peeking through now and again, but mostly dwindling down to nods in the grasp of the oncoming winter.

  Owen tried again. “It could also be a good day to accompany a friend while he cuts wood. No work’s necessary. Maybe the friend could use some company.”

  Joe squatted down face-to-face with Hopeful, who cocked his furry blue-roan head as if trying to understand Joe, too. Joe mumbled a few words in Navajo, then stood, pulled himself up on his mule, situating the worn chevron-patterned blanket underneath his scrawny butt, and gathered his reins in his left fist.

  “How about if I stop by later and bring you some wood?” Owen asked, and watched the Indian silently ride his white mule down the length of Main Street, fall leaves and litter blowing up around the mule’s pasterns as they ignored the single traffic light.

  It had been too long a day, loaded with jigsaw puzzles. That morning Maggie had closed up the Starr farmhouse and—before getting into the gray-blue Toyota—asked him to watch after her skinny dog. Sure, he’d walk over twice a day and feed Echo—what was one more dog but company? “Santa Fe,” she told Owen, tight lipped when he flagged her down at the mailbox and asked where she was headed. “I might stay a week.”

  “Off to see some of the local art? Or are you planning to hook up with your boy in Riverwall?” It about broke his heart when he saw her check the mailbox every day, hoping. After a few weeks he started leaving her things, a wildflower now and then, a clearance-table tube of purple paint, more paper when he saw she was running low, hoping to lessen her disappointment.

  She’d looked at him, exasperated. “Can’t I just drive to Santa Fe, or is that a crime?”

  “Well, no, ma’am. New Mexico’s a free territory since gaining statehood in 1912. We got freight, passenger, and steam railroads, natural wonders in the Caverns, santuarios if you feel like praying for miracles, and some wide-open spaces where you can worship dirt and stickerweed if that’s what tickles your toes. You can pretty much do what you like.”

  “Thank you for the history lesson. And don’t call me ma’am. I am not old enough to be a ma’am.” There was that dry tone again, the one she put on when she was feeling sad.

  He threw up his hands. She drove away, stubborn mouth set. Santa Fe. A week. He wanted to reach inside the car and turn off the ignition, throw her keys in the tall weeds, take her into the farmhouse, and kiss her breathless until they got to the bottom of this. Instead he agreed to look after the place, feed the dog, pick up her mail, check the pipes in case of a freeze—unlikely as that possibility was, since he’d wrapped them himself. In nearly three months he’d only touched her breast that one time in the river. Oh, she was generous with kisses, had a surplus of those, and there was no mistaking the electricity he knew wasn’t sparking in his loins alone. Twice a week or so she had him to dinner—Maggie could make a mean beef stew with carrots and onions simmering in a juicy gravy—but she could also turn things off between them quicker than a stack of unpaid utility bills shut down your lights.

  Sometimes she could be so bullheaded. Out there in the yard, planting bulbs six hours at a time, she wouldn’t hear of him helping her. Stacking her firewood all by herself, as if she had to prove herself worthy of the heat they’d provide by earning a back full of sore muscles. Standing under his shower some mornings, turning the knob all the way to cold to settle his blood, Owen decided she flat-out reminded him of the Rio Grande. Opinionated when it came to direction, it came brawling out of Colorado, strong, clean, and deep, rushing down the soul of the state, so treacherous in places it could drown a man. There were the fine parts to Maggie, where the water ran clean and honest; a man could drink from there forever. But there were also deceptive shallows, where a trickle of dark water flowed stingily through sharp rocks and hidden cracks, like the days he’d catch a glimpse of her sitting at the kitchen table, that open book in front of her, her right hand in the air, practicing gestures that never seemed to satisfy her. He had no clue as to why trying to teach herself sign language seemed to upset her so. During those times, those dark-water passages, it was best to just walk around, not even dampen your boot tips.

  He went to his truck and opened the door for Hopeful, who gave his usual athletic three-legged leap inside. They’d travel northeast toward Dulce to cut wood, even though not so many miles north lay Durango, the town he had to avoid. The wood was cheap, plentiful, and if he got industrious, maybe he could sell a few spare cords to make some money. They were heading into winter, and the middle of the week was an unlikely time to meet up with anyone.

  The whine of his Little Beaver chainsaw burned his ears. For as much time as one might save you over an ax, they exhausted your arms twice as much. He cut for three hours, then hauled out the wedge and started splitting the wood into stove-size lengths. Above him the sky darkened and a light rain began to fall. He studied the clouds, imagining Maggie’s boy, the cloud fanatic. He’d sure enough know what to make of these—they were snow clouds. It was getting colder. Anytime now, that light rain might go to snow. He stopped to wipe his face and tie his bandanna higher on his face to keep the damp wood chips from his nose and mouth. Over his cowboy hat, he wore a plastic cover, a “hat rubber,” Joe called it—when Joe was speaking. Hopeful lifted his head and sighed, then backed the majority of his body beneath the truck.

  Between Owen’s shoulders a warm heat began to spread. He set his mind to the task before him and tried to forget that the two people he cared most to spend time with were in some kind of twist where they wouldn’t tell him anything. Just before dusk an Apache from the Jicarilla reservation rode by on his horse and dismounted, preparing to haul back some wood himself. Owen nodded hello to the man and continued loading wood into the pickup bed. The man nodded back and began cutting, creating his own small pile.

  “I know your face,” the man said, after ten minutes or so. “Didn’t you used to live in Trinidad?” He snapped his fingers. “No, Durango, wasn’t it?”

  Owen shook his head no. “Guess that’s the curse of having a common face. People say I look a little bit like everyone. Rapid City, that’s where I come from. Transplant to the Land of Enchantment.”

  “You must have a twin, brother.”

  “They say most people do.”

  The Indian eyed him again, then took off with his load into the woods.

  Owen sat down on the truck bumper and wiped his face. Maybe it was time to grow a beard again, just for the winter. He sure didn’t want to leave Blue Dog. As much as he’d tried not to, he’d sunk roots here. Hopeful silently nosed his leg. No matter what, he wouldn’t leave the dog. Joe. Maggie. How could he leave any of them? He reached down and petted his dog, scratching between the shoulder blades, where the vet had taken the muscle and wrapped it tight, leaving a smooth absence where there should have been leg. “You’re wanting your supper, aren’t you? Well, this work’d go a lot qui
cker if you’d help me out and load a few sticks into the truck.”

  At the sound stick, surely one of the finest words in the English language, the dog picked up a twig and dropped it at Owen’s feet. He held on to the animal’s muzzle, giving it a good-natured shake, then threw the stick into the truck bed.

  All that night the rain hammered at the windows. Owen couldn’t sleep. He set aside Lonesome Dove, which he’d read before but remained a book that had never once failed to settle his nerves. Until tonight. Like a silent movie, he played the memory over and tried to fit dialogue to the scenes. He could clearly see the brand of beer he wanted to be drinking, Coors. He could taste the whiskey he’d graduate to, any old brand, and recall in terrifying clarity the Apache’s voice: Durango, wasn’t it? After twisting the sheets into clammy rope, he got down on his knees beside his bed, shut his eyes, and put his head into his hands.

  Dear God: This old ghost won’t turn me loose and the only way I know of to shut him up is to drown him.

  The windows rattled with wind. Rain shot like pellets against the glass. The cold was everywhere, in his bones, turning the blood that pumped through his heart cool. Pack essentials, leave behind nothing that might connect you to this place—he’d done it before, and surely he could do it again. He knew the routine. It helped to have a drink or two for courage. He dressed in his Wranglers and boots, then threw his Carhartt jacket over the thermal underwear he’d been preparing to sleep in. He could hear Hope’s toenails on the floor, up and ready to go wherever they were going, but he told the dog to stay behind.

  A slight problem presented itself. There were no liquor sales after 10:00 P.M. in Blue Dog. The law was engineered to keep the Indians from liquoring up late at night and driving to their deaths. Too many hand-lettered white crosses dotted the sides of the highways as it was. Owen wasn’t the type to keep an unopened bottle in the house to test himself; he knew better than that. But Maggie had no truck with liquor. He’d seen wine in her kitchen, and a small bottle of sherry in the cupboard next to where she kept the ranch salad dressing and boxes of fancy crackers she was so fond of serving. Just one taste. One swallow. A slug would either settle him into sleep or give him the gumption to pack his duffel bag. Medicinal. It was supposed to be good for the heart, they said, in moderation. Prevent strokes, too. One drink, enough to put him out. Tomorrow there was plenty of time to regret. Tonight he wanted unconsciousness.