by Bill Albert
“City boy?”
Harold shrugged.
“Was that your mother out there the other day?”
“Nah, she’s my aunt.”
“Uh-huh . . . nice looking.”
“I guess so.”
Harold didn’t want to think about Aunt Enid. He prayed the boy wouldn’t go on about her. He looked across at the horses. They were moving slowly toward the two boys.
“By the by, the name’s Earl, Earl Joe Earl. Father’s named Earl as well. Earl Bob he is. Most folks call him Big Earl, though.”
They shook hands. Firm and quick. Harold could live with that.
“Not a great time to come down for a visit. You know, the heat and all . . . Where you from anyways?”
“LA.”
“You here for long?”
“Yeah, I’m afraid so.”
Earl laughed and punched him again.
“Come on now, it ain’t that bad! Where’s your folks at?”
Reluctantly, Harold explained what had happened. The other boy was clearly impressed.
“Gee, I’m sorry. That is damn tough that is. Both of ‘em going like that. Damn tough. My mom, you know, she’s gone too.”
Harold looked over at Earl.
“Died when I was baby. Can’t rightly remember her at all.”
Harold felt a stab of guilt for being able to remember his mother. He knew he was blushing. Shit!
They stood there not speaking. Earl kicked lightly at the dirt with the toe of his boot. After a few minutes the horses crossed the corral and came up to them. A big bay mare butted her head against Earl’s chest. He stroked her forehead, took a sugar cube out of his shirt pocket and put it on his palm. Rubbery lips enveloped the cube. The other two horses pushed toward him. He dug into his pocket again.
“These are the only ones we still got down here,” he said. “Took the rest up to the high desert. A lot cooler there. Anyways, there ain’t much call for riding this time of year. Too damn hot for the dudes, if you see what I mean.”
Harold nodded. He could see exactly what Earl meant. The air was so dusty-hot he was finding it difficult to breathe. The glare coming off the white sand in the corral burned his eyes half shut. The summer desert was painful. Harold longed for the sheltered streets of the big city. Sure, it was hot there as well, but unless there was a Santa Anna blowing the heat was not so unremitting. Besides, he wasn’t so exposed, so out in the open in LA. He felt the sun searing the back of his neck. He pulled up his shirt collar.
“Well, partner, I gotta be getting back over there,” Earl said pointing to a collection of low buildings on the other side of the corral. “Gotta shovel some shit outta the stalls and clean up the tack room or the old man’ll kick my ass for sure. You wanna come over or something?”
It wasn’t the best offer Harold had ever had, but when he thought of Charlene and Enid waiting for him at home, watching someone shovel shit didn’t seem all that terrible. Anyway, it would get him inside. Inside had to be better.
The two boys walked toward the stables.
“He is a strange one, Enid. Ain’t no doubt about that.”
“Oh, he’s alright really. I think he’s just shy. Also I don’t know whether he’s got over the accident and all that. It’s early days yet.”
Charlene stuck her hand in her straw bag and took out a pack of L&Ms. She offered the pack to Enid, who stared at it for a moment before reaching over and with the tips of her fingers slowly pulling out a cigarette. She held it up close to her face and studied it.
“For crying out loud, Charlene, you know I’m trying to quit.”
“I know, honey. Sorry, you just give it me back. Come on.”
Charlene reached for the cigarette. Enid smiled at her friend and put the cigarette in her mouth. Charlene shrugged, lit her own cigarette and held the match for Enid.
“Thanks.”
They were quiet for a few moments, concentrating on drawing in the smoke.
“He don’t half blush,” laughed Charlene, the smoke dribbling from her nose.
“Yeah. It’s having that red hair and light skin. That’s what got him in all that trouble the other day when he fainted.”
“You going to make out here with him, Enid? It ain’t easy with a teenage kid, even at the best of times.”
“Yeah, I know, but what can I do? I’m all he’s got.”
Charlene sucked on her cigarette and looked across at her friend.
“Shit, honey, you doing what’s right. After all, the boy’s kin, ain’t he?”
Enid laughed. Sure he was family. He was the family.
“Jesus, Charlene, you still sound like such a darned Okie.”
“What should I sound like?” she asked, stiffening. “I ain’t ashamed like some others about being from Oklahoma. No, ma’am, I sure ain’t ashamed of it.”
“I suppose, but what’s John say when you go on like that.”
“’Charlene, my dear,’” she intoned in a deep, non-Oklahoma voice, “’You must speak properly. It’s not good for our position in the community or for business if my wife sounds like some ignorant pea picker.’”
Both women began to laugh.
“’And I don’t want our children talking like that either.’”
“How do you put up with that stuff?” asked Enid, wiping away the tears.
She stubbed her cigarette out in an El Mirador Hotel ashtray. She enjoyed stealing ashtrays.
“It ain’t hard, honey. Not really anyway. I just ignore it mostly and get on. He ain’t too bad. We get along pretty good. Speaking of which, you ain’t said about Archie.”
Enid told her about her phone call.
Charlene put her hand on Enid’s knee and squeezed.
“I wouldn’t worry yourself too much, honey. Archie’s an alright fella. He’ll understand you did the only thing you could do.”
“I guess so,” said Enid with no conviction.
She had never explained to Charlene the depth of Archie’s hatred for kids.
“When’s he getting here?”
“A week or so, I think. After he’s finished with his business in Mexico.”
“Yeah. You know, sometimes I wished John was away more. What you got here, this deal with Archie, well it ain’t all bad.”
“You got another cigarette, Charlene?”
They both lit up again. Enid stared out the window.
“Yeah,” she said finally, “I’m maybe worrying too much about Archie.”
“Sure, honey, sure you are. But, then he ain’t met Harold yet, has he?”
Charlene laughed. Enid didn’t.
“Come on, Enid honey,” said Charlene, looking concerned. “I’s only kidding with you.”
Enid smiled and patted Charlene’s hand.
“I know, it’s just that he’s about half a foot taller than Archie and . . .”
Charlene tried, but couldn’t suppress a giggle.
“At least that,” she said. “And, he’s probably still growing.”
“Charlene, don’t!’ cried Enid in desperation.
“Who knows, by the time Archie gets here . . .”
“Charlene, please!”
The stricken look on Enid’s face shattered what little control Charlene had left. Within a few seconds both women were howling with laughter.
Harold grabbed the metal handles, tipped the wheelbarrow until it balanced on its wheel and pushed it along to the next stall. He maneuvered it through the door.
“That’s good right there, Harold.”
Earl threw a shovel full of horse shit into the wheelbarrow.
“You OK?”
“Yeah,” replied Harold.
Unlike in the corral, in the narrow dark stalls the smell of horse shit and urine was acrid and concentrated
. Just like Aunt Enid’s perfume, it forced its way up Harold’s nose. He was sweating and his shoulders had begun to ache. But, he didn’t care. That surprised him, for exercise did not feature prominently in Harold’s life. He spent a lot of time avoiding it. He never went out for sports at school, cut gym class whenever he could. It wasn’t just the exercise itself that bothered him.
“Come on Slim, move your fat ass! Four more laps. Come on!”
Harold gasped for breath, the sweat ran into his eyes, a painful stitch bit into his side as he staggered around the perimeter of the gymnasium. The rest of the class stood behind Mr. Peters and watched.
Years before, Mr. Peters had been a minor football star at one of the city high schools. He often talked about his triumphs to the boys, showed them yellowed newspaper clippings. He wore a baseball cap with a big F on the front, a silver-plated whistle on a string around his neck and he wanted everyone to call him “Coach.” Harold was his favorite victim.
“You’re carrying too much weight, Abelstein! You wanna wobble like that all your life? Come on! Come on!”
Harold hated PE, hated wearing white gym shorts, and most of all he hated Mr. Peters, whom he was always careful to call “Mr. Peters.”
Earl chucked another shovel load into the wheelbarrow.
“Right, that’s plenty. You take her out around the side there and you’ll see a big pile. You just dump her onto that.”
Harold nodded, hefted the wheelbarrow, turned it around and pushed it outside. As he walked between the row of stalls he tried to figure out why he, a kid who wasn’t interested in physical exertion, horses, or heat, was struggling with a wheelbarrow full of horse shit. To get away from Aunt Enid and her friend? So he could hang out with Earl? But, Earl was a hick. He probably listened to country music, for Christ sake! Except for not being a golfer or a tennis player, which were two big pluses. Earl was all those other things which Harold had set himself to dislike about Palm Springs. But, he was also the first kid Harold had met there and as much as he hated to admit it, he found himself attracted to Earl. He seemed entirely at ease with himself and what he did. He could undoubtedly handle himself. Harold was sure he would know how to drive a truck and a tractor. He would know all about horses, why you needed different kinds of bits, how to clean a horse’s hoof, the best rope to use, the right kind of spurs. Not that Harold had any interest in those stupid hick things, but he was ready to be impressed nonetheless. Most importantly, Earl seemed to accept Harold as Harold, not “Slim” or “Red” or “Fatty” or any of the other names he had been tagged with over the years. It was as if he was being invited to share in the mysteries of Earl’s world with no questions asked.
“That’s the last of ‘em,” said Earl putting the shovel over his shoulder. “You wanna drink?”
“Sure.”
They walked back past the stalls to the stable office. Inside the door was a chest-type Coke machine. Earl lifted the lid. Bottles hung from their caps between rows of metal brackets. Earl slid a bottle to the front of the machine, put in a dime and pulled out a Coke. There was an opener nailed outside by the door. Earl stuck the head of the bottle in and pulled down. Dark bubbles foamed over the rim. He handed the bottle to Harold.
“That be OK, Harold?”
“Great, thanks.”
On the table in the office was an old cream-colored Philco radio. Earl turned it on. Over the crackle of static boomed the deep voice of Tennessee Ernie Ford fog-homing out “Sixteen Tons.” There was nothing Harold could do about it. He sat down on the wooden steps next to Earl and drank his Coke.
It was late afternoon and although the sky was still painfully blue, the entire stables was in the shadow cast by the mountain. Earl tapped the heel of his boot on the bottom step in time to the music. He took off his hat and fanned himself.
“If you’re going to be around here in the desert, Harold, you’d better latch on to one of these. Out here they ain’t just for decoration.”
Harold smiled. He might have hauled some horse shit, but he couldn’t imagine himself wearing a cowboy hat. He was glad his LA friends couldn’t see him covered in dirt, sitting outside on the steps with a cowboy and listening to Tennessee Ernie Ford.
“Harold! Where have you been? Just look at you! You’re so filthy! And, darling, what is that awful smell?”
“Um, horses . . . Probably horses.”
“Horses?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Horses?” she repeated.
“I was over at the stables, you know down the end of the road there and I met this boy, the one who found me the other day and he sort of asked me to go there with him and . . .”
Enid was dumbfounded. Harold hadn’t shown such enthusiasm, or talked so much all at one time since he came to Palm Springs.
“I was helping him a little with cleaning out the stalls and . . . Can I have a Coke or something?”
“Of course, darling.”
She went into the kitchen, opened the refrigerator and took out a bottle. While she was opening it she called through to the living room.
“Tell me some more about what you did at the stables, Harold. Harold?”
Silence.
She came back into the living room and gave the opened Coke to Harold. Sprawled on one of the dining room chairs he looked absolutely exhausted, but for the first time Enid thought she detected a glimmer of something positive in her nephew’s eyes.
“Thanks.”
“Well, dear?”
“Yeah?”
“Tell me what happened at the stables?”
“Oh, yeah.”
He tipped back the bottle.
“Well, this kid, Earl’s his name, well, he took me around some, you know, and showed me the horses and stuff like that.”
“I didn’t know you were interested in horses, darling.”
“Um, well, it’s not that exactly, the horses I mean, you see, it’s just . . . Well, you know it’s kinda hard to explain it.”
Harold couldn’t put into words for Aunt Enid why he had liked being with Earl. He took another sip of Coke and tried to formulate an answer. Nothing came. He studied the picture of two big-eyed children which hung on the dining room wall opposite his chair.
She watched Harold struggling. No wonder he had trouble in school, she thought. Well, at least, he had found a friend. It breathed some life into him, although she was not altogether happy about the choice of Earl. It’s true, he had been very polite to her, but was he really the kind of friend Harold needed? He was, if anything, more inarticulate than Harold and it was obvious he didn’t come from a good family. She had envisaged Harold getting to know the children of her friends from the club. Well-spoken children who dressed nicely and wanted to go to college. But, what if he filled the house with kids like Earl, wearing cowboy boots, grunting at each other and smelling of horse manure? Christ Almighty! What would Archie have to say about that? After all, he was from St. Louis. She wondered if Harold’s meeting Earl had been such a great idea.
“Aunt Enid, is it alright if I go to the drive-in tonight?”
“With your new friend?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Does he have a car?”
“A pickup. He’s got a pickup.”
Enid’s heart sank. A pickup truck! It figured he would have a pickup truck. She forced a smile.
“Of course you can go, darling. Just don’t be back too late. OK?”
Harold had never been to a drive-in. He had never wanted to go to a drive-in. He had had Hollywood Boulevard. Now he was reduced to going to a drive-in, just like kids in the Valley. He asked what was on, but Earl didn’t know.
“Well,” offered Harold, “shouldn’t we check or something? I mean, maybe there’s something better on in town.”
Earl laughed and punched Harold on the shoulder. Harold supposed he was going t
o have to get used to being punched on the shoulder.
“Shit, Harold, it’s Friday night! We always go out to the Sun-Air on a Friday night.”
“Yeah, OK, but, what if you don’t want to see the movie or if you’ve seen it already?”
“It don’t really matter much. You’ll see.”
Harold was puzzled. How could it not matter? Why else would you want to go the movies? He did often wander up to Hollywood without knowing what he was going to see. That wasn’t a problem because there were so many movie theaters he could always find something good. A drive-in in the middle of the desert was an entirely different proposition.
It was about eight o’clock when Harold heard the horn of Earl’s pickup.
Aunt Enid was sitting in the living room painting her fingernails. She had just come out of the shower and was wearing a white terry cloth robe, her hair wrapped in a towel. As he moved toward the front door she put down the bottle of polish and stood up, carefully holding her wet nails out in front of her.
“Now remember, darling, not too late. If I’m not home when you get back I’ll leave the key under the mat out by the kitchen.”
She followed him to the door. The belt of her robe had come loose, and the two bits of cloth were beginning to part. Aunt Enid didn’t notice. Harold did. He saw the brown mound of a breast starting to emerge. The horn sounded again outside. He backed toward the front door.
“Have a nice time, Harold.”
She took another step. The robe opened further. He could now see both of her breasts almost to the nipples and the fleshy inside of one thigh. He looked up at his aunt and forced a smile.
“Uh, yeah, thanks, Aunt Enid, I will.”
He fumbled behind him for the doorknob, opened the door just enough to let himself out. He didn’t want Earl to see Aunt Enid. He tried to slide out of the doorway sideways. He was too wide for such a delicate maneuver.
“What’s the matter, Harold? Can’t you see, darling?”
Aunt Enid reached for the light switch. The bright light over the door came on, blinding Harold momentarily. As Enid moved, the robe flapped open and her breasts and a triangle of dark pubic hair flashed glaringly at Harold. He let out a soft mewing sound and stepped backwards, hurriedly trying to close the door at the same time. It didn’t work. The heel of his foot hit the doormat and he toppled over, crashing flat on his back onto the flagstone path, exposing a floodlit Aunt Enid to Earl and some other boys waiting in the pickup.