by Brian Hodge
Rowing like a waterfall in reverse.
"Nice effect, but a little heavy handed, don't you think? Besides, they weren't doing effects like that in the fifties."
The blood turned back to black and white. "That better?" the bad guy asked. "You happy now?"
"Yeah, I'm happy now."
But Bobby wasn't happy at all. He had the distinct feeling that the bad guy was about to kiss the cowboy on the mouth, and that was sure a strange way for a bad guy to act.
The bad guy's hat had fallen off after the young cowboy had struck him, and Bobby saw the bad guy had been scalped. His head glistened wetly.
Bobby felt so embarrassed for the bad guy he had to look away from the screen. "I bet this never happened to Roy Rogers or Gene Autry." He watched as the good guy started to bend to pick up the bad guy's hat. The good guy never made it.
The bad guy pulled the good guy close, kissed him.
Bobby was bewildered. "Hey, Martin, isn't the girl supposed to do this scene?"
"Not in this movie."
Something red crawled from the bad guy's mouth, disappeared down the young cowboy's throat.
And Bobby felt sudden heat.
The saloon was on fire.
Onscreen, the edges of the old Western began charring at the edges, curling up like a photograph afire in an ashtray. Bobby saw the black-and-white flames moving toward the young cowboy, and he could feel the heat growing, becoming unbearable as it consumed everything in its path. The chandelier crashed to the floor, sending up a shower of sparks.
On the screen, onlookers began milling around. A woman screamed.
Somebody made a break for the door, a henchman for the man in black. He caught on fire before he made it, going up like a Roman candle, his screams adding to the already deafening din.
Bobby looked around the theater to see how the audience was reacting.
The theater was empty. Except for him and Martin.
The young cowboy fought on against the bad guy, just the two of them, while the saloon burned down around them. A heavy, flaming timber slammed onto a table and turned it into kindling, killing the three card players who were sitting there. For some reason Bobby thought the players' names were Kevin, Nash, and Boyce. They turned to ashes in their chairs and the last thing to disappear were their accusing eyes. The wind blew their ashes away.
Some of the supporting players at the back were also turning to ash. The fire reached the rest.
Then they were gone.
All of them.
There was only the girl watching the good guy fight the bad guy.
Bobby knew she wouldn't run from the fire, because she resembled Amy Warrick. He was right. She burned, turning to ash without a word.
Several of the columns that supported the saloon collapsed and part of the roof fell in. More flames sprang up. The place was an inferno now, black-and-white flames burning black-and-white wood.
The flames reached the cowboy.
Bobby braced himself.
The saloon vanished without a trace.
Stone silence.
Different movie, different player. A young boy named Bobby Roberts. There were colors, bright primary colors. Reds and yellows. The scene opened on a sunny day at the fair as the camera panned in close, catching a calf in a pen, the sweaty, scared face of the young boy.
A rodeo was under way.
The eleven-year-old was about to ride his first calf and fear was a hard knot in his stomach as he climbed aboard the animal. His nerve failed. He felt warmness run down his legs as his bladder let go.
The gate came open.
The calf threw him on the first leap.
He heard the sound of laughter as everyone in the stands saw the dark stain on his crotch.
Fade to black.
Different set. Same player. Later on in the night after the calf ride.
There was only one color this time: dark red.
The boy caught a glimpse of himself in the full-length mirror on the wall and realized he was standing in his dad's bedroom holding a box of matches. The boy wiped the sweat from his eyes, winced at the tender flesh he felt there.
Someone had savagely beaten the boy in the mirror, causing blood to pour from the corner of his mouth. The boy was very angry.
Chester Roberts was lying passed out on the bed, just as he had been on that night long ago.
The boy on the screen looked out over the darkened theater to where Bobby and Martin sat in the balcony. "Why are we shooting this scene again? I thought we had this one in the can already."
Only silence greeted his question. In the shadows the cameras were rolling.
"Action," Martin said. "You know the scene. Try and get it tight this time."
Reaching into the box, Bobby struck a match, hearing the scratch of sulfur against the sandpapery side, and watched the flames spring to blue, flickering life. The match burned down to his fingers, raced up his arm. In seconds his entire body was on fire. He watched in the mirror. Blackening flesh. Incredible pain.
He screamed. The sound faded before his ashes hit the floor. Fade to black.
Chapter 13
Amy Warrick and Jesse Black Eagle lay on the hood of Jesse's truck, backs propped against the windshield. Neither had said anything since leaving Jake's. The warmth seeping up from the engine felt good against the chill. The truck was parked on an outcropping of rock that jutted out several hundred feet above the Little Colorado River. They listened to the water rush by in the darkness. Behind them, in the far distance, a few lights from Crowder Flats twinkled like stars on the horizon.
"You sure your friends aren't going to be upset?" Amy finally asked. "You just running off and leaving them at Jake's."
"I think they were kind of glad to get away from me. They were afraid I was going to do something crazy."
"Are you?"
Jesse laughed. "I already done my crazy thing for tonight, betting every cent I had on a pool game." He pulled her close. "I'm sorry for making you cry. I didn't plan for you to see the game."
"I'm sorry I turned into a girl on you, it's just that I know how hard you worked for that money. I couldn't stand to see you lose it." She laid her head on Jesse's shoulder and they watched the silver river flow away into the night, content to just be with each other. "I feel bad about what happened between you and Bobby," Amy said quietly. "I feel like it's my fault."
"No, don't blame yourself." Jesse shrugged. "Bobby and me would have come to this sooner or later. This wasn't about you, Bobby doesn't like to lose."
"Neither do you."
"You're right; it's a definite character flaw. Did I tell you me and Bobby are going to bump heads again tomorrow night?"
"At the rodeo?"
"That's right; we're both in the bull riding."
"I don't know why I talk to either one of you. You both act like macho assholes most of the time."
"Hey, I resent the macho part of that crack."
Amy almost smiled but she was not so easily sidetracked. "Jesse, what's happened to the three of us? We used to be friends. Remember when we were in the sixth grade, we called ourselves the three musketeers? All for one, one for all. We were different than the rest of the kids, we only had one parent. We said we would always stick together no matter what."
"We were only kids when we made that promise. Things change when we get older. They get more… complicated."
"Maybe they do. All I know is that I feel like if it wasn't for me, you and Bobby would still be friends."
"Me and Bobby are still friends. We both got a little carried away tonight." Jesse pulled her close. "Amy, it's not that he wants you so much, it's just that he can't stand to see you with me. To Bobby that means I won."
Amy's eyes flashed angrily. "Winning, losing, that's all you two ever think about. Sometimes I feel like a stuffed toy at the carnival, waiting to go home with the first guy who can ring the bell. Three chances for a dollar. Win yourself an Amy Warrick."
"An Amy
Warrick. Gosh, I'd like to take a chance on that, but a whole dollar… I don't know…."
Amy smiled, tipped Jesse's hat down over his eyes. "You're a smooth talker, Jesse Black Eagle, how am I going to trust you while I'm away at Arizona State?"
All Amy could see were Jesse's white teeth smiling from beneath the brim of his hat.
"Guess you'll have to come home and check upon me every chance you get," he said, his smile broadening. "We'll have so much hot sex I won't be able to walk for three months, let alone look at another woman." He inched closer until the entire length of his body was pressed against her. He tried to kiss her.
"Oh no you don't," she said, giggling, "I'm still angry with you. Besides you're going to need all your strength for riding the bull tomorrow."
Jesse groaned and leaned back against the windshield. "Just remember, if I get killed tomorrow, I went to my death unloved."
"I doubt that." She kissed him, pulled away, suddenly serious again. "Jesse, what would you say if I told you I don't want to go back to school? That I want to stay here with you."
"I'd say you lost your mind." He sat up. "Doing what? There's nothing here for you, Amy. Crowder Flats is the end of the line, some place you end up when you can't cut it anymore. Or if you never could cut it," he added. He grabbed her by the shoulders and held her. "You listen to your mom and get your ass back to school."
Amy pulled away, stung by Jesse's words. She watched the river for a while. "You ever feel like you're not living your own life, that what you want doesn't count?"
Jesse tried to touch her, but she slid off the truck hood and walked to the edge of the rock outcropping. Below, the river was a silver thread sewn into the night. She stood there, looking down, the wind blowing her hair. "I feel like I'm living Mom's dream, Mom's life. Since I was small, that's all I can remember is her talking about sending me to college. Nobody ever asked me what I wanted to do."
"She just wants what's best for you."
"I know she does," Amy said, "and I wanted to live up to her expectations. It's a lot of pressure, maybe too much. When I was little, I used to dream about falling. Some nights I would wake up crying." She listened to the murmur of the river as though deciding whether to go on. "I called it the dream. I haven't had it since I was twelve, but the funniest thing is—I had it again last night."
"Probably just nerves. Your little brother…."
"Maybe that's it, I don't know. You ever dream, Jesse?"
"Yeah, about you."
"No, I mean when you were small."
"I used to have a lot of weird dreams when I was little, mostly about my dad. I used to dream he wasn't dead." Jesse sat his hat on his knee and picked at it, his words coming slowly. "Sometimes after I woke up, I'd stay in bed all day long. That way I could pretend the dream was true. As long as I didn't leave the room…," Jesse realized he was saying more than he had intended. He put on his hat and climbed in the truck. "Come on, it's getting late. I think I'd better get you home before your mom sends the sheriff out after me."
Amy kicked a few pebbles off the rock outcropping, watched them fall. In her dreams she had never heard the pebbles fall. She didn't hear them this time, either.
They drove in silence toward Amy's house. As they topped a rise, Jesse thought he caught a flash in his rearview mirror. For some reason he couldn't shake the idea that a car was back there, following them without lights. He made some excuse about checking the tires, stopped, and got out. After listening nearly a minute, he decided his nerves weren't the best, either.
They drove on.
Steven Adler and Earl Jacobs sat in their red Caddy with the lights turned off and the engine silent. Earl stuck his head out the window, looked behind him at the darkened stretch of road. A big grin split his face. "You ain't gonna believe this, Steven, but I think somebody's following us." He tipped up his flask of George Dickel, took a long drink. "This thing is turning into a regular goddamned caravan."
"No shit?" Steven sounded excited. "That's great. I thought this was going to be too easy." He started the Caddy and pulled back onto the road.
After a while the third car followed.
Chapter 14
Louisa Warrick moaned, called out a name.
The name was her ex-husband's and it echoed through the small stucco house. Died. Louise sat up in bed. A moment passed before she realized she had been dreaming again. John Warrick had left ten years ago.
She felt lost and vulnerable, unprepared to deal with the emotions that washed over her in her empty bed, the need that would not go away.
The need she could not will away.
The phone calls from John had brought back all the old feelings, and she hated that. She ran her hands over her naked body, feeling the sweat trickle down between her breasts. The sensation wasn't entirely unpleasant. She was hot. In more ways than one.
It had been a long time since she'd been with a man.
The last man she had seriously considered going to bed with was Martin Strickland from over at the Broken R, but that was before she had gone out with him. The whole thing had been a waste of time. All he ever talked about was that slutty ex-wife of his who had run off to Dallas with a car salesman.
Martin told her about the breakup on their first date, over barbecue and beer on their way to the drive-in at Steeley Point.
The story started when Martin went to Harlan's Auto Salvage and Repo to take a little Chevy S-10 that he'd had his eye on for a test spin. It seemed the Chevy had been rolled by a Bible salesman from Omaha who had been run off the road by a car with no driver.
"Well, actually there was a driver," Martin said, "it was just that the driver wasn't in the car at the time. A crazy Indian name of Rudy No Horses. Caught his ass on fire and fell out, but that's another story."
Louise waited.
"Anyway," Martin said, "I thought I should drive the truck first. Maybe take it over to Jesus Martinez at the Shell Station and have him take a look. Jesus can spot a bent frame faster than he can a bill collector."
Louise agreed that spotting a bent frame or a bill collector was an admirable character trait.
"Sometimes you can end up with a bent frame when a truck gets rolled," Martin explained to Louise, who was gamely waiting for him to get to the point.
The salesman at Harlan's was agreeable about the test drive and handed over the keys.
"I should have known something was up right away from the sideways way those two kept looking at each other," Martin said, "but shit, Doralee was always looking at other guys."
Pleading a headache, Doralee said she would wait for Martin in the office.
When Martin got back, he found Doralee and the salesman gone. Along with his car.
"It was goddamn embarrassing, I can tell you," Martin said. "Not only had my wife ran off with a guy she had known for twenty minutes, it looked like I was going to have to walk home, too."
"Did Harlan let you borrow the truck?" Louise asked.
"He did better than that. Harlan felt so bad about his salesman running off with Doralee that he outright gave me the truck," Martin answered. "One truck for one wife. Seemed only fair. He threw in a Bible, too."
Half a bottle of whiskey and a movie later, Martin swore he hated Doralee. A whole bottle later (it was a double feature) he said he couldn't never love anyone but Doralee. By the time the lights came up he was passed out.
Go figure.
Sometimes it seemed to Louise that nobody had any idea what they wanted. If they did somehow manage to get it, they damn sure didn't want it for long.
Life was a messy business, Louise remembered her mother saying to her. The longer you lived it the messier it got. For once her mother had been right.
Only Mom hadn't said how lonely it got, too.
How could so many years have passed?
Louise was a little frightened when she thought about all the years she had been alone. She would turn thirty-nine this year. No, not just thirty-nine, she was thirty-ni
ne and alone. She slid her hands between her legs, touching what her mother had always referred to in pained tones as private parts. Don't touch your no-no, Mama had told her. Ever. It's not nice. It's not ladylike. No man will ever want you if you do.
Well, right now, her no-no was the only part of Louise that wasn't soaking wet.
A woman could dry up in this godforsaken town.
Louise grimaced; something under the sheet was chafing her. She slid her hand under and came up with something gritty. A laugh burst from her as she turned to the window and identified what she held. "I goddamn knew it; my no-no has dried up, Mamma. It's got sand coming out of it."
The laughter quit and she realized it had been a while since she had found anything funny.
Dumping the sand, she thought about the dream that had brought her awake. Her hands felt their way to the nightstand of their own will and lit a cigarette while she waited for the unwanted feelings to pass. The images from the dream seemed more real to her than the memories of what had happened on that day ten years ago.
The day John had left her.
A trial separation, he said, a few months apart. That had been in July.
A week before Christmas, John had a present delivered to Amy, a pony. Mister Bojangles was what was written on the card and it had been attached by a red ribbon to the pony's mane. The significance of the vagabond name wasn't lost on Louise. She guessed that was John's way of telling her that he wasn't coming back.
Amy had never been on a horse before but she begged and begged until Louise gave in.
A few minutes later, Amy had returned to the house on foot. She had been hurt when Mister Bojangles had thrown her, a small cut on the forehead that had looked worse than it was. When Amy had appeared in the doorway, her face covered with tears and snot and blood, Louise had panicked. She remembered screaming John's name.
He didn't come.
At that moment Louise realized he really was gone. For good. That she was going to have to deal with the crisis all by herself.
Since that day she had been doing her best to raise her daughter without any help. Louise knew she had made mistakes with Amy and she agonized over them. Sometimes she pushed Amy too hard, but she didn't want her daughter to end up in some nowhere place like Crowder Flats, smoking unfiltered cigarettes in the dark and dreaming about some man who had been gone ten years.