by Sarah Black
“I’ll just be careful when I kiss you, then.”
“Can we eat out of the pot?”
“Sure,” Graham said. “When we’re up here at the cabin.” He handed Tommy a spoon. “At home we’ve got to use decent manners. Set the table like civilized people.”
“And where’s home?”
“Wherever you want it to be, Tommy. My place is fine. I’ll move to Carrizozo if you want. Anyplace. We can live anyplace. But together from now on.”
“Okay, then. Your place. It’s real close to the Moose. I don’t have much stuff.” He looked up. “Maybe some baggage. Not too much, Graham.”
“I’ve got plenty of room.” Graham sat down next to him on the bunk, and they ate reheated elk stew out of the pot until they were both too stuffed to move.
“Graham. You know if the war’s still on we’ll have to go back.”
“Yeah, Tommy. I know.”
“I’m tired,” Tommy said, stretching out on the sleeping bag, his arms up over his head. “I haven’t been sleeping good. Did I tell you?”
Graham shook his head, stuck the pot in the sink to soak and sat down on the bunk next to Tommy. “Tell me now.”
* * * * *
The Moose was ready to reopen in two weeks, just in time for the Saturday Veteran’s Day parade and chili cook-off. Tommy’s hearing was the Friday before, in front of the city council.
Graham had spent a week with Tommy up at the hunting shack, hanging around in the woods and peeing up against the trees, and they bagged a huge wild turkey for Thanksgiving dinner at the Moose. When they came back into town, they moved Tommy’s stuff over from Carrizozo and spent a few days rearranging the furniture and carrying old stuff to the dump.
Merry was overseeing the renovations to the Moose personally, and Baxter was doing every shit job he could find to try and please her. Hunter had left town, and Max had come back to town, and Baxter had cut his hair into a flat-top in penance.
The city council chambers were packed on the morning of Tommy’s hearing. Tommy looked like a Lincoln County lawman, tough and hard, big shoulders, dressed in jeans and a pressed chambray shirt the color of his eyes, a bolo tie with a ragged chunk of turquoise and Navajo silver, his lizard skin Justins polished up, and his Silver Belly perched on his brown hair. He still hadn’t cut his hair, and the curls against the back of his neck were driving Graham crazy.
He looked like a hometown son any parent would be proud of, a veteran and a war hero who had helped to bring all the boys home safely. The town showed up to hear how their sheriff had routed that gay blade from the city, that pretty boy who had come down to Lincoln County hell-bent on stirring up trouble at the high school.
Zeigler opened the meeting by detailing the charges. “On the morning of October twenty-fourth, at about six a.m., at the Mad Moose Café, in the aftermath of an arsonist’s blaze,” Zeigler showed his teeth in a grimace that might have passed for a smile, “did you strike one…” He shuffled among the papers on his desk for a moment, enjoying the drama of every eye upon him. “Did you strike one Hunter Brockman on the chin and fling him into a pool of dirty water?”
Half the audience clapped, and there were a few wolf whistles. If Zeigler had just stopped there, the outcome would have probably been different. Tommy nodded. “Yes, I did.”
But Zeigler didn’t stop. “And there is the other matter of dereliction of duty. Did you in fact fail to stop a string of attacks against persons and property in our county, attacks of a homosexual nature?”
Tommy narrowed his eyes. “Attacks of a homosexual nature,” he mused. “As it happens, new information has come to light regarding those attacks, and I thought the best thing to do was to bring that testimony directly to the council.”
Zeigler sat up. “Now, wait just a damn minute, Tommy. You didn’t tell me…”
Merry came through the door with Ray, and the young man walking by her other side was clean shaven, hair neatly combed, wearing boots and a stiff new pair of Cowboy Cut Wranglers. Graham stared at him. He also had Band-Aids wrapped around the thumb and first two fingers of his right hand, a sure sign he had been learning to rope cattle. Bear?
“I’ll just ask this witness to tell us what he saw on the night of October sixth.” Tommy turned to Bear. “That was, what, two months after you returned from Iraq?”
Bear nodded. “Yes, Captain Lathrop.” His cheeks turned pink. “Sorry. I mean Sheriff Lathrop.”
“You were in Smokey the Bear Park, having a bit,” Tommy turned his head, grinning, “a bit of something to cut the chill?”
Bear hung his head. “Yes, sir.” There were a few whistles of support from the gallery. Every cowboy in the place had sat on Smokey’s grave with a bit of something to cut the chill, when everything had gone to shit in their world. It was a tradition in Lincoln County. Nobody would hold that against the boy.
“Now, I asked you the next day if you had seen any vandalism, right?” Bear nodded, his face flushing pink again. “And you said no.” Bear nodded again. “But you did see something. You didn’t tell anyone, Bear?” Tommy’s voice was gentle.
“No, see, Captain, I thought it was one of those private deals, you know, and the man who was carrying the doll, well, I thought it was one of those sex dolls, you know what I’m saying? One of those blow-up dolls?” Bear cringed a little. “And it had orange hair, like Baxter’s, and I’m thinking, whoa, that is seriously fucked up, excuse the expression, but it’s his private business, and a man’s got the right to his privacy.”
The room erupted, laughter and clapping and the roar of voices. Someone in the back shouted, “Come on! Tell us who it was!” Zeigler’s face was parchment white, with two burning patches of scarlet in his cheeks.
“I believe we have heard just about enough on this matter,” Zeigler suggested. “Really, it’s a matter for law enforcement to handle. I sure don’t like to think we’re gonna let Captain Lathrop move on up the road. He was raised in Lincoln County, after all, and we know how to take care of our own. We’re gonna let this little matter of assault ride. We all know our vets come home with a bit of a short fuse.” He looked left and right, and the other council members nodded their heads. “I think we’re done here.”
The audience filed out slowly, and many stopped to pay their respects to Merry. She greeted everyone with her charming smile, but she didn’t move her wheelchair. She studied Zeigler for so long that the sweat was pouring down his forehead, and her voice was very quiet when she spoke. “You went after me by attacking my son, you sorry limp-dick motherfucker?”
Ray stepped up to the table, leaned over it until Zeigler nearly fell over backward out of his chair. When Ray was done talking he turned away, and Zeigler ran one shaking hand down over his face. Ray walked back to Merry, bent down, and kissed her the way a cowboy kisses, hard and fast, like he means business but he’s got a horse waiting outside.
* * * * *
“Cool T-shirt, Mr. Callahan.” A trio of teenaged girls, as colorful and exotic as birds of paradise, were giggling behind him.
“Thanks, ladies. I got it direct from the artist.” Graham gestured toward Max’s table, and Max looked up and smiled shyly at him. He had come back from Truth or Consequences and blown them all away with a mighty moose – a sexy, hairy, brown moose with big muscles across his chest and Eddie’s unit insignia on his bulging right biceps. He was standing at attention, but instead of balls and a moose dick, Max had drawn two bright orange habaneros, with a long, green chili pepper dangling between his legs. On the back of the T-shirt: Welcome Home, Big Balls and Trouble. New Mexico National Guard.
They were selling the T-shirts to make money for the VFW, and Eddie was talking about making the moose the official platoon mascot.
It was a warm and sunny autumn day, and the town had turned out to welcome their vets home. Graham had studied the other entries to the chili cook-off with satisfaction. Canned pintos and a bunch of pickled jalapenos were not going to give him any trouble. T
hese people were amateurs.
Cedric Nez was stuck being McGruff, the Crime Dog, and the fire engines were pulled up next to Smokey the Bear Park. A few boys were trailing after McGruff, but most of the kids in Lincoln County were climbing all over the fire engines, eating fried dough dripping with powdered sugar and honey. The fire fighters were letting them ring the bell.
Graham walked through the park and found a good seat for the cowboy auction. The VFW had set up a bandstand and bleachers. The beer and smoked Polish sausage booths were already doing a brisk business. A couple of old men were unpacking amplifiers, and Graham was pleased to see one of them had a fiddle. The best bands for cowboy dancing had fiddle players.
Merry rolled up to the bandstand, made a few ribald comments about cowboys and how they ride, and then described how the auction would work. She mentioned that the money raised would go to start a scholarship fund for the kids of local vets. She had nixed the bathroom renovation idea, saying she would pay for her own goddamn toilet.
Eddie was first up, and his guys were pooling their beer money, cackling at the idea that they could win his bid and make him dance with them in public. But a sweet-faced young woman stepped up, holding the hand of a little boy in tiny brown cowboy boots. She bid twenty-five dollars in a voice as pretty as a nightingale. The guys bowed out and let her win.
Eddie hoisted the little boy into his arms, and danced a slow, sweet dance with his mother in front of the whole town. Half the audience was in tears. Tommy raised his eyebrows, and Graham shrugged. Was this the single mother from Roswell? Nobody had bothered to introduce him. So what was new? He’d track Eddie down after the auction, introduce himself.
Bear was next up, face beet red, bullied onto the stage by Merry. The trio of sparkly girls who had reminded Graham of tropical birds bid on him as a group, putting in twenty dollars each, so Bear went for sixty dollars and got three slow dances with pretty girls, to the catcalls and wolf whistles of the rest of the platoon and most of the ranch hands.
Billy and Seth were auctioned off for thirty dollars each to a tall girl wearing a championship rodeo belt buckle as big as a porterhouse steak and the coolest pair of boots Graham had ever seen, knobbly black crocodile. She must have been well-known in the rodeo world, because both of the boys knew who she was and treated her like a queen. After their dances, the three wandered off together to look at her horse.
The high school principal climbed up next to Graham in the bleachers. Mrs. Peese had been the high school principal when Graham and Tommy had graduated, and Graham remembered thinking then how old she was. “I’m gonna win a dance with Tommy Lathrop. I’ve been trying to get him to talk to me about getting another school resource officer down at the high school. You know that girl deputy he’s got with the French name?”
“Aimee? I just met her once.”
“I need somebody tough who can roust the girls, shake ’em down. Teenaged girls are a dangerous breed, Graham. Avoid them if you can. But anyway, I’ve only got fifty bucks in the petty cash. I hope I can get him for that. So,” she turned and gave Graham a frank look. “You two boys rooming together? That’s good, Graham. I swear, you and Tommy Lathrop have been joined at the hip since you played high school football together. What were you, fullback and wide receiver? I can’t remember now.” She patted his knee. “Don’t you worry about what people say, Graham. Some men are just not the marrying kind. We’ve always had ’em in Lincoln County.”
When Tommy ambled onto the stage, his hands on his hips, eyes narrowed, half the town turned to stare at Graham, to see what he would do. Mrs. Peese stood up and waved her cash. “I bid fifty dollars for the sheriff!” She glared around the park, and no one made a sound.
Tommy flinched, gave a tiny shake of his head, and Graham laughed out loud. Mrs. Peese scrambled down from the bleachers to claim her dance.
Baxter waved from the bottom of the bleachers, started climbing up, a clipboard in one hand.
“Graham!” Baxter flopped down next to him, one hand pressed against his chest. He was wearing one of Max’s Moose T-shirts. “Guess what? Good news.”
“Good news? Zeigler left town?”
“How did you know?” Baxter’s big eyes were disappointed. “Somebody told you.”
Graham sat up. “What, really? I was just joking.”
“Resigned and retired and relocated. That…that pig!”
“You don’t have a gift for strong language, Baxter.”
“So I’m starting a petition.” He waved the clipboard.
“Baxter, is this a good time? I mean, maybe we should just let things settle down for a bit. We could all use a little peace right now.”
“It’s for Mom, Graham. I’m gonna petition for her to be named acting mayor. You know, one of those write-in deals.”
Graham sat back and smiled at him. “Baxter, now that is a very good idea. One of your best.” He took the clipboard and signed his name, saw that Tommy had signed a couple of lines before him. “So Tommy knows about this? About Zeigler, I mean?”
“I should say so. Zeigler left town last night, with a bunch of Lincoln County deputies in their sheriff’s department vehicles trailing after him all the way to the county line. Mom told me about it.”
Graham laughed, felt the sunshine of an Indian summer day warm on his face. It would be a mild winter, he thought. “So, Baxter. How did you spice your chili, big guy?”
Baxter looked gloomy. “The usual stuff, Graham. Cayenne, cumin, black pepper, dried anchos.”
“No, I mean, how did you prepare your spices? Did you dry the peppers yourself over the summer and grind them fresh? Did you get your beans from the grocery story, the farmer’s market, or from Mr. Lopez, who has been growing pintos on that same plot of land for…”
“I admit, I didn’t put the time into it. I’ve been distracted.”
“Well, then.” Graham stretched out his legs and put his hands back behind his head.
“One tip. I’m your cooking partner, Graham. Just give me one ingredient.”
“Black-strap molasses. With sulfur.”
Baxter stared at him, then sighed and stood up. “I’m going to collect signatures. See you at work?”
“Let’s get started at ten,” Graham said. “We’ll give the town a nice welcome-back dinner.”
“Cedric told me he’s lost fifteen pounds since the Moose has been closed.” Baxter sketched a wave and was gone.
Tommy was late getting home, and he looked bone-tired. “Jesus H. Christ.” He peeled out of his uniform, left everything in a tangle on the bedroom floor. “Next year I’m pulling the plug on the beer at 1800 hours. Oh, congratulations. This makes five years in a row? Six?”
“Six,” Graham agreed. “But Baxter’s trying to wheedle my list of ingredients. Another couple of years, he might take the prize.”
Tommy sat down on the side of the bed. “Callahan, are you wearing anything except a blue flannel sheet?”
Graham didn’t need to answer. Tommy’s hands moved down his body in an efficient little frisk, and he clutched Graham’s cock in his hand. Tommy gave it a handshake, held on when it started to fill and lift the sheet. “You can keep feeding me, Callahan. Even when your chili cook-off days are over.”
TRES HOMBRES OF THE HIGH LONESOME
Calvin held up an ancient bridle. The leather was cracked and the tan stitching was coming loose. “This is horse related, right?”
Oscar looked up from a box of dusty saddle blankets. “Yeah, but spurs are really more cowboy related, if you know what I mean. Did he say if they were still attached to the boots?”
Cal tossed the bridle down. “Oscar, your great-uncle Red didn’t say much. Just that he needed his spurs, something about a promise – ‘Tres Hombres of the High Lonesome.’ Sounds like a movie, doesn’t it?”
Oscar put the box of saddle blankets down. “Thanks for being so patient, baby.”
“I’ll just add it to your list. Besides, I love Red, too.”
�
�He said the spurs were silver – hand-forged silver. Right?”
“Right,” Cal said. “So they should be tarnished after all these years. I bet there’s not many hand-forged silver spurs outside the museums, unless the rest of the sheds and garages in New Mexico look like this one.”
Oscar pulled down a gray box from a high shelf and blew a layer of dust from the top. “Hey, look at this!” He lifted the lid and showed Cal the black felt Stetson inside.
“Come on over here, Hoss,” Cal said, taking the hat out of the box. “Let’s try it out.” They both froze when they heard the clank of metal.
“I think we’ve got a winner,” Oscar said, lifting up the silver spurs. The metal was ancient and beautiful. Oscar ran a finger over the rough edge. “No tarnish. Think the hat box protected them somehow?”
Cal shook his head, took a spur, and weighed it in his hand. “Something’s odd,” he said. “These feel weird, heavy, like they’re too dense or something. But they look like silver. Silver that’s just been polished, I mean. Have you ever seen anything made out of old pewter?”
“No,” Oscar said. “Maybe it’s lead.”
Great-Uncle Red pushed open the door of the shed with his aluminum walker, and cool autumn air blew away some of the dust hanging in the air. “Any luck, boys?” His voice was thin and reedy, and Oscar felt his heart contract with a familiar sense of impending loss. When he was a boy, he had lived for the times Red had come to take him away. They would go camping, or riding, or off to the city for a movie and a burger. He could still taste the anticipation, excitement like metal on his tongue, as he stared out the window between the ball fringes on his mother’s curtains, waiting and waiting and waiting for Red’s old pickup truck to come up the long driveway and fetch him away.
He knew it was coming – the long good-bye. He could feel it in the way his heart seemed to stutter with love and the way his tongue tripped over itself when he tried to tell Red how much he had meant to him. Red was over seventy now. What Oscar was remembering was that feeling from when he was a kid, the way his heart had seemed to squeeze itself into a tight little knot as hard as a walnut every time he had watched Red drive away. Oscar couldn’t bear to say good-bye.