Satchmo follows her, rolling and pouncing on wind-swept snowdrifts and yet somehow obedient, as if she knows that Renny is close to a certain line that should not be crossed. The dog comes jogging up to Renny sometimes and snuffles her hand with a nose, and Renny relents finally and pets her head with her gloved hand and despite herself finds herself mumbling things like Okay, you stupid dog, okay, don’t worry, your family will be home soon.
She wonders if she should run home and call someone. Perhaps Eddie, Ben’s oldest friend. Perhaps Ruben, the vet. Perhaps Jess. But no: She will not burden them with this particular load. Only she could possibly understand. Only she could love Ben enough to give him the freedom.
At Ben’s cabin, she pulls off the leather work gloves and lets herself in the door. The silence feels as if it could nearly burst her eardrums apart. It’s cold, very cold, and she can see the breath misting in front of her in clouds that dissipate and appear, dissipate and appear. There is a simple fireplace along one wall, and it sits empty and dark, mocking her with the lack of heat that it could provide, a simple case of matches and dried wood, and this unfulfilled possibility reminds her of herself, where there’s not a flicker of light or barely one at all and she wonders, yet again, if she should go to a doctor herself and ask for antidepressants or antianxiety pills or something, which she never in a million years would have thought were necessary, given her energy and spirit and spunk, but which Carolyn suggests over and over, and which now she will no doubt need. “Oh god,” she says to the empty fireplace. “Oh please god. Take him kindly.”
The dog has been trotting around, sniffing, wagging, but comes up to her at the sound of her voice. “Stupid dog,” she says, but reaches down to pet her. “Ben liked it here.”
She remembers well the contentment that swarmed around him after this cabin was built. A sad mourning contentment, but contentment nonetheless. Unlike the crowded dusty farmhouse, cluttered with doilies and knickknacks and years of kids and grandkid photos, and of their artwork, and of presents given, of accumulated debris, of a messy but full life, everything here is simple, clean, tidy. In that way, it seemed fake to her. A mirage. But it’s built sturdy, and lets in less dust. And perhaps there is nothing wrong with a mirage from time to time.
She herself was relieved to be alone during that time. At least, at first. She could move through her days—the grief-filled ones and the slightly better ones—at her own pace in her own way. It was a gift, she decided, to live alone in a house. But the heart can house many emotions at once, and she was also angry at him for leaving. Lonely when she ate dinner. Bitter about the farmwork and how there was so much of it, even though they continued to share it. Plus, she was cold at night, with no body heat. And ultimately, this life was boring. Or something that resembled boring. She missed the chaos of life—the full catastrophe of living, as she called it, a phrase she lifted from Zorba the Greek. She was not in her life, not really living it. She was living a small life, and that seemed a crime.
She walks into the bedroom. Ben had slept on a single mattress and frame that he had taken from Carolyn’s old bedroom. The comforter, flowered and also from the same bed, is tidily arranged. He had also moved in Carolyn’s old dresser, handmade and wooden and simple. She opens the drawers. There are white handkerchiefs, undershirts with stained armpits (and she knows that he didn’t shop for things such as packages of undershirts once they had split up; he probably didn’t even know how). In the next drawer down is a pair of jeans, two work shirts. More slips of paper—always bits of paper—which she unfolds. There is her name, the names of the neighbors, instructions on how to play bridge (Oh, how smart he had been!). Always in pencil. She leaves them there, all of them. She looks in the closet and there are only shoes, all old ones, including a pair of slippers she had once given him in the very early years of their marriage. She remembers shopping for them, picking out the best pair of soft leather with sheep wool inside. Back then, she had truly loved him, truly wanted his feet to be warm and protected. She remembers clearly standing at the store, holding them, debating whether they were worth the price, and she had been filled with a wave—yes, that was the right word—of gratitude for having Ben and her daughters and a ranch and the emotion called love lodged in her heart.
There is one time in her marriage that stands out. Like the first kiss, it was the one other time when she felt as if time stopped, when the world made sense, when the love was so evident and pure that it contained all of time in it. They’d been working cattle, all of them, except Rachel, who had already died. Carolyn had been explaining to Jess, who was newly moved in with her, about prolapses and how the best thing to do was to shove the uterus back in and sew the cow up with thick string and give her a shot of penicillin. Jack had been trying to gross Jess out, in a teasing way, and was telling her how heavy and slick the uterus was, how it took two people, one to hold the uterus up, one to push it back inside the cow. Then Ben and Jack had gotten busy with running the cattle through, sometimes arguing about which bull’s semen to use next year. Leanne was taking notes and Billy was quietly sitting in a corner, and the cattle were bawling and banging around the corral and it seemed like a particular, wonderful moment.
But inside this particular, wonderful moment were the specific details that made it so. How, for example, Ben was scratching a yearling heifer on the hump between her ears, and when the animal raised her head to sniff his shirt, she left a smudge of mucus on his sleeve, which Ben eyed in an offhand way and then he leaned over, during the height of the argument about bull semen, and rubbed it on Jack’s face. Which caused Jack to fling it off back onto Ben, and then Jack punched Ben and Ben punched Jack, in a good-natured fond way, which made Billy giggle—it was the first sound anyone had heard from Billy in a long while—and which made everyone smile.
Inside this moment were the cattle, pressed against the railing to eye the two boxing men, watching with sleepy interest, flicking their tails against the flies.
Inside this moment was Leanne, sitting on the cement rim of the stock tank, in shorts and sandals and with a clipboard on her lap, keeping records. Jess went to sit next to her, to learn the ropes, to become the family’s new record keeper.
Inside this moment were the details, such as the words being thrown into the air: X-1-5-1. Polled. 595 pounds. Ninety days pregnant, I reckon. Details of the routine. How every year, the cycle started. Pregnancy-checking, then calving season, then moving the cattle to spring pastures, then haying, then weaning, then castrating, then pregnancy-checking again. Some of the cattle were sent to the sale barn or to slaughter. Some were kept. Some were sold. And in that moment were all the years that had layered up and woven together; all the turquoise skies and all the cottonwoods dropping golden leaves. All the calves being born, slipping from their mothers. All the times one of them had flapped their arms to move the cattle into the alleyway that led to the chute. All the shoulder-length latex gloves being put on, the hand being reached into the cows to feel unborn babies. All the times on the horses, rounding up the calves. All the sun and sky and smells. All the warm fall days and the summers and the winters. And how, on that one day, it was all enough, held together in one moment, and it was enough to hold her heart together.
She shakes her head, like a horse, and comes out of her daze. “I guess I’ll try to think of that moment when I die, Satchmo. That and the first kiss and today at the cemetery.” When she says this, the dog picks up a slipper in her mouth and trots off into another room. Inviting her in. Indeed, when Ben is gone, after tonight, perhaps she can move back here. She’ll tell Carolyn and Del to leave her alone and she’ll leave them alone. The grandkids can visit, but she won’t insist. She’ll not worry about the state of Carolyn and Del’s finances or marriage; about whether or not Jack is gay, because he is and it’s time she loved that about him; about whether Leanne will become a silly language arts major and therefore never be able to support herself; whether Billy will ever do anything with his life other than ranc
hwork; whether Jess will end up like her mother, pregnant, drinking, on drugs, and dead too soon. No, she’ll just let them conduct their symphony, their own lives. She’ll go out to town twice a week to grocery shop and see a movie, maybe with Zach. Otherwise she will sit and rest and rest and rest. And by god, she’ll appreciate that no one, nothing, is depending on her, which will mean the first time in fifty years—or possibly forever—that she will be her own person. Of course, she realizes, this will also be very lonely. And then she will die. And like every human, she should brace for it. For all she knows, death could happen for her tonight.
Satchmo nuzzles the sleeve of Renny’s jacket and so she says, “You got that right. I don’t think I want to move into town after all. If I live in a condo, I’ll have to listen to babies cry and dogs bark and other people. Horrible.”
The dog whines, more insistent, and licks her hand.
“Okay, we’ll go. I’m just trying to figure out what to do. You can visit me back here, but only if you’re quiet and respectful.”
On her way out, she stops again in the main room, and from this angle she can see the corner not visible from the door. There is a deck of cards scattered on the floor. She stares at it and then registers the folded-up sleeping bag tucked back between the wall and couch. There’s also a pillow, backpack, a cardboard box with a few items, such as tampons, and she understands Jess has been sleeping here.
“Huh.” She says it aloud, surprised, then says it again. Well, good: At least the cabin is getting some use.
Life, she once heard, is the combination of two things: Certain points of interest, which stand out. And the flux of experience, which is one big blending of time and space. And they come together to form the important stories and moments in your mind. The stories that define you. She reckons that that’s how folks survive the ache of it all.
On her walk back across the ranch the sky turns to a dusky blue and reflects a lighter blue off the blue landscape and the snow picks up the blue again. The dog races ahead, toward home, leaving her alone with the expanse of blue snow to either side. Walking is hard out here, although she follows Ben’s track that he’s worn down. She sees what he has always seen, the sheer beauty of the place in twilight, the shadow of willows and foothills and cottonwoods along the river. A dark figure—probably a bald eagle, she figures—sits on a branch far to the north. She is simply not sure what should come next for Renny Cross. Although she knows that tonight everything will change and that it’s high time she thought about it.
Ben’s screaming and hollering, and her understanding of what he is grappling with now, has worn her out. It is such a deep exhaustion that it borders on peace—a dictated and unavoidable peace, she thinks. She wonders if she should have told Ben more about Ray’s letter that came today, but no, he would have felt the same way: that it was simply not enough. It was adding insult to injury. It makes her sick. Sick that Ray is out of prison, sick that he offers these little tiny bits of effort, sick that he didn’t remember Rachel’s birthday, not because she wants him to know a particular date, but because she wants him to know the details of Rachel. He knew only what he wanted to know. Ray only wants his conscience off his back, but no, she won’t allow that. And Ben wouldn’t want it either.
At home, she stamps her feet to warm up and starts up the woodstove. She wipes the tears from her eyes. She feeds Satchmo dry dog food and makes Tuna Helper and frozen peas for herself. Pitiful. She leaves Ben’s plate in the microwave and goes to watch the news. Mainly, though, she is shaking—a real tremor—and she watches the new snow come down outside the window, lit up by the outdoor barn light. Then suddenly it is really starting to snow, now, and the bottom of the TV screen warns of a blizzard. She starts to sob-cry and she considers calling someone, just to talk, but she’s not sure who, and in any case, she would need an excuse—to report a cow on the road or ask if anyone has chickens for sale—because she’s never called anyone without a pretense for calling. She has no friends. She breathes out and considers this room in the old farmhouse, big and open and yet dark and full of plaster cracks.
At that moment, the phone rings. She startles. Maybe it’s Violet or some other local checking in, or maybe it’s Zach or Esme from the Alzheimer’s crowd, or maybe it’s Carolyn or Jack or Leanne or Jess or Billy, and she is thinking of these possibilities as she jumps for the phone and picks it up.
“Renny, it’s Ruben,” she hears, and she winces. The one person she didn’t want to talk to.
“Why, Ruben. I’m just watching the news—”
“Did Del and Carolyn get off okay?”
“Yes, yes. And we’ve got their stupid dog and—”
“Jess is okay?”
“I guess. She’s off in her own world and—”
“Well, good. That’s good. Listen, Renny. I have a question for you. When I came over last week to put down Don Quixote—and I’m sorry about that, I sure am—my sodium pentobarbital went missing. We vets call it pink juice. It’s what I use to put down the animals.”
“Oh, Ruben. We’ve been ranchers long enough to know about pink juice.”
“Well you know, then, that it’s a controlled substance. I have to account for every cc of it that I use.”
“Oh, I’m sure you do. Dangerous stuff.”
“Yes, yes, in fact it is.”
“And it’s gone missing, you say?”
“I had the bottle out, I remember, as we were kneeling around the donkey. I had it propped on a stick in the pasture, on the snow. I remember withdrawing the pink juice into the syringe, and I thought I put the bottle back in my bag. My black bag. I remember . . . injecting the donkey, I remember listening for the donkey’s heartbeat. I remember chatting with you two. And then I remember leaving. But I don’t have that bottle now. I just don’t. I don’t remember what I did with the bottle.”
“Poor Don Quixote,” Renny says. “You know, even when Billy and Jess were young teens, they used to ride that donkey all over the ranch. They just doted on that sweet girl. She was way nicer than Norm. Norm was a bully. Norm was the only donkey we ever had that I didn’t like, and that’s because his soul was mean—”
“I know it, I remember him. Listen—”
“Of course, the best donkey we ever had was—”
“Yes, but Renny, I hate to ask this, I’m so embarrassed, but I simply don’t know what happened to that bottle. I’m wondering if you’ve found it, or if you think maybe one of you picked it up and put it somewhere. I took the liberty of stopping by your place today. After I saw you at the post office. You and Ben were gone, but I figured you wouldn’t mind me looking around. Her . . . carcass is there, still . . . the animals have . . . well, that doesn’t matter. I walked that back pasture back and forth. No sign of the bottle, though.”
“I haven’t been out there myself,” Renny says. “Not since you put her down. Of course, that’s why we put her down way back there, because no one goes there—”
“I didn’t go into the house, of course.”
“Well, it’s not inside the house.”
“Well, I’m just wondering . . .”
Ruben pauses and for a moment Renny wants to tell him the truth, wants to blurt out everything, only she is completely frozen, she cannot, she will not, because she believes that the pink juice exists for putting animals out of suffering, and Ben deserves that. She purses her lips in order to keep them shut. The tears leak out, though; those she cannot stop. Finally she says, “Ben didn’t mention anything. He sure didn’t. I’ll ask him, but he’s sleeping right now. If you don’t mind waiting till tomorrow. If you wish, you could come over and we could search the place together.”
She waits. Finally Ruben clears his throat. “It’s a big problem, you see. I could lose my license for this sort of thing. I’ve searched high and low. I’ve gone through my vet bag and I’ve gone through the back of the truck. I just don’t understand how I could have forgotten to replace it. You don’t think Ben has it, do you? Would you mind,
uh, looking through his things? You wouldn’t think that he . . .”
She feels so calm. Calmer than she has in years. Calm and quiet and at peace. She lets Ruben pause, and she tells him that she’ll go look right now, that she’ll search through Ben’s things, and she ends the conversation with him. She stands by the phone for a long time, holding the receiver in her hand.
She knows she should go in and check on Ben. She knows what she will find.
Ben and the bottle and death.
She can’t bear to break the peace until the last minute, because after that, there will be no peace, not for a long long time. Everything from casseroles to people pestering her endlessly to her grief. Finally, she puts down the receiver, looks around the silence of her living room, and walks slowly to the bedroom. She steadies herself on the doorframe, breathes in. She pauses, wills herself to be strong. Then she looks at the bed. “Oh, god,” she says aloud. Because he is not there. Not dead, not alive. Ben is nowhere. There is nothing except the twilight-blue comforter that she pulled tight this morning.
III.
“When he shall die,
Take him and cut him out in little stars,
And he will make the face of heaven so fine.”
—WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE
Romeo and Juliet (act 3, scene 3)
BEN
The snow whirls and circles and makes Ben dizzy, but he loves looking outside the window of the bus anyway, because the snow seems so alive and so charged with energy, and because he likes to think of the molecules of water, frozen, that will unfold when the temperature is right. He’s alone in his seat, and the bus is nearly empty, and he feels the strange sensation of excitement in his chest and closes his eyes to better feel it. He hasn’t felt this way since he was a child. Or maybe, no, when he fell in love. During sex. Pure energy, pure joy.
Stars Go Blue Page 7